I'm Juliana, I'm 54 years old and I'm a writer.

Your shoulder had slipped. Your balance had vanished. The nightstand had met your foot with a loud—

Thunk.

—and the next thing you'd known, you'd been flat on your back.

For reasons you still couldn't quite explain… 

It had been the funniest thing that had ever happened. Another fit of laughter escaped before you could stop it. You covered your mouth with one hand, trying very hard to compose yourself.

It didn't work.

The image replayed itself in your mind. You falling with all the grace of an overcooked noodle. Another helpless snort escaped.

"Oh..."

You giggled.

"...That was..."

A breath.

"...so dumb."

You laughed all over again.

Eventually, the laughter eased enough that you could breathe. Your eyes drifted toward your prize. The unopened can of soda rested on the floor exactly where you'd forgotten to grab it from earlier.

Tiny beads of condensation clung to the aluminum, catching the light from your bedside lamp.

Cold. Refreshing. Beautiful.

You reached. Your fingers stretched as far as they would go.

Almost.

Just...

A little...

More.

Your fingertips wiggled uselessly through empty air. "...Come here."

The soda remained exactly where it was.

You frowned. "I said..."

Another stretch.

"...come here."

Nothing.

Your arm flopped back onto the floor. "...You're being difficult."

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at the can. "I don't appreciate it."

Silence.

You sighed.

"I crawled across the cold floor for you."

That seemed like a perfectly valid point. The soda, unfortunately, appeared unmoved by your sacrifice. You reached again anyway.

Still an inch short. "...Rude."

"So..." Dean's voice drifted into the room. "...Whatcha doin'?"

You tilted your head back.

Slowly.

As though you'd only just remembered other people existed.

Dean stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. Sam loomed just behind his brother, easily able to see over his shoulder.

Neither of them had moved. Neither of them had spoken again.

They were simply...

Looking at you.

You blinked once. "Oh." A smile spread lazily across your face. "Hi."

Dean's gaze traveled from your hopelessly tangled hair—

—to the way you were sprawled across the concrete floor—

—to one arm stretched dramatically over your head—

—to your legs, bent awkwardly with your socked feet resting against the front of the nightstand—

—and finally...

To the soda.

His eyes lingered there. Then slowly returned to you. "...Need a hand?"

You looked back at the can.

Considered the offer.

Then looked at Dean again.

"...Maybe."

A thoughtful pause.

"...But."

Dean waited.

"It's..." You pointed toward the soda with all the seriousness of someone presenting critical evidence.

"...right there."

Sam pressed his lips together.

Hard. Very hard.

You frowned at him. "What?"

"Nothin'." His voice sounded suspiciously strained.

You squinted. "...You're making a face."

"I'm really not."

"You are."

Dean cleared his throat. "So..." Another glance at the soda. "...You fall?"

You nodded solemnly. "I did."

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah." You waved one hand dismissively. "The floor caught me."

Dean blinked. "...The floor..."

"Mhm. It was very helpful."

For just a second...

Neither brother said anything.

Sam looked down at the floor.

Dean looked at Sam.

Sam looked back at Dean.

Dean inhaled slowly through his nose, looking back to you. "...Sweetheart..."

"Hm?"

"...Why didn't you just stand back up?"

You stared at him. Then slowly turned your head toward the bed. Then back to Dean.

"...Because."

Another thoughtful pause.

"I already came down."

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

His eyebrows climbed a little higher.

"...I..."

Nothing came out.

Behind him, Sam abruptly turned away from the doorway. One hand shot up over his mouth. His shoulders began shaking. A muffled sound escaped between his fingers.

Dean pointed accusingly. "Don't you start."

That only made Sam lose the battle entirely. His laughter echoed down the hallway.

You smiled. "Oh, good."

Dean looked back at you. "What?"

"I thought it was funny too." You nodded toward Sam. "He gets it."

Dean closed his eyes for exactly one second. "...I have a feeling..."

He opened them again, looking from you...

...to the soda...

...then back to you one last time.

"...I'm about to learn something I really wish I didn't."

Dean let out a slow breath through his nose.

"...Okay." He pinched the bridge of his nose for the briefest moment before looking back at you. "You stay right there."

You blinked. "...I wasn't really planning on going anywhere."

"I gathered."

With another sigh, he stepped into your room. His boots stopped beside your outstretched arm as he bent down, effortlessly retrieving the can of soda that had apparently become the center of your universe.

"There." He placed it carefully into your waiting hand.

Your face lit up. "Oh!"

Both hands immediately wrapped around the cold aluminum. "...Thank you." The words came out with genuine gratitude, as though he'd just rescued you from certain death.

Dean couldn't help the tiny smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Yeah."

You wasted absolutely no time cracking it open.

Pssht.

The sharp hiss filled the room as you shifted just enough so you could drink it without wearing it.

You took one long drink.

Another.

Then closed your eyes. "...Oh..."

A pleased little hum vibrated in your chest.

"That's..." Another sip. "...really good."

Dean watched you for another second before something finally prompted him to look up.

Really look.

His eyes swept across your room. The bed looked as though it'd survived a small tornado.

The comforter was twisted into impossible angles, half hanging off one side while pillows had migrated into uneven piles against the headboard.

Your laptop still sat open near the middle of the mattress. The Mummy continued playing to an audience of absolutely no one.

Beside it rested two open bags of chips. An open container of cookies. A battlefield of colorful candy wrappers scattered across the blankets. A half-empty popcorn bag lay partially crumpled on the other side of your laptop.

Dean's gaze drifted toward your nightstand. Your coffee mug sat abandoned where you'd left it hours ago.

Beside it...

An empty soda can. He looked back down at the fresh soda in your hands. Then at you.

Then slowly around the room once more.

"...Huh."

Behind him, Sam remained quietly in the doorway. He wasn't looking at the snacks. He was looking at you.

Your pupils. The blissful smile on your face. The way you kept absentmindedly rubbing your thumb over the condensation collecting on the soda can, as though the texture alone was endlessly fascinating.

Then...

A soft rumble. Barely audible.

Dean frowned. "...Are..." He glanced toward Sam. "...Is she..."

Sam nodded once. "She's purring."

Dean looked back at you.

You hadn't even noticed. Still smiling faintly to yourself, you turned the soda can another quarter turn beneath your fingertips.

"...It's cold."

Dean blinked. "...Yeah."

"I like it."

"I can see that."

Sam's eyes wandered toward the hallway. Then, almost absently, back toward the kitchen.

The brownies.

Dean followed his brother's line of sight.

Kitchen. Brownies. Six. Chocolate.

"No way she'd eat those.""She would've smelled the weed."

Charlie's note. Two missing brownies. 

Your room. The snacks. The laughter. The purring.

Dean's eyes slowly widened. "...No."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek.

Dean looked at you.

Then at the soda. Then back toward the hallway.

"...No."

A beat.

"...No."

You looked up from your soda. "...You okay?"

Dean pointed at you. "You..." He pointed vaguely toward the kitchen. "...ate..." Another point. "...the brownies."

You smiled proudly. "They were really good."

Sam lost it. A bark of laughter escaped before he could stop it.

Dean slowly turned to look at his brother.

Sam was already laughing too hard to apologize. "I..." He tried. Another laugh interrupted him. "I told you..." More laughter. "...she likes chocolate."

Dean closed his eyes. "...I said she'd smell it."

"You did."

"I said she'd know."

"You absolutely did."

Dean sighed toward the ceiling. "...I am never living this down."

"Nope."

Sam stepped farther into the room just long enough to clap one solid hand against Dean's shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to earn his attention. A grin stretched across Sam's face.

"Your mess." Another chuckle escaped him. "You get to clean it up."

Before Dean could even think of a response, Sam turned and started back down the hallway. His laughter echoed off the bunker walls.

Every few steps he managed to compose himself...

...only to picture you lying on the floor arguing with a can of soda.

Another snort escaped him. His shoulders shook. By the time he'd disappeared around the corner, he was laughing all over again.

Dean remained exactly where he was. Silent. Hands on his hips.

Looking from you...

...to the wreckage of your room...

...then back to you, perfectly content on the floor with your precious soda.

You smiled brightly up at him. "...Hi."

Dean stared for another long second before letting out one slow, defeated sigh. "...Charlie is never going to find out about this if I can help it."

You continued looking up at him from the floor, your head still tipped comfortably to one side.

He looked...

Tall. Really tall.

Your eyes slowly traveled upward until they finally reached his face. "Huh."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What?"

A smile spread lazily across your lips. "You look really tall from here." A quiet giggle escaped you. "And I feel tiny."

Another soft rumble vibrated pleasantly in your chest.

Dean closed his eyes. Just for a second. His thumb and forefinger found the bridge of his nose once more. His other hand firmly on his hip.

He pinched it gently, taking one long, measured breath that looked suspiciously like an attempt to keep himself from either laughing... or screaming.

Neither seemed to be winning. Finally, he looked back down at you.

"...Why," he asked slowly, carefully, "would you eat my brownies?"

You blinked. "They were yummy." The answer came without a hint of hesitation. A grin tugged at the corners of your mouth. "I want the recipe."

Dean opened his mouth.

You continued before he had a chance. "Do you think Charlie would give it to me?"

The question carried all the earnest curiosity of a child asking for cookie recipes after Christmas.

Dean's jaw shifted thoughtfully from one side to the other. He was clearly searching for words. Several possibilities crossed his face.

None of them survived. "...You're not getting the recipe."

Your shoulders slumped ever so slightly. "...Oh."

The disappointment in that single syllable made Dean briefly consider apologizing. He didn't. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and finally took a proper look at you.

Your hair had become an absolute disaster.

Dark strands stuck out in every conceivable direction from sleep, rolling around on the floor, and apparently losing an argument with your pillows.

Your pupils had swallowed nearly all of the color from your irises. One hand remained wrapped possessively around the soda can. The other rested comfortably across your stomach.

Completely content.

Completely unconcerned.

Completely...

High.

"...Come on." His voice softened despite himself. "Let's get you back into bed." His eyes flicked briefly toward the concrete beneath you. "...And off the cold floor."

"Oh." You nodded immediately. "Okay."

You held your free hand up toward him.

Dean looked at it. Then back at you. A tiny smirk tugged almost imperceptibly at one corner of his mouth. "...Yeah."

You waited patiently. Instead of taking your hand, Dean lowered himself into a crouch beside you. "What're you..."

One arm slipped carefully beneath your shoulders. The other hooked comfortably behind your knees.

Before you had the chance to process what was happening—

The floor disappeared. A tiny squeak escaped you as your stomach gave the briefest little flutter.

"Dean!" Your arms instinctively tightened around the first stable thing they could find.

His neck.

The soda remained safely clutched in one hand while your other arm looped securely behind him, fingers bunching lightly in the back of his flannel.

Dean adjusted his hold almost automatically, settling your weight comfortably against his chest. "There we go."

His voice carried the same easy reassurance it always did whenever he was helping you. Like this wasn't unusual at all. Like carrying you was the most natural thing in the world.

Another surprised little laugh bubbled out of you. "...You cheated."

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. "I cheated?"

"I thought..." You giggled. "...you were gonna help me stand."

"I know."

"You picked me up."

"I did."

"...That wasn't what I expected."

"Nope."

Despite every effort to remain exasperated, Dean felt the corners of his mouth betray him. A quiet chuckle slipped free. It wasn't much. Just enough.

The sound caught your attention immediately. Your gaze drifted away from the soda. Then upward. Very close upward.

Dean's face was only inches from yours now. Close enough that the lamp lights shifted across his features every time he moved.

Your eyes wandered.

His jaw.

The faint stubble beginning to return.

The curve of his nose.

Then...

You stopped.

Your entire expression softened.

Dean noticed the silence almost immediately. "...Sweetheart?"

You didn't answer. Your eyes continued tracing invisible paths across his cheeks. Across the bridge of his nose.

Back again.

His freckles.

The tiny specks scattered across sun-warmed skin that most people barely noticed.

Your pupils adjusted ever so slightly beneath the lights, narrowing just enough to bring everything into sharper focus.

They were everywhere. Little clusters. Some standing alone. Others gathered together.

Tiny patterns.

"...They're like stars."

Dean frowned. "...What is?"

You lifted one finger from around the soda can.

Very carefully...

You pointed toward his cheek.

"Your freckles." Your voice had gone almost dreamy. "Like little constellations."

Your fingertip hovered just shy of touching his skin as your eyes wandered from one faint freckle to the next.

"...All over."

Dean went very still.

"They're..." You smiled softly. "...pretty."

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Dean simply looked at you. The sincerity in your voice left absolutely no room for teasing or embarrassment.

You weren't flirting. You weren't trying to flatter him. You'd simply noticed something beautiful, and in your current state, it felt important that he knew.

The smile he'd been trying so desperately to suppress finally won. Small. Warm. And entirely unguarded.

"...Well," he murmured quietly. "I don't think anybody's ever complimented my freckles before."

You looked genuinely surprised. "They should."

Another contented purr rumbled against his chest. "They're nice."

Dean shook his head with a soft, disbelieving laugh as he shifted, assessing how to get you back into your bed easiest.

"...You're somethin' else."

And somehow...

That felt like the understatement of the century.

Dean shifted you a little higher against his chest as he turned toward the bed.

It looked...

Occupied.

Blankets. Pillows. The laptop sat squarely in the middle, Brendan Fraser continuing his adventure completely unnoticed.

A half-open bag of chips leaned lazily against one of the pillows. Cookie container. Candy wrappers. Popcorn.

Dean let out another quiet sigh. "...Course."

Finding a place to set you down suddenly required considerably more planning than he'd anticipated.

You, meanwhile, had become fascinated by something else entirely. "...You smell nice."

Dean glanced down. "Hm?"

You took a slow breath without really thinking about it. The scent wrapped around you before you could stop yourself.

Warm laundry soap. Motor oil that never quite left his skin no matter how much he scrubbed after working on Baby. Leather. Coffee. The faintest trace of gun oil lingering on his flannel. His aftershave. A hint of mint from the toothpaste he used.

Underneath it all...

Just...

Dean.

Comforting. Warm. Safe.

You smiled to yourself. "I like your smell."

Dean blinked. "...Thanks?"

"I don't think I've ever noticed it this much." Another absent-minded breath. "It's… warm."

Dean cleared his throat. "...Might be the laundry detergent."

You shook your head immediately. "No." Another inhale. "That's different."

You frowned thoughtfully. "The detergent's..." You searched for the word. "...clean."

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay..."

"But you smell warm."

He had absolutely no response to that. So he simply kept trying to decide where on earth to put you.

If he moved the laptop...

No.

She'd probably notice.

Maybe the chips—

"...Your heart's fast."

Dean froze. "...What?"

You tilted your head slightly, one ear resting closer against his chest now. The steady rhythm filled your ears.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You listened for another moment. "It got faster."

Dean instinctively looked down at himself as though that might somehow explain it. "...You can hear that?"

"Mhm." Another contented purr rolled quietly through your chest. "It's nice."

Dean looked toward the doorway. Sam had wisely disappeared. Coward.

"...It's..." You smiled sleepily. "...steady."

Dean swallowed once. "...Yeah."

"I like listening to it."

His ears turned faintly pink. He decided the laptop could stay where it was, but the candy wrappers… Those definitely needed to move.

He carefully leaned down, shoving them toward the laptop one-handed, trying not to jostle you too much.

On the laptop, The Mummy continued playing. Gunfire erupted through the tiny speakers.

You didn't even look. "...You hum."

Dean paused. "...I what?"

"You hum."

"I don't hum."

"You do." You nodded confidently. "When you think."

Dean frowned. "I don't..."

He stopped.

Realized. "...Do I?"

"Mhm."

Very softly, almost beneath your breath, you mimicked the little absent-minded hum he'd never realized he made while concentrating.

Dean stared. "...I do that?"

"You've always done that."

He honestly had no idea. "...Huh."

His attention returned to clearing enough space on the mattress.

Blankets.

Move those.

Pillow.

There.

Almost—

"...Your beard's scratchy."

Dean looked back down. "What beard?"

You reached up carefully, fingertips brushing lightly against the stubble beginning to grow along his jaw.

The sensation fascinated you immediately. "Ooo..." You rubbed your thumb across it again. "So pokey."

Dean chuckled despite himself. "It's called stubble."

"I like it."

"You do?"

"It tickles." Another slow pass of your fingertips. "So fuzzy."

Dean smiled helplessly. "...You're really high."

You looked at him with complete sincerity.

"I know. You’re still holding me." A beat. "I think Charlie bakes with magic."

Dean laughed. "No."

"I'm pretty sure."

"Nope."

"The brownies were enchanted."

"They weren't enchanted."

"They absolutely were."

Dean shook his head. "They had weed in 'em."

You blinked. "...That's a weird ingredient."

"It is."

"...It tasted like chocolate."

"Yeah."

"I didn't taste any weed."

Dean snorted. "I know."

Your brow furrowed. "...Did Charlie hide it?"

Another laugh escaped him. "Something like that."

Satisfied with the explanation, you nodded once. "She's sneaky."

"She sure is." Dean finally cleared enough of the mattress to expose a comfortable patch of blankets. "There."

He started lowering you carefully toward it.

Halfway down...

You suddenly looked up at him again. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I like when you carry me." The words were so simple.

So matter-of-fact. No embarrassment. No hesitation. Just another observation.

Dean paused for half a second. "...Yeah?"

"It feels safe." You smiled. "Like being wrapped in a heated blanket."

Dean's expression softened all over again. "...Well." He carefully settled you back onto the mattress. "I'm glad."

"I am too."

As soon as your back met the blankets, another contented purr vibrated through the room.

Dean looked down at you. Then toward the hallway where Sam had wisely escaped. "...He's never gonna let me forget today."

Behind him, somewhere in the bunker, Sam's laughter echoed faintly once again.

Dean sighed. "...Yep."

He wasn't wrong.

Before he could even focus on anything else, you started rambling, pulling his gaze right back to your wide eyes, telling him all about your little ‘adventures’ after your first movie had finished. Right up until your tongue got dry and started sticking to places in your mouth.

Your attention drifted back to the can still nestled safely in your hands.

"Oh." Your eyes brightened. "I have my soda."

Dean shook his head with a soft smile, just as you beamed at it like you'd been reunited with a long-lost friend.

"...Yeah, you do."

The tab was already open. You took another long drink. The fizz danced across your tongue, cold enough to make your nose wrinkle before another pleased little hum escaped you.

"...Mm."

Dean couldn't help smiling. "Good?"

"So good."

You hugged the can briefly against your chest before taking another sip. Content.

Dean shook his head fondly before turning his attention toward the battlefield that had once been your bed.

"...Let's see..."

One by one, he began gathering empty candy wrappers into one hand.

The crinkling plastic seemed impossibly loud to your ears.

Each wrapper had its own sound. Some crisp. Some softer. Some almost crackled. Your ears twitched. But your thoughts didn’t stay in your head, narrating the sound of each wrapper as Dean plucked them from the blanket.

He wasn’t even fighting his smile anymore as he moved around the bed with the easy confidence of someone who'd spent enough time in your room to know where everything belonged. All while listening to your commentary, which was quite amusing.

He never hesitated.

Never reached twice.

Empty wrapper.

Trash.

Half-empty popcorn bag.

Trash.

Cookie lid.

Stacked neatly.

You watched with complete fascination. "...You're efficient."

Dean looked over. "Hm?"

"You don't waste any movements."

He blinked. "I don't?"

You shook your head. "No."

Your gaze followed him as he leaned across the mattress to retrieve another wrapper. "You already know where you're going before you move."

Dean paused halfway through picking one up. "...Do I?"

"Mhm." Another sip. "You don't look first."

"I don't?"

"You just..." You made a vague little motion with your free hand. "...go."

Dean frowned thoughtfully. "...Huh."

He'd never considered it. You had. Apparently. He tossed another handful of wrappers into the trash.

"You bend with your knees."

Dean laughed. "...What?"

"You don't bend with your back."

You demonstrated poorly from the bed.

"You always..." Another vague gesture. "...do this."

Dean looked down at himself. "I… guess I do."

"You do." You nodded with absolute confidence. "It's smart."

Dean chuckled. "Thanks."

Another moment passed. You continued watching him. Really watching him.

His forearm flexed as he picked up your empty coffee mug. The muscles shifted beneath the rolled sleeves of his flannel.

You tilted your head. "...Your muscles move funny."

Dean almost dropped the mug. "My..."

"They slide." Your fingers traced little invisible lines in the air. "Under your skin."

Dean stared. "I've never..."

You smiled to yourself. "It's neat."

He set the mug down a little more carefully than necessary. "...Nobody's ever told me my muscles were neat."

"They are." You sounded completely certain. "They're like..." You searched for the comparison. "...ropes."

Dean snorted. "Ropes?"

"They move before your hands do."

"...I don't think that's how muscles work."

"It is." You took another thoughtful sip. "I watched."

Dean looked at you for a long second. "...How long have you been watching me?"

You frowned. "I don't know." Another beat. "...Years?"

Dean actually laughed at that. "Years?"

"Mhm."

"I watch everybody."

He relaxed. That... made sense.

Then you added, "But mostly you."

Dean stopped moving. "...Mostly me?"

"You move the most." You paused, considering. “Even when you’re sitting still.”

The answer came so naturally that it took all the weight out of the statement.

"You fix things."

Another sip.

"You cook."

Another.

"You clean."

Another.

"You pace."

Dean blinked.

"...I pace?"

"So much." You giggled. "You do little circles when you're thinking." You traced one in the air. "Like this."

Dean looked genuinely horrified. "I do not."

"You do."

"I..." He looked toward the doorway as if Sam might magically appear to settle the debate.

Unfortunately for him...

Sam wasn't there to deny it.

Only you. Watching him with wide, fascinated eyes. And somehow making observations he'd never once realized about himself.

Dean stood in your doorway for another few seconds.

You were still happily sipping your soda, now thoroughly engrossed in watching the bubbles race upward inside the can.

"...They're in a hurry," you murmured to yourself.

Dean followed your line of sight. "...Who is?"

"The bubbles." You tilted the can slightly. "They're trying really hard."

"...Right." A pause. "They always go to the top."

"Mhm..."

"They're very determined."

Dean slowly nodded. "...Okay."

You hummed contentedly and took another drink, immediately becoming fascinated all over again by the fizz dancing across your tongue.

Satisfied that you were comfortable, warm, and no longer lying on the concrete floor, Dean quietly backed toward the hallway.

"I'll... be right back."

You smiled without looking away from the soda. "'Kay."

Dean eased the bedroom door until it rested mostly closed, leaving it cracked just enough that he could still hear you if you needed him.

Or...

Started talking to another household appliance. Honestly, at this point, either seemed equally likely. Even if his plan had been to keep this from Charlie completely, he needed to call her.

The kitchen looked almost normal again.

Almost.

Sam had finished putting away most of the groceries while Dean had been occupied rescuing one very stoned Touched from the floor.

The only things left on the island were a loaf of bread, the coffee canister Dean had yet to open...

...and the plastic brownie container.

Dean stared at it. "...You."

Sam looked over. "The brownies are innocent."

"They absolutely are not."

"They're baked goods."

"They're accomplices."

Sam's grin widened, amused at how similar you and Dean were. "I'm pretty sure that's not how crimes work."

Dean sighed, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'm calling Charlie."

Sam leaned against the counter. "...Good idea."

Dean thumbed through his contacts before hitting her name.

The phone rang twice.

"Hey, Winchester!" Charlie answered cheerfully. "So... how amazing were they?"

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "...Slight problem."

A beat. "...What kind of slight problem?"

Dean glanced toward the hallway. "...Y/N ate two."

Silence.

"...Charlie?"

Another second.

Then—

"...She what?"

"She ate two."

"...My brownies?"

"Your brownies."

"...The pot brownies?"

Dean looked at the ceiling. "Charlie."

"Oh my God."

Dean couldn't tell whether the sound that followed was horror...

...or the beginning of laughter.

"I'm trying really hard not to laugh," Charlie admitted.

"I need you to try harder."

"I am." Another pause. "...I'm failing a little."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "I noticed."

"What happened?"

Dean looked toward the hallway again. "...How much time do you have?"

Sam quietly busied himself putting the bread away. Very quietly. Very obviously listening since Dean had put the phone on speaker.

Dean sighed. "She ate 'em."

"Mhm."

"Watched a movie."

"Mhm."

"Apparently became fascinated by the bunker making noises."

Charlie blinked on the other end of the line. "...Go on."

"So she wandered around listening to air vents."

"...Dean..."

"I'm not kidding."

Sam snorted.

Dean shot him a look. "Then she decided the refrigerator had moved."

Charlie made a strangled noise.

Dean continued anyway. "She crawled across her bedroom floor because walking was apparently too much effort."

The strangled noise became unmistakable laughter.

Dean closed his eyes. "Charlie."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No..." She laughed again. "...I'm really not."

Dean sighed. "Then she forgot her soda."

"...Dean..."

"Climbed back onto the bed."

Another laugh.

"Forgot the soda was still on the floor."

Charlie's laughter became completely uncontrollable. Dean waited. Patiently. Mostly.

Finally...

"She tried reaching it from the bed."

"Mhm."

"Fell off."

"Oh, no..."

"Hit the nightstand."

Charlie inhaled sharply. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine."

"Thank God."

Dean nodded. "Then she laid there arguing with the soda because it wouldn't come closer."

Charlie disappeared from the phone entirely. Dean could hear muffled laughter somewhere in the distance.

"...Charlie."

"I'm here."

"You don't sound here."

Another burst of laughter. "I'm trying!"

Sam abandoned all pretense at this point, openly grinning as he reached for the loaf of bread.

Dean pointed at him. "Don't encourage her."

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to."

Charlie finally managed to regain enough composure to breathe. "...Okay." Deep breath. "I'm good."

"No, you're not."

"No." Another tiny laugh escaped. "...Probably not."

Dean leaned against the counter. "How long is this gonna last?"

Charlie's amusement softened into thought. "...That's..." She hesitated. "...Actually a really good question."

Dean didn't like that answer already. "What do you mean?"

"Well..."

He could practically hear her slipping into analytical mode.

"I made those with you in mind."

Dean frowned. "...Okay."

"Your height."

"Mhm."

"Your weight."

"Mhm."

"And..." She laughed quietly. "...Your frankly concerning alcohol tolerance."

Dean looked offended. "It's not concerning."

Sam coughed loudly into his fist.

Charlie ignored both of them. "One brownie would've probably given you a nice buzz."

Dean nodded. "Two?"

"...About four hours, maybe."

Dean relaxed slightly. "Okay."

Charlie wasn't finished. "For you."

Dean's shoulders tensed again. "...Charlie."

"We honestly don't know how Y/N's healing factor interacts with cannabis."

Dean's expression flattened. "...Fantastic."

"I mean..." Charlie sounded genuinely intrigued now. "Think about it."

Dean absolutely did not want to.

"Her body heals ridiculously fast."

"Yeah."

"Which probably means she's filtering out a lot of the negative side effects."

Dean frowned. "...Negative?"

"Nausea."

"Mhm."

"Dizziness."

"Yeah."

"Headaches."

Dean glanced toward the hallway. "...She's definitely not nauseous."

"No?"

"No."

"Anxious?"

"No."

"Paranoid?"

Dean almost laughed. "No."

"Sleepy?"

"...Not really."

Charlie paused. "So what is she doing?"

Dean thought about it.

"...Complimenting my freckles."

Silence.

"...She what?"

"Said they looked like constellations."

Another beat.

"...Charlie."

A single snort escaped over the phone. Then another. Sam was barely keeping his composure, hands braced on his hips, letting out several heavy breaths to keep from completely losing it laughing.

Dean lowered his head. "...Don't."

"I—"

She tried.

She really did.

"...I'm trying so hard..."

Dean could already hear it.

"...not to picture Dean Winchester standing there while a very high Y/N studies his face like she's looking at the night sky."

Sam lost the last of his composure. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Dean pointed at him without looking. "You."

Sam immediately held both hands up. "I know."

"You are not helping."

"I know."

Charlie was laughing again.

Dean sighed toward the ceiling. "So..." He waited until she caught her breath. "...How long?"

This time Charlie's answer came much more slowly. "...Honestly?"

Dean's stomach sank.

"I don't know."

"...You don't know?"

"I've never met anyone whose healing factor works like hers."

Dean rubbed a tired hand down his face. "So..."

She winced sympathetically. "It could be four hours."

Dean nodded once. "...Or?"

"...Or longer."

"How much longer?"

"I genuinely can't say." She shrugged, even if Dean couldn’t see her. “The rest of the day, maybe?”

Dean was quiet.

Charlie softened her voice. "The good news?"

Dean waited.

"She's safe."

That helped.

A little.

"Keep her hydrated."

Dean looked toward the hallway. "Already working on that."

"Let her enjoy the ride."

Dean snorted. "I don't think she has much choice."

"Nope." Charlie smiled through the phone. "And Dean?"

"...Yeah?"

"If she starts trying to pet the furniture..."

Dean closed his eyes. "...I'm hanging up now."

Charlie's laughter followed him all the way through the click of the call ending. Dean stared at his phone for a long moment before slipping it back into his pocket.

Sam looked over from the pantry, a grin still firmly in place. "So?"

Dean let out one long, exhausted sigh. "...Apparently..."

He glanced toward the hallway just as your delighted voice drifted faintly from your room.

"...The bubbles are winning."

Dean closed his eyes again. "...I'm gonna need more coffee."

Part 1 ------- Part 3 (coming soon) Brownies Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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Your hair was still a mess from sleep, one side flattened from the pillow. You scratched absently behind one ear as you shuffled toward the coffee pot.

"Oh, thank God."

Half a pot.

Dean and Sam had at least been kind enough to leave you some.

You poured yourself a generous mug before hopping effortlessly onto the counter beside the sink, curling one leg beneath you. The ceramic radiated warmth through your palms as you wrapped both hands around it, letting the heat chase away the last remnants of sleep.

The first sip was heaven.

Rich.

Hot.

Strong enough to wake the dead.

A pleased little hum escaped before you took another drink, closing your eyes for just a second as the warmth settled comfortably in your stomach.

It wasn't until nearly half the mug had disappeared that your attention drifted to the folded piece of paper resting on the counter beside you.

You picked it up.

Supply Run. Won’t be gone long.-D

A small smile tugged at your lips.

The list hanging on the refrigerator had been growing for nearly a week now. Coffee. Eggs. Bread. Laundry detergent. Bobby kept threatening to visit and complain if the pantry looked like it belonged to two bachelors much longer.

You snorted softly to yourself.

Hopefully they'd remember everything.

Otherwise Dean would absolutely insist they could "make do," and somehow that usually translated into eating cheeseburgers three nights in a row.

Your gaze wandered idly around the kitchen.

Then stopped.

"Huh..."

Sitting squarely in the middle of the island was a plastic container.

Nothing fancy. Just one of those inexpensive clear containers with the snap-on lid that could've come from any dollar store.

You frowned.

You were almost certain it hadn't been there yesterday.

Sliding off the counter, you padded across the kitchen, curiosity already getting the better of you.

Another note rested neatly on top.

You picked it up.

You win. Never betting you again.

-C

"...What did you two bet on?"

Charlie was notorious for making ridiculous wagers with Dean, or vice versa.

Whether this had involved pie, classic arcade games, or convincing Sam to wear something embarrassing was anybody's guess.

You set the note aside and popped the lid open. 

The scent of chocolate, all moist and inviting, invaded your senses. Layered through it was warm butter, vanilla, brown sugar, and a hint of espresso, maybe. You hadn’t even realized you’d leaned down just to breath it in deeper. 

Your nose twitched as you took another deep whiff. There was something else beneath it all. Something earthy. Not unpleasant. Just… different.

"Hm." 

Whatever Charlie had used, it smelled incredible. Your stomach chose that exact moment to remind you breakfast hadn’t happened yet.

You licked your lips, glancing around the kitchen, even knowing neither brother was home, then back down at the brownies.

“...Dean won’t miss one.”

For a moment, you just stared at the brownies, actually debating taking one of the eight neatly cut squares. Soft. Dense. The tops were delicately crackled, while the centers looked impossibly fudgy. They practically melted under your fingertips when you picked one up.

You hesitated.

For all of three seconds. “Fuck it,” you finally mumbled, grabbing two out of the container, quickly closing it, and replacing the note neatly on top. “He can yell at me later.”

Your mind was already rationalizing the action. Charlie had made them. Which meant there was every possibility she’d made enough for Dean to share. But Dean had a sweet tooth. He’d absolutely complain. Probably. Maybe.

You finished off your first cup, poured a second, and took that, along with the two brownies, back to your room. No point in leaving crumbs in the kitchen. 

The first bite nearly made you groan.

"Oh my God..."

It was ridiculously good.

The outside offered just enough resistance before giving way to an almost molten center that coated your tongue with rich chocolate. The butter lingered just long enough for the sweetness to bloom afterward, balanced by that faint earthy flavor you still couldn't quite place.

You took another bite.

Then another.

By the time you reached your room, half of the first brownie had vanished.

You made a mental note to ask Charlie for the recipe.

Two hours later…

John McClane was in the middle of blowing something up.

Again.

Honestly, you'd lost track.

Your laptop rested near the middle of your bed while you lay sprawled against a mountain of pillows, half on your side, half on your back, one knee bent lazily. Die Hard 4 played across the screen, though your attention drifted in and out of the movie more than once.

The brownies were long gone.

So was your coffee.

A half-empty bag of microwave popcorn rested to the left of your laptop beside an open container of chewy chocolate chip cookies.

To the right of your laptop sat two different bags of chips, each somehow half-eaten.

Candy wrappers littered the comforter between you and the laptop like tiny colorful confetti.

The last soda you'd opened sat forgotten on your nightstand.

Empty. You were fairly certain it'd been empty for a while. You just hadn't felt like reaching for another, even if your mouth had felt sort of dry.

Instead, you sank further into the pillows. They felt… nice. Really nice. Almost impossibly nice. Like every muscle had simply decided there was no reason to hold itself together anymore.

For a few moments, you just stared at the ceiling before lifting your arm into the air. Your body felt almost light, while also heavy. It was a strange sensation. Plus, your skin just felt… different. You slowly traced your fingertips down your extended arm, the sensations too interesting to stop the movement.

“...Weird.” The word was barely mumbled into the quiet space.

Every brush of your fingertips seemed magnified, sending tiny ripples of sensation across your skin. Goosebumps chased after the movement in a lazy wave while the soft cotton of your T-shirt sleeve grazed your shoulder, suddenly becoming one of the nicest feelings you'd ever experienced.

You did it again.

Slower this time.

Watching the pads of your fingers glide over your skin.

The sensation was oddly mesmerizing.

"...Huh."

A smile slowly spread across your face before you even realized it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a soft rumble vibrated pleasantly in your chest. You didn't even notice you were purring. 

The ending credits finally rolled across your laptop screen, pulling your attention away from your arm as they mostly just fell to rest against your chest. Your head lolled sideways as though it suddenly weighed twice as much.

You frowned at the screen like it had personally betrayed you, "...That's rude." 

The movie had simply...

Ended.

Without asking whether you were finished watching it.

With an exaggerated sigh, you reached toward the mousepad, letting your hand fall onto it with all the grace of someone who'd suddenly forgotten exactly how arms worked. 

You nudged the cursor toward the search bar.

Almost there...

Almost...

There.

Success.

Pleased with yourself, you started typing.

The first letter missed. Then the second. Then somehow the third landed nowhere near where you'd intended.

"...No."

You stared at the keyboard.

It stared back.

You frowned harder.

"...You're not supposed to move."

You squinted suspiciously at it before another long, dramatic sigh escaped you. Apparently, the only solution was to sit up. Which, unfortunately, required convincing the rest of your body to cooperate.

Slowly, and with all the enthusiasm of someone being asked to climb a mountain, you pushed yourself upright. Your hair fell into your face as you settled right where your butt had been while you’d been lying down, blinking once at the keyboard.

"...There."

That seemed much more manageable.

The second attempt at typing went considerably better.

Mostly because you were actually looking at the keyboard instead of trying to reach it from an angle that defied both logic and anatomy.

A few clicks later, The Mummy filled your screen.

"There you are."

You smiled to yourself as the familiar opening music began to play. Perfect. You'd seen it enough times that it didn't matter if your attention wandered.

Which...

It immediately did.

Something clicked. Not loudly. Just...

Tick.

Your ears twitched. Your head turned toward your bedroom door before you'd even realized you'd reacted.

Silence.

Well... not silence. Never silence.

Your brow furrowed.

There.

Another one.

Tick... tick...

"...What..."

You sat perfectly still, listening. It was coming from somewhere beyond your room.

Not the hallway. Further.

Maybe one of the pipes?

No...

Too sharp.

The ventilation?

No.

Different.

You held your breath.

Tick.

Your eyes widened ever so slightly.

"...Has that always done that?"

The question floated into the empty room with absolutely no expectation of an answer. The sound came again. Then another. Not rhythmic enough to be annoying.

Just...

Present.

Like someone had quietly turned up the volume on the entire bunker. Your attention drifted again. Somewhere overhead, the ventilation system sighed as air moved through old ducts.

You could hear it separating around corners. A faint whistle where it slipped through one particular vent. Water whispered through pipes inside the walls.

Not rushing.

Just... moving.

Farther away, the refrigerator compressor hummed to life. The sudden vibration made your eyes swivel instinctively toward your closed door.

"...Huh."

You'd heard it a thousand times before. Probably. Maybe. Had it always sounded...

round?

Your nose wrinkled.

Could sounds be round?

That didn't make any sense. You considered it anyway.

Then...

Drip.

Your head tilted like a curious cat, eyes still glued to your door.

"There!"

Another drip. Definitely water this time. You slid off the bed almost without thinking, bare feet landing softly against the floor.

The movie continued behind you. Completely forgotten. You eased your bedroom door open. The hallway stretched out in front of you, empty as ever beneath the warm bunker lights.

You stood there. Listening.

Drip.

"There you are..."

You couldn't actually see where "there" was. The sound echoed strangely through the concrete corridors, bouncing just enough that it refused to tell you where it originated.

You leaned your head one direction. Then the other.

"...No..."

Another step.

Your feet carried you into the hallway with slow, cautious curiosity, more like a cat stalking an unfamiliar noise than someone looking for a plumbing issue.

Drip.

"...You're over here."

You took another few steps.

"No..."

Pause.

"...Maybe over there."

You frowned.

"You're moving." The accusation came with genuine suspicion.

You were almost positive water shouldn't be able to move like this particular sound. Yet somehow every time you thought you'd pinpointed the sound, it seemed to bounce somewhere else.

You crouched. Maybe lower would help.

It didn't.

Now you could hear something else—the faint electrical buzz from one of the fluorescent fixtures overhead.

Not loud.

Just...

Steady.

You looked up.

"...You're noisy."

The light, unsurprisingly, offered no defense. You stared at it for several long seconds, still crouching. Then tilted your head.

"...How long have you been buzzing?"

It had probably always buzzed. You'd simply never paid this much attention to it before. The realization somehow felt profound.

Your gaze wandered farther down the hallway until it landed on one of the floor vents. Air drifted lazily upward through the metal grate.

You walked over, hyperfocused on the invisible air slipping through the space between the metal. Head tilted, you slowly crouched down, gingerly reaching your hand out, hovering in the moving air.

Warm.

You frowned. Then leaned closer.

"...I can hear the air."

You blinked.

Well.

Of course you could hear air. That wasn't the strange part.

The strange part was...

"...It sounds warm."

You crouched there for several seconds, trying to decide if warm air and cold air sounded different.

The more you thought about it...

...the more convinced you became that they absolutely did.

"I need to remember to ask Sam."

Sam knew weird things. He'd probably know if temperatures had different sounds. Entirely satisfied with this conclusion, you nodded once to yourself before standing again.

Your stomach gave a small, impatient growl.

"...Right."

Movie.

You'd been doing something, and now you were hungry again.

The familiar lines of The Mummy greeted you as you stepped back into your room.

"...Right."

That was what you'd been doing.

Watching a movie.

You pushed the door shut with your foot before wandering back over to the bed, your attention already settling onto the laptop screen, not even realizing the door had barely moved. Brendan Fraser appeared, and you smiled.

"There you are."

Without a second thought, you let yourself fall backward onto the mattress. The bed welcomed you with an almost offensive amount of comfort.

The pillows puffed around your shoulders. The blankets settled all fluffy and soft beneath you. A content little sigh escaped you.

"...Mm."

Much better.

Your hand drifted automatically toward one of the open bags of chips resting beside your laptop. Your fingers disappeared inside, rustling through the nearly empty bag before emerging with a small handful.

You popped one into your mouth.

Crunch.

Then another.

Crunch.

You chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then your brow furrowed.

"...No."

You looked down into the bag. There were still chips in it. That wasn't the problem. Another chip disappeared into your mouth, slower this time.

Crunch.

"...No..."

You swallowed. Your tongue stuck faintly to the roof of your mouth. Suddenly, it was all you could think about. You were thirsty.

Really thirsty.

How had you not noticed that before, while you’d been standing?

Your gaze drifted toward the empty soda can on your nightstand. That explained absolutely nothing. You were still thirsty.

Slowly, your eyes continued across the room until they landed on the little black mini-fridge tucked neatly beside your desk in the far corner, just to the right of the bedroom door.

There it was.

Cold drinks. Water. Soda. Probably juice.

Everything you wanted was right there.

You stared at it. The fridge stared back.

"...Hmm."

You glanced down at the mess covering your bed.

Popcorn. Chip bags. Cookie container. Candy wrappers. Laptop. Blankets. Pillows.

Then back to the fridge.

Back to the bed.

Then the fridge again.

You narrowed your eyes.

"If..." You slowly stretched one arm toward the edge of the mattress. Not even close. "...Okay."

You scooted a few inches. Extended your arm again, fingers spread as far as they would go. Still nowhere near.

"Hm."

Your gaze swept over the battlefield of snacks between you and the edge of the mattress.

Well...

If all of that wasn't there...

Theoretically...

You could lie across the entire bed. Maybe hang one arm over the side.

Then...

Maybe...

You looked back at the fridge. "...How far away are you?"

It certainly hadn't looked that far this morning.

Now it seemed...

Suspiciously distant.

You squinted. "...Did you move?"

The refrigerator remained steadfastly silent.

You weren't convinced.

You stretched your arm out one more time anyway, fingers wiggling helplessly toward the far corner of the room.

Nothing.

Not even close.

You let your arm flop dramatically back onto the comforter with an exaggerated groan. "So far..."

Your head tipped back against the pillows. You considered your options with all the gravity of someone planning a mountain expedition.

You could stay exactly where you were.

Comfortable. Warm. Surrounded by snacks.

Unfortunately...

None of those snacks were liquid. Your mouth somehow felt even drier now that you'd acknowledged it.

You swallowed.

It didn't help.

The refrigerator sat there. Patiently.

Almost mockingly.

Waiting.

"...I don't appreciate your attitude." You pointed accusingly at it. "I know you have drinks."

Still no response.

A sigh escaped you, long and theatrical enough to rival Dean's whenever Sam started explaining lore.

"...Fine."

You planted both hands on the mattress.

Nothing happened.

You blinked.

"Oh."

Right.

You actually had to push.

With a tiny grunt of effort, you leaned forward, pausing halfway upright as the room seemed to sway ever so slightly around you.

"...Okay."

You waited.

The room politely stopped moving.

"I can work with that."

Satisfied that both you and the floor had reached an understanding, you took a deep breath, braced yourself for the arduous journey of approximately eight feet...

...and stood.

For just a moment, you regarded the distance between yourself and the mini-fridge with solemn respect.

"...This is gonna take a minute."

You eyed the distance one last time.

"...No."

Walking was...

Too much.

It wasn't that you couldn't. You absolutely could. Probably.

But standing meant balancing, and balancing meant using your legs, and your legs suddenly seemed like they required an unreasonable amount of supervision.

The floor, on the other hand...

The floor wasn't moving.

The decision made itself.

With a quiet little huff, you carefully lowered yourself until you were sitting on the edge of the mattress. Another second later, you simply let yourself slide the rest of the way down, landing on the cool concrete with a soft thump.

"...Better."

Much better. The concrete felt pleasantly cool beneath your palms as you planted your hands against it. Even your knees appreciated the chill.

Solid.

Reliable.

Not nearly as wobbly as your legs had threatened to be. You nodded once, entirely satisfied with your solution.

"See?"

Who you were proving right, you weren't entirely sure. Then your eyes found the mini-fridge again.

Still over there. Still entirely too far away.

You narrowed your eyes at it. "...This is your fault."

The refrigerator remained unmoved by the accusation.

With another quiet grumble, you started forward.

One hand.

Then the other.

One knee.

Then the next.

Your progress was slow but steady, more of an absent-minded crawl than anything hurried. The cool concrete slid beneath your hands while your oversized T-shirt brushed softly against the floor with each movement.

Honestly...

This wasn't bad.

Kind of comfortable, actually.

Your hearing picked up the whisper of fabric dragging beneath you. The tiny squeak your knee made against the polished floor. Your own breathing.

You paused halfway there, looking down at your hand.

Your fingertips spread against the concrete.

"...Huh."

It wasn't perfectly smooth. There were tiny imperfections. Little ridges. Minuscule dips.

You slowly rubbed your thumb across them.

"...Neat."

A beat passed.

Then another.

"...Drink."

Right.

You had been on your way to get a drink. You resumed your journey with renewed determination.

After what felt like an entirely unreasonable amount of time, you finally reached your destination.

You sat back on your heels with a triumphant sigh.

"There."

You'd done it.

You and the refrigerator regarded one another in silence.

"...You." You pointed a finger at it. "You could've met me halfway."

The refrigerator, somehow, managed to look unapologetic.

Your nose wrinkled. "...Rude."

You reached for the handle with exaggerated dignity and tugged the door open. Cold air immediately spilled across your face.

"...Oh."

That was...

Really nice.

You leaned into it just a little. The coolness brushed against your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose.

Your eyes drifted closed. "...Mm."

Maybe just...

A second.

The gentle hum of the compressor vibrated through the little appliance, and you found yourself listening to it with the same fascination you'd given the air vent.

"...You sound different up close."

Of course it did. Everything sounded different up close. 

Eventually, your brain remembered why you'd come over here in the first place.

"Oh."

Right. Drink.

You reached inside, fingers wrapping around the cold aluminum of another soda. The chill bit pleasantly into your fingertips.

You smiled. "There you are."

With one last appreciative puff of cool air washing over you, you nudged the fridge shut with your elbow.

Thunk.

Content, you turned back toward your bed, eyes catching something fuzzy under the chair of your desk. Your head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly before you smiled. 

“Thought I lost you,” you giggled, pulling a pair of soft, fluffy socks from where they’d apparently hidden.

With all the grace of someone who forgot how their body worked, you fought with both socks and your feet in order to slip them on. You hadn’t even realized you’d growled when your left foot nearly refused to go into the end of the sock.

“Stop twitching,” you grumbled, finally managing to shove your foot into the sock. 

Your triumph lasted all of five seconds after grabbing the can of soda again, eyes finding your bed.

Your smile faded, quickly.

The bed.

Was over there.

You blinked once.

Twice.

"...Oh."

It looked...

Farther.

Hadn't it been closer before? You were almost certain it had.

You stared at it suspiciously. "...You moved."

The bed, much like the refrigerator, refused to defend itself. You looked between the two pieces of furniture.

Then back at the bed.

"So..."

Your voice was quiet now, thoughtful. "I have to go all the way back."

The realization settled over you with astonishing weight. You looked down at the soda in your hand.

Then at the bed again.

"...And then..." Your eyes drifted upward toward the mattress. "...I have to get up there."

The words came out barely above a whisper.

The bed suddenly seemed... taller. Not by much. Just enough. Enough that you found yourself tilting your head back to look at it.

"...That's unfortunate."

You considered your options.

Standing. Possible. Maybe.

Climbing. Also possible. Probably.

Neither sounded particularly appealing.

Your gaze lingered on the mattress.

Soft.

Warm.

Covered in snacks.

You wanted to be back in it more than almost anything.

But first...

You had to conquer it.

You sighed with the quiet resignation of someone accepting a quest they hadn't asked for.

"...One mountain at a time."

Clutching your soda like a hard-earned prize, you dropped your free hand back to the floor and started crawling toward base camp.

The journey back somehow felt longer, perhaps because you were carrying cargo this time.

The can of soda remained firmly clutched in one hand while the other planted itself against the floor, pulling you steadily across the concrete one careful movement at a time.

The aluminum clicked softly against your palm every now and then. You smiled. At least the soda had cooperated, unlike certain other pieces of furniture.

When you finally reached the side of the bed, you let out a quiet breath of relief, sitting back on your heels as though you'd just completed an exhausting expedition.

"There."

Mission accomplished.

For several long moments, you simply looked at the mattress.

It looked...

Comfortable. Wonderfully comfortable. The blankets spilled over the edge in soft folds, practically inviting you back.

"...Hi."

The bed remained as welcoming as ever. You smiled at it. Then your eyes drifted upward.

It...

Was higher than you'd remembered. Not impossibly high.

Just...

Enough.

Your smile slowly faded. "...Oh."

You hadn't actually thought this part through. Carefully, you set the unopened soda on the floor beside you.

Safety first.

Then you placed both hands on the edge of the mattress. The comforter bunched pleasantly beneath your fingers.

Soft.

You gave it an experimental tug.

Nothing.

"Hm."

You frowned thoughtfully.

Maybe...

You scooted a little closer until your knees bumped the bedframe.

That seemed promising.

Both hands found the mattress again. You pulled.

Your shoulders lifted. Your chest made it almost to mattress height.

Then...

Nothing else did.

Your legs stubbornly remained exactly where they were.

You blinked.

"...Rude."

You tried again. This time with more determination.

Your arms did their part admirably, hauling your upper body farther onto the bed until your ribs rested against the edge.

Success!

...Mostly.

From the waist down, however, the rest of you seemed to have entirely different plans. Your feet searched blindly behind you for something to push against. Finding only smooth concrete, they slipped, thanks to the fluffy socks.

You frowned harder. "No..."

One foot stretched farther back. Maybe there was better leverage.

There wasn't.

The other tried. Equally unsuccessful. You gave another determined pull with your arms. Your body slid forward exactly...

Maybe an inch.

"...Progress."

You were breathing a little harder now.

Not because this was particularly strenuous. Because you were absolutely convinced there had to be an easier way.

Your legs kicked once behind you.

Then again.

Neither accomplished anything beyond making your socks slide against the floor.

You stopped.

Thought about it.

Then looked over one shoulder at your own feet. "...Guys."

Your voice carried all the patient disappointment of someone addressing particularly unhelpful coworkers.

"I need you."

Your feet offered no indication they'd heard you.

You sighed. "Come on."

Nothing.

Your fingers tightened in the comforter. With another determined little grunt, you hauled yourself forward again.

Your stomach slid onto the mattress this time.

Your hips reached the edge.

Your legs...

Still dangled uselessly behind you.

You let your head fall sideways onto the blankets.

"...We're close."

Very close. You could feel victory. You just needed...

One...

Good...

Push.

Your eyes drifted downward.

The floor.

Then your knees.

Then back to the bed.

An idea.

Slowly, you tucked one knee underneath yourself as much as the awkward angle allowed.

It wasn't graceful. Not even a little. Your sock caught on the edge of the bedframe.

"...Ow."

You frowned at the offending piece of furniture. "That wasn't nice."

Undeterred, you tried again. This time your knee finally found the edge of the mattress.

"There!" The single word came out triumphantly.

Before the opportunity could escape you, you shoved downward with everything that leg was willing to contribute.

Suddenly—

Your entire body flopped forward onto the bed.

Face first.

The mattress caught you with a muffled whump. Blankets puffed around you. One pillow bounced lightly beneath your cheek.

For a few blissful seconds, you simply lay there, arms stretched overhead, breathing into the comforter.

"...I win." Your words came out muffled by the blanket. You weren't entirely sure who'd been keeping score.

The bed, probably. Maybe the fridge who’d been rude earlier. You were fairly certain the bed had put up a respectable fight.

Eventually, after allowing yourself an entirely reasonable amount of recovery time, you rolled onto your side with all the lazy satisfaction of a cat settling into its favorite sunny spot.

One arm dangled over the edge.

Your eyes found the soda still sitting faithfully on the floor.

...

You stared at it.

"..."

Another beat passed.

"...I forgot the drink."

A long, dramatic sigh escaped you.

"...You've gotta be kidding me."

The rumble of the Impala echoed in the garage before the engine settled into its familiar idle, then silence as Dean killed the engine and pocketed the keys.

A moment later, the driver's door slammed.

Then the passenger's.

"...I'm just saying," Dean's voice carried easily through the garage. "We didn't need this much."

"Oh, we absolutely did."

Metal clanged softly as doors opened, followed by the unmistakable rustle of far too many plastic grocery bags as they made their way to the kitchen.

Dean came through first.

Or rather, the bags did.

His arms were so loaded down they nearly obscured his face, plastic handles looped from both hands nearly to his elbows. Boxes of cereal threatened to tumble from the top of one bag while a loaf of bread leaned precariously against a package of paper towels.

Behind him came Sam, equally burdened, though somehow looking considerably less annoyed about it.

Dean was already moving with all the intent of a man who refused to make two trips. "I can't feel my fingers."

"That's because you're carrying half the store."

"I wouldn't be carrying half the store if somebody hadn't kept throwing things into the cart."

Sam let out an incredulous laugh. "I kept throwing things into the cart?"

Dean shot him a look over the mountain of groceries. "You did."

"You mean things like toilet paper?"

"We had some."

"We had one roll."

Dean shrugged. "One's not none."

Sam stared at him. "...Dean."

"What?"

"One roll for three people."

"It would've lasted."

"It absolutely would've not."

Dean grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like rationing builds character.

Sam rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't stick.

"You know," he said as they rounded the corner into the kitchen, "if you didn't insist on waiting until we're out of literally everything before shopping, we wouldn't have to buy enough groceries to survive a nuclear winter."

Dean snorted. "We weren't out of everything."

"We were out of coffee."

Dean stopped walking. "...Okay." He’d made the last pot that very morning, making sure to leave you enough for two cups.

"We were out of eggs."

"...Yeah."

"No bread."

Dean sighed. "I know."

"No milk."

"I know."

"No detergent."

"I know."

"No dishwasher pods."

Dean shifted the bags higher on his arms. "Are you done?"

Sam smiled. "Almost."

He set his groceries onto the kitchen island with a chorus of plastic rustling against polished metal.

"No paper towels."

Dean deposited his own load with considerably less grace. Several bags toppled sideways. "I got 'em, didn't I?"

"Eventually."

Dean pointed a finger at him. "You're real smug for somebody who made me carry the drinks."

"You volunteered."

"I was manipulated."

"You said, and I quote, 'I've got this.'"

Dean frowned. "...That does sound like something I'd say."

Sam chuckled as he started unpacking one of the bags, lining canned goods neatly along the counter before opening the pantry.

Dean, meanwhile, reached automatically for the coffee. "Priority one."

"You literally just proved my point."

"Priority one," Dean repeated, completely ignoring him.

He'd barely managed to get the fresh can of coffee onto the counter before something else caught his eye.

"...Oh."

The plastic container still sat exactly where Charlie had left it in the middle of the island.

Dean's expression immediately softened into a grin. "She actually did it."

Sam looked over from the pantry. "What?"

Dean picked up the folded note, already laughing before he'd even opened it. "'You win. Never betting you again.'" He barked out another laugh. "I told her."

"Told her what?"

Dean shook his head. "Charlie got it in her head that she could make brownies better than Mom."

Sam smiled. "She challenged Mary Winchester to a bake-off?"

"Nah." Dean set the note back down. "Mom wasn't allowed to judge. Said she'd be biased."

"So who did?"

Dean looked thoroughly pleased with himself. "Me."

Sam laughed. "Of course you did."

"I've got standards."

"You've got a sweet tooth."

"Same thing." Sam just shook his head, smiling as he returned to putting groceries away.

Dean lifted the lid from the container. "...Huh."

"What?"

Dean frowned. "There're only six."

Sam looked over again. "Is that a problem?"

"How many does it look like there should be?"

Sam studied the size of the neatly cut pieces, considering pan sizes. “Well, considering everything, there should probably be eight.”

Dean counted once more anyway. "...Definitely six."

Sam shrugged. "Y/N probably found them."

Dean smiled. "Wouldn't surprise me."

"She does have a weakness for chocolate."

Dean chuckled as he snapped the lid closed again. "Yeah, but she'd know better than to eat those."

Sam paused, a box of pasta halfway to the pantry shelf. "What do you mean?"

Dean looked at him like it was obvious. "They're pot brownies."

Sam blinked. "...Charlie left pot brownies sitting on the kitchen island?"

"They were for me," Dean said it as though that explained absolutely everything.

Sam stared. "It... actually explains almost nothing."

Dean laughed. "Relax."

"I'm trying."

"Besides," Dean continued, grabbing a jar of pasta sauce from one of the bags, "there's no way Y/N touched 'em."

"We just established she likes chocolate."

"Yeah, but she's also got the nose of a feline." He twisted the lid absently, checking it before placing it into the pantry. "She would've smelled the weed a mile away."

Sam considered that. "...Maybe."

Dean snorted. "Not maybe." He shut the pantry door with his hip. "Trust me. Charlie probably just kept two."

The bunker settled around them once more as they continued unpacking groceries.

For one blissfully ordinary moment...

Everything was quiet.

Then—

THUD!

The sound cracked through the bunker like a gunshot.

Heavy. Solid.

Definitely not something simply falling off a shelf. Dean's head snapped toward the hallway leading into the war room. Sam's did the same.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't have to.

Years of hunting had burned the reaction into muscle memory long before either of them had ever stepped foot inside the bunker.

The jar of pasta sauce hit the counter with a dull thunk as Dean released it without a second thought. Sam let the box of pasta slip from his fingers beside the open pantry. Almost as one, their hands disappeared beneath the backs of their flannels.

Metal whispered against denim. Two pistols cleared their waistbands in one smooth, practiced motion.

Dean moved first, taking two careful steps toward the kitchen entrance before stopping just shy of exposing himself to the hallway beyond.

Sam instinctively shifted to cover the opposite angle, the familiar rhythm between them requiring neither discussion nor instruction.

They listened. The bunker answered with silence.

Dean's grip tightened fractionally around the handle of his pistol. His eyes swept the empty stretch of hallway leading toward the war room.

Nothing moved.

Nothing breathed.

Nothing—

A snort.

Then...

Laughter.

It burst down the hallway without warning. Bright. Unrestrained. The kind of laughter that stole your breath and refused to let go.

It echoed off the concrete walls, filling the bunker with a sound so completely at odds with the heavy thud that had preceded it that both brothers simply... blinked.

Another peal of laughter followed, somehow even harder than the first.

Dean slowly lowered the barrel of his pistol an inch. "...Was that..."

"Y/N," Sam finished quietly.

More laughter. Not nervous. Not forced. Honest-to-God, can't-catch-your-breath laughter.

Dean frowned. "...What the hell..."

The concern hadn't left his face. If anything, it had deepened.

People didn't usually laugh like that immediately after making a noise loud enough to send two hunters reaching for their guns.

Unless...

"No," Dean muttered.

Sam looked at him. "What?"

Dean shook his head almost immediately. "Nothing." He wasn’t about to voice what he'd been about to say. Not yet.

Another fit of giggles drifted toward them, punctuated by what sounded suspiciously like someone trying—and failing—to say something intelligible before dissolving into laughter all over again.

Dean exhaled through his nose.

The tension in his shoulders eased just enough for him to thumb the safety back into place before smoothly sliding the pistol into the waistband of his jeans.

Sam mirrored the motion a heartbeat later.

The kitchen looked as though someone had simply walked away in the middle of unpacking. The pantry door still stood open. Half the groceries remained scattered across the island. The refrigerator door hadn't even been closed all the way.

Neither brother spared any of it a second glance. Dean was already moving.

Not running.

Just walking with long, purposeful strides toward the war room. Sam fell into step beside him. Their boots echoed softly across the concrete floor.

For a few moments, neither of them said anything. The only sounds were the quiet rhythm of their footsteps...

...and the occasional burst of laughter still drifting from somewhere farther down the hall.

Dean finally broke the silence. "I swear..."

"What?"

"If she's laughing because she dropped a book on her foot again..."

Sam couldn't quite suppress the corner of his mouth from twitching. "You don't sound very convinced."

"I'm trying to be optimistic."

Another snort of laughter floated toward them.

Dean sighed. "...I'm rapidly running out of optimism."

They rounded the edge of the war room together. The hallway beyond stretched ahead of them.

Halfway down...

Your bedroom door stood wide open, soft light spilling across the hallway floor.

Dean slowed. His brow furrowed. "...Doesn’t she usually keep that closed?"

Sam glanced toward it. "...Yeah."

Another burst of laughter spilled through the open doorway. This one was followed by a muffled, dramatically offended-sounding...

"...Rude."

The brothers exchanged one more thoroughly bewildered look...

...and continued down the hallway.

Part 2 Brownies Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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“That sounds like a you problem”

Dean groaned dramatically like you’d deeply wounded him “Wow. Cold”

You snorted and pulled your plate farther away.

That only encouraged him.

Next thing you knew, Dean was literally leaning across the table trying to snatch a fry while you blocked him with your arm, laughing.

“Stop stealing my food!”

“Sharing is caring, sweetheart”

“I already shared enough. You are robbing me now”

Dean managed to steal another fry and looked at you with a triumphant grin.

You narrow your eyes at him “You’re annoying”

“You love me anyway” He says smugly.

You snort “Questionable choice on my part”

Dean grinned lazily, green eyes bright with amusement. Then, because apparently annoying you was like a hobby to him, he reached for one of your onion rings.

You slapped his hand again “Seriously, why do you always think you’re entitled to my food?”

Dean scoffed dramatically like the answer was obvious.

“‘Cause I’m your boyfriend” He said easily, chewing “It’s literally my right”

Silence.

Dean blinked, and then his eyes widened a bit when realization hit him.

Oh.

Oh, he said it out loud.

You two had never really cared much about labels. You were together. Committed. You both knew exactly what you were to each other, and everyone around you two knew it too. There was never any doubt about that. But neither of you really said words like ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’.

Until now that he said it.

You blinked back at him. Then slowly, your mouth turned into a playful grin.

“Did you just use the b word?”

Dean immediately got flustered. Not dramatically, but enough that the tips of his ears turned red while he grabbed his beer and tried very hard to look casual.

“No”

“You did” You chuckle “Boyfriend”

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically “Yeah, alright” He grumbled “What about it?”

“You’ve never called yourself that before”

“Okay, first of all” He said “You’re enjoying this way too much” He points a finger at you defensively.

“A little” You say with a soft laugh “I mean, you called yourself my boyfriend” You repeat with a grin.

“Because I am” He said back instantly “We’ve been exclusive since forever, you live in my bunker, you ride shotgun in my Baby. I’m just stating facts here. Don't make it weird"

“I’m not making it weird” You laughed “I just think it was cute”

“It’s not cute”

“You said it so naturally too” You grin.

He rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed.

“Look, I’m regularly risking my life for you and driving you around while you criticize my music choices…”

“I do not criticize your music choices”

“…So I think I’ve earned my boyfriend status” He finished.

“Mhm” You laughed again before adding teasingly “So should I start looking for matching outfits now?”

“Shut up” Dean groaned immediately.

“You started this, boyfriend”

He suddenly grabbed your wrist, tugged you closer and kissed you to shut you up.

You let out a muffled laugh against his lips.

“Conversation’s over” He muttered against your mouth.

When he pulled away slightly, you were still grinning.

Dean narrowed his eyes “You’re annoying”

“And you’re my boyfriend” You repeated with a grin yet again.

He groaned dramatically.

“I’m never saying words again”

He’s relieved to see you standing off to the side of the theater’s large double doors, waiting for him, by the look of you. And in that little black dress and heels, perfect for every curve, he more than appreciates the view.

His smile is almost involuntary when you notice him, your eyes brightening.

“Hey,” you say, “I um, wasn’t sure you would come.”

Dean kisses your cheek, lingering there at the scent of your perfume.

“Mmm, you smell nice,” he whispers.

You try to temper your smile, but it’s no use.

“Behave,” you warn. Though you notice the bouquet of red roses he’s holding, and you soften. He plucks one of the stems out of the bunch and presents you with a single rose.

“Gotta save the rest of these for the star of the show, but don’t think I forgot about you, sweetheart,” he says.

That crooked grin of his should come with a warning label.

You take the rose, biting your lower lip. Your mouth opens, even though you don’t know what’s about to come out. But any reply you could’ve made is completely derailed—by the voice of your ex-boyfriend.

He greets you by name, and you turn around on reflex. While you’d been a bit uncertain about Dean, you thought could’ve banked on the fact that Nick wouldn’t be here. He certainly takes note of Dean when he approaches, holding out his hand in greeting.

“Nick Vaught,” he supplies.

Dean glances at you briefly. He knew who this man was before he spoke, just by the more guarded look on your face.

“Dean Winchester,” he offers, along with his hand to shake.

Nick quirks a brow and points at Dean in recognition.

“Winchester. HunterCorp. You took over for your father, right? I remember reading the press release, after Ashland broke into the Fortune 500,” Nick says. His arrogance shines through in his tone and the subtle raise of his chin.

“Yeah, we almost worked with an F500 company, Roman Enterprises,” Dean says, sharing a knowing look with you. “They tried to sell me a gun that would take your hand off on the reload. So as far as I’m concerned, being a top seller doesn’t always mean quality. But congrats. I’m sure you guys earned it.”

One thing Dean also has down is a fake ass grin. You cover a smile with your fingers. His hand slips to the small of your back.

“Should we go in, find our seats?” he asks you. You start to nod, but—

“Wait a minute,” Nick says. He watches the closeness between you and Dean shrewdly, but focuses on you. “I get that you work for HunterCorp, but why does the CEO care about my kid’s play?”

You almost sigh. This was why you almost didn’t tell Nick about tonight, but you knew Emma deserved at least the attempt to have her father see her.

“We’re seeing each other,” you say, matter of fact, and without the embarrassment you thought you might have, despite the judgy raise of his brows. You decide not to tack on the whole executive assistant part.

“Right, right. So you’re fucking,” Nick says flatly.

It earns him a frowning look from another parent walking into the theater.

You gape at him, until a glower overtakes your face. “Jesus Christ, Nick.”

Dean’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, his guiding hand becomes more protective and he presses you toward the door.

“Come on. You don’t owe him an explanation,” he says in your ear.

“I don’t need one. It’s fucking obvious,” Nick says, gesturing at you two. He snorts in amusement. “Though I shouldn’t be too surprised. Guess you just have a type for authoritative men.”

“Watch your mouth,” Dean snaps. His voice is quiet, but deep enough to be a real warning.

Nick’s lips press together in annoyance.

You’re already close to seething, but unlike him, you have some fucking decorum. You look around to make sure no one’s watching you all too closely before you speak.

“There’s actual parents around, and this is your daughter’s school, if you haven’t noticed,” you hiss. “Which to be fair, you probably haven’t, since you’ve never actually been here before. Hope you enjoy the fucking show.”

You pivot on your heel, and Dean follows after you. Though he glances over his shoulder, finding Nick standing there testily with one hand in his pocket and a tonight’s playbill in the other.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as you lead Dean down the row to the seats you reserved. Your dad is already sitting in one of them.

“We were bound to meet sooner or later,” Dean replies wryly. “Grade A asshat.”

“You have no idea,” you say. Though you pause and give your dad a small wave when he sees you. “By the way, you’re meeting my dad too.”

Dean pauses. “Wait, what?”

“Please,” you say. You grab his hand for solidarity, and because you want to, offering him a slightly nervous smile.

Amused, he can’t help but humor you. He steels himself a little as you two shuffle down the second row. He shakes hands with your father and exchanges pleasantries. Though when you stumble slightly on how to introduce Dean, your father is the one who actually helps you fill in the gap.

“Are you the brave soul who’s been dating my daughter?” he asks.

Dean shakes his hand firmly. “That would be me.”

The other man eyes him for a moment, seizing him up. After a moment, he nods.

“Good. You know you’ve got a gem on your hands.”

Dean gives you a sly smile. “Oh, I know very well.”

A blush blooms warmth in your cheeks. You take your seat between them and help Dean situate the bouquet on the floor. The rose he gave you rests in your lap.

It’s just in time for Nick to take his seat at the end of the opposite row. He glances over at you two, but soon ignores you to take a look at the program.

You heave a long breath through your nose. Dean takes possession of your left hand, earning your attention. He presses a kiss to your knuckles. You smile, though doubt begins to creep in regardless. You lean in closer to him.

“You sure about this?” you ask softly. “You know this can’t be the thing where you get bored after a week and send me a Tiffany bracelet as a consolation prize. You can’t do it to Emma—”

“Hey,” Dean says, stopping you quietly, but firm. “I already told you…this is more than that.”

You stare back at him with a measure of surprise. He understands it, considering his track record, but he knows he’ll just have to convince you. When he thinks of you and the kid, he sees the life his father used to trade for long hours at the office and a heart attack at 52. Dean’s come to realize that if he’s not careful, he’ll end up just like his old man.

So he smiles and leans in to steal a kiss. You can’t help but melt into it, and into him.

Your father watches out of the corner of his eye with a smile of his own.

While Emma isn’t Matilda herself, she plays a very adorable Lavender, one of Matilda’s best friends—complete with a purple dress and glasses you found at Target. Through a lot of motherly pride and shedding a few tears, you’re able to get a few discreet pictures of her on your phone.

After the play, you’re half dreading and half looking forward to the moment she runs out from the backstage area with her teacher (who hilariously played Miss Trunchbull) and the rest of her class. Emma’s back in her normal clothes, and most of the makeup was cleaned off with wipes, but she still somehow has glitter in her hair when she attacks you with a hug.

“Baby you did so good!” you say. You’re smiling from ear to ear as you two sway back and forth.

“Good job, kiddo,” your father says, ruffling her hair. Emma gives her grandpa a big hug next.

“I remembered all my lines. And I held the lizard, but he was slimy!” she exclaims.

You laugh, though you still can’t believe they used a real newt to drop into Miss Trunchbull’s drink.

“Well, you’ve got some more people who came to see you—”

“Hey, Em,” Nick says. He makes a subtle point to step into his daughter’s line of vision before Dean, who just waits behind.

He knows what Nick is doing, but it’s also kind of fair that he sees his daughter first. Dean is…what, a family friend? He doubts you’ve told her more than what Emma already knows him to be: Mommy’s work friend.

Emma’s face brightens. “Daddy!”

She hugs his waist. He holds her back, petting her hair.

“You saw me?” she asks hopefully.

“Of course, honey. You did a great job.”

“What was your favorite part?” she asks.

Nick stumbles there slightly. Your lips quirk. Before intermission, you happened to look over and saw him scrolling through his phone. You suppose you can give him partial credit for sitting through the whole thing.

“Uh, well, it’s hard to pick. Everything was so good,” he says. “Hey, would you want to come over to hang out with me tonight?”

“Nick,” you cut in sternly. He gives you some side-eye, but he’s focused on Emma. She looks a little unsure though.

“What? She’s never stayed over with me before. Tonight’s a special night,” he says.

“That’s because,” you say, but you stop yourself short with an annoyed frown. You don’t want to say in front of your daughter that the reason why she’s never slept over at his apartment is because it goes against your full custody agreement, what he wanted to begin with.

“Well, you know very well why,” you say, holding Emma by her shoulders. “I think it’s time for us to say goodnight.”

Nick is about to protest, when his cell rings in his pocket. His jaw clenching, he checks his phone and swears under his breath.

He looks down at his daughter and gives her an apologetic look.

“This is an important work call that I need to take, but I love you, and it was good to see you, honey.”

“You’re leaving?” she asks, her eyes filling with disappointment. Nick hesitates, but glancing up at your unyielding face, then back to hers, he just strokes her on the head.

“I’m sorry, Em. I’ll see you again soon,” he says. He answers the call right before it stops ringing. “Hey, no, cancel that. I want to see the new reports first. Get it to me within the hour.”

His voice drifts down the hall as he walks away. It leaves a crestfallen little girl in his wake.

But she finally notices Dean. He’s been standing off to the side with a dozen roses behind his back. When he smiles at her gently, she’s able to smile again too.

“Hey, sweetheart. Finally get to move up the line to say hi to you. Looks like I’m in the presence of a little celebrity,” he says. He takes a knee so that he can be eye-level with her when he gives her the bouquet.

Her eyes go wide as she accepts them. “Whoa, there’s so many.”

You smile, sharing a look with your dad while you blink past a telltale sting in your eyes.

You squeeze Emma’s shoulders. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” Emma says, swaying a little with her pretty roses.

Dean laughs and playfully thumbs at her cheek. “You’re welcome.”

She giggles.

Dean glances up at you and your dad as he gets back up to his feet. “So, can I take you guys out to celebrate? I know a nice place not too far.”

“Food sounds good to me,” your father says.  

“How nice are you talking?” you ask. Unlike Dean, you don’t come from money. Your family’s idea of a night out consisted of Red Lobster, Outback, or the Dairy Queen around the corner.

“How about the Ruth’s Chris down the street,” Dean offers. He sees the look of reservation on your face and takes your hand in reassurance. “Come on, it’s on me.”

You bite your lip. “You sure?”

“The man’s sure, sweetheart. Let’s get moving,” your father says, rubbing his hands together before he steers Emma toward the exit. “God knows I haven’t had a good steak in the last decade.”

He helps Emma hold her flowers on the way to the parking lot, allowing Dean to keep his hold on your hand as you followed behind.

“This is dangerous you know,” you say in amusement. “You’re gonna give my dad a taste of the high life. He’ll think it’s free steak and bourbon forever.”

“Hey, if that’s what the guy wants, I’m not above bribery,” Dean remarks.

You laugh and lean into his side, wrapping your arm around his. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, smiling all the while.

Two Years Later

Dean scans the very detailed document on his laptop with a critical eye.

“Okay, Yale graduate. MBA. Internships, the works. Strong start.”

Kevin Tran, the latest candidate, pushes up his glasses.

“I also maintained a 4.56 GPA weighted average, 4.78 cumulative,” he says. “Um, I can tell you more about how my roles in finance have intersected with business and sales, or first I can give you the highlights from my internships. Would you like that in chronological order or in order of relevance?”

Dean clears his throat and takes another sip of iced tea. Kevin watches him do it with some nervous energy as he tries not to fidget in his seat.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Dean asks.

He glances over at you, where you sit in your own leather chair. This may be Dean’s office, but yours is now down the hall. As Operations Manager, you oversee HunterCorp’s logistics, budgets and resources, quality assurance, and office management. You’re literally the connective piece between Sam and Dean, and every department in the company. But you’ve been spread a little too thin for the past few months, juggling your new responsibilities with the old. Now, Dean needs your replacement.

You peruse Kevin’s resume again and flip the page. Your engagement ring catches the light.

“Let’s start with internships.”

AN: How'd you like Dean stepping up? You think he'd make a good stepdad? 😘

I am working on a longer Dean AU series at the moment. I'll be telling you guys more about it next week, but until then, please let me know what you thought about this little mini series!

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You didn’t wake sharply.

There was no pull. No need.

Just awareness, drifting in gradually as your body followed.

Dean was still there.

Curled in close behind you now, sometime during the night having shifted from where he’d started. One arm was draped over you, heavy and warm, his hand resting low against your stomach like it had settled there out of habit and never found a reason to move.

His breathing was slow. Even.

But not fully asleep.

You felt it in the way his fingers shifted slightly when you stirred, the faint tightening of his arm before it loosened again, like he’d registered you without opening his eyes.

Your wolf lingered just beneath the surface.

Not quiet.

Not pressing.

Present in a way that felt… content, full.

The same fullness you’d fallen asleep with hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deeper, woven itself into something steadier that didn’t need your attention to be felt.

You let your hand drift back over his where it rested on you, fingers brushing lightly against his knuckles. The contact earned a quiet exhale against the back of your neck—warm, familiar, just this side of a hum.

“Mm,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “You’re awake.”

“Getting there,” you answered softly, not moving from where you were tucked into him.

He didn’t rush you.

Didn’t move to get up.

His hand stayed where it was, thumb shifting once in a slow, absent pass against your stomach before settling again. Not deliberate. Not unaware either.

Somewhere across the cabin, a floorboard creaked.

Then the faint sound of movement—heavier, slower than usual.

Sam.

A second later, something lighter followed. Jess.

Not quiet.

Not trying to be.

The sounds didn’t pull at you. They grounded you.

Pack.

Dean exhaled again, a little deeper this time, his nose brushing faintly against your hair as he shifted just enough to press closer.

“Don’t move yet,” he muttered, not quite a request.

You smiled against the pillow, eyes still closed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He made a soft sound that might’ve been approval, might’ve been relief, and for another stretch of time, neither of you moved.

There was no reason to.

Eventually, though, the cabin called you both back to it—not urgently, not insistently, just… steadily. The sounds downstairs picked up slightly—cupboard doors, the scrape of something across the counter, Jess’s voice rising and falling with that easy cadence that meant she’d been up long enough to be fully awake.

Dean shifted first this time.

Not away.

Just enough to press a slow kiss into your hair before he eased back, his arm dragging reluctantly from where it had been settled around you.

“Coffee,” he said, like it explained everything.

You rolled onto your back as he sat up, the room tilting slightly with the movement before settling again. The air felt different out of the covers—cooler, brushing across your skin in a way that made your wolf stir once in quiet acknowledgment.

A faint sensation followed with it.

Not sharp. Not painful.

Just… present.

Easy to ignore if you wanted to. Not quite gone if you tried.

Your brow knit for half a second before smoothing out again. It wasn’t enough to name. Not enough to pull you out of the moment.

So you let it sit. Let it be.

Dean moved as if he hadn’t noticed. Or if he did, he didn’t comment—already on his feet, stretching out the stiffness from the night before with a low exhale before reaching for a pair of sweats.

You followed more slowly, the two of you moving around each other with an ease that didn’t require thought. No rush to dress quickly. No need to fill the silence.

By the time you made your way downstairs, the cabin had settled into that soft, lived-in hum again.

Jess was already at the counter, wrapped in one of Sam’s shirts, a mug in her hands as she leaned her hip against the edge. Her hair was still a little wild, like she hadn’t bothered to fully tame it yet.

Sam stood at the stove.

Dean barely made it two steps into the kitchen before veering that direction, drawn in by instinct more than intention.

“Move,” he muttered, nudging his brother’s shoulder with his own as he reached for a pan.

Sam didn’t even look at him. “I’m already cooking.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean shot back, already pulling open a drawer. “Doesn’t mean you’re doing it right.”

Jess snorted into her coffee. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

You moved to the counter beside her, reaching automatically for another mug. The scent of coffee filled the space—rich, grounding—cutting through the lingering traces of the forest that still clung to all of you.

“Look at them,” Jess went on, tipping her chin toward the stove. “Proper alphas, up and at it, feeding their mates after a very energetic full moon.”

Dean shot her a look over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

Sam huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “We’re making eggs, Jess.”

“And yet the effort is noted,” she said, entirely unbothered.

You smiled into your mug, the warmth of it settling into your hands as you leaned lightly against the center island. The scene played out in front of you easily—Dean taking over one half of the stove without actually forcing Sam out, Sam adjusting without argument, the two of them moving around each other with that ingrained familiarity that came from years of it.

Bumping shoulders.

Reaching for the same thing at the same time.

Arguing under their breath about something that didn’t matter enough to escalate.

It felt… right.

Normal, in a way that didn’t diminish what the night had been.

The fullness was still there.

Threaded through everything.

And beneath it—

That same quiet awareness.

It brushed at the edges of your focus again, just enough to be noticed when you stilled. A subtle shift under your skin, not out of place—just… not fully aligned with everything else.

You adjusted your grip on the mug, grounding yourself in the heat of it.

Letting the conversation fill the space instead.

Jess said something else—light, teasing, directed at both brothers—and she’d almost missed the moment your attention drifted.

Almost.

But she didn’t.

Her voice didn’t falter, didn’t pause—but her eyes flicked to you, sharp in a way that didn’t match the rest of her expression.

You met her gaze without meaning to.

Just for a second.

It was enough.

A question there.

Quick.

Unspoken.

You shook your head just as quickly, the motion small enough that anyone not looking for it would’ve missed it entirely. Your expression didn’t change. Your posture didn’t shift.

Nothing to see. Nothing to say.

Jess held your gaze for half a beat longer.

Then she looked away.

Just like that.

“Careful,” she said lightly, redirecting without effort. “If you two keep arguing like that, I’m going to assume you’re trying to impress us.”

Dean snorted. “You’re already impressed.”

Sam didn’t bother responding, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

The moment passed with the same ease all of them did.

Time moved, but not in any way that asked to be counted. It slipped between conversations, stretched through the quiet spaces, settled into the kind of rhythm that only came after something had already been fulfilled.

The cabin held it all.

Low voices. The occasional laugh. The scrape of dishes that no one rushed to wash and no one minded leaving for a little while. Windows cracked open just enough to let the outside air thread its way in, carrying the scent of sun-warmed earth and distant pine.

You stayed close without thinking about it.

Not glued to Dean’s side—but never far enough that you couldn’t feel him. The bond didn’t need attention to stay present. It simply… was. A steady line between you, warm and constant, layered now with something fuller than it had been the day before.

Your wolf didn’t settle back down after the run.

She lingered.

Not restless. Not pacing. Just awake in a way that felt… aware. Like she was listening to something deeper now, something that hadn’t been as clear the night before.

Across the room, Sam moved the same way Dean did.

Grounded. Loose in his body, but with that same underlying edge—not sharp, not tense, just ready in a way that didn’t belong to anything immediate.

Jess noticed everything.

She always did.

But today, she didn’t call it out. Didn’t tease or push or prod at the way the air had shifted between all of you. Instead, she let it exist, folding herself into it easily—her presence bright, but softer around the edges, like even she understood this wasn’t something to disrupt.

Not all at once. One by one.

Dean leaned against one of the wooden pillars, beer in hand, gaze drifting out toward the tree line without really focusing on anything in particular. Not toward where the four of you went the night before. Toward where the Winchesters gathered on full moons. Sam took the steps and dropped down onto the top one, forearms braced against his knees, head tilted slightly like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Jess settled into one of the chairs, bare feet tucked beneath her, watching all of it with quiet familiarity.

You stayed near the railing, fingers resting against the wood, eyes on the stretch of forest where a path would one day be noticeable.

The light had started to shift.

Not fading yet—but changing. The gold of the afternoon deepening, shadows stretching longer across the ground, the air losing just enough warmth to hint at what was coming.

And beneath it—

There it was again.

Stronger now.

Not just a pull.

A call.

Your breath caught slightly, not from surprise, but from recognition. Your wolf lifted immediately, leaning into it this time instead of just listening, her presence brushing closer to the surface in response.

Behind you, Dean went still.

Not visibly.

But you felt it.

The bond tightened—not in alarm, not in concern—but in awareness that mirrored your own.

Yeah.

He felt it too.

No one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

The understanding moved through all four of you without words, settling into place as naturally as everything else had.

Tonight would be different.

Not because you expected it to be.

Because something in you already knew it would be.

You didn’t need to ask. You could feel it in the way the others moved through the space.

Dean was already there when you reached him, rolling his shoulders as he pulled his shirt over his head with the ease of repetition. Sam followed a moment later, slower but steady, hands already moving to the hem of his own shirt. Jess was the last to step in, but only because she paused long enough to catch your eye—something soft and knowing passing between you before she turned away to finish what she was doing.

No rush. No hesitation. Just the practiced rhythm of something you’d all done enough times for it to feel like memory in motion.

Clothes were left where they fell—not folded. Not arranged. Just… released. A quiet shedding of what wasn’t needed anymore. The porch door waited ahead, already cracked open, letting in the cool night air that slipped along your skin the moment you stepped closer.

Dean reached for you automatically, not pulling you in, just touching—his hand at your waist, grounding you for half a second longer than necessary. Sam brushed Jess’s fingers as they passed. It wasn’t ceremony, not exactly. More like acknowledgment. A silent agreement that this mattered every time, even if it never changed.

Outside, the world was waiting.

The steps down from the porch felt familiar beneath bare feet, worn smooth by time and repetition. Lantern light spilled along the edges of the path, catching in the trees ahead where the forest opened up just enough to swallow sound and give it back differently.

You inhaled once.

And let go.

Not just breath.

Everything.

The shift wasn’t forced. It never was. It rose the way it always had—deep from somewhere older than thought. The moment you stopped resisting it, it stopped feeling like change at all.

Your wolf came forward like she’d never been absent.

Not a break.

A continuation.

Bones unthreading. Breath expanding. Skin giving way to something that had always been waiting just beneath it.

You didn’t fall so much as become.

And when the world snapped into sharper focus again—when scent and sound and motion rebuilt themselves in new language—you were already moving.

Four heartbeats.

Aligned.

Dean was there first in awareness, even before sight settled fully. Broad presence. Familiar weight. The kind of steady that didn’t need confirmation. Sam followed just behind him, anchored to Jess without hesitation, the two of them moving like they always did when the world narrowed into instinct instead of thought.

Jess brushed past you first, playful even in this form, tail flicking once like she was already ahead of herself.

Then Dean stepped in closer—not crowding, never crowding—but close enough that your shoulder brushed his flank as you fell into motion beside him.

Sam and Jess mirrored it naturally.

And then there was no arrangement left to consider.

Only movement.

The run wasn’t fast at first.

It didn’t need to be.

It was familiarity turned into rhythm—paws meeting earth in a pattern that had nothing to prove. The forest opened around you instead of resisting, branches shifting just enough to let you pass, moonlight threading through the canopy in pale, broken ribbons.

The air smelled different the closer you got.

Smoke. Earth. Life.

And then—

Sound.

Not loud. Not chaotic.

Alive.

The clearing came into view the same way it always did—like something remembered rather than discovered. Light pooling low around the central firepit, though the fire itself was nothing more than embers this time of year. Lanterns instead carried the glow, scattered around the edges of the space, warm gold against deepening night.

And everything else was movement.

Wolves already circling. Humans already seated. The familiar hum of a place where no one needed translation.

The moment your paws hit the edge of the clearing, the shift in attention was immediate.

Not disruption.

Recognition.

Heads lifted. Tails wagged. A ripple of awareness passed through the space like a breath exhaled together.

Yips rose first from the wolves—short, bright, familiar. Greetings without urgency. Joy without demand.

Then came the human side—soft smiles, quiet words, names spoken like no time had passed.

Dean slowed beside you but didn’t stop you. Neither did Sam. Jess bumped your shoulder once, like a nudge forward, and the four of you stepped fully into the circle of it all.

And just like that—you were part of it again.

Whole.

Rejoined.

The transition into the clearing didn’t feel like arriving so much as being absorbed.

Sound and scent and movement wrapped around you in layers—wolves greeting wolves, humans lifting their heads with quiet recognition, the kind of ease that came only from repetition and trust. Nothing needed to be announced. Nothing needed to be explained.

You stayed close to Dean without thinking about it, Sam and Jess moving just slightly ahead before peeling off into the wider circle the way they always did when the gathering began to split into its natural currents.

It was instinct now. Each of you finding your place inside something larger without losing the thread that kept you connected.

The firepit sat at the center of it all, though tonight it was only a bed of low embers and glowing coals. Too warm for flame, too alive already to need it. Lanterns hung from posts and branches instead, casting a steady, amber light across the clearing where bodies moved in and out of shadow.

That’s when you saw them.

Not all at once—your attention caught first by movement low to the ground. A small, unsteady figure weaving between legs and blankets with the kind of determined focus only toddlers seemed capable of.

It took a second for your mind to place her.

Then another for the recognition to settle fully.

The little girl.

Except she wasn’t so little anymore.

Her steps were steadier now, though still unbalanced in that way children her age carried into every movement. Her hair was longer, pulled back loosely, strands escaping to frame her face as she turned sharply toward a sound only she seemed to care about. She paused mid-step when she spotted you.

And then—

Everything in her lit up.

A sound left her immediately. Not quite a word. Not quite a laugh. Something in between, bright and broken and full of urgency as she pointed in your direction with both hands like she couldn’t decide which one would get her there faster.

Her father was close by, seated near a cluster of logs, watching her with the kind of relaxed vigilance that came from knowing she wouldn’t go far without being seen. Her mother sat just beside him, already shifted, her wolf form stretched comfortably along the grass with her head lifted.

The moment the child moved toward you, her mother’s ears flicked—recognition, subtle and immediate.

The father looked up next.

And then smiled.

It was small at first. Quiet. The kind of smile that carried memory in it.

He said something low to his mate, and the mother shifted her gaze to you more fully now, watching the way you paused at the edge of the clearing.

The child tried again, more insistent this time, babbling something that might have been your name or might have been something entirely invented in the space between excitement and language. Her hands reached forward, fingers curling as though she could pull you closer just by wanting it hard enough.

That was when the mother lifted her head slightly and gave a soft, careful huff in your direction.

Not a command.

An invitation.

Your attention shifted automatically to Dean, then Sam and Jess as they drifted a few steps farther into the clearing. The four of you shared something wordless—an exchange that didn’t need shape or sound to be understood.

Dean’s gaze flicked toward the family first. Then back to you.

A slight tilt of his head. Easy. Certain.

Go.

Sam mirrored it a second later, more subtle but just as clear. Jess added a small, almost imperceptible nod before bumping Sam’s shoulder and already turning away toward where Garth and Benny had started circling each other in playful posturing near the edge of the trees.

No hesitation.

No tension.

Just understanding.

You moved before you could overthink it, crossing the open space toward the family as the child made another excited sound and practically bounced in place when she realized you were coming closer.

Her mother shifted just enough to make room beside them.

The father leaned back on his hands, relaxed but attentive, eyes tracking you with open warmth.

“You’ve got an admirer,” he said lightly, voice carrying that easy humor people used when something good was unfolding in front of them.

The little girl made another sound—this time louder, triumphant—as if she’d successfully completed something very important.

She reached for you the moment you were within range, small hands stretching toward your fur with no hesitation at all.

You lowered yourself carefully, slow enough not to startle her, but close enough that she could bridge the distance herself. She did immediately, fingers tangling into your coat with the confidence of familiarity she absolutely had not earned—but somehow still carried.

Her grip wasn’t rough.

Just certain.

Behind you, you caught the faint shift of movement—Dean watching from a distance he hadn’t closed, Sam already half-turned toward the others, Jess disappearing into the crowd of wolves like she belonged to it as naturally as breath.

You were aware of them, but only in passing.

Because the child had decided you were the most interesting thing in the world.

She babbled again, leaning forward as if she was trying to climb into your space entirely, her words dissolving into delighted fragments that didn’t quite make language but carried meaning anyway. Her father laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he reached out instinctively when she leaned too far, steadying her without interrupting her enthusiasm.

“She’s been talking about you since last time,” the father said softly, his voice calm and even. Not intrusive. Just present. “Not in words we understand. But… she remembers.”

You felt it then.

Not just recognition.

Connection.

Something small and growing and completely unselfconscious, the kind that didn’t ask for permission or understanding before it existed.

The child made another attempt at speech, this time punctuating it with a decisive pat against your shoulder like she was confirming something only she knew the answer to.

Her father chuckled. “I think she’s decided you belong to her now.”

That earned a quiet, amused breath from you—something softer than laughter, more instinct than reaction.

The mother shifted slightly, watching you more closely now, but not in judgment. In awareness. Like she was reading something beneath your stillness that didn’t need translation.

“Go on,” the father said after a moment, tone gentle, reading his mate’s cues. “Sit with us. She won’t forgive you if you don’t.”

And just like that, the space opened.

You settled beside them near the edge of the firepit circle, the ground still warm from the day. The child immediately scrambled closer, as if your presence had rearranged the entire world into something more acceptable. Her small body leaned against your side without hesitation, her attention flickering between your face and your fur as though she was still trying to decide which part she trusted most.

Her mother watched it all with quiet softness.

The father exhaled slowly, content in a way that didn’t need explanation.

Around you, the clearing continued to move—wolves circling through play, laughter rising and falling in waves, familiar names drifting through the air as Garth tripped dramatically over nothing and Benny pretended not to notice while Jo and Charlie darted past him at full speed.

Cas stood at the edge of it all for a moment longer than the others, observing. Meg leaned lightly into him, arms folded, expression unreadable but not distant.

Mary and John were nearby too, just beyond the firepit’s glow, settled into their own quiet space as they took in the gathering without interruption. Mary’s gaze drifted briefly in your direction once, catching you with the child, and her expression softened in a way that looked almost like recognition layered over memory.

Then she looked away again, as if giving the moment the privacy it deserved.

The child shifted closer to you, finally stilling, one small hand still tangled in your fur.

And for a while, you simply stayed there.

Not separate.

Not observed.

Just part of it.

A piece of something that had been going on long before you arrived—and would continue long after you moved again.

Time here never moved in straight lines. It pooled and drifted, carried by movement and sound that never quite settled into silence. Somewhere nearby, laughter rose and fell again as Jo and Charlie darted through a loose ring of wolves, their play still ongoing but less frantic now, more like the slow unwinding after energy had burned itself out.

Closer to you, the little girl had finally eased into stillness.

Not asleep. Not even tired, really—just anchored now. Curled into the space beside you as if she had decided this was where she belonged for the moment. Her small hands still explored occasionally, fingers brushing your fur with that unfiltered curiosity, but the urgency had faded into something gentler.

She babbled to herself more than to you now, syllables rolling together in half-formed language only she understood. Every so often she would glance up at your face, as if checking you were still there, still willing to be part of whatever game she had quietly decided you were playing.

You stayed where you were.

Not because you had to.

Because it felt right.

The ground beneath your body held warmth from the day, slowly giving it back into the cool air that had settled in. Your limbs were relaxed, your breathing steady in that low, unconscious rhythm wolves fell into when there was nothing to chase and nothing to fear.

Around you, the world kept moving.

Dean was somewhere nearby—you could feel him more than you could see him, that familiar weight of presence threading through the edge of your awareness. Sam and Jess were farther out, their energy blending into the wider flow of the gathering, occasionally flickering into recognition when they passed close enough for the bond to catch.

But here, in this small pocket of space, everything had narrowed again.

Just you.

Just her.

The thought drifted to the forefront of your mind without permission. What if? What will it be like if I am? Your gaze, soft now, lingered on the child for a long moment. Would Dean shift while I don’t? How would it be? You couldn’t help it. Your wolf huffed in your mind, willing you to relax. To just be a part of something bigger than the four of you.

The child shifted slightly, adjusting herself with the seriousness of someone doing very important work. Her attention had drifted toward your stomach sometime in the last few minutes, though you hadn’t thought much of it. Children focused on whatever was closest, whatever was soft, whatever moved.

You felt her lean in again, one small hand pressing lightly against your side as if she were testing the shape of you.

Then—

Stillness.

Not sudden. Not dramatic.

Just a pause that didn’t belong to play anymore.

Her hand settled more deliberately against your stomach.

And then, very clearly, in a voice that didn’t quite carry the structure of speech but landed with unmistakable intent—

“Pup.”

The word didn’t fit the moment in any logical way.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. Not here. Not now. Not in the way she said it—simple, certain, like it was a fact she had just discovered and decided to share with the world.

But it hit anyway.

Not like a sound.

Like contact.

Something deep in your body tightened before you could stop it. Not pain. Not fear. Something sharper and more complicated than either. A twist low in your stomach that made your breath shift without warning, your awareness snapping inward for half a second as if your own instincts had briefly turned to listen.

Your wolf stirred immediately beneath your skin.

Not alarmed.

Alert.

Watching.

You didn’t move.

But something in you did.

Confusion came first. Clean and immediate. A quiet pushback against the word itself. Children didn’t know things like that. Not like this. Not in a way that meant anything beyond coincidence or imagination. It was just a sound she’d attached to warmth or shape or attention.

Still—

The weight of it lingered.

Her hand stayed there, small and steady, as if she had no idea she’d just shifted something in the air around her.

Then the mother moved.

It was subtle at first—an ear flick, a shift in posture. The kind of motion that came before decision rather than after it. Her head tilted slightly, attention narrowing with a focus that wasn’t tense, just… attentive.

She stood.

No stretch. No hesitation.

Just a smooth rise into motion that carried her closer to you before anyone could quite define the reason for it.

The father didn’t stop her.

He only watched, expression softening as she crossed the short distance between them.

The mother lowered her head.

Not abrupt. Not intrusive.

Careful.

Her nose came close—close enough that you could feel the brush of her breath against your fur, warm and steady. She didn’t press forward. Didn’t invade. Just paused there, as if listening to something beneath surface level.

The child, still utterly pleased with herself, made a small sound of delight and patted your side again like she was confirming her earlier declaration.

The father exhaled quietly, a low, almost amused sound under his breath.

“Sometimes pups just know,” he said softly, not looking away from the scene in front of him.

No one corrected him.

No one rushed the moment away.

The mother finally lifted her head just enough to meet your gaze.

There wasn’t interpretation in her expression. Not assumption. Certainty. Awareness. The kind that didn’t try to define what it was seeing before it had to.

She gave a small nod. Barely there.

You went still beneath it all.

Not outwardly frozen. Not tense.

Just… held.

Your thoughts tried to move immediately—fast, instinctive, reaching for explanations before anything else could settle. But they didn’t get far. Not yet. Something in you refused to let them run ahead of the moment, like your own body had decided it needed to stay right here, right in this exact breath, before it could decide what any of it meant.

Around you, the clearing kept breathing.

Life continued in motion at the edges—laughter, shifting bodies, distant play—but here, within this small circle, everything had narrowed into something quieter.

Something waiting.

And for the first time since the word had been spoken, you weren’t sure what you were waiting for in return.

It simply moved.

The clearing continued to breathe around you in its own rhythm—low movement, scattered laughter, the distant press of wolves circling through familiar patterns of play and rest. The child beside you had settled fully now, no longer reaching so insistently, just existing in that quiet, satisfied way toddlers sometimes did when the world had finally agreed to stay where they left it.

Her weight leaned gently against your side.

Warm.

Anchored.

Behind you, somewhere in the wider stretch of gathering, you were still aware of them—Dean, Sam, Jess—threads in the bond that hadn’t loosened, only stretched outward into space. You didn’t need to look to know they were there. That sense of them had become too familiar to mistake for anything else.

But something else had begun to grow louder than all of it.

Not a sound.

A pull.

At first, you tried to ignore it the way you had been ignoring everything else since earlier. The word. The glance. The way your own body had reacted before your thoughts had even caught up. But it didn’t fade. It didn’t settle.

It only sharpened.

The child shifted slightly, pressing her hand against your fur again as if confirming you were still real beneath her attention. You let out a slow breath through your nose, steadying yourself in a way that had nothing to do with relaxation anymore.

Just control.

Just focus.

When you finally moved, it was gentle.

A small nudge of your shoulder against hers, enough to shift her attention without startling her. She blinked up at you, unbothered, already distracted by something in the distance before she could question your movement.

You rose carefully.

Slow enough that she didn’t protest.

Slow enough that nothing about the moment broke.

Your body stretched as you stood, a long, full extension through muscle and limb, the kind of yawn that pulled everything back into alignment for a breath. When you shook out your fur, it wasn’t agitation. Just release. Something trying to move through you rather than stay lodged beneath your skin.

The clearing came back into focus in fragments.

Dean—farther off, head turned slightly in your direction even if he hadn’t fully tracked your movement yet.

Sam—closer to the edge of a cluster of wolves, posture easy but awareness intact.

Jess—somewhere between motion and stillness, always halfway between two games at once.

They were fine. They were not looking for you.

That was enough.

You turned away.

At first, it was just a walk.

A simple movement through the edge of the gathering, weaving between bodies and lamplight and sound. No one stopped you. No one questioned it. Wolves shifted aside without needing explanation. Humans didn’t call after you. The world simply adjusted to your absence the way it always did when someone stepped out of the center of it.

Then the trees took you.

The clearing loosened behind you, sound thinning as distance grew. What had been layered and alive became scattered and far away, until even the bond between you and the others felt like a thread stretched just enough to still exist—but no longer pulled taut.

And then you ran.

It wasn’t frantic.

It wasn’t uncontrolled.

It was release.

Your wolf came forward fully the moment you let her take the lead, not because she was restless, but because she was already waiting. The ground blurred beneath you in steady rhythm, breath syncing with motion, anticipation settling into your bones in a way that didn’t feel like fear or hope or certainty—only necessity.

Something had shifted.

And it refused to stay unexamined.

The cabin appeared between the trees like it had been waiting for you specifically.

Warm light still spilled faintly from the porch lanterns, catching in the wood grain as you approached without slowing. The steps came under you in motion rather than decision, paws already shifting mid-ascent.

The change didn’t interrupt you.

It carried through you.

Fur gave way to skin in the same breath your body crossed the threshold of the porch, momentum uninterrupted, balance adjusting without pause.

Human.

Mid-step.

Still moving.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

The door gave easily when you pulled it open, the familiar scent of the cabin wrapping around you instantly—wood, worn fabric, lingering traces of Dean, of shared space, of lived-in quiet.

Down the hallway, everything was still.

No voices.

No movement.

Just the hum of a house between moments.

Your feet barely registered the floor as you moved, guided more than walking now, down past the staircase, toward the guest bathroom.

The door open.

The towels were where you’d left them in the shelved insert behind the open door.

Folded.

Ordinary.

Nothing about them changed until your hands were inside them, pulling the small box free from where it had been hidden like it might somehow stay invisible if you treated it gently enough.

The cardboard box that right now, held an answer you weren’t sure how to face. And inside that? Plastic.

Thin.

Clinical.

You hadn’t even registered that you’d opened the box and pulled out the test.

But it was in your hand now anyway.

You set it on the counter before your mind could try to argue with your body about what you were doing. The instructions didn’t matter anymore. You knew them. You’d read them. You could still feel Mary’s voice in your memory—four weeks. After attachment.

Attachment.

The word landed differently now.

You took the test anyway. Not because you were certain.

Because you couldn’t not.

And then you waited.

But waiting wasn’t stillness. Not this kind.

This was movement held inside your chest instead of outside it. Your breath kept trying to deepen and failing halfway through. Your hands stayed close to the sink without touching it, like grounding yourself against anything solid might make the result arrive faster or slower or differently than it was going to.

Your wolf was not restless.

She was focused.

Unnaturally so.

As if the entire world had narrowed to the strip of plastic on the counter and nothing else was permitted to exist until it finished deciding what it would become.

Time didn’t stretch. It thickened.

A ringing settled behind your ears—not loud, but constant—woven through the rhythm of your heartbeat until you could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

And somewhere deep beneath your skin, your wolf went utterly still.

Chapter 65 ------- Chapter 67 - coming soon

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non-inert treatments: non-inert treatments are another confounding factor to the placebo effect; while they could be considered a treatment for the placenta effect also (see abortion and birth), it is more often considered the point in which the non-committed couple reaches a crossroads, either furthering their relationship and becoming fully committed to each other, or going their separate ways as far as their individual relationship goes; any resulting child carried to full-term is not included as part of the couples relationship, except when broadened into a family group - a separate issue outside of the placenta effect study

Dean never intended for you to sleep in his bed that morning. By the time he woke up, it was well into the day. Was hard to tell when he couldn’t see his clock over your shoulder, but could see the lights from the hallway filtering in under the door and through the grill.

Must’ve been the way his room’s setup was different to yours. The end of his bed opposite the doorway meant the light shone into his eyes if he looked at it the right way, like he did then. If he’d had a hangover, he’d have been screwed, technically he had, depending on how you looked at it. Some might say he was. 

His arm was around your waist, and while it wasn’t awkward per se, it was surprising. As rare as him still being in his bed so late in the day. 

You always slinked off after sex. Each round with him, a literal wham-bam-thank-you ma’am kind of situation neither of you mentioned—ever. Until you wound up together in the sheets or out of them the next time, and even then, aside from the usual bedroom talk, there wasn’t much talking going on. His, ‘yeah, baby’s’ and bringing up how well you were taking him. How wet you were or when he was about to shoot his load. 

After the kitchen and the subsequent move to his bed, the last he remembered was him shooting into you and filling you up. His fingers, still pressed into you. Their tips brushed over himself as he continued to draw the sensations out of your body. He’d all but stilled, aside from his chest heaving against your back, soon finding a sliver of post nut clarity that allowed him to collapse with you still in his arms. 

Now, he was sticky. The good kind. A sheen of you and him covered his junk like a layer of sweat, having not bothered to clean either of you up. It was something you insisted on doing yourself. Except this time.

He leaned back and glanced down between you. It was gonna be another Memphis situation if you didn’t move soon. Even at the thought of it, his dick twitched at the prospect. Even his own frown towards it did little. 

You shifted, though. Hips angled more so the one under his forearm moved closer to the mattress. Legs stretched, receding beside him. Knees rubbed together. He had to shuffle back himself to avoid your ankle to his shin, which then had him stilling because you sighed in your sleep, and it was…sweet. Nice? Different? 

Definitely different. 

Reminded him of his days with Lisa and Ben. The relaxed mornings on the ones he didn’t have to run off to work for and be at the site by eight. Hell, even those workdays were easy when he considered everything hunting entailed. 

It’d been a while since he could just be. To lay there in his bed—any bed for that matter, and not have a care in the world.

Not rushed. He had no desire to get up. Nor was he hellbent on getting somewhere to even get his coffee. There was no bitter smell that morning that’d woken him as it was, and even his bladder seemed to give him a break. He had to wonder if it was just in cahoots with his sack. His body parts stuck together and all that, but, hey? What was a world without friends?

You were his friend. Family. That wouldn’t change, and as you came to, he held you firmer. Waiting for the moment you’d recognise where you were, most likely flip out on him, though he was hoping for the opposite. That the peace would last a little longer so he could pretend he had a slice of normal. Remember what he’d seen the night before in your eyes. 

He still didn’t know what that was. Just knew how it made him feel. How he’d wanted to cradle you close, much in the way he was doing now. How he wanted to do it again.

As his thumb ran over your skin, your stomach muscles below his other fingers tightened. Your breath, quiet, as opposed to the softer ones you’d released as you’d slept. 

He could feel you tensing beneath his touch, still he dared dropping his head between your shoulder blades. His hand, still on you, still holding you, but loosening the longer you did nothing more than breathe.

“Morning,” he rumbled. His voice hoarse from the scotch that’s remnants still clung to the back of his throat. 

“Hey.” You cleared your own before shifting again, body flipping to your back. It left enough distance between you he felt the draft from the outside hall in the gap below the sheet that covered you both.

Someone had pulled it over you. More than likely him, though he couldn’t recall. His mind, still focussed on the sex and your words in the kitchen. 

You’d told him you weren’t fine. “I’m not,” you’d said in particular to him telling you he was. But you’d brought up his getting injured, too. Rowena’s henchman. And though he’d favoured you with his shoulder—as he’d kissed you, he’d felt a need within himself to ask if you were okay. Even during the moment with his dick ploughing into you, he felt the need to ask again. Yet both times you’d insisted you were good.

Looking at your face now had him wondering, though. If he asked again, would you say the same thing? 

He wasn’t sure it’d get him anywhere when you’d already pulled away with just his forehead to your spine. Granted, you were still waking up, and okay, his arm was also on your stomach. You might’ve felt the stirrings of his morning wood. 

The whole setup was unusual. He couldn’t deny it. But sitting—lying there in silence wasn’t the way to go about things. He had to say something before you retreated.

So he changed his trajectory. Pulled his arm away from the pillow you were using. Pulled it back to him and drew the sheet higher over his waist. He put his other hand behind his head and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. How he treated all the women before you that weren’t Lisa or Cassie; they were the only ones he was comfortable lying with like this. 

And you? 

He was getting way too sappy for so early in the day, even if it was late for him. You stared at the ceiling, too. Head rolled back a little so your chin was higher than your nose. 

“This is—new,” he said. He’d almost gone with nice. Still thought it was, but he wasn’t about to tell you that. “Didn’t think I’d—”

“I’m pregnant.” 

What?

There was a full minute of him trying to swallow your words and wallow in them before he did something. At least, that’s what it felt like. He had to taste them on his tongue first. Let them sink into his head while he tried to control his reaction before he sat straight up. One knee bent, the other shoved towards your waist—which he had to adjust. Get the offending limb well away from your womb and the—

“Gesundheit.” His brow raised and the crowns of his cheeks raised higher. A smile, not joyful, but fucking confused, plastered on his face because you had just had sex. Hours ago, sure, but how could you…? 

His lashes fluttered again. To be that fly on the wall that could get the fuck out of dodge.

Had he heard that right?

He stared at you. While you hadn’t run off or cowered under the sheet like he might’ve expected—prior experience judged upon—you had an odd streak to your lips. “I mean, I’m late,” you huffed. “I, ah, I’d been practicing how I was gonna tell you, but my head—I dunno.” You shook said head, the same lips trembling. “I was struggling how to tell you, but it’s been almost two weeks now and I—”

“Well, two weeks ain’t the same as right now,” he chuckled. The one that was ever boyish as he came down from the initial heart attack you’d tried to give him. Though how and why that seemed to make him feel better was beyond him. “‘Cause I just came in ya a few hours ago, and that—well, I’m not a doctor, but you don’t know that soon.” 

He stared at you for a second longer. Looked over your face and the mouth that’s shape told him you were serious. He ran a hand over his own. Ever aware, you watched him even though you attempted to make it look like you weren’t. 

He lowered himself back onto the mattress. He’d have sighed as his back hit the memory foam, but he held it in, knowing every action was being scrutinised. His arm, furthest from you, still up in the air, T-Rex style all over again. 

There were a lot of similarities to Memphis.

Even though he’d just released you for your own comfort, he was sliding his hand back under you and pulling you closer to him. When that didn’t push you away, he risked his thumb stroking your skin again. “You, ah, you’re sure you’re late? I mean it—”

“I’ve been waiting for it,” you said. He heard your breaths in between. “Y’know, cramps or—something, but the last time I had my period was after that case in Tulsa, and—”

“Okay,” he said. Defeated, maybe? There wasn’t much he could do at that moment, buck naked and still perplexed. Wasn’t like he didn’t know how it could happen. Not like he’d suited up.

“Okay?” You sat up that time. His hand had to drop to the mattress to accommodate you. “What do you—”

“I mean, okay.” He stressed his voice enough that you’d drop the question. There were already enough false ‘I’m fine’s’ going around; you didn’t need another one to contend with on top of them. 

He meant this one. Sort of—freaking the fuck out. There wasn’t a lot you could do at that moment, either. Not like you had one of those tests from the drugstore on hand you could pee on, though he’d have to go and get you one to be sure. 

It was you, though. Not some Amazon. Not Lisa, who he’d noped out of. It was you. Someone he could deal with. Wasn’t like you’d taken a test and the positive was glaring back at him—yet.

His hand reached for your bare thigh, now exposed. His eyes, tracing the movements his thumb resumed for fear of looking at your rack that was also out on display for him. “All we know is you’re late. Can’t do much about it now.”

“But—”

“I’ll go get you a test myself.” Right after he had his coffee. Chuck knew he deserved it. His self control was reason alone.

Dean pulls a pack of peas out of Jody’s fridge and slaps it on his shoulder. No towel, no paper, just straight over the former gunshot wound Tiny had a hand in making worse. 

He winces. Stares at the inside of the freezer a little longer, allowing the cold air to cool his face down, even with the threat his low brow might stay that way. 

He knows there’s worry etched into the grooves around his eyes and nose. He knows the second he turns around and faces Jody and Sam, they’ll have questions for him. Sam’s been holding them since the motel in Grafton. Since Dean frantically searched through your things for answers. Even before.

What was he supposed to say to them? What did he say to you when he didn’t know how to form the words he wanted to tell himself?

Things were okay? Because they weren’t. Not really. You were okay. The baby was okay. All six millimetres of it. But Dean didn’t even know how big that was until he googled it. His kid was smaller than his smallest fingernail. What kind of father was he?

The kind that let their mom get taken by a nest of vamps, that’s who. Dean could say as much as he wanted that it wasn’t his fault, but he pushed you away. Fought against you. He’d made your life hell enough that you’d left the motel on your own to get a second test. So what kind of father was he? 

Not the kind to be around. That’s for sure.

Water running out of the tap spills into a container behind him. He didn’t even hear either of them move. He shuts the door and spins around to see Jody filling up the coffeemaker. Sammy’s staring at him from across the room, leaning on a piece of bench, arms folded, but neither says a word, and Dean straightens himself up, having not realised he was slouching. 

All his muscles scream at him as he slinks past them both to the dining table. He pulls up a chair, the one facing the window and away from them, and slinks into it. Those same muscles protest under the onslaught of bunching up under his own weight.

Legs stretching below don’t help. Only make it harder.  His bad arm, draping on his thigh, he loses his head and stares at the wood grain, waiting for someone to speak or for his thoughts to turn happier.

He should be, right? Happy that is. You’re not talking to him ‘cause you’re resting in Claire’s room. That’s better than not talking and ignoring him.

You’ve hardly said a word since the hospital. He made you see someone in Grand Forks because it was safer than Grafton after the case. Just made him more aware of the kind of life you’d be bringing your kid into.

His kid. 

His jaw grinds from side to side. Tongue scrapes the back of his teeth and lips. Jody’s the first to join him, which is surprising. She places a hand on his good shoulder as she moves to the chair to his right and diagonal.

He doesn’t look, though. His lips twitch into a shallow smile that only just clips the edges. Enough for her to see he appreciates the sentiment. 

But she says nothing. He’s okay with the silence. Until Sam’s boots shuffle over the floor, and he can only guess what’s coming. 

He doesn’t sit next to him like he often does when they’re here, though, but across from him where he can stare at him some more.

Clearing his throat, Dean still doesn’t move his face from the grains on the table before him. He shuffles his ass, though. Presses the pack of peas firmer against the ache. They should be on his heart or stomach, but he doesn’t have enough hands and Jody doesn’t have enough peas. 

“Dean?” she tries, in that mom voice of hers. S’not helping. Even when she leans forward to catch his eye, he refuses to budge.

“She’s okay, right? The doctor said they’re both fine?” But even Jody, assuming his own rhetoric with the way her tone turned it into a question, not a statement, doesn’t help Dean fix his resolve.

“It’s not the point.” He readjusts his grip. His hand attached to the bullet wound curls his fingers into a half fist.

“It is the point, Dean,” Sam says with the same know-it-all tone he used yesterday. “Doctor let her go. She didn’t lose much blood.”

“But she did lose blood.” Dean raises his voice. It’s just not enough to make a scratch on the air. “She’s got a big chunk taken out of her neck.”

“That’s no different from any other time.” Sam folds his arms and leans onto the table, trying to get closer to him. “She had worse in Tulsa.”

And that made it better? 

“No one roofied her in Tulsa.”

What if they’d turned you? What if they’d decided you were worthless like Humphries? They dumped him for not having enough of the HCG crap in his veins. 

And you? Well, turns out you had a lot of it. Growing stronger every minute, according to the good doc in Grand Forks. Turns out Dean’d fucked up again by insisting you drink that water bottle before you took the test. Fucked up by not going out and getting it for you sooner. 

Who needed sleep? Not him. In fact, if he hadn’t been such a horny son of a bitch, you might’ve told him sooner than after you’d woken up.

Dean shakes his head. His tongue swipes the dry patches on his lips and darts back inside. That’s all either of them is getting from him now. Even with Sam’s persistence. 

“I’m just saying she’s strong.” Sam shrugs. His head drops, too. “If your kids like you…then they’re strong, too.” 

“They’ll be lucky to have you both,” Jody adds. Doing the mom bit again. 

She’s good at it. Raising Alex and Claire can’t have been easy. Dean remembers her bitching about them not being hers. 

Said she had no history, but then she added Patience to the group. Made it three after losing her husband and her own kid. 

She’s cut out for this stuff. Dean’s not. He gave up on Ben and Lisa when it got too hard. Can say all he likes he came back to hunting because Sammy came back topside.

He did come back for that, but he told no one, not even Ben, that the line about not being able to sit at Lisa’s dinner table wasn’t because of his job and being respectable. No, they didn’t deserve him there because he didn’t want to be there anymore. 

Emma didn’t deserve him, either. Even if she was a monster, he still wonders if what she was saying had any truth behind it, because people can change. Nature can change. 

You’re down the hall. You and the baby he thought of as a fleeting want until it was taken away from him twice. 

He meant what he said to you in the warehouse, and now that he’s seen them with his own eyes when you were coherent enough for the doctors to do the ultrasound, he’s sure he wants to be there with you even though he doesn't deserve it. 

Doesn’t stop him wanting you.  

Decided that the second he saw you in that chair that he did. Knew he couldn’t let anything like that happen to you ever again. No hunts. No cases. He’d keep you in the bunker if he had to. He’d get out if it meant he can keep them, too. 

But just looking ‘round Jody’s dining room is an ode to the apple pie life he can’t give you. 

It takes him down a notch. Makes him realise he’d let you both go if you wanted to get away from him. Make a safe life for yourself, ‘cause while he has a roof over his head, he doesn’t have the necessities like Jody does. She also has the things that make a house a home. Like Lisa’s. Like the Humphries and the Walsh’s there’s love and life in this room alone.

It’s not Bobby’s, and it never will be, but the charm is in the warmth. She’s got colour and fabrics; not giant doilies, but a couch that’s comfortable. One that sinks in just enough. Dean has the Dean cave with glass still on the floor from the smashed TV. While his armchairs are comfy, they’re just surrounded by concrete and bleak.

The bunker ain’t a place for a kid. Ignore the fact about a home, and it’s not his place to be around a kid, even his own. No matter what anyone says, he let you get taken. Even if he didn’t do or planned on doing it, his actions led you there.

“They’re lucky to have her.” His jaw ticks. “She’s the strong one.” You sat in that chair, knowing what you knew. Sitting next to the others. Dean still refuses to liken them to you.

When he heard you say his name, Dean’s heart only raced more. Sharp, like ‌the quickening he felt in his balls when he came, the palpitations flooded his body. That adrenaline, already in his system, still set his every nerve on fire. 

If only the heat could set the small room alight, not to burn, just to see, ‘cause the smell…the smell wasn’t pleasant. And Dean recognised the must for what it was. 

Pungent, like a urinal was. Like the wet patches he found on the ground outside bars and under causeways from drunks. Those who’d tried but failed to piss the excess booze away. Those who didn’t realise they were doing it until the warm streams met their inner legs.

The stench singed the hairs in his nose, but it was worse than that. Concentrated, mixed with blood and excrement too, from whomever hadn’t held it. But how could you blame them? Finding out vamps existed was the cliche for shitting one’s pants as it was. Yeah, it didn’t scream sanitary.

Of course it wouldn’t. Even with the refrigeration unit not fired up and under cooler temperatures. The walk-in cooler was the perfect example of a living petri dish, and he would’ve expected no less from any civilian. Five people in a room, six if you included when Humphries was there, things were bound to build. All of you left in a giant closet. Some, more than a week. 

If Ronald had died in here, it would’ve been worse for the other three that were still there, not knowing if they were next. Not knowing why they’d been targeted. Dean wondered if you knew now, having been on the case with him and Sam. 

Wasn’t something he was about to bring up here and now, though.

You’d think those flames coursing through him would’ve spared him from the ice, but no. His skin, his hands, his cheeks—the parts exposed, felt the air seep down into his bones as he strode across to you. 

If you were okay, then why weren’t you giving him some smartass rendition of him being too late, not struggling to say his name? You were supposed to say something witty. Supposed to by rounding up the others and keeping their morale high, but you weren’t. 

Your shoulders curled over. Your head dropped even though you’d seen him. 

Was he too slow—too late? Thoughts of babies and human chorionic—whatever—be damned. Were you okay?

He said your name as he dropped to his knees on the mat below him. The moisture trapped in the bases of the anti-slip holes soaked into the fabric of his pant legs. He ignored that, too. Even as the rubber edges dug into his skin like icicles in the snow.  

“Hey.” His palm came to your thigh, squeezing just enough for you to feel him through your jeans as he looked up into the umbra of your face. “You alright?” He forced a smile, though all you’d see were his teeth, uneven from the force of it. His brows folded at the cold that covered your own legs and the dark patch on your neck, catching what little light had filtered in from the hall.

“Told ‘em—come.” Your voice, though hoarse and rambled, huffed in amusement. ‘Cavalry.” Your half thoughts sounded more like you’d just woken up rather than being excited he was here to rescue you. Whether you were was neither here nor there to him. Not when you were within his arm’s reach. 

“Think you became the bait,” he muttered, trying his best to be lighthearted. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his phone. “How many’d you count?” He focused on the specifics, hoping you’d understand without further explanation. The last thing he wanted was to spook the crowd any further, but with his fingers distracted, his gaze only flicked to them. 

“Um,” you muttered, “five—think. How—”

“Five,? he said, unlocking the screen and holding it up to his ear once he’d dialed Sam. “Pattinson’s girlfriend was the last,” he chuckled. He just didn’t expect you to question him on his knowledge of teenage vampires when you were struggling to speak.  

Before you could get any further than the ‘how,’ he was squeezing your leg again as he waited for the dial tone to do its thing. At least your gears were doing theirs. “Take it easy, yeah. M’here now. Gonna get you out of here.” 

The light from his device, even against his cheek, had lit up your face enough for him to really see you: alert, somewhat, exhausted maybe. The bite on your neck, the same as any other he’d seen on you and others before, though it hit differently.

“Hey,” he said again when Sam answered, not giving his brother time to say more than a greeting back before he cut him off. “Found her. Get the car and bring it to the front.” He hung up just the same, keeping the screen lit up to see you all better. 

“Now the real cavalry’s here.” He winked at you, eyes soon tracing the bite on your neck once more. 

Blood still oozed out of your wound. Not flowing enough, you’d bleed out, but enough for Dean to know they’d bitten more than once in the few hours they’d taken you. Most likely now, before he’d arrived thanks to Bella. The back of your hand had a catheter as Mr. Humphries had done. Tubing attached to it, wound round the back of your chair to one of five drips.

His remarks about Ronald would ring true in some ways; if the cancer patient had been the one to put the catheters in everyone. Someone had some kind of medical training, not that Dean did himself. He was just repeating what the coroner had mentioned. And Dean?

“Let’s get you out of this, honey,” he said. 

Much like the handle of the machete in his hand the night before, the plastic in Dean’s hand sweats against his skin. 

Of course, it’s the crinkle of it that grabs yours and Alex’s attention. Of course, you both turn away from what you’re doing and look up at him, taking any choice of knocking away from him. All that’s left is to plaster his face with an over-confident grin. He licks his lower lip through it when he sees the state of your undress and what he’s actually walked in on. 

On the inside, he’s still wondering what the hell he’s going to say to you. There’s a lot you need to talk about, but he’s gotta push all the self doubt and loathing to the side, because at the end of the day? You’re what’s important to him. 

He flicks his gaze to your face. “How’s the patient?” is what he goes with. Simple, though he’s feeling like an idiot. Doesn’t even know why he’s thinking so damn hard about this when it’s just you. It’s just Alex. She’s seen it all. He’s just sure as hell wishing she was seeing it from a different room. 

It’s bad enough he’s been failing when it comes to you, and now he has an audience with her. Even with the boyfriend turned vampire, he doubts she’s seen everything. She hasn’t seen him handle relationship stuff. At least Sam left him to his own devices for most of the case, which is why he’s in this mess.

As much as he’s grateful Alex is checking your wound, he was gone for over an hour. She should’ve been and gone when he was gone plenty enough for her to be done with this. Out buying you the stuff the doctors at the hospital said you needed, that they needed. And like the weight of the test in the pharmacy bag pulled tight against his fingers in the bunker that night he brought it home, the one from Jody’s local market weighs on him. 

He’s got vitamins. He’s got the candy you like. Ice cream and the cereal you always stock, already in Jody’s kitchen, even though he’s planning on heading home with you and Sam tomorrow. But you might want it. He can’t believe he’s gonna say it, but this is his kid; they might want it, too. He’d get you a cheeseburger to wash it all down with just for them. 

“Just redressing her wound,” Alex says with the faintest sliver of a smirk gracing her lips. Her teeth on show like she’s trying to impersonate Elvis or her former found family, but in actuality, she’s just concentrating as she places the last of the bandages.  

Okay, yeah, the question was obvious, but she didn’t need to be like that. It’s the first time he’s come to see you since the kitchen, after listening to Jody and Sam waffle on about how lucky you both were. He’s brought up the courage to talk to you now, because the last time you really talked you were sitting out the front of the Walsh’s house and that didn’t go so well.

Which is why he still doesn’t see it. The part about him being lucky. The part where he should just talk to you. Like he hasn’t tried that already.

You hid this from him for days. You hid being late for two weeks, but he could forgive you for that. He can forgive you for the not telling yesterday, too. 

Just has to keep his cool and not fuck up like last time. Part of the reason he’s been letting you rest since he got you to Jody’s place was so he could mull over everything. Avoid saying something else, he’s gonna regret. 

And he’s regretting everything. From the moment you told him you were late in his bed, he can see how he’s been a dick. Asking you out like that. Walking out on you like that. The list can go on; he’s just aware there’s two sets of eyes still staring at him until Alex focuses on helping you slip his flannel back over your shoulder. The one he gave you this morning at the hospital. The one you’ve worn since.

He thumps his free fist against the door—twice, like he’d planned with the knocking. “I can help her with that. Think Jody said she needed you in the kitchen.” He doesn’t care that it’s obviously a lie. Just relieved Alex stops mid button. 

She seeks your confirmation. A single glance, before you’re nodding that it’s okay. Which, great? Perfect, though Dean’s wondering if some silent communication is also going on with the amount of times your eye twitches. 

“Thanks, Alex,” you say as she stands up and collects the supplies she brought in with her up in her arms. 

Dean mutters his own. The hand behind his back rearranges his fingers around the bouquet and the bag he’s holding, but he has to drop them to his side when you work at the next button yourself. 

He pretends neither of you is staring at the bright pink wrap and the softer tones of the peonies the lady at the store helped pick out for him as he strides over to you. The thing is offensive to his eyes, too. Can’t remember a time when he’s even given someone flowers, unless he counts his own mom.

Even then, it was the djinn in Joliet and Mary herself that reminded him of it. The weeds he pulled from the Lawrence house’s front lawn reminded four-year-old Dean of his yellow Tonka truck. His mom’d said he’d been proud of them. 

He wasn’t so proud when Sam gave him shit for it, however. Even though it was the actions of a kid and not of a grown man, like Alex’s continuous smirk, it was damn hilarious, to everyone but him.

Dean places the flowers and the rest of his haul on the bed next to you, only to find Alex still staring at him. Her lips, now flattening, but somehow pushing her cheeks higher up her face to the baseline of her lashes. 

Short of asking if he can help her, “We’ll call you if we need you,” he says. His tone, more preteen than adult-Dean. He might not know her as well as he knows Claire, but it only makes it easier to be dickish, even if it’s not called for. 

“Might need me sooner than you think.” She snickers, as if she knows Dean’s got no idea, which is telling. There must be some silent communication going on between the two of you. More so when Alex pulls her cheeks higher with her brow and the way her eyes flicker to the flowers. 

He still doesn’t see what’s so funny, though. Sure, he’s got them and he asked you out the way he had, but the gesture is all there. It’s all about the action, not the words.

“Would you just—” He cocks his head to the door and lowers himself down to take over the button you’re still struggling with. Seems neither of you can take a hint, much like the women in the store who chattered at his sheer presence in the florist. 

If he’s honest, cocky even, he’ll admit it’s not the first time he’s received looks like the ones they were giving him. Sideways glances and whispers that’d make most guys feel three feet tall. Technically, he did at that moment, already feeling so out of place in a tiny little shop front full of flowers grazing each limb as he tried to avoid others.  

As it is now, your fingers pull his jean leg, and his name on your lips pulls him back.

Once Dean had removed the catheter from your hand, he wrapped his tie around your wrist and pulled you to your feet, hoisting you up, bridal style, against his chest. His fingers, digging into your flesh beneath your clothes, held you tight as he carried you out of the refrigeration unit. 

He didn’t look back.

There was no way he was hanging ‘round. You needed a hospital. To be checked over, and he…he needed to know for sure. 

His heart worked faster. Throbs passed by his ears and tremors tingled in his legs as he moved. He stepped over Robert’s girlfriend, kicking her one extra time before he continued back down the path towards Tiny, the others, and the entry where he hoped to God Sam had brought the Impala to.

They could call the feds once he had you in Baby. Even better once you were on your way out of Grafton if he could get away with it. He needed to get you to a doctor. Needed to get you checked out. “I’ll get you to a hospital, yeah?” he muttered as his boots tread over the squares of moonlight that still kissed the concrete. “Get you checked out, make sure—”

He stopped himself. Couldn’t bring himself to say it over the lump in his throat.

Dean wasn’t even sure you’d figured it out yet—why they’d taken you. Why they’d gone after the others. 

You hadn’t been there for that conversation, having been locked in the bathroom, yet again. But the IV he’d taken out of your arm? The case. Sam, discovering all the others had HCG in their blood. Unless he’d missed something all the times you’d slept together, there was only one conclusion he could draw from everything.

And he was going to make sure you both were okay.

Dean shuts the door as you asked. His grip, gentle on the handle. The tips of his fingers, hanging off the brass. As the worn latch clicks into place, the soft thud of wood against wood sets deep in his gut.

It’s the first solid chance he’s had of getting you alone since he carried you out of that warehouse and into the safety of Baby. Before then, it was the moment he left you at the motel to go with Sam and interview the punk-ass kid with the craters on his face. 

A fleeting thought goes to Edith and the others he left behind when he got you out of there, but he couldn’t do much more for them than what he and Sam have already done. There were two of them, and no way he was letting you walk out of there, even if you’d been coherent or insistent. The fact that you weren’t, screamed at him to focus on you. Teenage moms be damned. 

There’s enough guilt racing around his heart as it is without adding more to it. The sound of the plastic ‘round the peonies crinkling under your touch has his attention for now. Hand still on the door, his spine straightens, and he turns. The kind of spin he’s seen in the movies when the guy walks away from the love interest, only for them to call out to him and turn back around. 

You’re not calling out to him though. The tone you’d used with him when you told him to close the door was short, but the bouquet is louder still. He’d say deafening, only that spots going to his heart, that’s racing again, even though it’s heavy and he isn’t. He’d rather take running through a warehouse with your body cradled close to him or his boots thundering through an empty lot over what he has to face now.

So he does turn ‘round. His feet, slow and unpredictable, shuffle his body to face you. If his legs were any longer, he’d be toppling over because both heels seem to catch on nothing but the carpet beneath his feet and the hem of his jeans. Both frayed and shaggier than Jody’s floor, and in need of replacing before he can even think of doing anything about his life and this kid you’re potentially going to be bringing into the world. 

He still doesn’t even know if you want to keep the baby. Not much was said at the hospital aside from getting you there. Even if he wanted to, you couldn’t. You weren’t coherent enough. 

But the lump that’s been continually in his throat and the nerves that even now urge him to draw you back into him like he’d done at the warehouse. Like every hour that’s passed since he carried you through the warehouse. Since he bundled you into Baby’s back seat and held you closer. Since he carried you into the ER, all he could think was how much he wanted you to, too.

A moth drawn to a flame, his eyes catch on your body as they did the moment he stepped back from you after placing you on the hospital bed. You, now further away than you were then, like you were in Grafton compared to Omaha. Like you were in Majorie’s living room.

The tears well behind his eyes like they‘d done back in Grand Forks. When he wished he’d taken you to the hospital in Grafton over driving those extra forty-five minutes because of his damn job. His worthless life couldn’t afford the risk of being found out, even at the risk of you. 

Of them. 

He scans the length of you, head to toe. He was certain he was the one burning. His whole body on fire from adrenaline alone, but the evening glow spilling through the curtains behind you lights up your silhouette like you’re his holy grail. Halo and all, crowning your hair like the glow he saw way back in the bunker when you first took that test in the bathroom. 

He supposes its part true. You are his holy grail. Missouri’s words, a prophecy, inscribed in his head like the sigils he bears in his ribcage. Like the vision of you before him now. His flannel over your shoulders and his…his kid, all six millimetres of them, hidden behind the layers of your still flattened stomach. Protected from him and his life, for now. 

He’d continue staring at you. At the way your fingers curl around the bouquet and you focus on the delicate petals with your fingertips, but “The white ones are f’apologies,” he mutters, digging deep into both his pockets. With how tightly his own stomach muscles are working, the waist slides easily down his hips unlike his words.

“The, ah, the yellow’s for good luck,” he takes a tentative step, catching the way your eyes flicker over the flowers as you consider what he’s said. His catch on your form and latch onto it for fear of him blinking and you no longer being there. 

He sees your lips move and the whisper you produce is so quiet, he’s lip-reading your question on them ‘bout the pink ones.  

“Lady at the store says they’re for romance.” He leaves the part out about them being used in bridal bouquets and swipes his hand through the air, holding it up before you can say anything untoward him dating you again. “Not that I’m expecting anything. I just, ah, wanted you to have something nice. That’s all.” He nods his head as if that sets everything in stone.

On that note, he strides forward, dropping to his knees in front of you as he’d done in the warehouse. As he’s done many times before. 

Only he’s reaching for the bag you’ve ignored until now. Ignoring you instead of looking at you up close now that he’s shrinking before you. He’d compare himself to yet another animal as he takes out the remaining things. The beaten and bloodied dead bird is all that’s missing to show off to you, but you’ve got his face to contend with there. Cuts and bruises from the fight, his gut sure flips as if there’s more than that plastered on it, along with everything else running through his head.

“De—”

“I, ah, I got you this,” he hands you the candy bar, “and, ah—” His fingers hover over the small bottle of prenatal vitamins the doctor recommended. 

It didn’t cross his mind at the store that you might not want ‘em. The thought has his lower lip running over the lump in his throat that’s only spreading further since he crossed Claire’s room to you. It’s doubled in size since last night, and only expanding. 

You’re pregnant now, right? It can’t hurt to give ‘em to you. Can only help with your healing while you decide what you’re going to do, if you’re going to do anything at all. 

His fist takes them firm. The plastic container, small enough to hide behind it with only the lid poking out when he raises it higher.

He could bite the thing like he could chew his knuckles. Could throw the lot out the window before you caught on, but he doesn’t. Just channels his inner Sam with his next delivery. Man up, ‘cause deep down, he wants you to want them too. “I got you the pills the doc mentioned,” he says. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want ‘em, but I thought they—” 

He swallows the next words when your palm reaches his stubble. Follows the plaid pattern covering your arm, past the bandage, past the dried blood you haven’t quite removed from your skin in the surrounding areas. Travels past all that to find your eyes, staring back at his. Narrowing, confused. “De—”

“Just thought they’d help with the recovery, y’know?” His mouth twitches. The corner of his lip barely forms into a smile because he can’t for the life of him read your expression. And even with your face dropping lower to his, he’s dropping his own to where you can’t reach it. 

He turns away from you again as he readies himself to say his next words, because he can’t keep looking at you. Not when every time you open your mouth, it feels like he’s risking everything by not saying this stuff to you. No matter how many jokes he’ll use to mask any future rejection or the one you’re about to throw at him for everything that he’s done and will no doubt continue to do. 

“I know we haven’t talked about that yet,” his tongue plays with his inner cheek, “but I just wanna make sure you’re okay. That’s all I want.” His lips repeat the last sentence without a sound. Weak and pathetic, like the poor excuse of a human that he is. 

When he lets you say his name in full, he doesn’t deserve the kind tone you’re using. Doesn’t deserve for you to even be speaking to him or to be in Jody’s slice of apple pie when he should be in the river like Humphries, catheter and all. 

When you ask him if he’s finished, he’s finished alright. Finished and ready to sit back and take all you’ve got. He’ll sit there without another word from him or you if he has to. Just an awkward silence between you. Take years of silent treatment ‘cause Chuck knows he only has a few years left on his ticker now. He’s two beats away from a heart attack and an ever soaring blood pressure.

Only you’re climbing down to him. Sinking down to his level. Your hand on his cheek, moving to his shoulder to steady yourself. Without thought, he brings his to your waist, like he’s clinging to you. Bunching up the fabric of his shirt beneath his fingers as your legs fold against his knees. He drops himself to his side, his own thighs stretching beneath him as if he’s fallen and is rearing to get up. But he’s not. He won’t.

He might cling to your waist still, but he’s clinging to every second you’re close to him. Can feel the warmth exuding off of you as if you were still in his arms and against his chest, like you were from the moment he’d picked you up in the warehouse until he was placing you on the hospital bed. 

The clinical smell still clings to you as much as he does, and he hates it. The disinfectant, reminding him of mothballs and doilies and death. And that’s not you. You’re full of life. You’re supposed to be carrying life. His thumb brushes close to your stomach, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Can’t help it. Not if it means he might not get to again.

“You’ve been talking since Grafton.” You lean forward, tilting your chin to see him better, like the cat that’s definitely about to skitter. “It’s my turn, yeah?” 

“You weren’t exactly talking before it,” he mutters.

“And now you know why.”

If it weren't for you moving so close to him, he wouldn’t have heard you that time. Hell, if Jody’s house had a basement, he’d be collecting his stomach from down there because he’s lost it. His thumb stills on you. His whole body does. Freezes. Stiffens. “You knew all that time.” 

“No,” your head tremors, “no, I mean—you saw the test in my bag.” Your hands move to your lap, pulling on your fingers again like you wanted to break them until Dean takes your wrists in his grip and pulls you towards him.

Before you can protest, he’s taking you up in his arms and adjusting his bow legs to accommodate you. 

It looks more like he’s tackled you to the ground during a fight and faced the wrong end of the deal, but he’s just trying to prevent one. Stopping himself from backing away himself by anchoring you to him while he has the chance. If this is the last time he holds you, so be it. He’ll savour the moment for what it is. The last piece of apple pie he’s ever going to get, surrounded by you in Jody’s home. 

He’s surrounded by you. Enveloped by your scent beneath the clinical one and the soap that Jody keeps in her bathroom. His flannel mixes with it. Baby’s in there somewhere, too. Clinging to the fabric, clinging to his skin.

There’s carpet under his ass and your ass is on him. It’s not what he knows, but it’s comfort compared to polished concrete and fading tiles. You lean into his chest, and he just secures you tighter. A hand, unashamed and covering your stomach, now the one chance he has to hold them, he tells himself.  

He doesn’t care if you try to move; he’ll let you, but he’ll resist first. He listens as you tell him the words he’s been longing to hear. To just have you talk to him again, even if it’s telling him you won’t keep them. He won’t make you. 

“My period didn’t come,” you whisper. “Was starting to think it was all in my head, and you weren’t helping.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You twist to look at him. Your hand on his own stomach digs into the flesh, but he’s too busy watching every movement you make from your folded brow to the way your breath fans across your lips.

They’re pouting and there’s a slight sheen to them like the one he saw in the bunker that night. He wants to do nothing more than capture them under his own, but he won’t. He’s too busy. Still too scared to remove his gaze from you.

Even in his arms as he has you now, he can’t risk closing his eyes to feel you better. Can’t blink in fear of you taking off, ‘cause your chest is heaving now. You stare back at him, and it’s challenging and terrifying, like he can still lose you. Terrifying that for a few seconds he allows himself to pretend things might mend between you with a simple touch. With a simple hold. 

“You got butthurt because I rejected you, but I don’t need you to do all this.” You nod at the bouquet. To the candy. To the vitamins. “People have kids on their own all the time. I don’t need you to date me.”

And though Dean knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help himself. He ignores the rest, even the part about dating, and only grasps onto the phrase about people ‘having kids’ and runs with it before the chance runs away from him again. “You wanna keep it?” he rushes only to find your irises flicking back and forth in their sockets, reading his face much the same as he’s trying to read you since you sat on the floor next to him.

Your lips purse. The shine, more apparent. His twitch, but he’s not risking saying anything more now, though the pause is too much. The anticipation, too great. His heart, beating in his chest so fast, he’s feeling the palpitations in his arms and legs. 

They flitter. Little thrums more like the sensation of his stomach protesting at the thought of another cheeseburger from Granny’s. Like the little niggle he felt when Jake said Edith had taken a home pregnancy test like you had, and nothing can bring it down or take it away. 

Not until you ask him, “I—I mean, is that okay?” 

It takes a while for the words to register in his brain, because you’re asking him? Here he’s been telling himself since that night that it was all up to you. That it was your choice in the end if you kept it because it was your body, this was all happening to you. But you’re giving him a choice? 

He was against it before, but he allows himself to blink because he sees your worry. He sees the uncertainty, clearer now for what it is, and he revels in it. Licks his lips as he does. 

And when his eyes stay open long enough to find yours, he’s bringing his mouth back to you. His saliva on your skin, his tongue tracing the edges. The spark he’d lost in the bunker returning, tenfold.

“Is that a yes?” you say as he presses yet another kiss over you. 

“It’s a yes.” He breathes your name onto your skin, and nips at the very spot, feeling the warmth he left come back to him. “But I’m gonna need you to accept I didn’t ask you ‘cause you’ve got my kid in there.” He brushes his nose over yours as he changes sides. Enough to steal another glance and see you smile before he’s sampling you again.

More kisses, more pecks, more nibbling. “Did it ‘cause I wanted to,” he says between it all. “Need to know if you’ll have me.” 

He knocks his skull against yours and stares into the flash of colour that shines brighter ‘round the whites of your eyes. Hands on your neck now, holding you there in place as his true cocky grin comes out. “Is that a yes?” he says with a smirk.

“What?”

“Wanna date me?” he chuckles, broadening his grin like his heart is as light as a hot-air balloon. His attached cheeks, now bright red, the canvas that carries it away. “Cause that’s an easy—“

You swat his chest. He only laughs harder. You narrow your eyes, but your teeth are showing like his are. 

Your fingers grip his flannel and tug the collar down, prickling tiny hairs and the skin beneath them. “I’ll date you Dean Winchester,” you say. The rise and fall in your tone, channelling one, Missouri Mosley, down to the way you draw him in like you’re reaching deep into his soul. “Just don’t ask me to marry you.” 

And what can he say to that, aside from grinning at you further or reclaiming your mouth with his tongue? 

He does both. His smile, doing the kissing now. More demanding, more forceful. More of himself, put into it because his heart’s elated just to be given the chance. His hands, wherever he can reach you, adjusting his position on the floor so he can reposition you in his lap. His lips, never far from yours.

They lavish your skin; your skin tingles his own. When he pulls you closer, your own hands cling to him like he’d been clinging to your waist and your every word. 

There are things you’ll still need to sort out. There’s still so many more things you need to say and do, like finding a decent doctor ‘round Lebanon or potentially leaving the bunker. One thing is for certain, though, Dean still has some loose ends to tie, but there’s nothing wrong in saying he won’t ask you to marry him in the future. He just doesn’t tell you that.

Like the journey from point A to point B took him from Dede’s doorstep to here in Claire’s room, there’s an excitement in the unknowing that slots somewhere in between becoming a father and making an honest woman out of you. Until then, he just has to keep working and practicing on those night moves of his, because now? He has a lot more to lose than he originally started with, and he ain’t losing you again. No matter what.

A/N: And that’s all folks. Thank you for reading all the way through to the end 😊

As mentioned above, this story was written for a competition. If you liked this or want to check out the other entries, you can find them here. On top of official judging, there is also a Reader’s Choice Award where reader’s can vote for their favourites from the competition. Please consider checking it out, too. Voting closes 30th July.

I set this story in season 13 with the original intention that I could dive into the similarities between Dean's relationship with the reader and his relationship with Mary. In particular with him wanting to go to the otherworld to save Mary and Jack. This set-up had me wondering if he would still want to do that if the reader was pregnant (I had them fighting over this in an earlier draft). Part of me still wants to explore that - and maybe more smut!

Would love to know your thoughts, or if you'd like to see more of this pair in the future - ❤️

Dean Taglist: @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @artemys-ackles @aylacavebear @bejeweledinterludes2 @deans-baby-momma @district447 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean

@fymyuji @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @idjit-central @kimxwinchester @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @jollyhunter  @kiddieclaws @kr804573

@krazykelly @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @linkilocks11 @livinginataydream @lori19 @lupinslibraries @lyarr24 @maddie0101 @middleearthlife

@mostlymarvelgirl @multiversefanfics @my-stories-vault  @redwinexsupernova @roseamie13 @roseblue373 @rosemicheal12 @sepho @soullessambs @stoneyggirl2

@supernotnatural2005 @thewinchesterwench @ultimatecin73 @waynes-multiverse @winchesterwild78 @youroldfashioned @yoursrosie @zepskies

“I know.” She said with a sigh, reaching for him under the blanket and finding his hand with her own, his fingers tightening around hers. Taking his hand from hers, he reached up, holding the side of her jaw and turning her face towards him so he could kiss her, her eyes closing at the slide of his lips against hers. She held his wrist gently as she returned his affections.

Sy walked to the front door the next day as the doorbell tone rang through the house, tugging his sleeves straight before opening it. He already knew the jacket would probably get ditched before the day was out and the sleeves rolled up his forearms, Napoleon would just have to deal.

“Mornin’.” He said, looking at the camera crew outside. “Why don’t y’all come in and we’ll get this kicked off.”

“And you are?” The woman in front asked as he stepped aside to let them in.

“Bryan Syverson.” He said, “Call me Sy, everyone does.”

“Where is Mrs. Graves?” She asked, looking around cautiously.

“Out back.” He said, leading them through the house towards the kitchen, “She was feelin’ a bit restless, so she and Mikey are throwin’ a ball around.” They emerged from the kitchen and out into the expansive backyard. Samantha was on the patio by the pool, a lever in her hand that she raised over her head, flinging it forward, a bright tennis ball flying a considerable distance through the air. A sleek black wolf took off full speed after it, kicking up grass and skidding slightly as he came to a stop, grabbing the ball in his mouth and running back.

“I didn’t know she had a dog.”

“Oh, no.” Sy said with a snort, “That’s my brother, Mike.”

“That’s your...brother.” A cameraman said, his small camera already out and filming and Sy nodded.

“My baby brother, yeah.” He said and gave a shrill whistle through his teeth. “Company’s here! Wrap it up!” He saw Samantha’s eyes move to the crew, her smile faltering slightly before coming back, but far more controlled this time instead of genuine. Mike ran past her at a decent pace before jumping into the pool with a splash, disappearing under the water before emerging again at the edge, pushing himself up out of the pool and shaking his head to get water out of his hair, having shifted back while under the water.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that.” Samantha said, “You got grass and sticks in the pool.”

“I’ll run the skimmer later.” He said, wrapping the towel that had been on a lounge chair around his hips.

“Go get dressed, Fido.” Sy said and Mike stuck his tongue out at him as he jogged past them into the house after pressing a kiss to Samantha’s cheek.

“I didn’t know wolves played fetch.” The cameraman said.

“Oh, we don’t.” Sy said, “I keep tellin’ him it ain’t dignified, but fuck it if that boy listens to a damn thing I say.”

“How old is he?”

“He’ll be twenty-five in the summer.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-six in the fall.” Sy said and Samantha stepped into her shoes after putting away the ball and toy. Going over to him, her arm slid over his waist and he looked down at her fondly as he held her shoulder. “Feel a bit better?”

“A bit.” She admitted. “Should we get started? We can do this out here or inside. I don’t mind either way.”

“We’re setting up in the living room.” The cameraman said and she nodded before looking back at Sy.

“Are the others ready?” She asked.

“August, Walt, and Napoleon should be and —here’s Geralt.” They looked over as he emerged from the pool house, straightening his tie, Samantha going to him and running her hands over his suit jacket.

“You look handsome.” She said and he gave her a soft smile.

“What about me?” Sy asked and she gave him a look that made him snort in amusement.

“And this is?” The woman asked.

“Geralt Rivian.” He said simply. “You’re Olivia Rogers?”

“Yes, how—”

“Solo told us you’d be conducting the interview.” He said, “Let’s go inside.”

“What do you do, Mr. Rivian?” Olivia asked as they walked back into the house and Geralt blinked at her.

“I kill things.” He said with about as much tact as a brick.

“Geralt is a Tracker with the Pack Council.” Samantha clarified, “He works with law enforcement to hunt down Feral wolves.”

“I—I see.” Olivia said, having gone a bit pale under Geralt’s steady amber gaze. “Sounds like dangerous work.”

“It is.” He said, “But that’s not why you’re here.”

“You kill your own kind?” A cameraman asked.

“Ferals are not “my own kind”. They’re dangerous and should be dealt with quickly.” Geralt said.

“Again, Geralt works with law enforcement, both local and federal to hunt down these wolves and make sure they can’t hurt anyone else, human or wolf.” Samantha said. “He protects people.”

“He just said he kills other wolves for a living.” Olivia said, “A wolf is a wolf.”

“They’re not—” He stopped as Samantha’s hand curled around his fingers, his jaw clenching.

“Geralt isn’t why you’re here.” She said, “I am. You will direct any and all questions towards me. It was already agreed upon that the questions would only pertain to my impending divorce from Pastor Graves.”

“God wants the Leviathan’s dead,” She muttered, frowning at Her book. “But- I’m also not sure he has total control over them, or he’d just kill them himself.”

Jo hummed, catching Dean’s eye. Her lips were pressed in a thin, worried line, and Dean gave the smallest shake of his head. They’d already had the God talk, five times the past week. Yes, he wanted the Leviathan’s dead. No, She wasn’t taking the deal with him to make it easy. Dean doubted the ease anyway. He’d place money on Her being right about the lack of power thing. Didn’t make any sense that God—allegedly all powerful and knowing—wouldn’t just clean up a mess himself. Not if he had some kind of stake in it.

“You heard from him again?” Dean said Her name carefully, and She shook her head.

“He left flowers on the driveway,” She murmured. “Indy found them.”

Dean’s hand fisted on his knee. “Princess,” he said slowly. “I think I’d freakin’ count that as hearing from him.”

She shook Her head, leaning further down over the book. “Indy set them on fire.”

Indy cooed from her place at Her feet. Dean sighed, running a hand over his face, and slumped back in his chair. He could be fine with that. She wasn’t gonna ditch him for God, and it wasn’t like the son of a bitch respected their relationship in the first place. Dean could get Her flowers. He could get her better flowers.

“We could try jerking a dad off,” Jo suggested. Across the table, Sam spat out his coffee.

“We- What-“

“The daddy fluid-“

“Don’t- That’s not what it’s called, Jo-“

“Shut up,” Jo shot Sammy a glare and he swallowed. “As I was sayin’, we could get the daddy fluid by jerkin’ one off.”

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. Jo kept looking at him like he was supposed to co-sign the crazy or something. When he didn’t, Jo rolled her eyes and turned to Her.

“You pregnant?”

Dean’s face might be on fire. Sam sputtered on another mouthful of coffee, and pushed the mug halfway across the table. She didn’t even blink. “No.”

Jo titled her head. “Dean not a finisher?”

Dean’s tongue felt like jelly in his mouth. “I- I’m a fuckin’ finisher-“

“Then why ain’t she pregnant?” Jo shot him a glare, and he scowled.

“Because, that’s- We’re- That’s none of your goddamn business-“

“If you got her pregnant, you could be the fluid daddy-“

“Stop calling it that,” Sam whined, and Jo stuck her tongue out at him.

“You’re just mad you can’t be the fluid daddy.”

“Trust me, I’ve never been less jealous of anything in my life,” Sam muttered, and Dean frowned.

“Hey,” he pointed a firm finger, and Sam glanced up in open surprise. “You’d be lucky to be livin’ my life.”

Sam’s nose wrinkled. “Would I?”

“Yeah, you bet your ass you would.”

“You can’t spell, Dean.”

“Well- That’s-“ Dean scoffed. “No one can actually spell-“

“I can spell,” Sam said, smug and annoying and bitch faced, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“’Cause you’re a loser, Sammy. Only losers spell.”

“What about me,” She said suddenly, looking up from Her book with bright, dangerously enchanting eyes. “I can spell. Am I a loser?”

Dean swallowed. He knew a trap when he saw it, and those damn eyes were sucking him in like a moth to the very pretty, very warm flame. “Of course not you, sweetheart. That’s- You’re perfect, and- Sammy was bein’ a bitch, you know.”

She just stared at him. Dean swallowed, and offered his most charming, roughish smile.

“You hungry? Or thirsty, or-“

“He’s ready for the fluid daddy role,” Jo whispered loudly, and Dean was going to strangle her.

“Shut your face-“

“Make me, pretty boy-“

“I’ll fuckin’ sock you, kid-“

“I’d like to see you try-“

“Dean,” She cut in softly, and they both shut up. “I’m not getting pregnant.”

“That’s- I fuckin’ know that- I-“ He pointed a frantic hand at Jo. “She’s the one who started calling me that shit, and we’re not even married yet-“

“Yet?” Sam raised his brows in gleeful mockery, and Dean wondered how many punches he could throw before She called him off.

He was lucky She was downright oblivious about that stuff until Dean was grabbing Her face and spelling it out. She’d already looked back to Her book, missing the glowers and mouthed threats Sam, Dean, and Jo were passing between each other.

“Jo,” She said, and Jo’s attention snapped away.

“Dean started it-“

“I’ll shoot you, Harvelle-“

“No, you won’t,” She glanced up under Her lashes, and Dean raised his hands in surrender, smiling until her attention turned to Jo. “And if you want to find a fluid daddy, you’re the one who has to jerk him off.”

Jo’s mouth fell open, and Sam snickered. The heat in Dean’s face was flooding to his jeans. She always looked real good, when She was being bossy. It made him want to see just what would make her tip and start getting babbly and feather soft.

“I- I’m not doin’ that,” Jo said, and She shrugged.

“Then we’re probably not looking for cum, are we?”

Jo scowled, and gave Her a pointed look that Dean didn’t understand. Her brow furrowed in return, and Jo smirked. She flushed, coughed, and ducked Her head. Sam shot Dean a questioning look, and he shrugged. He didn’t know what the hell girls talk about with their secret looks. He jerked his head at Jo, and Sam shook his head frantically. They agreed it was better to leave well enough alone, especially with those two.

Dean crossed cum off his fluid paper. Progress. In a way.

Most of the week since they got out of hell had been like this. Trying to figure out the best ways to get the last three ingredients, tracking the Leviathans on the news, and doing not much else. After another day of staring at the same notes and getting the cooped up, itchy feeling of a bird with water drenching it’s wings, Dean dragged Her and Sammy on a milk run for a few days, just to get them out of their own, loud little heads. Sam had been easy to convince. The kid seemed to be getting tired of Kevin eating all his food and Charlie stretching the bandwidth of the wifi. Dean was surprised he even left his room anymore.

She was, as always, a little more difficult.

“Rowena’s calling me tonight,” She mumbled, and Dean sighed.

“Princess, you can take a call anywhere.” He tapped Her nose, smiling slightly. “Y’know, that’s kinda how cell phones work.”

That earned him a glare, but it softened the moment he kissed that little furrow in Her brow.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Just- C’mon. Please.”

She stared at him, and gave in. The hunt had been nice and clean. Rowena called with the update in the middle of dinner, and Sam and Dean watched Her pace around the room with that furrow in her brow tight. Dean rubbed his palm, biting down every urge to go and shout at Rowena for stressing her out. Sam cleared his throat, and caught Dean’s gaze with a tiny frown.

“You think they’ve got it?” Sam frowned, and Dean shook his head. “Why-“

“That ain’t her happy face,” he muttered, poking at his Chinese take out.

Sam followed Dean’s gaze, the lines in his face deepening. “I mean- They could know. And it’s just… Bad.”

Dean grunted. She and Rowena had been trying to work out the Leviathan spell. She thought it was important, and Dean didn’t disagree, but he could see the tension in Her—alright more taut and wired than it should be—stretching too thin. She was trying to do that, and bring Bobby back, and heal Cas, and heal Sammy, and help Kevin with the translation. It was too many damn things. If Rowena hadn’t ditched them again, Dean would slam the bitch against the wall and demand she handled more of this her damn self. His girl shouldn’t have to do everything for everyone. She shouldn’t have to do anything at all.

But Dean couldn’t blame Rowena fully. She’d left, taking a stumbling, awkward Adam with her and saying their house reeked of grief. It did. Grief that smelled like overgrown flowers and a thunderstorm about to rip through the world. It was why Dean had asked for this hunt. It was why, when She hung up the phone, he didn’t let Her give more than a one sentence update before moving the conversation onto something lighter.

He wasn’t much use with this knotted web of confusing spells and plans and cryptic, ancient codes. She might insist he wasn’t dumb, but he sure as shit wasn’t smart. He had his place, though. He was the glue. The loud, demanding and selfish glue that wrapped around Her and Sammy, and insisted they all stick together. It was going better than usual. Neither of his little freaks were trying to rip themselves apart, and the hunt was distracting them well. It was a nice, easy puzzle. The kind they hadn’t really bothered with since She and Sammy fell into hell. Quick, easy, and smooth, right up until Sammy’s head started getting the better of him.

He collapsed on the curb, grabbing his skull and panting like he’d been knocked in the chest. She and Dean had to salt and burn the bones themself, Sam slumped in the backseat of the Impala with his eyes squeezed shut. She stared at him the entire drive home, and Dean sighed, resting a hand on her knee.

“You know he’s trying-“

“Don’t,” She muttered, and he swallowed.

“I can’t let you bench him, sweetheart.”

She shot him a glare, and he didn’t flinch. He rubbed his thumb back and forth against Her soft skin, then squeezed three times. She grabbed his hand with a grip like iron, and Dean just flipped his palm. She hesitated, then wove their fingers together with a long, heavy sigh.

“We’ll deal with it,” Dean said softly, glancing over at Her in the dark. The speeding, golden lights of the road always made Her look like something out of a dream. Long shadows and halos and eyes that shined like diamonds, seeming to cast color and light all across the car.

“I know,” She said.

And damn him, Dean should’ve known She didn’t mean metaphorically. They were barely home before She was dragging Sammy into the kitchen and sitting him down.

“Cas!” She called, and something whooshed over Dean’s shoulder.

Cas said Her name. Dean took a sharp breath, but he didn’t jump. Explaining things like personal space and flying inside the house had been useless for months.

“I need a second opinion,” She said, waving Cas forward. “I don’t think the damage is getting worse, but-“ She grabbed Sam’s cheeks, turned them around with a tight frown. “I don’t- I’m not sure. Just- Come here.”

Cas shuffled obediently forward, tilting his head at Sammy’s puckered, grumpy face. Sam shot Dean a look, and Dean crossed his arms with a sigh.

“Princess,” he said gently. “Baby, you don’t gotta grab his face like that-“

“Yes, I do,” She muttered, and Sam’s nose wrinkled.

“Lithen to Jean-“

“Shh,” She glared at Sammy, who slumped like a scolded child.

Dean rubbed his jaw, trying to work out a smart, safe way to get Her to stop babying a twenty-eight year old bigfoot. There didn’t seem to be one. “Well- Are you seeing anything, Cas?”

Cas nodded, squinting at Sammy’s wide eyes. “The dam is broken, but- The land lives with the flood.”

“It’s not getting worse,” She translated, brow wrinkled tight. “But- It’s not going to get better.”

She let go of Sam’s face, and he groaned, massaging where She’d been squeezing. “Sorry,” She mumbled, and Sam shook his head.

“It’s- it’s fine- Just-“ He winced. “Ow.”

Dean would laugh if his stomach wasn’t in a tight fist. That was the best news they could’ve hoped for. It still felt like another stone in an already overflowing bucket. Dean didn’t want to know what was going to make it break.

What was going to make Her break. There was this thin, invisible line that they were testing. It was made of barbed wire and rigged mechanisms, more delicate than lace, more explosive than a bomb. It glimmered in the dark sometimes, and it sparked when fueled, and it was either going to be broken by a swiping claw or the smallest stumble that Dean wasn’t there to catch. He was keeping it together by the very tips of his fingers, and no one seemed willing to help him. Cas might’ve if he wasn’t bird brained, but he was sitting on the porch weaving grass into a bracelet, and Dean was on his own.

Dean wondered some nights, staring at the ceiling with Her tucked under his arm, if there was any way to measure the pain. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to pit himself against Sammy to figure out who had it worse, because all the pressure together was just going to make them both burst. They’d all been dead and they’d all bled over clean floors and gotten ash smeared over their faces. Dean had scars from Dad and Hell and neglected wounds he’d never allowed to heal, and Sammy had been tossed around by demons and carved open by Lucifer, and they kept themselves together with sinew until the other could patch them up.

But She’d felt him die. She’d been alone in hell for months, shot up with purgatory souls and nearly died, then lost her father in her arms. She had an all powerful stalker and a shit family and never seemed to hear Dean when he told Her that she was beautiful.

He watched Her in the dark, a lump thick in his throat. When he traced his thumb over Her cheekbone, she hummed happily and leaned into the touch. He could swear that, even dead asleep in his arms, she made the world technicolor. She could move mountains with a smile. She could turn a desert back to an ocean, and make a dead man’s heart remember how to beat. She could move the feet of a paralyzed soldier, give a hollow fool a reason to sing again. Dean would know, better than anyone. He’d sink to his knees to stay at Her feet. She needed him, and Dean was never worth more than when She needed him.

It was an ache, on the tips of his fingers. It burned when She sighed, peaceful and content against his bicep. It was made of that cold, sinking dread that had always seeped into his lungs like black, arctic water. Dean wanted Her to need him. He wanted Her to be happy, more.

She was happy with him. He could fail Her. He could slip, he could be the thing that shattered, he could send a shard flying, and it would slice right through that thin rope, and Dean didn’t want to think about what would happen. He’d have nightmares about it, if he slept. Salvation, damnation, whatever. She’d blame herself when it was done, and Dean wouldn’t be there to stitch all her fuzz back together.

An adorable, disgruntled sound left Her lips, and Dean smiled to himself. He kissed Her brow, and she relaxed in a single second. Dean didn’t know how She knew, even asleep, that it was him. He hoped it was good. He hoped he never let Her forget.  

Dec. 26 – 2011

Princess,

We kinda forgot about Christmas again. Guess we’re not the most religious anyway. God probably wouldn’t like me going into his house and celebrating his family when he thinks I’m trying to split it up. And I am. I’m a homewrecker, baby. I’m gonna get you away from that douchebag if it’s the last damn thing I do. Are you Jesus’ stepmom I think we should make a holiday just to celebrate you. everyone’s gotta bring you books and drink root beer floats. I get free food for being your soulmate. Like how people tip their hat to Mary after prayer or something. Not sure. You know me and Sammy never really went to church.

Speaking of church and you, I know you’d fucking hate a holiday like that. It’s okay. I’ll just handle all the worship for the rest of the world. I’m already figuring out what we’re doing for your birthday. I’m thinking you and me, beach vacation, and our phones on silent. Anyone got an issue, they deal with it themselves, for one damn week. One awesome week, where the only thing you gotta worry about is how many rounds we can go before my dick snaps off. I’m gonna push it right to the edge. It’ll be worth it anyway.

Charlie and Jo took you out a few hours ago. Sammy said I looked like a lost dog when you pulled out of the drive, but he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. A lost dog would be looking for a new owner. I’m waiting right where I’m supposed to be. Right here. For you.

Cas keeps telling me my soul is in bloom. I can’t figure out what the hell it means. I woulda thought my soul already bloomed. What’s the soul blooming age? Feels like the kinda thing you’d know. Cas would probably know too, if he wasn’t cuckoo bananas. I really think we should put him back together soon. As fun as it is to have an actual puppy playing Pong on my phone all day, I miss our Cas. Miss having him to deal with you help you.

Don’t get me wrong, I love helping you. But you know. Two hands. Never enough cooks in the kitchen when we’re stopping the prettiest, biggest cake in the world from exploding.

I’m not getting better at metaphors. You’re not a cake. I mean, you are, but in a good way. A sexy way. I’d eat you all day, baby. So please don’t explode. And tell me if you’re about to, so I can help. Please keep letting me help. I’ll buy you a million books myself. I’ll make every day a holiday, and the only alter I’ll be worshipping at is your body.

Shit, that was good. Maybe I am getting better at this. You tell me.

I love you. Please don’t explode. 

Yours,

DAW

“What are you writing?” Kevin asked him from over his burrito, and Dean swallowed.

“Nothin’.”

He tucked the letter in his jacket. Kevin frowned, leaning further over the table. “It doesn’t look like nothing-“

“Well, it is,” Dean snapped. “Eat your burrito, kid.”

Kevin sighed, frowning at the plate. “But- I don’t really like burritos.”

“You don’t- I freakin’ asked you if you wanted one when I went out, and you- You’re the one who told me yes-“

“You looked at me all scary!” Kevin said desperately. “Look, it’s- I’ll eat it, it’s okay, you can go back to writing nothing.”

Dean scowled. Kevin had this wide eyes, innocent expression whenever he thought he might’ve done something wrong. Dean didn’t like it. Reminded him of Her and Sammy too much. Sooner or later, Claire was gonna learn it too, and then he’d be in real trouble.

He moved to his feet, swiped the plate away, and stomped to the fridge. “You get a grilled cheese, or you pour yourself some freakin’ cereal,” he grumbled, and Kevin blinked.

“I- Yeah. I like grilled cheese. Yes, please.”

Dean grunted. He didn’t want to make a grilled cheese right now, but damn him, what kind of glue would he be if he didn’t. Dad wouldn’t have made him grilled cheese. Dad could choke on the dirt he was buried under. No kids were starving on Dean’s watch.

“How the translating going,” he muttered, trying to ease the fraught silence over the room. “You got anything about that fluid shit?”

“Um- No?” Kevin paused, and Dean glanced over his shoulder to see the kid frowning at the air. He knew that friend. It was the nerdy, I thinking about something frown that dorks got when they hurt their heads.

“What.”

Kevin’s ears went red. “Um- Nothing-“

“That ain’t nothing. That’s a face, I know it is-“

“Well, I know you’re not writing nothing,” Kevin jabbed back.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. He stopped washing the burrito plate in the sink, and Kevin leaned back with a pale expression.

“But- Um- That’s fine, you don’t have to share with me- I’m sure it’s nothing-“

Kevin cut himself off, as Dean turned to lean fully against the counter. He crossed his arms, looking the skinny kid up and down. He could snap him in half with a hand. That seemed to be a theme with the prophets. But Dean liked this one better than he’d liked Chuck. Kevin, at least, had balls, and seemed to understand that She was deeply important to everything.

“Please still make me a grilled cheese,” Kevin whispered, and Dean’s lips twitched.

“I will. After you tell me what you were thinking.”

“It was- It wasn’t that big a deal-“

“Then you shouldn’t mind tellin’ me.” Kevin mumbled, seeming real brave today.

Dean sighed, looked up to the ceiling, and closed his eyes. “I was writing a letter,” he muttered, glaring back down at Kevin’s nervous face. “To my girl. And if you tell anyone, I’m tossin’ you right back to the crazies we found you with. Got it?”

Kevin nodded quickly, his words quick and frantic. “That- That’s nice. I mean, that you write her letters. Um- Romantic, for you-“

“I know,” Dean snapped. “What were you thinkin’.”

“Just that- Fluid can be a lot of things, right?” Kevin swallowed, watching Dean carefully. “Including- Blood. Or oil. Or- Tears.”

Dean stood a little taller. Smart fucking kid. “You’re sayin’ if we find a sad dad, or- angel with a kid-“

“Two birds,” Kevin nodded. “I don’t know how many angels have kids, though.”

“All things desire,” Cas said suddenly, and Kevin jumped in his chair.

“Oh my- Shoot-“

“Just say shit, kid.” Dean muttered. “We’re not school.”

“I mean.” Kevin gave him a flat look. “That’s really obvious.”

Dean huffed a low laugh, turning back around to the stove. He made the damn grilled cheese. Kevin had more than earned it. “Good work, kid,” he said when he tossed it on the counter, and Kevin didn’t smile, but his chest puffed out. Dean liked that about him too.

He got started on the research, while he waited for Her to come home. Sammy was up in his room, but Dean didn’t want to make him do any extra work, and he was more than capable of reading a few articles. His news feed was painted over with case after case, half of it more milk runs, the other half the kind of case he knew she would’ve loved, when this job wasn’t something made of titanium that threated to encase them and never let go.

A bummed out dad shouldn’t be that hard to find. Dean considered going on a divorced men’s website and just asking for someone’s tears, but about two minutes of being on the webpage made him want to barf. She’d insist on checking the integrity of the tears or something, before they took them. Dean didn’t want Her anywhere near these men and their whining, it’s all my wife’s fault shit. Nothing was ever Dean’s wife’s fault. And even the shit that was Her fault wasn’t. Dean had gotten over it, so everyone else should too.

He missed Her. Jo might kill him if he crashed girls night again, but it would be a worthy death, crawling to Her on his hands and knees, just to be near Her one more time-

“Your phone is ringing,” Kevin mumbled, and Dean blinked.

Speak of the damn devil, and she gave him a cell phone call. “Jo?” He picked up, and Jo’s sharp breath split through the speaker.

“Hey, Dean, uh- Before you start gettin’ all angry and shit, just know everythin’ is fine.”

“Super fine!” Charlie shouted in the background. “We’ve like- Totally got it under control. You don’t even have to come play white knight, we just thought you’d want to-“

“Stop talkin’,” Jo hissed. “You’re makin’ it worse-“

“I think I’m making it better.”

“’Cause you’ve never seen him go all fuckin’ mama bear-“ Jo shouted Her name suddenly, and there was a clutter in the background. A strange part of Dean’s vision was going red.

“Jo,” he said slowly, moving to his feet. “Talk.”

“Okay, just- Remember I said not to get angry-“

“Jo-“

“We need you to come pick us up,” Jo said quickly. Something crashed again. “And- Maybe bring a gun or somethin’.”

“Xanax!” Charlie yelled again. “Bring a Xanax!”

“That ain’t a bad idea- Dean, bring a Xanax-“

“I heard,” Dean grunted, grabbing his jacket off the coat hanger. “Jo, if there’s a single fuckin’ scratch on her head-“

“You’re killin’ me, I know, I know.” He could almost hear her eye roll. “I think you should speed.”

Dean didn’t have to be told twice. Jo texted him the address and he pulled out of the drive so fast it skid up dirt. His grip on the wheel was painful, and he couldn’t think too hard, or his throat got all tight and it was hard to breathe.  

The bar was loud, when he pulled into the lot. It was one of the dives off the interstate, with bikes and trucks and men bigger than their brains could handle. Dean braced himself for the worst. He pushed inside, and found something surprisingly north of it. Jo and Charlie on the edge of a crowd, Charlie’s eyes wide and excited, and Jo’s arms crossed over her chest, her mouth in a thin line. Dean shouldered his way forward, eyes raking over the bar for his girl, and stumbled a step when he saw Her.

The crowd had formed around her and a group of those muscled, mustached biker that Dean had always taught Sammy not to hustle, because they wouldn’t let you walk away with their money. He’d never given Her that lesson. She’d never hustled. She’d gotten all her money from stealing a lot of Her stuff from looking  pretty. When Dean used to hustle, She’d lean against the counter and watch, teasing him when he came back with a handful of twenties.

But now She was leaning against the pool table, slumped against the cue in Her hands and giggling like a manwoman. Dean did a sweep for the pot, found it on the bar table a few feet over, and swallowed. That was a lump of cash. The kind that people weren’t gonna let off easy. The men all had locked jaws and narrowed eyes. Along with the bikers were two younger boys, with smoother suits and expensive haircuts. They all kept murmuring to each other at the head of the table, and the one playing was holding the cue with white fingers.

“Good luck!” She almost sang the words, beaming at the man. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Shut it, kid.” The biker hissed, and she giggled.

“That’s not very nice, Steven, I’m being encouraging-“

“You’re bein’ a  brat.” Steven—blissfully unaware that Dean had his gun—said, pulling back his cue. “And we’re gonna teach you some manners, sweetheart.”

Dean didn’t know his muscles could lock this tight. It was always fun to learn new things. “Jo,” he hissed, grabbing her shoulder. “What the fuckin’- What’d you do.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jo protested, swiping Dean’s hand away. “She started drinkin’, and we couldn’t stop her, and suddenly she’d tellin’ all the men that she could beat them at pool, and- Now-“

Jo waved a hand at the table, and the crowd erupted into a roar as the man missed his pocket. Charlie giggled and spun on her toes, watching with wide eyes. Jo just sighed, giving Dean a look like he should already be doing something about this. Dean paused, squinting at the table. The angle of guy’s shot, it should’ve gone in. Dean looked back to Her. Flushed and beaming, color bleeding out of Her like a running oil painting. Goddamnit.

“She’s cheating,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Jo snorted. “’Course she’s cheatin’, she’s shit at pool.”

“That one!” She yelled, pointing at another hole. “I want the purple in that one!”

The men snickered. Dean ran a hand over his face, trying to figure out if—he ran real fast—he could grab her and get her out before anyone noticed. At least She made the shot. The crowd roared again, and the men’s lips curled. That was enough.

“Start the car,” he passed Jo the keys, pulling off his jacket. “Take giggles, I’ll meet you with Bambi.”

Jo nodded, and started to drag Charlie back through the crowd by her wrist. Dean made sure they got to the door before turning and storming forward, eyes locked onto Her pretty, flushed face.

“Dean!” She squealed when she saw him, dropping the pool cue and tackling him with a hug. Dean grunted and stumbled back a step, catching Her with one arm and pulling her back with the other.

“Princess,” he brushed the hair out of her face, frowning tightly. “What the hell are you doing, baby.”

“Winning,” she said, rocking back and forth on her toes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you home-“

“Hey!” One of the haircuts jumped in. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are-“

“The boyfriend, buddy,” Dean pulled Her closer to his chest, and if the drinking had one positive, it was that she just giggled and started playing with his shirt instead of protesting. “Look, my girl- She can’t really handle her booze, alright? So if you fellas could do me a solid and let this whole thing go, you walk away with the money, and-“

“She didn’t promise us money,” the haircut smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I think you might wanna lock that down better, buddy.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder. The other men all had identical, smug grins. He sighed, and looked down to Her, pressed into the crook of his neck.

“What’d you promise them,” he murmured, and she sighed dramatically.

“Sex. But-“ She leaned back, pressing a finger to Dean’s open mouth. “They weren’t gonna win, De.”

“We might’ve, honey-“

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean shot Haircut a glare, before turning back to Her. “Baby, you don’t- What if they had won-“

“But they weren’t-“

“That ain’t how it works, you always gotta account for if they- Jesus-“ Dean shook his head, and her lip started to wobble. “No- No, not mad.” Dean pressed a quick kiss to the space between Her eyes, holding Her chin between two fingers. “Not mad, baby, just-“ He sighed. “We’re goin’ home. C’mon.”

He didn’t give her a second to protest before he ducked down, hooked his arm around Her knees, and tossed Her over his shoulder. She squealed in delight, laughing like he was putting her on a damn fair ride, and went limp. The crowd was booing, and one of the bigger bikers started to move like he was gonna fight Dean for Her or something.

A year or two ago, Dean would’ve entertained it. He would’ve dumped her pretty, drunk ass on a table, told her to stay still, and beat the son of a bitch to a pulp like a bull trying to prove something to the prettiest cow in the barnyard. But he was older now. He knew She wouldn’t have slept with those men—she didn’t even know how to sleep with Dean if he wasn’t coaxing and worshipping her through every second of it—and She’d chosen Dean over God at least three times now. Sammy would’ve been proud of him. He would’ve called Dean secure, and matured.

Instead of putting on a gladiator fight for a hand that was already in his, Dean just grabbed his gun and aimed it at the man’s head. He didn’t shoot. That would’ve been loud and messy. But everyone cleared at pretty good path after that. Dean even got to grab the money pot without feeling bad.

Charlie was snoring in shotgun when Dean got to the car. Dean dumped Her with Jo in the back, then slid behind the wheel with a sigh.

“Sorry,” Jo mumbled. “I- I didn’t know she was gonna drink that much, I would’ve told her no-“

“It’s fine,” Dean grunted, starting the engine. “She ain’t easy to stop.”

Jo nodded, and Dean glanced in the rearview. She’d passed out almost immediately. She stayed asleep the whole ride home, not even stirring when Dean carried Her inside and up the stairs. He stripped Her down and changed her into one of his cleaner shirts, waking Her up just to brush her teeth and get some water. She slumped against his shoulder the whole time, giggling and watching him with glossy eyes in the mirror. He wished he could enjoy it, but it just felt sore.

“You’re so big,” She whispered as Dean squatted in front of her on the toilet, running her fingers through his hair. “Like a bunny.”

Dean’s lips twitched. “Think bunnies might be kinda small, sweetheart.”

“No, your hair is like a bunny,” She rolled her eyes, and Dean huffed a low laugh.

“Right. My bad. Shoulda known.”

“Mhm,” She leaned down until their noses were bumping. Dean could smell the sweet syrup on Her breath. He tried not to inhale too deeply. Couldn’t let himself get anymore of a secondhand high.

“You feelin’ better?” He asked softly, and She just giggled, her hair tickling over his cheek.

“I feel great,” She said, and all Her features looked like they were made of stars. “I love it when you come in all- All angry-“ She hiccuped, then laughed at herself. “And I love it when you get mean for me- And- You’re so strong,” She squeezed Dean’s bicep, and he cleared his throat.

Good thing for the darkness. She couldn’t see the red, burning on the tips of his ears. “Alright, kissass,” he muttered. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She hummed, letting Dean guide Her up. “Are you gonna be there?”

“I’m wherever you are, Princess.”

“Oh,” She smiled, stumbling forward into the bedroom. “Good.”

She went down easy, and Dean sat guard on the edge of the bed until his shoulders couldn’t keep his body upright. The Lady had jumped up on the bed to curl around Her, and Indy was settled at the door when Dean lay down beside Her. He knew where the drinking came from. He wished he didn’t.

In the morning, he poured the most of Bobby’s wine down the sink, hid the more expensive bottles, and put the beer on a shelf Her pretty ass wouldn’t be able to reach. She still didn’t seem that into beer, but he figured better safe. Dean knew how to drink. Bobby had known how to drink. And they’d had Her up their asses, making sure they slowed down when they tried to rush too far. Bobby would never forgive Dean if he let Her find a new way to hurt Herself. Dean would never forgive his damn self. What the hell else was he for, if not this.

He opened his computer while the coffee brewed, and stared at the screen. Maybe it was the late night, but all the word were blurring together. He squinted at the screen, then looked out the kitchen door, up the stairs. Nothing had been moving for a week. Nothing was going to start moving, while Sammy was wallowing and She was spinning around on the edge of a knife, trying to test if she could either balance, or survive the fall.

Dean knew She could. But he also knew She’d break something, and it was the kind of crack that was going to echo through the world. Bobby would’ve known what to do about that. About all of this. What the hell would Bobby have told him to do about all of this.

Dean squinted at the screen, and grinned. He slammed a fist on the table, and slumped back in his seat. That. That’s what Bobby would’ve done.

“We’re going on a hunt,” he announced over breakfast, and everyone looked up with wide eyes.

“Like- For a fluid daddy?” Jo asked, and Sam gagged on his toast.

“Stop calling it that-“

“It’s a free country, I’m gonna call it whatever I want-“

“Yeah, but- Why does it have to be that-“

“We’re not looking for a fluid daddy,” Dean cut in, before this could all get worse. “We’re going on a normal hunt to clear our heads. No arguments.”

Everyone was silent. Dean paused. He’d really expected some arguments.

“I got a hunt down in Texas,” he said slowly. “Lots of people dropping dead, all of them in happy couples, but- Only one half of the couple dies.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Sam shrugged, and Dean blinked.

“Okay? You’re just okay with something that’s my idea-“

“It’s a good idea, De,” She said, giving him a small smile. “We’ll do it.”

Dean blinked, then nodded. “Right. Right.” He cleared his throat, sitting a little taller. “Well- Great. We’ll leave at noon?”

And everyone just freaking nodded. Dean let out a sharp, surprised breath, and grinned. The sun felt like it was growing in his chest. It was pretty fucking awesome.

He left Kevin in charge of Cas and Charlie. Cas didn’t seem to care, and Charlie just waved them off, still seeming grumpy that Dean wouldn’t let her go on the hunt. But she respected it, after the smallest amount of arguing. Dean might as well be a skyscraper. The gloom of the last night was clearing like fog, and he could see ahead to a bright, clear horizon.

“You feelin’ alright?” He asked Her while she packed, feeding Indy the last of breakfast’s bacon.

She flushed and nodded, avoiding Dean’s gaze. He sighed and said Her name. Her fingers froze, clutching at one of his shirts, and Dean said Her name again.

“Look at me.”

She did. Dean raised his brows, and She flushed. “Dean-“

“You know I’m not pissed, right?” He said quickly. “I mean, you were cheating, baby,” he gave her a small smile. “You weren’t gonna lose.”

“I- I know, but- I don’t even know what I was thinking-“

“You kinda weren’t. That’s what booze does.”

She ducked Her head, laughing weakly. Dean held out a hand, parting his legs.

“C’mere,” he murmured, and Christ help him, She crawled across the room and knelt between his legs, looking up at him with shining, nervous eyes.

Dean cupped Her cheek, and She leaned against his knee, a dangerous kind of adoration in Her eyes. He’d solve world peace and regrown forests, if it got Her to keep looking at him like that. He’d labor in fields until his hands were cracked and his feet gave out, just to make an extra ten dollars to get her something pretty. Men would wage wars, over Her beauty. Dean would end them to stop Her crying.

“You were kickin’ their asses,” he said, running his thumb down her nose. “It was pretty hot.”

Her breath hitched, and Dean’s knee got slapped. He laughed, catching Her around the waist when she tried to stomp away, making them both fall backwards onto the mattress. She squealed, shoving at his chest, but Dean locked them together and rolled her over, pinning Her to the mattress and kissing all over Her face. That small, shrouded shame had been stripped away, by the time he was done with Her. She smiled in the car, wrapping an arm around Jo’s shoulder and whispering to her as they pulled out of the drive. Dean grinned at the road. He was really good at his job.

The drive was two days, if they only stopped for gas and sleep. They dropped at Jody’s for some extra supplies, and hit the road. She and Jo whispered to each other in the back for most of the first day, and Sammy had brought himself a newspaper to ignore Dean with.

“Talking to me really that bad?” Dean muttered, and Sam shot him a flat look.

“Yes.”

“That’s rude, Sammy-“

“Please, you don’t want to talk to me either-“

“I can talk to you,” Dean snapped, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “What’re you doing, a crossword? I’m great at crosswords, just- C’mon. Hit me.”

Sam gave him an unimpressed look, and Dean returned it with a proud grin. Sam sighed, looked at the paper, and muttered, “Eight across. Animal preserved in Yellowstone National Park-“

“Gray wolf,” Dean said quickly, counting the letters on his hand. “Yeah- Gray wolf. Sammy, put-“

“Gray wolf, I heard you.” Sam frowned at the paper. “How’d you get that?”

“I know things,” Dean stuck out his tongue, and was met with only a flat look. He sighed, and said Her name.

“Yeah?” She looked up from whatever the hell She and Jo had been doing, and Dean waved her off.

“Nothing, sweetheart, just- What animal is preserved in Yellowstone-“

“Gray wolves,” She said quickly, and Dean shot Sammy a pointed, told you so grin. “But they haven’t been endangered in a while, because of the conservation efforts. I know a pack of them in Yellowstone. They helped me find Cas.”

“That’s cool, sweetheart,” Dean said smugly, looking back out at the road. “Sammy didn’t believe in you.”

“That’s- I didn’t believe in you, Dean-“

“Ouch-“

“Oh, shut up-“

They both got whacked on the back of the neck. Dean didn’t mind. She kissed his neck after hissing for him to play nice. Sam had to rub his hurt all by himself, like a loser.

They stopped in Oklahoma when Dean’s eyes started to droop, and Sam snitched about it.

“I can go another hour, Princess-“

“No, you can’t,” She snapped, pointing ahead to the exit. “Pull off. Now.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and hit the blinker. At least the motel they found didn’t have itchy mattresses, but they still all had to stuff into one room. Her and Dean on one bed, Sammy and Jo left to fight over the other. Dean put his money on Jo. Sam knew to give the lady the bed, and even if he didn’t, Jo was pretty scary.

He went out to grab the bags, while they settled the debate. He popped the trunk, looking at his phone to see if Kevin was gonna call and check in—like he was supposed to—and something yelped.

Dean looked down, and froze. Stuffed in the trunk, between the duffles and curled in a tiny ball, was Claire.

“Uh- Hey,” she smiled at him, and Dean jaw locked. “Don’t- Don’t get mad-“

“Little late for that,” Dean grunted, looking over the hood to the window. “Fuckin’- Christ, kid, how long have you been in here?”

Claire frowned, rolling flat onto her back. “I dunno. What time is it?”

“Son of a bitch.” They were both dead. Claire for pulling this stunt, and Dean for not somehow stopping it. “How’d you even get in there, you weren’t at the house when we left-“

“Don’t worry about that-“

”Claire-“

“You stopped at Jody’s,” she confessed quickly, raising her hands in the air. “And- I heard you say you were going, and- I just wanted to come, okay! You haven’t been doing anything with me, and- It’s not like I’m missing school! It’s holiday break, so really- Nothing bad is happening, if you really think about it-“

“I don’t wanna think about it,” Dean hissed. “When I think about it, I see me sleepin’ in the car tonight.”

Claire scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic, she won’t be that mad.”

Dean chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “You really think that, don’t you.”

“Yeah, she loves me, and-“ Claire gave him a pointed almost accusing look. “I’m not the adult, Dean.” 

He gaped at her, then laughed again. “Alright. You think you got it figured out?” He offered Claire a hand. “Let’s go tell her, then. Right now.”

Claire was a smart kid. She heard the mocking amusement in Dean’s voice. He knew what tone he was using. The tone of a dead man, who might as well laugh his way to the gallows. But Claire was also a little too much like Dean. And under the smarts, Dean knew what was gonna get the better of her in the end.

“Fine,” she sniffed, pushing herself out of the truck. “Let’s go, old man.”

Dean admired the bravery. It was a shame, that it wasn’t going to amount to much. Claire walked into the room with her head high. Dean slumped in behind her, already trying to show surrender. Sammy and Jo froze, and Her eyes went wide.

“Claire?” She said slowly, glancing over to Dean. “You- What are you doing here?”

“Delinquent hitched a ride,” Dean muttered, clapping Claire on the shoulder. “Found her curled up in the trunk.”

“In the trunk?”

“Snuck in while we were talkin’ to Jody.”

Her brow furrowed tight, and Her glare seemed to make the air start to wave around her. Sam and Jo had shuffled off to the side. Claire cleared her throat, confidence already slipping from her voice. 

“I just- I wanted to come-“

“You just wanted to come? On the hunt?”

“Um-“ Claire shot Dean a nervous look. “Yes?”

She stared at them. She was breathing a little too fast. Dean tugged Claire behind him. The kid was strong, but he was kind of the only one who could ever take that blow.

“Princess, I know she did somethin’ stupid-“

“Stupid?” She shrieked. “This isn’t stupid, Dean, this is- This is-“ Her mouth open, Her head shaking frantically. “Fucking- Stupid-“

“I know,” Dean said gently, taking a large step forward, grabbing Her by the shoulders. “We can just turn around, drop her back off-“

“I don’t want to go back!” Claire shouted, and Dean shot her a glare.

“Too fuckin’ bad, kid- And no buts,” he drummed a hand on the wheel. “She says you’re goin’ back, we’re going back, and you’re counting yourself lucky you don’t get grounded ‘till you’re twenty.”

Claire scowled. “You can’t ground me-“

“Try me.” Dean turned back to Her, rubbing her arm gently. “I can leave with her now, alright? You stay here, I’ll drop back, and we’ll head down.”

She swallowed, gaze still fixed on Claire. Dean murmured Her name, and her gaze snapped back to his. He raised his brows in question, and She bit her lip, nose twitching slightly.

“I’ll be fast,” he muttered, and She let out a long, slow breath.

“No. No, it’s-“ She sighed, glancing back to Claire. “I’d rather she go out with us, that try and run off to hunt alone. But,” She raised her voice, shooting Claire a glare. “If you ever sneak in the trunk again, Dean is taking you back home and cuffing you to Kevin for a week.”

“Kevin?” Claire whined. “Why- I don’t want to be cuffed to him-“

“Then don’t pull crazy shit,” She snapped, and Claire wilted slightly. “Got it?”

Claire nodded, and She sighed, dropping her face against Dean’s shoulder.

“You sure, baby?” He murmured, petting the back of Her head, and she nodded.

“She’s going to hunt anyway,” She mumbled. “This- It’s safer.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that. Dad had sent him on hunts by himself, and he’d come back with broken fingers and ribs, with long gashes in his stomach that he doused with rubbing alcohol until Sammy could stich him up. He’d never complained, but he’d also never run after it. He hadn’t wanted to leave Sam alone in the dank, thin-walled, rusted lock motel rooms.

He wished he could get it through Claire’s head that hunting wasn’t fun or glamorous or cool. If she really wanted, she could have the same kind of life waiting tables at a bar, without all the blood and peeping bones. And even then, Dean thought she could do better. She was too smart a kid to spend her life counting cash and getting splinter on chipping tables. He couldn’t make her see that. He could only make sure that she didn’t get hurt.

At the very least, this case didn’t seem all that difficult. With four of them—five if they counted Claire, which Dean didn’t—they should be able to clean up within the week, only ending up with a few bruises as change.

“Seven vics,” Sam muttered when they settled in the town, pouring over the article Dean had sent him. “That’s a lot, Dean, the police might be really involved with this one.”

“They are.” Dean tapped lower on the printed out pages, where he’d circled and underlined some names. “First few arrests had their bail lowered ‘cause of it. They thought they were dealing with crimes of passion, ‘till couples started dropping like flies. Now they’re looking at a serial killer.”

Sam nodded, and Claire raised a hand from the bed. “Could it be a serial killer?”

Dean grunted, “No.”

“But-“

“All the vics just dropped dead,” he said, leaning back against the counter with raised brows. “A few of them even dropped in front of their partners, no warning, just-“ He clicked his tongue. “Lights out. That sound like a serial killer to you?”

Claire shook her head, fidgeting with her own hands. “Maybe- Poison? Or- Magic poison?”

Dean snorted. “Maybe. That’s what we’re gonna figure out.”

“Can I come-“

“Yes,” She said, walking out of the bathroom with Her lipstick still in hand. “But you’re going to listen to everything Dean tells you, and-“ She pointed the lipstick at Dean. “She’s not allowed to see any dead bodies.”

Dean grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

She hummed, leaning over the dresser to finish her makeup, and Dean pushed off the table, sliding up behind her.

“You look good,” he whispered, rubbing Her hips, and she shot him a glare.

“Down, Winchester.”

Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to Her cheek, dropping his voice so only she’d be able to hear. “Never goin’ down for you, Princess. Unless that’s were you want it to be.”

He pinched Her side, and she squeaked, flushing furiously. Dean grinned, kissing Her neck, and Claire groaned loudly behind them.

“Gross, you guys are so gross-“

“You’re the one who wanted to hang out with us, kid,” Dean said, squeezing Her ass and shooting her a wink in the mirror before he stood back up. “You’re ridin’ with me and Jo to the station. If they ask why we’ve got a teenager, it’s take your daughter to work day or something.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “The FBI doesn’t have take your daughter to work day, I checked.”

Dean hummed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You got a badge?”

“No, why would I have a badge?”

“Exactly. No badge, no opinion.”

“That’s- Your badge is fake-“

“No fake badge, no opinion.” Dean shrugged. “Let’s go, kid, before I stick you with the nerd squad.”

Sam flipped him off, Claire stood up with a huff, and She sighed, turning around to adjust Dean’s collar. It had already been in place. He wasn’t about to complain about her touching him.

“Be careful,” She said, and Dean grinned.

“Always am. You and Sammy don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“We’re only going to do things you wouldn’t do,” Sam muttered.

Dean rolled his eyes, pulled Her into a deep, long kiss, and grabbed the article out of Sammy’s hands. He whacked the kid on the head, pecked another quick kiss to Her lips while she was still days, and ran out the door.

“What are they gonna do?” Claire asked as Dean kicked up the engine, and he shrugged.

“They’ll talk to some vics. Do some research. Basic starting plays.”

Claire nodded, and Jo hit Dean’s arm as he sped out of the parking lot.

“What’d you do?”

“Hit Sammy.”

“Hard?”

“He shouted.”

Jo laughed, leaning back in her seat. “Pussy.”

Dean shoved her with his shoulder, grinning at the road. He never thought about how much he missed these cases until he was on one. Saving the world was a lot more reading than people thought. Getting his hands dirty, actually fixing something that he wasn’t trying to stop from bursting at the same time, it felt like a damn vacation. He and Jo flashed their badges at the officers, and the poor sons of bitches were happy to see them.

“Gosh, we were hopin’ the feds would get wind of this one,” the chief laughed. “Between you and me, kid? We got no idea what the heck we’re dealin’ with.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” Dean flashed his lazy, charming smile, and the chief damn blushed. “You got any files, any records, even just the crazier tips called into the station, we’re gonna wanna see it, alright?”

“Yes- Yes, sir,” the man nodded. “I’ll have my boys get that for you right now.” He scrambled away, and Jo snickered.

“Yes, sir,” she mocked, and he rolled his eyes.

“You’re just jealous they like me better.”

“No. The more talkin’ you do, the more I get to scope.”

“Scope?” Claire asked, and Jo nodded.

“You see all of them,” she nodded to the officers on the edge of the bullpen, all—very poorly—pretending not to watch. “They’re the fish. And we’re the bait and the hook.”

Claire nodded eagerly. “What do we do when we catch them?”

“We get information-“

“You get information,” Dean snapped, pulling Claire back by her arm. “You’re not taking her honeypotting.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t gonna do anything, I was just tellin’ her-“

“Yeah? You want me to tell,” Dean said Her name flatly. “That you just told her?”

Jo scowled, but dropped it, stomping over to a red-faced cop that was about to have the most disappointing flirtation of his life. Dean sort of admired Jo’s acting ability. He’d seen Sammy fail to flirt with girls for information, and he was actually attracted to his targets.

“What’s honeypotting?” Claire asked, and Dean sighed.

“Talking someone up for info. But you’re not allowed to do it.”

“But- I’m super charming, Dean-“

“You’re fifteen.” He said flatly. “I see one of them even look at you, they get shot.”

Claire scoffed, and dropped into one of the desk chairs with a scowl. Dean wasn’t going to bother with that one. She could sulk all she wanted, there was no way Dean was ever letting her date. Men were evil. She was too good for them.

“Excuse me?” Another officer said, soft and almost sickly sweet. Dean turned over his shoulder to find her right at his shoulder, pushing her chest up and batting her lashes. Dean blinked and took a step back. The woman leaned forward. She smelled heavy, like sort of rotting flowers.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, um-“ The officer glanced at Claire, who’d sat up with a wide, curious expression. “I was just- I was one of the officers on the case, and if you needed to talk to me about it, or anything else,” she smiled coyly, taking another step forward. “I get off at five, and there’s a bar just down the street.”

Dean took another step back, trying to stop his nose from wrinkling. It was rude, but this woman smelled bad, and she was way to freaking close.

“Can I come?” Claire asked, and the woman blinked.

“Um- It’s kind of an adult thing, sweetie-“

“Dad?” Claire looked right at Dean. “Can I come?”

Dean blinked a little stupidly for a second, then shook his head. “I’m not bringin’ you to a bar.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause your mother will kill me.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and Claire smirked leaning back in her chair.

“Your- I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were-“ She glanced down at Dean’s hand, and he shrugged, shoving it in his pocket.

“Don’t wear the ring on the job,” he said smoothly. “Honest mistake. But, I would like that run down.”

The woman’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Type it up, my partner will grab it in the morning.”

Claire laughed, as the woman shuffled back to the bullpen. Dean thought about telling her not to be rude—everyone struck out sometimes—but then remembered how the woman had still been hopeful after the marriage lie, and decided against it.

“You were quick with that,” he said, sitting down next to Claire, and she shrugged.

“Yeah. You’re welcome.”

Dean chuckled, and shook his head. Maybe he should bring Claire on more cases. If he didn’t know better, he’d think lying was genetic, and Claire had gotten it from both of them.

Jo got nothing out of her officer, except for a number she dumped in the trash with a disgusted curl of her lip. The chief gave them full access to the files—God, Dean loved when things were easy—and they left the station with an armful of leads. Claire ran back inside with Jo to go the bathroom, and Dean dumped the files in the car.

The wind shifted. It was the smallest feeling. A deeper chill, pushing through Dean’s scalp and making his hairs stand on end. He looked up with a frown, watching the branches of the thin, Texas trees bent, the trash on the lot all rolled in the same direction. The wind picked up faster. He grunted, bracing a hand against Baby’s roof. Over his shoulder, there was a slam of a horn, and his head whipped around. A car swerved against another, the wind shifting the wheels. And standing across the street, completely unmoving, was a dark-skinned, sharp jawed man. Dean blinked, fingers curling against Baby as their gazes met.

Dean swallowed. The man’s eyes were pure white. His mouth pressed down, making the lines of his face deepen like granite. He stared at Dean. Dean couldn’t do anything but stare back.

And the man just turned, and walked away. The wind died down, but Dean didn’t move. That kind of thing was never good. He really hoped it was just a creepy coincidence. He knew better.

Jo and Claire came back out, and Dean gave them a tight grin, pretending everything was perfectly fine.

“You see anyone across the street?” He asked Jo casually, and she shook her head, poking through the files.

“No, why?”

Dean shrugged. He didn’t want to drop the creep bomb in the car with Claire. It might be some kinda death omen, and Dean didn’t want to worry the kid.

She and Sammy got back to the motel an hour or so after they did. Dean pushed the lunch he’d bought Her across the table, and Sammy frowned.

“Did you get me something?”

“Fridge,” Dean jerked his head, and Sam’s nose wrinkled.

“Why did mine go in the fridge-“

“’Cause I wasn’t gonna keep heatin’ two bowls, Sammy. Go faster next time.” He grinned at Her, reaching over the table to rub her arm. “You like it? I can go get you somethin’ else instead, or-“

“No, it’s- I like it,” She smiled at him, pushing around the food with her fork. “You guys get anything?”

“We got a whole freakin’ pile,” Dean said proudly, and she smiled. “How about you two?”

They’d talked to four out of the seven living halves of the couples, and gotten the same kind of story every time. No warning, no paranoia, just walking around one day when their partner dropped dead.

“We asked about vision, or- Or clubs, or previous relationships,” She sighed, spinning her fork in her hands. “Nothing. Most of them didn’t even know each other.”

Dean hummed. “How about the relationships. Any cheating, lying, uh- Past issues-“

“Nope. All of them had different relationship stories. There was a married couple, an engaged couple, a-“

“Another married couple,” Sam added. “And Steve.”

Her lip curled. “And Steve.”

Dean frowned. “Who the hell is Steve?”

She sighed, looking over to Sam, and his lips pressed in a thin line.

“All the couples were devastated, Dean.” He said slowly. “I mean like- Sobbing talking about it. Inconsolable.”

“And there was also Steve,” She muttered, and Sam nodded.

“There was also Steve.”

Dean looked between them expectantly. “Alright, I can ask again-“

“Steve hit on me,” She said, and Dean sat up.

“He what-“

“For like, half the interview,” Sam grumbled. “I even said you had a boyfriend, and he wouldn’t stop.”

“We should introduce him to your cop!” Claire piped up from the couch, and Dean winced. He could handle jealously. He’s spent eleven years watching Her float around all pretty and oblivious. He’d long learned to swallow the bitter, burning pill and keep his cool. She wasn’t exactly there yet. And it was pretty hot, but Dean sometimes worried she’d give herself a heart attack about it or something.

“Your cop?” She said slowly, looking between them with narrowed eyes. “What cop?”

“Lady who tried to get me out for drinks,” Dean said. “I told her no, baby, you don’t need to worry-“

“I know that.” She snapped, glaring at Her food. “I wasn’t worried.”

Dean’s lips twitched. He leaned forward, dragging his thumb over the back of her hand. He said Her name and she grumbled.

“I told Steve no.”

Dean’s smile widened. “Yeah?”

She nodded, and he chuckled.

“You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

“You look kinda pissy-“

“I’m not,” She shot him a glare, immediately deflating under Dean’s grin. “I- I’m- Sorry-“

“’S alright,” he shrugged, picking up her hand to kiss the back of her knuckles. “You coulda beat her up, if you were there. Just like I woulda beat up Steve.”

That sweet, shy smile threated Her lips. Dean grinned, leaning over the table.

“You wanna go look at dead bodies with me, baby?”

She giggled, squeezing his hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“’Course I was gonna ask,” Dean winked. “I’d never wanna be in a morgue with anyone else.”

“You guys are gross,” Jo muttered from the couch, and Dean threw a napkin at her head.

They might be gross, but they’d earned it. And them being gross meant that no one else had to go look at seven corpses in the span of two hours. Dean felt like this was an everyone victory. She got to dork around, Sammy got to read, Jo got to avoid bodies, and Dean got to watch Her look hot and methodical and focused and stuff.

“That’s weird,” She murmured, turning over the hand of one of the vics. “They’re… So healthy.”

“They’re kinda dead, Princess-“

“Apart from being dead,” she gave him a flat look. “They’re really healthy. Like- They’re alive.”

Dean blinked, glancing down at the poor chick on the table. She was pale. Blue-lipped. Pretty dead looking. “Uh… You sure?”

She nodded, peering at the woman’s wrist. “I mean- Their bodies- Very dead.” She dropped the wrist back on the table and braced her hands on her hips. “But their souls,” she shook her head. “They’re still active.”

“Active? Like- What?”

“They’ve got running engines,” She muttered, still frowning at the bodies. “And, if the autopsy is right, perfectly functional parts. They’re just… broken.”

Dean nodded slowly, then shot her a grin. “Look at you, talkin’ about cars.”

She shrugged, glancing at him under pretty lashes. “I pay attention when you talk, De. And I just said engine and parts.”

“You’re dumbing it down for me-“

“No, I’m not- You’re not-“ She scowled. “I bought a book, okay?”

 Dean blinked. “A book?”

“Car book,” She mumbled. “It was on sale, and- It had some pretty interesting history, too- Stop looking at me like that,” She whined. “I just- I want to understand what you’re saying all the time, it’s not that big a deal.”

Dean disagreed. He was seconds from launching himself over the table and making out with Her next to a dead body.

“No reapers,” She said, going back to the case like the focused little nerd she was. “Not that I can see, at least.”

Dean blinked. “You, uh- You can see reapers?”

“When I try,” She hummed, frowning around the room, and Dean cleared his throat.

“So, what happens if no one comes it to pick these guys up?”

“They just stay here,” She said, looking back to the bodies with a knit brow. “Until someone remembers to get them.”

Dean let out sharp breath through his teeth. That was a bummer. He had to get Her out of this morgue. It was a real mood killer.

“Would you pick up my soul?” He asked Her as they walked to the car, and she nodded.

“I’d put you in a tank,” She leaned Her head on his shoulder, and Dean frowned.

“Like a turtle?”

“No, more like a fish.”

“A fish-“

“A handsome fish,” She kissed under his jaw, patting his chest. “And I’d give you lots of really fancy rocks.”

Dean grunted. “How fancy.”

“The fanciest.”

“Hm,” he glanced down at Her honeyed, easy smile. “Would you gimme one of those awesome decorations things? Like in Nemo?”

“Sure.” She paused, leaning back against the door of the Impala, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “Are you Nemo, or Marlin?”

“Who the hell is Marlin-“

“The dad.”

“Oh,” Dean paused, rubbing her sides with steady hands. “Uh- Him. The dad.”

She hummed, glancing up at him under pretty lashes, and Dean grinned. He kissed the tip of Her nose, then her cheek when she flushed.

“If we were fish,” he whispered in Her ear. “And you got eaten by an evil eel, I’d swim across the ocean for our weirdo son.”

She rolled Her eyes, but turned her face for another kiss. Dean cupped Her jaw and obliged, and she smiled against his lips.

“Wouldn’t have let you get eaten by an eel in the first place,” he muttered, and She let out a sharp, amused breath.

“I don’t think that’s the point of the story,” She said softly, leaning back to meet his eyes. “But I’d turn into seafoam for you.”

Dean frowned. “Does that happen in finding Nemo?”

“No, it’s the original little mermaid- Kind of- It’s a sad ending,” She sighed, dropping her face against his shoulder. “I’d lose my voice for you.”

“And I’d love you anyway,” Dean murmured, kissing the top of Her head. “Let’s go home.”

She didn’t move for a moment, and Dean let Her. The moment they got back to the motel it was all case talk and planning. Any moments of quiet they could steal were worth taking. Dean would work out how to freeze time so they could stay there forever, if She asked him. But She didn’t. And just as he’d expected, the moment the motel door closed behind them she was running to Sammy, talking about frozen souls and strange bodies and monsters and theories. Sam thought it might be a God convict. She thought it might be a cult. Jo really wanted it to be neither, and they all argued about it until the sun went down.

Dean flopped on the couch next to Claire and shouldered her, offering a small grin. “You ever watch the Little Mermaid?”

“Um- No.” She looked down at her hands. “My mom and- And dad. They were really religious and most movies were sinful.”

Dean snorted. “Jesus,” he muttered, grabbing the remote. “Soon as this shit is over, we’re doing a whole marathon. Lotta culture to catch you up on.”

Claire blinked at him, then nodded. She settled further and further into the cushions, the longer the movie went on. By the halfway mark, she was half asleep on Dean’s shoulder, watching the movie through lidded eyes. At the hour mark, she was out, the case-talk in the background had stopped, and Jo went out to get dinner.

“Don’t think she slept last night,” Dean told Her when she perched on the shoulder of the couch, both of them watching Claire’s sleeping form. “I’ll put her in our bed, I can take the couch.”

She frowned slightly, but didn’t argue. Dean tucked Claire in when the movie finished. They ate dinner in Sam and Jo’s room, then went back to get ready for bed.

“You’d make a good Robin Hood,” She murmured to Dean as he brushed his teeth, and he shot her a wink in the mirror.

“Not a Prince, huh?”

She shook Her head, wiping a bit of drooling toothpaste off his chin. “You’re too noble.”

“Too noble for a prince?” He said incredulously, and She nodded.

“All princes were inbred. And mean.”

“The movies make ‘em look nice-“

“The movies,” She said quietly, staring at Dean’s mouth. “Are wrong.”

Dean smiled slowly and leaned down for a deep, slow kiss. She wouldn’t want a prince. She’d just want him. 

Dean poked his head the door, while She took her shower. Claire was knocked out in bed. It was almost midnight, so Jo and Sammy should both be down. Hell, Dean should be getting settled for a sleepless, cold night on the couch. 

But he paused, and sighed so heavily it fogged up the glass. Sammy wasn’t out. He was squatting on the curb, turning a beer bottle between his hands and frowning at the pavement. Dean slipped outside, closing the door quietly behind him and dropping down at Sam’s side. Sam started slightly, but didn’t shout, and when Dean held out his hand for the beer, he passed it over without question.

“Jo asleep?” Dean said after a long swig, and Sam nodded.

“She snores, you know. Worse than you do.”

“I don’t snore-“

“You’re like a tractor, dude,” Sam sighed, and Dean passed the beer back.

“So what’s that make Jo, a bulldozer?”

“Yeah, actually. You’d think she’s bringing down a building, it’s-“ Sam shook his head, taking a quick drink. “Loud.”

Dean snorted, and took the bottle when Sam passed it back. He didn’t have to ask why the kid was out this late. He knew that, after years of sharing a room with Dean, it didn’t have much to do with the snoring.

“Dean?” Sam said after a while of crickets and rustling leaves. “You don’t- I mean, I don’t, but, you- You might-“

“C’mon man, spit it out-“

“You ever think about what it could’ve been?” Sam turned to look at him in the dark, eyes dropping into that damn puppy sadness. “If it wasn’t- If we didn’t have all these- These freakin’ ghosts?”

Dean sighed. He didn’t. He really didn’t. It only ever hurt. “I dunno, Sammy. Does it even matter? I mean- Not like we’re ever gonna go back or something-“

“But what if we could.” Sam said, urgent and tired. “What if we could go back and stop Azazel, what- What if we could save Jess, or save Dad, or-“

“What if pigs could fly,” Dean shrugged. “What if God cracked down outta the sky and offered us twenty virgins and an acre in heaven, if we turned her over today.”

Sam sighed. “That’s- You know that’s not what I mean-“

“Yeah, but that’s the idea, ain’t it? Why play a game we’re never gonna win?”

“But-“

“No, Sam, say we do go back,” Dean tipped the bottle, glaring at Sam in the dark. “Say we stop mom from burning up on ceiling or whatever. You’ve still got that demon blood. We’re still the angel’s favorite meatsuits. God’s still got a boner for my girl, and Cas is runnin’ around in heaven, and- Dad’s still fuckin’ Dad, and I don’t know, maybe we grow up and hate each other. I don’t want that. Mom wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Sam swallowed, looking down to his shoes. Dean sighed, pushing back the bite in his words.

“You think it’s really so bad?” He muttered. “Being fucked up but together?” He gave Sam a quiet, sideways look. “Better than being fucked up and alone.”

And Sam looked up at him, something clouded behind his eyes. Dean offered him a small grin. Sam didn’t return it, but his shoulders slumped, and his brow unknit.

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

Dean nodded, putting the beer bottle down between their legs. “We’re gonna fix you head, Sammy,” he muttered. “Swear it.”

“Yeah.” Sam sighed. “I know.”

Dean didn’t know how long they sat there, but the last light in his room was off when he finally went back inside. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, the blankets bundled tight in Her arms. Dean smiled to himself, gently shifting Her around so he could settle behind her, then roll Her onto his chest like a pillow. She mumbled in her sleep, her lips grazing Dean’s neck, and he let out a slow, steady breath. Sammy had it hard. They all had it hard. But at least, when the dust settled, there wasn’t a corner of the world Dean wouldn’t go to find his werido kid, or a storm he wouldn’t sail through to get back to his girl. 

Another couple had died in the morning. Dean groaned as he read over the report—another empty set of IDs and useless testimonies—before sliding it over to Jo.

“Sam- He’s got this ritual for summoning reapers. I’d do it, but every time I do, Death kinda pops in and takes my call himself, and I’m thinkin’ this is a little below his paygrade.”

Jo nodded, scanning over the paper. “You want us to ask them why they’re leaving those bodies?”

“And anything else you think of, yeah.”

“Alright, and- You two-“

“Vic had their own partner,” Dean sighed, glancing at her over his shoulder. “We’re gonna go try find the pattern.”

“Common denominator,” She called over, and Dean nodded.

“Yeah. That too.”

He got an eyeroll for that one, and just counted himself lucky he’d been too far away to hit.  He got a fair share of shouting and protesting when he told Claire she had to stay in the room for these ones. He couldn’t take her to interview a grieving boyfriend, and he wouldn’t let her hang out with a reaper.

“You know those like- Mystery Game books?” She said to him in the car, and Dean nodded.

“Like the fake murders you gotta solve?”

She nodded, rubbing the scar on Her palm. “We should get Claire one of those.”

Dean snorted. “I think she’d take that as you makin’ fun of her, sweetheart-“

“No, it would give her something to do-“

“How would you have felt, if Bobby got you one of those?” He shot Her a pointed look, and she huffed, turning up her chin.

“Actually, he did get me one. When I was fifteen.”

Dean hummed, squeezing Her thigh. “It stop you hunting?”

“Well, I- That’s-“ She huffed. “I did them a lot when I wasn’t hunting. Instead of- Going out to parties.”

Dean snorted. “Baby, you’ve never gone to a party in your life-“

“Because I had the books. Obviously.”

“Uh huh,” Dean echoed, grinning at the road. “Obviously.”

Dean could picture Her trying to go to a party. Pressed against the corner of a room, blinking in confusion whenever a guy worked up the courage to try and hit on Her. Hell, he would’ve been one of those guys, staring at the gorgeous wallflower and hoping he’d be the one to get Her attention. He liked to think he would’ve. That She’d turn everyone else down, then give Dean those glossy doe-eyes, right before she let him wrap herself around her little finger. Christ, he’d been such an asshole in high school, but he’d been an asshole in his twenties, too. A lot of that brittle, carefully painted mask had crumbled the first time he saw Her. He didn’t think time—forwards or backwards—would change that.

The boyfriend of the vic wasn’t much help. They’d been high school sweethearts. He’d adored Her. He’d been planning to propose next month, to celebrate the new job that he’d gotten up in Seattle.

Dean whistled, watching the man carefully. “Big move, huh.”

“It’s my dream job,” the man muttered. “And Giselle, she works- Worked.” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “In like- Art or something. She could move. She said she wanted to, for- For me.”

The man broke down again. Dean stepped outside after they calmed him down, hands in his pockets and rocking on his shoes. The man had seemed like he loved the vic, at least in the way most men loved their girlfriends. Which was, in Dean’s opinion, not enough.

The wind was picking up again. Dean grabbed the railing, swallowing and looking around the street. He’d forgotten about that, and twice? That wouldn’t mean anything good.

“I think we can really rule out partners,” She said, coming up behind Dean. “I mean- Kind of assholey of him to not ask her if she wanted to move, but- It would’ve made no sense for him to kill her- Dean-“

He’d thrown out an arm, to stop Her from getting off the porch. The wind was howling now, Her hair whipping in Dean’s face, but he didn’t flinch. There he was. The white-eyed, granite faced man. Dean swore under his breath, wrapping his hand around Her arm.

“Princess-“

“Shit,” She breathed, and Dean’s head snapped over.

“You see him too?”

“Of course I see him, it’s the middle of the day-“

“Yeah, but- Jo couldn’t see him earlier-“

“You saw him earlier?”

“Yeah, when Sam and I left the motel yesterday, and-“

“Did Sam see him?” Dean snapped, and She froze.

“Uh oh,” She whispered, grabbing Dean’s hand over her arm. “You don’t think-“

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, looking back across the street. The man was gone. Like he’d never been there at all. “I do.”

For two people who were supposed to be very good hunters, you and Dean had—kind of, sort of—forgotten that you were in a relationship, while working a case where all the victims had been in relationships. But Sam and Jo had forgotten too, so really, this was everyone’s fault. Sam and Jo might not appreciate that when you point it out to them, but you didn’t appreciate being put on lockdown like some whiny president who’s country was in a crisis.

“But I’m a bad target,” you’d protested, following Sam around the motel with your arms crossed. “I can’t die, God will just bring me back, and I can kill, like anything-“

“Not on purpose,” Sam had muttered, wincing when you jaw fell open. “I mean, sorry, but- What about Dean? Dean can’t go feral-“

“Go feral-“

“You know what I mean,” Sam had snapped your name, waving a hand at Dean on the bed. “He’s not magic. He’s just like, a guy. They can totally kill Dean.”

Dean had pouted slightly, rolling his eyes. “Gee, thanks, Sammy.”

“Sorry, but- I’m not wrong? As long as either of you are the targets, it’s not safe for you to leave.”

“But- Do you think I would let them kill Dean?” You’d side-stepped into Sam’s path, eyes narrowed.

He’d sighed, looked you up and down, and physically moved you out of his way.

“Sam-“

“Sorry!” He’d tossed you onto the bed next to Dean, backing quickly out of the room. “We’ll be back soon! Dean- Don’t-“

“Let her leave the room,” Dean muttered, looping his arm around your stomach. “Yeah, I got it.”

Sam had closed the door, and the Impala’s engine had revved in the lot. You’d shoved off of Dean with a glower, and he’d given you an apologetic smile.

“You buttface-“

“I know, I know,” he’d raised his hands in surrender, smiling all stupid and gentle. “But he’s right, Princess. You know he’s right.”

You’d scowled, and looked back to the door. Dean had said your name sternly, and you’d rolled your eyes.

“I wasn’t doing anything-“

“You were thinking-“

“You can’t prove that.” You’d stuck your tongue out at him, and he’d smirked.

“You wanna make a bet on that?”

His eyes had dragged over your body, his knees spreading, and you’d flushed. You hated him. You hated him so much. His stupid face and grin and voice and hands and Gold, and- and hands-

You’d huffed, spun around, and stomped into the bathroom. If you’d stayed there a second longer, Dean would’ve gotten you into his lap and you would’ve forgotten about the case, only for him to do that mean stopping thing the second you got close to release. You were worried you might die of a fever, from how much you wanted him. You were certain this was what geysers felt like, right before they burst. You could feel so many of them, hundreds of miles away, building and building and building with a hot pressure, wet and wound up and ready to just- just explode-

“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, attention seemingly fixed on the TV in front of him.

He’d gotten you down by almost wrestling you onto the couch and putting on a movie. Claire was watching innocently from the bed, stuffing her face with popcorn and ignoring you and Dean all together, just like a teenager should.

You, though, did not have the privilege of ignoring Dean. He’d pulled your legs over his lap and started to massaged them with big, calloused hands, and you’d started to cling to your own popcorn bucket, unsure what to do with yourself. He catches you eyes, looking all too pleased with himself, and you scowl.

“I wasn’t staring,” you mutter, and Dean chuckles.

“Mhm.”

“I wasn’t-“

“I heard you.”

“If you heard me,” you hiss. “Stop- Making that face-“

“I’m not makin’ any face, Princess.” He leans down and kisses your knee, and you were going to kick him in the face-

“Shhh.” Claire snaps from the bed, and Dean grins.

“Yeah,” he drawls your name, brushing his fingers just under the crook of your knee. “Shhh.”

You kick him in the face. It wasn’t on purpose. That had been a sensitive spot, and your leg had jerked, and now he had a bruise blooming on his jaw that you were trying to patch up in the bathroom.

“I- I’m sorry,” you whisper again, fingers trembling around the ice pack.

Dean catches your hand, doing that dumb, effective thing where he waited for you to look at him before he spoke. His thumb swiped over your cheek, and you realized the world blurring was you crying. All you ever fucking do is-

“Hey,” Dean mutters, and you blink back more tears. “I poked the bear. I got the claws. That’ll teach me, I guess.” He laughs to himself, pulling the ice pack out of your hands. “Next time, I better make sure I got a proper grip on you before I tease.”

And damn you, he always does that. The burning shame over your face turns to something unbearably needy, and your knees feel wobbly, and you don’t think you can ever breathe deeply enough to have enough of him in your lungs. The echoing sneers in your head sound further away. The Silver doesn’t settle—it hasn’t really done that in a while, and you’re not sure it ever will again—but it stops snarling and expanding like you’re some threatened, rabid hedgehog.

“Do you think I’d be a good hedgehog?” You ask Dean, and he meets your eyes in the mirror, a smile ghosting over his lips.

“Sure, Princess. Best one in the world.”

You hum, leaning your chin on his shoulder. “Why?”

“Uh- ‘Cause hedgehogs are cute?”

“I’m not cute-“

“You’re adorable,” he presses the ice pack to his jaw, eyes shining on yours. “Like an evil bunny.”

“Evil?”

“Misunderstood,” he corrects quickly, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re an evil bunny,” you grumble, wrapping your arms around his torso. “And- An evil bunny is just a hedgehog, De.”

“Guess it is,” Dean shrugs. “Means you were right.”

You roll your eyes, and hide your face in his back. He holds your arm around him, humming deep and low. You think you might be able to fall asleep standing up. You think Dean would catch you if you did.

“You’re like a- A puppy,” you tell his shoulders, and he pauses.

“A puppy?” You can hear the frown in his voice. “Why do I gotta be a puppy, why can’t I just be a normal freakin’ dog?”

“Because. I said so.”

Dean sighs, muttering under his breath, “Sammy’s the freakin’ puppy-“

“Sam’s a big, sad panda.”

Dean snorts, starting to rock you both back and forth. “Can I at least be a baby bear-“

“No,” you peak back over his shoulder, and he laughs.

He winces at the stretch of his jaw. You taste something sour and reach up with light fingers, tracing over the bruise.

“Does it hurt?” You whisper, and he just shrugs.

“’S better now.”

You catch his eye in the mirror, and you’re never sure what to do when he looks at you like that. You’re getting better, and letting yourself learn.

You lean up and kiss his cheek. Dean’s grin widens, and before you know what’s happening, you’re being scooped into his arms and marched out into the room. Claire shrieks, when Dean dumps you down on the bed, and you scramble back to sit next to you before he can grab your ankles.

“Stop- Stop shaking the bed-“

“Throw the popcorn at him,” you command, and Claire doesn’t have to be told twice.

“Hey, woah- Don’t get crazy- Shit-“

Dean has to duck behind the couch to avoid the projectiles. Claire’s got a good arm, and manages to arc them over the bed so they hit him, right in the face. He shouts and tries to throw some back, but there’s two of you and one of him. It’s hardly fair odds when it’s just the two of you to start, and Claire doesn’t have nearly the same regard for his safety that you do. Dean shouts uncle after about three minutes, and still ends up getting one last kernel pelted at his face. You and Claire are dissolved in laughter on the bed. He’s glaring at you both with his arms crossed, but his shoulder slump quickly when you sit up on your knee and pull a kernel out of his hair, offering it up with a smile.

“That’s gross, sweetheart,” he mutters, and you smile.

“You don’t have to eat it, it’s a peace offering.”

“Not a peace offering if I lost,” he grumbles, tossing the kernel off to the side, then pausing. The room is trashed with popcorn. You both wince. Sam’s gonna kill you.

Then you look back at Claire, then the door, and smile.

“There’s a corner store, right down the street-“

“No,” Dean snaps, and you roll your eyes.

“I’ll be so fast-“

“We’re not leaving the room, Princess-“

“He can’t kill me!” You sit up higher, wrapping your hands around his bicep. “And I warded the room, and if he tries to kill you, I’ll blow up America, and God, and him.”

Dean gives you a weary look, and you lean closer, pressing your lips in a hopeful smile. He sighs, reaches up to cup your cheek, and nods.

You beam, almost bouncing on your knees. Maybe he was right about the bunny thing. You’ve been cooped up for the whole day, and it’s making you impossibly jumpy.

“Thank you-“

Dean smashes his lips against yours, and you make a happy, surprised sound in the back of your throat. He always kisses you like he’s going off on a ship, and trying to promise you he’ll come home. A small part of you still worries he’ll get sick of that some day. It’s hard to remember that worry, when he’s got an arm around you and his tongue down your throat. He wipes a bit of spit off your lip, when you pull away. You blink at him in a technicolor, warm daze. The Spiderweb is going haywire. You think you could shift the stars around in his name, and it would take less effort than it does to scream for freedom at the sky.

“Don’t- Do something stupid,” he mutters, and you nod.

“I- I never-“ You flush, under his stern look. “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean kisses the top of your head, and you take a deep breath against his neck. No one else seems to find it as funny as you do, that this monster would choose to go after you and Dean. With the way God flashes whenever you so much as go near a fight—along with the many, many years of proof—your not exactly capable of Death. He wouldn’t want you. He’s told you himself.

And Dean.

You weren’t joking about the America thing, or the God thing. You got Bobby in a bottle, and you kept Jo on your fingers, and your soul wasn’t embedded in theirs. You still had something to lose, something in you trying to poison itself, a weak muscle that you’d been treating like a parasite. And you watched a documentary with Sam last week, and the slow, lazy voice over some shots of bacteria said that all diseases are just different forms of life. And you’re alive. You’re so alive everything stretches to peaks and canyons and when you’re in the middle, it feels like you’re just floating in a vast pit of nothing.

You’re alive, and you love Dean, and those are two things that are going to remain true until something finally finds a way to kill you. So you welcome the monster. You need the practice controlling yourself anyway.

Claire goes with you to the corner store. As you promised Dean, you don’t linger or do anything spontaneous. You get the cleaning supplies, Claire gets some snacks, and you stand in the checkout line like obedient civilians.

“How’d you know you loved Dean?” Claire asks suddenly, and you almost drop the jerky you’d been holding between your fingers. Outside, the sky flashes. You don’t let yourself react. Not in front of Claire.

“I- Um-“ You clear your throat, glancing down at her. “What?”

“Sam said you guys were in love for like, years,” Claire shrugs, and you shake your head.

“Well- I don’t know about years-“

“Sam said you’d say that-“

“Stop asking Sam things,” you snap, and Claire smirks.

“Sam said Dean was in love with you when he met you,” she says, bouncing on her toes. “And you’ve been in love with Dean as long as Sam knew you.”

You scowl, hauling the paper towels higher into your arms. “Sam is going to get himself punched,” you grumble, and Claire hums.

“So he’s wrong?”

You press your lips together, and look out at God. Watching. Always watching. “No,” you murmur, because it’s the closest you can allow. “He’s- No.”

Claire nods, and you get to the front of the line. She watches you dump everything on the counter, then clears her throat. “So?” She gives you pointed look. “How did you know?”

You sigh, pulling out Dean’s best credit card and passing it to the cashier. “I don’t know, I just- I did.” You frown at the air, trying to remember for yourself as much as Claire. You know there was a moment, but in eleven years, it’s sort of like trying to measure the coastline from a single point. It doesn’t matter where you start. It stretches out, for ever and ever and ever, in every single direction.

“Sam says-“

“Sam,” you give her a pointed look, taking the card back. “Wasn’t even there when Dean and I became friends.”

Claire crosses her arms. “So you fell in love with him before their dad went missing?”

You blink at her, then shake your head. Dean says she talks like you a lot now. If that’s true, you don’t know how Bobby survived your teenage years at all.

“I’m saying,” you tell her, grabbing the bags off the counter. “That it wasn’t- It wasn’t like a movie. I mean- It was.” You still remember that first moment—the way the whole universe seemed to click into place, like it had just been waiting for that first, fluttering beat of your heart—but that’s not the point you’re trying to make. “But I- I spent a long time trying to ignore it, and then I couldn’t ignore it, and then things were very complicated, and it sucked, and- I still- That was the only thing that never changed,” you sigh, giving her a small shrug. “And that’s kind of how I knew.”

Claire frowns. “Because Dean never changed?”

“No. Because everything changed, and I never once- Ever- Stopped- Wanting that. At all.”

Claire looks you up and down, wrinkles her nose, and rolls her eyes. “That’s so gross,” she huffs, and stomps out of the store. You laugh to yourself, and follow. It’s not like she didn’t ask.

The walk back is quick and easy, but at the end, then wind starts to pick up, and your stomach twists into a knot. Claire gets pushed inside. You look over your shoulder before you slam the door, and there he is. That goddamn idiot monster with the death wish.

Dean is on his feet when you turn around, expression wide and worried. You give him a small smile, and press your back against the door.

“Good news,” you say. “Neither of us died.”

Dean scowls. You’re not allowed to leave the motel room again.

You spend the rest of the afternoon researching, just to make your thoughts stop racing. You don’t expect to find anything—you left the Book with Kevin, and everything you need would be in there—but it’s always better than nothing. There’s always a chance the online forums and pdfs will have something about soul resurrection when your thousand year old magic book doesn’t. You’re not about to bet money on it.

Dean doesn’t like having Bobby out when you sleep. He says it feels like he’s being policed, that he can almost hear the shotgun clicking. You laugh softly, but don’t argue with him. You know that when you do pull Bobby out, it usually ends with your eyes stinging and your breathing shallow. Dean never stops you. He just moves from the couch to the edge of the bed and rubs your back, letting you fold into him when even sitting up feels like too much work.

When your phone rings, he picks it up. You look up at him with a curious expression, and he mouths Charlie. You slump back down, and Dean puts the phone on speaker, rubbing the back of your neck with a gentle, steadying hand. Charlie says that she and Kevin haven’t made much progress. They fed and walked the animals—Cas walked the animals, because they didn’t want anyone else—and restoked the groceries and tried to organize the library, but gave up and did everyone’s laundry instead.

“Smart call,” Dean says, grinning down at you. “The boss has got a system going on, Sammy and I have never been able to figure it out.”

“You never ask,” you mumble, and Dean chuckles.

“Sam asked once. You gave him a migraine. You gave Sam,” he taps your nose. “A freakin’ migraine about books, sweetheart. That’s like giving Scrooge McDuck a migraine about money.”

You hit his arm, and Charlie chirps your name. “Is she there? Can I talk to her- Like- Now-“

“You’re on speaker,” Dean says, and Charlie seems to let out a sharp breath.

“Okay, so- I was folding your laundry and stuff, right? Which, you know, includes underwear. And I didn’t want to leave it on the bed because it seemed like Indy was going to try and nest with it, and I don’t know if she’s allowed to do that with your stuff, so I just- I put it in the drawers, and I- I found something?”

“Uh- Hey-“ Dean stills, looking frantically over to Claire on the couch. “Just- Give us a second- Claire, can you- Ears off-“

Claire twists around with a tight frown. “Ears off-“

“Don’t make her turn her ears off,” you say, twisting around his watch, and he shakes his head, dropping his voice under his breath.

“She could be talking about condoms, or- Or lube-“

“We don’t use condoms and lube.”

Claire groans and slumps into the couch, Dean’s face goes adorably red, and Charlie coughs through the phone.

“Wow,” she says. “Guys, that’s like- Super unsafe-“

“Shut it,” Dean snaps. “That’s not- We’re not askin’ for peanut gallery comments-“

“Jo’s right, you are gonna get knocked up-“

“I won’t if he keeps refusing to fuck me,” you grumble, and Dean’s jaw drops with a strangled, sputtering sound. You blink at him, tilting your head. “What?”

“The hell is going on with you today?”

“Nothing- I’m just- Nothing-“

“It’s hot,” he mutters, brushing light fingers on the back of your neck, and your tongue suddenly feels like jelly. You flush and roll over, burying your face in his stomach, and Dean chuckles. “There she is.”

Charlie coughs again, louder and more pointed. “Do you guys want to know what I found? It’s not lube.”

“Hit me,” Dean sighs, and Charlie does a drum roll on the table. You smile against Dean, and he sighs, waiting with more patience than he’d afford most others. You know he likes Charlie. If anyone else tried to do that, his serious dad-face—as you and Sam call it behind his back—would slip fully on, and he’d rush them.

“An egg!” Charlie crows, and your heart flips. “I found like- A little egg in the underwear drawer, it’s kind of cute- Is it supposed to be in there-“

“Yes!” You shout, and Dean grunts as you push upright, shoving him back onto the mattress and grabbing the phone out of his hand. “Did you touch it? Is it still intact? Is it- If you touch it- Is it warm or cold, because it’s supposed to be cold right now, and if it’s warm that mean I need you to go out right now and get an incubation lamp-“

“Princess,” Dean mutters, squeezing your waist. “Breathe.”

You take a loud, over dramatic breath, and he chuckles, slipping his hand under your shirt. You’re not sure when you started straddling him. You’re certainly not about to stop.

“It’s cold,” Charlie tells you, and you let out a quicker, realer exhale of relief.

“Okay, that’s- That’s really good. Um- I need you to put it back, okay?” You pull at Dean’s shirt mindlessly, frowning at the air. “But check on it once a day. And- Please don’t break it. We need it.”

Dean gives you a curious look, and you hold up a finger. He waits patiently as you walk Charlie through everything else she’ll need, and says your name the moment you hang up the phone.

“I- I forgot we had that,” you mutter. “I totally fucking forgot-“

“Sweetheart-“

“The phoenix egg. I- I got it in Utah, before we got yanked back.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “And you forgot-“

“It was a stressful month!” You whine, glaring down at him. “Cas and I were- You know- And like, a week later I opened the door, and you were mad at me, and Sam, and-“

“Okay, okay.” Dean sits up, moving you further back into his lap. “Got it. It’s not that big a deal anyway, right? I mean- It’s just an egg-“

“It’s a phoenix egg. If- If I can figure out how to hatch it, we’ll have a phoenix.”

“I mean- Okay, but I’m not feedin’ this one-“

“Dean.” You grab the collar of his shirt, your throat getting tight. “Phoenix blood can heal souls.”

“Oh.” Dean blinks at you, then his eyes go wide. “Oh, fuckin’- Fuck.”

Sam. You could heal Sam.

You agree not to tell him, when he and Jo get back. You don’t want to make false promises, in case you can’t get the egg to hatch, and Sam might tell you that he’s fine like this—that he’s got it under control himself, which is a blatant, almost brave lie—and you don’t need to waste energy on him. You’ll work with Charlie on this when you get home. Right now, the main goal has to be getting rid of this annoying death omen guy.

“You didn’t leave the motel room, right?” Sam asks, and you throw on a winning smile, twisting the ring on your finger.

“Nope!”

Dean gives you an unimpressed look, and you smile wider. He let you. You go down, he goes too.

“Good,” Sam mutters, leaning back in his chair. “That- That’s good. We think we figured out who this guy is, and- It’s not amazing.”

“Azrael,” Jo says, passing you a book and flipping to the dog-eared page. “ Old angel of death, second angel to fall, but- Y’know. Sequel wasn’t as popular. He didn’t even get his own religion.”

You hum, scanning over the paper, Dean leaning over your shoulder. Sam clears his throat, and you look up to see him exchanging a look with Jo.

“And- Get this,” he leans forward, pointing near the bottom of the page. “He was Lilith’s husband, before she turned into a demon. It was why he got cast out, he fathered children with her. Which makes him like your great, great, great- Well, I’m not doing the whole thing, but-“

“He’s the father of Magdalenes,” you breathe, looking up with wide eyes. “Does- That makes him an Alpha, doesn’t it.”

“Maybe?” Sam frowns. “I don’t know what the guidelines for that is-“

“He fathered a race of monsters.”

“You’re not a monster, Princess-“

“In the technical definition, I’m not human.” You tip your head back, holding Dean’s gaze. “And if he’s my super great-grandfather, that means he at least helped create a race of non-humans. So- A great father-“

“Our fluid daddy,” Jo finishes, grinning widely. “We found him.”

You nod, closing the book, and only you and Jo seem to be fans of this. Sam just seems worried, and Dean keeps making his grumpy face. You brainstorm ways to try and catch them, but there isn’t enough information about his weaknesses to be sure. If he’s an angel he can be trapped in holy oil, but he probably won’t clock in to answer any prayers. Especially not if they’re obvious traps.

“Dean and I could be bait,” you suggest, and everyone glares at you, as if that’s a crazy, horrible idea and not your best shot.

“No.” Dean glares down at you, jaw ticking. “No fuckin’ way, Princess-“

“Why not-“

“’Cause I’m not letting you throw yourself in the damn line of fire-“

“We’d be jumping in the line of fire together,” you say, reaching up to hold his arm. “And I told you, he can’t kill me, and if he tries to kill you, I’ll-“

“End the world. I heard.” Dean doesn’t back down. You sigh, and look over his shoulder to Jo and Sam.

“No,” Sam says quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m with Dean on this one, we’re not- Using bait never works,” he says your name hopelessly. “You know that-“

“But it works when I’m the bait,” you snap, looking over to Jo. “Right?”

Jo sighs, looking between you and Dean, and shrugs. “Right.”

Dean whips around with a glower, and Jo tips her chin up, holding his glare.

“I’m with her, Winchester. Ain’t nothin’ you say is gonna change that.”

You smile at her, she smiles back, and Dean grunts your name.

“We’re not playin’ bait-“

“I’ll be fine-“

“You always fuckin’ say that-“

“Dean,” you squeeze his arm three times, and his jaw snaps shut. “Please. Trust me.”

He swallows. He scans over your face, jaw working, and you leave them open and easy. This isn’t one of those plans that makes you sick, but you swallow down the bile and push through it. Lilith never killed you. Eve’s tried, but hasn’t succeeded. Azreal can’t be much different. This will work.

“Fine,” Dean grunts, and you beam at him. “But- I think for a second it’s gonna go sideways-“

“We pull out,” you nod, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” you murmur against him, and he grumbles, cupping the back of your neck. “Say you’re welcome.”

Dean leans back, and you give him a pointed look. He shakes his head, laughs under his breath, and leans forward to brush your lips. “You’re welcome.”

You smile and wrap your arms around his neck. Jo makes a mock gagging sound in the background, and Claire laughs, but you don’t care. Dean trusts you. That’s all you really need.

The plan is pretty simple. You and Dean go on a date, out in public, no wards or—visible—weapons, open hunting for an angel of death who targets couples. Sam and Jo stay on standby, in case it goes South. Which it won’t, you’re sure, but it makes everyone else feel better about it, so you don’t argue. You’ll have your knife tucked under your dress. Blood counts as fluid, so you’ll take a little of it, and that’s one more ingredient off the list.

Dean takes a while to get ready to go. He’s in the bathroom for thirty minutes when you knock on the door, rocking on your feet. You’re not nervous about the plan, but there’s still a wound up, taut ache at the top of your chest. It makes the Spiderweb spasm and lock up, mimicking the tick in Dean’s jaw. He trusts you. He still might be angry.

“Dean?” You knock on the door again, voice smaller than you want it to be. “De- We have to go soon-“

The door swings open, and you stumble forward with a small yelp. Dean catches you in strong arms, his hand splaying on your lower back, a small grin on his handsome face. He’s shaved, the after scent of spice lingering in the air and on the collar of his shirt. It’s a cleaner one—one of the henley’s you bought him, insisting that he own more than just tees and flannels—and his sleeves are rolled up, and his knee is pressed near the top of your thighs, and-

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean mutters, cupping the back of your head, voice rumbling in his chest.

“Like- I’m not looking at you like anything-“

“You’re lookin’ like you wanna stay here, Princess,” he leans down until your noses bump, and your breath hitches. “Unless you’re lookin’ to jump ship…”

You swallow. That would be nice. No problems, no angels, no cryptic angels and their riddle talk. Just you and Dean and the bed, his weight over yours just like this, his hand between your thighs and his mouth on your throat, and-

“Easy,” Dean drawls, and you swallow.

“You’re being mean,” you whisper, and Dean chuckles, low and dangerous.

“I’m not the one dressed like she wants to get trapped in bed, sweetheart.” He runs a larger hand over the curve of your ass, pulling you tighter against his body. “You’re lucky I take orders so well.”

You blink at him, your brain fuzzy and light, like he’s shot you up with clouds. His hand trails further down, his fingers dipping under the hem of your dress. You shiver, pushing back into the touch, and Dean’s eyes gleam. He snaps your underwear against your ass, and you squeak, your nails digging into his collarbone.

“Dean-“

His mouth crashes over yours, and you melt almost immediately. Forget about any case, forget about death, forget about the world, this is all that matters. Dean holding you up, his Gold smearing over your skin, his lips moving against yours like waves to the shore, the low groan that drags through his chest like a hymn. You gasp something that’s supposed to be his name and scratch at his shirt, trying to get closer, closer, closer, you’re never close enough until you’ve crashed together and nothing can rip you apart-

Dean leans back, sucking your lower lip between his teeth then kissing the hurt. You try chase him, but he grabs your face between your hands, leaving you a limp puppet, a waiting satellite waiting for it’s commanders to call it back home.

“I’m taking you on this date,” he mutters, something oddly determined carved into his features. “Death angel or not.”

“Oh- Okay,” you whisper, and Dean smiles. He kisses the top of your head, and you push on your toes to try and get closer.

When he leans back, his eyes sweep down your body so slowly, you think he’s trying to light you on fire. You grab his wrists, the air getting humid and thin. Your heart doesn’t seem to know the difference between Dean’s gaze and his mouth. Every inch of your body feels like it’s being caressed and teased and worshipped. You’re seconds from whining like a dog in heat, when Dean’s lips curve into a smirk, and he meets your eyes again.

“My girl,” he mutters, leaning forward for a slower kiss, and you don’t know how you ever lived without him.

Loving him from afar had been enough for so, so long. It had been easy to drag yourself out of his orbit, when you never let yourself too close. But now you’re wrapped in him. His hand stays in yours, as he guides you to the car. He looks over his shoulder and smiles, and you cling to his wrist, and you’d done this a million times before, but it’s so much better. He kisses the back of your hand, and pets the top of your head when you slide into the car, and he looks at you like he never wants you to leave, and it’s almost too much.

You get to love him. You don’t get to say it, but you get to love him, and it’s achingly easy.

“Whiskey for me,” he tells the bartender, his hand lingering on your lower back. “Shirley temple for the lady.”

You pull on his hand, and he shoots you a glare.

“No.”

“I- You don’t even know what I was going to say-“

“You’re not drinking, sweetheart,” he says, looking back to the bar, and your brow knits.

“That’s- You’re not my father-“

“He wouldn’t let you drink either,” Dean mutters, looking around the bar. “I’ll go virgin if you wanna match, but I’m not letting you get wasted.”

You huff, trying to pull your hand away, but Dean just tugs you right back. You glare at his neck, refusing to meet his eyes. You know it’s bad, you know why you’re doing it, but knowing isn’t the problem, and you just- You like feeling like just the floating without the fall-

“I want you here,” Dean mutters, ducking down to meet your gaze. “As fun as you are when you’re trying to jump my bones every second, I’m dating you, not the drink.”

You flush, turning your face away. “That’s stupid,” you mutter, and Dean chuckles.

“I know,” he kisses your cheek. “You wanna sit down?”

You nod, and Dean takes your Shirley Temple from the bar, abandoning his whiskey on the counter. He leads you away before you can grab it for him, and starts talking before you can tell him to go back.

“They got a pool table,” he nods across the room, grinning at you over his shoulder. “You wanna learn how to actually shoot?”

“Will you be able to teach me?”

“Yep. Taught Sammy,” he pulls you into a booth, his arm looping around your shoulder so easily, you’re not sure he’s even thinking about it. “And you’re gonna be an easier student.”

You snort, turning your glass between your hands. “I’m sure Sam was a good student-“

“Nope. Asked too many freakin’ questions, kept making me explain the rules, and- One time he demanded I buy the handbook,” Dean’s nose wrinkles. “I didn’t even know there was a handbook.”

“But- How did you think the rules were made?”

“I dunno, just figured it was one of those things everyone agreed about.”

“One of those things-“

“Yeah, like- Earth is round, sky is blue.” He grins at you. “Pool is played like this, and that’s that.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “And- How do you know I won’t want the handbook?”

“Oh- I know you will. But you’re not getting it, sweetheart. Not a shot.”

“But- I want it-“

“I’m a walking handbook,” he puffs up his chest, and you give him an adoring, half amused look. “I’m all you’re gonna need.”

“All I’m gonna need, huh.”

“Yep.” Dean winks, grabbing your cherry out of the glass and pressing it to your lips. You pretend to bite his fingers with it, and he just laughs.

He licks them clear after, not breaking your gaze. You almost choke on the cherry. He’s never playing fair.

“You know, we don’t know the sky is blue,” you say, looking back to your glass, and Dean pauses.

“Uh- What?”

“Well, we know it’s blue-“

“So you’re just- Sayin’ stuff-“

“But,” you give him a pointed look. “We don’t know that my blue is your blue. My blue might be your yellow, and your yellow might be my red, or- Something different all together. There’s no way to be sure.”

Dean nods slowly, his fingers tracing loose patterns on your upper arm. “My blue’s kinda- Bright, I guess-“

You laugh softly. “That’s not gonna help, De-“

“Why not, I’m tryin’ to work it out-“

“Because these descriptors are arbitrary, we’ve assigned them collective meaning that makes them null, and-“ You sigh, at the adorably befuddled look on his face. “We all think the colors are the same. So it doesn’t matter.”

“Huh.” He sighs, dropping his head back against the booth. “That’s making my head hurt.”

“Sorry,”

“’S alright.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “Am I still your favorite color?”

You flush, and shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe-“

“Yes,” you sigh, shooting him a glare, and his grin just widens.

“I think you’d look good in gold,” he murmurs, and you swallow. “Like a sexy mermaid.”

“A sexy mermaid? They’re fish-“

“Fish with boobs.”

“I- Normal me has boobs-“

“And you’re sexy, Princess,” he winks, and you choke on your drink. “Shit-“ He laughs. “C’mon-“

He rubs the back of your neck until you’re breathing easy again, and you slump against his chest. “You’re watching too many movies with Claire,” you mutter, and he laughs, kissing the side of your head.

“Can never watch too many movies, Princess. And you’re always welcome to sit with us-“

“I can’t,” you give him a stern look. “You’re going to get handsy.”

Dean whistles. “Handsy, huh-“

“Yes. You’re like a- A man.”

“I’m like a man?”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean. You keep- Remember when we watched the Mummy, and you kept trying to tell me that you never would’ve let him out of the box?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I wouldn’t have-“

“Dean.”

He chuckles. “What, you don’t believe in me?”

“I believe in you-“

“Then I would’ve kept you safe from the sand zombies, Princess.” He ducks down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “And then I would’ve shown you my big gun.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile would be painful to fight. Dean kisses the other corner of your mouth, then leans back, grabbing your chin between light, careful fingers.

“I’d stay with you if you were a sand zombie,” he mutters, and everything inside of you might be made of honey and sunlight.

“What about if I was annoying?” You whisper, and he laughs.

“You’re never annoying.”

“But what if I was. And I kept trying to hit you.”

“Then I’d teach you manners-“

“You’d teach me manners-“

Dean kisses you, and you forget to play mad at him. “I don’t remember the plot of the Mummy,” he murmurs against your lips, and you giggle, tugging on the collar of his shirt.

“You want me to tell you?”

He hums, and kisses you again. “How about we rack up, and you tell me whatever the hell you want?”

That’s a really good plan. Dean’s really good at making plans.

“And then the boat gets set on fire,” you say, sitting on a stool while Dean bends over the pool table. “And O’Connell and Evie get washed up on one side of the river, and Benny gets washed up on the other side with all of his people, and they have the horses, but they’re on the wrong side of the river.”

Dean hums, helping you off the stool and passing you a cue. “They got a bridge or something?”

“It’s the Nile, Dean.”

“So… No bridge,” he glances up from your fingers. “Too big?”

“Too big,” you smile at him. “So we don’t have any supplies, but-“

“It’s gonna take a while for them to cross the river.”

“Exactly.”

“So we get there before them, right?”

“Yes, but there’s also this group of men who swore to protect the tomb, and they’re the ones who set the boat on fire, and we run into them.”

Dean hums. “Are they nice?”

“Kinda. And-“

“Pause,” he taps your nose, then nods to the table. “My turn.”

You nod, and let him move you into the proper position. Pool is annoyingly hard. Harder than you thought it would be. You have to hold the cue all specific, and there’s a specific way to lean down, and every never goes where you want it to. The only pro that you can seem to find is that Dean has to fold over you and touch you and move you around for this to work. By the time you get a single ball in—without cheating, as you’re reminded about five times—you’re ready to drive the damn stick right through the eyes of the men a few tables away, watching and whispering and judging.

“They think you’re hot, Princess,” Dean mutters, moving your elbow with gentle hands. “They’re not judging, they’re checkin’ you out.”

You scoff, glaring at the red ball you’re supposed to hit. “Just because you think I’m- You know-“

“Hot?” Dean’s amused tone goes right to your core, and you shoot him a glare. “It’s not me thinking, you know. Least thinking I ever gotta do, to find you hot- Ah-“ He doges the end of the pool cue as you jab it back, catching the stick with a laugh, hand flexing near your ass. “Bad girl.”

Your face burns, and you turn around with a stubborn huff. Dean seems to get the better of himself, because he squeezes your ass before he moves around the table, examining your stance, and gives you a thumbs up. You narrow your eyes, shoot the ball, and it lands with a tiny thud in the pocket.

Dean grins. “See, what was I telling you- Oof-“

You toss the pool cue aside and almost tackle him, jumping into his arms, knowing he’s going to catch you just fine. He does, kissing you back in barely a second, walking you back until you’re half on the table and half on his knee. You pull back with a wild, easy grin, and he stares at you for a second—agape and glassy eyed—before diving back down for another kiss.

The men from the other table interrupt you, and ask if they can play a game. Dean moves you an inch behind him, shakes their hands, and tells them to fuck off. You smile against his side, weaving your fingers together and squeezing once. He squeezes back three times, but doesn’t stop glaring at the men until they’ve retreated, far across the bar.

“Dean,” you whisper, peering over his shoulder. “I’m hungry.”

He glances back, his glare washing away faster than you can understand. “If they got burgers…”

“Hmm,” you glance at the bar. “Fries?”

“We’ll split?” He pushes back. “And you get a milkshake.”

You nod, and go back to the booth while he orders. Your phone buzzes with a text from Sam, asking if there’s any sign of Azrael, and you freeze. You forgot about that part.

“You know, I pulled my first hustle ever in a place not far from here.” Dean slides back next to you, sliding the plate between you, and you tuck your phone back into your jacket.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” He grins, the memory obviously fond. “Dad left me and Sammy for ‘bout a week, and we needed money, and- You know- Other methods- They were gettin’ kind of exhausting. I’d been watching a lotta TV, and it seemed easy enough, so,” he shrugs. “Went out. Found some college kids who thought I’d be an easy win, pulled them for all they were worth.”

You hum, frowning up at him. “How old were you?”

“Old enough to get into the bar.”

“Dean-“

“You’re cute when you worry about me,” he kisses your brow, then stuffs a bunch of fries in his mouth. You sigh, wiping crumbs from his chin.

“I just- You shouldn’t have had to do that,” you whisper, and Dean pauses mid chew. He stares at you again, for a long, strange moment, before swallowing heavily and leaning back down.

He just kisses you again, and you let him. His weaves through your hair, and your knees bump under the table. “Drink your milkshake, baby,” he mutters when he pulls away, and you listen. You know he’s trying to make you feel better about it, when he tells you all the stories about him and Sam hustling people. About the fights he got in and won, about the time he won a thousand dollars in a game, drove to Stanford, and dropped it in Sam’s mailbox without a note.

“You never told me that-“

“It was that year we weren’t talking,” he shrugs. “Before that crazy pagan lady. Actually, that mighta been a week or two after.”

You nod, playing with the buttons on his shirt, watching him under soft eyes. “You’re a good brother,” you say, and Dean sighs.

“Tell Sam that-“

“He knows.”

Dean’s throat bobs, and he pulls you tighter against his chest. The bar has quieted down, leaving only amber light, low chatter, and the drone of a song from the jukebox. You can feel Dean’s heartbeat under your fingertips. Yours is settled between your thighs and on the tip of your tongue.

“Would you have- Have asked me out?” You ask before you can lose the nerve, and Dean’s brows raise. “If we met somewhere- I don’t know- Not on a case?”

Dean laughs. “Princess, I woulda asked you off if we met in literal fuckin’ hell.”

“That’s- I’m serious-“

“I’m serious. Hell, if I met you somewhere like this,” he nods his head around. “I woulda charmed the pants off you.”

You snort. “The pants?”

“And everything else.”

“Dean-“

He covers your mouth with a hand, eyes gleaming in the low light. He drawls your name, low and deep. Your core throbs, your eyes locked hopelessly onto Dean’s. 

“Look at you, baby. I would’ve asked for your number before you even told me your name,” he says, and you roll your eyes, batting at his hand.

“I would’ve told you no,” you snap, and he just shrugs.

“Then I would’ve asked to work for it.”

You blink at him. From the first moment, Claire had told you. Sam said he wanted you from the first moment. “Worked for it?”

“Yep,” he grins. “Would’ve- I dunno, played you for it. In a respectful way.”

You laugh softly. “Played me at what?”

“Uh… Darts?”

“I would’ve beaten you at darts.”

“Probably,” he glances past you, smile widening. “You wanna find out?”

You follow his gaze to the dart board across the room, and swallow. You stand up, pulling him by the arm, and he follows with a wide grin.

And you would’ve beaten him. If you’d never met on that hunt, if it was just you and Dean and nothing else in the world, the pretty hunter boy with the charming smile would’ve asked to play you for your number, and you would’ve laughed in his face and agreed, purely because you knew you’d win. But just like tonight, Dean would’ve been Dean. He would’ve gotten your darts for you and wiped milkshake off your cheek and offered you a hand every time you stepped off your bar stool. He would’ve smelled like cinnamon and made your head spin and body relax, and you would’ve stopped caring. You would’ve done anything, to get him just a little closer.

Dean pauses halfway through the game, squinting at the board, and turns to you with a frown.

“You’re letting me win.”

“I don’t- I would never-“

“Come on, Princess,” he moves you to your feet. “Gimme a real run. Kick my ass.”

“That’s not- I’m not letting you win-“

“You beat me and I’ll fuck you.”

You blink at him. He grins, infuriating and impossible and yours, and you yank the darts out of his hands. He laughs, ducking down for a kiss, and you swerve him with a glare. He raises his hands and backs up.

You win by a mile, and don’t make it back to the car. Dean presses over you in the bathroom, pulling off his jacket as he kicks the door closed behind him. You grab at his face, trying to keep your lips together, and Dean’s hands fly to your hips. He walks you backwards against the sink, tongue pressing into your open mouth. You moan, hands dragging down his chest, and he chuckles.

“Needy girl,” he mutters, hiking up your skirt with rough hands. “Can’t even wait for me to get her somewhere nice, gonna take it right here, take it ‘cause you love it.”

You whimper, tipping your head further back and spreading your legs. Dean chuckles, wrapping his hand fully around your ass, letting two thick fingers trail against your panties. You cry out, pressing your face into his neck, and he coos your name, kissing over the side of your face.

“You been wet like this all night, baby? This desperate for some cock?”

“De- Dean-“

“You’re not gettin’ it here,” he whispers, pushing those fingers against the wet spot on your panties. “I’ll let you cum once, but then I’m gettin’ you in the car. Can’t fuck you in the bathroom, Princess. You’re too good for that.”

You don’t like it when he praises you and denies you at the same time. It makes it sort of impossible to argue, especially with those fingers hooking around your panties and dragging them to the side, with his mouth attached to a soft spot on your neck, and-

“I feel as if I may be interrupting something.”

You shriek, your eyes ripping open as a deep, British voice cuts through the air. Dean whips around, automatically shielding you like the perfect idiot he is. Azrael looks between you, something sparkling in his eyes. Dean’s panting, holding you firm behind him, and Azrael examines his arm, head tilting slightly to the side.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, and Dean’s fingers dig into your skin.

“Listen, buddy, if you’re taking one of us, you’re taking me- Ow-“

You’d smacked the back of his head. Dean groans, rubbing his neck, and you roll your eyes. “You’re fine-“

“You hit me, sweetheart, I’m basically dying-“

“You’re alive,” you rub his neck, glaring at Azrael over his shoulder. “And he’s going to stay alive, or I’m going to rip your stupid angel wings out of your vessels’ ass.”

Azrael raises his brows, mouth twitching slightly. Up close, you’re not sure how you didn’t realize he was an angel sooner. He’s got all the eyes and hands and wings, only… Faded. Almost made of a turning hazy smoke that’s always threatening to dissipate, but manages to weave itself back together. The electricity that angels usually carry sparks like lighting, bright but shrouded. You grab Dean’s shoulder, closer to his neck. If you have to, you’ll pull his soul out and wrap around it like a shell. Nothing touches him, nothing, ever-

The bathroom lights spark. They’re excited, after having so little to do for so long. The strain of disrepair has been getting to them. Anything is better than the dull, repetitive wane into nothing, even if the Silver burns them out. Azrael says your name, slow, as if he’s testing it out. You stiffen, tipping up your chin, and his face splits into a full smile.

“You look just like her,” he says, something old and pained flashing over his face. “She’d be so proud.”

You swallow. Azrael looks to your hold on Dean and sighs.

“I am not going to kill him. I-“ He laughs dryly. “I couldn’t if I wanted.”

“Hm,” you narrow your eyes. You don’t let go of Dean. “Why.”

“You’re a smart girl,” he shrugs. “You and your little- Herd of humans. You put almost all of it together yourselves.”

“You kill one half a couple,” Dean mutters. “And you- What, leave their souls in there to rot?”

“Not to rot,” Azrael waves his hand. “To think. I’ll come for them eventually.”

“The reapers-“

“They don’t touch my souls,” Azrael gives Dean a coy smile. “Being the angel of death does have some benefits.”

You swallow, not daring to look away from him for a second. “That- That doesn’t explain why you can’t kill my Dean-“

“How do you think I chose?” Azrael cuts you off, raising a brow. “It’s not random. I’m very, very careful to only picked the one who loved more than their partner.”

“Loved more?” Dean frowns, and Azrael nods.

“Someone always loves more. And I take them, and I show them that there is another way. That there are many, many souls on this small planet that are worth living for. Worth dying for. And when they’re ready, I wake them up.” He smiles. “Some call me the angel of miracles. Or- Angel of near death would be better, I suppose- Most of those revelations are me, not God-“

Thunder cracks outside. Dean’s hand flies to your knee, and Azrael just sighs.

“Father. Always so dramatic. It is not my fault that I couldn’t kill either of you.” He looks back to you. “. “He’s afraid, you know. He’d have no other reason to send me.”

“He- He sent you?” You whisper. “Why- Why would he do that-“

“Why does he do anything,” Azrael sighs. “First Amara, then me and Lilith, then Eve, and- Well, poor Cain-“ He shakes his head. “He’s never known how to bury his bodies, has he? Or maybe there’s just something that’s finally making them pop back up.”

He smiles at you, and a shiver rushes down your spine. Dean tenses, jaw locked like he’s ready to swing, but you hold him back.

“You knew Eve,” you say, and Azrael bows his head.

“A long, long time ago, yes. I did.”

“And Lilith-“

“Was the love of my life,” he murmurs, the smoke in him getting thicker. “Even when she was… Blinded. Even when she sent our children to Eve and listened to my brother’s whisperings, I loved her. I fear- Many days…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It does not matter anymore.”

You slide off the counter slowly, keeping one hand on Dean’s arm. Azrael watches you, quiet and curious, and you take a deep breath.

“God’s afraid,” you repeat, and Azrael bows his head. “Because of me?”

“In a way, yes. He thinks you’re going to fail, or- Or make the wrong choice.”

“I’ve told him, I’ll never go with him-“

“Not that choice,” Azrael waves a hand. “The Leviathans.”

You and Dean exchange a confused look, and Dean clears his throat.

“Uh- The Leviathans? God’s afraid of the shapeshifting lizards?”

“He’s afraid of Eve,” Azrael huffs a low laugh. “We all were, but he didn’t listen until it was too late.”

“Too… Too late.” You whisper, your heart sinking to your stomach, your back aching like the pressure of the sky is pushing down, right into your bones. “Eve- She made the Leviathans, didn’t she. And that- That world-“

“Heaven,” Azrael sighs. “The first Heaven, the real Heaven. Paradise, before the Leviathans destroyed it. It took countless angels, thousands of my brothers and sisters- Lucifer himself- To stop them from reaching our father.”

“Reaching God?” Dean snorts. “What, he couldn’t handle some poison teeth?”

“No,” you breathe, still staring at Azrael. “He can’t, can he.”

Azrael smiles tightly. “Eve was always very good, at making exactly what she wanted.”

“A monster. To- To-“

“To devour God.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, and you clear your voice, small and quiet.

“But they can’t kill me, can they.”

Azrael shakes his head. “No. They can’t.”

You swallow. The Silver runs like a river under your skin. Rapid and overflowing as the world floods you like a storm, but on a singular, crashing path. You stare at Azrael. The father of Magdalenes. A lonely, fallen man. He stares back at you, and you take a slow, deep breath. 

“You don’t want them to kill God,” you say, and Azrael hums.

“I don’t want much at all,” he tells you. “But I would never believe that they’d stop, only with God.”

You nod, and cross your arms over your chest. “Can you cry?”

Dean chokes on the air. “Can he what?!”

But Azrael just smiles, and nods. And you have it. The tears of a loveless man, and the fluid of a great father. All that’s left is to get some angel oil, and you can kill the Leviathans. Before they take another thing you love. Before they kill God.

“We could just- Just let ‘em,” Jo says, back at the motel room. “God- He ain’t our problem, if anything- They’re doing us a favor.”

You’ve been at this debate for an hour. You sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Bobby’s bottle in your hands, everyone fighting around you. You’re not sure what they’re fighting about. Everyone seems pretty okay with just letting the Leviathans take care of God themselves.

But you turn Bobby in your hands, and have to close your eyes to breathe. You can almost smell it. That dead, dead world. The one they probably need you to enter. Need Dean to enter. They’ve never seen it. They’ve never seen the ash, the decay, the- the nothing.

And God. He flashes outside the window, and you know he won’t go quietly. He’ll drag the angels back into it. He’ll abandon a million more worlds, he’ll break all his promises and just take you, he’ll flay like a drowning man, and drag everything down with him.

Dean sends everyone away, and you know you’ve been quiet for too long. He takes the bottle out of your hands, and you lay back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it’s made of stars. Dean lies at your side, then slowly weaves his fingers through yours.

“Crazy few days,” he mutters, and you hum.

“Yeah. It was.”

Silence hangs in the air. Dean squeezes your hand once, and you squeeze it back three times. He sighs, and mutters your name.

“You still wanna kill them, don’t you.”

You just nod. And Dean doesn’t argue. You turn to watch him in the dark, and find him already looking at you. And Azrael’s words echo in harmony with Claire’s. I kill the person who loves more than their partner. He couldn’t kill either of you.

“Did you like me?” You ask. “When we met, would you have- Did you really-“

“Yeah,” Dean’s throat bobs. “I did. Did you feel me die?”

A lump forms in your throat. “Yeah. I- I did.”

Dean face twists in pain. He reaches over the mattress with a light, careful hand, and runs his thumb down the bridge of your nose. Tears burn on your cheeks. Your voice gets small.

“You know I- I’ll chose you,” you plead, leaning into his hand. “Every single time, God or- Or anything-“

“Yeah,” Dean rasps, and you believe him. “I know.”

✦chapter 71

✦End note: did you guys know that was techinally their first ever date! Chapter Title from Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

Inside the diner, the scent of frying bacon and coffee mingles with the faint tang of cleaner, leaving an undercurrent of something both comforting and antiseptic. You settle into the back corner booth, laptop balanced on the edge of the table, and push your hair behind your ears, only for loose strands to fall back in front of your face. 

The screen glows softly against the window light, highlighting the curve of your cheek and the concentration in your eyes as you cross-reference property records with church volunteer rosters tied to the victims. Your coffee steams faintly, cooling untouched beside you, a small reminder that you’ve been here long enough to sink into the rhythm of your work.

A bell jingles sharply above the door.

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. The movement of the diner's morning traffic is a background hum, something to filter out. Your foot bounces restlessly beneath the table, betraying the impatience threading through your thoughts.

Voices drift across the room—low, familiar in cadence, almost imperceptibly measured, carrying with them the weight of experience. Something about the tone makes the fine hairs at the back of your neck prickle, but you force yourself to ignore it. Hunters move through towns all the time. They leave faint patterns behind, footprints and energy that you’ve learned to read, to ignore when necessary.

Across the room, Dean’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly when his eyes catch the sleek black Charger parked outside the window. It sits too deliberately, almost casual in the lot, yet somehow impossible to miss. He exhales through his nose, his gaze sharpening instinctively. Parked again.

Sam follows his brother’s line of sight, noting the car’s color, the angle, the way it reflects the morning sun. His eyes sweep the diner carefully, settling on the back corner booth. Even without thinking, he registers her posture—head bowed, hair loose today, cascading down past her shoulders in soft waves. He can’t see her face from this angle, and maybe that’s better.

Dean doesn’t turn fully. He won’t trust himself to. He’s too aware, too wound tight, of the instinct rising just below the surface—something primal that has nothing to do with the case.

The two of them slide into a booth on the opposite side of the diner, the vinyl seats creaking faintly under their weight. The waitress passes between the tables, carrying a steaming plate to a family near the window, and for a moment, the line of sight is broken. A child darts past, giggling, and a trucker stands, stretching as he moves toward the counter. Small, mundane movements, but they fragment the space enough to keep proximity just out of reach.