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

You smoothed out your bloody skirt out of habit. Why your brain was worried about wrinkles when the fabric was ruined was beyond you. Just one of those nervous ticks your mother would sigh at you about your entire childhood. 

Stop fidgeting. Sit up straight. Cross your ankles. For heaven’s sake, at least pretend to smile.

If only she could see you now. 

Your whole body flinched when the door of the ornate wood office you sat in opened. You didn’t bother to stand. Civility was out the door tonight. The blood staining your hands was proof enough of that.

The door thudded shut behind you, your eyes locked on the roaring fireplace before you. Flames danced in the dim space before a light flickered on from somewhere behind you, most likely the one on the large mahogany desk in the center of the room. 

Your back was ramrod straight at the very least. Maybe your mother was looking down at you with a smile for that.

Hell, who were you kidding. She was looking up. Knowing her, she’d made friends with the demons and was working on charming the devil himself.

Your body was perched on the edge of the cognac brown leather couch, barely sitting on the cushion, poised for…something. To flee? To fight? To accept death?

Why was your neck suddenly itchy? 

Oh, right. The dried blood. 

You absently scratched at it, heart stopping when footsteps echoed off the hardwoods, making the way from the grand rug over in your direction. You breathed slowly, feeling the man’s gaze on your back. The footsteps fell away, the distinctive sound of a record catching behind you. 

Rita Hayworth’s voice filled the air, breath catching. 

Put the blame on mame, boy.

Your visitor said nothing, just let the sound play through. Once. Twice. Three times. 

What the fuck was this person getting at? Put the blame on…but you did it. There was nothing else to…

Footsteps sounded again, heart in your throat as they continued closer this time. Hands rested on the back of your shoulders, not gripping them but simply…resting there.

“It’s almost insulting really. You, not having a clue what you were doing, slitting Harrison Blackburn’s throat like it’s your fuckin’ day job. You put my boys to shame. They tell me they ain’t never seen something so ruthless out of someone so…innocent. I should put you on the payroll.”

Ah. That explains why two burly men picked you up, blood still wet and sticky, shoving you in the back of a car and driving you straight to a massive estate in River Forest. This guy was in the mob too and if he was happy about Harrison’s death then that meant one thing.

Winchester.

“Is that why I’m here? To join the crew?” The man didn’t laugh at the bad joke, simply removed his hands from behind you. He stalked around the right side, into your field of vision. You swallowed thickly at the man in the suit before you.

Harrison had been handsome, your fatal flaw for ever getting involved with him right there, but this man? 

Oh, this man could turn a saint into a sinner with nothing more than a flirty smile.

“Dean Winchester.” Oldest son. He walked over to a matching leather chair off to the side, taking a seat, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He held it out to you, an offer, and you gracefully took it, Dean not seeming to care that your blood stained hand touched his.

You sipped down the burning drink, unsure if it was a whiskey, a scotch or whatever the hell it was. All you knew was if you were about to be killed by Dean Winchester, you wanted to be drunk for it. You threw back the rest of the glass, Dean’s eyes flaring wide for a split second.

“That’s a sipping whiskey, sweetheart. Burns even the hardiest of men. You’re full of surprises.”

“It’s been a day,” you said, handing him back the glass. He hummed as he took it, setting it aside on a end table.

“That it has. So. To what atrocity did your beloved commit to be met with a grisly fate at your delicate hands? Surely you knew who Harrison was.”

“Not until it was too late. You don’t exactly get to break up with a mobster’s son. You just hope they get bored of you.” Dean licked his lips, narrowing his eyes.

“And yet…seems you were the one to end the relationship after all. What changed? Cheat one too many times? Force himself on you? Beat you so badly you had to hide inside for weeks?” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What made you snap?”

“He was making plans to kidnap a child. One of the rival families. Was going to send the boy back in pieces. He was proud of himself, proud of how happy his father was with his planned brutality.” Dean watched you cautiously, sitting up straight. “Only the truly evil hurt children.”

“So you slayed the demon,” said Dean, looking you up and down. “It was my cousin.”

“What?” Dean nodded. 

“My cousin, Jack. He’s about four, cute as a button. We found out and I was planning on making Harrison pay deeply. You want to fuck with the grown ups, with the men, fine. But you leave the women and kids out of it. End of story. Blackburn crossed a line. The only thing I didn’t know was Senior was all for it. That’s an injustice that still needs to be corrected.”

You stared at him, Dean running a hand over his mouth, slumping back into his chair. 

“I didn’t want him to die that quickly.”

“I stabbed his dick too if that makes you feel better.” Dean smirked, tilting his head.

“It does to a degree. But now I have a conundrum.” You made fists with your hands, Dean spotting the movement. “You did me a favor, not for any personal gain but simply to protect a kid. I respect that. Greatly.”

“But.” He smiled, almost sad like.

“But as far as anyone knows, my men killed Harrison in retaliation for the planned kidnapping and murder. You, you are just Harrison Blackburn’s girl that we grabbed.”

“So un-grab me.” Dean cocked his head, shaking it. “Why not?”

“Because daddy Blackburn sees you as part of the family. The daughter he never had. You and Harrison were engaged. No, no. I hold a valuable card with you, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, closing your eyes. “You’re saying…you’re saying I did you a massive fucking favor and my reward is to be kidnapped by you?”

“Kidnapped is such a mean word,” said Dean, shaking his head. “Think of it as an involuntary stay at a sprawling estate where your every want and desire will be fulfilled until such time as the Blackburn family empire has come crumbling down. I’ll give you more than enough money where you never have to work or depend on a man again once it’s through. I’ll leven relocate you to a place of your choosing.”

“The Blackburns have been in the mob since 1893,” you growled.

“So only some fifty odd years. Bound to fall apart sometime soon,” said Dean, standing up with a smile. You finally stood, Dean eyeing you up and down. Blood spatter on your face. Jacket and blouse soaked. Blue skirt stained almost black and tar like. “I can treat you like a princess or a prisoner. Your choice.”

“Senior doesn’t give two shits about me and we both know it.” You lifted your chin, narrowing your eyes. “So what the fuck do you really want with me?”

“Such a nasty mouth on such a proper appearing lady,” Dean snickered. “One might think you were raised in the gutter. Tell me, why would I, leader of the Winchester family, want you? If not for ransom or leverage, then what?”

“I’m done with this.” You stalked around the coffee table, Dean easily shifting and walking around the chair, nonchalantly blocking your path to the office doors. “You saw what happened to the last guy that fucked with me. Move.”

“Baby, there’s nothing more that I’d love than to…fuck,” he let the word linger, eyes raking up and down your body, “With you. But you killed a boss’ son. I let you go, Blackburn will find you and torture you and this place will seem like heaven compared to the twisted games he’d play with you. If he was so willing to let a child suffer, imagine what he’d do to you?”

“I’ll leave Chicago.” Dean shook his head. “Yes, I-”

“The Winchesters are indebted to you.” Dean stepped once, twice, closer until he was in your space, staring you down with a smirk. “We repay our debts. You will be protected until it is safe. No exceptions.”

“Why do you even care?” He reached up a hand, stroking over your jaw, catching your chin between this thumb and forefinger. 

“Someone will come escort you to your new quarters so you can wash. Feel free to roam the house and grounds.” He dropped his hand and walked past you to his desk, refilling his glass with more liquor. “You’re dismissed. Wait.”

You peered over your shoulder, Dean’s green eyes dark, predator like. It made you shiver, his subtle warmth from before gone.

“It does make a man think…what are the odds that Harrison meets his demise by another the same night I was planning to end his life?” Dean carried his glass over, swinging it back in full like you had, gritting his teeth through the pain. “Not even a tremble during the act. Just…brutally efficient.”

You swallowed and faced forward, Dean pressing up behind you, leaning in, ghost of his breath caressing your ear.

“Almost like…it wasn’t the first time. Reaper.”

Your stomach dropped, body rigid as stone. Dean chuckled softly behind you. 

“Unfortunate for you I have a source inside Blackburn’s organization. He’s always known his son was psychotic which is why he hired you, to keep an eye on the schmuck. Senior was outraged at the thought of his son going after a child. Senior ordered the hit on Harrison. How am I doing so far, sweetheart?”

You kept your mouth shut, Dean humming.

“And all the while, he gets to blame it on a mugging gone wrong, a rival family taking out his second born. Doesn’t matter. Senior took care of a problem and you just…float on away back into the shadows like you do. Until she’s called upon again by some criminal socialite to do the dirty work of the mob or the police or a scorned ex-wife. You’re a dangerous woman, Y/N Y/L/N. You were so close to getting away with it, with me believing your little story. Problem is, Senior knows the rules. He’s a bastard but a respectable one. No women. No kids. That man would never be proud of his son for going outside the bounds.”

You stared dead ahead, forcing your body to stay steady. “So you caught Reaper. I’m done with the foreplay. Kill me already, Mr. Winchester.”

“You’ve done nothing to me. Why would I kill you? Your reputation precedes you. Vixen of death. Reaper of souls. The smile that sends evil to hell. Quite impressive for a murderess to have such a strong moral code. Never the innocent, only the cruel.” Dean walked around you, tilting his head with that dark smile again. “I can’t just let someone like you with your…skills…walk away. Now that you’ve moved on from New York and LA to make Chicago your new hunting ground, I can’t let you wander about. Not until we can trust one another and trust takes time.”

You shook your head. “You’re afraid someone will hire me to kill you. Or kill some corrupt player that’s important to your organization.” Dean hummed. You licked your lips, tasting the hint of iron, flashing Dean a dark smile of your own. “You’d be better off killing me. Letting me wander about, keeping me caged…never know what kind of secrets I might find out about you, Mr. Winchester. Because that hit? Oh, I’ll do that one for free.”

“So that’s a no on the working for me thing.” You feigned a pout, quickly narrowing your eyes. Dean laughed quietly, eyeing you up and down. “You’ll change your mind eventually.”

“Careful there, Icarus. You don’t want to play with this fire.” Dean gave you a look that said he very much did. You rolled your eyes, bumping into him hard as you went for the office door.

“Breakfast is served at eight,” he said and you could just hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Reaper.”

“You’re going to regret this, Winchester.”

If you had a comeback, it’s squeezed from your head by Dean’s grip. He was teasing. Your logical brain knows that. It’s just like how you tell him he reminds you of the little boy at work who hugs a toy car at nap time.

Although you always say that like it’s a joke, when it’s really not. You look at the boy and imagine a tiny Dean, maybe with hair and skin a little more like yours, sitting on your knee and showing you all his different cars. You think about a world where you get to kiss his forehead good night, then Dean kisses you good night.

The most dangerous part of your job is that it makes you ovulate all the time. All those stupid cute kids that you don’t even really want right now, feeding your fantasies about having a life with your roommate.

Agreeing to Dean’s dumb plan was the worst possible choice you could’ve made. You’re not going to be able to handle it. You’re already not handling it, and all it is so far is Dean’s hand in yours, and how casually he keeps calling you his girlfriend. Like that word isn’t the start and end of your whole life.

You can’t tell him to stop. He’d wave you off and say he was practicing, and when you insisted that he not, he’d ask why.

And you don’t have a good answer to that. So you let him chat with the fisherman standing next to you at the belt, rambling about how he and his girlfriend are here for his brothers wedding. You don’t let yourself dwell on how he pushes you in front of him, like he’s trying to show you off. Or how he keeps praising you for basically breathing near him.

He doesn’t need his stupid practice. He’s already too good at this.

You put your food down when you go to rent a car. You don’t have another choice.

“My wife likes Chevys.” Dean says, peering at the options the attendant is showing him, and you gag on the bottled smoothie he bought you.

You do not.

And- And-

“Why did you call me your wife.” You hiss, and Dean shrugs.

“I dunno. Sounds better than girlfriend, right?”

He grins at you, and you’re going to smack him.

This isn’t fun for you. It’s not a game. It’s cruel, and you can’t even tell him why.

You don’t answer. Dean’s shoulders square, and a tiny frown flashes over his face.

“It bother you?” He mutters, as you’re walking to the car. “When I- Said that?”

You haven’t spoken in ten minutes. His voice is so soft it aches like a bruise on fruit.

“No.” You mutter, and you’re a liar, but what the fuck are you supposed to say.

Yes. So much. Don’t call me your wife unless you mean it. Don’t touch me unless you mean it. Why can’t you just mean it.

Dean murmurs your name, and you shake your head.

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Shucks.”

“Sweetheart-“

“I’m just trying to get in the headspace of girlfriend, okay?” You give him a tight smile. “Wife messes up my acting.”

Dean examines you for a second. His fingers curve, where he’s holding your hip.

You keep smiling. It hurts like your face is being peeled off.

“Your acting.” He mutters. “Right.”

Some very evil part of your brain dreams up that he sounded upset about that. Another one sneers that he bought it so easily because he can’t even imagine a world where you’d be anything but acting here.

Acting is going to be the easy part.

Not letting your foul little heart sink its claws into his acting as evidence. That’s what’s going to leave a scar after.  

It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.

“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin.

It’s not real.

“We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”

You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking. 

And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch. 

To seeing his family. 

To seeing his dad. 

Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it. 

But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.

“There’s a lotta us. Sammy didn’t invite them all, ‘cause- You know.” He whistles, and you smile.

“Crazy.”

“Exactly. Grandma and Grandpa, they got pulled outta Florida. Sam couldn’t get away with leaving them out. But the rest of them? Freakin’ weirdos.”

You hum, focused more on trying to remember what you know about Dean’s family.

He’s told you that you didn’t need to know everyone. You insisted that he at least quiz you.

He’d made you flashcards. You’d spent most of the plane ride after he knocked out memorizing them.

“Samuel and Deanna.” You rattle off. “They like Fox News and unsolved network. You’re named after Deanna. Sam’s named after Samuel. They were… Farmers.”

“Of a sort.” Dean mutters under his breath. “More like freakin’ cult members. But- Yeah.” He shoots you a grin. “Good job.”

You flush, smiling back. “Hit me with another.”

“C’mon, you really don’t have to memorize them-“

“Another.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but starts quizzing you. You ace it. He smiles like he’s proud of you, squeezing your thigh.

“You’re gonna win an Oscar, sweetheart.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and he flicks your nose with a carefree laugh.

He looks carefree. Even with the tardiness and looming storm of his father. You did that.

And you’re important to Dean, too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to touch and ask you for such intimate favors. 

Probably not close enough to trump his dad. 

So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either. 

“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”

“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all. 

“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“

“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“

“Five minutes. Promise.”

And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone. 

Bed.

Single bed. 

Fuck. 

Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”

You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. 

Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either. 

He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family. 

He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.

“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward, and there's no going back.

✦Chapter Ten✦

✦End note: next chapter super long lmao. we get to meet the family! ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

The tailor came back a couple days before the interview was scheduled with their clothes, all of them getting changed into them for the final fitting. Sy even said he would neaten his beard the day of.

“I look dapper as fuck.” Mike said, turning to look at himself in the full length mirror, the crisp white shirt tucked into black slacks. A simple waistcoat sans jacket would go over it and Napoleon already agreed to let him roll the sleeves up his forearms as a more relaxed appearance would fit his youthful looks.

“How do the shoulders feel?” The tailor asked as he was working on Sy and he shrugged, rolling his shoulders.

“Feels great. Don’t feel like I’m gonna pop a seam like I usually do in this type of getup.” Looking over, he gave a low whistle as Samantha emerged in her outfit, a black dress shirt and black pencil skirt that hugged her hips and thighs. “God damn.”

“You look amazing.” Napoleon said, going over to her, “Much better than those formless clothes you had already.”

“A Pastors wife has to look a certain way. Demure and plain.” She said with a shrug, not looking at him. “You all clean up very nice, by the way.”

“Right?” Mike said, still admiring himself in the mirror but stopped when he saw her in the reflection, turning around to look at her. “Uh, sweetcheeks? Do you have black framed glasses?”

“I’ve never needed glasses.” She responded, more than a little confused. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m getting naughty CEO vibes from you right now and I wanna be your intern who’s shit at his job and needs a performance review.” He said and Walter snorted so hard it sounded painful. Samantha just gave a small amused huff, her cheeks tinting slightly.

“Geralt, do you want me to braid your hair for it?” She asked, looking over at him as he adjusted the sleeves of the black suit coat with delicate silver pin-striping.

“I was going to keep it down.” He said simply but then seemed to think it over. “Can you trim the undercut?”

“Absolutely.” She said and went to him, running her fingers through the growth at the back of his head. “It is getting a bit long and you should look your intimidating best.” Going up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, making a corner of his lips perk up slightly.

“August, you should—”

“I’m not getting rid of the mustache.” August said, cutting Napoleon off, “And I’m not shaving the beard.”

“You’re impossible.” Napoleon said, rolling his eyes.

“You’ve been trying to get me to get rid of the mustache since we met.” August said, “It’s not happening.”

“If you want to keep looking like a 1970’s adult film actor, that’s your prerogative.” Napoleon said.

“Said the James Bond wannabe.” August retorted.

“Boys,” Samantha said, “Behave.”

“He—” Napoleon started but she cut him off.

“Behave.” She said again, her voice taking a slightly deeper timbre and Geralt shuddered, Sy blinking heavily and shaking his head quickly. Napoleon’s brows raised slightly as he looked at her and she just stared right back until his eyes slid away.

“It’s been a while. I forgot how...strong female Alphas are.” He remarked and looked up at her when she approached him, that edge gone from her eyes and warmth bloomed in his chest, the urge to pull her into his arms taking him over quickly and he gave in, pulling her against his chest. He didn’t fail to notice how Augusts’ jaw tightened slightly, the other man stretching his neck with a tilt of his head.

“Shall I charge this to your account, Mr. Solo?” The tailor asked and Napoleon looked at him with a nod.

“Amazing work, as always.” He said, “I’ll contact you should any mishaps happen.” The tailor packed up and left after making closing pleasantries, Samantha thanking him as well on his way out the door, closing and locking it behind him.

“August, we need to talk.” She said, turning on him and he arched a brow at her.

“About?” He asked.

“Your...tenseness about Napoleon and I.” She said but he didn’t say anything.

“You’ve been broody.” Sy pointed out and August leveled a look at him that would have made a lesser wolf back up a step. Sy just stared right back unflinchingly.

“August, it was your pushing that made Napoleon tell me that I was his Mate,” Samantha pointed out, “So this...undercurrent of jealousy makes no sense. He told me that if you hadn’t pushed him to tell me, he wouldn’t have, so he’s only here because of you.”

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” August said, “If you had realized that he was your Mate, but he never acknowledged it, it would have hurt you in the long run. Seeing him, knowing what he was to you, but him acting indifferent about it. Leon has...history when it comes to women, and I see him doing with you what he did with them.”

“Explain.” Samantha said.

“I wasn’t the best partner.” Napoleon admitted, “While infidelity has nothing to do with being a wolf, the fact that my previous lovers weren’t my Mate made it easier to go elsewhere. Sometimes those women were already with others when I did.”

“I see.” Samantha said, her eyes going to the floor.

“But you are my Mate, Samantha.” Napoleon said, going to her and holding her arms gently, “The thought of being with any woman but you disgusts me. It’s a repulsive idea that I will spare no energy entertaining. I wasn’t the best with them, but I will be with you.”

“Because I’m your Mate.”

“Exactly.”

“So if I wasn’t your Mate, would you have tried to—”

“No.” Napoleon said, cutting off that train of thought. “Because you are Augusts’ and the others. You are a beautiful woman, Samantha, but I would not have tried to seduce you away from them. It would have been futile anyway. You have your Mates, you won’t need or want anyone else. Besides, two of your Mates hunt and kill wolves for the Council and the other two were Special Forces for their respective militaries. Not only would it not look like murder, but I doubt my body would have even been found.”

“You ain’t wrong.” Sy said with a shrug.

“I just didn’t want you in pain, Sam.” August said, “I didn’t want him to hurt you.”

“And I won’t.” Napoleon said, “Ever.”

“This will probably come as no surprise to anyone, but Jonathan wasn’t faithful to me.” Samantha said, “He stopped hiding it from me after my second miscarriage, not that he really tried to begin with. I knew. When I asked him about it, he said that if I refused to fulfill my wifely duties and give him children, he would find someone who would, but divorce is still a sin, so...”

“But murder ain’t?” Sy asked, an edge to his voice.

“Murder?” Napoleon asked and with a nod from Samantha, Sy told him what Jonathan had done when she had tried to file for divorce the first time. “That bastard.”

“I can’t prove it.” She said, “But I know he did it. Or had it done.”

“Yeah I don’t see’im gettin’ his hands dirty.” Sy said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Probably hired someone.”

“Now I have even more incentive to crack the encryption on those files.” Napoleon said, “If he kept records, which I have a feeling he did as the man is too arrogant to believe he’d ever get caught, then I’ll have something to bury him with. The murder of an entire family will get him the needle.”

“I wonder if they’ll let one of us do it.” August mused.

And he’d dreamed about it. He’d savored every small taste he’d been offered over the years, and he’d worshipped the little bits of Her that came off when they got enough heat and friction. He counted every kiss like a dragon hoarding treasure, he found himself in the shower with a bowed head and Her taste on his lips, he breathed out Her name to dark hotel rooms and bunched sheets in his arms to mimic Her soft body. Dean had an active imagination. He’d always been good at fantasy, especially for things he thought he was never going to be allowed to have.

Which is why part of him didn’t even know what the hell to do, now that daydreams were playing out in vivid color under him. He’d be worried it wasn’t real, if she wasn’t right there. Looking up at him with glossy, dark eyes and parted, swollen lips. Dean was staring at a star, and all it’s ethereal light bended with his smallest smile.

He had paradise. Sticking herself to his fingers and lingering with a sugared aftertaste in his mouth. And it wasn’t some spiraled path up into the clouds, and it wasn’t hidden under a mountain. It was lush, pliant and sweet life, glowing under his hands and malleable and Dean’s.

This moment was his. Their’s. The curtains were drawn and the door was locked and nothing was going to make him lose this again.

He wasn’t as good a man as he wanted to be, but he allowed himself some small, sacred sins without guilt. It wasn’t very progressive of him, to get a boner the more her innocence became clear. Sammy would yell at him about Her value being more than how many bodies She had stacked up, and Dean would snap that he knew that. He’d be the last person to judge how many dudes a chick had fallen into bed with. That was how he used to pull his own, long and pleasurable nights out of the bars and into his car.

But this wasn’t about just sex. His heart was dropping into his dick because Christ, she’d never done anything, and it made Her all breathless and flushed with Dean’s lightest touch. She was sensitive, more sensitive than anyone he’d ever fucked, and pride swelled up in his chest like a hot air ballon with Her every reaction. It was taking him higher and higher, making him more and more certain that he wouldn’t fuck this up. He couldn’t. The only option was to be the best—and maybe only, if he played his cards right—She’d ever had.

“I know what hand stuff is.” She said, all squirmy and cute beneath him. “And I know what mouth stuff is too, and- Other stuff-“

Dean smirked. “Other stuff?”

“Yeah, I know about ass stuff, and choking, and- and edging and spanking and dirty talk and-“ She swallowed, looking more and more like a cornered bunny with every word. “I’ve heard about doing it in public, and- I know about bondage, and- Kinks. I- I know a lot about sex, Dean.”

She pouted, wrapping Her arms around her stomach, and Dean didn’t think he’d ever been a real goner. Not like this. Not in a way that was making his hands curl into fists and his mind become so clouded he’d be worried he was on drugs if he didn’t already know what She did to him.

She knew a lot about sex. He almost snorted. She was listing off acts like they were just embarrassing items on a grocery list. Part of him—the feral, animalistic part that he’d never been able to trust around Her—wanted to just run through everything she’d said like a menu. He’d flip Her over and drag her hot little ass into the air, wrap his hand around that pretty throat and kiss Her stupid, sneer the mostly filthy things he could think of with Her hands pinned over her head and watch that perfect pussy get wetter and wetter with every teasing drawl. 

But look at Her. She couldn’t even deal with talking about it. If Dean didn’t handle Her like the delicate work of art She was, he was worried she’d just melt into something sparkly and lost under his hands.

He might like to try that to. Not on Her first time. He’d make this matter. He’d treat Her so well, she’d never imagine looking to anyone else.

“I’ve studied porn,” She babbled on, and Dean had never wanted to fuck someone stupid so bad. “And I’ve read like a lot of books-“

He kissed Her, mostly to save Her from herself. She’d studied. That was a pretty picture to add to his private, metal tape collection. He kept it locked in a seedy cabinet in his heart chamber, and pulled out ideas whenever he needed to get an urge dealt with, himself, in private.  Her, watching something graphic and sweaty on the computer, that adorable little furrow in Her brow and a thoughtful pout of Her lips. Dean bet She’d gotten hot and bothered from it, and hadn’t even known what to do. That she’d watch a thick, fat cock slide in and out of some pornstar’s pussy, and flushed so deeply she thought she had a fever.

He could picture Her, humping the sheets and whining. Unsatisfied, without Dean there to help. And he would’ve helped. He would’ve taken Her into his lap and sucked on Her neck, fingering her warm, wet cunt while Her eyes fluttered and she begged for his cock.

Dean could dream up a lot of these scenarios. He’d come up with more than he’d ever admit, over the years. The closer he got to fucking Her for real, the more he realized he hadn’t even gotten close to reality. They say don’t get your hopes too high. That great expectations lead to great downfalls.

There was no world, where the greatest poet would’ve been able to dream of how good She felt. Looked. Tasted. Was.

Everything about Her was perfect, like this. Dean really couldn’t understand, how someone could possibly writhe and giggle and flush and breathe like they were a walking spirit of everything pleasurable and good, all while being so doe eyed and sweet. Having Her was better than wanting her. Being in his dream, watching it not vanish and dissolve in the harsh light of reality, but only grow brighter.

He folded Her over, pressing Her knees to her chest and giving him access to a pussy that he’d go to war over. That was valued more than any diamond or silk, glistening with arousal, dripping over his fingers and puffy and rich. Dean shoved his face against Her, trying to drown in every drop of Her ocean he could get his tongue on, and She tasted better than anything he’d ever had. If he could live off of it—off of Her taste, the sweet moans and cries of his name, all of it—he’d never eat anything else again.

When he finished, it wasn’t because he was full. If anything, tasting Her had been like downing a bottle of cocaine-laced saltwater. He was hooked, he couldn’t imagine wanting anything else, and he left more starved than when he started. But he needed to be inside of Her. He was so hard it hurt, the tiniest bit of friction against Her thigh threatening to make him blow it.

He couldn’t stop himself from teasing Her, though. It was too easy. She worked Herself up, and it make the snap of the orgasm hit her harder. She’d buck off the mattress and cry out and look at Dean like she was lost at sea, and he was the only star to guide her home.

Never mind the sky, filled with shining light, all leading to somewhere.

She only wanted to follow Dean.

“Can we please have sex,” She breathed, and Dean kept finding out that he could love Her more.

That was his girl. Hard as rock candy, until he sucked on Her just right. She’d killed archangels and lived in Hell and put the fear of the universe in the devil himself. But right now, with all of that stripped away, with Her voice nervous but not afraid, She was just weird. Awkward and pretty and weird, like the most gorgeous shell at the beach, or a glittering, jewel-colored hummingbird Dean wanted to put in his hands and keep to himself. 

Yeah. They could have sex. As long as She’d let him give it to Her, she could have whatever the hell she wanted.

When Dean finally slid home, he didn’t know how he managed not to blow it in the first few seconds. She was tight and hot, She felt so fucking good, it almost made him black out. Her pussy might be a black hole. Now that Dean was in, there was no getting out.

And She had the nerve to ask if it was good for him. To look at him like She wasn’t sure if she was doing well, when Dean had never had anyone better. She sang like an angel when She came, clenching down on Dean’s cock and milking him into pathetic jerks of his hips and low groans. He panted, collapsing over Her and choking out her name. It wasn’t a prayer. A prayer would be for a man who wanted more than what they had.

Dean said Her name like an oath. A promise to keep Her. To keep this. Heaven was nothing, compared to crashing into Her like an asteroid. It obliterated him. He never wanted to be put back together, not without Her against him, curled and safe in his arms.

✦End note: i need him like. in a really concerning way✦

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Judging by his progress so far, you honestly give him another ten more minutes before he starts reorganizing those binders alphabetically out of spite (and to scratch that slightly OCD itch in his brain. No judgement here – you certainly feel it too when looking at those eight monstrosities).

It’s been three hours of tranquility so far since Dean’s not back yet from his little trip to hide the cursed sword. 

Admittedly, it’s almost too quiet and peaceful now in this room without his annoying habits around to distract you. It’s weird what you can miss once it’s gone, but you’re sure the green-eyed hunter will return soon enough and make you regret those words again with his charmingly irritating presence.

You, on the other hand, have claimed the bed and excused yourself from tediously sifting through museum catalogues by pulling out your tarot deck and doing your own version of research. 

In this case, your focus doesn’t lie with the sword or even the victims but on the man himself – the mysterious headless horseman. If you can get some hints on his identity and fate, maybe you and Sam can figure out a way to break the curse.

The cards slide easily between your fingers as you shuffle, your brain latching onto the calming rhythm until the noise in your head quiets just enough. And then, you draw your first card.

Ten of Swords.

Well, that card ain’t exactly subtle, is it? It portrays a body lying face down with ten blades driven into his back, like Brutus himself got carried away with stabbing Caesar during the Ides of March. Whoever murdered this poor fella wanted to ensure he stayed down. Decapitating someone would probably do the trick. The card doesn’t mean just death – it stands for betrayal.

The next card that comes up then is Justice. 

And that? Franky, it almost makes you laugh at this point. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s freaking ironic in a way that feels borderline offensive. Justice upright is supposed to mean fairness, balance, and truth being upheld. All great things, right?

Except, historically, it usually just means someone decided they were right. Doesn’t mean they really were, though. It more likely describes a mob of people with their pitchforks raised high, reflecting your own hometown’s dark history. 

The last card is the Five of Swords, which causes you to tilt your head slightly, studying the smug little asshole on it who’s clutching his stolen victory. This dude’s seriously the worst. The card means he only won by being the most ruthless person in the room. There’s no honor or fairness, just cold outcome. 

You lean back against the headboard, eyes fixing on the pattern splayed out in front of you. 

Betrayed by his own. Judged publicly. And whoever did it walked away convinced they were justified.

The door opens before you can ruminate in it any longer.

Dean strolls in like he just ran a routine errand instead of relocating a cursed murder weapon, brushing his hands together as if that somehow closes the chapter. But you notice his shoulders are a little too stiff, his movements a little too controlled, and the petunia-purple rope is still wrapped around his neck, the noose tightening. 

“Alright,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Sword’s hidden. No more public decapitations for the day.”

Sam slowly looks up from the catalogue. “You feel anything yet? Hear anything?”

Dean casually shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Nope. No whispers, no ghost horses, no sudden urge to, I don’t know, lose my head. Maybe I got lucky.”

Man, you almost admire that confidence.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re still very much cursed,” you tell him with an amused smile.

He raises a brow and gestures at his neck. “Still got that purple rope thingy, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Great,” he sighs and rolls his eyes. 

Sam exhales a long breath as well, sliding one of the binders toward him. “Then we don’t have time to waste. Start flipping. We need to find out who that sword belonged to. Unless you wanna lose your head in the next few hours.”

Dean shoots him a boyish grin. “Could turn my melon into a pumpkin just in time for your favorite holiday, man.”

“Dean–” Sam doesn’t finish, just cuts the sentence off, and shoves the binder an inch closer. 

Dean gapes at it, clearly seeing it for the plight that it is. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Dean doesn’t respond to that and simply drags himself over to the couch with a resigned sigh, flopping down and opening the binder with all the enthusiasm of someone being punished for a crime they didn’t commit. The pages flip lazily, and it’s honestly more irritating noise than actual progress, while Sam seems as studious and dedicated as ever. 

They couldn’t be more different, could they? 

And you? Well, you still feel the weight of the cards in your hands and decide it’s the perfect opportunity to do a little bonus reading since both brothers are in the room, distracted, and somewhat sitting still. Auras and glimpses of their personalities aside, there’s still a lot you don’t know about them. It’s time to let the cards do their magic. 

You reshuffle and let your attention drift toward Sam. You quietly draw three cards, laying them out where only you can see, hiding them a little behind a bump in the covers – just in case. You’ve already noticed Dean discreetly sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye. 

Sam’s first card? The Magician. 

This little wizard is basically ambition incarnated. It’s raw capability, focus, and willpower. It’s precision and skill. Sam’s always ten steps ahead, already building something in his head while everyone else is still trying to understand the problem. It sounds impressive, but you honestly find it a little more terrifying. Because if intellect is paired with intent, it’s always a slightly concerning combination. 

It means Sam doesn’t just know things – he uses them. Plenty of people are smart, but fewer people are actually strategic about it. And even fewer are willing to push that strategy as far as it’ll go. It’s learned, sharpened, and probably comes at the expense of something softer.

You’re kind of worried now you might be that soft thing. 

You chew on your lip and glance at the next card, tilting your head a little because it’s suspiciously contrasting to the first one. 

The Ace of Cups.

God, that is almost wholesome. It stands for pure emotion. It’s empathy and compassion – the ability to care deeply and fucking mean it. 

You steal a glimpse at him and know it’s there – under the logic, under the research mode, and under the calm voice. You’ve seen it with your own eyes in the way he talks, the way he listens, and the way he looks at people like they’re worth understanding instead of just solving.

But at the last card, you don’t even try to hide your grimace this time. Jesus fucking Antichrist…

The Devil.

Welp, you almost feel reaffirmed in your initial read of him. Balance is restored. You’re back in familiar territory again. 

Because The Devil? Needless to say, this guy doesn’t do subtlety well either. Doesn’t even pretend to. Obsession and addiction spring to mind. It’s essentially being chained to something you know isn’t good for you, but you still can’t let it go. 

Yeah, that tracks…

So what’s got its claws in Sam? Is it purpose? Revenge? Control? Maybe it’s all of the above. 

The Magician builds. The Ace of Cups cares. The Devil clings. And that? That’s a dangerous fucking combination. 

Whatever he’s chasing, he’s not walking away from it. Not halfway. Not even when it starts costing him more than he can goddamn afford. 

Sam’s the kind of guy who would sacrifice himself, who would justify anything if it gets him where he needs to go. Or worse – he decides it’s worth sacrificing someone else. 

God, you hope that someone isn’t you, remembering Dean’s words of warning at the lab. 

Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.

He’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.

Oh, you definitely can’t trust Sam with your life, can you? He’d sell you to the highest bidder in a heartbeat if it gets him the prize he wants. 

Now, you’re honestly curious about Dean’s cards. If they’re as bad as his little brother’s, you’re surely bolting out of that gothic hellhole and slamming the door firmly shut behind you. 

You shuffle the cards again and pull your next set. And man, Dean’s first card? It actually makes you snort out loud, earning you a curious little glimpse from the hunter himself. 

God, it’s so painfully obvious. Could you be more on the nose?

The Emperor.

Sounds mighty, fearsome, maybe even a little ominous, right? But the translation? This guy’s all about authoritative control. 

Dean takes charge whether anyone asked him to or not. There’s a rigidity to him – a need to keep things contained, predictable, handled. Not because he necessarily enjoys control, but because he doesn’t trust anything else to actually hold. He’s the man who builds himself into a wall and then wonders why everything hurts when it inevitably cracks. 

It means he’s protective as well, but not particularly in a soft and gentle way. More like “stand behind me or get the hell out of the way.”

My way or the highway…

Dean’s solid, grounded in way that feels almost immovable. In other words, he’s the boulder Sisyphus tried to roll up a hill. He doesn’t bend; he holds (and probably breaks before ever admitting he’s wrong).

As you flip the next card, however, you stump a little. It’s a real wildcard. You certainly didn’t expect that one to show up for him.

King of Cups.

You almost snort again, because it essentially stands for emotional stability. And what you’ve seen so far from Dean? Yeah, he definitely ain’t stable. He honestly seems to have the emotional regulation of a lit match in a fireworks factory. 

To be fair, though, it’s a little about control as well, so you could possibly see that for him. It’s usually about people who feel everything but keep it all contained and locked up tight. It’s not about what’s visible on the outside. It’s about what’s underneath the surface. 

Dean may not talk about his feelings, but they still drive everything he does. He keeps it together so others don’t have to.

Basically, it’s the guy who hands you a burger instead of asking if you’re okay.

It means he doesn’t say much when it matters – deflects, jokes, gets sarcastic. But he acts. He protects. He notices things he pretends not to, like whether you’ve eaten, if you’re about to walk into something stupid, if–

…Oh.

Wait… Does he–

Does he actually care about you? Because for a guy who allegedly claims to hate you, he’s been annoyingly attentive today. 

Alright, so he’s not a complete lost cause after all. He’s not emotionally unavailable. He’s just… emotionally constipated. Gotcha.

You honestly still can’t tell if that’s worse or better, though. 

The third card is less funny, however. It’s the Five of Cups. And that one, well… it’s grief. Loss.

If you had to take a wild guess, Dean’s probably fixating on what’s gone instead of what’s still there. The hardest thing about this card?

You can relate to it. 

He’s been carrying all this pain around for so long he actually forgot it wasn’t supposed to be permanent. And it explains a lot about him – the edge, the temper, even the control issues. Dean’s viewpoint of the world is that it already took too much from him, and he’s just waiting to see what it steals next. 

And you can see it, too. There’s something about him that just feels incredibly… heavy. Even his aura sometimes feels suffocating to you. But instead of dealing with his losses, he just keeps moving, keeps going, keeps doing because stopping would mean he actually has to feel it.

That’s why he’s so restless and can’t exist in stillness. If he never has to slow down, he doesn’t have to sit with what’s missing. 

You glance down at the three cards once more, all laid out beside each other, and then spread them out a little more evenly on the mattress as if the spacing will help make them more sense.

The Emperor holds the line. The King of Cups buries the storm. The Five of Cups never forgets what it lost. 

The picture of him becomes sharper, but it doesn’t match the one you had in your head before. He’s more than the asshole you think he is, isn’t he? Still bossy, but also sad. It’s… layered bossy. 

His ribcage isn’t an empty husk full of spiderwebs. There’s feeling there. A lot of it, actually. He just keeps it on a leash so short it’s practically choking him. He turned his loss into rules, into walls, and into don’t touch that, don’t trust that, don’t get close to that.

Because last time? It cost him something he couldn’t get back.

So yeah, he’s controlling, he’s stubborn, and he’s got about five damn emotional defense mechanisms layered on top of each other. But it’s not because he doesn’t feel. It’s because he feels too goddamn much, and if he ever actually lets it slip, there’s a real chance it’ll wreck him.

Yeah, Dean not just simply being an asshole but actually being a super sad asshole honestly takes all the joy out of you. How are you supposed to tease him now, let alone hate him with an unmatched passion?

You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck. 

Well, that was an enlightening reading…

Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”

“Working,” you reply quickly. 

“Looks like scrapbooking.”

“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”

“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck. But then, another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress. 

Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore. 

You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply. 

The Lovers.

For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–

No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.

Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?

Really?!

The Lovers doesn’t implicate romance alone. It doesn’t foreshadow steamy one-night stands or casual hook-ups. It’s about choice. Connection. Alignment. It’s about a bond that actually matters – that means something. It’s the “this will ruin your life in a meaningful way” card. Emotional, physical, spiritual – take your pick because this one covers all bases. 

And honestly, all those things would be fine. Who doesn’t want to meet their soulmate? But in this particular case, it feels more like the damn card strolled into the room, pointed at the green-eyed hunter, and went that one. 

This is clearly a mistake. A glitch. It’s just statistically improbable nonsense. Either the cards are broken, or the universe (or whatever cosmic entity is apparently in charge of your tarot deck) has a dark sense of humor. 

Because, seriously, out of everyone in this room, it picked him?! The guy who’s been antagonizing you since day one. The guy who thought you were dangerous enough to kill not that long ago. The guy who still looks at you like you’re one wrong move away from proving him goddamn right about everything. And the deck goes, Yes, that one? 

You barely tolerate each other half the time, and Dean still flinches every time you do anything even remotely magical. 

This is crazy. It’s an anomaly. 

Just as you chalk it off to the universe playing a cruel prank on you and move to put the card quickly back into its deck, yet another one slips and fall right on top of the other, like it’s doubling down on the unfathomable audacity.

Ten of Cups.

Well, now this thing’s just being offensive. You honestly don’t know if you should laugh, scream, or cry. 

Because this card? It stands for happiness, fulfillment, stability, and belonging. It’s basically the happily ever after starter pack. The whole “ride off into the sunset and build a life that doesn’t implode every five minutes” fantasy. It’s not fleeting or surface-level. This one’s lasting. 

It’s the kind of apple-pie life people dream about but rarely ever get. The kind that looks steady, warm, and full. The kind that obviously doesn’t fit anywhere near your current situation.

You stare at both cards for a long time, your jaw feeling a little too loose, your mind chewing on their meaning. 

Connection leading to domestic bliss and long-term happiness. Love leading to a… home.

With him.

Yeah, nope, you’re not doing that. You’re not even entertaining this for a second longer. Dean hates you, and you’re for sure as hell not lining up to prove him wrong on that front either. The tarot is simply wrong. It happens. That’s it. 

You grimace as you quickly snatch the cards and shove them back into your deck before either brother can catch you, even though there’s no way they would even know what you were doing here. This whole thing is completely absurd. 

In your periphery, you catch Dean stealing glimpses again, still tracking your reactions. When you glance up and meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away this time, though. 

“What now?” Dean asks rather gruffly, brow woven into intense knits.

You quickly avert your eyes and shake your head, giving him a subtle shrug. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“It was nothing,” you brush off and scratch your collarbone where the strap of your tank top cuts slightly into the skin. 

God, it’s downright sweltering in here and almost resembling a tropical rainforest. The B&B’s old bones do nothing to keep the summer heat outside. 

But then, you catch another pair of eyes on you this time in your periphery and look over to find the younger Winchester staring at you. But his gaze isn’t fixed on your face.

Wait… Is he staring at your tits?

“Uhm, Sam…” You clear your throat subtly. “Why are you staring at my cleavage?”

Sam’s head snaps up in an instant, hazel eyes wide and full of flustered panic. “I–”

“Dude,” Dean cuts in scoldingly before his little brother even has a chance to find an excuse. You’re surprised at his reaction for all of five seconds before he opens his mouth again. “What are you doing? What’d I tell you when you turned fourteen, huh? Corner of your eye, man. Never directly. And no longer than three seconds max.”

You frown slightly at that response. “Well, that’s just problematic in a different way now.”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times, scrambling for words. “No, I–… I wasn’t–…”

Both you and Dean stare at him now, patiently waiting for an explanation. 

Sam takes a deep breath and starts anew. “I wasn’t looking at… you know,” he elaborates with a swallow. “I was just–… The birthmark on your collarbone. It’s your family rune, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” You flinch unnoticeably, your hand automatically covering the spot, feeling a little exposed, especially since Dean decided to peek as well now. “Yeah, it is. Everyone in my family had it.”

“Like the legend,” Sam mutters, more to himself than you, as if he just realized something. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. You kind of feel like evidence under a microscope with both their eyes fixed on you now. 

Luckily, a sharp look from Dean that unmistakably says drop it keeps his little brother from asking whatever questions wanted to spill out next. You’re sort of grateful for that. 

Sam then decides to let it go and switch lanes. “So, uh, you find anything useful yet?”

God, you latch onto that distraction in a damn heartbeat, shifting gears without a single drop of hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you say, swiftly storing the tarot deck back into your bag. “Our guy was betrayed. Accused, judged. Probably publicly.”

Sam’s interest sharpens slightly, musing. “Scapegoat.”

“Yup, would be my guess.”

“So we’re dealing with a vengeful spirit tied to an object,” he deduces. 

Dean warily watches you for another beat, seemingly trying to catch whatever you just buried. But luckily, he huffs a breath a second later and focuses back on the binder in his lap. 

“Great,” he mutters dryly. “Love a revenge arc.”

You don’t respond, you don’t look at the cards again either, and you definitely pretend they don’t mean anything at all – zero, zip, zilch, nada. 

You wanted to get a new deck soon anyways. This one’s system is clearly breaking down. 

After hours of wading through those binders and staring at that eyesore of chicken-scratch handwriting, trying to decipher just a syllable of it, the three of you finally called it a night after Dean kept complaining about his eyes burning. Sam then figured it was safe enough for now, considering Dean still hadn’t heard any horses yet. 

He used to like horses. Now? Not so much.

His eyes closed easily that night, considering he was cursed and all, but he was beat after trying to hide a damn sword in the woods behind the museum. He even tried to salt and burn the thing, melt it down to a little clump of metal, but it wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t dent, wouldn’t even fucking scratch. 

But Dean already regrets taking those forty peaceful winks when he finds himself back in familiar territory. Or should he say unfamiliar because he certainly knows it never actually happened and he’s never been to that place before?

Yeah, he’s back in unfamiliar territory. However, the milky, coral filter is still the same. 

Coral, he scoffs and rolls his eyes at his own thoughts. Jesus Christ, you’re starting to rub off on him with that stupid color coding system of yours. Before you, the only color he knew was orange and the only thing he associated with something like coral were damn rocks in the ocean. 

Wait… are corals rocks? Sam would probably know that. 

This time, though, Dean’s not down by the pond anymore. Instead, he feels the tall grass brush his legs as he trudges back up the hill. Soon enough, the house comes into view, and for a while, he thinks about going inside and pretending today never happened. Pretending he didn’t say what he said. Pretending you didn’t look at him the way you did. 

That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?

But there’s a twinge in his ribcage that won’t let go. It’s squeezing something inside of him to a painful degree and keeps him tethered to the spot, forcing his eyes to drift around the endless field of greenery and look. 

Look for you. 

Even with everything that happened, with all the words he said that he shouldn’t have said, deep down, he knows you wouldn’t wander too far. You wouldn’t leave him. At least, not really.

Right?

But maybe he took it too far this time, said something he can’t erase or even fix, and the pang in his chest grows in intensity till he spots a small movement to his right, where the grass grows even taller and wilder, untamed by footsteps and paths. 

And there you are – off to the side, a little ways from the house, under the willow tree. 

The long branches hang lowly, swaying gently in the evening breeze, curtains of deep green that catch the sunlight and turn it molten at the edges. You’re sitting beneath it, half-hidden in the shade, knees drawn in and arms wrapped around them. You’ve folded into yourself like you’re trying to take up less space than you normally do.

The wind puffs, the branches flutter, and the warm and golden sunlight glistens through the leaves, but you don’t. You’re stillness personified. 

Too still. 

Dean doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like knowing, without even seeing your face, that you’re upset. Because of him. 

You’re upset because of him. 

He slows on instinct, almost bracing himself for whatever is waiting for him under that tree, but the annoying thing in his chest pulls tighter with every step he doesn’t take. 

So, the grass parts under his sneakers as he makes his way toward you. He’s careful and slow about it, though, some might almost call it tentative, but he doesn’t want to spook you. He doesn’t want you to run from him again before he has a chance to say something. 

The branches of the willow sway and brush against his shoulders as he ducks under the tree. The air is cooler in the shade, keeping the summer heat successfully locked out. He knows it’s one of your favorite spots around here. The first one, however, is the waterfall in the woods, but it’s past the fence line, and you’re not allowed to wander out there after dark, so you probably figured the willow would make a decent enough place to drown in your sorrow. 

You don’t react when he approaches. There’s not a blink or flinch in sight. You don’t even bother looking up to see who came to disturb your peace as if you already know it’s him and deemed his presence not worthy of your time. 

He purses his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets, not really knowing what else to do with them. His shoulders are damn tight like he’s got rocks under his skin, and his throat suddenly feels unnaturally dry like he swallowed several cotton balls dunked in desert sand. 

He clears the arid lump, but you still don’t even twitch a single muscle. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, not daring to speak at a louder volume than that, but now he’s almost afraid you didn’t hear it, the tree swallowing the sound before it even reached you. 

You still don’t glance up. You don’t answer either. All you do is stare at that patch of grass in front of you. Your whole posture is closed off. 

Dean’s never seen you like this before. It scares him. What if you can’t forgive him and go back to the way the two of you used to be before all of this? What if he doesn’t get his friend back?

Because, aside from Sammy, you’re the only friend he’s ever had, which makes you also the only one who truly counts. Sam loves him because his little brother really doesn’t have another choice. They’re family. It’s different. 

But you? You don’t love him because you have to. No one’s making you. It’s not some universal rule you have to follow. No, you love him because you choose to. Because you always just did. 

And Dean, well, he… cares about you, too. Although, he wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud.

He shuffles uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze flicking away for a second before fixing back on you with quite an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Hey,” he repeats, swallowing once more because the lump still won’t go anywhere. “I didn’t mean that.”

The words feel clumsy again the second they leave his mouth. He knows they’re not enough.

“You said it,” you say, voice clear but flat. The sweetness that usually laces it is gone. Now it sounds like it’s so tight and thin underneath that it could snap if you’re pushed the wrong way. 

Dean winces, rubbing the back of his neck before his hand drops to his side again. The guilt sinks deeper into his gut and becomes sharper, like tiny little daggers ready to cut him open from the inside out.

“Yeah, well…” he mutters, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt as he tentatively steps a little closer. “I was being an idiot, okay?”

He shilly-shallies for a second before sitting down. He’s not entirely sure anymore if he’s still allowed to, but before he can overthink it, he lowers himself on the ground beside you, the grass bending under his weight. He picks a spot not too close, but not too far either. It’s still close enough that his shoulder could almost touch yours. 

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly but doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes trained on the same patch of grass as you. 

You don’t glance at him right away, either. The silence lasts long enough to make him wonder if he should say something else, if he should try harder, if he already screwed this up beyond fixing.

“Then why are you acting like you do?”

The question hits deeply, but it’s not spoken harshly. There’s no accusation detectable in your tone. There’s only confusion, as if you’re trying to make sense of something that doesn’t add up.

Dean lets out a long breath, his gaze dropping to the grass between his hands. His fingers fiddle without thinking, brushing over the blades, bending them, letting them slip back into place.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually.

It might not be a satisfying answer, but it’s the truth. It’s the best he’s got, but it still doesn’t feel enough. Nothing he does is ever enough.

“It’s just… different now.” He shrugs his shoulders a little, hoping that at least explains something, but he knows it won’t truly fill in the gaps he can’t put into words.

He’s about to give up and leave you alone when you finally turn your head and look straight at him. 

And geez, it’s so much worse than when you were ignoring him. 

The weight of your gaze feels heavy, your eyes guarded and yet searching, careful and still a little hurt. That thing behind his ribs twinges again. He glances at you, then away, then back again because holding your gaze for too long might force him to say something he doesn’t know how to say.

At least not at twelve. 

“You just… freaked me out a little, okay?” he adds, the words certainly awkward but still honest. “I’m–… I’m sorry. But you’re still… you, you know? You’re still my friend.”

And that’s also the part he’s holding onto – the only part that makes any of this worth fixing it. You’re his friend because you’re so uniquely you and no one else.

You study him, even squinting your eyes slightly like the sunshine could warm him. You’re seemingly trying to decide if he truly means it – if it is sincere or just another thing he’ll take back later.

“Okay,” you say suddenly, the word barely reaching his ears because it sounds so small and careful. 

He wouldn’t exactly call it forgiveness, but it’s not downright rejection either, right? He might even call it a win because he’s winning you back – at least back enough to give him another shot towards full redemption. 

And that? Man, that finally eases that uncomfortable throb in his chest, and he can breathe better again. 

Dean nods to himself, remotely acknowledging something he doesn’t fully understand. Relief rushes through his veins, but he doesn’t quite trust the peace yet.

“So…” he starts with another clear of his throat that finally rids it of the nasty lump stuck in it. He shoots you a careful sideways glance. “What can you do now?”

The change in you is almost instant. You’re not quite fully back to your old self yet, but he can feel the familiar excitement vibrating in your blood again. Your shoulders lift, and your posture loosens. It feels like you’re cautiously unfurling again. 

“I can show you,” you say, but there’s still hesitation in your voice. “If you want to…”

He gives you a tiny but encouraging nod and watches the smile rise on your lips again. He missed that smile. He’s glad it’s back. 

You then straighten your spine a little and rest your hands in your lap, your eyes fluttering softly shut.

And Dean? He can’t take his eyes off you.

He takes in the way your lashes brush against your cheeks, the way the caramel-syrupy sunlight weaves through the willow branches and catches in your hair, and the way you go still like you’re listening to something he can’t hear.

For a moment, nothing happens.

All he hears is the wind through the breeze and the crickets in the grass and the sound of your calm breathing.

But then, slowly and bit by bit, something pushes through the weeds near your knee. A tiny blossom, lilac and soft, unfurls in front of his eyes. 

And it doesn’t stop there. 

The lonely blossom is soon joined by others, spreading over the field, a sea of flowers suddenly blooming around him and painting what once was a clover-green canvas with more colors than he’s ever seen before in his entire life. 

There are bright yellows, deep reds, mesmerizing blues, soft pinks, and about eight different shades of violet. There are too many to count them all. The earth came alive right in front of his eyes, and it feels natural and impossible all at once.

Dean leans forward, his eyes spellbound by everything they see, tracking the way the blossoms sway and the wind now carries a sweet floral scent.

“Okay,” he says after a heartbeat, aiming for casual but missing it by a mile. “That’s pretty… cool.”

You open your eyes, and there’s the smile again. Brighter than before, softer too, and it’s more beautiful than the plethora of flowers in front of him. Nothing could beat that smile. 

His gaze drops to the ground, catching on one of the flowers near his hand. It’s a daisy. 

Simple. Pretty. White petals, yellow center. He reaches for it, plucking it carefully, turning it between his fingers for a moment as his mind’s trying to figure something out.

Then he looks back at you, and you’re watching him now, a curious and yet uncertain gleam in your eyes. And then he just goes for it and leans in, tucking the daisy into your hair just above your ear.

You wrinkle your nose like it tickled, giggling a little. “Daisies are the most boring flowers.”

Dean scoffs a soft laugh. “No, they’re not.”

“Yeah, they are.”

He shakes his head, his gaze staying on you.

“No,” he says quietly. “They’re the prettiest…” He pauses and bites the inside of his cheek before the next words slip out. “You know… like you.”

You bite the smile on your lip and shyly avert your eyes, a blush creeping to your cheeks. 

And Dean feels it again – that warmth behind his ribs, spreading outward and turning the brightness up on the rest of the world. It feels steady and easy. 

It feels good.

For a long moment, everything feels like it’s supposed to again. Just you and him, sitting side by side in the honey-warm sunlight. 

But the peace is only ephemeral. There’s suddenly a sound that doesn’t belong to this place – to this dream world.

Hooves.

It sounds distant and hollow and ultimately wrong. 

Dean’s head cocks a little, brow furrowing as he looks out past the slope of the hill, toward the tree line where the light begins to thin.

“You hear that?” he asks without glancing at you, his gaze still trained on the invisible danger past the horizon.

But the second the words exit his mouth, the sound of them leave him bewildered. They come out too deeply and roughly. It’s not a child’s voice anymore.

It’s his – fully grown and perfectly raspy. 

Confused, his gaze drops down to his hands, and they’re larger, broader, and calloused now in ways they weren’t a second ago. His sneakers are replaced by boots, the grass stains on denim gone from his knees. 

Dean straightens abruptly and flexes his fingers a few times, as if that could possibly reset something. But it doesn’t work. The weight of himself feels older and heavier now.

“What the–”

His head then finally snaps to you. And you–

You’re not seven anymore, either.

You’re sitting exactly where you were, in the same patch of grass beneath the willow, but you’ve changed, too. Grown into yourself in an instant. Twenty-two. The softness is still there, but it’s shaped differently now. 

You’re wearing a bright yellow summer dress now instead of your short denim overalls, the fabric thin and airy and sun-washed, catching the breeze as it moves around you. Your hair falls longer now as well, loose and slightly tangled from the wind.

And for a heartbeat, Dean forgets everything else around him, including the strange noises.

His gaze fixes on the way the hem of your dress brushes the weeds, the way the sunlight illuminates your skin, and the way you look… older – not just in years, but in presence.

Shit.

Okay. Yeah, no. That’s new.

His brain scrambles for footing, trying to reorient, to file this under something that makes sense, but it doesn’t quite get there before his thoughts take a sharp, unhelpful left turn.

His eyes flicker to your lips, soft and plush and inviting. There’s suddenly a strange urge there to do something about it – like connecting his own to yours. He wants to know what they taste like, if they’re as sweet and warm as your voice. 

What the hell kind of dream is this…

The thought dies instantly, however, when the sound of hooves reverberates through the air again, coming closer and closer. 

The sunlight then morphs from amber and gold to blue and gray, the wind picks up on speed like a storm brewing, and the air feels a lot colder and more brittle now. 

The warmth is gone.

Dean’s posture changes instantly, every muscle in his body tensing with instinct. His gaze snaps toward the hill again, scanning and calculating, something old and ingrained rising to the surface before he can even think it through.

This isn’t right. This isn’t just a dream, is it?

You shift beside him, your brows meeting in the middle as you glance at him and then out toward the same direction. “Dean? What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer, though. His jaw locks, pulse thundering in his ears, adrenaline flooding his blood as the realization dawns on him with a terrifying clarity.

The hooves strike once more, and everything drops away around him in the blink of an eye.

Dean jolts awake on the couch, like he’s been yanked back into his body by God himself.

The change in the air feels violent.  

He feels slightly disoriented as he blinks his eyes awake, the golden dreamscape he found himself in a minute ago suddenly replaced by the dusty and gothic interior of a New England bed and breakfast. 

But the sound? Oh, that followed him all the way to reality. 

The hooves and something that sounds suspiciously like clattering metal are still there, and it’s definitely not in his head. It’s goddamn real. 

Dean’s breathing comes out harshly as he pushes himself upright on the couch, eyes darting to the window, already expecting to see a horse with a headless rider out there in the dark. His heart is racing a mile a minute, the adrenaline spiking.

“Sam?” he calls and runs a hand through his messy locks. “Hey–… Sam? Guys? Wake up.”

The sheets on both beds begin to rustle and move. 

Sam’s up first, already halfway out of bed before he’s even fully conscious, hearing the urgency (and slight panic) in his brother’s tone. “Dean? What? What’s wrong?”

You, on the other hand, are slower only by half a second, sitting up with the softest groan Dean’s ever heard someone utter. Your hair is a bit mussed, falling into your face as one of those oversized sleep shirts slips off one shoulder. 

It’s distracting enough to be inconvenient right now.

Because your hair falls over that same shoulder, so he can’t really tell if there’s a bra strap underneath it or not. The not is what concerns him the most, though. You certainly weren’t wearing one under that yellow sundress in his dream.

Man, his brain has excellent timing, doesn’t it?

Get it together.

He drags his focus back where it belongs, and his jaw clenches tightly upon the next wave of sounds. “You guys hear that?”

The room stills, as do you and Sam, trying to listen, eyes narrowing slightly. Dean hears it again, but he already sees how both you and his little brother begin to slowly shake your heads. 

“I don’t hear anything,” you confirm Dean’s worst suspicions that this thing’s only coming for him. 

Sam’s head bobs in recognition. “Guess that means it’s starting.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean scoffs and jumps on his feet, overtaken by a burst of restless energy he’s familiar with during hunts, his body entering into fight or flight mode. “Think he’s close, guys. Any ideas would be greatly appreciated now.”

You push yourself out of bed as well, the last traces of sleep burning off fast as your gaze lands on Dean. He feels like he’s going crazy because he could swear there’s even a trace of concern gleaming in your eyes. 

“Your aura’s tighter. Something’s pulling at it,” you note.

Dean scowls. “Thanks for the visual.”

“We need to find out who that sword belonged to as fast as possible before it takes Dean’s head,” Sam says and already grabs one of the binders again, hands flipping pages at record speed. 

“How?” you ask, your voice slightly rising as the panic rises with it. “Look at those things, Sam! There’s no way we’re gonna find the right page in time.”

“Love the enthusiasm,” Dean mutters, earning him a dry look from you. Then he purses his lips, however, and God, he already hates saying it. “But she’s right, Sammy. We don’t exactly have time for a full-on research montage right now.”

“I know that, Dean,” Sam huffs. “But what do you suggest, huh? The only way to end this is finding out who or what we’re dealing with. You already tried salting and burning the sword, and it didn’t work, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be something else. Think, man! C’mon, you’re the brains, and I’m the brawn. Just do what you do best!”

“Like, what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Guys!” You suddenly cut into their argument, forcing the brothers to focus on you instead. “I think I’ve got it!”

You don’t elaborate on what exactly you’ve got, though, which slightly tests Dean’s patience. He hates when Sam does that shit, too. Is it too much to ask for people to finish a damn thought around here?

Before he can question it, however, he watches you rush to your bag and hurriedly rummage through it till you pull out your little notebook. 

He arches an eyebrow at you, skeptical as ever. “What, you’re gonna write another spell?”

It’s honestly not the worst idea, but he can’t give you the satisfaction of knowing that. God knows one little spell only leads to more. 

“Actually, I don’t have to,” you say, hastily flipping pages back and forth as if you were looking for something specific. The notebook is an explosion of color, inked in different shades as glitter catches the dim light in the room. 

“You wrote something?” Sam asks.

“In college,” you reply with a quick nod, eyes scanning and skimming, fingers flipping even faster. “I used to hate digging through library archives, so I made a spell that pulls the exact information I’m looking for from a text. It’s kind of like a magical Ctrl+F.”

Why is Dean not even a little bit surprised? Of course you would do something like that.

Your fingers then stop their movements abruptly, eyes lighting up. “Found it.”

The ink is a brightly glistening sunny yellow. The color almost feels obnoxiously cheerful for a possible decapitation by a headless dude on a horse at three in the morning.

Dean’s brow raises as he nods to the page. “What’s yellow stand for?”

“Academic magic,” you mutter without glancing up.

Dean doesn’t say anything more to that. He just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, shifting his weight slightly as he watches you spread all eight binders evenly on the small table. That uncomfortable and familiar feeling creeps back into his veins at the thought of your magic, but he knows this might be the only thing keeping his head attached to his body right now. It still doesn’t sit right with him, though. 

You murmur the words under your breath, and the effect is practically immediate this time. The third binder on the left jerks open with a loud thud before pages start flipping on their own with the force of a hurricane blowing through them. Then it abruptly stops on a page, and a section of it begins to glow like yellow sunshine. 

Sam leans in over the open binder, checks the marked section, and a smile begins to rise. “That’s it. Elias Whittaker. Says here he was a Union soldier in the Civil War.”

“Great.” You exhale a relieved breath and smile as well. 

Dean’s jaw, though, tightens the slightest bit before he pushes it down. Why does every win of yours bother him so much? He should be glad they found what they were looking for. He should be glad they can save him now. But instead, what he feels almost comes close to dread. 

Sam rips the page out of the binder and grabs his jacket. “We should take this to the library. Cross-reference, get everything we can on him. Maybe we find his burial site.” 

Dean grimaces at the idea. “Yeah, you have fun with that.” He grabs his keys, heading for the door. “I’m getting the sword back. If that dude’s coming for me, it’s probably best if he isn’t fully armed. Maybe we can stall him that way.”

Sam gives him a quick nod. “Good idea.” Then his gaze shifts to you. “You go with him.”

Both yours and Dean’s heads snap toward his little brother with raised brows and wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean checks and sees you make a face in his periphery as well. 

You wrinkle your nose as you look at Sam. “Do I have to?”

Dean turns his head sharply at that, his skin prickling. “Wow. Good to know where I rank,” he scoffs.

You shoot him a look. “You’re being hunted by a headless ghost with a sword. Forgive me for not volunteering enthusiastically.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled you’re so concerned about me, Sabrina,” he fires back dryly. “Relax. It’s not a date.”  

“Could’ve fooled me with how happy you sound,” you mutter. 

Dean’s mouth is already opening with a comeback before Sam cuts in, stopping this little argument from spiraling any further. 

Sam looks at you with his best puppy eyes again. “Look, you’re the only one who might be able to slow this thing down if it shows up.” 

“With what?” you shoot back. “Strongly worded encouragement? It’s a ghost. I don’t exactly have a game plan or a spell lying around for that.”

Sam just offers you a shrug. “You’re smart. You’ll figure something out. Improvise.”

“Improvise?!” You gape at his little brother before your eyes snap to Dean. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah, he is. He does that sometimes,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck.

“Haven’t gotten you killed so far, though,” Sam quips.

“Last time, you almost let me get run over by a ghost truck on a hunch, man.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You let out a deep groan as you grab your jacket and bag. “I’d just like to officially put it on record that this is a terrible, terrible idea.”

“Yeah, most of ours are, actually. You’ll get used to it.” Dean grins, holding the door open for you. 

“Awesome. Good to know.”

The moon hangs lowly just above the horizon, where the night’s indigo blue is slowly bleeding into a dawning gray. Fog curls over the asphalt and catches in Baby’s headlights like a ghostly sheen as the road weaves through the quiet outskirts of town, bordered by dense foliage and ancient trees on each side. 

Dean’s grip on the wheel is steady, although he feels the tension underneath it in his forearms and shoulders. The familiar hum of the engine grounds him, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of hooves in the back of his skull entirely. 

Oh, this thing’s coming for him, alright. 

He exhales slowly through his nose and rolls one shoulder, even trying to physically shake the sound loose. It doesn’t help, though. 

Next to him, you’re folded slightly into your seat, your notebook open across your lap. The dim glow from the dashboard spills over the page, catching on streaks of glitter ink that shimmer every time your pen moves. You keep tapping it against the margin in an uneven rhythm, faster when you’re thinking harder and slower when you hit a wall. But the sound at least soothes him a little. 

Your hair is still carrying a hint of sleep in it, loose and a little unruly, falling around your face in soft waves. Your brow is furrowed, lips pressed together, gaze seemingly fixed on something only you can see. There’s something about the way you look right now – barefaced, focused, completely absorbed – that feels disarmingly normal.

Dean clears his throat, shooting you a sideways glance. “You planning my funeral over there, or…?”

You snort a quiet laugh but don’t answer him right away, still staring at the page like it might rearrange itself into something useful. “Thinking,” you say after a beat, voice still rough with leftover sleep. “About spells.”

That pulls a small huff out of him, though it lacks its usual edge. “Yeah? That supposed to make me feel better?”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes swerving to him. “Depends,” you say, tapping the pen once more. “How open are you to being a magical test subject? I’m trying to figure out if there’s something I can do to keep it away from you. I just don’t know how ghosts respond to most of what I can do, though.”

Dean lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking his head as he looks back at the road. “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and veto that,” he says. “No offense, but I’d rather not be your guinea pig for experimental witchcraft at five in the morning.”

He mostly means it as a joke, but there’s still that undercurrent, that instinctive recoil he can’t quite scrub out of himself. Years of training don’t just disappear because you’ve got a cute notebook and a nervous habit of tapping your pen.

“Fair enough,” you say and accept his answer with a nod. “Not sure I’d wanna be, either.”

Your gaze drops back to the page for a moment, your pen stilling. 

“It’s just–… I don’t know what to do against something like that,” you admit, dragging the pen absently along the margin. The frustration is clearer now in your voice. “Plants, sure. Spells, fine. But ghosts?” You shake your head, lips pressing together. “That’s not exactly in my wheelhouse. I don’t know what your brother was thinking.”

Dean glances over again, a little slower this time, really looking at you instead of just checking. He takes note of the tension in your shoulders and how your fingers curl a little tighter around the pen as if you’re trying to grip onto a solution that won’t quite stick. The thing that bugs him the most, however, is not that you don’t know what to do, but that you’re downright bothered by not knowing.

Because of him.

Three weeks ago, he had a gun aimed at your head because everything he’d been raised on told him that was the right call – witch, potential threat, end of story. And now you’re sitting next to him in the middle of the night, visibly frustrated that you can’t figure out how to keep him alive.

It’s almost absurd – your concern for him. You should be celebrating right now and not worrying. Most of all, he hates the feeling it causes in his gut. Guilt – real, actual guilt and not the one he’s usually good at shoving aside. You suck for that – for caring. 

He doesn’t say any of that aloud, obviously.

“Hey,” he says but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “It’s fine, alright? I got it.”

You turn your head toward him, brows knitting. “You’ve got it?”

He chuckles lightly at your doubt and jerks his chin toward the backseat. “Shotgun.”

That earns him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and mild concern for his sanity. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Wait…” Your brow creases a little more, probably trying to decide if this is another bit of his or a cry for help. “Do bullets actually hurt ghosts? Kinda defeats the purpose of being dead.”

He snorts and grins a little. “Regular bullets? No. Rock salt? Whole different story.”

You blink. “Rock salt?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you again. “Load it up, it’ll mess ‘em up. Not a permanent solution, but it buys time.”

You stare at him for a second longer, clearly recalibrating your entire understanding of how the world works. “That is… the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He scoffs a chuckle. “And yet, it works.”

An actual laugh slips out of you at that, lifting the tension in the car just a smidge. It’s also apparently enough for you to open a conversation instead of drifting back into silence. 

“So, uhm, Sam told me he went to Stanford until a year ago,” you note, your voice more cautious than before, as if you’re not sure small talk was allowed yet. 

“Yeah, he’s a big nerd. The kid practically lives in libraries,” Dean retorts, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“What about you? Did you go to college?”

He snorts, amused, and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why?”

Dean shoots you a quick glance, then shrugs. “Never was on my radar. Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Your dad didn’t want you to go?”

He barks a laugh at that. If you only knew his father as well as he did, you probably wouldn’t have even asked that question. “You kidding? The old man barely wanted Sammy to go.”

And even that is the understatement of the goddamn century. He still remembers that blow-up fight like it was yesterday.

Your head bobs in thought. “So you’ve always just done… this? Hunting?”

“Yup.”

“You never wanted to do anything else?” 

“Nope.” 

Alright, that might’ve been a lie. There are surely a few things Dean dreamt of doing when he was younger – fireman, mechanic, rock star. But real life got in the way and made that decision for him. Not like anyone ever asked him what he wanted, either. This whole thing was just shoved into his lap, but he never mulled too long over it. 

His gaze then absentmindedly drifts to your lap as you shift the notebook and then stops abruptly. He almost hits the brakes on accident as his eyes land on a small flower peeking out between the pages – white petals and a yellow center. 

A daisy.

His brain pretty much trips over itself like it missed a step. He blinks, looks back to the road, then back at the notebook again, and slowly comes to the realization that he hasn’t imagined it. 

It’s definitely still there and very real. 

And suddenly, his thoughts start stacking on top of each other, his stomach dropping slightly as his dream comes crashing back like a flood. 

There’s no need to panic, though, right? So, what? It’s a flower. People have flowers. Kids press flowers into books all the damn time. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s completely normal. Not to mention that daisies are pretty much the most common flowers out there. 

But what if it’s not just any flower. What if it’s the flower? What if it’s the one he picked for y–

No, stop it!

He cuts his thoughts off. There’s no way this is the flower from his dream because those dreams aren’t real. He never actually picked a daisy for you because he hadn’t even known you existed until three weeks ago. It’s not possible. He probably just saw that flower in your notebook once beforehand, at the B&B or wherever, and his brain latched onto it again for some reason he still can’t understand. 

Nevertheless, Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers as his eyes flick up almost involuntarily to your face and then a little higher to your hair.

To that exact spot just above your ear.

It’s empty, but of course it’s empty now. Why wouldn’t it be?

But then his brain, stupid thing that it is, overlays it with something else. There’s summer sunlight instead of the dashboard glow now, warm gold instead of cold blue, your hair reflecting it like it’s lit from the inside. He sees his own hand moving slowly and carefully in a way that doesn’t match him at all and tucking that same stupid flower into your hair again.

And the feeling that comes with it is worse than panic, fear, or confusion – it’s warmth. Feels like something clicking into place that he didn’t even know was missing.

Which is stupid, needless to say. It’s insane. He’s going crazy and not just due to the dumb horse noises in his head. 

Dean inhales sharply through his nose. Nope. He’s still not doing this. 

It’s still only a dream. That’s it. His brain’s just grabbing random crap and stitching it together into something weirdly sentimental. His mind just simply clocked it, stored it, recycled it. That’s all this is.

That has to be all this is, right? Because the alternative? 

Yeah, no. Hard pass.

He clears his throat, forcing his tone back into something casual as he gestures his chin toward your lap, even though he already hates himself for not resisting harder and prodding further. “What’s that?”

You follow his gaze, blinking once before you realize what he means. Your fingers brush lightly over the page, delicately tracing the stem of the dried flower. Your expression softens into something almost private, like you’re getting lost in your thoughts for a second and forgot he was even still there. 

“Oh, that?” you say and give a shrug, a secret smile beginning to bloom on your lips nonetheless. “It’s just some flower. It’s been there forever. I put it in there as a kid.” You pause for a beat, thumb tracing one of the petals now before you shake your head at yourself, a small huff of amusement leaving you. “I honestly don’t know why I kept it. Daisies aren’t even my favorite. But it’s from home, so…”

“Oh.” Dean nods slowly and swallows, throat so much tighter than it should be for such a simple explanation.

His gaze stays on it for another minute, then drifts back up to your face before he can stop it.

“It’s–, uhm, it’s pretty.”

The words slip out, and his eyes snap to the road, pretending to be oh-so causal about a crazy comment like that, even though he’s cursing himself for ever saying it. 

Why the hell did he, though? What on earth is going on here?

He knew daisies weren’t your favorite because the dream told him, but he couldn’t have known that, right? Is this a coincidence? Just a lucky guess his brain made?

Shit.

You wrinkle your nose slightly and arch a brow, surprised. “You think so?”

Dean shrugs quickly and clears his throat offensively loudly. “Sure, yeah.”

And just like that, the air changes in the car, and there’s a different kind of tension now. 

You shift slightly in your seat, and he adjusts his grip on the wheel, both of you suddenly aware of the other in a way that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Dean exhales more sharply this time and swiftly reaches for the radio. A second later, the car fills with the opening riff of Ramble On. It cuts straight through the awkward silence, through the tension, and through the weird, lingering pull in his ribcage that he refuses to examine too closely.

Ah, that’s better.

He nods once to himself, settling the issue, and fixes his eyes firmly on the road ahead as the music takes over.

Dean’s had worse mornings.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he trudges through damp underbrush at an hour no sane person should be conscious.

Why did he pick this job again? Oh, right. Like he told you, it picked him.  

The sky is still caught somewhere between night and dawn, the gray reaching higher and lighter at the horizon. The woods behind the museum stretch out endlessly through shadows and mist, all of it tinted in that deep, cold blue that makes everything look a little more spooky than it would be during daylight. 

Hell, when he was here during the day, these woods could’ve even been considered beautiful. Like that meadow where Bambi lives. Now it’s a horror movie come to life, though. 

The hooting owls and rustling branches don’t help either. 

Behind him, you carefully step over a large branch, your sneakers crunching on the forest floor. While you haven’t said anything since the car, Dean can still hear the reluctance in each of your steps and the occasional hitch of your breath.

You’re definitely jumpy, but he tries not to let his amusement show, even though it’s ridiculously adorable. 

He steals a glimpse over his shoulder and catches the way your eyes briefly swerve toward a darker stretch of trees to the left, surely expecting something to jump out of there. Your hands tug on the sleeves of your jacket repeatedly, probably trying to calm yourself in some way. 

Dean bites back a smirk. “Wow,” he mutters, pushing a low branch out of his way. “Didn’t peg you for the easily spooked type.”

“I’m not,” you shoot back a little too quickly for his taste.

As you gracefully step over a root, your foot snags on another one hidden beneath the leaves. You fall forward with a quiet “whoa–,” and Dean reacts instinctively and spins just in time to catch you by your arms before you can fully eat dirt. The impact brings you closer than either of you probably intended, your weight tipping into him for the tiniest second before you steady yourself and quickly pull back, but it’s not far enough.

You’re close. Real close. 

He can see the small crease between your brows, the way your lashes soak up what little light there is, and the soft flush in your cheeks. Your face looks… annoyingly good.

A clear of his throat breaks the awkward silence. “You were saying?”

You blink, then straighten quickly, brushing past him like nothing happened. And maybe it didn’t. 

“I said I’m not scared,” you repeat. “It’s just–” you gesture at the trees around you, “–this is not exactly my usual environment.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks and continues his march forward. “What is your usual environment? Labs and scented candles?”

You huff a soft laugh behind him. “For your information, the scariest thing I’ve dealt with before this was a ghost tour in Salem.”

Dean snorts loudly and raises a brow at you over his shoulder. “A ghost tour?”

“Yup. It was at night, alright?” you defend. “And the guide had a lantern and everything. There were sound effects.”

“Wow. Terrifying.”

“There was a reenactment of the witch trials. Very much scary for someone like me,” you add as if that helps your case.

It doesn’t. 

Dean gives a shake of his head, but his lips are twitching around a smile. “Yeah, alright. Remind me to never question your bravery again.”

Another owl then calls somewhere deeper in the woods, and you go just a little too still for a second before forcing yourself to keep walking. Dean notices that too, but something else spreads under the amusement. He knows you’re out of your depth here. This isn’t your world – the dark, the hunt, and all the things that move where and when they shouldn’t.

And yet, you still came along for the ride in an attempt to save his life. He’s at least willing to give you credit for that.

“You’re good,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter than before. “Just… watch your step.”

You meet his eyes, slightly surprised, but then nod once. “Yeah, okay.”

The two of you then fall into a rhythm after that, the banter easing into something more comfortable and less forced. The shed behind the museum where he hid the sword then comes into view through the fog a minute later. It’s pretty rundown and honestly only one strong breeze away from collapsing entirely, but he’d figured that was probably an advantage, meaning no one would snoop around here and accidentally find the cursed blade again. 

Dean stops and scans the area automatically. “This is it.”

“Charming,” you murmur.

He circles around the back, boots sinking slightly into the softer and moss-covered ground, until he spots an old wooden trunk, half-hidden behind tall weeds and debris. He figured the sword would probably be safest in there. But as he crouches and flips the lid open, he stills abruptly. 

Empty.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He probably should’ve expected a wooden box like that wouldn’t keep a ghost out, but he figured at least all the salt he poured into the trunk would’ve helped. 

“What?” you check, stepping closer.

“It’s gone.”

The words barely leave his mouth before a very distinct sound hits him – and it’s not the owls this time. 

Hooves.

Dean’s head snaps up, the noise so much closer now than it was back at the room or even the car, his whole body flying into high alert in an instant. The noise of clinking metal, which surely comes from the missing blade, almost rings like a warning bell.

“Did you hear–”

But Dean doesn’t even get to finish that sentence. He sees your eyes widen to the size of little moons, and the next thing he knows, you’re slamming into him at full speed, hard enough to knock the oxygen right out of his lungs as you tackle him to the ground. The impact of the cold forest floor tears through his bones as your weight lands on top of him before something whooshes through the empty air above where his head used to be only a second ago. 

As his eyes snap upwards, a mighty black stallion rears above the two of you and neighs loudly. Its breath steams in the suddenly freezing air, while its rider is clearly headless. 

Dean doesn’t have too much time, though, to take a longer peek before his gaze flicks to the horseman’s hand and the sharp sword in it. 

“Move!” he barks, adrenaline rushing into his blood as the blade comes down again.

He rolls both of you hard to the side, flipping positions so he’s on top just as the sword buries itself into the dirt only a mere inch away from your shoulder, the ground trembling with the sheer force of the assault.

“Up! Go!” he yells, scrambling to his feet and quickly hauling you up with him as the rider yanks the blade free again.

And then? Well, there’s really only running left. His shotgun flew out of reach and landed somewhere in the bushes when you tackled him, so he really doesn’t see any other immediate options for now.

He grabs hold of your wrist and drags you with him through the woods, branches whipping past the two of you as you both navigate a sea of overgrown roots without stumbling. But Dean doesn’t need to look back to know this thing’s still gaining speed and catching up fast.

“Do something!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do!”

“Then think of something!”

The horse neighs too closely behind him, and Dean turns around just in time to see the rider swing again. He ducks quickly, the blade slicing through the air above him before slamming into a tree trunk with a loud crack. The noise reverberates through the silence as wood splinters and bark goes flying in all directions.

“Ha! Missed!” Dean smirks tauntingly at the rider. He’s not sure the poor fella can even see him, considering the guy’s missing his whole head. “Ain’t that easy to kill me. Gotta have to try harder.”

“Why are you provoking it?!” you rebuke him. 

Dean opens his mouth to retort but stops when the horseman rips the sword free like the damn tree meant nothing.

“Okay, less talking, more magic!” he shouts, retreating until his back hits another tree, nowhere left to go as the rider closes in again.

The sword lifts.

“Right about now would be awesome!” he snaps.

And then, the ground suddenly answers for you.

It starts as a slight tremor beneath his boots, subtle at first but rising fast as the soil cracks open like a fault line during an earthquake. Thick, gnarled, and ancient roots then tear through the earth, snapping upward with violent force.

They lash around the rider’s arm and curl tightly just as the blade begins its descent, jerking it back mid-swing. More roots shoot out of the ground after and wrap around the horse’s legs, locking it in place as it thrashes and screams wildly against its restraints.

And Dean? He kind of just stares for a second in stunned bewilderment, his brow twitching, chest heaving with leftover adrenaline. “Huh.”

You seem just as startled by your own work next to him, blinking down at your hands. “Huh,” you echo breathlessly. “Never done that before. Guess I can improvise.”

Before Dean can answer, however, the horseman and his loyal stallion roar furiously, the roots already starting to crack around their limbs. 

“Yup, great breakthrough,” he quips, already tugging at your sleeve. “We should probably go before this thing tears itself free again.”

“Good idea. He does seem rather angry, although it’s hard to tell without a face,” you say and tilt your head at the rider like you’re trying to analyze him – or maybe read his aura. 

Dean’s not entirely sure, but he doesn’t wait for you to finish your philosophical pondering and grabs your wrist once more, bolting back to the Impala with you in tow. 

Neither of you looks back as the sound of splintering roots echoes through the forest behind you.

When you push through the library doors, you still feel a little winded from all that running and Dean’s rather erratic driving, your hands still trembling from leftover adrenaline or shock. Maybe both. 

And speaking of the green-eyed hunter, he’s right behind you, feeling his labored breaths and the residual warmth of him at your back, which is a little distracting but less than the drumming against the steering wheel and the loud singing in the car. He’s still restless, his aura green but threaded with streaks of red from his survival instincts, pacing like a caged animal that hasn’t realized it’s safe yet. 

Sam looks up from his pile of books and notes the second you approach, seemingly waiting on a spring, judging by how fast he jumps out of his seat. His eyes quickly assess you and his brother from head to toe as if he’s checking for injuries and counting limbs.

“You guys okay?” he asks.

“Define okay,” you reply with a huff, exhaustively dropping into the chair across from him. “Because if the scale includes ‘not currently being hunted by a headless horseman,’ then yeah, we’re doing great.”

Dean exhales a long breath next to you, dragging a hand down his face before dropping into the chair beside you. “Sword’s gone. And the guy attached to it? Very stabby.”

You nod, rubbing your hands together, still feeling the dirt and adrenaline prickling under your skin. “Yeah, he’s fast. And persistent. And apparently not a fan of improvisation via landscaping.”

Sam’s brows crease. “What?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I’ll explain later.”

There’s a flash in Dean’s aura when you say that, the green fringed with something warmer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost claim he seems impressed, but it disappears as fast as it came when Sam braces his elbows on the table, already switching fully into research mode.

“Okay,” he says, flipping his laptop around toward you. “I think I found our guy.”

He taps the screen, and you lean in, eyes scanning the old photograph and text.

“Name’s Elias Whitaker,” Sam continues. “He was a Union soldier and stationed just outside what used to be the original town in 1863. From what I can piece together, he was accused of being a Confederate sympathizer – passing information, sabotaging movements, the whole deal.”

You tilt your head skeptically, thinking back to the cards you drew. “Was he?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope, doesn’t look like it. Records are messy, but there’s a consistent thread. His commanding officer, Captain Harlan Pike, had a pretty good motive. See, Whitaker was engaged, and apparently, Pike had a thing for the fiancée.”

You groan. “‘Course he did.”

“The guy’s name was Harlan? Talk about a villain name,” Dean quips.

“Yup,” Sam agrees. “So get this – he frames Whitaker, stirs up suspicion, and turns the whole town against him. Pike had rank and influence. I mean, back then, that’s basically all it took. No trial, no proof. All he needed was fear and a mob. They dragged Whitaker out to the woods. And according to one account, he swore that he’d come back and kill every man who judged him without cause.”

Dean scoffs under his breath. “Guess he kept his word.”

“They executed him with his own sword and left the blade and the head at the site,” Sam adds. “The body was buried later in the town cemetery because his fiancée insisted on it.”

You lean back in your chair, processing. “So the sword stayed buried with the head?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sam replies. “But a few weeks ago, a local survey crew apparently uncovered the sword in the woods. It got turned over, cleaned up, and was donated to the museum.”

“So that’s when the curse kicked in,” Dean surmises.

Sam nods and then continues, “But there’s something else.”

You look at him. “You found out how the victims are connected?”

“Yup, I think so,” Sam says, his lips twitching slightly, seemingly amused by his findings. “I went back over the victims. Not just cause of death, but who they were. After you guys talked to that witness at the crime scene, I figured it probably had to do with their personalities, tying back to Whitaker somehow.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly, scratching the nape of his neck. “What d’you find?”

“Well, something they all seemed to have in common was being judgmental,” Sam says and gives his brother a tight smile, clearly waiting for Dean to catch on. “The first victim, a guy named Daniel Hodge, got fired last year for repeatedly harassing a coworker. I’m talking HR complaints, sexist remarks, the works. He claimed he was justified.”

You grimace. “Charming.”

“The second victim then was Reverend Collins,” Sam continues. “He ran a small church outside town and preached a lot about purity, damnation… He had a habit of publicly calling people out for ‘sinning.’”

“Yikes.”

“And the third victim was a local business owner, who refused service to… certain customers.”

You purse your lips. “So he was a racist.”

“Yup.”

You let out a long breath. “So the victims are all people who judged others, like Whitaker was judged.”

“Seems that way, yes,” Sam confirms. 

Your eyes flick to Dean, shooting him a raised look. “Well, guess we know why you got cursed now.”

Dean scoffs immediately. “Oh, come on–”

You turn more fully toward him, brows lifting. “There’s a reason I called you a Puritan, you know. You were one pitchfork away from burning me at the stake.”

Sam’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin.

Dean tries to laugh it off, but you can tell by the flares in his aura that he clearly feels uncomfortable in his skin now. “C’mon, I wasn’t actually trying to shoot you.”

“Weren’t you, though?” you fire back, cocking your head. “Because from where I was standing, it felt pretty historically authentic. You pointed a gun to my head.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it, alright?” 

You shrug your shoulders. “Doesn’t seem to matter to the ghost. Just saying, you might wanna reflect on your choices a little.”

He opens his mouth to argue again but falters halfway. He clicks his tongue and turns to Sam instead. “So, how do we stop this thing from publicly executing me now? Please tell me you found something.”

Sam clears his throat a little, steering things back as he pulls up a site on his laptop. “There’s a ritual. It’s not super common, but it lines up with vengeance hauntings and cursed objects. Since salting and burning didn’t work, maybe laying the spirit to rest will. Basically, we reunite the remains, body and head, and cleanse the weapon that anchored the spirit. That should break the cycle.”

“Sounds simple when you say it like that, but I’m guessing it’s not,” you say, already fearing where this is going.

“Unfortunately, no,” Sam replies. “We need the sword. And we need to find the head.” He taps the map on his screen. “Body’s in the cemetery. That part’s easy. The head, though – records say he was executed in the woods just outside town. Same general area where the sword was found.”

“So probably still out there,” you murmur.

“Probably,” Sam agrees. Then his gaze drifts fully to you, a little more careful now. “And the ritual… it needs someone who can actually perform it. Someone with… your kind of skillset.”

You blink at him. “My ‘kind of skillset’ is mostly keeping houseplants alive and occasionally finding lost earrings.”

“You did more than that out there,” Dean mutters under his breath, surprising you slightly. 

Out of the two of them, you honestly believed he wouldn’t vote for that, considering he’s been doubting every single move you made so far. 

You glance at him, then back at Sam, slightly overwhelmed. “I–I mean, I can try. I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t even really use structured rituals. I kind of just… make things up and hope they work.”

Sam nods, not discouraged in the slightest. “That’s okay. You understand the mechanics. You can adapt it.”

You let out a nervous breath. “Adapt it. Right, no pressure.”

Dean leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “So what’s the play here?”

“Split up, I think,” Sam suggests. “You guys go to the site where they found the sword. I figured we could use another spell to find the head faster. Once you got it, you can bring it to the cemetery. I’ll dig up the grave. Since Whitaker is after Dean, we can draw him out that way and get the sword back.”

You furrow your brow wildly. “Wait, hold on… Draw him out? You wanna use Dean as ghost bait?”

“Ain’t the first time. Kinda my thing,” the green-eyed hunter mutters next to you and shoots you a cocky grin.

“That should so not be your thing,” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head. “You guys are being way too casual about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam tries to assure you. “We’ll be ready. As soon as we have the sword, you can start the ritual while we keep the spirit occupied.”

“Occupied?” you parrot, arching an eyebrow at them.

Dean just gives you a casual shrug, offering you a crooked smirk. “We’re pretty good at that.”

After another quick location spell to find a human skull (a first for you), you and Dean meet up with Sam at Sleepy Hollow’s cemetery, which unsurprisingly leans pretty heavily into its haunted aesthetic. It’s frankly even creepier than the rest of this town, and that’s truly saying something.

It’s already dusk when you arrive, the sky fading from clear blue into a bruised violet as the last sunlight clings to the horizon. Most of the headstones are crooked and tilt at odd angles, moss and ivy crawling up their sides. The stubborn fog doesn’t help the overall vibe, either. You honestly half-expect something to crawl out of the ground even without supernatural interference. 

Dean, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed by the graveyard environment, strolling almost cheerfully ahead. He casually carries the skull, sometimes playing with it like a ball and juggling it from one hand into the other, treating it like a damn prop. You already told him to stop doing that, but he obviously ignored you. 

It seems like you have officially upgraded from “girl who writes spells with glitter gel pens” to “girl who retrieves decapitated heads before dinner.”

By the time the two of you reach Whitaker’s grave, Sam is already halfway done digging, standing in a shallow pit with his sleeves rolled up and dirt smudged across his arms and face. Clearly, he’s been at it for a while.

“Hey, Sammy! Heads up!” Dean calls with a bright grin, and before your brain can even process what he’s about to do, he tosses the skull in a short arc toward his little brother.

“Dean!” you snap at the exact same time Sam goes, “Dude, seriously?” and fumbles the catch, barely managing to grab the skull before it hits the ground.

Sam glares, you glare, and Dean lifts both hands in surrender, entirely unrepentant.

“What?” Dean shrugs his shoulders as if his actions are even remotely defensible. “He caught it.”

“You threw a human head,” you scold his cemetery behavior, which he apparently deemed entirely appropriate. 

These boys clearly spend too much time in places like this to be this freaking comfortable around human remains. 

“Former human,” Dean corrects under his breath.

And you? Yeah, you don’t even dignify that with a response and only roll your eyes.

Sam exhales sharply as he climbs out of the grave, setting the skull down with a lot more care than it was afforded by his brother, then gestures at the shovel. “Here. Switch.”

Dean looks down into the hole, then back at Sam. “Oh, now it’s my turn? C’mon, I’m practically on my deathbed, man.”

But Sam only offers him a deadpan look and holds the shovel out to his brother. Dean grabs it with a resigned sigh before you suddenly stop him with a hand on his arm.  

“Wait.”

Both of them look at you expectantly. 

“I think I can make this faster.” 

Dean’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t argue for once, probably relieved about skipping all that digging, whereas Sam just watches you full of curiosity.

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer to the grave. You then close your eyes, tethering yourself to the earth beneath your feet as you always do. Soil should be a lot easier than roots, but you can’t exactly say you’ve done this before either. 

Then again, you never needed to dig up a grave in your life beforehand. 

The dirt loosens and shifts, beginning to part like the Red Sea, trickling away in soft waves till the coffin peeks out through the soil. Clumps slide down the sides of the grave, pebbles clicking against the wood until the whole coffin is fully revealed without another shovel needing to hit the ground.

When you open your eyes again with a satisfied smile, you find both brothers staring at you, mouths agape. 

“Okay…” Dean surprisingly even lets out a low whistle. “That’s admittedly kinda awesome.”

“Thank you.” You bite back a grin, trying not to look too pleased with yourself at his praise, but it honestly feels a little like getting a compliment from your school bully. 

Sam, however, downright looks like he’s regretting ever touching a shovel in his life. 

Dean then hops down into the grave and crouches by the coffin, brushing some remaining dirt off the lid before prying it open with a crowbar. But something in him changes suddenly, head lifting, forest green eyes fixing on something in the distance beyond the trees. His aura sharpens as well, colors morphing into high alert.

You don’t need to see his face to know something’s wrong, and a second later, you can hear it, too.

Hooves. 

“He’s coming back,” Dean says and jumps out of the hole, finding your eyes. “Got everything we need?”

You nod frantically and reach into your jacket pocket for the folded piece of paper with the modified spell on it. 

“Good. Showtime,” he says with a smirk, and you almost think he’s enjoying getting nearly decapitated a little too much. Who on Earth is that insane?

Sam then moves fast, grabbing the skull and placing it into the coffin with the body, adjusting it with surprising care for someone working under a ticking clock.

You’re scrambling as well, pulling four white candles from your bag and placing them at the corners of the coffin. Your fingers are only steady out of sheer necessity before you magically light all wicks at the same time. The flames flicker weakly at first and then stretch taller as the wind begins to pick up.

The Latin script on the paper in your hands stares at you, unfamiliar in shape but not in intention. You don’t usually do spells like this – structured, inherited, borrowed. Luckily, you had enough Latin in school to push through and understand at least half of it. 

God, you hope that counts for something. 

The moment the rider breaks through the trees, Dean doesn’t wait and starts to sprint. He only dodges the first swing by a margin that is entirely uncomfortable to witness. You’re trying not to watch as you pull out a small cast-iron bowl from your bag (you refuse to call it a cauldron) and an assortment of herbs. At least, Dean’s faster than he looks when he seems to be motivated by imminent decapitation, which is somewhat reassuring. 

He ducks again, twists out of the way as the blade cuts through the air where his head was a second ago, boots skidding in the dirt as he regains his footing. The sword then comes into play in a blur of motion – Dean lunges forward, gracefully ducks another swing, grabs the hilt, and yanks it free with a grunt, stumbling back just far enough to avoid immediate retaliation.

And then, that maniac actually throws the sharp blade right at his little brother. You flinch, heart stopping and breath halting, only exhaling when Sam manages to catch it without breaking a sweat. 

Jesus Christ, those boys will be the death of your low heart rate. 

Who the hell just throws a sword at someone?

Sam places it into the coffin and then looks at you. “Go!”

Right. Spell. 

You glance at the ingredients in the bowl, a mix of herbs you remember from your mother’s teachings: crushed sage for cleansing, rosemary for remembrance, lavender for peace, and a pinch of salt to anchor it all. You incinerate it and let the herbs smolder for a second till trails of smoke billow and fuse with the cool evening air. 

As you mutter the words on the page, your voice sounds strange around the Latin, as if your tongue is borrowing someone else’s shape, but it seems to work as the wind begins to pick up, threading through the trees and rustling leaves. The smoke thickens and spills over the bowl, the candle flames dancing harder and faster as if they’re trying to keep up with your voice. 

You grab the bowl and then pour it into the grave, letting the ash and embers fall into the coffin, dusting the sword and bones alike. Just as you place it down on the ground again, something crashes hard into a headstone behind you, but you try not to look back to check which brother got tossed and concentrate on finishing the spell. 

The final lines come quicker than you expect, the wind howling louder before it all breaks.

The wind drops. The candle flames steady. The horse halts. 

You spin just in time to see the horse rear back, hooves striking the air where Dean had been a heartbeat ago. He stumbles back, barely avoiding getting trampled, and then the rider stills as well.

For a moment, everything goes quiet before a head fades into place where none was before. 

The rider then turns toward you and inclines his newly attached head, his eyes gleaming with gratitude as they find yours. Then the edges of him begin to soften, dissolving into a warm, golden light. The horse follows, form fading into the same glow. Together they then seem to turn toward something you can’t quite see and ride off into it.

The light fades a minute later, and they’re gone. Just like that.

You rise to your feet, dusting off your jeans as you stare at spot where the light used to be. “Aw, he looked happy,” you note, the adrenaline in your blood slowly waning. “Is it always this peaceful?”

Dean’s eyes find you, hands on his knees as he’s trying hard to catch his breath. “Nope.”

Sam shakes his head, equally thrown, judging by the same crease in his brow. “Not even a little.”

You nod, lips pursing. “Good to know.”

Dean’s seen a lot of weird endings to hunts, and usually, it’s messier than this. But there’s no blood, no ambulance lights, or even a half-burned corpse today. 

He leans back against the Impala a few feet away, arms crossed as he tells himself he’s just keeping an eye on things without making it too obvious. He watches as you stuff your bag into the back of your beat-up and blue Aveo, calmly packing up like this was simply some strange weekend getaway and not technically a grave robbery, ghost exorcism, and almost getting trampled by a cursed horseman before breakfast combined.

You’ve traded in the grass-stained jeans and t-shirt for something softer, an oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, your boots still dusted with graveyard dirt from the woods. Your hair’s a little messy, probably from the wind earlier, a few strands catching in the porch light outside the B&B. 

Sam stands a little closer to you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture more relaxed than before after things finally wound down. “So…” He clears his throat lightly. “First hunt. What’s the verdict?” 

Dean watches your face instead of Sam’s, because your answer matters more than the question. 

You close the trunk with a soft thud, brushing your hands together like you’re still shaking off dirt. “Honestly? It was… interesting,” you admit, tucking your hair behind your ears. “In a ‘wow, I almost died’ kind of way.” A crooked smile rises on your lips. “But not exactly something I’d want to make a habit out of.” 

Dean huffs under his breath at that, gaze dropping to the gravel by his boots. 

Good. Smart answer.

Sam gives you a smile, but it’s got a certain shade to it now, and Dean recognizes it as his little brother’s but what if smile. He knows exactly where this is going before Sam even opens his mouth again.

“You handled yourself really well,” Sam says. “The spell, the ritual… you picked it up fast.”

“Yeah, you weren’t half bad,” Dean adds, but there’s a slight tease to his smile. 

Admittedly, you handled yourself well out there – better than most rookies would. Better than some hunters, if he’s being totally honest. Obviously, he won’t say that out loud in a million years. 

“Seriously, thanks,” Sam says. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Think we would’ve made due.”

You don’t seem to take offense to that comment, though, lips twitching in amusement. “You’re welcome for saving that coconut of yours.”

“So, uh…” Sam scratches the back of his neck, eyes finding yours. “Your mom’s letter, the ritual… have you thought more about it? Really could use your help, you know.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, watching as your shoulders draw in the tiniest bit, hesitation flashing across your face. You’re clearly unsure how to answer that one without disappointing someone – well, mostly Sam because Dean would be just fine with you saying no and telling his little brother to go screw himself. 

“Sam,” Dean cuts in, choosing not to let this play out. 

Sam meets his stare. “What?”

“She already gave you an answer.” Dean finally pushes off the car. “Take it.”

Sam’s brows draw into a small frown. “I’m just asking–”

“Yeah, and I’m just saying drop it,” Dean barks, his voice a little sharper now. “She heard you the first time. She doesn’t need a sales pitch.”

The tension is almost tangible in the air now, but as his gaze drifts back to you, there’s a newfound softness in your expression. He would almost call it gratitude, but it evokes a weird flutter in his chest, so he rejects that thought on principle and breaks eye contact first. 

You clear your throat softly. “Look, I meant what I said, alright?” you tell Sam gently, but there’s a firmness underneath. “I’ll think about it, but that’s all I can promise right now.”

Sam studies you for a moment, probably weighing whether to push again or not, but Dean really hopes he doesn’t. Otherwise, he’ll have to clock Sam with the back of his gun and drive back to South Dakota with his little brother in Baby’s trunk. 

“Okay, fair enough.” Sam nods after a beat and accepts your answer, although he’s obviously not done with the idea.

Dean is, though.

“Call if you need anything, alright?” Sam adds and steps back.

You nod, even manage a smile, and give a small wave of your hand that’s slightly awkward. 

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t stick around for a grand goodbye. He gives you a tight nod and then turns on his heel, heading back toward the Impala, the only true safe zone he’s ever known. 

But halfway there, his hand brushes against his jacket pocket, and he feels the folded paper sitting there.

Right. That.

He’d written it earlier at the B&B, while Sam was buried in books and you were flipping through that glitter-covered notebook of yours, muttering about herbs and Latin. Dean had sat at the table, pretending not to listen, and suddenly found himself scribbling down the standard exorcism. He might’ve then thrown in the Devil’s Trap, too. 

He didn’t really plan on giving it to you. It was more supposed to be a just-in-case, emergencies-only thing. But there’s this gnawing, annoying little thought in the back of his skull that refuses to disappear. 

You’re in it now, aren’t you? Whether you like it or not, or even whether he likes it or not. No thanks to his little brother and him, you’ve got a target on your back now. Dean knows better than anyone that this shit lingers, follows, and finds you again when you least expect it. And well, leaving you with nothing to defend yourself feels simply… wrong. 

“Son of a–” Dean mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply. 

And then, he turns around.

You’re halfway to your car, keys in hand, and for a second, he almost lets you go. Walking away would be so much easier and cleaner, wouldn’t it?

But he didn’t let you go in the dream either, did he? And even though, that never happened, there’s a strange pang in his chest that keeps his eyes locked on you and his feet rooted to the ground. 

“Hey, wait–”

You stop, spinning back with a small frown on your face, clearly not expecting that. Dean quickly walks back to you, wanting to get this part over with as soon as possible. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the folded piece of motel stationary, holding it out to you without ceremony.

“Here.”

You blink but take it reluctantly, brows knitting as you unfold it carefully. Your eyes skim over the Latin and the symbol sketched beneath it. “What’s this?”

“Insurance,” he replies, shrugging one shoulder to avoid making a big deal out of this. “Basic exorcism. Latin. That symbol’s a Devil’s Trap,” he explains, clearing his throat subtly. God, what’s with the air in this town? Why is it so damn dry here? “Paint it under that small rug you got by your front door. If something comes in, it’s stuck there. Then you read the words, send it back where it came from.”

Your eyes glance over the page, then back up at him, brow raising slightly like you’re still trying to make sense of his words.

He shifts his weight, swallowing. “Also, uhm, put a salt line along your windowsills. Doors if you wanna be extra. Keeps most crap out. You got that?”

There’s a small pause before you nod slowly, but you’re looking at him in that weird way of yours again – like you’re seeing past his words. Dream-child you did that shit as well. And before he knows it, there’s a tiny smirk hitching on your lips. 

“King of Cups…” you mutter under your breath, barely audible. 

Dean scowls. “What?”

“Nothing.” You shrug casually, but that stupid smile doesn’t disappear. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him like evidence under a microscope. “Wouldn’t simply apologizing be easier?”

“Apologize for what?” Dean scoffs, averting his gaze. It’s the default setting. Armor. 

“Never mind,” you sigh like you expected that response, ready to give up on him. “And to think, I almost started to like you…”

He rolls his eyes, but his jaw tightens visibly. Technically, he knows what he has to do. The dream already told him. But it still seems a lot harder in practice than it does in theory.

“Fine,” he caves at last with a reluctant breath out. “I’m… sorry for, uhm–” he motions roughly at you, already hating it, “–almost… shooting you, alright?” He smacks his lips. “There. Happy now?”

You don’t even try to hide the unimpressed look, but he swears there’s almost some amusement underneath it.

“Wow,” you say wryly. “How sweet of you. That must’ve cost you a lot.”

Dean purses his lips, head bobbing, the irritation hopefully covering anything else. “Alright, we’re done here. Try not to die.”

He spins around before you can answer, heading straight for the Impala without stopping this time. But behind him, he can hear Sam mutter, “Just think about it, okay?” 

Dean yanks open the driver’s door and pauses just long enough to glance back. He sees you nodding, but it’s rather noncommittal and seems frankly very uncomfortable. 

“Sam,” Dean calls gruffly, jerking his head toward the car.

Sam sighs but obeys, jogging back over.

Dean then slides into the driver’s seat, hands settling on the wheel as his gaze lands on the rearview mirror, watching you climb into your car. The interior light switches on, illuminating you in soft gold before the door shuts and the engine turns over. His eyes remain fixed on the mirror till your taillights disappear down the road. 

As Sam gets into the car, he shuts the passenger door harder than necessary. “What did you say to her?”

Dean doesn’t even bother to look at his little brother and plainly turns the key in the ignition. “Nothing.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Sam shoots back, frustrated. “You were being a dick to her on purpose, so she wouldn’t want to stick around. You were trying to scare her off.”

Dean snorts, pulling onto the road. “Yeah, ‘cause telling someone to salt their windows is real intimidating.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sam says. “You don’t want her involved.”

Dean grips the wheel a little tighter. “No, I don’t.”

“You probably talked her out of the ritual, too,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Big bad dream crusher.”

“Dean–”

“I didn’t say anything she wasn’t already thinking, alright?” he snaps. 

“She said she’d think about it.”

“Yeah,” Dean fires back, “and if you can stop hovering over her like a damn guidance counselor, maybe she actually will.”

Sam exhales a deep sigh. “She’s strong. You saw what she did tonight. She could help people, Dean.”

Dean almost wants to scoff. He certainly saw what you did tonight – during this entire case, actually. Sammy doesn’t even know about the thing you did with the roots in the woods, and Dean’s not volunteering to tell him either. Sam’s head would probably explode with ideas if he knew how powerful you truly were. 

“Yeah,” Dean huffs instead, shaking his head. “Or get herself killed.”

“She can handle it.”

“Barely.”

“She’ll learn.”

“And what happens when she runs into something she can’t learn her way out of, huh?” Dean counters. “What then?”

“That’s not your call to make,” Sam mutters.  

“No, but it is my problem,” Dean snaps. “Man, you told her about all of this. About demons, hunts, everything… You think that just goes away? You think nothing’s ever gonna come looking? It’s not if something happens to her, Sam. It’s when.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “So what, you just cut her loose and hope for the best? That’s your solution?”

“No, my solution is not dragging her deeper into this mess. I gave her what she needs to not be completely defenseless,” Dean says. “That’s more than most people get. She’s got a life, Sammy. A normal one.”

“I know that,” Sam says. “But life doesn’t always work that way.”

Dean scoffs a humorless laugh. “So, what? She’s just supposed to give it all up because she’s got powers?”

“I’m saying she has a choice, Dean,” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah, and you’re not exactly making it easy for her to say no,” Dean shoots back. “Guilt-tripping her with her family? Low hanging fruit, Sam.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam defends. “I was just trying to prepare her.”

“No, you know what’s not fair? You thinking this is gonna end well,” Dean snaps. “‘Cause it doesn’t. It never does. You of all people should know that. At least, I’m trying to keep her alive.”

Sam goes suspiciously quiet after that, leaning back as he studies Dean. “You didn’t seem too concerned about that when you invited her along.”

“Oh, don’t even–” Dean’s jaw ticks. “You told her first, man. You put her on the board. Not me. I just made sure she didn’t get blindsided. You wanna chase this demon? Fine. You wanna burn everything down to get it? Fine. But don’t drag her into it like she’s just another tool in the box.”

Sam grits his teeth. “That’s not what this is.”

“Really?” Dean shoots him a scrutinizing look. “’Cause it sounds a lot like you’re willing to risk whatever it takes to win. This is our mess. She’s not part of this, Sammy. Not if I can help it.”

Sam doesn’t answer this time, and that’s honestly answer enough.

He slumps back in his seat, crosses his arms, and scoffs quietly. “This isn’t over.”

Dean nearly snorts a laugh. “Wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

Before Sam can find his next argument, Dean reaches forward and cranks up the stereo, letting the sound of classic rock flood the Impala and drown out the rest. 

The road stretches ahead, dark and endless, and everything’s supposed to go back to normal again. But his mind keeps drifting back to you – standing under that streetlight in the middle of the night, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, looking at him like you knew exactly what that note meant. 

He hopes you stay out of this. Hopes that piece of paper he gave you can keep the world away from you. Hopes it’s enough. He really does, even though he knows it’s not – but it’s the best he’s got.

However, there’s a stubborn, quiet part of him that already knows he’s going to see you again. And honestly? He’s not sure if that’s something to dread, or something to look forward to.

▶️ Chapter 6: East Atlantic Breeze – July 3

We have our first case under the belt and a reluctant friendship was born 😂🫶

How did you enjoy Dean's latest dream? Is anyone aside from him still convinced those aren't actually real memories resurfacing? (And how long will he keep them to himself? lol) What did you think of reader's tarot reading and do you agree with the boys' cards? And what about the two that slipped out – are they really a glitch in the system? 👀

Another puzzle piece is coming next Friday, where we might get an unwanted visitor... 😬

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Dean’s on his feet before even being fully awake.

“Sammy.” His deep voice comes out rougher than usual as he grabs Sam’s shoulder hard enough to shake him. “Sam.”

Sam jolts awake with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instantly to his forehead. His breathing comes uneven and shallow, pain still written all over his face.

Dean’s stomach drops, heart pounding. He already knows it’s not a nightmare but another vision.

“You with me?” he checks sternly.

Sam nods quickly between ragged breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before forcing out a strained, “Yeah.”

“What happened? What’d you see?”

Dean then waits for an answer, stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Finally, Sam looks up at him, and Dean can see the fear sitting naked and clear behind his little brother’s hazel eyes, turning his blood ice-cold before your name bleeds from Sam’s lips.

Every muscle in Dean’s body locks up in an instant.

“A demon found her,” Sam says hoarsely, swallowing harshly. “She was at the lab. It had Mia and Paige, too. I saw blood, black eyes–…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “Dean, she was screaming.”

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“But you didn’t,” Charlie waved him off, looking him up and down with a tiny frown. “And- Stop looking like you want to.”

“I don’t want to-“

“Yeah, but you look like it.”

“Well, I don’t-“

“That’s not what your face is saying.”

Dean scowled, his voice dropping under his breath. “Probably ‘cause you’re making me freakin’ want to.”

“That’s not nice,” Charlie stuck out her tongue. “I’m telling mom.”

Dean shot her a glare, running a hand over his face. He looked back to the water. The bubbles were gone, and she still wasn’t up. He should’ve put that GPS tracker on her. She could be a floating body in the Atlantic by now. Face down and alone and cold, where Dean couldn’t reach Her, where he’d never be able to find her. Washed out and empty eyed.

His stomach clenched into a tight, wired fist. His mouth watered with something sour and his head spun. Charlie took a small step forward, smile slowly dropping into worry.

“Dean, are you-“

“Shh- Shut it-“ He grunted, holding up a hand. Charlie took a step back, her lips in a tight line.

“Do you need to sit down or something? Or- Go to the hospital-“

“I’m fine,” Dean snapped. “And we don’t do hospitals.”

“We don’t do hospitals?”

“Not unless we’re in the waiting room with a Reaper.” Dean took a deep breath through his nose, looking back to the water. It didn’t seem to be moving at all. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. “How deep is this river?”

“Umm…” Charlie leaned over the bank, squinting at the water. “Deep?”

Dean sighed. He didn’t have enough in his stomach to vomit. He’d given Her his sandwich this morning, and Adam that fluffy croissant they’d gotten at the café. Dean had survivied without eating before. Charlie and Adam hadn’t, and She shouldn’t have to.

Nothing was going to stay down anyways. Not until She was back above the water. Not until they found Sammy.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Charlie said, awkwardly patting Dean’s shoulder. “She’s magic, right? Magic people don’t die.”

Dean grunted. Magic people died all the time. Everyone fucking died. He had a dead guy in a bottle in their fucking duffle bag. But Charlie was trying, and he was really trying not to be a dick.

Play nice, She’d told him, before she jumped in the water. In the moment, Dean had rolled his eyes and grumbled that he always played nice. Out of himself, Her, and Sammy, he played the nicest. He praised old ladies cookies and cracked jokes with the other hunters. Sammy said sweet words to the victims then picked fights with the other hunters when they didn’t want to do things his way. She stood off to the corner of the room with Her chin raised and arms crossed, like a scary hot statue. They were the weirdos.

But they were his weirdos. They were the reason he bothered being charming and stupid. And the longer he was left to himself, the more his fingers twitched. His skin was itchy. His leg was starting to bounce, and everything seemed short. Words had to be clipped or he’d lose it at Charlie. Movements were short, or he’d whack Adam upside the head for napping on the bench. 

She’d been right. She usually was. He wished She wasn’t. It would be easier to tell Her not to do crazy things like jumping into the Seine for some stupid bones.

“So,” Charlie cleared her throat, and Dean took a deep breath. “Do we have like, a submarine?”

Dean blinked. When he looked at her, she seemed real serious. “What.”

“If you’re going to dive in after her,” Charlie nodded to the water. “You have a submarine, right? Because otherwise you’re going to drown, and I’m going to get in a lot of trouble.”

“You’re not gonna get in trouble, kid.”

“I will if you drown,” Charlie shrugged. “I’m supposed to watch you.”

Dean snorted. “I don’t need watching.”

“You do if you’re going to drown yourself-“

“I ain’t gonna drown myself.”

“Sure,” Charlie shrugged. “And you weren’t about to dive into the water.”

Dean glared at her. She smiled back.

“Seriously. If she comes back up and you’re dead I think she’s going to nuke France.”

And Dean snorted. “Nice try. I’m not that important.”

Charlie stared at him, long enough for his brows to knit curiously. She looked into the dark water, then back to Dean, her mouth hanging open slightly.

“What-“

“Are you serious?”

“Uh- Maybe?” Dean felt like he’d lost whatever thread they’d been following. “Why, what’re you saying right now-“

“I- I’m saying that you- And-“ Charlie said Her name, and Dean swallowed. “She’s like- Oh my god-“ Charlie took a step back. “Sam’s right.”

Dean scowled. “Sam’s right?”

“Yeah, he and Jo, they told me-“

Dean cut her off with a groan. “Fuckin’- Sam and Jo don’t know what the hell they’re talking about-“

“I think they do-“

“You don’t know them like I do-“

“Yeah, but I’m not blind, dude,” Charlie laughed, rolling her eyes. “You’re like Han and Leia. It’s cute, if not gross.”

Dean’s jaw relaxed. is

His hands were still in tight fists. He looked back to the water, then did a tiny double take. “Gross? We’re not gross-“

“Not both of you,” Charlie shrugged. “Just- You know you’re batting out of your league right?”

Dean sighed. “That’s the second time you’ve told me that,” he grumbled, and Charlie laughed.

“Still true. And look at you, you know it.” She poked his arm, smiling wider. “So how do you not think she’d nuke France for you?”

Dean sighed and looked up to the sky. A low, huffing laugh left him, and something close to blowing in his ribcage deflated. Charlie whistled next to him, rocking back and forth on her feet. Dean looked over his shoulder to check on Adam. Still asleep on the bench. He’d gone out almost the moment She dove into the water, but he’d also been sniffing around her like a puppy all day. Dean had kept one arm around Her waist, his fingers splayed. Adam hadn’t done anything stupid, and Dean was—as instructed—playing very nice.

Everyone loved Her. He couldn’t stop that. Hell, he’d rather have to fend off an army of suitors to win her heart then find Her alone and trembling in a tower. Than be her only option. The default, that she’d learn to resent when he clung to her like a vampiric, over adoring barnacle.  

“She told me you died,” Charlie said casually, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah. While ago, though.”

Charlie hummed, and Dean expected the usually questions. What did it feel like. What was hell like. What were you thinking about in the last seconds. He had the answered locked and loaded.

It hurt. Hell sucked. He’d thought about Her and Sammy to the last seconds, praying to God he’d been so sure wasn’t real that they’d be alright.

But Charlie wasn’t giving him that wide-eyed pity look. She was watching him like a strange bug she was trying to poke at, to make it’s wings unfurl.

Charlie said her name. Dean felt like he was under a freaking microscope. “She felt you die.”

Dean blinked. His stomach clenched again, and either he was sick, or someone was stabbing him. “I- She wasn’t there-“

“Yeah, but she said she felt you die.”

No, She hadn’t. He would’ve heard about that. “She tell you that?”

Charlie nodded. Dean thought the world might be flipping over.

“What- When-“

“On the train.” Charlie gave him another weird look. “She told me that you liked Lord of the Rings.”

Dean swallowed. His voice sounded far away. “Uh- Yeah. Good movies.”

Charlie hummed. “You read the books.”

“When I was a kid.”

“Huh,” Charlie looked him up and down. “I would’ve thought you were like, a jock. If I saw you in high school I would’ve assumed you were going to shove me in a locker then call me a dyke.”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. This conversation was like driving on a freaking highway and trying to keep track of every single billboard. “Uh- I wouldn’t have- Said that.”

“But you would’ve shoved me in a locker?”

Dean’s lips twitched. “Were you annoying?”

“Oh, yeah.” Charlie grinned. “I was a monster.”

Dean didn’t laugh, but he let out another, longer breath. His head hurt less. Charlie was still watching him like a scientist, but he minded less now.

She asked him about what kind of kid he’d been. He told her about moving around and finding things he was good at. Wrestling. Flashing a smile and leaning over girls in the hall. Cracking a joke and getting a rush off of it. Charlie didn’t tell him much in return, but she’d watched Scooby Doo as a kid, and that was enough to carry conversation for an hour. Dean didn’t notice the time pass. Not the way he’d been counting seconds, before.

Then the water moved. Something shifted and rippled, and his head whipped around. That was either a very sexy fish, or his girl.

He dropped to his knees, reaching out an arm, and let out a sharp breath when he could pick out Her features through the waves. She burst out of the water like a damn mermaid, catching Dean’s hand and hauling herself out of the water with a grunt.

“Get the towel,” Dean ordered Charlie, pulling Her fully onto the land. She was soaked to the bone, her clothing stuck to her skin and her eyes squeezed shut.

Dean grabbed Her face between his hands, angling it around for signs of danger. Bite marks, burns, gashes, anything. She wasn’t saying anything. She should be saying something.

“C’mon, Princess, talk to me.” He took the towel from Charlie without looking, wrapping it tight around her shoulders. “Who’s the president, what day is it, uh-“

“Alphabet backwards?” Charlie suggested, and Dean nodded frantically.

“Yeah, alphabet backwards-“

“That’s for drunk people, De,” She mumbled, and Dean’s shoulders sagged.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, wiping the dripping hair out of her face. “You were down there forever, baby, next time breach up and check or something.”

“Sorry, I just-“ She dropped Her face into Dean’s neck. “’S bright.”

Dean sighed, and nodded. She didn’t fight him scooping her up, one arm going around his neck and her body slumping against his chest. Charlie got Adam up. They’d go find a hotel, get her cleaned up, then go after Sammy.

“Got the bone,” she whispered in his ear, and he grunted.

He’d forgotten about that part. “Nice job, sweetheart.”

“Were you nice?”

“I’m always freakin’ nice-“

“Dean.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Fed them. Talked to Charlie a lot. Waited around. Rowena ain’t texted me back yet, but-“

“What’d you and Charlie talk about?”

Dean paused.

She felt it when he died.

That wasn’t the kind of thing She’d just say. But She’d never told him. He didn’t even know what the hell to make of it. Not right now.

“Lord of the Rings,” he said. “And Scooby Doo.”

She smiled against his skin. “Told her,” She said smugly, and Dean glanced down with raised brows.

“Told her?”

“To distract you.” She turned Her face, Her cheek pressing against his collarbone, her eyes starry and lidded. “If you got grumpy.”

A small, inevitable smile pulled at Dean’s lips. “You think I get grumpy?”

“Super grumpy,” She whispered. “Like an old man.”

Dean chuckled. “Alright, baby. Let’s get you warmed up, huh?” He pressed a kiss to her brow, murmuring against Her skin. “You’re talking crazy.”

“You’re talking crazy,” She grumbled, turning Her face back into Dean’s neck.

He grinned, and looked back ahead. Charlie was staring around at the Paris streets, whistling casually, while Adam glanced over his shoulder every few moments, then going red and looking back ahead. Dean sighed. He’d been trying with the kid. He’d grown out in the past year—broader, strong, smoother hair and less of a baby bird look in his eyes—but he still was closer to Sammy’s build. Lanky and waving on legs too long for his body. Dean figured himself lucky that the stick gene missed him. He wouldn’t have made it past ’05 if he blew over when the wind picked up.

Playing nice with Charlie had been easy. Adam was… Different.

“You gonna head back to the Letter guys after this?” Dean asked lamely, when they got to the motel. Adam jumped off the bed, fumbling with his phone.

It clattered to the ground between them. Dean pressed his lips in a thin line, running a hand over his face as Adam scrambled to grab it.

“S- Sorry-“ Adam cleared his throat, rushing back to his feet. “You- I, um- I didn’t think you were going to talk to me-“

“I’ve been talking to you all day,” Dean muttered, and Adam went even redder. Dean was worried he was about to self-detonate.

“I- Um- I know, but- You know.” Adam shrugged, looking at his hands. “You know,” he repeated, quieter.

Dean swallowed, crossing his arms over his chest. This was awful, and sticky, and he shifted on his feet like the ground was burning coal. He took a half-step back, and Adam looked up at him with soft, puppy eyes. He had Sammy’s eyes. Dean’s jaw was clenching again.

“Good work today,” he grunted, taking another step.

Adam frowned. “I napped on a bench.”

“Well, good- Napping.” Dean nodded to himself. That was enough. And nice. Compliments were inherently nice, and now he could be done. “Get some sleep.”

He didn’t wait for Adam’s response, before retreating back into the bathroom. Dean closed the door, turned around, and let out a sharp exhale.

She blinked at him from the bathtub, knees curled, hands pressed to her chest, and eyes wide. She gave him a tiny, overly-sweet smile. Dean frowned.

“What’re you up to, sweetheart?”

She shrugged, twisting the skin on Her finger. “Nothing. How are Adam and Charlie?”

“They’re fine,” Dean scanned over Her. Sunken half under the mountain of bubbles he’d prepared for Her, hair fanning out in the water like the halo of a better angel, eyes wide and innocent. The towel was on the toilet, Dean’s phone under the folds. His brow knit. “Where’s your phone?”

She pushed Herself further back against the edge of the tub. “You, um-“ She looked down at Her locked over hands. “You can’t get mad.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and pushed off the door. She squealed when he reached over, trying to keep Her phone out of his reach, but Dean knew her pretty tricks.

“De- Dean- Just-“ She batted at his hand, glaring up at him like a spited kitten. “Dean, wait-“

He grabbed Her jaw, and She went quiet real fast. Her eyes widened like a cartoon, Her breath hitched, and Dean smirked.

“Hey, Princess.”

She made a tiny noise from the back of Her throat. Dean kissed Her nose, then her upper lip. When he pulled back, She was panting like they’d just ran the mile.

“Breathe,” he reminded Her, before pressing a deeper, longer kiss over Her parted lips. She was just as sweet as always. Dean was never going to get sick of it.

Her swiped the phone from Her slack hands, and she squawked with a short-lived protest. Dean squeezed Her jaw once, tucking the phone in his back pocket.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. That earned him Her high, sweet whine.

When he pulled back, She was looking at him like a baby lion. Trying to build up the courage to pounce and growl at him, but still unsure if She’d land the kill. Dean patted Her cheek, then brushed the hair from Her face.

“Good?” He murmured, and She nodded quickly. “And- Warmer?”

Another nod. Dean sighed, kissed Her hairline, and sat fully on the lip of the tub. He grabbed Her phone back out, and she twisted in the water, moving to Her knees. Her tits can out, soft and covered in bubbles. Dean coughed, and forced his attention onto the phone.

“You said you wouldn’t get mad-“

“I’m not mad,” he said, running his fingers through her damp hair. “Just-“

“If you say disappointed,” she grumbled, pressing Her cheek against his thigh. “I’m gonna stab you.”

Dean laughed, and peered at Her screen. There were texts from Jo, and Cas, and Jody, and-

“She called you?!” Dean scowled at the screen, then Her. “I told her to call me, you- You were at the bottom of a freakin’ river-“

“I know, I- I mean- She says you’re-“ She cut Herself off, reaching for the phone. “Just let me finish talking to her-“

“Ah.” Dean raised the phone over his head. “No, you gotta tell me what she thinks I am.”

She sighed. “Dean, just- Give me my phone-“

“Did she call me a fuck toy again? ‘Cause- I feed you too-“

“And you’re not even fucking me,” She grumbled.

They both froze. Dean’s brows shot up. She flushed, mouth hanging open and panicked eyes flitting to Dean’s, then away. He dragged his face down to cup her neck, keeping Her against him before she could dive under the water and use the bubbles as a guard. Dean’s grin hurt his face. He didn’t care what Rowena called him anymore. Couldn’t possibly matter, when he had this at his feet.

“You got something you wanna tell me, sweetheart?”

“I- Um-“ She took a deep breath, avoiding Dean’s gaze. “Don’t- Stop looking at me like that-“

“I’m not lookin’ at you like anything,” Dean purred, and She dropped Her pretty face straight into his thigh. “You’re the one getting bratty because I’m not fuckin’ her.”

She hit his leg, but it was clawness and soft. Dean laughed, leaning down to kiss the top of Her head.

“Finish your bath, baby,” he murmured. “Call me if you need something.”

She grumbled something low and probably mean, but Her angry face was too cute for Dean to care. He dragged himself out of there with long, heavy steps. There seemed to always be a rubber band tied to his legs, when he tried to get away from Her, even for a few minutes. If he didn’t close that door without looking back, he would’ve just seen Her flushed and ethereal in the bathtub and snapped right back to Her side.

Dean didn’t even know where the hell he’d gotten the willpower to get that far away in the first place. His jeans were painfully tight, and his hands were getting cold just adjusting his jeans and holding Her phone. He’d toss it up to Sammy, and Rowena. That came first. She’d want it to come first. If she didn’t have that sleep-addled, drunken look in Her eyes.

Rowena had, apparently, called Dean Her idiotic man-servant. He’d been called worse, and at least Rowena wasn’t saying it behind his back.

“I am not speaking to the man-servant,” Rowena said, the moment Dean called her. “Where is your boss, boy.”

“Probably getting mad at some bubbles,” Dean shrugged, glancing at the bathroom door. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, Rowena.”

“Why would I do that-“

“’Cause it’s my baby brother who’s missing. And if you don’t tell me where the hell he is,” Dean paused, reaching for his gun on the bedside table, turning it over in his hand. “Well. Let’s just call it that you should tell me where he is.”

Rowena sighed. “You know, I like you better when you’re a pretty slab of meat that knows his place.”

“I like me better when I get to be a slab of meat,” Dean grunted. “Talk.”

Sammy was with Crowley. Rowena told a real long, pointless story about finding a demon and tying him to a bed to get the information. Dean was pretty sure they fucked after, from the way Rowena kept wistfully sighing. He added it to the list of reasons he was grateful for not eating today.

“You got a way into hell?” He made the mistake of asking, and Rowena did—of course she did—but it involved a gargoyle she’d also definitely fucked, and Dean was getting worried his stomach was going to create food just so he could throw it up.

He wondered if Rowena was this explicit with Her as well. He couldn’t imagine that she was. Rowena seemed to know that, for all Her skills, she was on wobbling legs when it came to sex. 

“Are you taking care of her?” Rowena demanded after they set up a plan, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah.” Of course he was. He’d pull out a fucking rib if She needed to make it a hairbrush. “She’s just in the bath.”

“Hm.” Rowena sniffed. “You know, she adores you. Pathetically. I tried to cut it out of her, when she was with me, but-“ She sighed. “It’s a cancer.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Oh, be proud, you twat.” Rowena snapped. “I haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

Dean supposed she hadn’t. He thought about telling Rowena she really didn’t have to bother with that, because if Dean ever slacked on Her, it was because he was already dead. But the door to the bathroom creaked open, and She poked her head out with those wide, pretty eyes. She was wrapped in a towel and flushed. Dean cleared his throat, and sat up at attention.

“See you in the morning,” he said into the phone, and hung up before Rowena could insult him and his boyfriending skills again.

His girl seemed into them. And that was all that really mattered.

Dean reached out a hand, and She shuffled over to his side. He pulled Her between his legs, grabbing Her waist with a grin. She ran Her fingers through his hair, glancing between him and Her phone, tossed off to the side.

“What-“

“Hell.”

Her eyes flashed. All the colors in the room went sharp. “What?”

“Crowley’s got him,” Dean sighed. “In Hell. We’re going in the morning.”

“In the-“ She shook her head, pushing back on Dean’s shoulders. “No, we- We need to go now-“

“That’s- Princess-“

“He could be in danger, he could be hurt, he- He could be- Crowley could’ve given him to the Leviathans, and- And-“ She pushed harder, head whipping around the room like a caged animal looking for an our. “Dean, let me go-“

“Not until you breathe-“

“I am breathing- Sam’s in danger-“

“I know, I-“ Dean said Her name firmly, pulling Her tighter against his chest. He ducked Her hand, grabbing it and squeezing it three times.

“Dean-“

“I know,” he said, reaching up to cup her face. “I know Sammy needs our help. You know that no one knows better than me, baby.” He gave Her a stern look. “Right?”

Her throat bobbed, but She nodded. Dean sighed, and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“We need Rowena to get through the doors without, you know.” He gave Her a tight smile. “Dyin’.”

She still didn’t speak. Dean wrapped an arm around Her waist, pulling her right up against him. He rested his chin on Her chest, holding Her gaze. The color was still pouring off of Her. He wondered if this was what astronauts felt like, when they got to see all the glory of the universe. If they felt like the stars would scatter, if they swiped their hand through the dark.

Dean felt like the stars would gather, under his fingers. They seemed to be, the longer he stared at Her. There seemed to be a black light, almost emitting off her body. Her nails were digging into his biceps and the whole roomed smelled like honey and Her apples. Dean let out a slow breath, his smile heavy on his face, but it was a dragging weight he was happy to carry. Someone needed to. If he dropped the joy behind them, no one else was going to pick it back up.

“We’re gonna get him,” Dean murmured. “Swear it.”

She swallowed and offered Dean her pinky. He took without breaking Her gaze, and shook it tight before kissing the back of Her hand.

She knocked out fast, that night. Dean didn’t. He lay next to her, watching the light of the street shift over her face and counting Her every breath. When he closed his eyes, he got worried She’d vanish by morning. And if he lost both of them…

It was better not to think about it. The last time that happened, he’d dove into the deep end and almost drowned in the currents. He couldn’t afford to do that again. There were people who needed him to be steady. With Bobby gone, he was the only one who could keep his feet firmly planted in the ground.

He sighed, and pressed his face into Her neck. She sighed in Her sleep and curled over him. Dean swallowed, his lips grazing soft skin, and clung around Her stomach. Warm and soft and relaxed. Her heartbeat was even. When he dragged over Her spine, she let out a breathy sound that could’ve been his name, and he smiled.

At least he had this. He really, fully had this.

Charlie and Adam had shared an adjoined room last night. Dean got them up at the crack of dawn with a loud knock, and blocked Charlie’s thrown pillow without looking. They both blinked at him, bleary eyed and grumpy, and he gave them the rundown fast. There were going to be questions. He’d try and push through them fast, before the ride showed up.

“I- I want to go to hell!” Charlie protested, and Dean sighed.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do-“

“Hell smells bad,” he said, and Charlie paused.

“Like, really bad? Like- Stinky shoes bad, or- Or dead body bad?”

Dean shrugged. “Whatever’s worse to you.” He looked to Adam, jerking his head at Charlie. “She’s hitching the angel-mobile back to America. You wanna do the same, you better be ready to listen to everything Jo tells you.”

Adam nodded, then paused. “Um- Who’s Jo?”

“Blonde chick. Mean, and your boss for the next- Uh,” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “Forever.”

“Forever?” Adam gaped, and Dean shrugged.

“Or until you run out. Just-“ He pulled the bone out of his jacket, waving it in the air.

It was smaller than he’d been ready for. Whiter than pearl and dull on all the edges from years under the water. They’d sharpen it, after they got all that blood and oil and fluid. It was going to be a fun few weeks.

“Take this,” he tossed it to Charlie, who caught it with frantic hands. “You don’t let anyone touch it but Jo and Kevin, you got that? You don’t leave it alone in a room, you don’t take it out of the house, you don’t even touch it unless you think someone else is tryin’ to grab it first. You lose it or break it or anything, you’re diving back down to get another one. Got it?”

He glared between them. Charlie nodded quickly, staring down at the bone with a nervous awe. Adam stared at Dean. 

The kid said he was going back with them. That those British assholes didn’t forgive easy, and he’d be better off just shooting himself or jumping into the ocean than going back. The nice one—Rick, or Mike, Dean couldn’t remember—might have a chance, but he’d grown up in their little club. Adam was a rookie. They’d  cut him off and not think twice.

Dean was worried they were starting a home for wayward losers. Bobby would’ve complained about the grocery cost going up, and asked Her to stop bringing home all her strays. She would’ve said that if they went, she went too, and Bobby would’ve grumbled and given in. Dean was wearing those shoes now. They were a size too big. He was worried he would trip and wipe out and not be able to get back up.

“Did you tell him he’s welcome with us?” She asked him when he walked back to their room, and Dean sighed.

She was sitting cross legged on the bed, reading while they waited. Dean had planned to let Her sleep until Rowena got here. She’d been up with the sun.

“Yeah, but- We’re running outta rooms, Princess.”

“The house is big-“

“Big doesn’t mean Bed and Breakfast.”

She hummed, not looking up from her book. “Okay.”

Dean paused. “Okay?”

“Mhm.” She looked up at him, brows raised causally. “Who are you kicking out?”

Dean blinked. She tilted Her head, hair falling over her eyes, and brushed it away. Dean sighed, running a hand over his face, and shook his head.

“You think you’re funny,” he muttered, and Her lips twitched.

“I think,” She looked back to her book. “That I’m right.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you not think I’m right?”

Dean snorted, crossing the room in a single stride. He took Her face between his hands, thumbs tracing over Her cheekbones, and felt her damn flush under his palms. He waited for Her to look at him. She didn’t cave easy. She stared at the pages, flipping them a little too fast to be actually reading them. Dean drawled Her name, and pretty eyes fluttered. She still didn’t move.

“I think you’re sweet,” he said, dropping his voices so only she’d hear. “And you’re lucky you’re sweet, or I’d argue more.”

She hummed. “You can argue with me whenever you want, Winchester.”

“Nah,” he kissed Her brow. “I don’t like losing.”

A smile ghosted over Her lips. When Dean guided Her face up, she didn’t fight it. He brushed a featherlight kiss over Her lips, and when he leaned back, She was watching him with glossy eyes.

“We’re alright,” he muttered, pressing his brow over her’s. “I’ve got it.”

That little wrinkle pressed into Her brow. Dean soothed it with his thumb, and kissed Her one more time before moving to his feet. He knew She was worried about it. All of it. He could almost see it bubbling under Her skin and in those bright eyes, ready to flare. Ready to explode.

Which was why Dean had to handle this. He might not have Her on a leash—that wouldn’t be possible if he wanted to try—but he knew how to smooth out the wrinkles before they bunched so tight they crumpled. Because when She crumpled, it wouldn’t be like a piece of flimsy paper. It would be a coil, springing up and exploding. A tsunami, waveless and quiet until it wasn’t.

So Dean handled it, and he did it well. Cas popped into the motel room, and Dean gave him the rundown.

“Sam’s in hell, we gotta get him back so- You, me, and Bambi,” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, back to where She was waiting on the bed. “We’re heading down to the pit to get him. You bring those two home, then you come back. Got it?”

Cas nodded. Dean looked him up and down, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

“Tell me what you’re doing, buddy.”

“The pups go back to the nest,” Cas said plainly. “I follow the earth back around the sun, until we return to proper orbit, the sun settles, and the sunflowers stop facing north.”

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and waved his hand. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Charlie gave him a hug, before she left. Dean hugged her back, and muttered an apology about not bringing her to hell. It wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. They’d probably wade through an acid swamp to get to an ugly fortress or something. He’d tell her all about it, when they got back. That seemed enough to satisfy the little gremlin’s curiosity, and she went with Cas without a fight.

Dean and Adam stood in awkward silence, until Cas popped back in. Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to say. What the hell they could even talk about. They’d had one nice moment in the catacombs, but the glare of reality had been dimmer. Last time he’d been alone with Adam, he’d punched the kid’s lights out. He’d been ready to take the fucking shot. Adam shifted on his feet, pressed on the opposite end of the room, and they both remembered. Dean didn’t want to break the silence, even as is rubbed over his skin like something scratchy and hot.

He glanced back to their room. She was peering at them through the crack in the door, and Dean gave her an amused look. She flushed, but narrowed Her eyes. He sighed, worked his jaw, and looked  back to Adam. 

“You did good.”

Adam blinked, glancing around the room, then back to Dean. “Me?”

Dean grunted. Who the hell else. “Yep.”

“Oh- Um, yeah.” Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “You- You too. You did great.”

Dean nodded, standing a little taller. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. “Stick around. Sammy’ll wanna see you.”

Adam swallowed, and nodded quickly. Dean didn’t know if that was true or not. For all he knew, Sam hadn’t really been thinking about Adam at all. But he walked back into their room—after an awkward handshake with Adam, and Cas wooshing him away—and found Her smiling at him. He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t-“

“You’re a good brother.”

Dean snorted. “I kicked him out on his ass, Princess, that’s not-“ He cut himself off, shaking his head tight.

That was something Dad would’ve done. It sat like a boulder in his stomach, pressing that pit open every time it threatened to close. Every time he got close to thinking maybe, maybe, his hands were good at just the size they were. That maybe he was alright, without all those soft places in his chest being barbed and painted in white-hot lead.

They’d been like that when he got out of hell, and She hadn’t been there. They’d been like that when She and Sammy fell in the cage, and it had just been Dean and the dark. When he sharpened himself and pressed the parts into each other, they made a flickering, harsh kind of light that let him see. It was artificial and cold and just enough to keep him from collapsing on the ground without giving up.

Then She’d come back. Dean would be made of spit and balled fists and Her light would cleave through it all. He’d melt under it. He’d see the sun and remember why he’d always hated the cold. Dean became a tree in the thaw of winter, bare bones and daggered branches turning green. Coming alive.

She reached up, grabbing his arm with a light touch. Dean held Her there, and let out a long, slow breath.

“Don’t clench your jaw,” she murmured. “It gives you a headache.”

And Dean smiled.

Rowena didn’t waste time, when she showed up. Smart choice. That was how you got stabbed.

“Did you bring gold?” She asked, looking at them down the bridge of her nose, and She frowned.

“No? I- Why would we have brought gold?”

“To go to Hell, dearie,” Rowena drawled. “It’s hell. They have a tollbooth.”

“I- We didn’t know we were going to hell-“

“Well, that will teach you to be better prepared.” Rowena looked around the group, then sighed. “You’ll owe me, if I’m paying for the braindead angel and folk boy to ride with us.”

She rolled Her eyes, spinning the Blade in her hands. “I don’t owe you anything. Let’s go.”

Rowena scowled, looking at Dean like he was supposed to do something about that. He wasn’t going to. If She wanted to be mean, she was allowed to be as mean as she wanted. If anything, it was a beam of sunlight, poking through the thick clouds of empty eyes and tears.

“I will turn you into a hamster, boy,” she hissed, while She and Cas were talking in the other room.

Dean smirked, shrugging casually. “Good luck with that, grandma.”

“Grandma-“

“Dean?” She called. “Can you grab my shoes?”

Dean ran away from Rowena. He really didn’t want to be a hamster.

Getting into hell was worryingly easy. They just needed an empty road and matchstick, and some black-eyed son of a bitch took the gold and gave them a path down. Dean was worried it was going to a walk—he could walk, but Rowena liked to move at the pace of a slug and they were kind of on a timer—but hell had a rental car business. They had a fucking Mustang.

“Order of the new King,” the demon grumbled. “We’ve been behind on the times, or something. Why we’re takin’ gold, to pay,” the demons lips curled. “Humans. To build.” He sighed. “  We have a McDonalds now, too.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathed. “Princess, can we come down here more-“

“No.” 

“Yeah, right. ‘Course not, just- Y’know.” He laughed, running his hand over the sleek metal. “Joking.”

She hummed, leaning against the hood of the car with Her arms crossed. If Sammy wasn’t still missing, Dean would think he was having a wet dream. “You want us to leave you two alone?” She teased, and Dean grinned.

“If I’m being left alone, it ain’t because of shit I’m gonna do to the car.”

He winked. She flushed and rolled Her eyes, but Dean knew that huff. She could stomp over to the door all She wanted. He could almost smell his favorite place in the world, getting wet and sore.

“You remember last time we got the car to ourselves,” he murmured, walking up behind Her. “You almost makin’ me crash it, me tossin’ you over the seats and showing you why I like to keep both my babies clean?”

He nipped at Her neck, and She grabbed his wrist. “Dean,” she glanced back, to where Rowena was intimidating the demon salesman. “You- We can’t-“

“Not here, no.” He kissed Her throat, rubbing her sides. “But, y’know. How long is it gonna take Kevin to get us another lead, after we grab Sammy?” Dean teased his hand under Her shirt. Her breath hitched. “Lotta time for some lessons. Some chances to get nice and messy.”

She looked up at him with those damn eyes, and Dean grinned. He kissed Her upper lip, then moved away. He had to get in the drivers seat, before he gave up and just bent Her over the hood of the car.

“I hate you,” She grumbled, sliding into shotgun, and Dean chuckled.

“Sure, Princess.” He squeezed Her thigh, then started the engine. She slumped in the seat, glaring at the long, tar-paved road down to hell.

Dean whistled, glancing back at Cas in the rearview.

“Literally highway to hell, huh?”

Cas shrugged. “Water flows downhill unless turned to steam.”

Dean snorted. “Right. ‘Course it does.” 

They took off. Rowena sat stiffly in the back, refusing to speak. Cas made fun little comments every mile or so about the snakes being covered in oil and the diamond still being a rock. Dean nodded along and entertained it. She leaned into his side after about ten minutes, then tugged on his shirt after fifteen.

“I don’t hate you,” she mumbled, and Dean chuckled.

He worried about a lot of stuff. He felt small in all the wrong places some nights, and he still tested his grip when She seemed to be getting slippery. The pit stretched open, when the tension over all his muscles—always wound up tight and pressing down everything he needed to cling onto—got to tight.

But he didn’t doubt that anymore. If She hated him, she’d leave. She was a lot of things. They both were. But for all Her running, Dean could at least know that She wouldn’t stich herself to him if She didn’t really damn mean it.

So he wove their fingers together, and squeezed three times. They were getting Sammy. Everything was going to be just fine.

Dean felt a little bad. Hell was not a swamp and Crowley’s place was pretty far from a brutalist fortress. There were forests, and rushing rivers that gleamed pure white. Flowers bloomed on fields with deep green grass. Pale red clouds floated on a permanently dark sky. It almost seemed like everything was made of plastic, but when Dean poked tall weed with his foot, it swayed in a chilling breeze, and diamond dust glitter fell off the leaves.

Dean leaped back. “What the fuck-“

“Don’t breathe that, De.” She grab his arm back from the plant.

“I wasn’t gonna-“

“You were standing too close-“

“I was close to me,” Dean grumbled, glancing back to the glitter. “Uh- What was it?”

“Seraph tongue,” she said. “They have it in Heaven, too. It’s an aphrodisiac.” She sighed at Dean’s confused expression. “Magic Viagra.”

“Oh.” Dean blinked, then smirked. “Oh-“

“No.” She pointed a stern finger, then spun on her heels, marching back to Rowena’s side. Dean laughed, then followed.

It was shockingly easy to get into Crowley’s castle. It was a tall, gothic thing, right down to stained glass windows of snakes and apples and pale trees. Dean craned his neck, but he couldn’t see the scrape of the highest tower against the sky. He whistled, glancing at Cas next to him.

“The hell does- Well,” he coughed. “Hell need with a freakin’  fairytale castle?”

“Falling stars resided in the sky before the met the dirt,” Cas said, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah. I guess that’s true.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’re tellin’ me Lucifer drew this place up?”

“No,” Cas gave him a flat look. “He never had a steady hand.”

Dean wasn’t able to get that one himself. He’d ask Her to translate, but there were other things to deal with. They barely made it across the wrought iron bridge before demons were dropping in front of them, black eyed and-

“Are those fuckin’ wings-“

“Don’t be rude,” She whacked Dean’s arm, throwing the demons a polite smile. “I’m sorry. He’s never been to hell before.”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, and threw the demons a winning, apologetic smile. He’d been to Hell before. But apparently the freaking slums, because his neck of the woods had been all blood rivers and  echoing screams and wingless assholes. He would’ve cut off his hand to hitch a ride over to the rich side of town.

The demons already weren’t glaring. They’d barely even spared Dean, Cas, and Rowena a look. Apparently being a Winchester, angle, and the mother of the king didn’t count for much, when you were standing behind Her.

“We’d like to speak to Crowley, please,” She said. The demons stared at Her, mouths hanging open and wings flopping behind them. Dean was wondering if they were gonna fall to their knees or something.

She cleared Her throat, stomping her foot once. The iron seemed to glow out from where her heel met the ground, like light had been poured into the metal. The demons stumbled back, exchanged a quick look, and glanced at the sky.

“The- The King-“ One of them cleared her throat. “He is occupied-“

“Good,” She shrugged. “He’ll be glad that I’m relieving him from his work.”

She started forwards, and the demons moved out of the way like waves being parted. Dean glanced at Rowena—who was watching Her with a proud smiled—and jerked his head. Rowena sighed and rolled her eyes, but walked after Her. Dean grabbed Cas’ arm and dragged him with them, giving the demons awkward nods as they passed.

Crowley really needed to hire better security. That was the only resistance they met, on the whole way to the throne room. They even had a few demons point them in the right direction. Dean couldn’t really blame anyone, though. She was a damn force, marching through the halls on a war path. With all the light and color Dean could see—with his little, beady human eyes—he imagined that to a demon she seemed like a descending wall of rainbow wildfire. Flowers weren’t blooming behind Her, but old, frayed tapestries on the wall were regaining color, and a few had water pour out of the fabric and roses bloom from woven hands.

Dean paused at the sight of one. He’d seen this one before. The girl in the flowers, hair around Her like a halo, little, firefly-like lights over her body as the earth seemed to grow and bloom around her. He couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before, but he knew he’d thought the same thing as last time.

Her. It was Her. It was always Her, and the longer Dean looked, the clearer it got. When he lingered, She seemed to be crying, and his chest tightened. Her nails weren’t painted, but blooming with roses. Small creatures gathered on the edge of the woods, watching Her as she lay. Under her, the dirt got thick and rich. A sunbeam was splitting through an invisible sky, but she seemed to be trying to bury herself from the warmth.

And Dean squinted. There was a knife curled in her one of her hands, hidden lush grass and overgrown flowers. His gaze dragged up, and in the thick of the woods, he could make out something, something like a figure-

“Dean!” She called and he forced himself away. It was just a tapestry.

Just a tapestry.

Crowley was waiting for them, lounging on a pretty boring and ugly throne, holding a goblet like some old-timey, cartoon evil king. He beamed at the sight of Her. Most people did.

“Hello, love-“

“Shup up,” She snapped, pointing Her blade at his throat. “Where the fuck is Sam.”

Crowley smiled, raising his hands in a mockery of surrender. He looked around their little group, smiling until he saw Rowena. Dean figured that was also a pretty universal norm.

“You,” Crowley sneered. “You dare show your face in my kingdom, you Whore?”

His voice echoed off the walls. Rowena didn’t even flinch. “Oh, please. You cannot scare me, Fergus. You know that temper tantrums aren’t how we get what we want.”

“That’s- You-“ Crowley spat, pointing his free hand at Rowena. “Dispose of her, now-“

The demons started down Crowley’s little dais. They didn’t make it past Her.

“You dispose of her,” She said lowly. “I turn you into nothing.”

Crowley sighed dramatically. “Fucking- You come into my house, and you bring my- my harlot of a mother, and you won’t even let me kill her?”

“You kidnapped Sam,” Dean growled, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I did not kidnap him. I bought him. For quiet a lot actually, so- You should be thanking me-“

“Thanking you-“

“Yes, thanking me!” Crowley rolled his eyes, slumping in his chair. “I spent the moon on that little boy prince, and- None of you seem to appreciate that. Even Moose kept telling me I didn’t own the moon to spend it, which,” Crowley laughed. “Just shows you his lack of killer instinct, I supposed. Azazel was right. He would not have made a good lawyer.”

“That-“ Dean ran a hand over his face. “I don’t even know what the fuck you want me to say to that-“

“That you’ll get your snarling kitten in line and let me kill the bitch?” Crowly said, and Dean gave him a flat glare.

“Look, I’m all for killing Rowena-“

“Dean-“

“But,” he added quickly, throwing Her a quick smile. “We’re just here to grab Sammy. Sorry about your net loss with the moon, but we’re takin’ him, or I’m letting the kitten loose.”

She glared at him, and Dean gave Her an apologetic, sheepish smile.

“I said I’d let you loose, baby-“

“You called me a kitten,” She hissed, and Dean threw Crowley a look.

“You see? You don’t wanna piss her off.”

Crowley looked between them with thin lips, brow knit. Dean wasn’t that worried. These weren’t Leviathans or angels. She could probably conquer Hell like a hotter, sexier Gengis Khan if she wanted.

“Do you like my castle?” Crowley said suddenly, and Dean blinked.

“Do we… like your castle?”

Crowley nodded. “I’ve made renovations, in the past few years. Lilith wasn’t very aesthetically oriented, and well- She was rather devoted to Lucifer. Half the place was in ruins, due to historical preservation. And I never had a real home of my home,” Crowley shot Rowena a glare, and she scoffed.

“Don’t  be a child, we had a lovely shack that you were never grateful for-“

“But,” Crowley raised his voice over Rowena’s “This place is mine. Do you like. It.”

“It’s, uh-“ Dean glanced around the spare, large throne room. “Clean.”

Crowley hummed. “It is, isn’t it. Sam’s quarters are more decorated, I promise. The throne room just takes time, to get it just right.”

She and Dean exchanged sharp looks. She stood a little taller. “Sam- Where-“

“He’s been given his own little space. He’s a valuable guest, and prime bait.” Crowley smirked at them, and Dean swallowed.

“Bait…” He muttered, taking a half step in front of Her. “You- You knew we’d come for him-“

“Of course I knew you’d come for him,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “That’s what you people do for each other. One of the young ones gets kidnapped,” he waved a hand at Her. “Then daddy comes to grab them and get them home. You really should put trackers on your pets, Squirrel, it’s getting disgustingly easy.”

Dean scowled, his hands balling into fists. It was moments like that, that he really wished he hadn’t lost Excalibur or the Colt. “Where the hell is Sammy.”

Crowley grinned. “I’m so glad you asked. He’s been taken care of. I’m actually rather fond of all of you. That’s why you’re still alive. Except you, mother.” He shot Rowena a glare. “You’re alive because we’re not near my scorpion pit, and I don’t think you’re worth a body bag.”

Rowena gave him an unimpressed look, but still made Cas walk in front of her and Dean behind her as Crowley led them to Sam. He was, just as Crowley had promised, in his own quarters. It was like walking into a damn luxury hotel. The kind of shit Dean only saw on TV, that he used to think was exaggerated, because there was no way there were such perfect places in the world. Flat screen TV, stereo, mini bar, a freakin’ massive bathtub- ‘

“Dean, stop playing with the fridge.” Sam sighed from the bed, and Dean flipped him off.

“It gives you whatever the hell you want, like- Like freakin’ magic-“

“That’s because it is magic.”

Dean shot Sam a glare. “We came to rescue you, bitch-“

“Yeah, and you’re doing a really good job of it, jerk-“

“Well, I’d like to see you do better-“

“Dean.” She gave him a stern look, and Dean sighed. Sam stuck his tongue out, behind Her back. Dean glowered hard enough for Sam to feel it.

It was annoying, when Sam was right. This was not the heroic rescue Dean had pictured.

“Squirrel here is bound to this room,” Crowley drawled smugly. “Show them.”

Sam sighed, and raised his hand. There was a black band around his wrist, and She grabbed his forearm. Sam whined Her name, and she let go with a mumbled apology.

“This is just a location binding spell,” She said slowly, and Crowley cleared his throat.

“Yes, but breaking it might hurt our lovely Sammy. And I don’t think he has much in him left to break.”

Sam bowed his head, and Dean glared at Crowley.

“Fine. You got us here. What the hell do you want.”

Crowley beamed. “Oh, I don’t want anything. But Eve,” he shrugged. “She’ll be here in a week. And she’s the one who you’ll be negotiating with. I’m just-“ He waved a hand. “The charm and pretty face.”

A week. For once they weren’t on a timer, but Dean still didn’t like it. A week in hell to free his brother sounded like something out of a bad Disney movie. They even got their own quarters, with their own soda machine, and Dean sat on the edge of the bed in protest, his hands clasped between his legs.

“I don’t trust it,” he muttered Her name, watching her move around the room. “It’s like that one movie, with David Bowie and the Muppets-“

“Labyrinth?”

“Yeah, that one-“

“I love that movie,” She murmured, and Dean sighed.

“I know you do, sweetheart, but-“

“This isn’t like Labyrinth.” She frowned at him, leaning back against the dresser. “We’re already in the castle. Jenny has to get to the castle.”

Dean paused. “Who the hell is Jenny.”

“The girl in the Labyrinth.” She tilted Her head. “And David Bowie is trying to marry Jenny. He’s not trying to marry us, De-“

“That you think. He could be tryin’ to marry you.”

She sniffed, crossing Her arms. “Or he’s trying to marry you-“

“He’s not trying to marry me-“

“Well why does he have to marry me-“

“He’s not gonna marry you, Princess, just-“ Dean ran a hand over his face. “Forget about the movie, alright?” He reached out, beckoning her forward. “C’mere.”

She wrinkled Her nose, but shuffled between Dean’s legs. He held Her lower back, looking up at Her with a tight jaw. She traced the line of it, and he let out a long breath through his nose.

“I just don’t trust it,” he muttered. “Crowley, Eve, Sammy bein’ bait for us- I don’t like it.”

“I know,” she whispered, giving him a sad smile. “But- We play the game. Then we win, right? And we go home.”

Dean swallowed. He wasn’t sure. They hadn’t been winning much lately, and whenever they did, it felt like their luck was just a few cards away from running out.

“Yeah,” he muttered, pressing his face into Her chest. “Then we go home.”

The first night passed, and Dean stared at Her, and the ceiling. Crowley had given them silken, embroidered pajamas. Dean had opted for his boxers, and he wasn’t getting any complaints. She’d crawled over him in bed with an adorably flushed face, then curled in his arms like deadweight blankets. Dean ran his fingers through Her hair and watched the shadows move over the ceiling. Hell didn’t have a sun, but She said it had strange kinds of moons that took light breaking in from the outer edges and cast it around. Dean asked Her if anyone had named the moons. She said there were thousands of them, and no one in Hell really cared about documentation of celestial bodies. He only knew it was morning because someone rang a bell. The sound pounded through his skull, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Jesus, fuckin’- You’d think we were living in the medieval ages,” he groaned. “Hasn’t anyone heard of a freakin’ alarm clock?”

She giggled against him, lips grazing under his jaw. “Crowley’s from the medieval ages. Maybe it’s nostalgic.”

Dean grunted. “Well, if I was the king of hell I wouldn’t waste time tryin’ to recreate a shit childhood. If I bothered, we’d be waking up to a gunshot.”

She got quiet. She did that sometimes, when Dean talked about Dad. He leaned back to get a good look at Her, and she was pouting at his tattoo.

He murmured Her name, tracing Her upper arm. “I’m fine now-“

“I know.”

She didn’t say anything else. Dean sighed, and kissed the top of Her head. She hugged him tighter. He didn’t bother to tell himself he didn’t need it. That pit closed up again, over grown with honeysuckle and sweet, flowering oranges. Dean might be hungry.

“You want some breakfast, baby?” She nodded, but didn’t move. Dean didn’t try to make Her. He’d lie here all day, if he was allowed.

“I don’t like him,” She muttered, after ten minutes, or maybe an hour, of lying in bed. “I- I fucking hated him. I hate him now.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah. I’m not-“ He sighed, closing his eyes.

He still couldn’t say it. Every time he tried it was like something was pressing down on his tongue, threatening to cut it off. He’d think the words and flinch, ready for the blow to come. And a small part of him that still looked down at Sammy and over examined Her every glance whispered he did his best. You weren’t easy. Weren’t useful, ‘till he made you. Not much, until you got a gun in your hands.

She looked at him like he was a lot. Held him like She was just as scared to let go. And Dean still couldn’t say it. But he took a deep breath, watched Her under lidded eyes, and tried.

“He didn’t like you,” he murmured, and Her brow knit tight. “But I do. And you know what I woulda done. If- If he’d given me the choice.”

Dean ran his thumb down Her nose, and her gaze softened. She glanced at Dean’s lips, then met his gaze. He chuckled and kissed Her. And he still didn’t trust this, but Christ, compared to weeks in motels and hovels, running from crazy or watching Her waste away in ghostless house that was haunted, this might as well be a freakin’ vacation.

There were some small payments, but nothing good came free. Rowena wasn’t allowed to leave her quarters, because—in Crowley’s words—she was an untrusting, sticky-fingered whore. Sammy wasn’t in the best shape, but that was kinda always the case. Crowley made them eat with him all the time. By dinner on the first day, Dean thought Eve wasn’t actually coming, and Crowley just wanted some damn friends.

“You got no one else to ea’ with?” He snapped with a mouthful of turkey, and She hit his thigh under the table. “What? We’re the only feeple a’ dinna-“

“Chew,” She hissed, and Dean rolled his eyes.

He chewed and swallowed dramatically, then opened Her mouth for her to examine. She made a face, pushing his away with a flat hand, and Dean laughed.

“Did you find them in a barn,” Crowley drawled Her name, and Sam frowned.

“I’m being polite, Dean’s the one who’s a- A freakin’ dog-“

“Dogs are trained, Moose,” Crowley sniffed. “And you are using the wrong salad fork.”

“But-“ Sam glanced down at his food. “There isn’t a salad…”

He looked at Her, and she gave him an apologetic smile. “Yeah, but- You are using the wrong fork.”

Sammy sighed, and leaned over his plate with a sigh. They separated after dinner. They’d meet up again in the morning for another, weird breakfast.

“I’m not crazy, right?” He asked Her, pulling on his socks. “Crowley trying to wine and dine us, it’s freakin’ weird.”

She hummed, smiling at him from the mirror. “Maybe he really is trying to marry us.”

Dean snorted. “No. It’s more- I don’t know. I’m gettin’ romance book vibes. But a bad one. An airport read.”

“Hm,” Her lips twitched. “How would you know what an airport read is?”

Dean scowled, glaring at Her through the mirror, and She giggled. He walked up behind Her, tracing her sides with light, teasing fingers and kissing over her shoulder.

“Maybe he’s just trying to sleep with us?” She said, and Dean hummed, making out with that soft spot on Her throat.

“He ain’t tryin’ to sleep with us-“

“He’s just trying to sleep with you- Dean!”

He poked Her underarm and she squealed, shoving him back. Dean caught Her with an arm around her stomach, stealing fast kisses all over Her face.

“She’s got jokes,” he muttered, nipping at Her nose. “Dishes it but won’t take it, huh?”

She shoved his chest, and Dean knew that flustered, breathy voice too well. Went straight do his damn cock.

“I hope he gives you a bad blowjob,” she grumbled, turning back to the mirror, and Dean chuckled.

“If anyone’s givin’ me bad head, it’s gonna be you, sweetheart.” He paused, watching the slight waver in Her expression. “Or- Good head. You’re the only one giving me head. Not sticking it anywhere that’s not you, or- Somewhere you tell me to stick it. Your joystick. That’s-“ He cleared his throat. “I’m gonna stop talking.”

“Good call,” She whispered, and Dean nodded, pressing a kiss to Her cheek.

He took a cold shower. Breakfast was slowly, but Crowley said sausage twenty times, about they exchanged looks until She broke down in giggles. Everyone else seemed confused except for Cas, who announced to the whole table that Dean’s progeny were in the pipes of the castle.

“Dude,” he muttered after breakfast. “Why did you fuckin’ know that, do you have like- A freakin’ radar on my sperm? On everyone’s sperm?”

Cas shook his head. “Just yours.”

“I- Why?”

Cas said Her name. “She ordered me to keep you safe.”

“She-“ Dean rubbed his jaw. “She told you that like- Forever ago-“

“Commandments do not erode with the sand they are written on, Dean-“

“And,” he snapped. “She didn’t mean all of me! Not- That part!”

Cas frowned, and Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t getting it at all.

“Where’s my sperm, right now.”

“Much of it has been scattered through waste plants, or bodies of water.” Cas frowned at the air. Dean didn’t love that this was the most lucid he’d been since Purgatory. “A large amount was put inside-“

“Alright!” Dean shouted, marching back into Sam’s room. “That’s- I think that’s good!”

She and Sammy were sitting on then ground, playing cards. They looked up when Dean stormed in, Cas shuffling behind him, both wearing curious expressions. Dean marched over to Her side, grabbing her face and pressing a quick, rough kiss to Her lips.

“Good news,” he muttered. “Cas knows whenever we have sex.”

Sam choked on nothing, and Dean got shoved for that one. Cas got a talk about inside thoughts. Dean didn’t think it was going to take.

He left the dork squad to their card games and conversations about Hell’s Geography so he could sneak around the castle. The place was fucking huge, but She attracted attention everywhere—shining like a damn lighthouse in a storm—and Crowley was keeping too tight tabs on Sammy and Rowena, so Dean was in solo spy mode. He’d said he was Bond. She said he could call it whatever he wanted, as long as he was careful.

The goal was to find something about the Leviathans and Eve were aiming for. Crowley had to have some clue, working with both of them. Dean wasn’t finding jack shit, but that didn’t stop his nerds from speculating. Sam’s theory was death for death’s sake. She wasn’t so sure.

“God seems really worried about them,” She murmured, shuffling the cards. “He made me another offer, which he only does when he’s desperate-“

“Hold up,” Dean grunted. “God what.”

She froze, mouth hanging open, and Sam sighed Her name.

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Didn’t tell me what,” Dean pushed the words through his teeth, and She sighed.

“I- I was going to, De, I promise, I just-“

“You didn’t,” Sam muttered, and She hit his arm.

“You got kidnapped, dickbutt. I was worried about you.”

“Excuses- Ow!”

Sam whined, rubbing the back of his neck. Dean said Her name, stalking over to glare down at Her. He got that sweet smile and those fluttering eyes, but he’d been ready for that. He raised his brows, bracing himself for the pout. She sighed, and flopped flat on Her back.

“God visited me,” She mumbled. “When we were with the Men of Letters. He- He offered to fix everything. To bring- Bring Bobby back. And get everyone out, and give you guys the weapon, and make sure you lead good lives. He said you could visit me-“

“Visit you.” Dean snapped, and She swallowed.

“He asked again,” She mumbled, rubbing the scar on her palm. “But- I said no! I told him no, De- I- I did.” She swallowed. Dean could see Her nails, pressing into her skin. “I promise.”

Dean believed Her. For this, it wasn’t a hard thing to do. But he had to take a deep breath. He sat back down, pressing his face into his hands, and tried to unclench his jaw. A light hand rested on his knee, and he took it. He wasn’t pissed. Not at Her.

But there was this asshole out there, who wanted to take his girl. Who made Her cry and bothered her and promised to give Bobby back after helping kill him. Dean rarely bothered with what ifs. They didn’t do much but make his chest ache, because yeah, what if Dad hadn’t made him leave all those years ago. What if She hadn’t been forced away from him after the car crash. What if he’d told her about the deal sooner, what if he’d put his foot down about that dumb plan with Jo, what if he’d never promised Her not to let Michael in, what if She’d come home right after getting out of the cage, what if, what if what if. It swirled like a storm over the ocean, and got dragged down to the dark where he couldn’t see or breathe or find his way back up.

But what if.

What if this just wasn’t their life. What if he had a normal job, and She was a pretty girl he ran into at the gas station. What if they dated and he proposed and they got married and the time flied without getting caught in spiderwebs. What if She had a stalker and Dean was allowed to just sock the son of a bitch in the face.

What if he could protect Her.

They spent the rest of the day making quiet plans. She looked at Sam’s cuff, trying to find a way to get it off without damaging his soul. Dean did another lap, finding the library and the garden. Most everything in the library was written in languages he couldn’t read, the only English books being the Harry Potter series, the Wealth of Nations, Fifty Shades of Gray, and a copy of the South’s Constitution when they broke from the Union. Dean tossed that last one in the fire and watched it burn. It was, if nothing else, pretty damn therapeutic.

The garden was nicer. There weren’t any clues about Eve, but at the very least nothing tried to eat him, and he’d kind of been ready for that. That damn hallugian plant was growing in a quartered off section, and when Dean tried to casually drop his lighter in the crop, it bounced back and hit his jaw. The diamond glitter sex plant was back, and a very loud, animalistic part of him wanted to take a whiff just to see what kind of juice it would have. He managed not to, only for Her sake. He’d had himself on a leash for eleven years, and he’d been giving slack as She got more comfortable, but they were pretty far from full blow collar off. If Dean turned into an lustblind, magic pilled wolf on a mission to hump Her leg, he was pretty sure She’d break. 

Not that he’d hurt Her. He’d never hurt Her, even whammied up. But he’d toss Her around the bed and die between Her thighs. He’d pull Her into his lap and rut up into Her, sucking on Her breasts until they were raw and red. He’d bury himself in Her until one thrust made them both come apart, then he’d rail Her into the mattress, and a while after. She wouldn’t be able to walk. He might end up breaking his dick off. Would be worth it, if She could say cum without getting flustered.

He gave up on the garden. Wasn’t gonna find Eve’s master plan in there anyway.

She was already in their room, when Dean got back. He kissed the top of Her head and went to shower. He stared at the drain for five extra minutes, the water pouring down his face. Freaking Cas.

“I can’t jerk off in the shower anymore,” he grumbled, walking into the bedroom.

She dropped Her water glass. Dean caught it, set it on the minibar, and kissed Her cheek.

“Careful,” he muttered, and She nodded, staring at him like She’d never seen his chest before.

Dean tried not to puff up too much, but the way she was looking at him might as well be a shot of helium. It was a lot of effort not to slip his hand under Her oversized shirt. He was supposed to still be pissed at Her, for not telling him about the God thing.

He moved around the room, grabbing clean boxers from the duffle bag and making sure Bobby’s bottle was comfortably hidden under some sheets. One sex trauma was enough for the day.

“You-“ She cleared Her throat, and Dean glanced over. She hadn’t moved from that one spot. “You can’t what?”

Dean sighed. “Jerk off in the shower. Not when I know I got Cas doing a freakin’ sperm count.”

“Why- When do you jerk off in the shower?”

“I dunno. All the time.” He laughed to himself, pulling on his boxers. “Only thing that got me through the past eleven years. You know.”

Dean shrugged, because yeah, She hadn’t really been doing sex, but it wasn’t like she’d just been hands off. Then Dean looked at Her, and she was swaying slightly. He’d think there was a breeze, if this room wasn’t perfect temperature. He frowned at Her parted lips and glazed features, like steam was literally forming under Her skin. He cleared his throat, turning slowly, and said Her name.

She made a tiny sound and took a step back. Dean swore under his breath, and looked up to the ceiling.

“Princess-“

“I’ve masturbated!” She shouted, and Dean bit back his snort.

“Yeah, alright-“

“I have,” She protested, arms wrapped tight around Her stomach. “A- A few times in Europe, and the Middle East, and- When- Once when- I- Um-“ Her eyes widened. “Never-mind.”

Dean frowned. “No, you gotta finish that sentence.”

“No, I don’t-“

“Yeah, you do, once when what-“

“Once when nothing!” She took another step back, pressing against the minibar. “It’s- It’s not, I said nevermind-“

“I heard you, baby, just-“ Dean crossed the room, grabbing Her hands when she tried to hide her face. “Hey. Hey,” he ducked down, trying to catch Her eye. “Princess. Look at me.”

She didn’t. Dean sighed.

“Look, I can tell you right now, nothing you’ve got is gonna shake me. I, uh-“ He cleared his throat, steeling his voice. “I’ve- I’ve done it in some weird ways. Weird places. Kinda places I shouldn’t have been.” He shrugged. “It ain’t a big thing. Most everyone’s gotta sometimes, and- What’ve I been tellin’ you?”

She swallowed, head still bowed. “It’s okay to want things.”

“Louder,” Dean coaxed, and She shot him a glare from under pretty lashes.

“It’s okay to want things.”

“Good girl,” Dean kissed the space between Her eyes, and remembered that he was supposed to be mad at her. He’d never been good at that anyways.

They got into bed, and Dean pulled Her into his chest. He’d spend the night watching the moonlight again. Were worse ways for that time to pass. At least this way, he had Her in his arms.

And he knew that he could’ve pushed that somewhere. She’d been ready. She’d been looking at him with those fuck-me doe eyes, and if he’d pulled Her pretty ass into bed, she would be singing his name into the sheets right now. He’d had fun teasing Her, the past month. Getting her right to the edge, then cutting off. He’d thought she’d like it, and he hadn’t been getting any complaints.

But he’d also been assuming that She, like he, would be touching herself on Her own time. He should’ve known better. Should’ve known his awkward, anxious girl well enough to figure out that she was just pent up down there. Ready to burst.

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. He was half-hard, and trying to convince himself not to touch Her. The Bobby wound was too raw. The man was in a damn bottle in the room, what if he heard the whole thing and shot Dean when he came back. 

The night passed slower than the last one. Dean was sore from blue balling himself, when they got to breakfast. He grit his teeth and took it, like a man. She patted his jaw at the table, and that didn’t help at all.

“De, don’t-“

“I’m not clenching,” he muttered, and She gave him a flat look.

“I can see it.”

“So? We can all see things, Princess-“

“Dean Winchester.”

He winced, hand frozen midair to reach for the syrup. Crowley whistled, grinning between them. Dean had a new theory. They were in house entertainment.

He unclenched his jaw, and poured the syrup over Her pancake. She glared at him the whole time. It was pretty hot.

“Sorry, baby,” he kissed Her cheek, and She huffed. “You look pretty this morning-“

“Eat your pancakes.”

Dean sighed, and stuffed the food into his mouth. Sam was snickering into his pancakes, Dean glowered at him. If he told Jo about this, Dean didn’t care how tall and big he was. He was getting his ass tossed in Crowley’s stupid fucking moat.

“Your majesty,” a black eyed demon walked into the dining hall, and Dean exchanged a shaper look with Sam.

 They hadn’t had an interruption yet.

“Oh, for-“ Crowley sighed dramatically, gesturing around the table. “Can you not see I have guests?”

The demon cleared his throat, scanning over the table. Sam and Dean got the distain they were used to. Cas got a slight double-take. The demon’s eyes landed on Her, and they didn’t move until Crowley loudly cleared his throat.

“If this is not time sensitive, I advise you leave now before I slit your ugly meat-sacks throat and let the Winchester play with the leftovers.”

Sam sighed, and Dean glared up the table. “We ain’t doing your dirty work, Crowley-“

“Of course you’re not. I am trying to make a threat.” He glared back to the demon, his voice raising. “What. Is. It.”

“Oh- Um-“ The demon stood a little taller, giving Her one more look. “We have news from Edgar that they found another nest. This one did not contain any young first beasts.”

She sat up, eyes going sharp. “I’m sorry- Another nest?” She looked between the demon and Crowley. “What kind of- Like a monster nest?”

Crowley ignored Her. “Well, just- Tell them my demons will remain out of their way, but if they throw another one in like shark bait, I will remind Eve just how many of her children are wasted on her brutish tactics.”

“Children?” She hissed, and Sam gave Dean a nervous, do something look.

Dean shook his head. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Sam jerked his head at Her. Fix it.

Fix- Dean rolled his eyes. Not that fucking easy, Sammy.

Sam’s nose wrinkled. Seems easy.

Dean flipped him off. You fucking try.

Sam just scowled, and jerked his head again. Dean didn’t need him to keep doing that. He could already tell that the air was soured.

“Crowley,” she hissed. “What the fuck are the Leviathans doing.”

Crowley sighed, dismissing the demon with a wave. “In all honestly, love, I don’t fucking know. They tell me they need demons, I give them demons. Eve tells me she needs demons, I give her demons. They all come back talking of- Of parasites and nests and reeking of that godawful smell.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know what their failure to find a first beast has to do with me.”

Her fingers were curling over the butter knife. That Silver light was pouring out of Her. Dean could almost see the color of every particle, floating through the air in a strange, war-like dance. “What do they want with a first beast,” she muttered, and Crowley shrugged.

“Oh, who cares-“

She shot to Her feet, and Crowley toppled back in his stupid, velvet chair. She was clinging to the butter knife the same way she held her blades. If Dean was Crowley, he’d start protecting his eyes and crotch.

She took several long, deep breathes. The flowers on the middle of the table were withering. Dean heard a chirp, and glanced over at the platter of eggs to find a smack of baby chicks. He swallowed, and grabbed Her hand.

He squeezed three times, and those blinding eyes shot to Dean’s. He held them, and squeezed again. He knew She was still angry about not being able to track down Balthazar for that monster daycare thing—which Dean had thought was crazy, but it had mattered to Her, so he’d been down with it—and wasn’t gonna be taking this one lightly, but not here. Not now. Not for a parasite like Crowley.

She let out a sharp breath, and the power waving off of Her dampened. She took a stumbling step back, then another. She stormed away, and Sam followed with a call of Her name. Dean stood up, tossing his tablecloth down, and gave Crowley a tight, empty smile.

“Breakfast seems done, then-“

“Dean,” Crowley cut him off, staring after where she’d vanished. “May I offer you some… advice.”

Dean almost laughed. “Hell, no. I- Why the fuck would that be a yeah, I don’t even listen to self-help coaches, or- Or Oprah-“

“Keep her out of this,” Crowley said, his voice dropping to something low and darker. Dean froze, a chill over his skin that didn’t seem to belong in hell.

“You know that ain’t up to me,” he muttered, and Crowley gave him a hooded, iron look.

“I’d do my best, if I were you,” he moved to his feet, smoothing his coat. “And it is not as if we all don’t stand against the same thing, is it?”

Dean opened his mouth to say they didn’t, but Crowley vanished. Leaving him with Cas, who was still eating his pancake. He raised his brows, and Cas frowned at him with puffy cheeks.

“There is a blessing, over this meal.”

A chick hopped on Cas’ spoon, and he smiled like a child. Dean sighed and clapped his shoulder. “Don’t eat the chicks,” he muttered, before following after Her and Sammy.

They’d made it back to their room. Sam was sitting next to Her on the bed, mumbling something that he quickly gave up on when Dean walked through the door.

“And- Look- Everyone’s fine-“

“Sam,” Dean muttered, nodding to the door. Sam took the cue with a sharp breath of relief.

She hadn’t once looked up from Her hands. They were restless, picking at Her nails and rubbing her wrists raw and red. Dean didn’t wait for the door to close, before he crossed the room to Her side. He knelt before her, covering those twitching finger with his own, and murmured Her name. She dropped Her face down into his shoulder without a word. He cradled the back of Her head, closing his eyes and taking a long, slow breath.

He didn’t get it. Not as much as he wanted to. Part of him might always hear Dad’s voice in his head, telling him to shoot first or be the one bleeding on the floor. That had gone for monsters, for ghosts, for other hunters when it had to. Didn’t matter how old, how big, how small. You grow a spine and pull the trigger, or you get your feeble one ripped out of your body.

But She trembled in Dean’s arms, and he rubbed her back slowly, and she had a strong spine. Sometimes he worried it was too strong. That She’d get some bright idea that would scare anyone else shitless, and he’d finally run out of that thin, borrowed luck. And Dean knew it wouldn’t take much. If she thought she had some way to protect those baby monsters, he was gonna need to start throwing pennies into water fountains.

And there wasn’t anything he could say. Not to make this better, or worse. Which was the worst goddamn kind of pain. It seeped between cracks and stuck, stubborn and angry. Dean leaned back, pulling Her face between his hands. They’d been here a million times before. They’d be here a million times again, and saying this isn’t your fault never worked on either of them.

“Dance with me.”

She blinked at him, tears clinging to Her lashes. “What?”

“Dance with me, Princess.” Dean wiped a stray tear, offering Her a small smile. He stood, holding out a hand, and beckoned Her. “C’mon.”

She stared at him, glancing between his hand and his face. He raised his brows, tipping his chin to his hand, and She swallowed.

She took his hand with light, fragile fingers. Dean grinned and pulled Her right up to his chest. His arm went around Her waist, and he squeezed Her hand three times, rocking them back and forth through the center of the room.

It wasn’t a coordinated dance. It was quiet until Dean started humming, and he wasn’t following any of those fancy steps She probably knew. They mostly swayed to a silent rhythm, Dean guiding them through a made up waltz that felt better than it probably looked. But She watched him with soft eyes, and Dean leaned down like a moth to the candle. She wasn’t crying anymore. When he kissed Her, she let out a shaky breath against his lips.

And he smiled. Nothing was better.

But it felt cleaner. And everything hurt just a little less.  

Dec. 18th – 2011

Princess,

There’s a moon that’s coming around every night. Never see any of the other ones twice (you told me something about hell being a sphere like Earth, but we’re on the inside, but then Sammy started talking about an old book and you got excited about a map and I kinda stopped paying attenition) but this one keeps coming back. thought I was going crazy at first, but I’m sure. It’s the only one with the craters that look like a peach. I called it the butt moon last night. Not sure if you remember, but it’s the butt moon.

I don’t know if it always does that. I’d ask you, but you’re doing a lot right now, and the butt moon isn’t that important. I asked Cas before dinner and he said it that everything found gravity eventually. Not sure what that meant. I thought moons needed gravity to function at all, but I also didn’t think hell had moons, and I was pretty damn positive that hell was all floating rocks and fire rivers.  Didn’t know they did real estate. Makes sense, though. They probably invented it.

If this is Hell, though, I’ve been wondering about Heaven. When we popped up there it was all memories and a garden, but that can’t be the whole thing. Wouldn’t make sense for God to give the demons their own little planet that could run on National Geographic, but the angels are stuck wandering around human’s lame memories. I mean, Sammy and I had good memories, but they’re mostly in random forests and motels. That’s not gonna be a fun eternity. There’s gotta be something more, or God’s more of a dick than we thought.

The butt moon is coming back around. Staring to see it out the window right now. You’re out. Went right down, after I got you in the shower. I’m proud of you for sleeping more, lately. You’d been freaking me out with everything, and I know it’s hard right how, but

I don’t know. I really wish I knew, sweetheart, but no one fucking knows. When my Dad died I fixed up Baby then bashed her in again. Sammy got quiet. We got through it, but it’s different. Dad was different. We’re different, than you and Bobby. So I don’t fucking know what’s gonna make this better, but you’ve got me. Whenever it hurts, please just fucking remember that you’ve got me. I’d rather you scratch me up than go down alone. That’s what I’m here for.

Please don’t go alone.

Butt moon is up, now. Don’t know if Hell names its moons. Think I’m gonna call this one Bobby.

Sleep well, Princess. I love you.

Yours,

DAW

Every day, Crowley held four meetings. Two in the throne room, two in an off chamber with a big table, lots of chairs, and a pretty cool looking layered map of Hell and Earth. Dean knew this, because he’d been stalking the son of a bitch all week.

Crowley sat at the head of the magic table. His top demons—mostly of them wearing generic meat-suits that had to have been pulled right out of Wall Street—gave pitches about things Dean had expected, and things he really hadn’t. Demons didn’t eat, but they had a department of agriculture. That demon sat between the department of torture, and the department of nightmares. Dean stayed hidden behind the thick curtain, listening to them discuss the best was to torture the ballsack. At one point—based on sound alone—it seemed like someone had pulled theirs out for experiment. Dean was really glad She’d slept through breakfast, and given him an excuse to skip it all together.

The room cleared after the meeting, and Dean slipped out. If anywhere was going to have some kind of plans written down, it had to be the damn war room. The walls were lined with tattered books he couldn’t read, and art of humans getting their skulls cracked open and blood drained. There was a painting of some red smoke behind the head chair, and after a few seconds of squinting, Dean figured it had to be Crowley. No other red smoke was that ugly.

“Admiring my portrait, Dean?” 

Crowley stepped out from behind another curtain, and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Fuckin’- Christ-“

“Not here,” Crowley smirked. “Disrespectful.”

Dean scowled, fisting his hands. Crowley was a crossroads demon. Dean could land a blow and run, before he got stripped down to sinew and bone-

“Oh- Put the guns away.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re not that happy to see me.”

Dean didn’t unclench his fists. Crowley sighed, giving him an unimpressed look.

“I’m not about to kill you. Not right now.”

“Why not,” Dean grunted, and Crowley snorted.

“Because I am in my house. And if I kill Dean Winchester in my house,” he said Her name pointedly. “She’ll blow it right to- Well, below hell. And all the money I poured into renovations? Waste.”

Dean swallowed. “You’re not killing me ‘cause you like your freakin’ curtains?”

“I’m not killing you because I am not a fool, Squirrel,” Crowley said. “But you- You are quite the monkey-skulled pain in my unholy ass, aren’t you.”

“I try.”

Crowley smirked. “Oh, I’m sure you do,” he looked Dean up and down, and Dean’s lip curled.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna have to remind you I’m a taken man.”

“As if I don’t already know. She practically written mine on your forehead.” Crowley hummed. “You know, if you intend to remain claimed, I’d try to be more official than flashing fists and- Being a human brute-“

“I’m not taking your relationship advice.”

“Ah, well. Your loss,” Crowley shrugged. “Why are you poking around my war room, Dean. As a host,” he raised his brows. “I need to remind you it’s rather rude.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. Crowley was circling him like a fucking shark. He remained planted in his spot, tracking every damn step. “Didn’t know you cared so much about manners.”

“Of course I care about manners. I’m a demon, not a billionaire.” Crowley tipped his head. “May I guess, why you’re snooping around my castle like a bloody fucking racoon?”

Dean didn’t answer. Crowley hummed, and tipped his head.

“I mean, it’s not a very fun game for me, is it. You want to stop us. Stop Eve.” Crowley sighed. “What did I tell you, Dean, about us all being on the same fucking side-“

“We are not on the same side,” Dean spat, and Crowley gave him an amused look.

“You believe that. Humans,” he sighed. “So easily manipulated. Do you have any idea, the kind of glory that could come for you, if you’d just give up that horrible, weak, humanness?” Crowley shook his head, a mocking sympathy coated over every word. “You learn to take what you need. Do what you want, have what you want, and keep it.”

“I have what I want-“

“Oh- Please,” Crowley laughed. “You have a girl with God over her fucking shoulder and a brother whose soul is patchier than a whore’s bush. You could have power,” Crowley stopped in front of him, eyes gleaming in the dark. “You could have everything, if you’d remember what you are. What we let you be, here.” His mouth curled into a crude smile. “You remember it. The fun. With my business instinct, and your- Muscle,” he waved a hand to Dean’s arm. “With the Moose’s brains and the Bride of God on our side-“

“Are you tryin’ to fucking recruit us?” Dean cut him off, taking a large step forward, and Crowley smirked.

“Took you a moment, didn’t it. Only get away with being the thick one because of that pretty little face.”

Dean worked his jaw. “You thought this was gonna work? You don’t kill us and we flip to the dark side?”

“Dark side,” Crowley shrugged. “I get what I want, don’t I?”

“By fuckin’ everyone else over-“

“Because that is the goddamn game,” Crowley hissed, taking a step forward. “Which you will, one day, finally get through that thick, pretty head. The rest of us already know. Everyone knows. Me, Eve,” he sneered Her name. “Even Castiel before he lost his rocker. You play to win, or you lose.”

Dean held Crowley’s stare, keeping his head tipped up. “Why the hell do you care, if we win or lose.”

“I told you already. I’m fond-“

“You’re fond of our power.” Dean said Her name tightly. “You’re fond of keeping on her good side.”

And Crowley just laughed. “Aren’t we all?”

Dean didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to dignify Crowley with one anyway. He flinched, when Crowley patted his chest, holding his breath like the sulfur could creep up his nose.

“Think about it some more,” Crowley said. “And- I have a party tomorrow. For myself. No occasion, but you don’t need on when you’re the king.” He smiled. “Bring the team. And think about it. If not for me,” he took a step back. “For Sammy. And his poor, tattered soul.”

Crowley vanished, leaving Dean alone again. He swallowed, and looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t want to go to that damn party. His damn brother and soulmate would. If he was smarter, he just wouldn’t tell them.

But he wasn’t smarter, and just as always, he got outvoted.

“Could be a trap-“

“This whole thing is a trap, Dean.” Sam said. “I mean, we’re trapped in Crowley’s house, if it was the kinda trap where he wanted to kill us, he’d just freakin’ kill us.”

Dean frowned. “Yeah, but if he wants to kill us, we could at least not make it easy for him.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be easy for him,” She said softly, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah, but I also don’t think he’s tryin’ to kill us. I mean, he pretty much spelled that part out.”

Sam gave him a doubtful look. “And you trust him?”

“You’re the one who wants to go to his fuckin’ party, Sammy-“

“Because I think we might be able to get a lead there-“

“Or we get drugged. And put in the human zoo.”

She blinked. “They have a human zoo?”

“Everything is a zoo when you cannot be put in a cage,” Cas mused, flipping over the cards in his hands, and Dean sat on the bed.

“Wise words, buddy,” he muttered, glaring around the room. “Rowena, you wanna contribute?”

“I don’t care,” she said, not looking up from her book, and Dean sighed.

“Great.” He looked between Her and Sam. “You two are doin’ this whether I like it or not, aren’t you?”

They exchanged guilty look, and Dean rubbed his jaw. He knew better than to lock them up or tell them a hard no. He’d watched a documentary last week—She’d watched it, but Dean had also been there—about decriminalization. Parameters rather than cages.

He could work with that.

It took the whole day to get the feral nerds to agree to Dean’s plan. There was a lot of negoations, and apologies, and kissing Her until she stopped glaring and pouting.

“I could help more-“

“I know you could, baby,” Dean cooed, kissing one cheek, then the other. “But the demons are scared of you.”

“So they’ll talk more-“

“They’ll either hit on you, or not say anything.”

She rolled Her eyes, but didn’t move away from Dean’s hold. “They won’t hit on me.”

Dean chuckled. “Mhm.”

She twisted, fixing him with a glare. “They won’t-“

“Princess,” Dean said gently, brushing the hair from Her face. “You can’t tell when I’m hittin’ on you.”

She flushed, and turned back away. Dean kissed Her nose, and she jerked her head away. He sighed, squeezing Her side.

“You get to just have fun hanging out with Cas-“

“I hate fun,” she grumbled, and Dean laughed.

“I know. Just- Try.”

Dean didn’t have a lot of faith She would, but at least she wasn’t going to be leading point on this one. He didn’t know how he’d swung it—probably by getting Rowena and Sam on his side, although he wasn’t sure how he’d done that either—but he and Sammy were going to do the actual work, while she just attended Crowley’s stupid party.

“Rowena,” he said, as they waited for Her to get changed. “You’re in charge of watching her, alright. Not sneaking off to do your own thing, no trying to pull interrogations, no freakin’ spells.” Dean held up a hand, counting off each banned item as he spoke. “I swear, if I see one demon getting dog walked, I’m letting Crowley keep you.”

“Yes, yes, I get it.” Rowena huffed, watching Dean under hooded eyes. “No fun.”

“Oh, you can have all the fun you want, long as it’s not murder fun.”

“That’s the only kind of fun, boy. You’d know that if you weren’t so soft.”

“Uh huh.” Dean sighed. “Cas, you’re in charge of watching the ladies.”

Rowena scowled, and Cas nodded dutifully. Dean might not want him running around asking demons what kind of thorns and poisions were in bloom this season, but he could trust Cas with any damn order, it was watching Her.

“Sammy,” he grunted, pulling at his tie. It was too tight. Felt like it was choking him. “You’re movin’ with me. Whatever we can get about Eve and Crowley’s plan, it’s better than what we got right now.”

“Nothing?” Sam mumbled, and Dean just shrugged.

The door creaked open, and he turned with his tie tight in his fist. She was standing in the doorway—hair shining, skin almost glowing, eyes bright and soft and highlighted by that smoky makeup he saw on billboards and magazine covers—and Dean’s hand slipped. He choked, pounding on his chest and refusing to take his eyes off Her, even as they bulged out of his head. She darted forward, pulling the knot loose, and Dean coughed, a grin already pulling at his lips.

“Jesus, Princess-“

“Save it,” She muttered, glaring at his tie. “I’m still mad at you.”

Dean just hummed, watching Her fix the knot. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

She flushed. Her eyes darted up, and Dean threw her his best, winning grin. She flushed and looked back to the tie. Dean chuckled, and swooped down to kiss Her cheek. She batted his face away, but pressed closer to his chest.

“I like this,” he whispered in Her ear, pulling on the strap of her gown. He was gunning to get kneed in the crotch. Would still be worth it. “You might convert all those demons into believers, sweetheart.”

“Dean…” She mumbled, staring at his neck, her fingers stilling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean drawled Her name back, leaning down until their noses bumped. “We could just skip, y’know. Sammy’s a big boy, he’ll take care of it-“

“No, I won’t,” Sam said loudly, and Her eyes widened adorably.

She took a large step, back to Cas’ side. Dean’s hands hovered in the air, where they’d been holding Her. He sighed and bowed his head.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he muttered to Sam, as they made their way downstairs.

Sam just shrugged, gaze fixed ahead. “Next time don’t say you’re gonna fuck your girlfriend in front of me, man.”

“I- That wasn’t what I was saying-“

Sam gave him a flat look, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Well, did you see her-“

“Yeah. And she’s like a sister to me, so I don’t really wanna hear about this.”

“Prude,” Dean muttered, and Sam snorted.

“Please. You’re the one who’s pissed about Jo knowing your dick size.”

Dean’s ears heated, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “And Charlie,” he muttered. “She fuckin’ told Charlie. Next I know, she’s gonna be taking out billboards or something.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “That’s pretty dramatic, Dean-“

“How’d you feel, if Eileen went around telling everyone you were uncut-“

“Eileen wouldn’t do that,” Sam shrugged. “Because she can actually- You know. Talk about sex like a normal person.”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered. “’Least I’m having sex, instead of moping around like a little bitch.”

“Yeah, only took you ten years.”

Dean shoved Sam so hard he toppled into an expensive looking vase. She whipped around, giving them both a stern look, and neither of them got a chance to point fingers before She was stomping away.

Sam whistled, smirking slightly. “Someone’s on the couch tonight.”

Dean scowled, and stomped away. Sam laughed and followed him.

At least the kid seemed to be doing better. It was the small, painful victories like that one, that got Dean through this.

The party was kind of exactly what Dean pictured rich, demon parties to be. Crowley had gotten one of those tiny orchestras—an ensemble, She called it—to play on a dais, there was as banquet of fancy food and drinks, and a lot of demons milling about the thick, shrouded room and lounging on velvet sofas.

“Huh,” Sam muttered. “I was kind of expecting- I don’t know. Wall street? College party? Not…”

“Demon fairytale?” Dean suggested, and Sam nodded.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dean hummed, glancing over his shoulder. She, Rowena, and Cas had gone off to one of the quieter corners. They’d be alright. “How’d you know what a college party is like? Weren’t you a book nerd?”

“I had a social life, Dean. I had a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but I always kind thought she was a sex doll you wished to life.”

Dean ducked the first punch. He didn’t punch the second.

“Nice hook,” he mumbled, rubbing his jaw, and Sam shook out his hand.

“Thanks,” he paused, glanced over his shoulder, then muttered, “and you’re talking a lot of game for someone who probably had a fleshlight he named after his best friend-“

Sam didn’t duck Dean’s first punch. They stared at each other for a moment, then snorted. Dean had kind of missed this. Not the getting socked part, but the ease. Talking to Sammy without worrying or fighting. It was nice.

He wished it wasn’t in the middle of a demon ball, but that didn’t make it any less nice.

“So,” Sammy shifted on his feet, grinning around the group of demons. “What do you think of Eve?”

“Creepy, right?” Dean tipped his glass, nudging the demon closest to him with his shoulder. “Real spooky bitch, like- You guys ever seen the Ring.”

The demons had never seen the Ring, but they were shockingly open to movie suggestions. Sam pulled Dean away from that group after about fifteen minutes of explaining the plot of the Untouchable, hissing that they were supposed to be working. Dean rolled his eyes, but followed. ‘

If he let himself forget that he was surrounded by demons—which, when his goal was to charm them into talking, was actually surprisingly fucking easy—he wasn’t having a bad time. Most of them were pretty thick headed and cocky, but Crowley must’ve imposed a no killing the humans rule, because they were civil. Dean talked to one who’d been a French chef or something, and he could do mouthwatering things with bread. There was another who went topside to work fashion week, and those were some pretty good stories.

Sam, annoyingly, didn’t really want to hear about celebrities flipping out because their lipstick got discontinued.

“They make a million of every color,” he muttered. “It’s just- Just go find another red.”

Dean laughed, clapping Sam on the back. “Spoken like a guy who doesn’t understand women at all, Sammy.”

Sam scowled. “You don’t understand women-“

“I understand women-“

“You understand one woman.”

“Yeah, and I’m well trained.” Dean grinned, and Sam wrinkled his nose.

The demons were impressed with Dean’s fashion knowledge. He’d spent enough time staring at Her and listening to Her and thinking about Her to understand dress cuts and makeup. He was in with the group quickly.

They, though, seemed to know even less than the last group. And the group after them might know next to nothing. Even the demons who Dean had seen playing war-footsie with Crowley said Eve was closed off. That they followed the king to glory, and not much else.

“This might’ve been a bad plan, Dean,” Sammy muttered after almost three hours, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah. I’m gettin’ that.” He glanced around the room. “Maybe they’re just playing stupid-“

“Or they are stupid.”

“Or that.” Dean pressed his lips in a thin line. “So- What? We calling it?”

“I mean, what the hell else are well supposed to do? All of this,” Sam waved a hand around the room. “It’s nothing, dude. Just- demons and Crowley.”

Dean grunted an agreement, then paused. Demons and Crowley.  

Sam saw his brow knit. He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Dean? What- Stop making that face, whatever you’re thinking isn’t a good idea-“

“Crowley,” Dean breathed, and Sammy blinked.

“Uh, yeah- That’s what I said-“

“Crowley, Sammy.” Dean grinned, hitting Sam’s arm in excitement. “We got Crowley right here, and what did Kevin say we needed?”

“Uh… Angel oil, tears of a loveless man, fluid of a great father, and-“ Sam’s eyes widened, and Dean’s grin stretched his face. “Dean-“:

“Blood of hell,” he said, jerking his head at Crowley, lounging on his throne and laughing. “Guess who’s head of hell and filled with blood.”

Sam swallowed, and Dean wiggled his brows. That was a plan. A step forward. They wouldn’t need to know any damn plan, if they knocked off all the Leviathans.

“See you in the morning, Sammy,” Dean said, setting down his glass on a table. “We’ll work out the blood grabbin’ then.”

 Sam nodded, and Dean turned to go grab Her. He made it a step, before Sam caught his arm.

“Have you talked to her yet?” He said, looking over Dean’s head to where She’d been waiting.

Dean shook his head, yanking his arm away. “No. I’m waitin’ for the time.”

“You’re always waitin’ for the time-“

“And I find it.” Dean shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, Sammy. I got it.”

Sam didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t have to. Dean was the one who had to have the retirement talk with Her. Dean was the one who was gonna have to get on his knees and beg his girl to just move upstate with him. Take that little cabin Bobby had left them. Do what Bobby would’ve wanted, and have some damn peace.

He’d told Sammy about it already. They’d gone up for a look around again, while telling Her they were at the grocery store. The place was plenty big. They could take Claire no problem. Take Jo and Sammy and Cas, maybe add a few rooms and start up that bed and breakfast. Dean would sell Bobby’s place for building money, or keep it and turn it into an office. But he didn’t want Her staying there. It was fucking eating Her alive.

He’d almost told Sam about the soulmates thing again, on that trip. But he’d bit it down. That was something he had to tell Her first.  

She was sitting between Cas and Rowena, hair falling over her face and soft giggles falling from her lips. Cas was rigid and silent. Rowena kept pulling Her back up by the scruff of Her neck, like she was some misbehaving cat. Dean scowled, ready to knock the old lady’s hand off his girl, but he froze. 

Those weren’t Her usually giggles. They were too airy, almost ditzy. She didn’t get ditzy. She got mean and sweet and sharp-tongued and doe-eyed, but never fucking bubbly and empty-headed.

He said Her name slowly, kneeling before Her, and her head lolled up with a wide, sunstruck smile.

“Dean!” She grabbed his face, smushing his cheeks, and he bit back a grunt of surprise. “You came.”

“Yeah, uh- I wasn’t goin’ far to start- You feelin’ alright, baby?” He reached up, pressing the back of his hand to Her brow, and she giggled again.

“I feel good,” she leaned forward, glassy eyes locked onto Dean’s. “You look pretty.”

Dean grunted. “Thanks, Princess.” He flipped his hand, and frowned. No fever. “You been eating anything?”

“Cas gave me shrimp and cocktail.”

“Right, well-“ Dean paused. “You mean shrimp cocktail?”

She shook Her head, pressing her brow to Dean’s with another giggle. Their noses bumped, and Dean swallowed, cupping Her cheek. She was flushed. Her eyes were pretty unfocused, and she was swaying sitting down, and-

“Princess-“

“You have good eyebrows,” she whispered, tracing them with her thumb. “They’re strong. They make you look so serious.”

She pinched them together, then laughed to herself. Dean stared at Her, sort of empty headed. He’d only ever seen Her this carefree once.

“You never get serious at me,” she mumbled, and Dean swallowed.

“I get serious at you all the time, sweetheart.”

“Hmmmm,” She titled her head. “Can you be serious right now?”

“Yep.” That wasn’t gonna be a fucking problem. “You had anything to drink tonight, ma’am?”

She giggled, dropping Her head onto his shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

“Jesus fuckin’-“ Dean groaned, pinching his nose with one hand and holding Her upright with the other. “This is not fuckin’ take of her, Rowena-“

“It wasn’t me,” Rowena snapped. “It was the angel.”

Dean gaped. “Cas?”

“She asked,” Cas said plainly, almost confused. “And I cannot deny the giver when she asks for something in return-“

“You can deny her when it gets her fucking wasted, dude, just-“ Dean shook his head, scooping Her into his arms. “I’ll deal with you both,” he glared at Rowena, who’d gone back to examining her nails. “Later. C’mon, Princess. Bedtime.”

“I’m not tired,” She whined, but there was no struggle. Dean marched Her out of the ballroom and through the halls, back to their room. That was the one, weak protest She gave before she was playing with the hair on the back of his neck, and humming some song he didn’t recognize.

Dean set Her down gently on the mattress and started to work on Her dress. The thing was all ribbons and lace, and Christ, he would’ve loved to be doing this under any other circumstance.

“You’re grinding your teeth again,” She whispered as Dean rolled down her sheer tights, and he sighed.

“I know.”

She was silent for another moment, but Dean could feel Her gaze. He pulled off the tights and carefully set Her legs back on the bed. His fingers wanted to linger on the warm skin. This wasn’t the place. He  balled up the tights and tossed them to another corner of the room, before patting Her thigh.

“Up.”

She didn’t move. Dean risked a look at Her blown out face to find Her mascara running and her face shining with silent tears. His fingers dug into the skin of Her thigh, and her lip wobbled, and son of a bitch, it ripped his damn chest in half.

“Baby…” he said, low and sore in his throat. “What- Don’t look at me like that-“

She sniffed and rolled over. Dean groaned and crawled up the bed, soothing down Her skirt as he went.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Dean traced Her upper arm. She curved further into herself, and he sighed. “Sweetheart, you gotta talk to me-“

“You’re mad at me,” She said, so quiet he almost didn’t hear. “You- You’re mad.”

Dean let out a long, slow breath. He wasn’t thrilled. Last time She’d been drinking it was because she was hiding a world ending secret and losing her mind about it. This wasn’t exactly a habit he wanted to encourage, even if he had no damn legs to stand on himself.

“I- I’m sorry,” She sounded so fucking shaky. So fucking quiet. “I- I’m sorry-“

Her words broke into sobs, and Dean couldn’t allow that.

“Woah, hey-“ He grabbed Her around the stomach, hauling her into his lap. “I’m not mad at you, Princess, I swear. I’m pissed at- At Rowena and Cas for lettin’ you get drunk-“

“’m not drunk,” She whined, and Dean huffed.

“Oh, baby girl,” he pet Her head, smiling at Her pouting, scrunched up face. “You’re wasted.”

Her nose wrinkled tighter, and she pressed Her face into Dean’s neck. He chuckled, adjusting Her in his arms. He traced circles on Her lower back, humming low and quiet as Her breath evened out. She slowly went limp, the only sign that she was still awake the was She fidgeted with the buttons of Dean’s shirt and pulled at her own dress.

“You wanna get outta this thing?” Dean asked softly, and She rolled off of him with a disgruntled sound, pulling at the fabric.

“It’s hot,” She whined, clawing at the lace. “Why is it so hot?”

“’Cause you’re drunk.” Dean caught Her hands and pinned them to the bed. “Kicks up your body temperature. You’re gonna be hot all night.”

She hummed, watching Dean move under hooded eyes. He stripped Her with slow, careful hands, trying to keep his attention locked only where it needed to be. She spread Her legs, when he dragged the dress over her head. He cleared his throat, and focused on getting off Her bra.

“You still think I’m mad at you?” He murmured, letting his thumb trace over Her nipple just once. Just to see Her shiver, and get that dazed quality in Her voice.

“No,” She whispered, and Dean hummed.

“Good girl.”

She whined, and Dean swallowed. He was a good, controlled man. He was going to get Her a shirt, make her brush her teeth, then tuck her into bed and jerk off in the shower like any civil person would.

But he tried to get up, and got dragged down by the collar of his shirt.

“Fuckin’- You gotta stop doing that, Princess-“

“Where’re you going,” She whispered, watching him with wide eyes. “Are you leaving? You- You said you weren’t mad-“

“I’m not,” Dean said quickly, wrapping his hand over Her’s. “I’m not mad, baby, pinky promise. I’m just gonna get you a shirt, alright?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t want a shirt. It’s hot.”

“You got no idea,” Dean muttered under his breath, and She blinked.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he sighed. “How about we get you in the shower, alright? Cool you down, clean up, then you can sleep this off.”

She frowned. “Sleep it off?”

“Yeah, just- Get the drink outta your system,” Dean squeezed Her waist, offering a gentle smile, and Her frown just deepened.

“But- I wanna have sex.”

“You-“ Dean’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t really remember how to close it. He couldn’t really remember anything at all. He made a low, undignified sound, and She titled her head.

“Can we?”

“Can we- Have sex?!”

She nodded eagerly, pushing up on Her elbows until their lips were brushing. “Please,” she breathed, and maybe She was mad at Dean. Maybe She was trying to fucking kill him.

“Princess,” he muttered. “We- We can’t have sex right now.”

Her face fell, looking at him like a baby duckling he was denying bread. She wasn’t gonna make this easy.

“You’re drunk,” he explained gently, pulling Her slowly up, back into his lap. Maybe he could trick Her into falling asleep. “We can’t fuck while you’re drunk. That ain’t how this works.”

“Why not,” She grumbled, snuggling into his chest. Her legs were looping around his waist, Her bare core pressing over his crotch. Dean had to breathe through his nose.

 “’Cause,” he muttered lamely. “’S how it works. Uh- Consent.”

“I’m consenting right now-“

“You’re drunk. Doesn’t count.”

She scowled, and wrapped Her arms tight around his neck. “Stupid,” she grumbled, and Dean chuckled.

“I know.”

They just lay there for a moment, the moons turning light through their room. Dean thought She might’ve fallen asleep, with how still She’d gone. Then She murmured his name, and he sighed, saying Her’s back.

“What was the weird way?”

Dean blinked. “The what?”

“The weird way,” She repeated, pushing up on his chest. “That you used to- To-“ She glanced around the room, voice dropping to a whisper. “Masturbate.”

“Ah.” Shit. “Uh- You know,” he laughed nervously, leaning back against the headrest. “Weird.”

She shook Her head, leaning down. “I don’t know,” she whined. “I don’t know anything, Dean, I- I just- I get so- so-“

She moaned, loud and desperate, and Dean swallowed. His body hadn’t gotten the memo that this was no-go. All it knew was that She was sitting on top of him. Her hair tickled his face and She smelled like that intoxicating apple. Her lips were swollen and glossy with spit, another tiny sound falling from them as she ground down onto his crotch. Dean bit the inside of his mouth, but the sting did nothing against the unforgiving heat and tension wracking his body.

“I need it,” She said, and Dean’s fingers dug into Her hips. “It gets so- Mmm,” She moaned again. “And you- You know, but you won’t tell me.” She stared at him under fluttering eyes. “Why won’t you tell  me?”

Dean stared at Her. He was pretty sure he’d had this exact sex dream before, and in the middle of it, he had no fucking clue why he wouldn’t give Her anything she asked for.

“I meant doin’- Uh-“ He coughed, trying to force his thoughts together. “Just kinda stealin’ your panties. To, uh-“ His face was burning. Another bit of luck, that She seemed to drunk to notice. “Jerk off.”

“Oh,” She tilted Her head. “Really?”

Dean swallowed, and nodded. If She dumped him right here, that would be fine. They were right next to a window he could fling himself out of.

“Do guys like that?” She asked, and Dean frowned.

“I like it.” I’m the only fucking guy you’re ever gonna need, Princess. “But if you don’t- I don’t do it anymore-“

“Why not?”

Son of a bitch. She said it like it was an actual fucking question. Dean was pretty sure someone was out to get him. “Most people would count it as creepy, sweetheart. I- I shoulda been asking-“

“Okay.”

Dean blinked. “Okay?”

She nodded, smiling like a fucking siren. “You can do it.”

“Uh- Wha-“

“I like it,” She whispered, dropping Her full weight over him, and Dean couldn’t do much more but hold onto Her and stare. “I think I like it.” She pouted. “Do I like it?”

“I- I think you gotta work that one out yourself, Princess,” Dean breathed, and She nodded tightly.

Her brow wrinkled tight, and she nodded slowly. Dean wondered if he’d died getting into Hell, and somehow wormed his way into Heaven.

“I like it,” She said firmly, looking back to Dean. “What else do I like?”

Dean took a deep breath through his nose. Christ, he wanted to tell Her. The way he’d paid attention to every tiny gasp and flutter of Her pussy around his fingers or cock. The way She gushed on his face when he pinned Her down, or made the sweetest noise when he spanked Her clit. But this, here, with Her drunk and his dick at full attention, wasn’t the place, or the time.

“How about we work it out in the morning,” he said, and She paused.

“You mean you’ll fuck me?”

“I mean that when we wrap this shit up,” Dean rasped, dragging his hand down Her spine. “I’ll lock us in a room for a week, and we can work out everything you like together.”

He’d never seen Her smile so wide.

It wasn’t hard to get Her down after that. One pinky promise and a kiss and She was out like a baby, drooling all over Dean’s shirt.

They had a day until Eve showed up. A day to get Crowley’s blood, free Sammy, and get out. She wanted to stick around and deal with Eve right here. Dean gave a firm no on that one.

“But-“

He grunted Her name, shooting her a stern glare. “You ain’t stickin’ around without us. So either we all face off against Eve at once, or you hitch the ride out.”

She scowled, and slumped into Her seat. Dean sighed, and looked back to Rowena.

“You got anything on breaking Sammy free of the damn cuff?”

Rowena shook her head. “Fergus would need to make the split himself, but- If we’re getting his blood-“

“Might as well make him do that too,” Dean muttered, running a hand over his jaw. “Alright. That- It ain’t bad. As long as things are clean up on earth, I think we’re in good shape.”

They all nodded, and split off. She sat on Sam’s bed while the dorks watch TV. Rowena kept reading, and Dean went with Cas at the table, trying to sketch out the floor plan of the castle. Cas was quiet. It would worry Dean, if he wasn’t focused on getting everyone out without a scratch.

“You’re wrathful,” Cas said suddenly, and Dean glanced up to find him staring.

“I ain’t happy,” he muttered, and Cas tilted his head.

“You’re burning.”

“I’m fine, Cas-“

“Your soul is growing.”

That got Dean’s attention. “My soul is what.”

“The divinity,” Cas murmured, peering at Dean like he could see right into his heart. “It is growing. You’re made of helium. You’ll reach Heaven before the fastest doves.”

Dean swallowed. “Is that- Uh- That good?”

“For you.”

“Right. Good.” Dean paused. “Wait, who isn’t it good for-“

“Holy shit.” Sam’s voice cut over Dean’s, his eyes wide as he stared at the TV. “What the hell?”

Dean glanced at Rowena—still not looking up from her book—then stood and walked over to mattress. Hell was hooked up to MSNBC, and they were running some breaking news story about a billionaire who’d been found dead in his house. Dean counted it good riddance, but a look at Her and Sammy made him double take.

“He was found this morning by his house keeper,” the news anchor was saying. “In a scene that police have described as gruesome and rancid. And let me tell the people at home, just standing outside the house,” she shook her head, wrinkling her nose. “Whatever happened, it smelled.”

Shit.

“We don’t think-“

“The read the police report,” She said, wrapping her arms tight around her stomach. “They death shows all the signs of an animal attack, but the only footage they recovered from the camera is the guy letting people in about an hour before.”

“People,” Sam muttered. “Who were all already dead a weak ago from the same kind of animal attack.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean sat down, staring at the TV. “What the Hell would they want with some rich asshole? And- So freakin’ publicly. They’ve spent months under the radar, it doesn’t make any sense.”

She hummed, pulling Her knees to her chest. “Why would Eve let them destroy her nests,” she murmured. “Why would they need you and me for anything.”

“Because they’re doing a spell.”

All three of them froze and looked to Rowena. She still hadn’t looked up from that goddamn book.

“What do you mean?” Sam said. “Doing a spell? What- What kind of spell-“

“Well, how would I know that, Samuel.” Rowena rolled her eyes, and She sat up on the mattress.

“But- This can’t be a spell-“

“Oh, little tiger.” Rowena gave Her a flat look. “You know better than to say anything can’t be a spell.”

Her mouth opened, and closed. Her fingers curled in the sheets as she moved to her knees, and Dean muttered her name gently.

“What’re you thinking?”

“I-“ She shook Her head, lips pressing in a tight line. “I think I need to call Jo.”

Jo picked up in two rings for Her, and they started to talk in hushed voices. She paced around the room. Dean sat next to Sam, his leg bouncing, and fought the urge to ask her to put it on speaker phone. From what he could make out, this was a spell. Rowena looked too smug for it not to be, and She kept telling Jo about ingredients and shit. Dean glanced at Sam to see if he was tracking any of this. He looked just as lost as Dean, which was never an awesome sign.

“Just- Yeah, that’s good.” She muttered, glancing over at Dean. “We figured that out, and- It still doesn’t make sense- No, Rowena doesn’t know either.”

Jo said something else, and She swallowed.

“I know. I know. We won’t be. See you soon.” She hung up, and turned back to a waiting Sam and Dean. “We can’t be here.”

Dean frowned, exchanging a look with Sam. “We, uh- We kinda knew that, sweetheart, gotta be out before Eve-“

“No,” She shook her head.  “If they need you and I for the spell, it means Crowley might be putting up reinforcements before we try. We need to move, now.”

“But- What about this,” Sam raised his cuff, and She shrugged.

“I’ll make Crowley take it off.” She rolled Her neck, pulling off her jacket and tossing it into Dean’s lap. “I’ll be fast. Try not to kill too many demons, they’ve been nice. De, as soon as Sam’s cuff goes off, get everyone to the car.”

“I- That’s-“ Dean shook his head, moving to his feet. “If you’re about to try to pull this by yourself-“

“I’m not going to try,” She shrugged. “I am.” She gave him a small, deeply unreassuringly smile. “De, I’ve got it under control-“

“No, you don’t.” He took a step forward, hissing through his teeth. “Princess, we just had a talk about you and- Not having control-“

“Well, I’m fine now-“

“Yeah, you say that until you’re not-“

“Dean-“

Dean snapped Her name, and she went quiet. “I’m telling you, no.”

Her eyes narrowed. Dean didn’t let himself flinch.

I love you. “You and me, Princess,” he muttered, holding Her glare. “You say you’re gonna jump in a river, I wait on the bank. I tell you not to do something, you, for once,” he took another step forward, until they were almost pressed together. “Listen to me.”

Her nostrils flared. The power was pouring out of Her again, but Dean didn’t back down. He raised his brows in challenge, and Her scowl deepened. She wanted to do this, She’d have to go through him. And She wouldn’t. Dean might not know much, but he knew that.

“Fine,” She muttered, and Dean smiled.

“There you go,” he cooed. “That wasn’t hard, was it-“

“I can still stab you.”

“I know,” Dean kissed Her hairline, squeezing the back of Her neck. “Thank you, baby.”

He said that last part low, so Sammy and Rowena wouldn’t hear. She grunted, but leaned against his lips. Dean turned back around, giving Cas a tight smile.

“You think you can find the car, or do I need to jerk off in it first?”

Dean got gut punched for that one. He laughed, kissing Her cheek before marching over to Rowena, ripping her book out of her hand, and telling her it was time to earn her damn keep.

It was almost  embarrassingly simple and easy. They could’ve done it five days ago, if they’d paused to think. She and Cas would stay with Sammy until the cuff came off, then get him to the car. Dean and Rowena would deal with Crowley, then meet them at the exit.

Dealing with Crowley just meant storming him at dinner. Dean marched in, Rowena sealed the room and froze Crowley so Dean could draw the blood.

“What the hell is this-“

“A coupe, you son of a bitch,” Dean snapped, pulling out the needle. Crowley’s eyes widened, and his mouth curled in a sneer.

“After all the kindness I showed you, this is how you repay me-“

“Yep,” Dean shoved his arm up, pushing down for a vein. “I’d say sorry, but,” he shrugged, pressing the needle in. “I’m really fucking not.”

Crowley glared at him, as he took out the blood. Dean really didn’t care.

“Free Sam,” he stood up, shoving the blood in his jacket. “Or I let Mommy blow up your fuckin’ castle.”

Rowena waved with a beaming smile, and Crowley’s eyes narrowed.

“You bitch-“

“Language, Fergus,” Rowena scolded. “You free the boy, now.”

Crowley scoffed, and looked back to Dean. “You, You- don’t understand what you’re doing, what Eve will do-“

“I think I got it real clear,” Dean shrugged, crossing his arms. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Crowley freed Sammy. Dean knocked him out, and gave Rowena a tight nod. She was already out the door.

“You’re kind of a crap mom,” he muttered to her as they made for the exit, and she laughed.

“Please. He’s a horrid, ungrateful son.” 

Dean glanced back over his shoulder. That felt like one of those things he was gonna get monologued at about later, but right now, he forced the unease out of his gut. She, Cas, and Sammy were waiting in the car. She hugged him, and Sam gave him a small, thankful nod. They took off out of hell, no blood, no tears, no fight. The sunrise to Earth was red. They breached somewhere in California with two out of the five ingredients for their spell.

How hard could the rest of it be?

✦chapter 70

✦End note: crowley you're a star

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)

reporting bias: yet another confounding factor found in both placebo and placenta effect studies; while the placebo effect is often noted by those conducting a study, for those experiencing the placenta effect, parties who are close to the non-committed partners will often learn of their initial inept compliance; it is also not uncommon for one or both of the non-committed partners to realise their errors during the reporting bias stage, and as a result become distressed

Thank Chuck for a darkened room, even if the curtains let a little too much in from the outside world. It was still far better than walking across the floor in only his boxers and a shirt, with it all lit up the way it’d been before he’d entered the motel bathroom. 

Dean hadn’t thought to pack anything other than the clothes on his back, what with the sudden rush to leave the bunker. He didn’t think you’d be out on the road this long, let alone this far east of Omaha. Nor did he account for the motel’s lack of a rollaway or sofa-bed, either, when you checked into the room. 

But there he was, him, you and Jody, bunking together again because even he wasn’t capable of driving that far in one day. Him and you sharing the bed, which, perfect. Missouri’s words still hung over him like the stench of soured milk he’d likened them to.

“Don’t you lose her, too.” Yeah—thank Chuck for a darkened room again. He’d have settled for the hot-tub he’d slept in at a Knight’s Inn once if it meant he got some shut-eye. He’d give his organs up to protect you and Jody if he kept what dignity he had left. But he could see that wasn’t happening. Not with you sleeping next to him, that is. 

Missouri’s words weren’t the only thing getting him bothered under the collar. He’d say hot, but that was more dangerous than thinking ‘bout the lacy number he’d glimpsed at the gas station earlier. He was outnumbered, three to one with you and its partner, which was why he insisted you and Jody take the first showers. 

Two weeks on from the sewer pipe and the purity spell had given him a lot of grief. The hustle with the wraith hadn’t helped when his leg twisted the wrong way, and Missouri’s words? Well, he wasn’t getting any younger. Finding you already settled on your back on the side he wanted also wasn’t helping, even after the dose of Jack he’d taken to ease the burn.

“Move over,” he whispered, preparing to shove you if you ignored him, knowing full well you weren’t asleep, yet. There was only one lot of snoring going on. It wasn’t yours. No, he knew the sounds you made in your sleep. Not once had he thought to perform an exorcism on your airways with a pillow and a bucket of holy water. Though he sure as hell wanted to when you questioned him.

Your eyes popped open before your mouth did. All creepy, like at any moment you’d screech or jump out at him, only to give him a rather short, “Why?” 

And really? “Just.” Dean raised both arms, straight enough he could roll you over, stiff à la morgue style. “Door’s my side. You know that.”

“Sam’s not here.”

“Don’t matter. Move or I’ll sit on you.” 

And with the threat said, he lifted the covers and moved in on top of you like he’d warned. A smirk of satisfaction, beaming on his face as his right ass cheek grazed a flailing limb, only to be taken away just as quickly by a sharp elbow to his shoulder once you’d scrambled to the other side of the mattress like he’d wanted. 

“Hit a guy while he’s down, why dont’cha,” he said, but a rather tumultuous snort from Jody made you both still—for all of one second. 

You rolled to your side and drew in against his arm, lifting your head to stare at him, a Cheshire cat grin contrasted against the darkness, thanks to your teeth catching on the very light he’d been not so grateful for. 

“Keep it at and I’ll even it out,” you said. He didn’t doubt it. Your bite was more vicious than your bark, but in his case, at least, he knew it was all banter. 

Just like siblings, he told himself. Nothing sexual about it. No matter what Missouri said, you’d shared a room with him plenty of times until now and nothing had ever happened between you. 

Dean had seen a lot of you and your body over the years. Patching you up, gashes and scrapes. Popping a finger back into place. Hell, he let you bite his arm while he’d done that; carried you unconscious a separate time because you were his partner in the working sense. You, a hunter like him and Sam.

Yet, for a fleeting moment through the curtains’ soft glow, and you, almost on top of him, there was something different behind the sneer and familiarity. 

Wide-eyed and challenging, your hair was messy and unkempt from the day’s drive and the pressure of the pillow. Like the blankets over your waist were supposed to be, you and an exposed shoulder, teasing him with the slightest sliver of skin, were soft and unguarded—almost. 

It’s as if he were seeing you for the first time—really seeing you, but in his defence, it had been two weeks. He was only a man, red-blooded and still re-hymenated. In Hartford, he’d met Carmelita at that chastity group, and well, he’d broken that record—you were there. He’d meant what he’d said when he gave those women that very detailed exposition on why he was reclaiming his virginity. He knew even before he recognised Suzy that he wouldn’t last all that long. History had a way of repeating itself, and you were here now—with Jody in the room.

What was he thinking?

“Just go to sleep.” He relented, shutting his eyes and you out of mind, out of sight. His skin had to be a different shade because his heart was pumping all the blood in his veins down to little Dean, the traitor, twitching in his boxers. 

He raised his leg. “Annoy me all you want when the freight train’s not roaring through the room.” He wriggled his ass into the mattress below to make his point—conversation over. Tucking his arms to his sides had his hands up in the air like tiny T-Rex ones had replaced them, but he didn’t feel so large and powerful now. His head sank into the pillow, a grunt escaping him, low from his gut. 

You rolled over then. You, on your back, as he was. The sounds of Jody, dead to the world, filtered around you both until you said, “You think you’re gonna sleep through that?” 

“Not with you talking.” Not with you watching him either, but he wouldn’t say it. He just kept his head straight and his lips straighter, ignoring the feeling of your eyes scoring into him as Missouri had done, even though he wanted nothing more than to steal a glance at you as you settled yourself. 

Your breath was hard to ignore, but he ignored it. 

Your hair, so close to him, overpowered the unfamiliar detergents and stains in the room.  

Your movements rocked the mattress until they didn’t. 

And the last thing he remembered doing was shifting onto his side before the spell of sleep overtook him, too; waking to the feel of you pressed against him and his name questioned on your lips.   

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters. While he can hear the trill of your phone, he can’t see you, and that’s not ominous at all. 

He’s lived through way too many horror films for his blood pressure not to spike. His heart may as well have stopped altogether. The beats, few and far between, pulse sharp and heavy against his ribcage even as his veins continue to rush the blood through him. A will to constrict or break it—but at least he’s breathing. 

His rasps course into the mic in his hand. His chest rising and falling, the only thing keeping him upright as he somehow propels himself across the empty lot, knees and ankles threatening to splinter from his weight opposing his speed.

There’s no one around. Too late, too cold out. Most folks are at home already or in the warmth of their cars on their drive back to them. 

It’s where he’d rather be right now. Even if you weren’t talking to him, he’d know you were safe in any case, because heading towards a damn bush tells him you’re not; has him pushing harder, and though it won’t make a lick of difference, no matter how fast or slow he takes the descent, his boots coast over the dirt beneath him and out from under him as he drops to the ground.

The sting as his palm smashes the dirt ricochets up his arm and into his shoulder, but he’s reaching into the bush with the other, fishing for the strap of your purse he can just make out through the gaps in the leaves.

Spindly branches thwart him, but after a few sharp tugs, the bag falls free, and Dean’s soon opening the flap to shut off the offending chime. But if Dean, tracing your phone to an alley at the back of the local drugstore, had his heart pounding; it’s the packaging from said drugstore that grinds it all to a halt. 

Any warmth he felt; his flight or fight. It drains from him, seeping into the earth below. 

He doesn’t need to open the bag to know what’s inside. He recognises the shape through the paper. Still, he does so with trembling hands, unraveling the fold at the top. It might not be digital. Might not cost the same as a beauty, but the ClearBlue label is clear even under the darkened sky. 

That familiar blue and pink merges all his fears into one, screaming at him for not seeing the signs, because he should’ve. He should’ve noticed the changes in you. The way you were acting. The way you avoided him. He should’ve checked your period had come, but his message is still there on the screen in his other hand, still unopened, staring at him. 

Just checking your period came right?

It’s too little. It’s too late. 

Just checking.

He was an idiot. A fucking dumbass. 

“You look out for her,” Missouri had said. “Even when you feel she’s done you wrong, don’t let her go.” And he shouldn’t have. He should have never left you out of his sight, but here he is, sitting defeated in the middle of the lot, too little, too late. 

You don’t even need to have taken the damn test he’s holding for him to know, just as Edith and Mr. Humphries and all the others have been, you’ve been snatched, and he didn’t protect you. His own flesh and blood slipped through his fingers because you are pregnant, even if you weren’t sure you wanted to be. You’re having his kid, and you’re out there somewhere, a catheter in the back of your hand, draining you of the blood you need. 

And that’s on him.

He sniffs; reels the frustration back in. His hand swipes his eyes and cheeks, fingers digging deep against the sockets. Though his world is spinning ‘round him, and he can’t understand why you’d go down a street like this, he pulls himself to his feet and dials Sam to get the search in motion.  

“Hey—”

“I need you to bring up any street cams on Twelfth Street. Grafton Drug,” Dean barks down the line. “Gonna see if I can get you an exact time.” He takes a step back, searching for any sign of a camera, and satisfied he’s given enough info, he’s on the move, hanging up before Sam can so much as question him. 

There’s no time. He needs a time, and he needs a license plate—now.

Son-of-a—

Fuck.

Dean’d jump up and away, but then things really would be obvious. Jody would wake if she wasn’t already. He couldn’t tell, just couldn’t see her. Wasn’t about to go looking for her either.

She certainly wasn’t ready to see him in all his glorious detail, and as there were no more rumbles rattling up his spine, at least, not the kind that he needed to worry about, there was no way he was risking it, because outside that Memphis motel? Trucks rolled past. Which meant it was indeed time to be up. Just…not like this.

His whole body had flooded with warmth. Concentrated, centralising in his nether regions, leaving him frozen and startled, stiff as a board and hard as steel. His name on your lips, would’ve added more to the former effect with his newfound lack of composure, but his dick seemed to like the way you said it when it came with your ass flush against him.  

He should’ve cleaned the pipes, not settled on simply checking them. Should’ve worn his jeans for extra protection. Of course, he would’ve felt worse, painfully tight and or constricted, but there’d be no chance of you feeling him, every time you fucking moved. 

Boy, did you fucking move.

Didn’t you realise how every little shift sent signals through him? His balls pulled tight, fingers and toes tingled. His gut flooded with a warmth that was not a good thing when you were the one doing it.

“Dean,” you said again. And what the hell did you want him to say? You shouldn’t have said a guy’s name like that and then expected him not to react. 

All he could do was mutter an apology, but it wasn’t like he could help it. 

It was natural. Some would say a beautiful thing and a compliment. He shuffled his ass back away from you to make some room between you, because there was no chance he was rolling over until he’d sorted both his heads out and calmed them both down. Only you did roll—onto your back to look at him, and soon traced your eyes over the blanket and the blank space he’d created beneath it by the curve of his hips.  

“Y’mind,” he muttered. Voice like gravel through the strain at both ends. “M’not a piece of meat.”

“Never said you were.” Your brows raised. “But I’m not the one who was doing the poking.” You bit your lip to stifle a giggle, clear, you were enjoying his pain. “Was that your gun in the bed with us, or were you that happy to see me?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Though the shake of your chest wasn’t helping his resolve, especially with your nipples straining under your clothing, almost as much as he now strained his clothes further at the sight. 

“Might be a virgin now, but we both know you’re not,” you said. 

It wasn’t fair; his arousal was strikingly obvious. Guys really had the rawer end of the deal with their junk. Still, “I bet I got you wet without even meaning to,” he said, controlled and coolheaded, like the pre-cum that dripped out of him onto his boxers. Not at all how he felt under your scrutiny.

There was no easy way to hide anything now. He’d definitely pushed things way too far with that last comment, but you were asking for it. What with teasing him for something out of his control. But he couldn’t help but notice the flicker of something unspoken and new flashing through your eyes once. It pleased him to see you squirm. 

And for another fleeting, rather long moment, he wondered if his words were true, because he’d guessed—hoped for his ego even. Until he caught a shift in your thigh and the covers, shifting with it when you hummed. 

“Well, it has been two weeks. At least I beat your record.”

“Suzy was a given. Wanted me just as bad.” In truth, he was hella persuasive on his part. It wasn’t one of his best moments, but she did not feel bad at all. Far from it.

“Only ‘cause of the way you delivered your little speech,” you spat back.

Dean looked you square in the eyes, then down to where the tent in his crotch remained covered. His smirk followed and covered his face. “What I’m packing ain’t little, honey.” He winked. “Maybe next time I’ll let you see it.”

His fingers gripped ‘round the edge of the blankets, teasing, watching the way your tongue swept out over your lips. 

He had to wonder what they were like down below, but at that opportune moment, the bathroom door opened, and Jody walked out, seemingly unaware.

Dean’s phone is out and on his ear before his heels have escaped the pharmacy’s doors. When Sam picks up, he doesn’t bother with the pleasantries. “She checked out at four-twenty eight. Left the store straight after.” 

He continues to rattle off details. The alley; how you got jumped ‘round the back of the building. As hard as it is for him to form the words, if he doesn’t say something? If he doesn’t concentrate on Sam on the other end of the line, he has to see the moment you got jumped replaying over and over because that’s all he was doing as he walked back through the rows of shelves and products. 

The clinical smell, disinfectant and the stale, mothball tang he gets from visiting old people’s houses cling to the hairs in his nose, and not even the gas from the station across the street can clear it out.

He gives Sam ample time to get his hands on the keyboard. To do his thing. The rhythm of fingers tapping against computer keys clacks in time to Dean’s steps as he crosses the road to Baby, who’s parked out front of a neighbouring house. “Tell me you got something on the street cams,” he says, slipping in behind her wheel.  

“There’s a van. Looks like a dodge. Left about five minutes after she left.”

“Got a license plate?” Dean opens the door and slides in behind the wheel, placing your purse next to him. He closes his eyes and drops his head back against his neck, waiting. His free hand can’t force his skull any further down, but his fingers try. They drag through his hair, like they’re fighting the images of you inside the store from creeping back into his mind.

“Yeah. Just running it now—” Sam trails off, too slow, too relaxed—not like you. No, you walked briskly when you stepped through that door. A soldier on a mission, though your arms wrapped ‘round your body tight, seeming to keep your worry shielded from the world. 

But Dean didn’t miss the way your brows neared your lashes or your lips parted when your teeth weren’t holding them up. He saw you reading the signs above each aisle as you located the family planning section. He saw you pick up multiple tests to read the labels, too, only to change your mind and put them back. 

You were distracted. He couldn’t blame you.

The night before you told him you were late was the same as any other in the bunker. He was just as distracted. Hell. He thought you were checking up on him by not minding your business, like usual. Him, nursing Ketch’s rare and unspeakably expensive bottle of scotch, like he nursed his jaw and ego, still battered, bruised, and a little bloody, all thanks to Rowena’s expired piece of arm candy. 

Bernard had packed a punch; it still hurt to swallow, but it wasn’t just the juice running down the back of his throat that soured his gut. There had to be a piece of tooth or a chunk from Bernie’s fingernail floating ‘round in there ‘cause something was scraping ‘round in his head that made it hard for him to sleep. 

Mary and Jack. Charlie. Even Ketch and his stupid antidote. His drinking was a tribute—a thanks for the asshat’s sacrifice. The early hours, the best time to do it. 

Dean often found solace at the kitchen table, and only the bunker’s many machines to keep him company. The buzzing and distant hums in the foundations, and not the ones caused by his grenade-launcher, were a comfort. As was the low lighting on his eyes, even when they flickered.

There were no ghosts, though. The kitchen had no cold spots, unless you counted the way his spine tingled at your arrival. The glare from your oversized t-shirt nipped at your smooth skin and bared thighs went through him alright. 

He hadn’t heard your bare feet padding down the hall, but he sure heard your voice break into his quiet. “You go to bed at all?” 

“Nope.” Dean sat back on his stool, parting his knees further apart as he threw back another long swill through his newfound slackened jaw. “You planning to go back to yours?” 

You folded your arms, and the worn fabric pulled tight across your breasts and raised the hem higher. “Only if you are.” Your eyes flicked to his glass.

“Oh, I’d have come to yours, honey,” his little finger raised from the crystal in his hand and tipped towards the door, “if only you’d offered first.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You scoffed. It wasn’t his intention to invite you to join him, but you took his words as invitational and moved across the kitchen floor, taking up the stool next to his.

“That’s not what I meant,” he repeated.

“I know.” But then you attempted to take his drink away. Though it may’ve been innocent on your part, even with your bed-head and pillow marks ingrained in your cheek. You were a slight against his dram; he was quick to withdraw. If you wanted your own, you could get your own—from a different bottle. This was his. If you wanted him for another reason? Well, that was a different story, but you’d need to do a lot more than swipe at his hand as he withdrew it from you. 

He’d laugh, but teetering his weight out to the side of the table like that was‌n’t his idea of a good time. His foot closest to you raised off the floor to counter himself. His pre-burdened gut somehow held him steady until he gave up and stood up. He collected his incredibly rare booze and moved it to the safety of the kitchen bench, which he rounded and leaned over, folding his arms on the icy surface. 

A smug look on his face; a tilt of his head, jaw clicking. He took another sip. His fingers, gripping the tumbler as if the risk were too grand, even with a hunk of stainless steel now standing between you.

“Child,” you said.

“Cart’s accessible to everyone.” He shrugged. 

“What?”

“Get your own.” He swung his head to the door you’d walked through and downed the rest in his hand so he could pour himself another. “Library’s less than fifty feet.” 

“I didn’t come here to drink.”

“No? Then why’d you come then?” 

The glass ground against the metal when he set it down. Dean’s fist wrung along with his throat when he swallowed back the words he didn’t say. He didn’t mean to yell at you, but history and genetics liked to repeat themselves. You were no longer just the one who fulfilled his physical needs. 

“I—” He shook his head, slinking further into the bench before him. If his skin could meld into the steel, he’d have gladly let the stuff take him, ‘cause at least he’d no longer feel any burden or pain. Then he could skip those thirty years of waiting for his mom to age, assuming she was still alive, like Jack had seen all together. Solidify his death. Rid himself from the people he hurt.

But “Couldn’t sleep,” you said, as if you were resetting the scene and ignoring the few lowly minutes you’d been in the kitchen. As if it were true, you stood up and stepped over to him, arms wrapped tight over your chest, shielding you from his stone-cold stare.

He was in disbelief, but he was still a man. You, walking towards him with that hem kissing your thighs again, drew his attention higher to your chest when you stood opposite him, leaning forward just as he had done.

“Wanted to see how you were doing.” You shrugged the same, too. 

“M’fine,” he relented for the sake of you hearing him say it. 

You were well aware of what Winchester-fine meant, but “I’m not,” you whispered—apparently, you didn’t. Only then did he really look at you, dipping lower to catch the glimmer of tears in your eyes.

If only he hadn’t been so eager to take on a case so soon after the damn test. He wouldn’t be here in the car again, chasing after you, kidnapped. He wouldn’t be hoping on pure luck; he was heading in the right direction because you wouldn’t be missing. No, you’d be safe. Exactly where you’re supposed to be, in the bunker. You and his kid. 

He swipes his hand over his mouth again for what must be the umpteenth time. Sniffs—just as many; he’s thankful Sam’s not in the car with him, while also counting on him jacking a car and meeting him at the warehouse. 

There was no time to pick him up. No time to waste when he’s thinking of Humphries’ body in the same breath he’s thinking about yours. He’s seen enough stiffs to guess what a person might look like on the morgue table. Yours is not one he wants to picture regardless of his position in your life. 

You’re family first—family always. Seeing you like that ain’t an option. Not even on a pyre. Of course, creeping over Baby’s deafening rumble as he steers her towards the address Sam sent him, Missouri’s words replay along with everything else that’s already been spiraling through him since he left the pharmacy. 

“You’ve had some great losses. Don’t you lose her, too,” she said. Ironic that it was her words that got you into his head like this in the first place.

“You look out for her. Even when you feel she’s done you wrong, don’t let her go.” But he had let you go. At least he hadn’t fought for you, simply backing down when things got too real and too raw.  

“You’re a good man, Dean Winchester. Remember that.” But he wasn’t. He was vulnerable, a failure, a grunt. 

“You know, silent treatment is a form of emotional abuse, right?” That wasn’t a good man. That was weak and petty.

You didn’t have to talk to him if you didn’t want to. “Sam found a case,” was one of the first things he’d said to you the morning after the negative test. Just because he didn’t know what else to say was no excuse when there were so many things he could’ve said that weren’t that, yet he didn’t. Just as he hadn’t protected you now, he didn’t have your best interests then, either.

The tears in your eyes were new. If only you hadn’t gone from zero to sixty on him. He’d have thought the reflection in them from the stainless steel counter below you made them rather pretty, even in his current state. 

“You’re not?” Dean’s eyes blinked rapidly. He’d had a few, but he wasn’t at the point of not hearing you correctly. The way you said you weren’t okay, definitely wasn’t taking advantage of his Winchester-fine line. “So you call me a child for not giving you a drink?” he said.

“No.” Still leaning, your arms drew out in front of you, elbows hanging over the edge of the bench, teetering like he’d done in his seat moments ago. You’d tried to pry his glass from his fingers; now yours flexed, palm against palm. 

Their subdued flounce held your words back, gears grinding somewhere in your head. The clock on the distant wall ticked away the seconds faster than you did as he waited for you to do or say something more, but, “No,” you repeated. Another followed it, softer. 

“No?”

“I dunno, Dean.” You looked up at him, voice louder. Swiped a hand across your face and brought it back down to the bench to smooth it over. “You keep getting injured. Don’t tell me something didn’t happen to you over in the other world, ‘cause I can see it. There’s a reason Rowena’s toy boy got you so badly. I’m just—” 

You stopped yourself. Your shoulders shrugged again as you dropped your chin back to your chest to stare at your hands. You smoothed the bench under your skin with a gentle caress. If the metal were an animal, it’d be purring. 

Dean watched on, cheeks hollowing as he pulled his tongue across the back of his teeth. His body’d wound up tighter than it had been before he came into the kitchen. Or perhaps it was more that he let himself notice it then. 

The scrapes settled in his head, keeping him awake? The chunk of Bernie floating ‘round inside him? They were all excuses, of course. It didn’t take a genius for anyone to see through them, let alone you. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered when you always called him out on the bullshit. 

He pursed his lips, chewing them from the inside. His grip on the glass, loosening. “I, ah—”

“Don’t tell me you’re fine,” you snapped.

“Alright, I’m not.” But the tail from the animal he’d seen in the bench, stuck between his legs now, though he did his best to hide it. 

He straightened up and, gripping the hem of his undershirt, moved ‘round to where you stood so he could show you the still healing wound from one poisoned bullet.

“What—”

“Ketch made some antidote.” Dean grunted as your fingers moved round the edge of the wound. The muscle itched as far as the black veins had exuded. “S’a little tender.”

“A little?” you scoffed, but at least your eyes flicked to his with some concern. “Why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, rather endearing compared to how you had been.

“Y’want me to bitch about it?” His brow raised with a smirk that pushed through his battle scars. Like all the previous ones, in the moments that gained him attention with the ladies that weren’t you, he laid on the charm, thick and boastful. “Gonna offer to fix me up? ‘Cause I thought there weren’t any offers on the table tonight.” 

His hands reached for yours, then he pulled them down and out to the side before looping them ‘round his middle and setting them on his waist. 

“You’re impossible. You know that?” Your chin pointed at him. 

He knew, but it didn’t stop him from doing whatever the hell he wanted. You’d come into his time and space and interrupted his peace. There was retribution required. A tax for giving him shit and attempting to steal his drink, even if it was all just you seeking him out for comfort for a change.

He should’ve felt enamoured that you seemed to care about him in that way. Chuck knew it was rare for him to let anyone fuss over him, including Sam. After the past few weeks he’d had, though, he definitely deserved a piece of you a second time. “Remember last week when you found me on the floor over there?” He nodded to the wall where he’d been far better hidden. “Think I had you dripping f’me before we even made it to your room,” he leant into your ear. 

“I think I had you on your knees.” You let go of your position on his back and traced his belt ‘round to the buckle, pulling him against you.

“You had me in your mouth.” He leaned in and captured your lips with a teasing kiss. Barely any pressure, barely even touching them, he ghosted over you, his warm breath mixing with yours. “Wanna take this elsewhere?” he said, before he swooped in and kissed you properly. His broad palms on your cheeks drew the heat right outta you and settled deep down in the pit of his stomach. 

Grafton and its surrounds are scarce of many trees, but his adrenaline floods his veins like a wildfire rips through a forest, anyway. Each nerve beneath his skin, alight and buzzing, but at least he’s out of the Impala and moving now. 

Dean closes Baby’s door and feels the clip of a breeze on his cheek. It’s too cold for his liking. Too nippy. Though he’s still in his coat, he’s also still in his fed gear. It may be light as far as Dean’s wardrobe goes, but it’s too bulky. Too many loose layers’ll impede on his arms and his blade as it cuts through the high-pitched cackle of laughter, travelling on that same breeze. 

He rounds the back and opens her up, quick to reach for two machetes and a couple of vials of dead man’s blood. A flash of headlights, sweeping over the discarded machinery littered along the road, tells him Sam’s caught up. Or he’s about to get into a fight a lot sooner than he expected.

The place is like a salvage yard. Like Singer’s Auto, if the old hunter had lined his property with silos and shrubbery amongst the balanced piles of scrap metal. Nature creeps out from underneath the metal frames and caterpillar tracks here, and Dean’s eyes flick to the old flare gun.

Sam pulls up just as Dean shuts the trunk. “Dude.” He spans his arms in the air like wings, but his tone didn’t convey the sentiment. 

“Just—” Dean hands him a weapon. 

Just what, exactly? 

Please? He can’t lose you? Don’t give him that crap, ‘cause it’s not like he planned this? He’s feeling guilty enough without his baby brother throwing his two cents into the mix.

“Okay.” Sam nods, at least, Dean thinks he does. 

His back’s already turned, and his ankles and knees are moving his weight again, but they’re not splintering like they did before. Each step he makes now, practiced in precision, even in the darkness. 

With vamps and his heart the way it is, he needs all the advantages he can get.

He had the advantage in the kitchen. Even after the expensive scotch, blood coursed through his veins as he deepened the kiss. His lips pressing against yours, moved back and forth, parting, gaining whatever access he could with the slip of the tongue.

Sloppy? You betcha, but so were his hands as they traced your body. Fumbling up your sides, pulling at the shirt you didn’t need. 

It was inconvenient when yours were still on his belt, but he wasn’t about to stop you. His hips pressed closer, if anything, bucking up towards your touch involuntarily. You, giggling into his mouth, had him grinning between his next onset on yours. Noses hitting each other, he had to stop what he was doing lower to hold you still. 

The look in your eyes was full of mischief, pupils blown, irises brighter under the light overhead. But your head tilted, and though it was only slight, your teeth also pulled your lower lip in before he could take it again. 

It had him pause. More than he was already at that moment. He swallowed. His own amber greens flickered over your face.

“S’everything okay?” he said. His hand stilled on your waist, gripping your skin tight through the fabric. His fingers pressed into your flesh, pushing the edge of his nails further, to the point where they could bruise. 

He didn’t mean to grip you so firm, it was more that he had to hold himself together. He was needy now. Desperate to feel you both beneath and around him, because the last few weeks had taken their toll. 

It wasn’t just missing his chance in that other world, seeing Charlie, or losing Ketch. His shoulder ached; he was getting older—he wanted a win, but what he wanted more was a piece of normal. To feel more skin beneath his fingers and experience another’s touch on his. Yeah, he was touching you now, but it wasn’t quite the same ‘cause he could do that with anyone. Maybe not as close; certainly in the same areas, though his dick getting wet was extra.

That build he spoke about in Hartford made him feel alive. Sex was sticky, but it felt too good to grind and move against another person. To cover the expanse of his hand, fingers and all, with them. To grab and not be hindered by anything. No barriers aside from the wet heat and the owner constricting him. That’s what he needed. His crotch couldn’t help itself but press against you again. 

“Dean,” you said. He was still close enough to feel your breath on his cupid’s bow. Warmth and moisture clung to the five o’clock shadow. Long enough to be classed as ten or a further spin ‘round the clock. 

“Yeah?” he husked. Closed his eyes and ghosted another kiss into the corner of your mouth ‘cause he couldn’t help it. 

You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.” Your lips returned the gesture. Their heat spread further than the place they’d landed upon. The soft skin caught on his own. 

His hand on your cheek moved round to your ear, and there he fingered through the strands, always soft compared to his own, neither laced with greasy products he either took from Sam or swiped from gas stations. The ones that lived in Baby and still seemed to show up years later. 

That fragrance he recognised on the road outta Omaha. That taste that’s unique to you when he layered another kiss on you. 

“Y’sure?” he spoke over you, but his hand, not in your hair, was now under your shirt, scratching up towards your panties with no intention of stopping even though a part of him knew he should’ve.

Blame the alcohol. Blame the shoulder. He needed to heal, and he knew what’d make him feel better. 

His nails scraped, skin against cotton. Dipped a little lower to just above the apex of your thighs, tracing the little dip where your folds joined. Felt the fabric damp and warm. And though he knew the answer, “Or is she dripping f’me already?” he said.

“Could use some persuading.” You hummed. A chuckle laced through it. Quiet, not amused, but more a hitch. A simple announcement of pleasure over amusement. 

But Dean was one step ahead of you, having lifted the edge of the elastic at the top. “Yeah?” He scooped down over your mound and twisted his wrist to access you better, finding the thicker nub above your opening, slippery to the touch. 

“Think I can getcha there like this?” He dug deeper, spreading your slick and coating his own skin. His dick twitched through the denim still covering him, throbbing at the thought of doing it again when he got you to his bed.

He’s lucky it’s the scales and not the pointy end of the machete that digs in close to his ribs. If his skin weren’t thick, he’d be a shish-kabob as well and soaring across the warehouse floor. His body makes a great substitute for the feathers of an arrow as it is. 

Dean lands with a grunt, though. The table edge, almost just as sharp. He scans for his weapon as he stands, but the big guy wraps his arms ‘round him in a wrestler’s hold. Fangs on display and looking like they want a piece of him.

“Sorry, tiny. I don’t kiss on the first date,” he says, ‘cause apparently he’s at the acceptance stage of despair now. Big grin, even wider, as he wraps his arms around the expansive frame. “Not when you stole a chunk o’ my pie,” he grunts. 

He curls his lip up as he tries to take hold. Fists the vamp’s jacket, airing a chuckle as their eyes meet and lock. “It’s not your colour.” His grin falters, and—he’s in the air again…until he’s not, rolling over rough concrete that brandishes him, missing a foot to his junk. 

It’s just as brittle now as it was earlier that day. Skin sticking on skin’s gonna be the death of him, if not you. That’s the thought that pulls him out of it.

As if he’s newly bitten, with a strength that’s born from the midst of a fight, he strikes his elbow into the nook of the shoulder. His skull busts its nose. John would hurtle in his grave if he had one. The hustle is a poor excuse for all the years of training Dean underwent, but his father’s dead—so is this monstrosity. Sam’s machete severs the neck above him and hauls the chunk of undead flesh off‌ him.

“Thanks.” He swallows the exertion. His throat’s drier than it’s been in a long while, and the lump that keeps forming ain’t helping none.

Sam lends his hand down and hoists him to his feet. If only that were the least of his worries. 

“No problem,” Sam says, just as out of breath. His hands follow Dean’s to his own sides; his glare isn’t as mutual. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“What?”

“Do you have a death wish or something? ‘Cause being reckless like that won’t save her.” 

And neither will standing around like this, but here they are. Dean says nothing in response. He steps over Tiny and reaches for his weapon, on the move before Sam can say another obvious. 

As much as the point affects his ego, there is a point to be made. He can’t help you like that. He needs to keep on his toes—literally. They’ve come across four bloodsuckers already, and the last two weren’t easy. The trail of heads, not to mention you and the other four victims, won’t be an easy cleanup, especially if something’s happened to you. 

There was a trail of clothes that led to his bed, but Dean couldn’t care less if Sam found them or not. The last thing he should’ve thought about during the moment you pushed him backward onto his mattress was what his brother thought about you both fooling around.

If the guy wanted to get laid, there were plenty of women out there who’d take his money. Dean ignored the niggle in his chest that reminded him he’d found you living under the same roof as him. 

It was Missouri’s fault, and those sweet thighs that moved to straddle him. Your hands came down to his chest, just below his nipples and the bullet wound with sweet, sweet pressure. Why did something so simple as the gentle touch of a woman do it for him? If you’d been the one to do the first-aid instead of Ketch, he’d be a goner for sure.

He had to stop thinking ‘bout all those other people. He was raging hard, and he did not want to lose it, especially after a couple of rounds of scotch. You’d never let him live it down.  

His hands raised ‌in surrender. Opened to you, he brought one palm to your head and the other to your folds.  

Soft and wet; his callouses ran over strands while he dipped a middle finger lower. Strands picking up under the callouses. He dipped a finger into your entrance, also sweet, and oh so slick and warm. He swirled over your clit and dipped his middle finger lower. “S’wet,” he inserted and curled it through your channel, “S’all from the kitchen?” 

“Mm-hmm.” You shoved his hand away and wrapped a firm fist around him. “Need you, Dean,” you said, lining him up and inching yourself closer. 

The way you clung to him when you sank yourself down, parting both sets of lips and drawing a perfectly rounded “oh” from the top ones, had him bucking into your heat with an urgent need. And a groan that turned more guttural when you looked into his eyes.

The warehouse is larger than it looks. Dean’s eyes scan through what little haze the moon shining through the skylights allows. Each foot of concrete flooring alternates between shadow and light as they move through the remaining hall that runs down the centre. The metal of his machete, not covered in blood, flashes like a flashbulb with each corresponding step.

He holds it close to his side. The worn leather on the handle sweats against his palm, but he grips it tighter. Fingers and arm now locked from the extensive hold will no doubt stay the way they are for days to come. 

Dean’s more determined than ever when Sam taps the elbow with his free hand and nods to the right side of the split in the hallway ahead.

He reels his focus in. Pictures your face as he scales the left hall, checking each door and open space. Aside from the soft creak of his soles curling as he shifts his weight from toe to heel, however, the place is devoid of sound. At least with Sam still next to him there were two pairs of boots, stressing that life was surrounding him. 

Now, even his breathing has him on edge. The blood, thrumming in his ears, warms the empty spaces in his head, threatening all the progress he’s made with his focusing. 

Be here. As horrifying as it is that he’s praying you’re here in a place like this, you just have to be, because this isn’t just another day at the office. The universe can’t give him the world and then take it away from him like this, even if he didn’t jump at it from the start. His mind flicks to Cas, but with him hot on Heaven’s ass, how can he ask for his help when he’s the one who let you slip through his fingers? When he’s the one who pushed you away? 

“Should I be expecting a proposal next?” He sees his error. He saw it the second he said it. Who’d wanna marry a guy who only proposed because he thought he’d knocked you up? Any other guy that treated you that way would meet his fist.

“You said you were on birth control.” And anyone who said that to you, too. 

So why did he?

“Fuck.” Dean’s fingers bunched the juicy globes of your ass beneath them like a thick piece of meat, made to be eaten. They were. Just not when his cock pistoned in and out of you.

He spread you wider. Each cheek tucked up and out by his fingertips sinking further into your skin, all so he could marvel at the way he disappeared and withdrew from the mess. His spit and pre-cum mixing with your slippery slick was oh so sticky and wet—a chemical reaction. The dirtiest dissertation on yin and yang. 

His name left your lips as you burrowed your face into the sheets below you. A halo of hair spilled ‘round the edges of your crown and over your balled fists, messy, as it had been that night in Memphis. Dean leant down and freed your ear, tucking a chunk behind it and holding it in place until you twisted back to look at him. 

Mouth parted, eyes half-lidded, your expression was unreadable, aside from the clear exhaustion in your brow. 

You’d never looked at him like that before now. Not during sex, nor throughout your regular days. Not even when he patched up your scrapes and popped your bones back into place, did you ever seem to stare beyond the meat-suit?

At least, that’s what it felt like. It was something ‘bout the way you held your eyes. Intent. Stubborn as Missouri had been when she reminded him of his losses. That he shouldn’t lose you, too. That he was a good man.

And though his thighs were tight, and his ass clenched, and his balls were thrumming. Close to the point of no return, even. Dean slowed, and still connected, heaved you up so he could reach you. 

Holding your head in place when it dropped back to his shoulder, his arm wrapped ‘round your middle; cradling you into him. His, “Hey,” was audible enough for you to hear him, but to a fly on the wall your breaths and the soft slaps his pelvis made as he continued to rut up into you would mask it. 

With a sloppy rhythm, he refused to falter, and his tip, still hitting all the right places, “Hey,” you said just as quiet and breathless as he had done. 

While he should’ve asked what was wrong earlier, that moment was no better, what with the beginning flutters of your orgasm creeping over him. “Y’kay now,” he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. Placed a kiss, then another.

Being so tender wasn’t new to him by any means. Maybe a little out of place after throwing lewd remarks in that moment. It was a first with you, though. Maybe what Missouri was suggesting in a very round-about way.

“You’re a good man, Dean Winchester.” He’d try to remember it. 

“I’m good,” you said, half whine, half airy laugh. Cunt to chest and legs, your body shuddered against him, and his fingers dipped down to hold the rest of your body through it. 

If he is a good man, then why is he traipsing through the old warehouse with a machete in his hand? A good man has a respectable job and spends his weekends watching football on a big screen TV. A good man listens to his partner’s complaints, then ignores them when she’s left the room. 

The little things, of course. The stuff that doesn’t matter ‘cause it’s not all that important. Rings on coffee tables. Staying out late with the guys. Alright, he never did that to Lis’…but it’s the cute things that make up sitcoms. The apple pie life stuff with trivial problems like what colour you’re going to paint the nursery—

The nursery? Dean scoffs, though he shouldn’t. He’s supposed to be all stealth and nimble. Supposed to be concentrating on the task at hand. 

There’s been no more run in’s with bloodsuckers since the scuffle with Sam, and he starts to lose hope. They found Humphries on the other side of town, yet there are still no signs of actual living people aside from himself down here. Just rows upon rows of shelving that he passes. Empty crates and pallets. A female, appearing between a gap in one of the taller racks. 

And a heavy sliding door, the kind often hiding a cool room behind it, closed and latched behind her. 

His eyes narrow on it and then hers. Why else would a loner be here in the hallway if not to protect whatever is behind it? They’re not running a catering business. Can’t be. Catheters and a smorgasbord of blood types, all with that damn hormone? 

Is the universe working with him for once? 

She’s smaller than Tiny. Her long hair, a godsend when she launches at him. For a few brisk steps, he carries her. The bitch’s chest presses into his. 

His arms stretch to get her off him. His stomach muscles and lower, pull tight as he clings to his machete’s handle, desperate not to slice himself or drop it on the ground.

If he loses it, Humphries ain’t the only one ending up on the riverbed. HCG or not, her fangs are out and she’s clawing at him. 

It’s the concrete wall behind him that does the trick in the end. He spins and grabs her by the jacket she wears, throwing her to the ground. 

That she’s here of all places, separated from the others. That he spots a door he hasn’t checked yet is all Dean needs to know. 

His hand is firm, and his arm is straight as he takes his swing. He aims for her neck and drives the metal down into the skin. Muscle, flesh, bone, reverse. The sharp blade cuts through it all. Jarring his body from wrist to shoulder; tingling through his nerves like his heart just jumped a foot across his chest.

The burn is real, but the head is rolling. He watches it tumble, hair wrapping ‘round it in a tangle of stands and knots the further she goes. 

Stopping only when the bristles of a broom head catch the chin. The thing magnetised to the one object that can fix the disaster of blood and tissue, now strung through the edges.

Dean kicks the limp body in the waist as he steps over her and moves to the door. Adrenaline still from the fight pumps through him, once again threatening to break through his ribcage as he drops the bloody blade and brings his hands to the lock. The clang of metal against concrete echoes through his spine, but Dean’s focus remains on his grip. His knuckles white as the bones beneath them—probably. If it weren’t for the darkness that’s only foil is the beams of light still filtering down from the window’s glass in the ceiling.  

He puts all his effort into the latch. The rust, brushing his skin like sandpaper. Flaking under his fingers, scraping and slipping beneath them until he gives up and readjusts his footing, taking on the handle from the other side.  

His grunt is long and drawn out. Breath and tongue clip his teeth. He gets it open, though. Arms like jelly. His shoulder, protesting at him for daring to do any more with it as he grips the edge of the door and slides it open. 

His eyes try their best to adjust to what little light the moon allows from the angle.

He hears a soft sigh of surprise, though. Someone’s whimper of terror.

And then the thing he’s been looking for. The one thing that’s kept him going. Whose thoughts of, almost had him done for at the hands of Tiny.

“Dean?” your voice carries through in question. A you-shape figure sat in what he soon realises is a chair, second from the left. Another three bodies sitting on your right.

A/N: One more chapter to gooooooo!

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response bias: another confounding factor found in both placebo and placenta effect studies; including low values that contribute to the mean regressing, the response bias considers how the non-committed partners continue to traverse through their day-to-day lives, including any attempts at empathy and/or concern shown from one half of the pair to the other

The drive to Grafton was long, just not because of the distance. Like Omaha to Lebanon, Dean could do that with both eyes closed—if it weren’t for lack of sleep. Of course, he was driving, though. Still suffering the aftereffects of his dreams that morning and the events that had led to them, and as such, was in a terrible state. 

Anyone would think his period was late. If he had one. Maybe he was experiencing whatever it was those fake ones were called when the guy experienced what his girl was going through. Cramps. Bloating. Heartburn. His shoulder still ached. He was certain after all that fake running around that he’d been doing mid dream had caused his old knee injury to flare up, because his legs sure were stiff, and his head was—

Hang on. 

Hold the fucking phone. His girl? Had he just… 

Did he just refer to you as his girl?

Wow! 

No. Seriously. Wow!

Last he checked you were still just friends with the benefits going off of last night. Fuck Buddies. Dangerous Liaisons, maybe? That was a thing and a movie, right? That was all about deception and seduction and John Malkovich in a wig. Honestly, he only remembered sneaking into the cinema when John had left him and Sammy alone at a motel in Colorado. He’d snuck himself into the local theatre because the trailer made the thing look raunchy as all hell to a ten-ish-year-old Dean.

It wasn’t. He got his ear clipped, and it rang at the thought. Or was that your laughter coming from down the hall?

Yeah. No. Definitely your laughter. His gut flipped at the trill as you chattered ever so casually with Jody. It was her house after all.

Unlike his dream, Jody’s bathroom was familiar and real. He felt the water run over his hands when he dipped them under the stream. He felt it run down his wrists when he splashed his face. The vanity at his hips, his toes, and his socks wrapped around them, inside his boots and no longer bare. The smell of something floral in the soap he recognised from being here previously, but couldn’t name in the wild or in a supermarket. 

It screamed Jody as much as the worn carpet in her living room screamed family whenever he passed through Sioux Falls in his later years. Strange, yes, that you weren’t at Bobby’s. Familiar, again, in that the township never changed, even though the ties to his uncle had burnt to the ground years ago. 

He dried his hands on the small towel she kept on a rung by the mirror. The fabric, soft compared to the ones you kept in the bunker. The ones he’d selected from a box store. Not stolen from the last motel he’d stayed in like he would’ve in the past. 

It was surprising how the cost of something made it last longer. Much like…

He snickered. He was still thinking about the cost of that damn test? He supposed it was only natural, though his cheeks burned because the stretch of his smile was unfamiliar. It’d only been a day since he’d made the comparison between his skin mags and the test. Maybe a little over if he considered the time and the drive to get there. Not to mention this morning, but—

This thing costs more than a Beauty? The crows feet by his eyes seemed more prominent in his reflection. 

And he thought the distance to Grafton was long? Well, the distance between you was longer. May as well have left you back in the bunker with the way you felt so far away in Baby’s backseat. 

You weren’t talking to him, except out of politeness in front of others—well, Sammy and Jody—and the attendant at the pump in Hastings. Of course, he understood why. He should’ve come sooner. Should’ve gone after you the night before and stormed into your room. Told you to listen to him because that morning had been too late. He’d lost his window. 

Your laughter from down the hall sounded a second time. He finished up, determined at that moment to find the time to pull you aside and talk to you before you hit the road again, even if it meant doing so in front of Sam and Jody. Just because he couldn’t make a move in front of Jody all those months ago meant jack with what you’d both been through over the past twenty-four hours. That test made you closer. Bonded. 

You were in Jody’s living room when he returned, sitting down next to Sam on her plaid couch, having a great old time, it would seem. With Jody, to your left in the armchair he’d sat in back when Alex patched his knee up. 

“Hey,” she beamed up at him, her body leaning on the diagonal and into the chair’s back, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. 

He couldn’t help but smile back at her, though his eyes scanned you and how close you were to Sam. Not jealous. Never. Just annoyed at how casual you were with his brother. His knee touching yours. Your shoulder, leaning into him as if he were the chair’s backing, even though you shared the large couch. 

“Guess this means you guys are leaving my presence again?” Jody sat up and leaned forward, clapping her hands together to lean her arms on her thighs. “Missing people to find, cold cases to solve?”

Cold case? Dean’s head tilted to the side at that remark. He wouldn’t call a little over a week a cold case, but, “Okay,” he said, voice raised higher than normal. He was still waiting for the joke to drop, assuming there was one. 

Sam licked his lips, also leaning forward as Jody had done, a slight to his face, proud of himself for something. “Yeah, I was looking over the case on the way here. Was just telling Jody that it’s following a pattern similar to another string of cases a few years back, also in the Red River Valley.”

“Also?” Dean blinked. He understood all the words Sam had spoken, but it was his first hearing about a pattern, let alone the Red River. Last he checked you were heading to North Dakota, not Texas. 

“Well, I don’t know if they’re connected, but there was a string of disappearances a few towns over that were never solved, and—”

“In Texas?” 

“In North Dakota.” Sam scoffed—because it was so funny, apparently. You sure seemed amused, looking up at him with your own crooked smile. “Where we’re headed,” Sam added, neck sticking out further like the giraffe he was. “Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “the circumstances are similar, but we still don’t have a lot to go on until we get there and talk to their sheriff.” 

He turned himself to Jody, torso and all, who pointed back to him, her hands still clasped together, both index fingers sticking out.

“Right.” Her brows wagged up close to her bangs 

“Right,” Dean muttered before turning his attention back to Jody with another of his broad grins. “Guess we are hitting the road,” he said more clearly, meeting Jody halfway for a goodbye hug. 

It didn’t take long for all goodbyes to be said, and for the three of you to be waving to Jody from behind Baby’s windshield. Her engine purring beneath you, you in the back, and Dean still unable to pull you aside. 

He may as well have accepted his fate then and there, because with Sam still in your midst and no doubt sharing a room with you tonight, Dean couldn’t see himself getting you alone anytime soon. Unless he pulled you into another bathroom and locked the door. 

Maybe there was a significance to his dream after all, because he sure couldn’t see it meaning anything else besides chasing you. He was already doing that with an imaginary tail between his legs.

Like he did in Omaha, he pulled Baby out onto the main drag to Grafton. Zeppelin once again in the tape deck—Black Dog, just to hit him in the chest harder. 

He couldn’t see you stealing his money when he had none, but he could reflect on the obsession because maybe that’s all this was. You told him having a kid with him wasn’t feasible, and all of a sudden, he wanted it. Wanted you and dragged back into that idea of white picket fences and apple pies. 

He threw one wayward glance after another as he drove out of Sioux Falls that day, lips twitching, threatening to form his own pout each time his eyes dragged up. You couldn’t have a kid, at least, he couldn’t have a kid with you when he was practically one himself. His face screwed up, scowling with a complex amount of emotional constipation he didn’t realise he was doing until he noticed Sam not only staring at him, but throwing his own brief look towards you—none the wiser. Until you caught Sam doing it. 

“Everything okay?” you asked, unsure. Your mouth forming its own pout as you queried them further with your own tilted glare.

“Yup.” Dean’s hands gripped the wheel beneath his fingers tighter, drawing the blood out and turning them white. He himself stole another shot at Sam who, while no longer looking at either of you, smirked, then swallowed what Dean could only assume was a sound he didn’t want to hear. 

“You said there’s been similar cases?” he asked, figuring talking about the case would get Sam’s continued focus.

“Yeah,” Sam took the bait, pulling ‌his laptop out from beneath the seat. 

Whether he knew what Dean was doing didn’t faze him so much. No doubt he did. Didn’t stop him rambling on as Dean wanted—or didn’t. It was a matter of surviving the rest of the journey to North Dakota, point B to point C, or D, depending on when you asked for another bathroom break. 

Dean flicked yet another glance your way as Sam booted up the machine. Your eyes, catching him this time. 

They narrowed. Your brows challenged him, but Dean had nothing to say that he could in front of Sam. Nothing but the case, at least. “Any more before it?”

“Ah—dunno. There’s been plenty of disappearances in the area like everywhere else, but it’s hard to tell if it’s localised. The area’s covered by a lot of farmland. Population of Grafton specifically is about four thousand and declining.”

“So what makes you think they’re connected?” you said, also placing your focus on Sam. It was the most you’d said about the case, aside from agreeing to come with them.   

“The circumstances.” Sam looked over his shoulder at you. 

It made Dean twist his wrist on the wheel for a different reason altogether, as opposed to what came with you or other women. He had to focus on the case over what was happening in his life. The case was most important. People missing. A guy, dead. But what could there be besides that? That was their normal, and he said so. “People who don’t show up to work the next day? Come on, man.”

“Hey, I told you it was a stretch. You jumped at the chance.”

And yeah, okay, that was true, he did, but, “I also thought the Red River was in Texas,” he muttered.

“It is,” you and Sam said in unison. Sam, further informing you both, it was also a song because that was also important.

Son of a bitch. Seems everybody's pregnant. Well, everyone but you—but that’s not the point! No. The point is, the universe is fucking with him, and if it’s fucking with him? It’s no doubt fucking with you, too.

Why else would you still be in the bathroom if not because of what happened at Edith’s or because of your damn period? You’ve been in there since you returned from the Walsh’s, and that has to be it aside from the not talking to him part. 

Truth be told, he accepts it for what it is. You’re mad. He shouldn’t have listened to Sam at the morgue this morning. Worst idea ever, forcing you into his presence to do the interviews. 

No, Dean should’ve just left you at the motel. He should’ve insisted on it, but why else are you here if not to help on the case? You came after all. You don’t just get to mope around the motel, not that you were—are. Research was important. Lore was important, as much as the morgue and dealing with the sheriff was. Just as much as visiting all the families was. 

He should’ve let you go off on your own and interviewed Marjorie. Sam got the raw end of the deal either way with dealing with the other three families you didn’t. Maybe then, most definitely actually, you’d be closer to solving the mystery and finding where the nest is because so far there’s been no footage of the missing being taken. Like you in the bathroom, they disappeared without a trace. 

Now he has to pry you out of there. Or, at least, risk getting his head bitten off so he can tell you, him and Sammy are leaving. 

He stands up, and Dean follows, grabbing his coat and throwing it back over his shoulders. Only, “Meet you at the car,” he says. “I’ll just—” He nods to the same chipped wood you’ve been hiding behind, avoiding Sam’s stalled look. 

Whatever he’s thinking, he lets it go. Says nothing. Just grabs his coat, too, and his phone. Closes the lid on the laptop and picks it up, striding to the door with his freakishly long legs. 

Once again, Dean was alone with you. Sort of. 

He runs his palm over his cheek. Stubble, shaven this time, having made a point to, as he’d planned to before he and Sam left for the sheriff. Just part of the reason the weather’s been affecting him so much.

What does he say this time? Is he asking you to come? Would you even answer? Because you refused to talk since leaving the Walsh’s. The drive back to the motel, awkward just as much as it is standing here now and deciding.

The walls are thin, like most rooms are. Same as a bathroom stall. Like the ones in the bunker, only he still can’t hear any noises because technically the gap between tattered carpet and chipped paint ain’t all that much. He can’t even see a shadow moving beyond the door, blocking the light like many others do. 

No groans from the pipes or hums from the exhaust. What could you possibly be doing in there for so long, and does he want to know? Bathroom doors are there for a reason, and aside from needing to know you’re taking another test, he doesn’t need to. 

Still, he wonders. You really are a world away from Omaha and Memphis. A world away from Missouri, telling him not to lose you. Kind of seems like he is. Or he’s just being dramatic.

Yeah. You’re being dramatic, Winchester, he tells himself. The biggest dumbass there is. Falling for you and fucking it up by opening his big fat mouth.

He sighs. Drops his shoulders. Rolls the ever aching one. Damn bullet wound’s giving him as much grief as his sack is due to the icy temperatures. All that going in and out of them. Having to do it again now. 

His steps are cautious and slow as he moves around the table and past the beds. Fist on his right side, already forming. 

Like your room, he knocks with the same one he used on you yesterday, with the hope you’ll reciprocate. Like his steps, it’s slower, though. Softer. Almost light enough to be unheard. All he can do then is wait. The words he thinks he wants to say caught in his throat until your, “What Dean?” filters to his ears.

You’ve said his name in worse ways before, but this is…well, he’s not sure what this is. The lump blocking his airways, heavy. Disappointment, even though he should’ve been expecting it so. 

It’s quiet. If he had been standing further back, if he wasn’t leaning on the door, he wouldn’t have heard you. He rubs his lips together, taking the time to moisten them and the rest of his mouth the best he can before he replies. And come on, man? This ain’t him.

“Sammy and I are heading out,” he says with much more confidence than his gut is giving him. “Gonna talk to the boyfriend. See if we can get Edith’s last location,” he adds with a little more conviction. A little more authority. 

For a moment more, he’s left standing there, waiting still on a delayed “Okay,” which is rather purposeful as his pout and your ‘only if it’s intentional’ line was regarding silent treatment.

If this isn’t silent treatment, he doesn’t know what is? He doesn’t know what to add to it either besides repeating your exact wording. “Okay?” into a question. 

“Do you need me?” you say, and while it’s not exactly sarcastic, he hears the annoyance. If you were seventeen, it’d be your ‘do I have to’ tone.

His jaw stretches; cheeks draw inwards. They don’t need you. Not exactly, though “Not really,” is what he says defeated. “I’ll, ah, we’ll see you when we get back, yeah?” He cringes because this is getting pathetic. 

But you don’t say anything, and, fist still on the door, he removes it, taking a step back. 

Okay. Yeah. No. It’s okay. That okay doesn’t mean anything. You just acknowledged what he said, and he acknowledged you. Done. Dusted. 

He picks up that tail that continues to hinder his gait (along with his icy sack) and heads to the door. He can bitch and moan all he wants later. Get a six-pack after they see this Jake kid. Maybe drop Sam off and leave him with you while he heads to a bar. This place can’t be that small that there’s no dive. 

Even the diner on the corner he got breakfast from—Granny’s? Whatever it’s called. The server, Meghan, was rather nice. The kind of small-town girl he went for. 

He’d only look, of course. He may be a dumbass, but he’s not an asshole. Any guy or girl who did anything more than look deserves more than Dean’s fist to their face. 

As he steps outside the main door and shuts it behind him, Sam’s face is rather unimpressed. Brow quirking up, he’s sat in the passenger seat, head tilting. His eyes narrow when he sees Dean looking back at him, and as Dean reaches Baby and climbs inside, he’s expectantly doing so. 

But the Impala, shifting beneath Dean, is a comfort. Her scent warms him like the tendrils from a steaming cup of coffee curl past his cheeks. Like any other time, the slight you left him reeling in seeps off his shoulders and into the air as he settles. 

He steals one last glance at the door he’s just left before his hands have even touched the wheel or keys. Baby’s engine, pulling him out of it as he turns the ignition over, and shakes his head. 

He’s gotta get his head in the game. Stop moping. It’s not like you’re going to disappear while he and Sam are gone. No doubt, you’ll slink out of that bathroom the second you hear the rumble leave the parking lot. 

As always, he shifts the car into gear and, turning himself to the side, raises his arm to the backrest to reverse, and finds Sam still staring at him.

“What?” He allows one flick of his eyes to Sam before easing her out of the space. His concentration on what’s behind him. His ears burning on account of the continual glare. 

“Is everything okay?” Sam says, and Dean knows without checking his peripheral that his baby brother finds whatever he thinks is going on hilarious. 

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Sam scoffs. That ever-pompous chuckle where his lips cover half his face. “Gee. I dunno, Dean.” And Chuck, does he hate it when he says his name like that. “Maybe we can skip to the part where you tell me what’s going on between you two, unlike this morning,” he says next. 

Having reversed, Dean turns back to the front. His arm, slow and floating as his eyes pass over Sam’s face one last time. “Unlike this morning, your advice was a load of crap.” He shifts Baby into drive. 

Sam scoffs again. It’s not so hilarious now, is it? 

He nods his head, said head now facing the front, too. That peripheral of Dean’s again notes it as well as his flick of the tongue over his lower lip.

Clearing his throat, as he always does first, Sam seems to consider his words, which, perfect. Dean shoves the tape sitting in the deck, back into the stereo. Though he considers turning it up, too, Metallica was more for his benefit on the drive back from the Walsh’s when the silence was more obvious on account of the proximity.

Part of him wants to ask Sam straight out what he should do, but the other is still dealing with his pride. There’s no doubt he knows there’s something going on between Dean and you. How could he not? If it ain’t obvious, then it’s a question of Sam’s intelligence. Dean just sees no point in telling him about the test. Not yet. Not now, when the world is throwing hCG wielding adults at him.

So, still—again, he’s lost on what to say, so he goes with the first truth that comes to his mind. Surprisingly, it makes some sense. “I asked her out,” he says. Pauses. Takes that brief second between his thoughts to twist his jaw. Make sure it’s working. “She wasn’t interested.” He shrugs, pressing his foot into the gas to end the conversation ‘cause that’s it. That’s all there is to it.

You’re friends, family. That’s all he can ever ask for because you’re important to him. Always there for him, like he’s gonna be for you when you decide you’re no longer mad at him.

His heart was pounding in his chest. Mary. Mom. His mom. She was working with the Brits for them? The same jerks that’d tortured Sam and rammed his Baby? That crazy bitch Bevell who’d played mind control games on him? Made him hallucinate he was dating her under a spell, only to burn his feet and slice him with a knife? Those Brits? 

So what if they helped them escape the feds? It didn’t change the fact, they’d done all that other stuff. She was their mom. She was supposed to stick up for them. Support them. She was supposed to support him, but she never did. She never wanted to be around.

It made Dean feel like there was something wrong with the man he’d become when she was the one who wasn’t there to raise him.

Well, she wasn’t. And it wasn’t his fault. It was hers for making that deal and leaving them the way she had. 

Why’d he have to suffer when she should’ve known better? Why’d he have to miss out when he was so excited to have her back? 

“So there’s the door.” Dean’d made his point. Adrenaline still coursed through the arm he’d used to do it as he spun on his heels, unbothered to wait for a response or see the shock on Mary’s face—if it was ever there. 

He’d had enough. He’d had enough ten minutes ago. Couldn’t look at her after she’d spewed all that crap about Wally. 

But he did the dutiful thing for Sam until he high-tailed it. His steel caps scuffed over the polished floor as he stormed away. Rabid scrapes, bow legs, they ground bone against bone on impact. His tendons didn’t stand a chance.

And neither did the liquor cart. 

He needed a drink—he needed twenty. He’d head to the local bar. Drown himself, down and out, but that risked another pass by, and that wasn’t happening. There was no way he could keep his mouth shut, knowing what she’d done. 

That’s not what family did. That’s not what moms did, yet here they were.

He passed ‌through the library. Pulled out a bottle of whiskey, never looking back, even as Sam mumbled something about himself needing time. 

Dean heard the scrape of his chair. He wasn’t far behind him, but even Sam was the last person he wanted to see. How could he continue to pretend that woman was the mom he lost? In another thirty years, maybe. Then she’d at least look the way his mom was supposed to look, and he’d be too old or dead. 

He could only hope he would be. He was off to a right start, needing to calm down because his heart was now in his throat and choking him. The blood flowing through his veins—her‌ blood, throbbed through his arms and beneath his fingers as he clenched them tighter ‘round the glass and raised the lip to his mouth just as he made it to his room. 

Dropping to the floor at the foot of his bed, he chased the smokey liquid down his gullet, jarring his ass against the icy concrete and his tooth against the bottle, which was perfect, because you appeared, curious. There was no chance for the sting behind his eyes to do anything more than be present. 

With your hand on the door, you leant in, not crossing the threshold just yet, but twitching. seeming to wait for his invitation, or for him to say something first. But what were you expecting when he was this close to actual tears? He could choke up the sudden emotion and pretend the booze was more potent than he remembered, but what was the point? You knew better than that. He was a thriving alcoholic. Often running on the fumes of the last drink. He wasn’t ashamed to say it. 

There was a reason you were here now, though, having been nowhere near the vicinity of the war room when she’d waltzed in unannounced. Even the burgers she’d brought with her to butter them up hadn’t pulled you from wherever the hell you’d just come from. 

“You heard all that?” he muttered into the bottle. He took another swig and blinked away the burn still threatening his tear ducts. He was rather calm, considering. Too shaky and shocked to raise his voice any higher than he had back there, aside from the fact it was red raw like his face must’ve been, because your brows softened. Your head tremored, just as. 

You stepped into the room and moved to sit beside him without a word. Your hand, held out to take his whiskey from him. Dean swallowed as you did. 

Your swig was much smaller compared to his; still, you let out a cough that didn’t match the amount you’d taken. You closed your eyes and breathed out of your mouth like you were birthing another tinier scotch for him. 

“Weak,” he smirked, stealing it back.

“Mhmm, maybe,” you said, watching him down another mouthful. Out-smirking him with, “Just don’t make me be the asshole and call out the double standards here.”

“What? I’m weak for showing emotion now?” he sputtered, lowering the bottle back down between his knees. 

“No,” your hand touched his arm as you said the word a second time. “You left it open. I had to.” You paused, forming the broad grin across your face that you always wore when you were trying to make him feel better. 

If it had been a cinematic moment, he, as the hero, would’ve said something witty to continue the banter. Locking the sidekick in a headlock. Pulling the love interest in for a kiss, but Dean took the opportunity you’d given him. He blurted out what he knew you were fishing for, just to get it over with, he told himself. 

“Mom’s working for them.” His fingers picked at the edge of the label, focused on his fumbling fingers instead of waiting for the surprise to overcome you.

“Them being—” Your free hand waved for him to continue, but it was hard enough for him to say the first part aloud. 

Who else would she be working with? Who else had been on your tail of late if not Crowley or the feds? 

Lucifer was in the wind, racing against you to find Kelly. The other angels were minding their own business for now. 

“The fucking Brit’s.” He took another gulp, larger than the first few. Anything to stop himself from saying more about it. About Sam and what they did to him. It was hard to watch him sit across from her and hear it as it was.

Dean dropped his arms to his thighs, resting the bottle between them. He mightn't have been a child, but he sure as hell felt like one. He continued picking at the label, waiting for you to fill the silence. To tell him it was okay to be angry or something along those lines, but your hand just took the one doing the picking and squeezed it instead. 

Call it a tantrum, whatever the fuck you wanted. This type of thing was supposed to come from her. He was supposed to go to her, or better yet, her to him. 

“She’s supposed to be my mom,” he whispered, and your arm was around his neck, pressing yourself into him without another word. Your chest half on his back, chin on his shoulder. Your fingers, smoothing down his flanneled sleeves, massaging what you could reach with a gentle touch.

He should’ve come to you from the get go. Your presence, calming him enough, even if you said nothing more. No apologies. No ‘I told you so,’ or badmouthing Mary, though he was certain you wanted to. He appreciated it. You had a way of knowing what he needed in the moment, even when his own mother didn’t, and she was supposed to know him or, at the very least, get to know him.

“That him?” Dean says as he and Sam walk closer to Grafton High School. Honestly, Dean’s certain it’s Jake. He’s just a little surprised to see Edith’s boyfriend’s arm sitting rather comfortably around another teenage girl, so soon after her disappearance. 

“Think so.” Sam pulls out the printouts they got from the clinic’s security cameras prior to this. Jake Hart’s mug on it. “Kid moves fast.” 

“So much for young love,” Dean mutters. 

The sheer luck of finding him like this right as school lets out says more about the town itself than their detective work, but here they are, honing in on the teen-player as he walks out the school gate. Here they were expecting to talk to the principal before finding him, but this is where his parents said he would be, albeit leaving.

The fact that he’s walking out in a group of four or five other teens is perfect. Dean could use the chance to play up his bad cop act. If only he weren’t wearing his coat, he’d adjust his gun and raise his arms enough that his Colt caught on his jacket.

Best he can do is stand taller, though. He supposes Sammy’s height is an advantage sometimes. They trek across the grass out front, covered in leaves and twigs that crunch beneath them and announce their approach. Not that any of the teens are paying attention to the two old guys approaching them.

“Excuse me, Jake?” Sam calls out. He pulls himself into a light jog to catch up with him, now mid-laugh and heading in the opposite direction to him and Dean. “Jake Hart?” he calls a little louder. Only then does Jake turn around.

His grin is as broad as the acne covering his face. It falters when he takes in the clothes they’re wearing. Realisation, seeming to hit as both Sam and Dean whip their badges out from their coats and flash them at him. 

Dean’d say he’s guilty right there on the spot, but he’s also seen enough teenage vamps in his time to know this jock turned timid little boy ain’t one. 

“Federal agents?” Jake reads the lettering. His eyes, flashing to the girl now hanging off him. His tongue swipes at his lips, and she leans forward and up. Must need glasses if she can’t see the craters, but then again, Dean never judges. Can’t say he never had a zit.

“Bonham and Jones.” Dean hollows his cheeks, voice stiff. His arm waves between him and Sam, before stowing the badge away in his coat pocket. “You got a minute?” He couldn’t care less that Jake’s friends are watching their exchange, paying particular attention to the girl when he adds, “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Edith Walsh.”  

Dean’d laugh at Jake’s sudden lighter shade, but he is a professional after all. He wags his brows and clicks his tongue. 

“Ah, yeah.” Jake looks back at his friends; Dean exchanges one with Sam when Jake leans in and plants a kiss on the girl’s cheek, heads tilting all round. Jake even gets a throat clear from Sam. 

“You guys go on ahead,” Jake says. But as if nothing’s amiss, he turns back to them, fed suits and all, and dares to ask, “What about her?” His hands go to the pockets of his varsity jacket. The green colouring isn’t a good look for him. 

“Do you know her?” Dean lowers his chin. Blinking, not bothering to keep his tone in check in favour of intimidating the kid. It’s a shame he’s not wearing his usual gear. As much as he didn’t like Gary, Dean’d love to give the punk a shiner on the father’s behalf.  

“Yeah, I knew her,” Jake says, shrugs, but he doesn’t seem all that worried, even to be talking to them. 

“Oh, you knew her?” Dean folds his arms across his chest and looks at Sam again, half twisting, half bending his back. “You hear that, Sammy? He knew her.”

“Do you know what she was doing at the hospital about two weeks ago?” Sam’s eyes flick to Dean’s in warning as he hands Jake the printouts. “That’s you there with her, isn’t it?” Sam points to the closeup of his face.

It’s not the best image. Though the security camera caught him at a bad angle, all the angles are bad in Dean’s opinion. 

And why is life imitating the cases he does again? You don’t treat a baby mama poorly, no matter how young you are. Even if you thought they were your baby mama and then you found out they weren’t, you don’t treat them shitty and hook up with other chicks the next day, either. 

Except if you’re this kid; he nods his head. “She thought she was pregnant. Begged me to come with her.”

“She is pregnant,” Dean corrects him. “We spoke to the clinic ourselves. But you knew that.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s mine.” Jake shrugs. “Edie could’ve slept with someone else after me.” 

“Regardless if that’s the case, she’s missing,” Sam says. Rather aggressive as far as Sam goes, which is great, because Dean’s got nothing. The kid’s ability to maintain a social life grander than his in Grafton is impressive. 

How old is he? Sixteen? Seventeen? As Gary had done, Dean unfolds his arms, only to refold them again. “When did you last talk to her?” His chin drops again, too, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Ahhh—Thursday, I think.”

“The day she disappeared?” Sam doubles down. He was shuffling through his papers as he said it, but he’s now giving Jake the look he gives Dean when he’s at the end of his tether. 

And when Jake replies? His “Yeah, I guess so,” is tacked onto another shrug? 

Sam’s knees bounce at the audacity. His hands, coming to his hips like he wants to pull his jacket up and show the kid his gun instead of Dean.

It’s Dean that deals with it though. “You guess so?” He releases his arms to stick his hands in his pockets. His thumb, tracing the edge of his phone to keep at least one fist in check, because he’s had enough. “Your girlfriend’s missing and you guess so?” 

“We broke up. I wasn’t exactly happy to see her when she showed up.”

“At your house?” gets him a nod in reply, and that’s it. Dean’s tapping out. He’s letting Sam take the reins on this one. Aside from the fact that it’s not his place to do so, Dean’s not gonna stand ‘round and listen to Jake’s crap without going off on another tangent about how shitty a boyfriend he is to a girl Dean doesn’t even know.

Edith might not be Claire or Alex. She’s no Krissy or even Patience either—he hasn’t even met her, but he can’t do this. He may not be the best role-model, sure, but at least he offered to stick by you and take on his responsibility before you’d found out. 

He’ll ignore the part that asking you out when he did wasn’t the best time.

Besides, Sammy’s the stable one. He can keep Dean outta jail for child endangerment this way. Maybe it was a good thing your test was negative, because Dean’s definitely not father material. Though he sure as hell would make any son of his deal with the consequences of their actions. Just as John would’ve done to him now if things had been different. 

Maybe after this he and Sam should pay Jake’s parents another visit? Get him grounded at the very least. 

Dean keeps his eyes on him, unmoving, unforgiving. His thumb still plays with the edge of his phone as Sam goes through every detail.

But then he asks a question that has Dean pause and grip his device mid-flip. “What do you mean the first test was negative? She got tested at the hospital?” 

“Yeah, but we took one of those home ones first,” Jake says, and now Dean’s paying attention. 

Again. Life. Imitate. Case. Thank Chuck, Dean’s not strong enough to break another phone without the Mark’s influence. Luckily, his stomach is in on the conversation, because the contents inside take over his fingers, flipping whatever remains there from lunch over for him instead. 

“And that first one was negative?” Dean asks, and though he can feel Sam staring at him, he keeps his focus on Jake. There’s been too many damn coincidences throughout this case, and he’s not liking the latest one. Not one bit.

All it takes is for Jake to say the word “yeah,” and Dean excuses himself. 

If Sam protests, Dean doesn’t see it. Wouldn’t even know if he’s confused him—doesn’t care. 

He turns his back on both of them and moves a couple of yards away. His now tingling fingers are whipping his phone out, wasting no time unlocking it and finding your name in the contacts list.

He’s overreacting. Has to be. But moments and conversations flood through his head.

Taking the test in the bathroom. What happened after. How you’ve been treating him like asking you out how he did is the same as chasing you through the bunker with a hammer. He never threatened your person. Just wanted to do the right thing and offer you more than the situation you’d landed yourselves in. Nothing wrong with that, even if you don’t know the real reason behind it.

It’s safe to say he’s no Jake. Though maybe he is for not making you go see a second opinion. If history tells you anything, Dean is exceptionally virile. His swimmers have broken rubber barriers; it don’t matter if Lydia was an Amazon. His male genes were the ones that hit the target.

But you don’t answer. The phone rings out, which, there has to be a logical explanation for. There always is. Only the second and third times has him equally pissed and left with a racing heart. 

He should check on you, right? Swing by the motel just to make sure you’re still as pissed at him as ever? Make sure your period did come and isn’t still late because now that he thinks about it, he just assumed.

He opens his messages. Goes to shoot you a message. Starts typing: Just checking, your—your what? Your period came? Shark Week going well? Is your lady garden bleeding yet? No, no, no. He can’t say that. But what the hell does he say? It’s not his business, let alone send it in a text, but—

“Dude,” Sam says, now in his peripherals again. Not close enough to see what he’s typing, but close enough that he needs to finish and hit send—now.

—period came right?

Without further thought, he hit the little arrow and shut it off, running his free hand over his mouth again. Out of habit? To keep himself busy? Or to hide the ticks he’s doing with his teeth and tongue as Sam moves beside him.

“You, of all people, should know contraceptives don’t always work,” you’d said in the bathroom. 

It was more a dig at him, of course. Didn’t mean there was meaning behind it, even if at that point you hadn’t seen the results. There just couldn’t be. 

Problem was, again, the universe liked to screw him over, and this just didn’t sit right. 

You were on the pill, and yeah, it didn’t always work, just as rubbers didn’t. He’d put up with Jody bombarding Claire and Alex over that very thing a few years ago. Even if that was more a focus on STDs (he thinks), it worked with the other stuff, too.

What’d Lisa tell him once? That time she’d taken a test, she’d been worried because she’d skipped one and he’d had to suit up for a week afterwards?

Right?

Right?

He runs his hand down his chin. Sam’s watching him again now, and he can’t continue with Sam up in his face like this. 

“What?” he says, shaking his head, blinking just as fast. Dean knows there was a question there. Sam was thumbing behind him towards the Impala, but with his eyes narrowed now, looking at Dean in both disbelief and a concern that didn’t need to be there because there’s nothing concerning about this, right?

“Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, shoving his phone back into his pocket before giving Sam his full attention.

“Really? ‘Cause you went from Starsky to Hutch in under sixty seconds,” he scoffs, “What was so important?” He flicks his chin towards where his phone now lies.

“Just something he said. Thought I had a lead.” Dean looks over to Jake, now much further away than Dean first realised. Hand still in his pocket, thumbing the side again, waiting to feel the vibration of a reply, he gestures they get a move on themselves. 

He’s not sure what Sam’s next move is, but a part of him really wants to swing by the motel, just for his own peace of mind. If you don’t send a text back, he’ll make you talk to him this time. There’s a niggle in his throat that won’t go away until he does. 

Call it his spidey senses tingling. Call it delusional. It’s not that he wants it to be the case, and he can’t help but ask, “So what’d I miss?” as they cross the asphalt to where Baby is still waiting for them. His head to the ground most of the way.

“Not a lot. Kinda concerned for Grafton’s next generation, though.” Sam’s grin is wide—he snickers at his own joke. That giant grin plastered on his face again. Dean snickers with him. 

So does Dean’s stomach, even as he pulls on the door handle and gets into the car.

Of course, unless Sammy has picked up some x-ray vision from the same store Dean got his discounted radioactive spider bite from, he’s none the wiser to any of it. He joins Dean from the passenger seat with a grunt and the other obvious. 

“Still doesn’t help us, though,” he muses. “You think we should go back to where Humphries was found?”

Dean has to think carefully about how he can suggest otherwise. Too quick off the mark and Sam will know something’s up aside from his Hutch act. 

“Why? Because the first time was so successful?” He turns the engine over, grateful for the purr and the leather beneath his fingers. If he just focuses on his Baby and not some hypothetical one that doesn’t exist, he’ll get through the rest of this case until you reply, and—screw it.

“You know, I say we go back to the motel. Check the lore.” ‘Cause the lore is Sam’s weakness. “At least get out of these monkey suits.” ‘Cause that’s his. “Didn’t you say there were creatures who fed on pregnant women? Maybe it is a blood thing and not vampires being picky? I mean, when have we ever seen bloodsuckers be selective about their food?” 

He gives Sam a quick glance to hide the fact that he’s talking way too fast. Thankfully, “We haven’t,” Sam says in agreement. Though his eyes are as suspicious as Dean feels they are, and Dean himself is suspicious. But he pulls out of the curb before Sam can say anything against him otherwise. His mission? Confront you.

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

You had been a smartass when you’d asked him if he was going to dry your hands, and he’d done it. Two your-sized paw prints now sat smack bang over his stomach. Dark enough, they were almost a design.

But you? Your arms were limp under his fingers. Spaghetti noodles? Or just not aroused enough ‘cause he shook them, and you only went limper. Your half sniff, half snort was gonna be the best he could get. 

“So…you good?” he said again.

“I think so.” You pursed your lips, flushing their appearance with a subtle sheen that in any other circumstance would leave Dean with no other choice than to kiss you proper. 

There was something about the way you were less hardened in that moment that had him settling for your temple, though. He leaned in close to place a chaste kiss there. It seemed more sacred that way. More belonging to a couple over how you’d been in the past and up until that morning, even if you hadn’t seen it that way yet. 

“Yeah, me too,” he said. His mouth, still against your skin, when he wrapped his arms further around you. 

There was something still beating beneath the surface. That softer side he’d seen in your eyes as he continued to lean over you, seeping through your clothes and into his. 

Whatever it was, that feeling, he reeled it all in, squeezing you tight. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said. 

He almost believed it. 

You were both adults. You could do this. It had taken you a while, but you’d told him; he’d gotten you the test. You were being more adult-like than some people he’d known in his life, taking on the responsibility to do the right thing and make sure if you were or you weren’t. 

It’s why you were there in that bathroom. The bunker was no roadside dump or rundown hole you’d squatted in. You had a home base—a roof over your head that you then shook beneath his chin. 

Dean pulled back to look at you, seeing the woman he’d known all along. Still determined, mouth still flushed. How he found this softness in you attractive was as terrifying as the glow he’d seen before when he considered what hung in the air. 

That little piece of plastic you were both waiting on was either a blessing or a curse to your working relationship. It could and would hurtle you into the awkwardness of something else he wasn’t ready for, if it were positive. Or not. 

He should’ve wrapped it. He should’ve stayed a virgin, and though he didn’t know it at the moment in time, you agreed.

“We can’t have a kid, Dean.” You reinforced that rational side he needed to hear. Only telling him he couldn’t have something was the worst thing you could do when there was a spark poking its ugly head out of a book he’d locked away a long time ago. 

His time with Lisa. His shorter time with Cassie. The list could go on if he thought hard enough about it. He ran from all of them because he was never in it, though he had plenty of opportunities. He assumed he was the grunt he’d been running from all along until Sammy waltzed back into his life and roped him into the things his own father chased. 

It reacquainted him with you. You’d known each even then. He’d considered another slice of apple pie with you now, in a matter of hours. A carrot in his line of vision, encouraging him to take what he once gave up, like it were golden and would feed him forever. Not just a once off thing. 

You stood there before him, still in his arms, only at a greater distance the more he stared at you. He nodded to the test, still sitting above the sink. It hadn’t even been three minutes, but there was a deep pull in his chest that wanted to reach out and flip it over. In that moment, he dared the thing to be negative.

“It’s a little late for that, honey,” he mumbled. Audible for you to hear, but unsure of the words himself. It was too late. Having sat down and pissed on it already, it was non-refundable. 

“It’s never too late.” Your head tremored, and Dean didn’t like the way you’d emphasised certain words. The cogs in the back of his mind worked harder than ever as he considered them. 

“What’re you—” 

“This life; the job.” You pulled back a step, too. Hands coming together to pull at the tips of both sets of fingers. “I mean, we’re not even dating. We—” But you trailed off yourself. Those hands of yours, now bobbing in front of your still very flattened stomach as you tried to make a point, Dean still wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. 

The job? Well, the job he could understand. The life? Sure. He guessed. He wasn’t the only one ‘round here that had a history in the family business. But dating? He was expecting a different word altogether, and hey, that was your choice. Maybe that’s what you were trying to say and even you’d backed out. 

Of course, he went the high road. 

“So what?” He licked his lips. “You wanna date me?” He’d cling to that if he didn’t have to deal with the A word before you knew the test results. You could avoid an awkward conversation if you just held off a little longer. At least he hoped he could. He didn’t want to think about that because that little niggle in his gut was still festering. Still considering the possibilities, he wasn’t supposed to want. 

Even if this was only ever a temporary thing, it’s not like the two of you weren’t good together. The last words Missouri’d said came to mind.  

He took a step back and opened his arms out to you, shrugging like the answer was obvious. It was obvious to him. “That’s an easy fix.” He just wasn’t expecting the reaction he got,

“You’re serious?” Your eyes narrowed.    

Damn right he was. Though he didn’t appreciate the edge of a smirk that came to your lips. 

You didn’t appreciate his offer either. “I don’t want to date you,” you said. You could’ve at least made your tone a little lighter. Not look at him like it was all a big joke ‘cause wow! The smile you’d been holding back had his jaw tick and his eyes fluttering like he was trying to take off and follow old patterns. If only his lashes were long enough. 

Should he be insulted? He should be insulted, right? Was he not a good-looking fella? 

He folded his arms and stared down at you, his forehead stretching with the weight of his brow. “So I’m good enough to be the stud and let off a bit of steam, but I’m not boyfriend material?” 

“You’re saying it like I wanted this to happen.” 

“I’m giving you an option.” His vocal cords shrilled. He was insulted, alright. Wanted to take the whole thigh back. “Kinda regretting it now.” 

“You should be. What’s next? A marriage proposal?”

“No,” his voice raised higher, catching in his throat. Though he can see how you got there. Maybe. That’s what the guy in the movies always did, right? Made things official by making someone honest. He needed that more than you, but it wasn’t the point. 

“Then why’d you offer that?”

“You said we’re not dating,” he said, but your head was shaking for real that time, and “What?” he said next. Could he be any more insulted than he wasn’t supposed to be? There were no subtle tremors in sight. Everything, obvious and dismissive until you stopped to rub your fingers across your temple, turning away from him like you were the one struggling to understand him. 

“I meant we’ve been careless.”

Careless? “You said you were on birth control.” And that did it. May as well have dropped your jaw like your tongue was a tape measure because you stared back at him like he’d told you he was the one who was pregnant and you were waiting on his test results. 

Your head snapped to him like the measure had wound back and startled you. “You, of all people, should know contraceptives don’t always work.” 

Your face held there for a pause. Eyes flickered back and forth. His were doing the same.

Dean felt whatever it was you were measuring deep within the pit of his stomach. There was that fear again. The one that’d been circling around him ever since you’d told him, circling back over you to a familiar scene. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay.” Even after you’d cut him down over that very line moments ago, he meant it now. Believed it.

“Maybe,” you muttered. Dean reached for you again. He pulled you towards the sink and the reason for all the back and forth. His hands on your arms, itching and ready to take it.

It had to be three minutes now, right? At least close enough that the line would’ve changed had it been one of those other ones that weren’t digital. He’d been foiled by pretty packaging and a gimmick that hindered the result. He still didn’t know how it worked. Hadn’t read the instructions. But he doubted the letters in the plastic window would appear like an alkaline test with the gradual swell of liquid on the paper. 

He wasn’t that stupid. 

He tilted his head to the side and tried to see yours at a better angle. “Let’s just find out first, huh?” ‘Cause that was most important here. No matter what happened, there were nine months left to decide if it was positive. He said so. “S’not like we have to decide anything now.” 

“Just in nine months,” you scoff. Right on the money. You were smart, too. One step ahead of him.

He hadn’t said it for a reason, but he could go on about Lydia. You think months aren’t enough time? Try days. Hours even. Finding out he had a monster Hannah Montana for a daughter a day after shacking up with her mother still made his skin crawl.

He’d had a daughter, though. She was…if he looked past the wanting to kill him thing, Emma was beautiful. Her mother sure was a looker. There’s a reason he’d hit on her in the bar and said he was an investment banker.  

If it weren’t for Sam dealing with Emma on his behalf, though, Dean’d be dead as a doornail. And you? You wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure. And maybe that would’ve been for the better? At least you wouldn’t be so unlike yourself as you were now. The usual spitfire; the heat he saw in your eyes and the lip you often gave, gone behind one that was being chewed. 

Dean looped his arm around you further, grounding himself, hoping to ground you, too. A part of him still wanted to cling to the notion that this could happen. His skin was crawling, yes, but his gut was churning at the thought that the words he’d read when he flipped it over would say the words he’d admit he was hoping for. He couldn’t see any other possibility. The universe had those ways of messing with him. They could bring in the negative, and honestly, that’d screw him over more. 

He was in his head so much, you took control of the situation, though; the grounding having worked. You picked up the test before he could lift a finger. 

Like some cliche moment in a movie where the camera honed in on the character’s face and the music playing in the background slowed before the hook came in, you flipped it over with that same flip of the chords. Words waiting for you both on the screen.

Not pregnant.

All the hope and groundedness in his body hurtled out the nearest exit. His blood evaporated into nothing.

The words, clear as day. 

But that was okay, right? That was a good thing. You dodged a bullet. You couldn’t have a kid, just as you’d said so. The evidence was right there. In your hands. In his because he’d loosened his grip. Fingers barely clung to you. His arms now heavy and floppy like yours had been. 

Not pregnant.

“Not pregnant.” Your hand startled him. A soft touch on his good shoulder. 

The air that escaped him, laced with the start of a chuckle that never formed. “Yeah,” he said. Licked his lips to moisten the dryness. Did nothing for his throat. Eyes, lids, lashes, brows and frown lines raised, hoping to do something more than staring at the test in your hands. “You, ah—” 

What? He wasn’t going to ask if you were good again, when he wasn’t, was he? Talk about hypocrisy. 

Like Winchester-fine, good was a copout. You could answer in the affirmative and not mean it. It was the signal that the discussion was over, or at the very least, there was no pressing on it. So again—what? What did you say after something like that, aside from going back to your separate rooms? It’s not like sex was on the table.  

“You know I meant what I said about datin’ me?” He’d just been terrible on the delivery. 

“Yeah, I know,” you whispered. If it were possible, your chin dropped lower. 

You moved your hand off his shoulder and took a step backward. The warmth he’d been feeling, sucked away with it. 

And that was it? That’s all you were gonna say to that? “Guess it’s still off the table, huh?” he chuckled. His smile, forced. It didn’t reach his eyes, though they crinkled just the same. 

It was the kind you made when you were trying to hold your head high from a rejection. He should’ve been insulted, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice it. Not quite the way he wanted, at least.

“Look, I know it’s not the answer, but I—well, we’ve got a good thing going on here. Care’ta, at least, join me for a drink? S’not like you can’t have one now.” Chuck knew he could have another drink. 

You were still holding the test in one hand. Your fist held it tight on one end. But you tucked it into the shorts you were wearing, no longer just underwear below the oversized shirt.

He hadn’t noticed until now. Too focused on everything else.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed.” 

Your tone was a little louder that time. More certain than you had been minutes ago.

“Okay, yeah.” Honestly, Dean couldn’t believe it. “Yeah.” He brought his thumb up to his temple just to do something over stammer. “Yeah. Last thing you need is to wind up in the sheets with me again.”

It came out way too butthurt. Too denounced even for him. He sighed and took another step back. It wasn’t much. Your silence, or at least, lack of anything substantial besides going to bed, was telling. You were running away. Now, saying his name and only his name.

You were about to say something else but stopped short—and after he’d held you close and kissed your temple like that? That was boyfriend material right there, and…once again Dean—wanting something he couldn’t have.

So maybe he was a child? Didn’t matter now with you not being pregnant. He didn’t need to take on any responsibility anymore, aside from getting his mom and Jack back. Easy. Then he could enjoy his life. Take on an occasional hunt when he got bored.

He could sleep around—eventually. Go to bars and not worry if you were gonna get insulted. Jealous. He could sleep around; or go back to Miss. Itchi-gatsu when he was deprived of human touch. 

“I, ah—” He shook his head—once. Choosing to focus on you then. “Least you know the contraceptives do work.” 

“Dean, that’s not—” 

“Woah. No, no, no.” He swiped his hand through the air. Palm raised high in the sky, more than flatlined. A talk to the hand, except he was stepping around your hand coming back to his body. A toreador, if he had a cape in his hand. “I—you go to bed. You need it after last night. We got quite a workout in.” 

In any other circumstances, he’d be struggling to hide the grin that came with the thought of you, split open for him. His palms on your ass, spreading it further as he ploughed into you. But no, no. He had to stop that. Get a load of Itchi-gatsu into him or onto her. That’s what skin mags were for. 

“Dean,” you said, and you were louder. All because he was walking out on you. 

He strode across the bathroom tiles, empowered. That you were trying to call him back and hash it now left him reeling. Maybe you’d do the chasing for the time being if you wanted a piece of him. How stupid was he to think you ever might’ve been? 

Stupid Missouri. Sweet…deceased Missouri, but he never trusted psychics, and this was why. They got in your head. They made you see things that weren’t there. Well, now was too late.

“It’s all good, sweetheart. I got a bottle and a bed to lie in.” He thumbed to the door, now only a foot behind him. His hand was on the handle the next second, yanking it down with his ever aching shoulder. “I’ll—” He had nothing more to say unless he went with the low blow he wanted to go for. 

He didn’t, though. He didn’t have anything other than the need to get one back for the red face he guaranteed he had. 

So he walked out on you that night, which was funny, because if anything, he thought he’d be comforting you, but apparently, you didn’t need it.

Dean is just as quick at shutting off the Impala’s engine as he was at turning it over out front of the school. It took five minutes to get to the high school from Jakes’s house and another five to get back to the motel, but it’s still not fast enough. The whole point A to point B thing really hits home. Not bothering to play the part of calm and collected, he’s more dazed and confused as he jumps out of the cab. 

The first to the door before Sam has even closed the passenger side, Dean notices nothing weird out front. Though if Sammy has in his behaviour, it can wait until after. 

Dean barges in and scans the room, but at first glance, you’re not there. Not at the table. Not in the bathroom—neither’s your purse. 

But that’s normal, right? Things move. People use them. Your purse could be on the other side of his bed. Shoved in behind the toilet, for all he knows. He doesn’t know what you do with it. Women’s purses are about as functional as Mary Poppins’ magical bag was in his eyes. You could have a whole ass lamppost in there. A Baby? The Impala, to be clear. 

He takes a deep breath. Pulls his phone out—again. Hits call and waits. 

As Sam enters the room, Dean’s thrown a cautious glance his way. He feels it reach straight into his skull. His world, spinning out of control with each unanswered buzz and the call that drops out. 

“Son of a bitch.” He checks his texts. You haven’t left him on read, either. The tick in the message he sent you mere minutes ago, ten, fifteen max, still greyed at the bottom.

He’d throw his phone on the ground, but then where would he be, besides having a cracked screen and the dents in his palms to prove he once had it? No, it’ll only prove there’s something wrong when any second you’re bound to walk through that door behind him and not talk to him again. 

Sammy’s taking off his jacket. You’ll do the same. You’ll stare at him just like Sam is, head tilting to the side and laughing at how worked up he’s become over nothing. Except Sam’s not laughing—you were late. You did the test together. Dean saw the negative. The words read Not Pregnant. That was it. Final.

Yet, here was that same feeling washing over him again. The cliche moment. The music, slowing as the hook came in and stole the show.  

You weren’t answering his calls. You hadn’t opened his text. You weren’t in the room, and this case? This fucking case was dealing with pregnant women. HCG. Whatever. You weren’t here. You ain’t here. And he just needs to know that you’re walking ‘round, still breathing. Your neck, still intact and not in a river somewhere or having a catheter stuck into the back of your hand right now. 

He ran his hand over his face. The same hand then runs through his hair as he thinks. Frets. His forehead lines with trench marks that’ll set if he doesn’t right them.

“Dean?” Sam says, still standing. Still staring—but Dean ignores him. Can’t focus on anything other than you. 

You have to be on your period. Why else would you be acting so harsh towards him if it weren’t that you were moody and hurting a little extra? That’s how the bleeding thing worked, right? You bleed later, you get more blood? 

Does he Google that? Does he ask Sam that?

Nope—not asking Sam that. 

He shakes his head. Mutters the same word, “Nope.” He goes over to your gear that is here. Pulls it up off the floor and drops it onto your bed, ransacking through it like a common thief on a jewel heist.

He’s been through your stuff before. If you catch him red-handed, so be it. He looks at the door, looks down again at the bras and the shirts and the panties. A pair of jeans. The sleeve of a jacket. Just no little pouch you keep that stuff he’s looking for.

“Must be in the bathroom,” he says under his breath. 

And while Sam comes over, Dean spins on his heels. “What’re you doing?” doesn’t stop him. Not even his name being called more aggressively does as he strides to the bathroom door. 

The light flickers in the small space, having a fit of its own at being turned on, but Dean’s body is lunging forward. His fingers, peeling open the zipper on the prize waiting for him. Only then does he realise he doesn’t know how many tampons or pads he’s supposed to find amongst the packet of pills and Trojans. 

He stoops as low as going to the trash, which is where Sam steps in and draws the line. He yanks Dean’s hand away from lifting the lid up after he’s picked it up off the floor, the same as he did with your duffle. 

“Dude! What the hell are you doing?” His voice bounces off the tiles. He should feel lucky that he stopped Dean before he dumped the contents into the sink. Looking at Sam and having to explain that is worse than just coming out with it, though. 

“I, ah,” Dean scrubs his face with his hand; Sam screws his up in disgust. But Dean’s too far gone to think it has anything to do with him when he hasn’t even said what he needs to say yet.

How does he put this irrational fear into words? ‘Cause any second now he’s still expecting you to walk through that door so he can laugh about it. 

“She—took a pregnancy test two days ago.” He looks at his boots and not at his brother’s newfound stare. Sam could catch flies with that hole; Dean could shut his own up and snip off his junk while he’s at it. Still, he tries his best to explain further before Sam does it for him. 

“It was negative—but she’s not answering her phone, and what Jake said got me thinking.”

“Do I wanna—” Sam cuts himself off, waiting—no; hoping for a logical reason behind Dean’s sudden bathroom assault. It’s hard to win anyone over when the evidence stacks up against you. 

Dean shuts his eyes before relenting, “She was late, but I never checked if she actually got her period.”

“So you’re checking the trash for evidence?”

“She’s not answering her phone,” he says. It’s the most logical thing he can think of. Sammy’s gotta see that.

“Gee, I wonder why?” Sam’s hand points to the trash can like it’s the small bucket at fault.

And what does a guy say to that? It’s not like he did anything to deserve the silent treatment. “That’s what I wanna know,” Dean says, but the pitch is rather high. Sam was already questioning him in the car earlier. Asking him to just come out and say it over fretting like this. But how could he? It’s ridiculous enough now, yet his gut is flipping and his skin is starting to crawl. 

The only difference between this being you and Lydia is that you are family. A matter of you being harmed in any way whatsoever over a kid he’s not trying to think about. 

He wanted this in the bunker’s bathroom for a fleeting moment, but not like this.

Sam doesn’t react, though. He pulls out his own phone and, from where Dean is standing, brings up your number, dials, and puts the call on speaker. 

Dean holds his breath on the third ring. The cliche kind. The music slowing; the wait for the upbeat rhythm that tells the audience everything’s okay—or the hero is way out of his depth.  

What hope does he have if Sam can’t get through to you either?  Because the dial tone soon rings out.

Though Sam tries again, it still doesn’t get through—and then Dean catches the moment panic sets in Sam’s eyes. Only then does Dean let the panic settle in his own gut. Butterflies, crawling caterpillars—whatever. 

He clenches his jaw. “I’m checking her GPS,” he says.

A/N: Dun, dun, duuuuuunnnn. What can I say? I feel clever ✌️ With this chapter posted, I've hit the minimum 25k word count required (I'm sorry judges) -but there's still two more to go -❤️

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

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@supernotnatural2005 @thewinchesterwench @ultimatecin73 @waynes-multiverse @winchesterwild78 @youroldfashioned @yoursrosie @zepskies

They all felt appealing for different reasons.

And so she continued to think.

To wonder.

To imagine.

Meanwhile, life refused to pause for self-discovery.

Eliza remained a one-child creative industry.

Every day seemed to bring a new chapter in the increasingly complicated saga of wolves and ducks. One afternoon, Y/N overheard an impassioned explanation involving duck ambassadors, wolf council elections, and a disputed pond border. Another day, Eliza spent nearly an hour constructing an elaborate village from blocks and couch cushions, assigning each structure a specific purpose in the ongoing alliance.

The stories became more sophisticated as she approached six.

More detailed.

More ambitious.

More hilariously serious.

Beau claimed it was proof she would either become a novelist or run for public office someday.

Emily privately suggested both.

Caleb, meanwhile, remained Caleb.

At nearly two years old, he approached every day as though it were an adventure specifically designed for him. Fear simply did not seem to exist in his vocabulary. He climbed first and considered consequences second—if he considered them at all.

Y/N once found him standing triumphantly atop the coffee table.

Another time he somehow managed to move a dining room chair across the kitchen in pursuit of cookies.

When questioned, he merely smiled.

The smile was entirely Beau's.

And therefore impossible to stay angry at.

Then there was Ella.

At nine months old, she seemed determined to make up for lost time.

Crawling had arrived with shocking speed. One week she was rocking uncertainly on hands and knees. The next, she was moving through the house with alarming efficiency. No room remained safe. No object remained unexamined.

Her favorite activity became following people.

Especially Beau.

If Beau entered a room, Ella immediately attempted pursuit. If he left again, she expressed her displeasure loudly.

"Daddy's girl," Emily observed one afternoon as Ella crawled after Beau's retreating boots with remarkable determination.

"Traitor," Y/N replied.

Ella had also begun pulling herself upright against furniture. The coffee table. The couch. Beau's legs. Anything stable became an opportunity. She would stand there proudly, wobbling slightly, looking utterly delighted with herself.

The babbling had increased too.

"Dada" remained her favorite word.

Much to Y/N's annoyance.

"Mama" appeared occasionally, usually when she was upset or wanted something.

"Dada" was used for joy, excitement, curiosity, and apparently most household objects.

Beau found this deeply entertaining.

Y/N found it suspicious.

One evening, she caught him teaching Ella that his badge was "Dada's badge."

The baby immediately began pointing at it and chanting "Dada."

Y/N was still debating whether this counted as cheating.

Despite all of it—the diapers, the school drop-offs, the endless laundry, the toddler negotiations, the baby-proofing that somehow never stayed effective—she found herself feeling lighter.

The restlessness had transformed.

It no longer felt like a warning.

It felt like anticipation.

Sometimes she would be folding laundry while Ella crawled circles around her and suddenly find herself imagining a classroom. A future coworker. A different routine. Not instead of this life.

In addition to it.

That distinction mattered.

One evening, while helping Eliza color wolf insignias for an important council meeting, Y/N realized something that made her smile.

A few months ago, she had been afraid that wanting something beyond motherhood somehow diminished her love for it.

Now she understood the truth.

She loved this life completely.

She loved being Beau's wife.

Loved being Eliza's mother, Caleb's mother, Ella's mother.

Loved the noise and the chaos and the impossible fullness of it all.

But loving one chapter didn't mean she couldn't be curious about the next.

Across the room, Beau sat on the floor helping Caleb build a tower while Emily lounged on the couch, studying for class and occasionally contributing to Eliza's wolf government. Ella crawled determinedly toward the tower with obvious destructive intentions.

The structure collapsed moments later.

Caleb laughed.

Ella laughed.

Beau groaned dramatically.

And Y/N found herself smiling.

The future could wait a little longer.

For now, she was content to wonder.

The sheriff's department was many things.

Quiet was rarely one of them.

Beau sat behind his desk mid-morning, reviewing reports from the previous evening when dispatch transferred a call directly to him. He picked up expecting something serious.

Instead, he got Earl Patterson.

Which should have been his first warning. "Earl."

"Sheriff."

Beau leaned back in his chair. "What can I do for you?"

Earl took a deep breath. "I'd like to report a theft."

That got Beau's attention. "A theft?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was stolen?"

A pause.

"My prize rooster's dignity."

Beau closed his eyes.

Across the room, Doris immediately looked up from her desk. The woman had an almost supernatural ability to detect nonsense.

"Earl," Beau said carefully, "explain."

Apparently Earl's prized rooster, General Sherman, had engaged in a territorial dispute with another rooster belonging to his neighbor. The confrontation had occurred in full view of several ranch hands.

General Sherman had lost. Badly. The rooster had fled. The ranch hands had laughed. And Earl was convinced this constituted emotional damages.

Beau listened for nearly ten minutes while Earl described the incident in exhaustive detail. By the end of it, Beau knew more about rooster psychology than he'd ever wanted.

When the call finally ended, he slowly lowered the receiver and stared at the wall. The silence lasted approximately three seconds. Then Doris burst out laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-bodied, shoulders-shaking cackle.

"Oh my God."

Beau rubbed his forehead. "Doris."

"Did a chicken lose a fistfight?"

"It was a rooster."

That only made her laugh harder.

Jenny chose that moment to walk into the bullpen carrying a file. She took one look at Doris nearly bent over her desk and Beau's exhausted expression. "What happened?"

Doris pointed dramatically. "General Sherman suffered emotional damages."

Jenny stopped. Blinked. Then looked at Beau. "Please tell me that's not what I think it means."

"It means exactly what you think it means."

Jenny closed her eyes. For a moment she looked like she was silently reevaluating every life choice that had brought her here. Then she laughed too. "Oh, that's fantastic."

"It's not fantastic."

"It absolutely is."

Beau leaned back in his chair and pointed a finger at both women. "One day," he said, "there's gonna be an actual emergency."

"Sure."

"And y'all are gonna regret mockin' me."

"Absolutely."

"You're both impossible."

Doris wiped tears from her eyes. "You know what the worst part is?"

"I don't want to know."

"The worst part is that I know exactly which rooster he's talking about."

Jenny groaned. "No."

"Oh yes."

"You've seen the rooster?"

"I've seen the rooster."

"Why?"

"Because this is Big Sky."

Neither Beau nor Jenny had a counterargument to that.

A few hours later another call came in regarding a cow that had somehow gotten itself onto the roof of a shed.

Nobody ever satisfactorily explained how.

By lunch, Beau had mediated a dispute involving a fence, a goat, and what appeared to be a decades-old grudge between two ranchers.

When he finally emerged from his office with a cup of coffee, Doris looked up from her desk. "How's your day, Sheriff?"

Beau considered. "My wife is looking at college classes."

Doris smiled immediately. "That's nice."

"My oldest daughter's in love."

"Also nice."

"My youngest daughter is learning to crawl."

"Awww."

"My son is probably committing property crimes at daycare."

"Almost certainly."

"And I've spent my morning discussing traumatized poultry."

Jenny laughed so hard she nearly dropped her file.

Beau took a long sip of coffee. Then, despite himself, he smiled.

Because somewhere between the rooster, the cow, the fence dispute, and the goat incident, his phone had buzzed. A picture from Y/N. Ella standing proudly while holding onto the coffee table. Nine months old and looking very pleased with herself.

Below the picture was a simple message: Look what your daughter did today.

Beau smiled again.

Doris caught it immediately. "Oh no."

"What?"

"The smile."

Jenny looked up. "The smile?"

Doris pointed. "That's Sheriff Shiny."

Beau groaned.

Jenny laughed.

And the sheriff's department returned to business as usual.

The afternoon had been relatively peaceful.

Which, in the Arlen household, usually meant disaster was quietly gathering momentum somewhere.

Y/N was in the living room trying to convince Caleb that climbing onto the back of the couch was not, in fact, an Olympic sport. Caleb disagreed vehemently and had already made three attempts.

Meanwhile, nine-month-old Ella sat nearby, proudly pulling herself upright against the coffee table. Every few seconds she would let go with one hand and beam at herself as though she'd personally conquered Mount Everest.

"Good job, baby girl," Y/N said.

Ella grinned.

Then promptly sat down on her diaper with a surprised expression.

The front door burst open.

Emily came flying inside.

"Mom!"

Y/N's heart immediately dropped.

She straightened so quickly Caleb nearly toppled over.

"What happened?"

Emily froze.

For one brief second she looked like someone who had just sprinted a mile.

Then the words exploded out of her.

"Peter wants to take the relationship to the next step."

Y/N blinked. "Oh."

Emily paced. "Oh?" she repeated. "That's all you've got? Oh?"

"Emily—"

"And I don't know what to do because I really like him and he's wonderful and he's sweet and he wasn't pressuring me and he was actually really respectful about it but what if I'm not ready and what if I wait too long and that ruins everything and what if I do it and that ruins everything and what if I'm terrible at it and—"

"Emily."

"What if—"

"Emily."

The young woman stopped pacing.

Y/N pointed toward the couch. "Sit."

Emily sat. Immediately. Years of maternal authority still had power.

Y/N settled beside her while Caleb drove a toy truck into a chair and Ella resumed her attempts to stand.

For a moment, neither woman spoke.

Y/N simply let Emily breathe.

Finally, Emily groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "Oh God."

"You done?"

"No."

"Close?"

"Maybe."

Y/N smiled. "Good enough."

Emily peeked through her fingers.

Y/N's expression was gentle. Not shocked. Not disappointed. Not worried. Just listening.

"Okay," Y/N said. "Tell me exactly what happened."

Emily took a breath. Then another. "He brought it up this morning."

"How?"

"He said he loved where our relationship was going. That he cared about me. That eventually he'd like us to be intimate."

Y/N nodded. "And?"

"And he said there wasn't a timeline. No pressure. No expectations."

"That's good."

"I know."

Emily groaned again. "That's the problem."

Y/N laughed softly. "Because it'd be easier if he were a jerk?"

"Exactly."

"Unfortunately, Peter appears to be a decent human being."

Emily slumped. "I know."

Y/N reached over and squeezed her hand. "Emily."

Her daughter looked up. "You do not owe anyone sex."

Immediately Emily relaxed a fraction.

"Not Peter. Not a boyfriend. Not someone you're in love with."

Emily nodded slowly.

"You don't do it because you're afraid someone will leave."

The nod became firmer.

"You don't do it because you think it'll save a relationship."

Another nod.

"And you definitely don't do it because you're worried you'll lose him if you don't."

Emily was quiet for a moment. Then she whispered, "What if I wait and he gets tired of waiting?"

Y/N considered that. "If Peter truly cares about you, he'll respect your answer."

Emily stared at her. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then he wasn't the right man for you."

The answer came easily. Certainly. Because Y/N believed it.

Emily looked down at her hands. "I just don't know if I'm ready."

Y/N smiled softly. "Then you're not."

Emily blinked. "What?"

"Sweetheart, the fact that you're saying those words means something."

Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind Emily's ear. "When you're ready, it shouldn't feel like you're trying to convince yourself."

The younger woman absorbed that quietly.

Around them, life continued. Caleb had apparently declared war on a pillow. Ella had managed to stand again and was applauding herself. The normalcy of it all seemed to help.

After a while Emily sighed. "I'm scared."

"I know."

"What if I make the wrong choice?"

Y/N smiled. "Then you'll survive it."

Emily looked skeptical. "That's not very comforting."

"It should be."

Y/N squeezed her hand again. "Because you're stronger than you think."

The room fell quiet.

Emily leaned into her shoulder the way she occasionally still did when life felt overwhelming.

For a few moments, they simply sat together. Mother and daughter. No judgment. No pressure. Just trust.

Finally, Emily laughed weakly. "I really thought this conversation was going to be worse."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Worse?"

"I don't know."

"Did you forget who raised you?"

Emily smiled. "A little."

Y/N kissed the top of her head. "Whatever you decide, make sure it's because it's what you want."

Not Peter.

Not fear.

Not expectation.

Her.

And for the first time since bursting through the front door, Emily looked calmer. Not because she had an answer. But because she understood something important.

She was allowed to take her time.

Emily was quiet for a long moment after that.

The living room had settled into a gentler rhythm. Caleb had finally exhausted himself and was now focused on pushing a truck across the rug while making determined engine noises. Ella sat nearby, happily chewing on a teething toy and periodically attempting to crawl toward trouble.

Emily stared at her hands. Then, hesitantly, she asked, "What was it like?"

Y/N tilted her head. "What was what like?"

Emily looked embarrassed immediately. "Your first time with Dad."

Y/N blinked. "Oh."

"That's probably way too personal."

"It is a little," Y/N admitted with a laugh.

Emily groaned. "I knew it."

"But that doesn't mean I can't answer."

Emily looked relieved.

Y/N settled deeper into the couch cushions, considering the question. It wasn't one she'd ever expected Emily to ask, though perhaps she should have. Emily wasn't a little girl anymore. She was a young woman trying to navigate adulthood, love, and all the uncertainty that came with both.

"It wasn't perfect," Y/N said finally.

Emily looked surprised. "Really?"

"Sweetheart, almost nobody's first time is perfect."

That earned a small smile.

Y/N glanced toward Ella, then back to Emily. "When your dad and I got together, we'd already spent a lot of time getting to know each other. We'd talked. We'd dated. We'd built trust first." She smiled softly at the memory. "Your father was absurdly patient."

Emily snorted. "That sounds like him."

"It does, doesn't it?"

Y/N's expression softened further. "The thing I remember most isn't the physical part."

Emily listened carefully.

"I remember feeling safe."

The answer seemed to surprise her. "Safe?"

Y/N nodded. "Your dad spent the entire evening making sure I was comfortable. Making sure I knew I could change my mind. Making sure I never felt pressured." She smiled faintly. "Honestly, I was probably more nervous than he was."

Emily laughed. "Hard to imagine."

"Oh, trust me."

Y/N shook her head. "I was worried about a hundred different things. Whether I looked okay. Whether I was making the right decision. Whether everything would somehow become awkward afterward."

"And?"

"And none of those things happened."

She smiled. "Because the relationship wasn't built on that moment. The relationship already existed."

Emily absorbed that quietly.

Y/N continued, "The next morning, your dad was exactly the same man he'd been the day before. Kind. Patient. Ridiculously attentive. He made breakfast. He checked on me. He checked on Eliza." Her voice softened. "Nothing changed except that we were a little closer."

The memory warmed her even now. Beau had been so careful with her heart back then. So determined to earn trust rather than demand it.

Emily stared at the floor. "I think that's part of what scares me."

"What does?"

"The idea that everything could change."

Y/N nodded. "That's a normal fear."

Emily looked up. "So how did you know?"

Y/N smiled gently. "I didn't know everything."

"That isn't very reassuring."

"No," Y/N admitted. "But it's true."

She reached over and squeezed Emily's hand. "I knew I loved him. I knew I trusted him. I knew I felt safe with him. Beyond that, there were no guarantees."

Emily was quiet.

"The truth is, sweetheart, sex doesn't create a healthy relationship. It doesn't save one either."

She glanced toward the kitchen where Caleb had somehow acquired a wooden spoon.

"A healthy relationship is built by everything that comes before and after. Trust. Respect. Communication. Kindness."

"And if I'm not ready?"

"Then you're not ready."

The answer came easily. Firmly. Without hesitation.

Y/N smiled. "And if you decide six months from now that you're ready, that's okay too."

Emily leaned back against the couch and exhaled slowly. "I really hate being an adult sometimes."

Y/N laughed. "Join the club."

That finally earned a genuine smile from Emily.

For a few moments they sat together, watching Caleb drive his truck into a table leg and Ella applaud herself for no apparent reason.

Then Emily rested her head briefly against Y/N's shoulder. "Thanks, Mom."

The word still touched Y/N every time. Not because she'd earned it through years of raising Emily from childhood. But because Emily had chosen it. Chosen her.

Y/N kissed the top of her head. "Anytime, sweetheart."

And for the first time since she'd burst through the front door in a panic, Emily looked like she could breathe again.

The house was asleep.

The kind of deep, complete sleep that only came after a full day of children, work, school, errands, and the thousand little moments that filled an Arlen day. Somewhere down the hall, Eliza was undoubtedly dreaming about wolves. Caleb had finally exhausted himself. Ella, after protesting bedtime on principle, had surrendered to sleep as well.

The bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of a bedside lamp.

Y/N rested comfortably against Beau's chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. One of his arms was draped around her waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against her skin while the quiet settled around them.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Y/N said, "Emily had a bit of a panic attack today."

Beau's hand immediately stilled. "What happened?"

There was an instant alertness in his voice that made Y/N smile. "Nothing bad."

He relaxed slightly. "Define bad."

"Peter brought up eventually taking their relationship to the next level."

The silence that followed was immediate.

Profound.

Y/N lifted her head slightly.

Beau was staring at the ceiling.

Blinking.

Slowly.

"No."

She laughed. "Beau."

"Nope."

"Beau."

"Absolutely not."

A groan escaped him as he dropped his free arm over his eyes. "She's twelve."

"She's twenty."

"In my defense, I reject that information."

Y/N's laughter filled the room.

Beau shook his head. "No. See, this is ridiculous. Emily's supposed to be this sweet little girl."

"You mean the college student?"

"The little girl."

"The young woman with a boyfriend?"

"The little girl."

"The adult who can vote?"

"The little girl."

Y/N kissed his shoulder. "You're impossible."

He sighed dramatically. "I remember teachin' her how to ride a bike."

"And now?"

"And now apparently we're discussin' sex." His tone suggested this was a personal attack.

Y/N couldn't stop smiling.

For another moment Beau lay there quietly. Then the humor faded and something softer took its place. Because the truth was... he knew. Emily wasn't a child anymore. He'd seen it himself.

The confidence she'd gained at college. The way she talked about her future. The maturity she'd shown with Peter. The woman she was becoming.

He just wasn't always ready to acknowledge it. A long breath escaped him. "God."

"Yeah."

"She's really growin' up."

Y/N threaded her fingers through his. "She is."

Beau turned his head, looking down at her. "So what'd you tell her?"

The question was genuine. Curious. Trusting.

Y/N settled back against him. "I told her she didn't owe anyone sex."

His expression immediately softened. "Good."

"I told her she shouldn't do it because she's afraid of losing him. Or because she thinks it'll save a relationship."

Beau nodded slowly. "Also good."

"I told her if she's saying she doesn't know whether she's ready, then she's probably not ready."

A hint of relief crossed his face. "Thank you."

Y/N smiled. "I also told her that when she is ready, the decision should be hers."

Beau was quiet. Thoughtful. Then he nodded. "Yeah."

Not because he liked the idea. Because he respected it. Emily deserved that respect. The same respect he would want any man to show her. The same respect he hoped Peter would continue showing her.

After a moment, Beau asked quietly, "Did she seem okay afterward?"

"Much better."

He smiled faintly. "Good."

Y/N studied him. "You're handling this surprisingly well."

"No, I'm not."

She laughed. "No?"

"Inside, I'm considering arresting Peter."

"Beau."

"I'm just sayin'."

"On what charge?"

He thought about it. "Existin'."

That made her laugh so hard she buried her face in his chest.

Beau grinned, pleased with himself. Then his expression softened once more. "Truth is," he admitted quietly, "I'm glad she came to you."

Y/N looked up.

He brushed a hand through her hair. "She trusts you."

The words carried weight. Because they both knew the journey that had brought them here. Y/N hadn't raised Emily from childhood. She hadn't been there for scraped knees or elementary school plays. She'd entered Emily's life later.

And yet. Somewhere along the way, a relationship had grown. Built not by obligation, but by choice. Emily choosing to trust her. Y/N choosing to love her.

Beau's heart swelled just thinking about it.

"So am I," Y/N whispered.

He kissed her forehead. Then pulled her closer.

And together they lay there in the quiet darkness, thinking about daughters growing up, sons growing wild, babies learning to stand, and all the beautiful, complicated ways a family changed over time.

The next morning began exactly the way most Arlen mornings did.

With noise.

Eliza was explaining to anyone who would listen why ducks should not be allowed to vote in wolf elections. Caleb was attempting to wear one of Beau's boots despite the fact it was nearly half his size. Nine-month-old Ella sat in her highchair enthusiastically demolishing a banana while simultaneously decorating herself with it.

The kitchen looked like a battlefield.

The coffee was working overtime.

And somehow everyone was talking at once.

Beau stood at the counter nursing his mug while Y/N packed lunches. Emily was helping Eliza find a missing mitten that somehow turned out to be in the refrigerator.

Nobody questioned this.

After all, it was Eliza.

Eventually, though, the chaos shifted.

Y/N disappeared briefly to clean Ella's face.

Caleb became fascinated by a toy truck.

Eliza ran off to retrieve an important wolf document.

For one brief moment, Emily found herself alone near the coffee pot.

Beau seized the opportunity. "Hey, kiddo."

Emily glanced up. Something in his voice immediately caught her attention. "Yeah?"

Beau rubbed the back of his neck. For a moment he looked strangely uncomfortable. Which was alarming. Because Beau Arlen rarely looked uncomfortable.

"Oh God," Emily said immediately. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That's not reassuring."

He exhaled. "No, it ain't."

Emily stared.

Beau stared back. Then finally sighed. "Your mom told me about your conversation."

Emily immediately groaned. "Oh my God."

"Now hold on."

"Dad."

"Just hear me out."

Emily covered her face.

Beau couldn't help smiling.

She looked exactly like she had when she was sixteen and embarrassed. Except now she was a college student. Which was still a fact he was struggling with.

A lot.

Finally Emily peeked through her fingers. "What?"

Beau leaned against the counter. "I know this is awkward."

"The worst."

"The absolute worst."

"Glad we're on the same page."

That earned a laugh from both of them. The tension eased. A little.

Beau became serious again. "I just wanted you to know somethin'."

Emily straightened slightly.

His voice had changed. This wasn't teasing anymore. This was father territory. "I'm proud of you."

The words surprised her. "What?"

"I'm proud of you." Beau shrugged one shoulder. "You didn't panic and make a decision because somebody expected one."

Emily blinked.

"You thought about it."

She nodded.

"You asked questions."

Another nod.

"You took your time."

A third.

"That's maturity, Em."

Her eyes softened.

Beau took a slow breath. "Your whole life, I've wanted you to know that you never have to earn my love."

The kitchen seemed quieter suddenly. Not silent. Just smaller. More focused.

"Whatever you decide," Beau continued, "that's your decision."

Emily swallowed.

"If you decide you're not ready, that's fine." He paused. "If you decide someday that you are, that's fine too."

His expression was steady. Certain. "All I care about is that you're safe. That you're respected. That you're making choices because they're yours."

Emily felt emotion rising unexpectedly in her chest.

Beau reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "And if anything ever goes wrong..."

She looked up.

His green eyes held hers. "If you get scared." His voice softened. "If you make a mistake."

Softer still. "If you regret somethin'."

Emily's throat tightened.

"If you get pregnant."

There it was. The thing most fathers danced around. Beau didn't. "You call me."

The words landed with absolute certainty. Not judgment. Not disappointment. Not conditions. Just certainty.

"You hear me?"

Emily nodded. "No matter what?"

"No matter what."

His answer came instantly. No hesitation. No qualifiers. "Nothing changes that you're my daughter."

The emotion she'd been fighting finally broke through. "Dad..."

"You call me." His voice was firm now. "You don't hide. You don't panic. You don't try to carry it alone."

Emily's eyes shimmered. "I won't."

"Good."

Beau pulled her into a hug then. A real one. The kind he gave when words weren't quite enough.

Emily hugged him back immediately. For a moment she was twenty years old. For a moment she was ten. For a moment she was both.

"I love you," Beau murmured.

"I love you too."

Behind them, Eliza burst back into the kitchen.

"WOLF EMERGENCY."

The moment shattered instantly.

Beau sighed.

Emily laughed.

And life resumed.

But the warmth of that conversation stayed with her long after the morning chaos swept everyone away.

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Silver confirmed something.

Now you just have to make him nervous enough to slip.

Think.

If he’s the wolf, he won’t move tonight. Not in this weather. Too exposed. Too risky.

Which means you—

The door before you opens.

You pivot automatically, stepping aside without really looking—and walk straight into something solid.

A chest.

Hard. Warm. Unmoving.

The impact jolts you back half a step, your hand instinctively coming up, palm flattening briefly against flannel dampened by rain.

“Oh—sorry,” you say quickly, breathless but distracted, already retreating. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

You don’t look up.

You don’t need to.

You’re already turning away, brain still racing through contingency plans.

Your boots hit wet pavement. The drizzle is steady, light but persistent, speckling your flannel and catching in the loose strands that have escaped your braid. You tug your keys from your pocket, turning toward the street instead of the small church lot.

Behind you, everything goes very still.

Dean doesn’t breathe. The word hits him like a fist to the sternum.

Sorry.

Not the word itself.

The voice.

Soft. Familiar. Wrapped in something he hasn’t heard in five years.

Sam freezes beside him. He feels it too—that sharp, impossible recognition that crawls up the spine and settles behind the ribs.

Dean’s heart is suddenly pounding too hard.

It can’t be.It’s not possible.She’s dead.Five years dead.

The rain fills the silence where neither of them trusts their own voice.

You’re already moving again, boots splashing lightly against the pavement as you head toward the Charger parked along the curb. Your braid sways between your shoulder blades.

Dean’s eyes track the movement without permission.

The way you walk.

The set of your shoulders.

Sam swallows hard. “Dean…”

But Dean doesn’t answer.

Because for one fractured second, his world has tilted sideways.

It looks like her.It sounds like her.But it can’t be her.

The church door creaks wider behind them.

“Evening, gentlemen,” the pastor says warmly, stepping forward with a polite smile. “Out in this weather? Dedication.”

Dean blinks, like he’s surfacing from underwater. His jaw tightens as he forces himself to look away from the woman.

Professional.

Focus.

“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging his attention back to the present. “Something like that.”

Sam tears his gaze away too, but not before watching you pull open the driver’s side door. You don’t glance back. Not once.

The Charger’s engine turns over.

The taillights glow red through the rain.

And the two of them stand there for just a beat too long, staring at the back of you as if staring hard enough might make sense of it.

The braid isn’t long enough.Maria’s was longer.Maria is dead.

The pastor clears his throat gently.

“Please,” he says, gesturing inside.

Dean finally moves.

But as they step into the church, rain still tapping against the stone, the ghost of your voice lingers in his ears.

And for the first time in five years, he isn’t entirely sure he believes in ghosts.

It clings. Persistent. Annoying.

You sit in the Charger for a moment after killing the engine, watching droplets gather and race each other down the windshield. The town is quiet at this hour. A flickering neon vacancy sign buzzes faintly outside the office.

There’s nothing you can do tonight.

Not in this weather.

Rain doesn’t erase everything, but it blurs enough. Scent disperses. Tracks soften. And if he’s smart—and you’re certain he is—he won’t risk a hunt with visibility compromised.

Inside your room, the air smells faintly of old carpet cleaner and something fried from a neighboring unit. The overhead light hums when you flip it on.

The bed is still a disaster.

Map spread wide. Case files open. A couple of lore books stacked and abandoned when they’d proven useless.

You shut the door behind you and drop your keys on the small table, shrugging out of your flannel. Damp fabric hits the chair in the corner.

Then you go straight to the bed.

The first victim: six days before the second.

You trace the dates again with your finger, brow furrowing.

Six days.

It could be coincidence.

It could be nothing.

Or it could be restraint.

If it’s restraint… then the next one lands in three days.

Your jaw tightens.

You hate this part.

The waiting. The sitting still. The knowing something is coming but not being able to force its hand. Your instincts are built for movement, for action, for the chase. Stillness makes your skin feel too tight.

You gather the loose papers into neater stacks, smoothing the map flat before folding it carefully along its worn creases. The lore books go back into your duffel with more force than necessary.

None of them helped.

None of them explain why a werewolf would kill outside the lunar cycle.

You know he is one.

The handshake confirmed it.

The scent confirmed it.

Silver doesn’t lie.

But nothing about this lines up. No full moon. No heightened aggression reports. No other deaths in town or the other nearby towns. No random attacks.

Just two men. Six days apart.

Both churchgoers. But that’s all you’ve got.

Your movements slow.

You stare at the wall for a long moment.

You know he’s the wolf.

You just don’t know why he’s choosing when to bare his teeth.

With a sharp exhale, you strip down to something comfortable. Soft sleep pants that hang low on your hips. An old, oversized Metallica shirt, fabric thin from years of wear, the graphic cracked and faded from too many washes. You pull the tie from your braid and let your hair fall loose, fingers combing through it absently as tension lingers at the base of your skull.

The rain taps steadily against the window.

You climb onto the bed, propping yourself against the headboard, laptop settling onto your thighs. The screen’s glow casts pale light across the room.

Search history already filled with variations of the same questions.

Clergy misconduct. Criminal records. Missing persons. Patterns of violence tied to moral crusades. Anything that might explain a predator who selects his prey with deliberation instead of frenzy.

You scroll.

Click.

Read.

Your foot bounces restlessly against the mattress.

Three days.

If there’s a pattern, you’ll know soon enough.

And if there isn’t—

You’ll make him move.

Outside, the drizzle continues, steady and patient.

Just like you’re trying to be.

Dean slides into the booth across from Sam and shrugs out of his jacket. The vinyl seat gives a tired squeak beneath his weight. He doesn’t say much when the waitress comes by. Orders a burger, coffee. Pie. Same as always. Sam echoes him without thinking.

The routine feels automatic.

Normal.

And that’s the problem.

They should be talking. Lining up suspects. Mapping out timelines. Rehashing the conversation at the victim’s house. Information from the pastor. Instead, there’s only the scrape of a fork against ceramic and the muted hum of a country song drifting from the jukebox near the counter.

Dean stares down at his plate like it owes him answers. He chews without tasting. Across from him, Sam flips his napkin open and folds it again, thoughtful.

Neither of them mention the woman.

Dean doesn’t want to give the thought shape by speaking it out loud. It’s easier to pretend it was nothing. Just a stranger in a doorway. Just a voice in the rain.

But the sound of it lingers.

He hasn’t heard her voice in five years, but he’d know it anywhere. 

The same distant drift like when she’d been focused on an answer neither brother had noticed. 

Her voice, coming from a stranger, made something in his chest tighten.

He hadn’t seen her face. Hadn’t even caught her eyes. Just the top of her head and that braid trailing down her back as she walked away. Five-foot-something and moving like she had somewhere else to be.

But the voice—

His grip tightens slightly around his fork.

She’s been gone five years.

Five years and he still hears her sometimes in crowded places. In grocery stores. In gas stations. In his damn dreams.

But that voice in the church doorway hadn’t come from memory.

It had come from right in front of him.