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

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rod stewart 3 months, 1 day, 8 hours 08:19:26

The Impala rolled to a slow stop at the curb in a quiet neighborhood washed pale by a day’s worth of rain, the kind that never quite turned into a storm but settled over everything anyway, thin and cold and persistent enough to bead along the windshield and slick the blacktop until the whole street looked dark and freshly bruised.

It was early April in Montana, which meant the world seemed caught somewhere between thaw and misery, all barely-budding trees, muddy lawns, and flowerbeds that had not quite decided whether they were brave enough to bloom. The houses on either side of the street were modest and well-kept, most of them with porch lights glowing even though it was barely late afternoon, their windows warm behind curtains and their gutters ticking softly as water dripped into puddles below. It should have looked ordinary. Safe, even. The sort of place where people argued over trash cans and borrowed lawnmowers and noticed if a strange car sat too long by the curb.

Dean sat there in his black suit and loosened tie, one hand still resting on the wheel, jaw working faintly as he stared through the rain-specked glass at the Wilts house. It sat halfway down the block beneath the sag of an old maple, a small blue place with white trim and a narrow porch. There was nothing especially sinister about it from the outside, nothing that announced immediate danger, but Dean had learned a long time ago that houses rarely had the decency to look haunted before they started swallowing people whole.

They had spent most of the day dressed as federal agents and walking the same miserable circles through police stations, evidence rooms, and living rooms that smelled like burnt coffee and grief. The case was messy from the start, a string of robberies and murders without pattern or warning, the victims carved up in their own homes while valuables disappeared from drawers, safes, jewelry boxes, and bedside tables. It had the shape of something deliberate, maybe even clever, but every time they tried to pin it down, the edges went soft.

No matching jobs between the victims. No shared church. No support group, no bar, no bad debt, no secret poker night, no obvious vengeful ex with a knife collection and too much free time.

The only connection they had found worth circling twice was between two of the robberies, and even that barely held together under pressure. Two victims had worked for the same company more than ten years ago, but in different departments, on different floors, during overlapping months that could have meant something if either of them had ever actually met. According to the records, they had not. According to the people who remembered them, they might as well have lived in different states.

It was the kind of dead end that made Dean itchy.

Not just because dead ends meant people kept dying, though that was bad enough, but because somewhere across town Bunny was chasing the same case with that maddening little certainty in her eyes, the one that said she had already decided she was right and was simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. The bet from two days ago still hung between them like cigarette smoke, light and ridiculous on the surface, but sharp enough underneath to make Dean want, with an almost embarrassing amount of sincerity, to get there first.

Being handcuffed to a motel bed by his own wife probably should have taken some of the competitive edge out of him. It hadn’t. If anything, it had made it worse.

Dean stepped out into the thin, needling rain and shut the Impala’s door behind him with more care than his mood deserved, the sound dull and solid in the wet quiet of the street. For a second, he stayed where he was, one hand on her roof, his eyes lifted toward the Wilts house while the mist gathered in his hair and along the shoulders of his suit jacket, beading dark against the black fabric. 

He caught his reflection in the rain-specked glass of the driver’s window and leaned in just enough to tug his tie straight, though the damn thing had been sitting wrong since lunch and had apparently decided not to cooperate. His collar felt damp. His cuffs felt damp. The back of his neck felt damp in a way that was starting to make his teeth itch.

He rounded the front of the Impala, dress shoes whispering over the slick pavement, and glanced up at the low clouds as if he could intimidate them into making a choice.

“I’m gettin’ real tired of this mist crap,” he said, not loudly, but with enough feeling that it should have counted for something. “Either rain or don’t rain. Pick one. My jacket’s been a little wet since nine this morning, and I’d rather be soaked than this halfway bullshit.”

There was no answer.

Dean took another step toward the paved walkway before the silence registered properly, and he stopped with one foot on the curb, turning back with his eyebrows already pulling together. Sam was still standing beside the passenger door, tall and still and slightly hunched against the weather, his phone pressed to his ear and his gaze fixed somewhere past the houses across the street. The rain had started to curl the ends of his hair, and the expression on his face had gone distant in that way that meant he was listening too hard to something Dean could not hear.

“Sam.”

Sam lifted one finger without looking at him.

Dean stared at him.

The neighborhood went on dripping around them, gutters ticking, tires hissing faintly on some farther road, the wind worrying the branches of the maple in front of the Wilts house until they scraped softly against one another. Dean spread his hands in a sharp, silent what the hell, because they were standing outside a witness’s house in fake federal suits while his overgrown brother took a mystery call in the rain like they had all the time in the world.

Sam still didn’t move. Dean let three more seconds pass, which he considered generous under the circumstances. “Dude.”

That finally did it. Sam blinked as if coming back from somewhere, pulled the phone from his ear, and looked down at the screen before tucking it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Sorry.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “That better not have been Bunny calling to gloat.”

“It wasn’t Bunny.” Sam stepped away from the car and crossed toward him, his expression already shifting into something more careful, less distracted. “I called Bobby this morning.”

Dean’s face changed at once, irritation tilting toward suspicion. “You called Bobby.”

“Yeah.”

“About the case.”

“What else would it be about, dude?”

They started up the walkway together, the wet concrete dark beneath their shoes, rainwater pooled in shallow dips where the slabs had settled unevenly over the years. Dean glanced toward the house again, then back at Sam, trying to read whatever had been left behind by the voicemail. 

“I had him dig up a few things,” Sam said, lowering his voice as they came within sight of the front porch. “Records, old reports, anything weird that might not have made it into the local files. I didn’t realize he’d called me back until now. Must’ve left a voicemail while we were still at the station.”

Dean looked at him like Sam had just admitted to inviting a coyote into the motel room because it seemed lonely. “Why the hell would you call Bobby?”

Sam gave him a look, small and incredulous, the kind he usually saved for mornings when Dean put whiskey in his coffee and called it efficient. “Why the hell wouldn’t I call Bobby?”

Dean’s mouth tightened.

“We call Bobby for everything,” Sam said, keeping his voice low as they started up the last stretch of walkway, rain ticking softly against the bare branches above them and pattering over the porch roof in uneven little bursts. “That’s sort of the point of Bobby.”

“Yeah, I know what the point of Bobby is,” Dean said. “The point of Bobby is also that right now, the guy’s basically a double agent.”

Sam huffed a short laugh under his breath, not quite amused enough to smile. “He’s not a double agent. He isn’t part of this stupid bet between you and Bunny.”

Dean stopped just short of the porch steps and looked at him with open disbelief, because Sam was smart, annoyingly smart, smart enough to get into Stanford and smart enough to recite Latin upside down with a concussion, and yet here he was standing in the rain acting like Bobby Singer could be trusted to stay neutral when one of the people involved was the girl he had raised and just recently reconnected with. “Like hell he’s not.”

Sam stared at him.

“A few months ago, sure,” Dean said, lifting a hand as if laying out evidence in court. “Back when you couldn’t mention the other person’s name without one of them gettin’ cold, sure. But now? She calls him twice a week just to chat. Chat, Sam. With Bobby. On the phone. Voluntarily.”

Sam’s expression softened despite himself, though he tried to bury it by glancing toward the door. “Yeah, well. He raised her.”

“Exactly,” Dean said, pointing at him. “He raised her. Which means there’s a real solid chance Bobby got whatever he got, called Bunny first, gave her the whole damn rundown, and then remembered somewhere around cup of coffee number three that maybe you’d wanna know too. We keep this close to the chest until we put whatever we’re chasing in the ground. With silver. Or fire. Whatever gets the job done.”

Sam shook his head as he climbed the steps after him, the corner of his mouth threatening to move again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Think whatever you want,” Dean said, smoothing a hand down the front of his suit jacket as they reached the door. “Just help me win.”

The porch gave them a little shelter from the rain, though not enough to keep the damp from following them in, clinging to their shoulders and the hems of their trousers while the wind worried at the eaves above. Up close, the Wilts house looked smaller than it had from the curb, the blue paint chipped along the doorframe and the white trim darkened where water had collected in thin lines. There was a planter beside the door filled with soil and the fragile beginnings of something green, and a welcome mat nearly black with rainwater, its cheerful lettering blurred beneath their shoes.

Sam reached out and knocked. The sound landed heavy inside the house, three dull raps that seemed to move through the walls and disappear.

Both of them pulled their badge wallets from inside their jackets, an old motion by now, practiced enough to look casual and false enough to feel like putting on another layer of damp clothing. Dean shifted his weight and glanced toward the curtained window beside the door. Nothing moved behind it. No shadow passing through the hall, no creak of footsteps, no startled voice calling that she was coming.

They waited. Rain whispered over the porch roof. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once and fell quiet. Dean looked at his watch, then at Sam, then back at the door. After nearly a minute, Sam nodded toward the small doorbell fixed beside the frame. “Try that.”

Dean pressed it with his thumb and listened as a faint, tinny chime sounded somewhere deeper in the house. Again, nothing. Dean’s patience, never especially sturdy to begin with, began to thin into something sharper. He leaned slightly to the side, trying to see through the narrow gap in the curtains. “She even home?” he asked.

“It’s four on a Saturday,” Sam said.

“Her car’s in the driveway,” Dean said, his eyes moving from the window to the side yard, where a wooden gate led back behind the house and a line of wet fence boards disappeared toward the maple shadows. “Maybe she’s out back and didn’t hear the bell.”

Sam followed his gaze, his face tightening with the same thought Dean had not quite let himself finish. The case had made ordinary things feel wrong: closed curtains, unanswered doors, cars left sitting in driveways, the stillness of a house that should have had at least one living person moving around inside it. He tucked his badge wallet more firmly into his hand and stepped back from the door, already angling toward the porch stairs.

“I’ll check the yard,” he said. He only made it half a step before the door opened.

It didn’t swing wide. It creaked inward by a careful few inches, slow enough that the old hinges seemed to complain about it, and the woman standing behind the screen door looked as though she had been crying for so long she had passed through grief and come out the other side hollowed by it. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, the skin beneath them bruised purple with sleeplessness, and she held a crumpled tissue to her nose with one trembling hand. Her hair had been pulled back hastily, wisps escaping around her face, and she wore a cardigan too large for her narrow shoulders, one sleeve bunched around her forearm as if she had forgotten to tug it into place.

She looked from Dean to Sam, and then to the open badge in Sam’s hand.

Dean felt his own expression settle, all the irritation draining out of him so quickly it might as well have slipped through the porch boards with the rain.

“Marlowe Wilts?” Sam asked, gentle but official.

The woman swallowed, eyes shining again. “Yes,” she said, her voice raw from crying. “That’s me.”

She looked almost surprised to find them there, as though she had opened the door expecting rain or silence or nothing at all, and for a second her hand tightened around the door. Sam softened his posture by half an inch, the badge still visible but no longer pushed forward like a demand, and gave her the small, careful nod he used with grieving witnesses and frightened civilians, the one Dean had seen work on people who would have slammed the door in his own face twice over.

“Mrs. Wilts,” Sam said. “I’m Agent Becker, FBI. This is my partner, Agent Fagen. We were hoping we might have a few minutes of your time about your brother’s case.”

Marlowe’s mouth trembled, and she drew in a breath that sounded like it hurt. Before she could answer, another shape moved in the dimness behind her.

Dean saw the dark fall of hair first, then the familiar line of a shoulder beneath a neat black blazer, and his stomach dropped with the sudden, clean certainty of a man watching his last decent card go up in flames. Bunny stepped into view on the other side of the screen door, composed as anything, her expression gentle and grave in a way that made her look like she had been there for hours and belonged there more than either of them did.

Dean’s face fell.

Damn it.

Bunny’s eyes flicked to him, and the smallest smile touched her mouth, so brief it might have been politeness if Dean hadn’t known every wicked little corner of her face by now. Then she turned back to Marlowe, placing one hand lightly on the woman’s shoulder, her fingers careful and steady against the oversized cardigan.

“Thank you again for speaking with me, Mrs. Wilts,” Bunny said, her voice hushed and warm, the crisp edges of her accent softened by the house, the rain, and the woman standing broken in her own doorway. “I know this has been terribly difficult, but you’ve been very helpful. We’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to your brother.”

Marlowe nodded shakily, pressing the tissue harder beneath her nose. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Bunny gave her arm a light squeeze, not lingering too long, not giving more comfort than Marlowe seemed able to take, and then she stepped toward the screen door with the quiet ease of someone who had already been invited inside and learned where the grief sat in the room. She pushed it open and held it with one hand, glancing down as Wallace slipped out beside her.

The dog looked far more official than he normally did. He wore a black vest that was fitted neatly over his broad back, with POLICE K-9 stitched in white along both sides, and he stepped onto the porch with the solemn dignity of a dog who was very committed to doing his fake job. His ears flicked at the creak of the screen door, nose lifting briefly toward Sam and Dean before he settled at Bunny’s side, calm and watchful, scarred muzzle twitching at the scent of rain.

Bunny turned to them then, extending her hand as if they had not shared a motel room, a marriage certificate, and most of their adult lives. “Agent Mary Winchester,” she said smoothly. “National Crime Agency. Pleasure to meet you both.”

Dean felt something in his brain trip over itself.

Their mother’s name, clean as a blade and dropped right there on a dead man’s porch, wrapped in a fake badge and Bunny’s prim little smile like she hadn’t just reached into Dean’s chest and flicked something tender for the sake of winning a bet. Dirty trick. Low, gorgeous, clever trick.

Sam recovered first, his hand closing around hers with only the smallest delay. “Agent Sam Becker,” he said, voice even in a way Dean knew cost him something. “FBI.”

Bunny gave him a polite nod, then turned her eyes to Dean.

Dean took her hand because Marlowe was watching and because not taking it would have been worse, but his grip lingered a fraction too long, his thumb pressing once against the side of her finger in warning. “Agent Dean Fagen.”

“Pleasure,” Bunny said softly.

Bunny released his hand and turned back toward the doorway. “Mrs. Wilts, please do try to rest if you can. I know that sounds impossible at the moment, but even something as simple as a little tea, or just a moment of quiet, anything you can manage. We’ll be in touch very soon.”

Marlowe nodded, folding the tissue in her hand until it was nothing but a damp white twist. Then she looked to Sam and Dean, shame and exhaustion passing over her face as if she had only just remembered they had come to ask more of her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you came all this way, and I do want to help; I just…” She swallowed, gaze dropping briefly to Wallace before lifting again. “Would you mind coming back later? This has all been a bit much, and I think I need a little time to pull myself together.”

Sam’s expression gentled at once. “Of course,” he said. “That’s no problem.”

Dean nodded, forcing his face into something respectful while every competitive bone in his body still twitched at the use of his mother’s name. “Take your time, Mrs. Wilts.”

Marlowe gave them a grateful look, then stepped back into the house with one last tremulous nod. The front door sighed shut between them, soft and final, leaving the three of them on the porch with the rain murmuring around them and Bunny standing there with Wallace at her heel like she had just won the whole damn day without wrinkling her suit.

Dean waited until he heard the lock turn, a small, careful click from the other side of the door, and then he turned his head toward Bunny with the slow disbelief of a man who had been patient for exactly as long as human decency required and not one second longer.

Bunny only smiled at him.

Not much. Not enough for Marlowe to have caught it through the curtains, if she had still been standing there. Just a neat little curve at the corner of her mouth, restrained and dreadful and pleased with itself in a way that made Dean want to kiss her and throttle her in roughly equal measure.

“Mary Winchester?” he said, voice low.

Bunny blinked at him, all innocence. “Yes?”

Dean stared at her. “You wanna tell me where the hell you get off using our mom’s name as an alias?”

Sam shifted beside him, quiet but watching, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and the reluctant kind of amusement that came from knowing someone had played dirty and played well.

Bunny glanced between them, then gave one small shrug, the movement elegant beneath her dark blazer. “It knocked the pair of you off your game, didn’t it?”

Dean’s jaw worked.

“And besides,” she added, stepping past him toward the stairs with Wallace falling easily into place at her side, “I am legally a Winchester now. Strictly speaking, I only borrowed the first name.”

Bunny started down the steps, careful in her heels on the wet wood, and Sam followed after her first with a faint shake of his head. Dean lingered half a beat, eyes narrowing at the back of her blazer, then came down after them because letting her walk away first felt too much like letting her win twice. Wallace’s tail swept once, twice, pleased as anything to have all of his people gathered in one place again, the fake police vest shifting over his broad back with every step.

“Even for you,” Sam said as they crossed the short path toward the curb, doing his best to hide the smile in his voice, “that was kind of a low blow.”

Bunny did not look especially wounded by the accusation. If anything, she seemed to consider it with a thoughtful tilt of her head, as though Sam had commented on the weather or the quality of the porch rail. “All’s fair in love and war.”

Dean scoffed as they crossed back toward the curb. “This doesn’t feel like love, but it’s really starting to feel like war.”

Bunny looked at him over her shoulder, the smile touching her mouth again. “Dean, darling, you were the one foolish enough to agree to a bet with me. I’m afraid that makes it both. Far be it from me to use any weapon at my disposal.”

“I’m not foolish,” Dean said, because dumb was one thing, but foolish coming out of Bunny’s mouth made him sound like he should be wearing a dunce cap. “And I’m not losing this bet.” “Yes, darling.” “Don’t ‘yes, darling’ me,” Dean said. “It’s condescending.” “Of course, my love. I wouldn’t dream of sounding condescending,” Bunny said, terribly mild.

Sam gave Dean a look that said, very clearly, that he had brought this upon himself. Dean ignored him on principle and kept his attention on Bunny as they reached the Impala, rain freckling the polished black hood and slipping in silver threads down the windshield. Wallace lowered his head to investigate a cluster of weeds near the curb with the solemn commitment of an animal who had never once been told that the fate of a case did not rest on damp roadside vegetation.

“How did you even get here?” Dean asked. “We didn’t see your car.”

Bunny stopped near the passenger side of the Impala and reached into the inside pocket of her blazer, producing her cigarette carton with the easy, practiced motion of someone who had been waiting for the first available excuse. She tapped the pack against the heel of her hand, drew one out with her fingers, and tucked it between her lips before answering, her gaze cutting briefly down the street where the houses blurred blue and gray through the mist. “I parked a few blocks over.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I was looking into something else,” she said, as if that explained anything at all, and bent her head to shield the cigarette from the rain while she flicked her lighter. The flame caught small and gold between her hands, bright for half a second and reflecting against the locket around her throat in the damp afternoon, and then vanished as she took the first drag. “Found out Mrs. Wilts lived nearby, thought the walk might be nice.”

She shrugged. “Admittedly, the weather’s a bit dreary, but it’s always nice to stretch your legs.” Smoke slipped from her mouth in a pale ribbon and was immediately carried away by the rain.

Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly, his attention sharpening past the fake K-9 vest, the cigarette, the easy smile she was using to cover whatever she had found before they got there. “What were you looking into?”

Bunny laughed softly, not loud enough to disturb the house behind them, but warm and knowing as she looked at him through the pale drift of smoke. “Nice try, Sammy.”

Dean stared at her for another second, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug that was meant to look careless and probably did not, given the way Sam’s eyes slid toward him with immediate suspicion. “You know what? Doesn’t matter.”

Bunny’s brows rose.

“It doesn’t,” Dean said, pointing at her before she could look too pleased with herself. “You wanna do the whole secret thing, fine. Knock yourself out. We just got a call from Bobby, and we’re gonna go check that out before we come back here and talk to Mrs. Wilts.”

For the first time since she had stepped out of the house, Bunny’s smile shifted into something quieter, the amusement thinning just enough to let the work show through underneath it. She took another slow drag from her cigarette, eyes steady on Dean’s face, and tilted her head as rain misted in the loose strands of her hair. “He called about the fourth robbery, then?”

Dean’s expression flattened.

Bunny exhaled, smoke pale against the gray street. “The fourth robbery? The one that happened three nights ago and never finished being filed because the victim changed their mind. Or, something that looked and sounded like the victim changed its mind.”

Dean turned his head toward Sam. Sam looked down for half a beat, then reached back to scratch at the nape of his neck, his shoulders drawing up beneath the damp line of his suit jacket. “That’s, uh,” Sam said, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes. “That’s what Bobby called about, yeah.”

Dean lifted a hand toward him, palm open, vindicated and furious in the same breath. “This. This right here. This is exactly what I was talking about.”

Sam sighed. “Dean—”

“No, no, don’t ‘Dean’ me.” He pointed at Sam now, then at Bunny, who was watching him over the end of her cigarette with an expression that was doing a heroic job of pretending not to enjoy itself. “You go poking around for information, Bobby digs something up, and who gets the call first? Her. Because of their weird bond.”

Bunny’s smile cooled by a degree, not enough to make the air sharp, but enough that Dean noticed. She took one last drag from the cigarette, then held it away from her body as ash darkened at the end. “Our ‘weird bond,’” she said, carefully, “would be that Bobby is my father in nearly every sense of the word, lest you’ve forgotten.”

He looked away first, jaw tightening as he glanced toward the street, toward the dripping hedges and the blank shine of the Impala’s windows and the Wilts house standing silent behind them. He did know that. Christ, of course he knew that. He knew it in the way Bobby’s whole face had changed the first time Bunny called him Da again at Christmas, knew it in the cash she had forced into Bobby’s hands after Vegas, knew it in the guarded, careful way she still sometimes looked at Singer Salvage like she was afraid the home she had been handed at seven years old might disappear if she loved it too openly.

“Yeah,” Dean said after a beat, the fight thinning out of his voice even though the frustration stayed. “I know. And I’m glad, I am. You and Bobby getting back to… whatever you guys are getting back to. That’s good, baby. I’m happy for you.”

Bunny’s expression softened, just barely.

Dean looked back at her and immediately remembered he was annoyed. “Just—damn it.”

She reached out with the hand not holding the cigarette and patted his arm, gentle as anything and twice as insulting. “You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger. I’m rooting for you.”

Bunny turned away before he could decide whether he wanted to glare at her or lean into it, taking another drag from her cigarette as she started down the sidewalk with Wallace trotting at her side, his fake vest dark against the wet gray of the afternoon. The rain had softened again into something almost invisible, just a cold shimmer in the air, and for a moment she looked like she might disappear into it. Black blazer, dark hair, pale smoke, and the red ember of her cigarette briefly bright before it dimmed.

Sam watched her go for half a second, then called after her, “Where are you heading next?”

Bunny slowed, turning back just enough to look at him over her shoulder. “Why would I tell you that?”

Sam gave a small shrug, honest enough to be annoying. “Figured it was worth asking. We’re heading to the jewelry store on Sixteenth, if you’re curious.”

“Dude,” Dean said.

Bunny’s gaze flicked from Sam to Dean, then back again, and for a moment she only stood there in the rain with smoke slipping pale from her mouth and Wallace nosing at the wet grass beside her shoes. “That’s a dead end.”

Dean’s attention sharpened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“I checked it out yesterday,” she said, tapping ash toward the curb with a neat flick of her fingers. “It was a robbery, yes, but it hasn’t anything to do with our shifter. Poor timing, nothing more. Local police already know who did it, though I imagine they’re not thrilled about having to admit that with all of this going on. Not what we’re after.”

Dean folded his arms. “And we’re just supposed to take your word for that?”

“No,” Bunny said, almost kindly. “But you’re welcome to waste an hour proving it to yourself.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, and Dean pretended not to see it.

Bunny glanced down the street again, as if weighing something, then gave the smallest sigh through her nose. “If the two of you need a bone thrown to you this badly, you might try the gallery on Elm and Lancaster.”

Sam went still in the way he did when a piece finally landed close enough to the center to matter. “What gallery?”

“Small place. Private collection coming in for some hideously expensive little exhibition everyone in town will pretend to understand and talk about over supper clubs.” Bunny flicked ash neatly toward the gutter, the rain catching it almost before it fell. “A few paintings were taken off the truck before they could be brought inside, and the warehouse worker responsible for loading them was found in his home the next morning, nearly shredded.”

The word sat ugly in the damp air.

Dean and Sam looked at each other, the playfulness thinning between them as cleanly as smoke in wind. For all the soft rain and Bunny’s tilted smile, there it was again: blood on a living room floor, valuables missing, a body opened up by something strong enough and angry enough to turn a house into a slaughterhouse. Dean could feel the case sliding back under his skin, cold and familiar, the bet still there but suddenly smaller beside the shape of what they were chasing.

Sam looked back at Bunny. “You sure?”

“I am.”

Bunny inclined her head, not quite gracious and not quite smug, which on her was a dangerous middle ground. Dean watched her for a second longer than he meant to, rain gathering along her lashes and in the dark wool of her blazer, cigarette burning steadily between her fingers like a small, stubborn star. The old Bunny would not have given them that. The old Bunny would have smiled with every tooth hidden, kept the lead tucked behind her ribs, and let them spend the afternoon chasing a jewelry store ghost just to prove she could.

Marriage changed people, apparently. Or maybe almost dying together every other week did. Hard to say.

She turned again. “Goodbye, loves. Come on, Wallace.”

Wallace’s ears perked at the shift in her voice, and he fell into step beside her as she started down the sidewalk, his fake K-9 vest dark with mist and his tail swinging lazily behind him. Bunny had made it two steps before Dean moved.

“Hey.”

She glanced back, cigarette lifted halfway to her mouth.

Dean caught her wrist gently, careful of the cigarette, his fingers closing around her skin with no more pressure than he needed to stop her. For all the irritation still humming in him, he felt the smallness of the contact at once, the private shape of it in the middle of the street, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat warm beneath the chill of the rain. “Have a good day, princess,” he said softly.

Her expression softened into surprise only for a second before he leaned down and kissed her, quick and close-mouthed and easy, just enough to taste smoke and rain and the smug little smile she could not quite keep off her lips. When he pulled back, Bunny looked up at him with her eyes warm. “You too, cowboy,” she said.

Dean let go of her wrist and stepped back. Then he lifted his other hand. Her car keys dangled from his fingers, flashing silver in the low gray light. For one suspended, perfect moment, Bunny stared at them. Then her eyes snapped to his face. He smiled.

She lunged.

Dean pulled back fast, laughing under his breath as she reached for them, and with one easy little flick of his wrist, he let the keys drop through the runoff grate at the edge of the curb. They clattered once against metal, vanished into the dark below, and the sound they made when they hit the shallow water underneath was small, final, and deeply satisfying.

Bunny gasped as if he had shot her. “Oh, you dick.”

“That,” Dean said, already backing toward the Impala, “is what you get for handcuffing me to a headboard.”

Bunny was already crouching near the grate, cigarette abandoned now as she peered down into the narrow black slats with frustration gathering in every elegant line of her body. Wallace stood beside her, looking from the grate to Dean and back again with great interest, as though waiting to see which part of this counted as the game.

Without looking up from the grate, Bunny pointed vaguely in his direction. “Wallace, go bite Daddy.”

“Do not bite Daddy,” Dean called, pointing at the dog as he reached the Impala. “I’m innocent, and your mom’s the one playing dirty.”

Sam folded himself into the passenger seat and finally gave up trying not to laugh, the sound low and helpless as Dean slid behind the wheel and pulled the door shut. The Impala rumbled to life beneath his hands, warm and familiar and loyal in a way wives and brothers and dogs apparently were not, and Dean glanced through the windshield to see Bunny still crouched at the grate, one hand reaching down between the bars while Wallace sniffed helpfully at the curb.

Sam shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You know, if you two keep this up, one of you is gonna poison the other just to get the upper hand.”

Dean put the car in drive, his grin still lingering as he checked the mirror. Bunny looked up then, rain in her hair and murder in her eyes, and lifted one hand to give him a gesture that was neither ladylike nor especially federal.

“Nah,” Dean said, easing the Impala away from the curb. “Poison’s too subtle. Pretty sure slitting my throat in my sleep is more her style.”

✩

The gallery on Elm and Lancaster sat in a narrow brick building between a florist and a shuttered tailor’s shop, its front windows washed silver by the rain and arranged with the kind of careful sparseness that made Dean immediately distrust everything inside. There were no crowded walls, no cluttered shelves, no friendly mess of a place owned by someone who actually liked things; just pale wood floors, white walls, soft yellow track lighting, and enough space around each painting and sculpture to make the whole room feel like it was holding its breath.

Dean stood with his hands in his pockets beside something that looked, to his eye, like three bent pieces of metal arguing with a rock. A small card beneath it listed the title as Inheritance of Motion. The price tag beside that made him blink twice.

“Thirty-eight thousand dollars,” he muttered, leaning slightly closer as though the number might rearrange itself into something less offensive if he stared hard enough. “For scrap metal.”

Across from him, Sam gave him the kind of look that said he was supposed to be listening, not insulting what could end up being evidence, but Dean ignored it on principle and kept his eyes on the sculpture. He had seen enough weird things in his life to make room for most possibilities, but apparently rich people paying car money for a twisted coat rack was where his open-mindedness went to die.

The owner of the gallery, a thin man in a gray sweater and wire-framed glasses named Adrian Bell, stood near the front counter with his arms folded tight over his chest. He looked tired in the polished way people did when they were trying very hard not to look scared, his eyes moving too often toward the front windows and then back to Sam. He had already offered them coffee twice, apologized for the mess even though the gallery looked cleaner than most motel rooms they had ever slept in, and explained that the stolen paintings had been part of a private collection due to open the following week.

“Eric Langley,” Sam said, consulting his notepad with the mild, steady focus Dean had seen pull answers out of people who did not want to give them. “That was the employee involved in the theft?”

Adrian nodded, his mouth tightening around the name. “Yes. Eric handled the warehouse and delivery intake. He was the one who signed off on shipments, supervised loading, coordinated with clients, all of it.”

“And before that night, had you noticed anything strange about him? Changes in behavior, arguments with coworkers, anything that felt out of character?”

“No,” Adrian said at once, then seemed to realize the answer had come too quickly and shook his head, troubled by his own certainty. “No, that’s the thing. Eric was steady. Dependable. He had been with us almost since the beginning, one of the first people I hired when we opened. He loved the place, genuinely loved it, even if his work kept him mostly in the back with crates and invoices and delivery schedules. He was always the first one here and the last one gone. Sometimes I had to tell him to go home.”

Dean looked away from the sculpture then, not because any of that was new, but because it had started to sound familiar in the way cases always did when people talked about the dead as if goodness should have protected them. Reliable guy. Great employee. Never hurt anybody. The kind of person whose neighbors would later say they could not imagine him doing something terrible, and maybe that was true, right up until something wearing his face did it for him.

Sam glanced up from his notes. “Any electrical shortages or strange smells around the building lately? Sulfur, maybe?”

Adrian’s face changed with immediate recognition. “Actually, yes. A few weeks ago,” Adrian said, nodding as if relieved to finally offer them something useful. “It was awful. Truly awful. I thought something had died in the walls.”

Dean stepped closer, the sculpture forgotten. “What do you mean, a few weeks ago?”

Adrian rubbed a hand over his mouth, wincing at the memory. “We had a staff potluck for Valentine’s Day. Just something small, lunch in the back office, everybody brought something in. There were cookies, pasta salad, those little sausages in sauce. And deviled eggs.” He gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Someone brought deviled eggs.”

Dean stared at him.

“One of the halves must have rolled under the refrigerator during the party,” Adrian continued, clearly mistaking Dean’s expression for encouragement. “We didn’t realize it for days. I nearly hired someone to tear open the drywall because the smell was so persistent, but Eric finally pulled the fridge out and found it. Rotten egg. One half of a deviled egg. I cannot begin to describe the smell.”

Dean’s face settled into something flat and deeply unimpressed. “So,” Dean said slowly, “not sulfur.”

“Well, sulfurous,” Adrian offered. “In a culinary sense.”

The demon theory, which had been hobbling on one good leg for hours now, took another quiet step toward death. Dean felt it go and resented the hell out of it. He had wanted smoke, black eyes, cold spots, a reason for all that violence that did not lead right back to Bunny being right. A demon would have been clean in its own ugly way. Familiar. Something they knew how to cut out of the world. A shifter meant skin in drains and borrowed faces and someone somewhere seeing a monster walk past a window wearing the shape of someone they loved.

Sam cleared his throat, mercifully moving on. “And the night of the theft, Mr. Langley was caught on security footage loading the paintings into his own truck?”

Adrian nodded again, but the motion looked heavier this time. “Yes. I saw it myself. I already gave a copy of the tapes to the police, but it was Eric; there’s no question of that. He moved three paintings from the delivery bay into his truck just after ten-thirty, after everyone else had gone home.” His throat worked. “I still don’t understand it. He wasn’t a thief, or careless, nor was he greedy. He had keys to the building, access to plenty of valuable things for years, and he never so much as misplaced a receipt.”

“Was he having money trouble?” Sam asked. “Debts, medical bills, anything like that?”

“Not that I knew of. He lived simply. He was quiet. Divorced, no children, but not unhappy.” Adrian looked toward one of the paintings on the wall as though the answer might be hidden in its soft, expensive colors. “And then he went home and killed himself. I still can’t believe it.”

Dean’s eyes sharpened. “Killed himself?”

“That’s what the police said.” Adrian’s voice lowered, discomfort pulling the words thin. “They said he must have panicked after the theft and… done that to himself. But I don’t understand how someone panics that badly before anyone even accuses him of anything. We hadn’t even reported the paintings as missing yet; I only noticed when I came in first thing the next morning.”

Sam’s pen stilled. Dean looked at him, and this time Sam looked back. There it was.

Not a suicide. Not if Bunny was right about the body. Not if Eric Langley was dead in his own home long before a camera caught him stealing paintings he had no reason to take. Dean could feel the shape of it now, ugly and damp and close enough to touch: something wearing Eric’s face, walking through his workplace with his keys, his gait, maybe even his easy little nod at the camera, only after leaving the real Eric behind for someone else to find.

“Mr. Bell,” Dean said, his voice lower now, “we’re gonna need to see that footage.”

“Of course,” Adrian said quickly, almost grateful for something practical to do. “It’s in the back office. I saved a copy for the police, but the system keeps the original recordings for thirty days.”

He turned toward a narrow hallway behind the counter, gesturing for them to follow.

Dean waited half a step, letting Adrian move ahead before falling into place beside Sam. The gallery’s polished floor reflected the overhead lights in long pale streaks, and their shoes made almost no sound as they passed between walls full of art priced like ransom notes.

Sam leaned slightly closer as they walked, his voice dropping until it barely disturbed the quiet. “This is starting to look more and more like a shifter, Dean. You know that, right? We’re not just playing some stupid game of ‘chase the demon’ anymore.”

Dean kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, watching Adrian unlock a door at the end of the hall. “I know,” he muttered. “Damn it. I’m going to have to vacuum so much dog hair out of the Impala, man.”

✩

By the time they got back to the motel, the rain had finally committed to being rain.

It came down in a steady silver sheet beyond the window, blurring the neon vacancy sign across the wet glass and turning the parking lot into a shallow black mirror, every passing headlight smearing long and pale before it disappeared toward the county road. The police scanner sat on the dresser beside the television, low and staticky, muttering through clipped dispatch codes and bored voices while Sam worked at the table with his laptop open and Dean sat across from him with three folders spread out between them.

Wallace had been with them for a few hours now, curled on the carpet between their chairs with his chin tucked over one massive paw, his fake K-9 vest finally gone and his fur still faintly damp around the ears. He had appeared maybe fifteen minutes after Sam and Dean made it back, announced first by a soft, patient scratching at the connecting door between the rooms, so polite and steady that Dean didn’t think much of it initially. When he opened it, Wallace had been sitting on the other side with his tail sweeping once across the carpet, looking up at him like the arrangement had been made long ago and Dean was simply late to understand it.

Dean had stared down at the dog, then into the empty room beyond, where the bathroom light had been left on, and Bunny’s coat was draped across the chair. The bedspread was rumpled, her bag open near the foot of the bed from where she must have changed, a half-empty cup of tea cooling on the nightstand, all the usual evidence of her orbit without the woman herself anywhere in sight. He had figured she dropped Wallace off before heading out to chase some other lead, probably because it was getting late and because even Bunny, for all her nerve, knew better than to drag a tired dog through a wet town after dark if she didn’t have to.

Or maybe she just knew Dean would let him in. He had, obviously.

Now Wallace breathed slow and heavy beneath the table while the case settled around them in layers, ugly and patient. Dean sat with one elbow braced against the scarred tabletop, thumb tapping idly against the side of his glass as he looked down at the file they had pulled on Henry Wilts, Marlowe’s brother. Big house, high-paying job, pretty wife, and enough insured valuables to explain why something hungry for money or status or easy access might have turned its borrowed face toward him.

The wife, Anita Wilts, had been cleared almost as soon as they’d found Henry’s body. She had been in St. Barts when Henry was murdered, photographed on a beach with three friends, two cocktails, and a sunhat wide enough to pick up radio signals. Marlowe had not seemed especially fond of her, but grief had made her honest in the blunt way exhaustion sometimes did, and she had told them that Anita had never been cruel, only vain, and in any case was not nearly clever enough to murder her husband, stage a robbery, and get herself out of the country ahead of it without leaving a trail wide enough for the whole sheriff’s department to trip over.

Dean believed her.

Not because family couldn’t lie. Families lied all the time. Families lied better than strangers because they knew where to put the knife and how to smile after. But Marlowe Wilts had looked too hollowed out to waste energy protecting anyone, and when she talked about Henry, there had been nothing slippery in it. No careful pauses, no glances toward doors, no anger polished into performance. Just a sister trying to explain that her brother had liked old cars and expensive watches and calling on Sundays, and then stopping halfway through a sentence because talking about the living habits of a dead man had become too much.

Dean lifted one of the pages and let his eyes move down the list of insured assets, the paper whispering beneath his fingers.

Jewelry, mostly. A few antiques with names that meant nothing to him. Silver serving pieces, because apparently people still owned things like that outside of needing them for werewolves and period dramas. Then a separate page for the cars, three of them, all classic American muscle, and that got his attention even though the man was dead and the hour had stretched long. A ’69 Camaro. A ’70 Chevelle. A ’68 Mustang fastback. Not an Impala, but respectable. More than respectable, really. The kind of collection that said Henry Wilts had either possessed excellent taste or paid someone with excellent taste to have it for him.

Dean leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing at the list. “Huh.”

Sam did not look up from his laptop. “What?”

“Guy had cars. Classic American metal, all three of them.”

“Yeah?” Sam’s fingers kept moving over the keys, the bluish light from the screen cutting tired shadows beneath his eyes. “That relevant?”

“Don’t think so. But these things kick ass. Didn’t think rich guys had taste.”

Sam gave him a brief, distracted look over the top of the screen, then went back to whatever corner of the police database he had managed to break into while Dean pretended not to be impressed. The scanner crackled on the dresser, a dispatcher sending a unit toward a noise complaint three streets over, and Wallace’s ear twitched once before settling again. Outside, rain tapped at the window in small, tireless fingers, steady enough that it had become part of the room.

Dean set the page down and picked up the next one, his gaze skimming over appraisals and insurance values until the numbers blurred into the same rich-man nonsense he had spent the afternoon staring at in the gallery. It was strange, though, the cars. Not because they were worth stealing, because they were, but because they hadn’t been touched. Jewelry had been taken. Antiques. Cash. Paintings. Things that could move quickly if you knew the right buyer or wore the right face long enough to make people trust the transaction. Cars left paper. Cars had titles, garages, neighbors who noticed engines starting at three in the morning. Cars were loud in more ways than one.

Maybe the thing was smart. Maybe it was careful. Maybe Bunny was sitting somewhere with a cigarette between her fingers already knowing that too, which irritated him enough that he took a swallow from his glass and went back to reading.

Across from him, Sam stopped typing. The silence was small but immediate, the kind Dean felt before he looked up. Sam’s expression had shifted, the faint crease between his brows deepening as the glow of the laptop washed his face pale. “I got into the police database,” he said, voice low.

Dean set the file down. “Yeah?”

“Eric Langley’s report.” Sam’s eyes moved over the screen, and whatever he saw there pulled his mouth into a thin line. “Dean, it’s… this guy looks like he’d been put through a wood chipper.”

Dean’s hand stilled against the folder. For a second, the only sound in the room was the rain tapping steadily against the window and the scanner muttering to itself on the dresser, all static and clipped voices and ordinary trouble happening somewhere else. Wallace lifted his head from his paws, as if he had heard something in Sam’s voice worth waking for, then blinked slowly at them through the yellow motel light.

“What do you mean, wood chipper?” Dean asked.

Sam didn’t answer right away. He scrolled once, his face tightening further, and then turned the laptop around so Dean could see the screen. “I mean, I don’t know how the coroner was comfortable calling this a suicide.”

Dean leaned forward.

The crime scene photo was badly lit, flash-bright in the center and dark at the edges, but it was clear enough that Dean felt his stomach give a hard, familiar twist despite himself. He had seen bodies opened by things with claws and teeth, seen rooms painted red by creatures that didn’t care enough about human shape to leave much of it behind, but there was still something different about seeing a man’s kitchen turned into a slaughterhouse beneath the cheerful overhead light of a tract home. White cabinets. Linoleum floor. A refrigerator covered in magnets and takeout menus. Blood everywhere, sprayed across the lower cupboards, dragged through broken glass, smeared beneath the table where something had knocked two chairs sideways and left one half-kiltered against the baseboard like it had only just stopped moving.

“Jesus,” Dean said quietly.

Sam looked down at the table instead of the screen. “Yeah.”

Dean clicked to the next photo with one finger, his mouth flattening as Eric Langley’s body came into view, or what had been left of it. “This isn’t suicide,” he said, voice low and rough with disgust. “Guy’s practically chum.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Sam turned the laptop a little farther so they could both see it, though neither of them seemed especially eager to keep looking. “The report says self-inflicted injuries, probably brought on by panic after the theft, but look at the wound pattern. It’s not controlled. It’s not hesitation marks or a weapon he turned on himself. This looks like something tore into him.”

Dean’s eyes moved over the screen again, taking in the splatter, the angle of the broken frames on the wall, the dark drag near the threshold. “Looks more like a wild animal got to him.”

“Except there’s no sign anything broke in,” Sam said, reaching for the file beside his laptop and flipping it open with a soft rasp of paper. “No forced entry. Doors locked from the inside, windows intact, no tracks outside the house except Eric’s and the responding officers’. Neighbors didn’t hear glass break, didn’t hear an animal, didn’t see anything in the yard. The only signs of struggle are inside: blood, knocked-over chairs, broken dishes, those picture frames on the wall.”

Dean stared at the photo a moment longer, then turned the laptop back toward Sam with a little more force than necessary. “Could still be a demon.”

Sam looked at him. “Dean.”

Dean lifted one shoulder. “A really sadistic demon. More BTK Killer than our usual flavor.”

Sam sighed, not annoyed exactly, but tired in the way he got when Dean was making him state the obvious because neither of them liked the answer. “You need to give up the demon theory.”

Dean reached for his glass, not because he wanted it so much as because his hand needed somewhere to go. “I don’t need to do anything.”

“You saw the footage,” Sam said. “Same as I did. Eric walks into that loading bay after hours, loads three paintings into his own truck, looks right at the camera, and his eyes flare. Not black, but a camera flare. It’s a shifter.”

Dean’s jaw clenched.

Sam softened his voice a little, though not enough to make it pity. “It fits. It fits better than anything else. The violence, the robberies, no forced entry, victims letting someone in because they think they know them, Eric caught on camera doing something he had no reason to do while the real Eric was probably already dead at home.”

Dean looked down at Henry Wilts’ file again, at the neat list of assets and appraisals and valuables reduced to numbers, because that was easier than looking at Sam and seeing the shape of Bunny’s victory reflected back at him. He did know. That was the problem. He had known from the second the gallery footage flickered across the monitor in Adrian Bell’s back office, Eric Langley’s face washed gray-green by night vision, his movements steady and casual as he loaded stolen paintings like he had every right in the world to be there. He had known when the thing wearing Eric’s face looked up, and the camera caught that pale flash in the eyes, too bright and wrong for human and not wrong enough for demon.

“Yeah,” Dean said at last. “I know.”

Sam waited.

Dean took a swallow from his glass and set it down again, his thumb finding the rim. “I just don’t like losing.”

“No kidding.”

“Especially not to Bunny.” Dean glanced toward the connecting door as if she might somehow hear her name through the wall, through the rain, through whatever lead had dragged her out into the night. “She’s gonna brag.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the laptop. “Probably.”

“No, not probably. Definitely. Even if we catch this thing first, she’s still gonna do the whole…” Dean lifted one hand, fingers loose, and made a vague little gesture that seemed to encompass Bunny’s smile, her accent, her habit of being right, and the particular way she could make silence feel like an insult dressed for dinner. “Thing.”

Sam finally looked amused. “Her being right the whole time, thing?”

“Her making sure I know she’s been right the whole time, thing.”

“That’s not really all that different,” Sam said. He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath his weight. “Losing half the bet won’t kill you.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know that.”

“It’s one shot, man. Whiskey and hot sauce, and you both have to take it. You like both of those things,” Sam said, fighting the grin tugging at his mouth.

“That’s not the point, Sam. The point is that the two of those things are pretty fuckin’ terrible when you put them together.”

Sam shrugged, looking back down at his computer with the faintest trace of smugness still sitting at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually make stupid bets with Bunny.”

Dean gave him a flat look across the table, but Sam had already gone back to typing, all long fingers and quiet focus and the kind of deliberately innocent expression that meant he knew exactly how irritating he was being. The rain kept working at the window, silvering the glass until the motel room felt cut off from the rest of the town, and the police scanner murmured on the dresser in bursts of static and half-heard voices that never quite became urgent enough to matter.

Dean glanced toward the connecting door again.

The strip of light beneath it had not changed. Bunny’s room was still quiet beyond the wall, still carrying all the signs of her having been there and none of the woman herself, and the longer Dean stared at it, the more her absence started to sit wrong in his chest. He trusted her, which was its own strange little miracle. He trusted her with knives, with guns, with Latin older than some countries, with Sam’s life and Bobby’s and his own. He trusted her to walk into a room full of monsters and come back out with blood on her cheek and a plan half-built behind her eyes.

That did not mean he liked her being out there somewhere in the rain after midnight while a shifter wore dead people’s faces and left kitchens looking like butcher paper.

“Where the hell is she, anyway?” Dean asked.

Sam didn’t look up right away, his eyes moving over whatever record he had found next, but his shoulders shifted in a small, knowing way that made Dean regret saying anything the second it left his mouth. “Probably out chasing some lead we don’t know about yet.”

“Yeah, thanks. That clears it right up.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, but he kept his attention on the laptop. “I’m serious. Shifters are kind of her wheelhouse. Which is why I still don’t know why you bet against her on this in the first place.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, glass resting loose in one hand. “Because I have faith in myself. And because I was distracted.”

“By what?”

Dean stared at him.

Sam finally glanced up, and whatever he saw on Dean’s face made him drop his eyes back to the screen with a quiet huff of laughter. “Right. Never mind.”

Dean took another swallow of whiskey, more to give himself something to do than because he wanted it. The warmth burned down his throat and settled low in his chest, not quite enough to take the edge off, but enough to make the room feel less damp around the corners. “Anyway, betting against my wife is called equality. Pretty sure women fought for that.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “On shifters, Dean. You bet against Bunny on finding a shifter. If this were a striga, sure, maybe that’s a decent bet. If it were a demon, fine, you and I could probably sniff that out blindfolded. But this?” He shook his head a little, still typing. “That’s like betting against Bobby on lore, or against you on whether a carburetor sounds wrong.”

Dean’s jaw worked, because the worst thing about Sam being smug currently was that he had a point. Bunny had known what they were chasing before he had managed to admit the shape of it. She had walked into the case like it had been waiting for her, picked at the seams, followed the right blood trail, and then had the nerve to look good doing it.

“I’m starting to figure that out, yeah,” Dean muttered. “Doesn’t mean I don’t get to be worried about my wife out there at midnight.”

The typing stopped. Dean looked up immediately. “What?”

Sam was smiling to himself, not broad enough to be worth punching, but close enough to make Dean consider it. His eyes stayed on the computer, though his expression had gone softer around the edges, the kind of amused that came with memory instead of mockery.

“What’s the face for?” Dean asked, already annoyed.

Sam shrugged, trying very hard to look like a man who had not just been caught having a thought. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me nothing. That’s your thinking-something face.”

“I just think it’s sweet, that’s all.”

Dean’s expression shut down on principle. “Sweet.”

“You, worrying about her all the time. It’s sweet.”

Dean stared at him for a beat, then set his glass down with a quiet click against the table. “What, I’m not allowed to want my wife to be safe anymore? It’s a free country, man. I can worry about whoever the hell I want.”

Sam lifted both hands slightly, palms out, but the smile didn’t go away. “I didn’t say you couldn’t.” 

Dean pointed at him, irritation returning mostly because it was easier to hold than the worry still knocking around under his ribs. “You know, for a guy who keeps almost dying, you’ve got a real attitude about people caring whether you get turned inside out.”

Sam gave a short laugh then, low and tired, and Wallace’s ear flicked at the sound. “Dean, you’ve been high-beaming that worry at me since I was old enough to walk. If anything, I’m glad you finally have someone else to aim it at.”

Dean blinked. “High-beaming?”

“Yeah. Full force. Blinding. It’s great when I need someone keeping me alive, but it’s exhausting half the time.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Uh, you absolutely do.” Sam leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him as rain threaded silver down the window behind his shoulder. “Traveling with you is like traveling the lower forty-eight with an anxious mother hen who doesn’t understand posted speed limits.”

Dean’s face twisted. “I’m not a mother hen.” 

Sam’s grin finally broke through properly, boyish for half a second beneath the exhaustion and the laptop glow. “I’m just saying, I’m happy to pass the buck to my sister-in-law. Let you put all that energy onto someone else for once.”

Dean looked toward the ceiling as if asking God, the angels, or any bored spirit in the room to give him strength, then dragged a hand over his mouth. “Shut up.”

Sam went back to the computer, still smiling as his fingers found the keys again. “Sure.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, jaw working, and glanced again toward the connecting door. The room beyond stayed quiet, Bunny’s absence sitting on the other side of the wall like a held breath, and outside the rain went on falling, silver and steady over the parking lot, over the Impala, over whatever dark street his wife had disappeared down while chasing something that knew how to wear the dead.

Wallace sighed heavily from the floor, as if disappointed in all of them. Dean looked down at him. “You got something to say too?”

Wallace blinked once, slow and unimpressed, then tucked his nose back against his paw.

Sam’s grin widened at the laptop.

Dean picked up the nearest file again, muttering, “Whole damn family.”

He made it through half a page before the words started slipping loose from their meanings, insurance values and witness statements blurring into black lines on white paper while that same old, unwelcome thing moved restlessly under his ribs. It wasn’t new, exactly. He had felt it after the Halcyon, felt it on hunts before that; in hospitals and motel rooms and empty roads where the dark pressed too close to the windows. Not knowing where she was made something in him itch, something mean and protective and too easy to mistake for control if he looked at it from the wrong angle.

Dean did his best not to look too hard. There were enough dark rooms inside him already without shining a flashlight into that one and finding some other reason to hate himself.

He trusted Bunny. He did. She was a damn good hunter, better than a lot of the other hunters he knew and more stubborn than anything had a right to be while still weighing less than a wet duffel bag. She could handle a blade, read a room, lie to a witness, follow a trail, patch a wound, and put a bullet where it needed to go without blinking. He knew all that. He respected it, loved it in the quietest and most inconvenient parts of himself–the parts that noticed her competence with the same helpless pull that noticed her mouth.

But he still didn’t like her out there alone in the dark.

He didn’t like that he hadn’t seen that ugly green Bronco of hers all damn day, didn’t like the thought of her walking through a wet town after midnight while a shifter peeled lives off people like old wallpaper, didn’t like that she wasn’t here to needle him from across the table about being right. The room felt wrong without her in it, which was irritating, because the room was wrong in at least eleven other ways already and he didn’t need to start ranking them.

Dean closed the file with a soft slap and pushed back from the table.

Sam’s eyes flicked up. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, already standing. “Gonna wash my hands.”

Sam looked at the folder, then at Dean’s hands, but either he was feeling merciful, or he had decided the lie was too sad to bother kicking. He only gave a small hum and turned back toward the laptop while Dean crossed the room with the casual, deeply natural stride of a man who was absolutely not trying to angle himself toward the thin gap they had left in the curtains.

He glanced out as he passed.

The parking lot shone black beneath the rain, the neon vacancy sign bleeding red over puddles and the slick roofs of the cars parked in crooked lines below. The Impala sat where he had left her, wet and beautiful and loyal beneath the broken glow of the motel lights, with a dented pickup two spots down, a minivan near the office, and some little compact car. No Bronco. No familiar boxy shadow tucked beneath the far light. No sign of Bunny coming back from wherever the hell she had decided to vanish to.

Dean felt his face shift before he could stop it, frustration pulling tight across his mouth. He kept walking.

The bathroom light buzzed faintly when he flicked it on, turning the cracked mirror yellow at the edges and making the old sink look even worse than it had that morning. Dean braced both hands on the porcelain for a second and stared at himself, at the damp hair gone messy from being dragged through rain and fingers all day, at the loose collar of his Henley, the tired eyes, the wedding ring sitting too new and too settled on his hand. He turned the faucet on hard enough to make the pipes complain and shoved his hands beneath the cold water, because if Sam asked, he could say he had ink on his fingers from the files or grease from dinner, or some other excuse that sounded less pathetic than checking the parking lot for his wife’s car like a dog listening for the back door.

When he came out, drying them on a towel that had given up on softness about a decade ago, the room had changed. Sam was no longer at the table.

He stood beside the dresser instead, one hand braced near the police scanner, his laptop abandoned open behind him and his head tipped slightly toward the small black box as static scratched through the motel air. The amused softness had left his face completely. His shoulders had gone still, his mouth set in a line Dean knew too well, and Wallace had lifted his head again from the floor, ears angled forward as though the whole room had started listening at once.

Dean slowed in the bathroom doorway, towel still loose in his hand. “What’s up?”

Sam lifted one finger, not quite to silence him, but close enough that Dean felt the rest of his question die behind his teeth. “Something weird on the scanner.”

He reached over and turned the volume up a little, and for a second there was only static, the low electrical hiss filling the motel room while rain worked at the window and the old heater clicked softly beneath it. Dean tossed the towel toward the foot of the bed and crossed to stand beside Sam, close enough that the two of them were nearly shoulder to shoulder in front of the dresser, both of them watching the scanner like it might grow teeth if they looked away.

A male voice crackled through, thin and warped by distance. “Dispatch, this is Unit 9-Bravo-268. I’m down by the water treatment plant, near the old tunnel entrances.”

The dispatcher came back a moment later, bored but attentive. “Copy, 9-Bravo. Everything all right?”

There was a pause, then the officer answered, sounding more confused than alarmed. “Yeah, I think so. It’s just… I’m hearing music down here.”

The dispatcher hesitated. “Music?”

“Yeah,” the officer said. “Sounds like somebody’s playing Rod Stewart? Pretty loud, too. It’s echoing around the access road.”

For a beat, the motel room went very still in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with both Winchesters trying, at the same time, not to react too fast.

The scanner gave another soft burst of static before the dispatcher came back on, sounding like a woman who had not expected Rod Stewart to become her problem at this hour. “Could be maintenance staff. You’re cleared to check the area if you want to take a look.”

“Copy that,” the officer said, though he still sounded uncertain. A few seconds passed, filled with rain and static and Wallace’s quiet huff from the floor. “I’ve got a few vehicles in the employee lot. Looks like maybe overtime maintenance. I’ll circle once and report back if anything seems off.”

“Copy, 9-Bravo. Keep us updated.” The scanner settled back into its restless mutter.

Dean stood there for another second, staring down at the little black box while the words turned themselves over in his head. Water treatment plant. Tunnel entrances. Rod Stewart. It could have been nothing. In their line of work, nothing was only sometimes nothing, and more than once Dean had chased a supposedly strange noise only to find a wild animal, a drunk guy, or a faulty piece of equipment.

Sam looked at him carefully. “Bunny has, like… a weird thing for Rod Stewart, right?”

Dean was already moving. Not quickly, not yet, because there was no screaming over the scanner and no gunfire and no officer calling for backup, but moving with the sudden, practical purpose of a man who had just been given the first real direction his worry had found all night. He crossed to the bed and grabbed his boots from beside it, shoving one foot in, then the other, tugging the laces tight with quick, practiced pulls.

“She’s got a lot of things,” he said. “Unfortunately, yeah, Rod Stewart’s one of ’em.”

Sam closed the laptop halfway, then seemed to think better of it and left it open as he started gathering what they needed from the table. “Could be a coincidence.”

Dean shot him a look while pulling on his jacket. “At midnight? By tunnel entrances? In a town where a shifter’s running around wearing dead guys like party masks?”

“I said could be.”

“Yeah, well, I could be a patient man.” Dean snatched the Impala keys from the dresser, the metal cold against his palm. “Grab your stuff.”

Sam was already reaching for his jacket, the earlier smile gone but not replaced by panic, just the steady alertness that came when a case started tugging them toward the next door. He grabbed his phone and checked the knife tucked beneath his coat with a movement so quick and familiar it barely seemed conscious.

On the floor, Wallace had risen to his feet.

He stood between them, broad and silent, looking first at Dean, then at the leash hanging from the chair near the connecting door, his scarred muzzle lifted as if he had understood enough of the situation to know his evening had just changed. Dean looked down at him and sighed through his nose, because of course the dog was coming. Of course Bunny’s dog, who had been sleeping like an old rug ten seconds ago, had suddenly become a soldier awaiting orders.

Dean grabbed the leash and clipped it to Wallace’s collar. “You bite anything wearing my face, we’re gonna have words,” he muttered.

Wallace wagged his tail once.

Sam paused at the door, eyebrows lifting faintly. “That your pep talk?”

Dean pulled the motel door open, letting in a rush of cold wet air and the silver hiss of rain from the parking lot. “It’s a working relationship.”

Wallace pushed forward eagerly enough that Dean had to tighten his grip on the leash, and Sam followed them out with his jacket half-zipped and his phone already in hand. Behind them, the motel room stayed lit and messy, files open on the table, scanner murmuring on the dresser, Bunny’s empty room still glowing faintly beneath the connecting door.

Dean locked up, glanced once toward the wet space where her Bronco still was not parked, and headed for the Impala.

✩

The tunnels beneath the water treatment facility were colder than the rain outside.

Cold and damp and breathing faintly through every seam in the concrete, with water ticking somewhere deep in the walls and the hollow thrum of machinery carrying through the structure like a pulse buried under stone. The air tasted metallic, sharp with chlorine and old runoff, and every few yards the beams from their flashlights caught on pipes sweating condensation, rust-stained grates, warning signs gone pale at the edges, and the long black mouths of side passages that disappeared into more dark.

Somewhere ahead, Rod Stewart echoed through the tunnels.

The song warped as it bounced off the concrete, tinny and too loud and wrong in the industrial dark, the bassline thinning into something almost insectile while the lyrics came and went in broken pieces around corners and through open service doors. The whole thing was ridiculous, really, but Dean had been doing this too long to trust anything that sounded funny in the middle of a hunt. Funny was usually the world clearing its throat before it showed you something bad.

Wallace moved ahead of them, his paws silent against the damp floor, ears swiveling as the music ricocheted around them. Every so often his head dipped toward the ground, scarred muzzle pulling in the scent trail, then lifted again toward the sound. He had stopped looking like a dog enjoying an outing about ten minutes ago and had settled into something sharper, heavier, all that broad muscle and old hurt aimed down the tunnel like he had finally remembered every bad place he had ever survived and decided he knew what to do with this one.

It had taken them five minutes in the parking lot to get him moving.

Five stupid, wet, increasingly annoying minutes of Dean trying every command Bunny had ever used around the dog and realizing, with mounting irritation, that Wallace had apparently decided he only took commands in English from his mother. Sam had tried “track” and “find her” and “go,” while Dean stood there in the rain with his gun heavy under his jacket, trying to remember whether Bunny used chercher for finding things or whether that was one of the words she used when she wanted Wallace to stop trying to eat trash. Wallace had stared at both of them with patient disappointment until, finally, as if exhausted by their accents and their general lack of usefulness, he had turned on his own and trotted toward the tunnel entrance.

Dean had followed because arguing with the dog seemed like a new low, even for him.

Dean moved behind the dog with his flashlight in one hand and his gun in the other, shoulders tight beneath his damp jacket, every sense drawn thin and alert. Sam walked a few steps back and to the side, sweeping his light over the walls, the ceiling, the floor, checking corners before they reached them and shadows after they passed. Neither of them spoke much. There was no need. The music was too loud, the tunnels too narrow, and the possibility of Bunny somewhere ahead was too large to put words around without making it worse.

They took a left where Wallace led them, then another right past a row of pipes painted blue and green and flaking badly near the joints. The song grew louder with every turn, clearer now, bright and obscene in the gloom. Dean’s jaw tightened.

Of course. Of all the songs in the world, of all the ways Bunny could leave a breadcrumb trail through a place like this, it had to be “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?”. He could almost picture her doing it too: volume turned all the way up, choosing the most absurd possible signal because absurd was memorable and because she had always had a nasty talent for making fear look like wit.

A scream cut through the tunnel. Dean stopped so fast that water from a puddle lapped over the tip of his boot.

Sam’s flashlight snapped toward the sound, his gun rising in the same motion, and for one long second the scream warbled through the concrete around them, high and female and terrified, folding strangely beneath Rod Stewart’s voice until the two sounds tangled together in the damp air.

But it wasn’t Bunny’s scream.

Dean knew it before his mind had time to make the shape of the thought, knew it in the part of him that had learned her voice through arguments and laughter and pain and sleep, through motel walls and battlefield smoke and the way she sometimes said his name like she was pulling him back by hand. That scream wasn’t hers.

Relief hit, brief and mean.

Then the scream broke again, and the relief went sour in his throat. Sam looked at him, pale in the flashlight glow. Dean raised his gun a little higher. “Move.”

The music suddenly jumped louder. It blasted down the tunnel hard enough to rattle against the concrete, swallowing the woman’s next cry until it became just another distortion beneath the song. Someone had turned it up. Someone had heard the scream and tried to bury it. 

Wallace gave a low sound in his chest, not quite a growl, not quite a warning, and moved forward. Dean let him.

They rounded another corner, boots splashing through a shallow ribbon of water running along the low point of the floor, and the tunnel ahead opened into a wider service corridor. At the far end, light poured from a room with its door propped open, warm and yellow against the blue-gray concrete, spilling across the floor in a long crooked shape. The music was coming from there, loud enough now that Dean could feel the cheap speakers buzzing beneath it. Shadows moved strangely across the rectangle of light, too fast and broken to make sense of from where they stood.

Dean lifted a fist, and Sam stopped behind him immediately. Wallace stopped too, though his body stayed angled forward, every inch of him tense, ears fixed on the open doorway while his tail went still behind him.

He eased closer to the wall, breathing shallow through his nose, and glanced back at Sam. His brother’s face was set, gun up, flashlight lowered enough not to throw their shadows ahead of them. They both listened.

Rod Stewart blared from the room. Something metal scraped across concrete. A woman sobbed once, muffled and close. Dean’s fingers tightened around the grip of his gun.

He moved first, slow and tight to the wall, Sam falling into place just behind him with the kind of silent understanding that came from too many doors, too many rooms, too many ugly things waiting on the other side. They killed their flashlights before they reached the doorway, letting the hard yellow spill from the room ahead do the work instead, and Dean kept his gun angled down as he leaned just far enough to look inside.

Then he stopped. For half a second, he only stared.

A scoff slipped out of him before he could stop it, low and incredulous beneath the blare of the music, and his eyes rolled toward the wet concrete ceiling as if the whole universe had personally exhausted him. He ran a hand over his jaw and tipped his head once for Sam to follow and stepped through the doorway, the light inside cutting across his face in hot, uneven bands.

It was a boiler room, or had been one once, all sweating pipes and rusted valves and old machines crouched in the corners like sleeping animals. The heat hit him immediately, thick and damp and mean after the cold tunnels, carrying the sour-metal smell of standing water, oil, blood, cigarette smoke, and whatever chemical bite was coming from the open bottles arranged on the table near the far wall. A boom box sat on an upturned crate beside it, the same battered thing Dean had seen rolling around the back of Bunny’s Bronco more than once, its speakers buzzing bravely as Rod Stewart filled the room with a cheerfulness that bordered on criminal.

And there was Bunny.

She stood in the middle of all that heat and noise like she had been expecting them eventually but had not cared enough to wait, stripped down to a high-cropped white tank, the silver of her locket catching the light. Her jeans hung low on her hips, her hair loose down her back in dark waves dampened slightly by sweat and the room’s wet heat, and when she shifted, reaching for something on the table, Dean caught the fine stamp of his initials inked at the small of her back.

D.M.W. His jaw tightened around a thought that had no business showing up in a room like this.

The table in front of her looked like trouble laid out in neat rows, the most interesting among them being a syringe she was filling from a dark glass bottle with a focus that would have looked almost medical, if not for the cigarette tucked between her lips and the woman tied to the chair ten feet away.

The woman was the source of the sobbing.

She looked like she might have worked at a bank or a dentist’s office, someone ordinary and pressed into the wrong shape by terror, with a blouse torn at the shoulder, one cheek swollen, and her wrists bound tight to the arms of the chair. Blood had dried beneath her nose and at the corner of her mouth, and when she saw Dean and Sam come in, her whole body jerked against the restraints with a raw, desperate sound that cut through the music more cleanly than the scream had.

Wallace, apparently deciding that the room’s moral complexity was less important than the fact that his mum was there, rushed forward with a bark that bounced off the boilers and nearly made Sam flinch. Bunny looked down just in time for the dog to crowd against her legs, his tail going hard enough to slap the side of the table.

“There you are, sweet boy,” she said around the cigarette, bright and pleased, as if Wallace had not just led two armed Winchesters through a treatment plant in the middle of the night. “Hello, darling.”

Dean stepped farther inside, gun now held by his side, his eyes moving from Bunny to the bound woman and back again. “Looks like a party.”

Bunny lifted her gaze then, and the smile that broke across her face was sunny enough to be deeply unsettling under the circumstances. She pulled the cigarette from her mouth with two fingers and set the filled syringe carefully beside the vial. “Hi, my loves. I was wondering when you might catch up.”

“Help me,” the woman blurted, voice cracking so hard it almost vanished beneath the song. “Please, please, you have to help me. She’s crazy. She dragged me down here, she won’t let me go, she keeps asking me these questions, and I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know anything.”

Sam moved closer, but not close enough to put himself within reach, his gun steady in both hands and his eyes fixed on the woman with a kind of wary pity that did not soften into belief. “That the shifter?”

Bunny gave the woman a faintly bored glance, then looked back at Sam. “That it is.”

The woman made a wounded, disbelieving sound. “I’m not. I’m not, I swear; she keeps saying that, but I’m not anything. I don’t even know what that is. My name is Caroline Hodge, I work at First Montana Bank, I have a husband, and a little boy—”

Dean raised his gun then, not aiming at her chest yet, just lifting it enough that the metal caught the boiler room light. “All three of us are carrying silver,” he said, his voice flat enough to cut under the music. “So if you’re thinking about doing the whole innocent-victim routine, I’d save the energy.”

The woman’s mouth trembled.

Bunny leaned back against the edge of the table, cigarette smoke curling around her face as Wallace pressed close against her thigh, and for all the heat in the room, her eyes had gone cool and sharp. “It’s very good,” she said. “I’ll give it that. The crying is a bit much, but the details really help sell the whole picture.”

For a second, the thing in the chair held the shape of Caroline Hodge with admirable commitment: the wet eyes, the trembling mouth, the desperate little hitch of breath that made her look small and human and terrified beneath the boiler room light. Then Dean saw it give way. Not all at once, not with the clean, satisfying drop of a mask, but in pieces; the mouth still shook, but the eyes stopped begging, and something flat and irritated slid into the space where panic had been. The shift was almost worse because the face did not change. It was still bruised, still soft, still somebody’s mother or wife or bank teller, but whatever looked out from behind it had gotten tired of pretending.

Sam’s gaze moved from the shifter to the table beside Bunny, and his expression tightened in a way Dean recognized too well. The rolled leather kit had been opened neatly across the surface, each little pocket filled with something silver and unfriendly: thin blades, hooks, chains, narrow stakes polished bright at the tips, a pair of cuffs, and several vials arranged in a row beside the dark bottle Bunny had drawn from. It looked less like a hunter’s emergency kit and more like something someone would bring to a room if they had already decided mercy was not going to be very useful.

Sam glanced at her, careful but not soft. “What exactly are you doing here?”

Bunny looked down at the table as though mildly surprised by the question, then lifted one shoulder. “I thought I’d have a bit of fun before we put it down.”

Dean’s eyes cut to her.

She smiled. “I’ve already won the bet, haven’t I? It would be wasteful not to enjoy the victory properly.”

The thing in the chair made a low sound, almost a laugh, but it caught in its throat when Bunny picked up the syringe.

Dean straightened. “Bunny.”

She was already moving, slow and unhurried, cigarette balanced between two fingers now, the syringe held carefully in the other hand. The music kept pounding through the room, absurd and relentless, while the old pipes groaned overhead and steam ticked somewhere behind the boilers. Wallace stayed by the table, eyes fixed on her, his body still except for the faint twitch of one ear.

“What the hell are you doing to it?” Dean asked, voice sharpening despite himself.

Bunny glanced back over her shoulder, hair slipping across one bare shoulder, eyes dark beneath the harsh yellow light. “It’s really nothing to worry about, love,” she said. “Just giving it a bit of its own medicine.”

Then she reached the chair, caught a fistful of the shifter’s hair, and pulled its head sharply to the side. The thing snarled then, the sound breaking through Caroline Hodge’s voice in a way that raised the hair along Dean’s arms, but Bunny did not flinch. She drove the needle in, quick and practiced, and pressed the plunger down before the shifter could do more than jerk once against the ropes.

The scream that followed was no act.

It tore out of the thing raw and furious, bouncing hard off the concrete and through Rod Stewart’s voice until the room seemed to shake with both. The shifter’s body strained against the chair, wrists twisting, heels scraping, all that stolen softness gone ugly with pain, and for one second the face seemed to ripple at the edges like heat over asphalt.

Bunny let go and stepped back, calm as anything, while the thing sagged forward and cursed at her through clenched teeth. Dean stared at her. Sam did too.

Bunny returned to the table, picked up the dark bottle, and held it where the boiler light could catch the glass. “Colloidal silver,” she explained. “Silver particles suspended in liquid. Not enough to kill one of them, unfortunately, but enough that they feel every bit of it. Discovered it affects shifters a few years back, and that’s been quite the exciting revelation. Bobby’s been passing it along to a few of the other hunters we trust as a way to slow them down.”

Dean looked from the bottle to the thing in the chair, which had folded in on itself as much as the ropes allowed, shoulders shaking and breath coming through its teeth in thin, hateful pulls. Caroline Hodge’s face was still there, still bruised and wet-eyed and human enough to make the whole thing sit wrong if he looked at it too long, but the ripple under the skin had not fully settled, and every now and then something twitched beneath the cheek like the stolen shape wanted to crawl off the bones and find somewhere else to hide.

His jaw tightened. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

Bunny shifted back against the table, one hip resting against the edge, the bottle still loose in her hand. The cigarette had burned low between her fingers, ash bending dangerously toward the floor, and the steam rising off the pipes caught around her in thin gray ribbons until the whole room seemed to breathe smoke and heat. “I don’t know what you’re asking, actually.”

Dean’s eyes cut to hers. “You’re torturing this poor woman.”

Bunny’s expression sharpened at once, the softness leaving her face so quickly it might never have been there. “First of all,” she said, voice still level but gone colder at the edges, “I am not torturing a woman. I am torturing an it.”

The shifter laughed weakly from the chair, bloody mouth curling around the sound.

Bunny did not look away from Dean. “And second, this fucking thing tortured its victims before it killed them. You saw the files. You saw what it left of Eric Langley, what it did to Henry Wilts, what it has been doing in houses full of family photographs and coats still hanging by the door. I’m giving it a taste of its own medicine.”

Dean took a step toward her, close enough now that he could smell the smoke on her skin beneath the chemical stink of the room. “That’s not the point, and you know it.”

He turned his head toward Sam, because Sam was supposed to be the part of this that made sense, the one who looked at a room full of silver tools and a tied-down monster and understood that there were lines for a reason, even when the thing on the other side of the line deserved worse than they had time to give it. But Sam was looking at the table, at the opened leather kit and the vials and the clean bright edges of the blades, his expression drawn tight in a way Dean could not immediately read.

Dean smacked him in the shoulder with the back of one hand. “Dude.”

Sam blinked, then looked at him. “What?”

“A little help here?”

Sam’s mouth opened, closed, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out careful enough that Dean knew he was already going to hate it. Sam shrugged. “It’s not like I’m endorsing this.”

Dean stared at him. “Wow. Strong start.”

“I’m not,” Sam said, firmer this time, though his gaze shifted once toward the shifter before coming back. “But it did torture people before it killed them. We both saw the photos, Dean. Eric Langley wasn’t just murdered. He was ripped apart. Same with Henry. Same with the others. This thing didn’t make it quick, and it didn’t care who found the bodies after.”

Bunny’s eyes stayed on Dean, but there was a grim satisfaction in the lift of her chin, as if Sam’s words had not pleased her so much as confirmed what she already considered obvious.

Dean looked between them, incredulous. The heat pressed at his back. The music thudded through the floor and crawled up through his boots. The shifter breathed in ragged little bursts from the chair, and the room suddenly felt too crowded with all the worst things they had learned to justify.

“So that’s the standard now?” he asked, voice dropping lower, rougher. “They hurt people, so we hurt them back before we put ’em down?”

Neither of them answered quickly enough.

Dean’s mouth tightened into something that was almost a smile and nowhere near amused. “Awesome. Great. Good to know we’re setting policy in a boiler room with a damn torture kit and Rod Stewart on backup vocals.”

Bunny’s face went still. “Dean.”

“No, come on,” he said, the words coming sharper now because if he slowed down, he was going to have to feel the thing underneath them. “That’s what we’re saying, right? Monster did bad things, so we get to do bad things back. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, syringe full of silver for a kitchen full of blood.”

Sam shifted beside him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Sam?”

The question landed harder than he meant it to, and Sam’s face changed, just a little. Dean saw it. Hated that he had put it there. Hated more that he couldn’t stop now, because the room had gotten under his skin and the silver bottle in Bunny’s hand looked too much like every knife he had ever picked up after someone–something–told him it needed doing.

Dean looked back at Bunny. “You think I don’t get wanting to make it hurt? I get it. Trust me, I get it. But if anybody knows how hard it is to put down the knife after you pick it up, it’s me.”

That took the air out of the room more completely than yelling would have.

Even the song seemed farther away for a second, muffled beneath the rush of heat through the pipes and the distant pulse of water somewhere behind the walls. Sam’s expression closed around something old and guilty, something neither of them had touched directly since Dean crawled out of Hell and brought too many pieces of it back with him. Bunny’s eyes flicked over his face, and whatever argument she had been ready to make died behind her teeth.

Dean held her gaze, breathing shallow, gun still hanging at his side.

“This thing deserves to die,” he said. “I’m not arguing that. But this?” His eyes dropped briefly to the table, to the syringe, to the neat silver instruments laid out like choices. “This is a road you don’t wanna go down.”

Sam shifted beside him, and Dean knew before his brother spoke that he was trying to soften the shape of the room, trying to put a hand against the door before it slammed all the way shut. “Dean, it’s not like that.”

Dean turned his head toward him. “Then what’s it like, Sam?”

Sam’s mouth tightened, but whatever answer he might have had did not come quickly enough to matter, because Bunny gave a short, humorless sound from the table and folded one arm across herself, the bottle still hanging from her other hand.

“No matter what you say,” she said, voice low beneath the music, “you are not going to make me feel bad for carving into it.”

Dean looked back at her.

Bunny’s eyes were bright in the boiler room light, not wet, not soft, but bright with something old and banked and furious, something that had been sitting under her skin since she was seven years old and had never really gone quiet no matter how well she dressed it up. “Things like this tortured my family,” she said. “One of them wore my father’s face into my house and made my mother trust it before it tore her apart. And when I found the one that did it, years later, do you know what it told me? It told me it still remembered how my Mum screamed. How Molly’s blood felt on its hands.”

The room seemed to shrink around that, the heat pressing closer, the song suddenly too loud and too stupid and too cruel for the shape of what she had just put into the air. Even the shifter had gone quiet in the chair, its breathing thin and ragged behind them.

“So forgive me,” Bunny said, each word clipped clean, “if I do not feel the slightest bit bad about hurting a monster before I put it down. It is not as though I am torturing hu—”

She stopped. The cut-off was small, but it landed like something dropped from a great height.

Bunny’s mouth closed. Her eyes flicked once, not quite to Dean, not quite away from him, and then she folded both arms over her chest like she could physically hold the rest of the sentence inside herself if she was quick enough.

Dean stared at her. Then he reached down and slapped the button on the boom box. Rod Stewart died mid-chorus. The silence that followed was enormous.

It left behind the drip of water somewhere in the pipes, the low groan of machinery through the walls, and the sound of Dean’s own pulse beating too loudly in his ears. Bunny stood across from him in the sudden quiet, smoke still curling from the cigarette forgotten near the tray, her chin lifted in that stubborn way he knew too well.

Dean’s voice came out flat. “Finish that sentence, Bunny.”

Bunny did not move. “I wasn’t going to say what you think I was.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as something cold and ugly opened under his ribs, not quite anger, not quite hurt, but close enough to both that he could feel where it wanted to go. “You were gonna say it’s not like you’re torturing humans like I did.”

Bunny’s face changed at once. Not guilt, exactly. Something sharper. Offended, maybe, or wounded that he had reached for that version of her so quickly. “No,” she said, hard and immediate. “I wouldn’t say that, Dean. Ever.”

Dean let out a breath through his nose. “Then what the hell were you gonna say?”

Bunny looked up at him, eyes dark and furious now, but the anger was not clean anymore. It had snagged on too many things: her dead mother, his time in Hell, the monster in the chair, the fact that they were having this conversation in a boiler room with blood drying on concrete and silver laid out like confession. “I was going to say that it is not as though I am torturing humans like some of the other freaks we have come across,” she said. “Humans, Dean. Actual humans who enjoy pain without needing fangs or claws or borrowed skin to excuse it.”

Sam said her name quietly, but Bunny did not look at him.

“There are worse people out there than this thing,” she went on, voice still controlled but trembling at the edges now, not with fear, never fear, but with the effort of keeping too much feeling pressed into too small a space. “Worse humans. Worse monsters. Worse everything. I am not pretending this is clean, but it is justice. It hurt people because it liked the sound they made when they broke. I am giving it one small taste of that before we send it where it belongs.”

Dean rubbed a hand along his jaw, rough enough that the scrape of his palm over stubble sounded loud in the quiet.

He wanted to answer her. He wanted to say that justice did not need a syringe, that he knew exactly what it felt like to build a reason strong enough to hold a blade steady, that if she kept making rooms like this for herself then one day she would walk into one and not recognize the difference between punishment and appetite. He wanted to say a lot of things, and every one of them felt too big, too late, and too close to begging.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he said, and reached for the gun he had set on the edge of the table without remembering doing it. “We kill it. Now.” He turned.

The chair was empty.

For one impossible second, Dean’s brain refused to make sense of what his eyes were giving him. The ropes were still there, frayed and loose, one hanging off the arm of the chair in a limp twist. A few drops of blood marked the space where the shifter’s feet had been, bright and fresh beneath the boiler light.

But the thing wearing Caroline Hodge’s face was gone. Bunny went very still. Then she said, quietly, “Fuck.”

Sam’s gun came up at the same time Dean’s did.

The room snapped back into motion. Bunny grabbed her own gun from the table, cigarette forgotten, syringe forgotten, every trace of the argument burned away beneath the sudden, clean terror of a monster loose in the tunnels. Sam moved toward the door in a low, fast jog, shoulder tight to the frame as he peered out into the corridor with his weapon raised.

“Nothing here,” he called back, voice sharp now, all hunter. “I’ll check the way we came in.”

Bunny clicked her tongue once, and Wallace tore his gaze from her to Sam, already moving before she finished the command. “Avec lui, Wallace.”

The dog surged after Sam, silent and fast, disappearing into the yellow spill of the corridor like a shadow with teeth.

Dean stepped toward the other side of the room, flashlight back in his hand, gun tracking the dark spaces behind the boilers and the low crawl of pipes near the rear wall. The music was gone, and without it the facility sounded enormous around them; water moving behind concrete, metal expanding in the heat, far-off echoes that could have been footsteps or could have been the building settling around the thing they had let slip its bonds.

Bunny came up beside him, close enough that her bare shoulder almost brushed his sleeve, silver knife now in her left hand and gun in her right. For half a second, neither of them moved.

The argument was still there between them, hot and unfinished, stretched tight as wire. Dean could feel it in the space where he did not look at her, in the way Bunny kept her eyes forward, in the silence where some apology or accusation might have gone if either of them had been foolish enough to spend breath on it with a shifter loose among them.

They moved together into the dark, side by side and not touching, the boiler room light falling away behind them while the empty chair sat in the heat and the tunnels ahead swallowed the sound of their footsteps. 

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His voice is low. Honeyed and teasing in a way that he knows isn’t fair. You flush, your fingers curling on the pages, and risk a glance up. He’s giving you that half-amused, affectionate look that always makes you squirm. Brows raised, mouth twitching, something close to bewilderment shining in his eyes. You swallow, and try to look back to your paper. Dean drawls your name, and you sink a little into the chair.

“You wanna try that again?” He murmurs, and you stare blankly ahead, not actually reading a single  word.

“No.” You sound meeker than you want to be. Dean just chuckles, bumping his foot against yours.

“C’mon, Princess. Look at me.”

You stare harder at your book. You can see him in your periphery, all handsome and infuriating and smug. It’s not your fault you’re folding like a fragile deck of cards. He’s been building you up and knocking you down for almost a month now without any reprieve, and you’re maybe a few more teasings away from screaming like an animal when he denies you again.

“Baby-“

“I don’t want to,” you mumble, and Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees. His big hands. His massive, warm hands that always mold right against your body and tease your sides and breast and aching pussy, toying with you until you’re a little more than a rainbow in a puddle, daisies and butterflies blooming in your stomach and under your fingers-

Dean reaches up and traces his thumb over your lower lip. You make an undignified sound, but don’t dare to look. You’ll cave, and you’re really supposed to be stronger than that.

“Just one look,” Dean murmurs, like he’s coaxing a kitten out of a cage. “Let me see those eyes, sweet girl. Come on.”

You’re breathing awfully fast. Your heart is pushing up your throat, and you’re worried that if he kisses you it’s just going to move into his chest. But then you’d be close. Close as you could possibly get, and you’d never be able to lose him, and-

You look at him. He grins like you’re made of diamonds and drags his thumb down your nose, slowly wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck. You stare at him, trying not to blink. You never want a single moment like this end.

“Take ten,” he mutters, gaze softening as he scans over the bags you know are hanging under your eyes, the swell of your lips from chewing and pursing. “Walk Indy with me, hang out with the Lady, just-“ He reaches forward slowly, grabbing the top of your book. “You’ve been at this all fuckin’ day, and night, and yesterday, and-“

“I need to figure out how to hatch the egg and-“

“How the Leviathans spell works, yeah, I remember.” He gives you a pleading look. “Ten. That’s all I’m askin’ for.”

You swallow, your fingers tightening on your book. Dean tilts his head and tugs it gently, and you let go. You are exhausted. Your eyes are so heavy they might as well be threaded with iron, the whole world is getting kind of foggy—all blurred together like watercolor, Dean’s Gold painted to your hands and leaking all over the room like mist—and your back is aching. You’ve been slumped in this chair for hours. You’re not even sure you’re going to be able to stand up.

Dean sets your book off to the side and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline. “Good girl,” he says, and your eyes flutter closed. “What’re we doing?”

“Can you- Shit-“ You cut yourself off with a yawn, bowing your head against his shoulder. “De?”

“Yeah?”

“I smell.”

Dean laughs, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you straight into his lap. He inhales deeply against your hair, rubbing your spine gently, and hums. “Seem perfect to me,” he says, and you roll you eyes.

“That’s because you’re stupid.”

“I’m stupid, huh.”

“’Bout girl stuff,” you mumble, tugging mindlessly at the fabric of his shirt. “You’re like- A man.”

“Yep,” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you can hear his smile. “Thought we were all on the same page about that one, Princess.”

You press your face straight into the crook of his neck, grumbling incoherently. Dean chuckles, petting the back of your head.

“How about we put you in a bath, baby.”

“’Cause I smell?” You whine, and Dean shakes his head.

“’Cause you’re wound up. And I’m getting worried you’re gonna snap all over me,” he sighs, keeping you cradled in his arms as he stands. “And not in the hot way.”

You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He’s right. The Silver is tight in your body like a trigger gear, and you can feel it. How the wrong nudge would make you burst, atomic and neon and everywhere in a way you won’t be able to control. And you’re trying. You’re trying so hard to figure out what you’re supposed to do with all this everything, but there’s so much of it, and with all the books cluttering your house, there isn’t a single guide on how to be the whole universe. No self-help websites, either. You checked.

Dean draws a bath, keeping you upright with one arm and fumbling with the other. You try to roll out of his arms to make it easier, but he just tugs you right back.

“I can just sit-“

“I’ve got it,” he mutters, glaring over your head. “I- There.”

The water starts to run and you giggle, tracing over the flex of his bicep. Dean gives you an almost disbelieving grin, laughing in surprise.

“Yeah? That’s doing it for you?”

“You’re strong,” you whisper, and he snorts.

“I’m turning a knob, baby. If that’s impressing you, I gotta try harder.”

You shake your head—he’s doing perfect, just as he is—and Dean sighs. He strips you with gentle hands and not a single wandering touch. It’s rude. You’re right here, naked and crawling into the water with your ass up, and he’s just watching your hands to make sure you don’t slip like a gentleman.

He does drag his palm over the curve of your ass, but when you look over your shoulder he smiles gently, and you don’t think he knows he’s even doing it. You huff and sink into the water. Dean leans over the lip of the tub and wipes your hair from your face, glancing between the steaming water and the door.

You grab his wrist, and he blinks at you, then nods, his smile crawling right back.

“Extra bossy today,” he mutters, sitting obediently on the edge of the tub. “Am I feeding you something new?”

You roll your eyes, and press your face into his thigh. He laughs to himself and combs his fingers gently through your hair, looking down at  you in a way you can feel, prickling all over the Spiderweb like blooming flowers and soothing the Silver like a balm.

“Jody called,” he says, talking not to fill the silence, but because he knows you need something to hold onto that isn’t your own, racing thoughts. “Claire’s doin’ real well in school, but-“ He sighs. “She wants to move back with us.”

Your throat tightens, as you turn to meet his gaze. “She can’t, not right now-“

“I know,” Dean shrugs. “Told Jody that we were still working thing out, and we don’t want her around the life. But-“ He swallows, glancing off to the side. “Y’know. I was thinking about after. When we’ve ganked all the Leviathans and Eve, when God gets with the program and shit-“

“Dean,” you say softly, resting hand on his knee, and he clears his throat.

“It’s- I don’t need an answer right now, and I know it ain’t gonna be easy or fast or- I’m just- Cas is still riding the Jimmy suit without the man in there himself, and who the hell knows where her mother is-“

“We can take her.”

Dean looks down with wide, surprised eyes. “Really?”

You nod, and his throat bobs.

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to,” you say gently. “If you-“

“Yeah,” he cuts in quickly, and you smile at the red on his ears. “I mean- I wouldn’t if it was just me and Sammy- We can’t keep anything alive for the life of us- I mean, Sam says I grow something in my socks sometimes- But you’ve never complained, and if we’ve got you-“ He takes a deep breath, glancing back at your openly adoring expression. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” it might be one of the only times that you really mean that, without any alarms or hisses telling you to think again. “I am.”

Dean grins, and leans down to kiss the top of your head. You smile and sink into the water, letting your eyes flutter closed. He takes your hand and folds your fingers together, his thumb dragging close to your wrist. Not touching. Not more than a brush.

But you don’t explode. For now, you just slowly diffuse. The steam over the water is free and warm and happy to float, to dissolve into something lighter and easier. The water that stays in the tub is glad to be contained and still, kept safe from the never ending tumbling of the oceans and rivers. You’re alright, here with Dean. You drift through more than ten minutes, your thoughts still looping around work, but turning into the steam, just like everything always does. Just like—no matter how tight you hold onto it—everything always will.

You don’t know when you start crying. It just seems to happen for no reason now. Dean wipes the tears and pulls you out of the tub, wrapping you up in a towel and carrying you to bed.

“I- I’m sorry-“ You choke out, sitting on the edge of the mattress, curling far enough into yourself that you can maybe drag back together. “I- I don’t- I don’t know why- I’m sorry-“

“I know,” Dean kneels between your legs, still wiping every touch, smiling up at you with heartbreaking care. Care you have no right to ask for. Care he’s always given so freely, you sometimes don’t understand how he always has more left. “I know, baby girl,” he mutters. “You’re okay.”

You sob so hard it shakes your whole body, and double over him with a high whine. Dean moves to his feet and presses your down into the mattress, keeping you caged and safe between his arms. You think you fall asleep. You don’t remember it, if you did. You just squeeze your eyes shut, your face buried in his chest, and open them to find the light faded from the sky. You expect the panic to crash over your like ice water, but there’s too much heat around you.

Dean. Still holding you, playing with your hair and humming to himself to pass the time. The Lady has curled herself up next to his head, and her tail keeps whacking him in the face, but he just grunts and turns his cheek the other way. A smile threatens your sore cheeks. You sit slowly up, your limbs shaking and eyes hooded, and he smiles. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he teases, and you swallow, glancing around the room.

“How long-“

“Few hours. But,” he squeezes your waist, pushing you a little further down against his torso. “I got a full report. Sammy said Rowena’s gonna call you around ten, and he took away Kevin’s tablet privileges ‘cause the kid‘s eyes were going red. I think you two,” he pinches your side, and you squeak. “Might secretly be related or something, if Sam’s the one who’s gotta call quitting time. Charlie’s making dinner, sloppy joes, she says they won’t be ass but Jo ain’t sure, so I can always drive out and get you Chinese."

You nod slowly, looking over to the door. You should get back to reading. There’s a reason you were up for almost two days straight, and it isn’t because you’re crazy like Jo keeps suggesting. You’re nowhere closer to hatching the phoenix than you were last week, and you need to figure out how you’re going to use the blood when you find it, because the Book had a passage on it, but it also had a passage on phoenixes themselves, and if you’re going to raise this one-

“Hey,” Dean reaches up, grabbing your chin and guiding your gaze back down. “I can hear you thinking. Share with the class.”

You swallow, fingers curling on his chest. “You- You know how we’re hatching the phoenix? And it’s going to heal Sam’s soul, and Cas’ grace?”

Dean nods slowly. “And then we’re gonna kick Leviathan ass, yeah. I read the memos.”

You smile weakly, focusing your attention on your hands. “Well, um- The thing is- Phoenix hatchlings are sort of… Small. And delicate. And this is the last one ever, so we have to get it right-“

“Princess-“

“And if we don’t want to harm the hatchling,” you say frantically. “Then we can’t draw blood twice. Which means I’ll only have enough for one potion, which means it’s not Sam and Cas, it’s Sam or Cas, and I- I don’t know what to do.”

Dean’s jaw tenses. He uses his hands on your waist to slowly drag himself up, until he’s leaning against the headboard and his face is resting at the top of your chest. You slowly card through his hair and he lets out a heavy breath, warmth fanning over your skin.

“When’d you work that out,” he mutters.

“Yesterday.”

“Sammy-“

“Doesn’t know,” you say softly, and Dean hums.

“Yeah, alright. Don’t tell him.”

You frown, leaning back slightly. “Dean-“

“He’s gonna have an opinion on that,” Dean mutters, looking up at you under lidded eyes. “And I don’t wanna freakin’ hear it.”

That pulls a small, delicate smile to your face. You duck down, trying to hold his gaze. “And you?” You ask. “What’s your opinion on it?”

Dean laughs, dry and tired. “Princess, you know I’m not the guy to ask that-“

“You’re my guy,” you mumble, and he goes silent in a second. “And- I’m asking.”

Dean’s throat bobs. His fingers dig into your hips, deep enough to leave a mark, and you just keep watching him. You know he’s not a miracle worker, but he’s the closest thing you’ve ever had to a cure. And no matter what Sam’s claims, he’s the reasonable one. He never jumped into hell or drank demon blood or accidently opened a magic door filled with Lovecraftian horrors. You can’t think of a single bad thing he’s done. You’re sure they exist, but right now—with his face between your hands and his eyes filled with a weighted, tired adoration that always makes you feel like being good isn’t just an Everest that keeps getting taller—he’s the only person who’s opinion you want to hear.

“I’m always gonna say Sammy,” he says hoarsely. “But- We need Cas back to normal, unless we want to start wrangling angels.”

“I could wrangle an angel,” you whisper, and he chuckles, turning to kiss your palm.

“Yeah, I know you could.” Dean gives you a tiny, rougish grin, dipping one hand under your shirt, his knuckles skimming against bare skin. “But I don’t want you hurtin’ yourself.”

You lean down, pressing your brow over his. “I wouldn’t’ hurt myself-“ You cut yourself off at his dry look, and roll your eyes. “That’s- The point is, if you think I should do Sam-“

“Nope.”

You blink. “But you said-“

“I said I’d always go Sam,” Dean shrugs. “Nothing about your call.”

“That’s- Dean, that’s not helpful-“

Dean shuts you up with a kiss, murmuring against your mouth. “I know, sweetheart. But whatever call you make,” he nips at your lower lip. “I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” you breathe out.

Dean only hums. “And here I am. Doing it anyways.”

You roll your eyes, and kiss him harder. Jo knocks on the door before he can roll you beneath him—Charlie’s done, and she’s pretty sure it’s not poisonous—and you have to clamber off of Dean with a deep breath and tight frown. You fix your hair in the mirror, and he comes up behind you, splaying a hand on your stomach and kissing the curve of your neck.

“If you really need me to make the choice, I’ll do it,” he mutters, holding your gaze in the mirror. “But I think anything I say is just going down the drain the moment you figure it out.”

“That’s not- I’d listen to you-“

“You’d try and listen to me,” Dean corrects, kissing just under your jaw. “And then you get a thought in that pretty head and suddenly I’m on freakin’ mute.”

You swallow, holding his hand against you. His brow isn’t furrowed. His jaw isn’t locked. “You’re not mad about that?” You ask softly, and Dean just shrugs.

“Yeah. I pick my battles, like Nero.”

“Nero?”

“Yeah, the big general. Roman guy- You know who I’m talking about-“

You turn, and press a quick kiss to Dean’s cheek. He stutters like you just punched him, slowly reaching up to cup your face. You stare at each other for a long moment. Dean’s throat bobs. His fingers flex. You blink up at him, silently begging him to just do something so you don’t have to. He always hears you. Dean ducks down, presses a fevered kiss against you lips, and walks you backwards until you’re pinned to the dresser. His hands grope under your shirt, his thumb brushing the curve of your breast, his thigh pushing up between your legs. You grab for something to hold onto and hold find his short, soft hair. You tug it, and he groans, pushing his tongue between your lips-

“Hey!” Jo pounds on the door, and you shoot back with wide eyes. “Matin’ seasons is after dinner! If- Y’know,” she pauses. “We don’t all die.”

You roll your eyes, fixing the collar of Dean’s shirt. “We’re not gonna die, Jo-“

“You ain’t smelled it yet,” she snaps back. “It’s- I’m tryin’ to be nice, but it’s- You remember when we drove past that cow farm in the valley?”

“Yeah?”

“Imagine if the cows ate only Taco Bell-“

“Do I have to listen to this?” Dean mutters, and Jo pulls the door open, flipping him off. Dean sputters like a dog. “We- We coulda been naked-“

“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before, buddy-“

“You’ve never seen me-“ Dean pauses, looking between you with wide eyes. “Hold on. That’s- She’s seen you naked?”

“Yeah, um- Yeah.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, like- A lot?”

“Before me?!”

“I was here first,” Jo stomps into the room, grabbing your bicep and dragging you to the door. “C’mon, if I’m dyin’ again, you’re going with me this time.”

You sigh. “That’s not funny-“

“It’s kinda funny. Come on.”

You shoot Dean an apologetic look, but he’s still staring after you, glowering at the air.

“You weren’t here first!” He shouts after you. “I was!”

“Slacker!” Jo calls back, and you smile wide enough that your face hurts.

It’s the small moments, that stich you back together when you start to fray. Charlie’s pride over her sloppy Joe’s, even if they don’t taste amazing. Kevin swallowing them in whole bites, Dean’s commitment to eating them not matter what, Sam actually liking them—Dean thinks he doesn’t have tastebuds, you’re starting to agree—and Cas feeding his to Indy until you catch him, and make him stop. Nothing hurts for split seconds. God flickers outside in the sky, but he’s not allowed to come take this from you. This is yours.

After dinner, you go back to your room to call Rowena while Dean takes Indy—and Cas—for a walk. She’s up in Canada somewhere, and somehow hasn’t killed Adam yet. You’re proud of her. She doesn’t want to hear it.

“You’re not doing anything to him, right?” You ask, flipping through your notes. “He’s- I don’t want to say weak, but-“

“He’s pathetic,” Rowena spits. “And I am not doing anything to him. He has nothing worth doing to. I prefer experienced men, not- Sniveling boys.”

“Hm. Good to know he’s growing on you.”

“He bakes,” Rowena sniffs. “It is… Not horrible.”

“Oh- Dean can bake-“

“I do not care. Is he fucking you?”

You flush, vision going unfocused for a second, then cough. “So, um- I’ve been looking for the spell in the Book,” you start, and Rowena rolls her eyes, but doesn’t push. “And I found it-“

“Excellent-“

“But,” you give her a flat look, leaning forward. “It’s blocked out and damaged. So I only know the specfics of things they already got- Seed of a man with a rotten soul,” you look back to your notes, reading aloud. “And blood of a first beast.” The Lady purrs in your lap. You pet her a little extra, bile rising in your throat. “And- Me and Dean. But I still don’t know why.”

Rowena hums, peering at you through the bowl. “And you’re sure they want your boytoy-“

“Yes. And I know you like him,” you flip over a page. “So stop trying to convince me you don’t.”

Rowena rolls her eyes. “Fine. Are those all the things they would need?”

“No, there’s one more. I just- I can’t see what.”

“Hm. Do you have any angels in your corner without brains made of worms.”

You shake your head. “Well- Cas’ brain isn’t made of worms, and- It’s not like his memory was wiped. If he knew he’d tell me.”

Rowena sighs. “Well, I can’t work out how the spell functions without the ingredients, little tiger-“

“I know, I know, just-“ You run your hand through your hair, glaring down at the paper. “If Eve knows, someone else has to as well. She didn’t just- Invent it.”’

“But this is a spell a Magdalene could invent,” Rowena says, and you sigh.

“Or God.”

“Well, seeing as we don’t play nice with God, your family-“

“No. Dean would kill me.”

Rowena’s nose twitches. “You’re going to let the- The manboy tell you what to do?”

You sigh. You don’t like it either—it would be so easy to storm back to your family, demand the answers, and maybe kill Roman while you’re at it—but Dean would say something about you being in no shape to see them and this being a bad idea considering they were working with Eve already-

They were working with Eve already. Eve had to get the idea from somewhere. And it was either God—unlikely, she is trying to eat him—or your family. Which means your family is off the table. They probably passed on the spell without realizing why Eve—the first woman, an assumed big fan of God, like they think you should be—wanted it at all. Which leaves God telling you the spell, which he won’t. You don’t think he’ll talk to you at all right now unless he’s trying to woo you or you’re telling him you’ll join him.

But you know someone who he does talk to. Who’s an angel older than Cas. An angel almost as old as Gabriel, wherever he’s fucked off to. An angel who might know.

“Joshua,” you tell Sam, Dean, and Jo in the kitchen, spinning the Blade in your hand. “He might know about the spell, and- he’s the gardener, he might know how to hatch a phoenix. That’s two things- Both  things- I could’ve figured out both things-“

“Easy,” Dean mutters, rubbing your spine. “Breathe.”

You take a loud, staggered breath, and Sam clears his throat.

“Well, okay- Let’s say he does know,” Sam frowns. “He doesn’t leave the garden, right? So we can’t pray to him, and if Heaven is still on lockdown-“

“Then we go to him,” you shrug, and Sam blinks.

“Lockdown,” he repeats, saying your name firmly. “Lockdown.”

“I heard you-“

“Did you-“

“Yes,” you stick your tongue out at him. “And I’m not worried about it.”

Sam gapes, and shakes his head, looking to Dean. “Dude, if she suggests killing us-“

“She’s not gonna suggest killing us,” Dean rolls his eyes, then glances at you. “Right?”

“I- Yes.”

“You are gonna kill us-“

“No, I’m going to get us there myself.”

Everyone is awfully quiet for a second. You don’t really appreciate it.

“I can move between Heaven and Hell,” you say, crossing your arms. “I’m basically from Heaven-“

Jo snorts. “None of us are from Heaven, I’m shocked dyin’ would even work, we’re all goin’ straight to hell-“

“Actually Dean and I have spots reserved in heaven,” Sam mumbles, and Jo frowns.

“But- You both like, really suck.”

Dean scowls. “Speak for yourself, shortstack-“

“Dean.” You place a hand flat on his chest, and he falls silent, still glowering at Jo.

“Yeah,” Jo smirks. “Dean-“

“Jo.” You give her a stern look too, and she sulks, but leans back.

“Sam,” she grumbles, and Sam blinks.

“What did I do- I- I’m just saying that because we’re vessels, we-“

“Sam,” you say, and he slumps back into his seat. “Look, I just-“ You look around the group, hugging yourself tight. “I can do it. I know I can. It’s just like getting us to Europe, but- A bigger door.”

Sam and Jo are silent. Dean gives you a small, worried look, his jaw clenched tight and nostrils flaring. You grab his wrist and squeeze it once. He squeezes back two times, and you swallow.

“Dean-“

“It’s a lot of juice,” he grunts. “And last time you were up there, you nearly fuckin’- If Cas hadn’t brought you back-“

“But he did,” you whisper. “And I- I can do this.”

Please let me do this. It’s something I can do, and I’ll do it right, and I need to be right. I need to do this right.

Dean swallows, and nods. You squeeze his wrist three times. He just brushes a kiss to your brow, and sits down next to Sam. And now—finally—you have a plan.

The four of you will go to Heaven. Charlie’s in charge again, and—if you’re doing the math right—you should be back within about one week. You’re going to aim to land in the Garden, but you’re playing a little fast and loose with the spell, and there’s a tiny chance you’ll miss. Even then, it’s straight forward. Get to the Garden, same way Sam and Dean were told to last time. Talk to Joshua about Old Heaven and the phoenix egg, tucked in Dean’s jacket.

Ask about Bobby, if you have time. Maybe even if you don’t. You aren’t sneaking him in your jacket for nothing, and you need to know how to bring him back.

“Try not to run into any angels. Stick together. Don’t die.”

Dean nods around the room, chest puffed out and face grim. You give him a small, encouraging smile. Sam and Jo roll their eyes.

“Rousing stuff, dude.”

“Inspiring,” Jo adds, and Sam snorts.

“Yeah, I was going into this really looking to die-“

“But now?” Jo grins. “I’m, like, I’m turnin’ around on the idea-“

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, shuffling behind you. His hand rests on your waist, and he glares over your head. “Next time you two ain’t invited on our Heaven vacation.”

“It’s not a vacation,” you mumble, and Dean nods quickly, kissing the top of your head.

“I know, sweetheart, I’m just- Y’know. When we do go on vacation.”

“We don’t want to go on your vacations, Dean,” Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean sticks out his tongue.

“Why, ‘cause I’m gonna be getting laid while you bitch around- Ow-“

You elbow him in the gut, your face burning, and he quickly groans out an apology. You’re smiling where he can’t see it. If he knows you like the idea of a sex vacation, you’re going to lose all authority you’ve ever managed to scrape together.

“I think I’m ready,” you rub Dean’s back, frowning down at your spell. “We’re definitely going to all land in the same place, but- That might be anyone’s personal Heaven, so- Hope it’s not yours, I guess.”

“Dean and I have seen each others heaven’s,” Sam says, peering over your shoulder. “It only caused like, three big fights?”

“Cool,” Jo crosses her arms. “Fun. Uh- Personal heaven- That like your dreams? Or- Ideal world, or-“

“It’s your best memories,” Sam explains. “Like- I had this week where I got to- To have a dog,” he shoots Dean a nervous look. “And Dean’s was a lot of- Stuff-“

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, and you give him a curious look. You were only in his heaven for a few minutes last time, when he was in the fort you built him, right before you died. It’s not your heaven to be nosy about, but the question burns on the edge of your teeth.

Was there more. Was there more of you and him. Does he see the world in shades of you, the same way everything is Gold, and the negative, dark cavity spots without Gold. Did he ever peel apart the fractured and delicate moments you had, back before you knew you could keep him, before your hands learned how to hold onto something and your feet started to trust that staying put behind Dean was safer than running until you found the edge of the horizon. Did he strip down every word until it was all just melodies of your voice, the same way you did for him.

Jo says your name, and you blink at her. “Are we gonna land in your heaven, or…”

You shake your head. “I- I don’t think I have a heaven. And last time I was up there, I kind of-“ You swallow. “You’ll see. When we get to the garden.”

You’re really hoping this will be easy. The angels are—ideally—too busy to worry about you wandering through, and the garden is supposed to be one of those things that’s for you, or whatever. All of Heaven is supposed to be your home. You’re just… Bringing guests.

You send Sam first. Dean tells him to duck down and holds his breath like he’s going underwater, and Sam just gives him an unimpressed look. You place your hand flat on his chest, murmur the spell, and really hope you’re not sending him a little west of Heaven or something. It’s going to be a whole thing to get him back.

Sam vanishes, and… nothing else really happens. You send Jo next, with a soft promise that it won’t hurt, which makes her roll her eyes. Dean goes after her, catching your hand when you place it flat on his chest and giving you a small, charming smile. He mutters your name, and you meet his gaze, your knees getting a little wobbly under the attention. He kisses your knuckles and tells you it’s going to be fine. You tell him you know. You’re the one doing the spell, and you don’t mess this kind of thing up.

Dean disappearing into thin air, leaving a new coat of gold on your fingers and the smell of cinnamon in the air. You squeeze your eyes shut and let the Silver flow out, tracing him through the universe like a hound on a trail. You’ve been trying to make Cas teach you this trick for years, but he hasn’t been in much shape to do much but coloring books and play snake. So you have to figure it out yourself.

You’re the planets, hurling through the dark in all the same circles and always waiting for that warm moment when they’re closer to the Sun, then dreading the cold when they’re drowning in the heat. You’re lone stars without any worlds to keep them company, grabbing onto asteroids that hurl a little too close and incinerating them into nothing with the heat of desperate love. You’re a thin veil that’s covering everything, steam rising up and glowing like a pearl in the dark, so sure it’s better, it’s greater, it means more because it goes up, while the dripping tar can only sink down.

There’s a shrouded layer of Gold, hidden in the mist. You hold onto it until your back feels like it’s going to split open, and your vision blurs, and the world flips, and-

Dean shouts your name, and you blink up at a clear, blue sky. Strong arms wrap around you from behind, keeping you on your feet as you stumble. You press right back into a warm chest, and drop your head onto his shoulder.

“Did it-“ You look around frantically, sinking your nails into Dean’s forearm. “Are we-“

“Yeah. We all landed safe.” Dean pulls you upright, and when you tip a little further back, he’s watching you with a worried, knit brow. “You’re, uh- You feeling alright, sweetheart?”

You nod. You feel better than you thought you would, actually. The Silver is flowing steadily. Your vision is sharp, the colors are clean, and nothing hurts more than usual. You look around the area, trying to gage where exactly you landed. It was a high hope, that you’d drop right into the Garden, but you did have low expectations. You didn’t tell Sam, Dean, and Jo—they would’ve worried—but Heaven is more like an ocean than a flat planet, and putting a new drop of water just means you’re mixing it with everything else.

You’ve ended up in a clean patch of woods, with bright skies and warm dirt and the sun beating down from the sky, a faint hue of purple running under every single color. You don’t recognize it the place itself, but you look down and find Sam sitting in the dirt, wearing a tight shirt with a red truck on it and Velcro shoes, dirt splattered over his face and scuffing his jeans, and don’t really have to wonder who’s heaven you’re in.

“Where are we?” Jo asks, leaning against a tree, and Sam sighs.

“When we were kids, Dad had all these places he’d drop us so he could- You know- Go and hunt. It was- Um- Bobby’s-“ He gives you a nervous look. “A lot of the time. But once he gave us to this really nice lady with a motel, and-“

“She gave you that freakin’ bird book,” Dean finishes. “You spent the whole week trying to make the crows your friends or something, I remember that.” He pauses. “You remember that it didn’t work, right? You got a nasty scratch ‘cause you fell in the rain gutter and I had to patch you up and Dad made us stay an extra week ‘cause he didn’t wanna deal with the first aide.”

“Yeah, um-“ Sam swallows, glancing out of the woods and to the black pavement road. “I remember.”

You follow his gaze, and your heart moves up to the top of your chest. Standing on the makeshift, gravel parking lot, leaning against the Impala, is John Winchester. He’s younger than you ever knew him, but the lines in his face are still deep, the dark in his eyes still cold. He’s glaring down at a little, blond boy with unruly hair and shoulders that threaten to make him topple over. Dean tenses behind you, his grip tightening, a sharp breath fanning on the top of your head.

John snaps something at little Dean, and your lip curls. He’s barely taller than your stomach, his face too gaunt for a kid who can’t be more than eight, his posture stiff and his shoes unstitched around the laces. His shirt has a hole near the collar that you want to stitch up, but John doesn’t seem to notice. He’s small enough that you could carry him the same way he carries you now, and a borderline feral anger is overtaking your hands, burning to sock John in the face then wipe the dirt off little Dean’s cheeks. Find him some food, wrap him in a blanket like a burrito, give him something besides thin sleeves to hold onto.

“Dad was so pissed,” Dean mutters behind you, almost in a trance. “Right now he’s tellin’ me that he shouldn’t ever come back to find a scratch on Sammy. That I- I shouldn’t let him play in things that are gonna get him hurt.”

“I- I know, Dean, but- We got to stay a whole extra week. You took me to see Star Wars, and May- The lady- She made you that pie!”

Dean shrugs, still staring at himself by the car. You grab his hand and squeeze once. He looks down to you, and his shoulders sag. He squeezes back three times, then looks back to Sam and Jo.

“Follow the yellow brick road, right?”

Sam nods, moving to his feet. “I guess. Should be easier than last time, I- I hope.”

Jo frowns between them. “What happened last time?”

“Michael kidnapped me and Adam,” you say, holding out an arm for her. “Zacariah was hunting Sam and Dean, but I put him in a jar.”

Jo hums, linking herself to you. “Ain’t Zacariah the one who got me killed?”

Bile presses up the back of your throat. “Yeah.”

“Did he like the jar?”

You shake your head. “Dean stabbed him.”

“Good,” Jo mutters, giving Dean an appreciative grin. “Thanks.”

Dean shrugs and grunts. You all start to the road, following Sam’s lead. You’ve never actually moved through Heaven like this before, but you’re also hoping it’s easier than last time. Last time really sucked.

You wander down the road until everything starts to shift. The purple fades, replacing itself with a Golden glow, like sun rising through summer mist. The trees get bare, the sky gets grayer, and the dirt turns dark and compact. There’s a white flurry of cold you only half feel, drifting down through the sky. Sam’s back in his flannel and jeans, Jo still hasn’t changed, and Dean grunts in surprise when he looks down at himself and sees the massive, puffy coat and thick mittens on his hands.

“What the hell-“

“Awwwww,” Jo grins. “You’re like an ugly marshmallow.”

Dean scowls—you assume, hard to tell under the scarf wrapped around his face—and points a stern mitten at Jo’s amused expression. “Screw you, I’m a handsome marshmallow.”

You giggle, and he shoots you an exasperated, betrayed look.

“Come on, Princess.”

“Sorry,” you beam at him, bouncing on your toes. “You’re a very handsome marshmallow.”

“You probably get all the lady marshmallows, don’t you,” Jo wiggles her brows. “Just the biggest, fluffiest guy.”

Dean glares at her, tipping up his chin. “I only want one lady marshmallow,” he says smugly, shooting you a wink. You flush, and Jo gives you a disappointed look.

“Really?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, looking at your shoes, and Dean chuckles, looking around the woods.

“Is it bad that I don’t have a freakin’ clue where we are?”

“Eh,” Jo shrugs. “Just tells me you were an ugly marshmallow a lot.”

“Hey, no disrespecting me in my own Heaven, you little rat-“

“Dean!” Sam shrieks, and you all look at him with wide eyes.

He frowns, holding up his hands. “I, uh- I didn’t say that-“

“Dean- Dean, look!”

The shout comes from behind your Sam. From a little boy—bundled up the same way Dean is, with hair that falls over his eyes and paler skin—stumbling through the snow with a rock clutched between his mittens. His smile is wide, freer than you’ve ever known your Sam to smile. His cheeks are chubby and he’s barely bigger then a tree stump. Dean takes a half step forward like he can’t help it, and you let go of Jo to follow him.

“De-“

“I found it-“ Sam trips over his own feet, bigger than his body, and falls face first towards the snow. Dean lurches forward, too far away to catch him, and you realize you’re doing the exact same, and-

“Watch your feet, kid,” a low, painfully familiar voice grunts, and a hand materializes out of thin air, catching Sam by the scruff of his neck.

Bobby pulls his upright like a cat, ruffling his hair and giving Dean a small, look at him grin. Dean’s throat bobs. There’s a faint ringing in your ears, accompanied by horns and wails that walk the line between a choir and a mourning shriek. You take a tiny, unsteady step forward, and Jo grabs the crook of your elbow. She murmurs your name, but it’s lost in the wails.

“Bobby?” You whisper, and he doesn’t even glance over.

This isn’t your Bobby. Sam looks a little older than six, which means you’re seven and trapped somewhere in a closet or bedroom you don’t think you’re ever going to escape. This Bobby doesn’t know you. He’s got hair that’s still a little red and a beard without patches, and he can’t even see you at all. It’s not your memory.

But a choked sound still leaves your throat. You reach for his bottle in your jacket, unsure what you’re even going to do with it. Just knowing that you have to hold onto something. Praying that some part of Bobby can realize who you are, because you need him to look at you, you need him to smile and tell you that it’s going to be okay, you need to hear his voice in something other than a dream and you need him to tell you it’s going to be okay-

“We found it!” Little Sam rushes up to Dean, holding up a massive rock. “Bobby says that if we smash it, it’s gonna be a geode.” He tips his nose, already a little haughty for such a small body. “A geode is  a shiny rock, Dean. I’ll let you share mine.”  

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean whispers. He’s watching little Sam with misty eyes and a far-off expression. It pulls you a little back into yourself, to watch his Gold twist and pound into itself, the memory sweet but heavy, like a painting of a sunset covered in dust. This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean. And behind him, real Sam shifting nervously on his feet, frowning at his smaller, gold-coated counterpart.

“Was I really that fat?” He whispers, and you laugh weakly, the sound pushed from your throat.

“You were cute,” you say, and Jo nods.

“Like a hamster.”

“A hamster-“

“Let’s get you two inside,” Bobby grunts, herding Sam forward. “Don’t need ya’ catchin’ a cold on me. I’m no doctor, and this ain’t drivin’ weather.”

Little Sam nods, almost skipping past Dean with the rock tight to his chest. He pauses, and turns around, sticking out his hand out for Dean to take.

“I don’t wanna get lost,” he says, glaring at Dean like it’s offensive that he’d even hesitate.

Dean swallows, his voice low and rough. “Bobby won’t let us get lost, Sammy.”

“But I don’t wanna hold Bobby’s hand. I wanna hold yours.” Little Sam scowls, and early bitch face was a lot cuter than the identical one your Sam is pulling right now.

Dean just stares at Little Sam, seeing almost lost. You almost drift forward, wrapping around his arm. He looks down at you, almost hopeless. You give him a small, encouraging smile, and his throat bobs.

He takes Little Sam’s hand, and they start to walk forwards, after Bobby, into the darkening woods. You linger for a second, watching your Dean—ten times bigger than Sam, looking down at him with an open, lost expression—turn into a silhouette between the trees. Watching Bobby look back over his shoulder at them, and smile. For a second, your Dean gets smaller. Still taller than Sam by a few heads, but barely bigger than the skinny, young trees that won’t make it through the winter.=. A lump pressing high up in your throat. Jo wraps her arm around your shoulders and give you a sad smile. You lean your head on her shoulder, nod to your Sam, and follow Dean in the woods.

Everything changes again. The Gold fades to cool shades of blue, the trees get solid until they’re all paint-peeling walls, and the snow-covered ground becomes half-rotting wood and an ugly carpet.

You’re in a motel room. There’s one bed with a throw blanket you remember to be itchy, and an impossibly humid heat in the air, making your clothes stick to your skin and opening the window do next to nothing. Next to you, Jo’s changed into shorts and a white shirt that’s almost see-through from the wet heat. She frowns around the room, tilting her head at the weird alligator and flower paintings on the walls.

“Louisiana?” She asks you, and you nod.

“The grandma who was cursing her bloodline.”

Sam coughs. “The what?”

“Grandma who was cursin’ her bloodline,” Jo rolls her eyes. “Keep up, Sam.”

Sam frowns, and Dean clears his throat.

“This is Jo’s, right?” He shoots you a nervous look. “Unless Heaven got an update, and you get your own-“

The door slams open, answering Dean’s question for him. You—the memory of you, with shinier hair and longer lashes and brighter eyes than you’re sure real you has—bustle inside, hauling a massive air conditioner in your arms that looks like it’s going to make you tip forward. Dean lurches forward to help you, and Sam pulls him back with a flat look.

“I think this will work,” Fake You says, frowning at the unit. “I mean- It was working when I found it. So it should work here too.”

Jo hums, watching Fake You with a faint smile. “Found it?”

Fake You rolls her eyes, dropping the unit on the bed. “It was in the motel. No one else was using it.”

“Are you sure-“

“Do you want me to put it back? And die of heat stroke?”

Jo snorts, and shakes her head. “I’m just sayin’, if the police come, I’m not covering for you.”

“Yes, you will,” Fake You waves her off, frowning down at the unit. “I think we put it in the window. That’s where I found it before.”

Jo nods, shooting your Dean—frozen with Sam in the corner of the room, looking between the three of you with wide eyes and an open mouth—a teasing grin. “Why don’t you call Dean and ask him what to do- Fuck-“

Both you and Fake You throw things at the same time. Fake You—past you—misses. You don’t.

Jo whines, rubbing her head and glaring at you, and Fake You huffs, picking up the unit with a scowl.

“I don’t need Dean to do this,” she snaps, and your Dean frowns in the corner. Sam rolls his eyes, and Jo’s shit-eating grin returns.

“Yeah, but you want him to,” she teases. “You wanna kiss him, and fuck him, and marry him-“

Fake you pretends to throw the unit at Jo’s face, and she shrieks and dives to the side with a laugh. You stare pointedly at your shoes, avoiding a single glance at Dean. You remember this hunt clearly. You and Dean were still half-fighting. He hadn’t told you about his deal yet, you hadn’t told him about your powers, and you were only just starting to get over the whole you being forced to leave him in the hospital thing. You went on a hunt with Jo, and it was one of the only times that year you really laughed. In a few minutes you’re going to start decking each other, and it’s going to devolve into a very giggly, childish fight where she gets you pinned, and you promise not to whine about Dean the whole week, even though she’s the one that brought him up to start. You do her makeup and watch a movie, eating a lot of popcorn. It was a good week. Sure, a few people got murdered, but it was the closest thing to peace you ever get, and it’s not like any of them were murdered on your watch. You understand why it’s a favorite memory. You’re sure if you got your own heaven, it would be one of your highlights too.

“You two always talk about me like this?” Dean grumbles in the corner, and Jo shoots him a grin.

“We ain’t talkin’ about you like anything-“

“You’re talking about me like I’m a slab of freakin’ meat,” he huffs, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Dude, as if you don’t like that.”

Dean makes a haughty, offended sound, and you accidently catch his gaze. Maybe it’s just the weather of the memory, but it feels like you’re being submerged in a hot spring. Wetness pools over your skin and between your thighs. Dean says your name, and you flush deep enough to just turn into a burning, needy puddle.

“Am I just meat to you, Princess?”

You swallow, and shake your head. You’re hugging yourself too tight. Dean’s eyes flick down, and his gaze softens. He reaches out a hand, and you shuffle over to his side, glancing at Fake You as you pass her.

“This is creepy,” you whisper, pressing your face into Dean’s chest, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, no shit. At least you look hot, though.”

You roll your eyes against him, but smile where he can’t see. You’re a little surprised that there is a Fake You—last time you just overtook Fake You’s body—but there are too many other thing to worry about. You step out of Jo’s memory with a glance back to Fake You, and your heart is a little sore. She’s you. A version of you that’s never lost Dean, or Jo, or Bobby. She’s never been to Hell or Heaven or anywhere that she couldn’t run back home. You want to grab her and tell her to free Dean now. To not worry with the morality and fear of the Silver and just save Dean, because if she hesitates he’s gone, and the whole world starts to become dimmer and dimmer, until sometimes the only light left is the fire that she makes with her skin as kindle and her heart as fuel.

Dean pulls you out the door, before you can get lost in it. The idea of a life where you never lost him. Where you saved him and he kissed you and that was the end of it. But you pass through the door, and everything shifts, and you know. There’s never any going back.

You figure out fast that you’re caught in a loop of Sam, then Dean, then Jo. Never you, not as any more than a starring role in the memory. You didn’t know there were so many happy memories of you. You’re in a handful of Sam’s, a fistful of Jo’s, and almost all of Dean’s.

When you’re in Dean’s, though, you’re you. Not the ghost of you that plays bar trivia with Sam or jumps off a dock in Maine with Jo. You find yourself in a long, familiar hallway, wearing an ugly blazer that’s long forgotten in some motel in the Midwest, Dean’s amulet gone from your neck and no one with you. Only an instinct telling you that you go move a little forward, to where you’re supposed to be. You push open an office door, and Dean looks up at your from the desk, wearing his old leather jacket and the amulet. You remember what you’re supposed to do here. You run him into the ground, and he lets you with a smile, and you fall in love so fast and so big you don’t even know that’s what it was until it’s far too late.

Instead, you just smile at him. And he smiles right back.

“I don’t like this one,” Sam mumbles in his next memory, hunched over a lab table that’s too small for him, looking nervously around the room.

“It’s your Heaven, dude,” Dean shrugs, squinting at a vending machine out in the hall. “You think those things work here?”

“It’s heaven,” Jo stands up with a grin. “They better.”

She and Dean go off to find out, leaving you with Sam at the table. His leg is bouncing, and he seems to have fixated on something at the front of the classroom. Someone. A girl with a head of blonde, curly hair, laughing at something her friend is saying, loud enough that you can hear over the noise of the busy room. You know her. You’ve seen her, in Sam’s memories.

“You don’t like this one?” You say softly, and Sam shakes his head, his voice hoarse.

“Sometimes,” he rasps. “I don’t want to remember. When I do, I just- I think about if this never happened. She’d- She’d still be-“

Sam swallows the words, and you sigh, watching him with a sad smile.

“Aren’t you glad you had her though? At all?”

“Were you be glad if you lost Dean,” he says, and there’s no venom in it. Just pure, aching question.

And you know it’s not what he wants to hear, but you nod. Even when Dean was dead, even when you wondered if you were ever going to be able to go home, you wouldn’t have traded loving him for anything. If he ever forgot you, if you ever lose him again, you’d still love him. You’d stay away. You’d let him move on. But Michael and Lucifer ripped up your memories, and the only thing you ever remembered was to love Dean.

“How does this go?” You ask softly, and Sam sighs, letting you distract him.

“She’s being really loud. Like- Really loud. It was annoying me, and I went over to tell her to be quiet. She hit on me, and I panicked and ran away, and then when it was time to pick lab partners, she chose me.”

You snort, and Sam shoots you a glare.

“She liked me, okay- Stop laughing-“

“Sorry, it- it’s just- You saw how Dean and I met, if he’d done anything like that I would’ve punched him-“

“And he still would’ve fallen in love with you,” Sam grumbles, and you flush.

“Don’t be- It wasn’t that-“ You cut yourself off under Sam’s flat stare, staring at your hands. “You know that- That wasn’t actually the first time I met him,” you mumble, and Sam frowns, looking over his shoulder to where Jo and Dean are still trying to work the vending machine.

“Uh- Does Dean know that?”  

“No,” you say. “It- It was when you were in the library, with your dad. I was there too, I heard you, and-“ You swallow. “I was hiding, but I saw Dean through the shelves, and I- I just-“ You give Sam a tired, almost pleading look, begging him to understand. “I felt it,” you breathe. “I’d never even spoken to him and I felt it.”

Sam’s throat bobs. He looks back to Dean again, then you. “For Dean?”

You smack him, and he laughs, rubbing the ache.

“Sorry,” he says, and you know he doesn’t mean it, but he’s smiling. So you don’t care.

Jo and Dean come back from the vending machine with snacks and soda bottles that vanish them moment you leave Sam’s heaven and step back into Dean’s. He pouts, glaring at the thin air where the food was, and you bite back your smile.

“We can get you jerky when we get home,” you whisper, and he grumble.

“I’m hungry now.”

“There will be fruit in the garden, we can take some of that.”

Dean frowns at you, almost nervous. “But that’s magic food, sweetheart. I eat that, I gotta stay here forever.”

You blink at him, then smile. Always smarter than he thinks. “That’s the underworld, De.”

“Oh. Well- Alright.” He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Heaven food it is. Better be freakin’ good though, or I’m leaving a bad review on Sammy’s stupid website.”

“It’s not a stupid website, Dean, it’s the only reason you don’t have e-coli-“

“I don’t have any kinda coli,” Dean snaps. “E, B, A, D-“

“No, that’s not-“ Sam sighs, and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s keep going before you realize what memory this is.”

You frown, blinking around the room, then down at yourself, and squeak. You’re half-naked, wearing only a corset and cowboy hat, your body hidden by a thin sheet Dean wrapped around you when you weren’t thinking. He’s grinning proudly, bare chested and only in his boxers. You can feel something dry and sticky on your thighs and over your ass. Jo leans down near the creaking, wooden door, and picks up a pair of panties.

“When’d you start wearing this brand?” She frowns at you, and you swallow.

“They’re popular in Iran.”

“Huh,” She squints. “They look comfy.”

“They are. And they’re pretty cheap-“

Dean clears his throat, pulling you closer to his chest. “Why’d you know what kinda underwear she uses?”

“Because we’re friends, Winchester,” Jo sticks out her tongue. “Sorry you don’t got any of those.”

“I know what kind of underwear she wears,” you offer, but it just makes Dean’s frown deepen. “And Cas. And Sam.”

“You- You know what?” Sam sputters, and you shrug.

“I do your laundry.”

He stares at you, huffs, and stomps out the door. Jo laughs and follows him, leaving you and Dean alone in the cabin. You look back at him, really not understanding why Sam’s so mad. Dean sighs, mouth twitching, and kisses the frown off your lips.

“Bobby ever snoop through your stuff?” He murmurs, thumbs dragging circles on your waist, and you pause.

“No, but- Um-“ You flush. “He’d find things out and give me weird talks.”

“Thing?” Dean gives you an amused look. You swallow.

“Like- Me and you. Sleeping together, and- Things.”

Dean grins, mischief sparkling in his eyes. His hand drags up your side, leaving a pleasant, hot shiver in their wake. “Sleeping together? Us?”

“It- It was before- When we were just sharing a bed, and-“ It’s hard to form full sentences, when he’s touching you like this. “He was just- He wanted us to be safe-“

“Good thing I’m super safe, then,” Dean murmurs, ghosting his lips over yours, and you manage to muster a glare until fluttering eyes.

“You never use a condom,” you breathe, and he smirks.

“Yeah, but you got that magic potion thingy, and,” he squeezes your ass. “You like bein’ filled up, don’t you. Like being my sweet, needy girl.”

Words float through your head without shape, and all come out in a high, confused moan. Dean dips his hand under the sheet, brushing his knuckles against the lips of your pussy, and-

The door slams, and Jo sighs dramatically.

“I told Sam,” she mutters, marching forward. “Fuckin’ told him.”

You’re dragged away from an annoyed Dean, still too dazed to fight back. Jo pulls you through the door, and your clothing forms back over your body. Sam’s waiting with his arms crossed, and Jo gives him a smug told you so look.

“Were they-“

“Yeah. Give him a second, I think he was hard.”

Your face burns, and you let Jo sit you in time out on the barstool. You’re back in the Roadhouse, before it turned into dusty bottles and boxed up windows. Jo’s wearing a blue dress she keeps adjusting uncomfortably, and there are a few hunters crowding the tables who aren’t paying her much mind. Dean shuffles through the door, and gets pointed firmly to Sam’s side.

“You can’t be trusted sittin’ next to her,” Jo snaps, and Dean scoffs.

“She was kissing me back-“

“Because she’s stupid.”

“Hey,” you glare at Jo, and she sighs.

“Sorry, but- Look at him,” she waves a hand at Dean, who grins, charming and mock innocent. “He’s gonna distract you.”

You stare at him for a moment too long. Dean winks, and you flush. Jo groans, and snaps her fingers in your face. Maybe she’s got a little bit of a point. You’re supposed to be focused.

“Where are we?” You ask her, and she sighs, soothing the frills of her skirt.

“Home.”

Right on cue—all of Heaven seems to be on a very dramatic timer—the door to the back swings open and Ellen walks through with… A man. He’s a little shorter than Dean, a lot blonder, and has Jo’s longer face and thinner eyes. He kisses Ellen—younger, warmer, smiling—and grins at Jo, reaching out an arm.

“C’mere, kid, I got somethin’ to show you.”

Jo swallows, but doesn’t move. She hasn’t been really engaging in most of the memories. Not of her mom. She just freezes, like she’s trying to drag it out. To keep the moment trapped in amber, before it slips away like the reality. You take her hand, and she holds on tight.

“You remember my switchblade?” She says softly, still not looking away from her parents. “This is when he gave it to me. One of the last times I saw him, too.”

You swallow, and just squeeze her hand. “We’re gonna find her,” you say, and Jo laughs, tired and flat.

“I know you’re gonna try. But- Never any use makin’ promises, is it.”

Neither of you have an answer to that. Sam and Dean—silent and shifting in the corner—don’t seem to either. There isn’t much to say. Nothing at all that isn’t empty, or hasn’t already been said.

“Wow,” another familiar voice—one that should not be here—splits through the room. “Isn’t that so sweet.”

You whirl around, reaching for the blade. Sam and Dean go for guns they don’t have, then grab bottles off the counter.

Meg grins at you all from a back table, spinning a glass in her hand. She’s still in the short, dark-haired vessel. Her smoke is the same ugly charcoal you’ve always known, and the hideous features that twist through it are curved into a smile.

“Hi, guys,” she says, sighing when none of you respond. “Hi, Meg. It’s so lovely to see you, we’ve missed you so much.”

“We have not missed you,” Sam snaps, and Meg rolls her eyes.

“Don’t be like that, Sammy, we always have fun together. Remember last time, when I met your mom!” She grins at you, and you narrow your eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you mutter, and she scoff.

“Please, you won’t do anything, we’re friends-“

“No, I mean- You literally shouldn’t be here.” You glance at Jo, pressing your lips in a thin line. “A demon in Heaven- The shouldn’t be possible.”

“Nothin’ to say about us being friends though, right?” Meg grins, then sighs under your glare. “Fine. But it’s not that hard to follow. Crowley just left the door open, because he’s an idiot.”

You swallow and for the first time since you got into Heaven, the Silver starts to burn. “Crowley’s here?”

Meg nods, grinning around your group. “And he’s mad at you guys. It’s cute, he’s throwing a whole temper tantrum. Like a baby.”

“He’s mad at us?” Dean frowns. “What the hell did we do?”

“Rob him,” Sam mutters. “Steal his blood. Chain him to his chair and probably get him in trouble with Eve-“

“Yeah, yeah, alright. I get it.” Dean pinches his brow, still glaring at Meg. “Still doesn’t explain you though. I thought you and Crowley were on the outs because of the whole Lucfier War of Roses shit.”

“We are,” Meg shrugs. “Which is why I followed him. To help you.”

Jo narrows her eyes, crossing her arms. “How can you help us?”

Meg beams, leaning forward. “I’m multi-purpose,” she drawls. “Sammy knows, isn’t that right?”

She shoots Sam a wink, and his nose wrinkles. The Silver keeps pounding in your ears.

“That don’t mean anything,” Jo snaps. “Either you’ve got something to give us, or you can fuck off.”

“Ouch,” Meg laughs, looking Jo up and down. “You’re coming on real strong for the only one I haven’t actually done something to.”

Jo just scowls, and Meg rolls her eyes.

“Fine. I can help you however you want,” she smiles at you. “I’m sure you’ll figure out what to do with me, princess.”

Dean and Jo both move to block you from Meg’s view, and fighting starts to tear through the room, raising voices and clenched fists and spitting words that you can barely hear. You don’t care about Meg. You don’t care about her taunting or help or sabotage. You, oddly, still trust her more than you trust most people. She listens to you more than Sam, sometimes. But she’s here because Crowley’s here. And that’s making everything get really fucking loud.

A demon doesn’t go to Heaven for no reason. Crowley doesn’t put himself in the front lines for no reason. If he’s here it’s because Eve sent him. If Eve sent him directly—instead of letting him outsource to a demon—it’s because he is in trouble. Which means he’s going to be mad at you. Which means that whatever he’s after—something in Heaven, something they probably need for the spell—isn’t something that’s going to be easy to find. That Eve could safely get herself. And she didn’t send Leviathans, she sent Crowley, which means she wants something alive, something like you and Dean, which means she might know you’re here and you left Kevin and Charlie and Cas alone, which means you’re putting Dean in danger, danger, danger-

The Silver is blaring like an alarm. You’re breathing shallow and fast, everything turning either into harmonies that are yours—the clouds of Heaven that morph themselves to match you, that glow because they’re honored to hold holy bodies—and sharp, jagged edges that aren’t. That either want to be a part of you but feel like hostile—a parasite that shouldn’t be allowed to join you—or things aren’t yours. That can’t be yours. That you need to crush or make yours, before they spread like a thin layer of ash. Before they spread, and everything becomes the dead world.

You can’t breathe. You wrap a hand around your throat, the Silver already too big for you to count what’s real, and just try to fucking breathe. But you can’t. You cave into yourself and you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, your back hurts and you can’t fucking breathe-

You stumble back, trying to find something to keep you upright. The Silver is pressing out of every nerve, scratching through the world for somewhere safe to hide. Something is burning into your side, thought your jacket. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Dean turns around with a frown. Your eyes lock, and his widen. He shouts your name, rushing forward, but you trip and fall over a table, and he’s just too far to catch you. Everything goes white.

When your vision clears, he’s not there.

You’re home. Bobby’s house, home. But all the books are gone, and the fireflies flitting outside in the easy, green dark mean it’s summer, rather than dead winter. The floor is shiny, and the kitchen is half clean, and when you wander out onto the porch—almost in a trance—the wood isn’t chipped. Bobby’s old truck is parked in the yard, no sign on the Impala or Firebird.

And sitting in his old chair, baseball cap over his head and beer in his hand, is Bobby. Your Bobby.  Staring out at the yard with a faint smile on his face, a few less wrinkles and gray hairs. Watching a girl with braids and thin fingers play in the mud. There are grass stains all over her dress. Your dress. In an hour you’re going to cry because you can’t put the grass back in the ground. In two hours, Bobby’s going to coax you out of your room with a milkshake, and in three hours you’re going to watch a movie, and pass out the moment the credits roll. You wake up in your bed in the morning. Bobby makes you pancakes, and you wolf them down because you’re still a small, feral thing, and you haven’t learned that this peace isn’t going to last forever.

You take a small step forward, and the porch creaks. Bobby glances backward, and raises his brows. You swallow, and it hurts. Your eyes burn, and Bobby’s gaze softens.

“Dad-“ Your voice breaks on the first word. “Daddy- You- You’re-“

Tears burn on your cheeks, and Bobby sighs. He sets down his beer and stands, pulling you into his arms without a question. You press your face into his chest, shaking and clinging to the edge of that old, gray shirt he always wore. Back home, it’s still in his dresser, stale and gathering dust because you won’t let Dean wash it. Right now it smells like pine trees and scotch and something a little drier, that was always Bobby.

“Hey, kiddo,” he mutters. “You ain’t supposed to be in here.”

You swallow, and let him pull you a little back. He examines your face, features tight with worry, and sighs.

“What the hell have you done?”

“No- Nothing-“

“Nothin’ my ass. How else did you end up in heaven-“

“We’re- We’re doing a thing, and-“ You wipe your nose, and pause. “How are you in Heaven?”

Bobby shrugs. “I don’t know, probably somethin’ stupid, maybe I did a few hail mary’s before the lights went out-“

“No- No-“ You shake your head. “You can’t be in Heaven. It’s- that’s not possible.”

“Jesus. I know I wasn’t perfect- Sure as shit screwed some things up, but-“

“You’re in a bottle, Bobby.” You reach into your jacket, and pull out the bottle, holding it up to his face. “I have your soul, you can’t be in heaven.”

Bobby stares at the bottle, then you, then the little you, still playing in the mud. His frown deepens, and you clear your throat.

“Um- Maybe- You know-“ You glance at the bottle, and it flickers in your hands. The green of Bobby’s soul doesn’t seem to be confided to the glass anymore. Almost like it’s blending perfectly with the green of the world. Of Bobby. “We don’t know what I can do, really,” you mumble. “And- I guess this means you’re not in here watching us all the time-“

“You put me in a fuckin’ bottle?” Bobby snaps, and you swallow.

“It’s a nice bottle. Dean cleans it.”

He stares at you, and you give him a small, nervous smile. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. “C’mon, kiddo,” he starts past you, back to the porch. “I think I’m gonna have to sit down.”

You nod and start to follow, but freeze half a step forward. You look back to yourself. Innocent and happy in the mud, sure that Bobby is going to watch her forever. “What about-“ What about me. “What about her?” You whisper. “You can’t just leave her.”

“She’ll be here when I get back,” Bobby says gently, and you shake your head.

“But-“

“And she’s gonna be alright,” he says your name. “She’s a trooper. She always is.”

You turn, and find him watching you. He smiles, tired but real, and jerks his head. You follow him inside, and only look back once.

Bobby’s heaven isn’t like Sam, Dean, and Jo’s. It’s his house, but—the longer you look—the more you see time blending through it. The kitchen in clean how it was when just you and he used it, but the cool pot Dean got him for his birthday is on the rack, and photos of all three of you as adults are pinned to the fridge. There are two bowls of food on the floor. One for that dog Rufus pawned onto him while you were a teenager, running around the country like an idiot, and one for Indy. The apron Sam used to strangle a demon—which immediately got set on fire—is still hanging on a peg, but right next to it is the one Sam bought him as an apology. It’s warm outside, but snow is falling like glitter. You look at Bobby, confusion written all over your face, and he just shrugs.

“Don’t know what you’re lookin’ at me for. Apparently you designed it.” He grabs a beer out of the fridge, and you hold out your hand. He stares at it, then you, and snorts. “No.”

You gape. “But- I want one-“

“You hate these-“

“Maybe I don’t anymore,” you snap, and Bobby snorts.

“Alright,” he tosses you the bottle. “But you ain’t able to get drunk here. Shouldn’t be a problem, if ya like it.”

You stare at the bottle, then Bobby. It smells rotten. Bitter and foul, like it always has. It makes you think of summers where everything was carcesses and spit filled with poison. You put the beer down, and Bobby hums.

“I prefer vodka,” you mumble, and he just laughs again.

“Sure, kiddo. Y’know, I always thought you’d make a bad drunk.”

“You always thought that? That- I’d make a bad drunk?”

Bobby shrugs. “I was a fuckin’ delight-“

“Rufus told me you’re banned from a bar in every state.”

“Well, Rufus better learn to stop runnin’ his mouth,” Bobby mutters. He pauses, and gives you a long, careful look. “How is he? Out there?”

You swallow. You don’t want to talk about this. You don’t want to remember this isn’t real. “I- I haven’t talked to him in a few months, but- Sam says he’s okay.”

“Hm,” Bobby nods, still watching you. “How ‘bout Claire?”

“Good.” You pick at your nails. “She’s staying with Jody, while we work on Eve.”

“Eve-“

“Turns out she made the Leviathans. They’re trying to eat God.”

“Why not,” Bobby mutters, glaring at his bottle. “And- Jody-“

“Dean talks to her. He- He says she’s tired, but- okay.”

Bobby nods, and your fingers start to bleed a soft, shimmering Silver. You frown at it, then look back up to Bobby.

“I’m trying to bring you back,” you stutter out. “I- I am- I promise- I’m going to ask Joshua, and- We know I can, I brought Jo back, I just- I don’t know how, but I will-“

Bobby says your name, and you cut yourself off, staring down at your hands.

“I will,” you whisper. “I promise.”

“I know you do,” Bobby says. “But don’t hurt yourself for me, kiddo. I ain’t worth it.”

You shake your head, and Bobby says your name again, leaning over the table.

“Listen to me. I know this is hard, but-“

“You don’t,” you snap, the top of your mouth hurting like a burn. “You don’t know. You can’t- You-“ Your voice breaks. “You’re not there.”

Bobby falls silent, and you curve further into yourself.

“You’re not there,” you whisper again. “I- I need you and you’re not there, daddy, you’re not there-“

You crack again. Everything hurts, and when you wipe the Silver on your pants it just blooms with flowers. Bobby’s chair scrapes as he stands, and you don’t fight it when he pulls you into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I do know, kiddo. I promise, if I knew how to get outta here and back into a body I would, but- I’m sure Dean’s takin’ care of you- And-“ He cuts himself off, with a long sigh. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cling to his shirt and cry until there’s nothing left, and Bobby leans back with a sad smile.

“You can’t stay here,” he says, and your lip tremlbes.

“Why- Why not-“

“’Cause we’d make it a day before you started worryin’ about the boys.”

“I can bring them here too-“

“No. This is my Heaven. And I love you kids, but the only thing I’m happy about is not walkin’ in on Dean freakin’-“ His lip curls. “Fondlin’ my girl.”

You laugh, but it’s small. Almost hollow. Bobby sighs, and says your name, low and soft.

“They need you.”

“No, they-“

“Yeah. They do.”

You shake your head, hugging yourself tight, and Bobby nods.

“Yes. Yes, you can. I am sure,” he says firmly. “That whatever the hell this even is now, you can do it.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t waver, and you know he’s right. It’s annoying. You still pull him into a tight hug, and pray that some of the green will stay on your hands when you go back.

“I’ll bring you back,” you whisper. “I promise.”

And Bobby just sighs. “Yeah. Alright.”

You pull apart, wipe your sleeve on your nose, and close your eyes. If you look at him—at this world—a little longer, you’re going to beg to stay again. You focus the Silver, and try to retrace your steps. When you open your eyes, you’re back in the Roadhouse. Ellen, the hunters, and Jo’s dad flicker like broken projections. There’s glass on the floor.

And no one else to be found.

She’d barely even vanished, when the ground shook. And Dean should’ve been faster. He should’ve noticed Her falling apart behind him, instead of shouting at Meg about being a bitch. If he had noticed, She wouldn’t have cocooned herself or whatever and slipped through Dean’s fingers. If he had noticed, She would’ve been there when the angels showed up blazing, grabbed the four of them, and tossed them into one of Heaven’s cells.

They were a lot like Vegas cells. Thin bars, weirdly cold and warm at the same time, and covered in a whole lot of glitter. Dean pointed this out to Sammy. Sammy didn’t seem to appreciate it.

“Just trying to get the mood up, Sammy-“

“Why.” Sam said flatly. “This is just like last time, Dean- Actually, it’s worse than last time! Last time we weren’t locked up in Heaven’s jail with two demons!”

“The demons aren’t delighted to be locked up with your either, Moose,” Crowley muttered, and Sam shot him a glare.

“No one made you follow us-“

“Well, no one made you get yourselves caught, did they?”

Sam huffed, and looked off to the side. Meg laughed, and Jo rolled her eyes.

“Don’t know why you’re laughing,” she snapped. “You’re locked up too.”

“Yeah. But I know how to have fun, unlike certain pretty boys.” Meg smirked, and Jo’s scowl deepened.

Dean sighed and rubbed his jaw. Apparently Heaven also only had one cell for all instructors to share. The bad part was that Crowley had been here when they got thrown in. The good part was that She wasn’t here yet. Which meant, wherever She’d landed, she was safe.

“How long did it take them to catch you, Crowley?” He asked, and Crowley huffed.

“Annoyingly fast. It was rather rude, actually. They jumped me like- Like ruffians.”

“They probably tracked him because he’s a demon, Dean,” Sam said, already picking up what Dean was poking at. “Which means-“

“You.” Jo glared at Meg, who blinked innocently.

“Me? That’s- That’s ridiculous, there weren’t any angels on my tail, I checked.”’

“Well you didn’t check well-“

“I checked perfectly. And I’d say it was you idiots, stirring up noise, making messes everywhere, walking into Heaven with God’s Bride?” Meg clicked her tongue. “Not very smart of you, is it?”

“You’re a demon,” Jo spat. “In Heaven. We were doin’ just fine until you showed up.”

“Well if it was just me,” Meg snapped. “Why’d the grab their star boys too, hmm?” 

“I don’t know, maybe they thought we were- Helping you-“

“I thought you’d never work with the likes of me.”

Jo scoffed, but Sammy cut her off with Her name. Everyone was looking at Dean all of a sudden. Sam’s words were low and urgent.

“They took us,” he said. “The moment she was gone. And- Cas told us he can’t track her, because she- She messes with their radar or something-“

“And once she was gone,” Dean finishes, throat tight. “We were just big neon freakin’ signs.”

They all, for a rare moment, fell silent. Dean squatted at the edge of the cell, rubbing his jaw until it ached. They had no damn clue where She’d popped off to, but he knew she’d turn around and come back for them. And She either wouldn’t find them and blow up, or the angels would be waiting for her, goad her, and she’d blow up. Or they got out and found Her first. That was the only way Dean could see this ending without a blow up. 

He looked around the group—Sammy still sulking, Jo glaring at Meg like she wanted to rip her vessel open, Meg examining her nails, and Crowley grumbling about hosptiatly—and didn’t really love their odds.

The door rattled, and Dean shot to his feet, ready for anything between the angel hangmen or angel sheriff.

“You gonna talk to us?” He called down the hall, leaning against the bars. “Or does Heaven not have due fuckin’ process?”

“Dean,” Sam hissed. “Sit down, they’re angels-“

“They’re dicks,” Dean grunted, and Meg hummed.

“They really are. And one of them grabbed my ass while throwing us in here. Which is rude,” she shouted at the hall. “If I’m not allowed to grab him back!”

Jo frowned. “Nobody groped me.”

“That’s good, Jo,” Sam sighed, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Yeah, but why are they gropin’ her, I’m- Not a demon-“

“It’s ‘cause you’re cute, buttercup,” Meg winked. “Not sexy.”

Jo looked like she was going to throw a punch. Dean caught her wrist, and gave her a stern look.

“Not now,” he muttered, and Jo sighed, but nodded.

“Aw,” Meg beamed. “So noble, rescuin’ me-“

“Not rescuing,” Dean turned back to the hall. “Delaying. She can go to town when we’re outta here. See if I give a shit.”

Meg huffed, and Dean peered for shadows or shifts, or anything that would tell him just what these sons of bitches were up to. 

“I don’t think angels have to give us due process,” Sam said miserably, and Dean grunted.

“What, you’re tellin’ me America’s got one up on fuckin’ heaven?”

“I guess,” Sam squinted past him. “I’m not sure.” His mouth twitched. “They do have a really brutal immigration process.”

Dean snorted, then banged on the bars, raising his voice. “You hear that?” He called. “You’re losin’ to America-“

“We lose to nobody,” a woman’s voice—cold and bored—echoed down the hall, and Dean froze. “And the demon boy is correct. We owe you no process.”

Heels clicked on the floor and Dean swallowed, taking a large step back from the bars. The shadow on the floor was made of shifting light and fluttering patterns. The woman casting it was almost his Dean’s height, pinned up, and downright sour looking. Her lips were tight and painted red, her hair tied up, and her outfit what Dean’s girl would call really fucking ugly. He grinned to himself at the thought. Angels never seemed to be prepared for Her. It was always fun to see.

The woman stopped in front of them, her gaze raking over Sam and Dean and her lip curling rather rudely. She looked down the hall, huffed, and called to someone Dean couldn’t see.

“Why did no one tell me how… Unimpressive they are?”

And sulking after her, hands tucked behind his back, was Balthazar. Dean’s hands curled into fists. Sam moved to his feet, eyes wide, and Meg took a step back.

“They are rather locked up,” Balthazar drawled. “I assure you, they’re much more impressive when they’re… running around. Like very big rats. On steroids.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean growled, leaning against the bars. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, we thought you might be dead-“

“Not dead. Just… reoccupied.” Balthazar spread his arms. “Welcome to Heaven’s new, humane prison! You should be thanking me, if I didn’t build this you’ve be stuffed in the Sun, which, as we found, kills humans surprisingly fast.”

“We trusted you,” Sam said, jaw ticked. “And you- You’ve been working with Heaven?”

“Really?” Dean added. “These douchebags, they’re like Mormons-“

“Tread carefully, Dean Winchester.” The cold bitch sneered. “Balthazar has returned to where he belongs. With his brothers and sisters. Annoying us,” she shot him a glare. “But no longer acting like a brat.”

“Yet,” Balthazar grinned at her, and her nose twitched.

“Yet,” she echoed, and Dean cleared his throat, leaning forward.

“I’m sorry, lady. Who the hell are you?”

She sniffed, turning up her nose. “The angel in control of your fate, you insolent, petulant child. After Castiel blew everything up and vanished, someone had to take over, to restore Heaven to it’s former glory-“

“Yeah, yeah, that’s great,” Dean waved a hand. “What’s your name.”

The bitch scowled. “Naomi.”

“Cool. Naomi,” Dean threw her his most charming grin. “Seems like you knew who we are,” he gestured behind him. “Which means you probably know that we’re down one.” He said Her name, and Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “’Bout this tall, punch you in the face gorgerous, kinda mouthy and real stab-happy? Magdalene, Bride of God- You know,” he leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Here’s the deal. I know you picked us up when she wasn’t around, but she ain’t really gonna take that lying down. She’s been known to blow up stuff. Houses, castles, office buildings-“

“Hell,” Sam jumped in. “Lucifer’s cage. Twice.”

Dean nodded, looking back to Naomi. “Twice. Which- You know. This is nice and all,” he rattled the bars. “But it ain’t Lucifer’s cage. So, unless you want her dropping in-“

“We do.”

“I’d let us- What.” Dean blinked, and Naomi smiled, awfully smug for someone signing a death warrant. “You- Are you fuckin’ crazy-“

“No. I’m strategic.” Naomi said. “Everyone knows about the Bride’s… Affection. For you all.”

“Me, yeah,” Dean shrugged lazily. Soulmates. “Sammy and Jo she’s got a soft spot, but they’re second, and those two,” he jerked his thumb at Meg and Crowley. “You know. Demons. I wouldn’t place bets, is all I’m saying.”

“I don’t have to place bets,” Naomi’s smile grew. “I have you, Dean Winchester. And to get the Bride? That’s all I’m going to need.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “I don’t think that’s gonna work out for you,” he said through gritted teeth, and Naomi just smiled.

“We’ll see, won’t we.” She took at step back, still smirking at Dean. “But you’re right about this cell. We don’t want her to actually get to you. Balthazar. Put them in the Garden.”

There was that loud whoosh, and Naomi vanished. Balthazar sighed and started to walk back out, but Dean wasn’t letting him go that easy. He banged his fist against the bars again, leering down the hall.

“Balthazar, you get back here- You spineless, side switching son of a bitch!”

Balthazar sighed, and turn back around with a half amused look. “Don’t worry, Dean,” he smiled. “I’ll switch right back, as soon as the Bride shows her pretty face.”

He vanished down the hall, and Dean swallowed, slumping back.

“Nice going, macho man,” Meg drawled, and Dean shot her a glare.

“Shut up.”

She smirked but did. Balthazar came back in a few minutes with a handful of other angels—they were handsy, now that Meg mentioned it—and they got zapped right into Heaven’s Garden.

It was… Different. Than Dean remembered Cas describing, way back when. Bigger, maybe. More colorful than just green things, with a lot of weird, overgrown plants and young, fragile looking trees. Something jade-colored and winged darted out of a tree, and Sam flinched. Dean raised his hands to block an attack, scanning over the thick tree line for as sign of whatever the hell that had been, and-

“Welcome,” Joshua said, smiling at them from what seemed to be the base of a large, strange, white cliff. Flowering vines grew over the low stone, almost shimmering in the permanently golden light. “I see you’re enjoying the new… Renovations.”

Dean swallowed, glancing back over his shoulder. Crowley and Meg seemed to be trying to press against a corner that didn’t exist, touching as little as possible. Sammy had moved on to examining some cartoon-looking mushrooms, and Jo was still watching the sky. Dean looked back to Joshua, and said Her name. He bowed his head, a smile twitching at his mouth.

“Between you and me,” he said. “I consider Naomi a fool, and- Pray that she hasn’t stationed too many of us to guard you. No one ever stands much of a chance, against the Bride.”

“Do you-“ Dean took a step forward. “You got an ear with God, do you know where she is? If she’s alright?”

Joshua gave him an apologetic smile, and Dean’s hope sunk right to the pit of his stomach.

“Right- No one can know,” he muttered. “Magic gps doesn’t work.”

“I am sorry,” Joshua said, and Dean thought he meant it. “But if it helps, my ear with God… It has gone deaf.”

Dean blinked. “What? What’d you- God ain’t talking to you anymore? Why, I thought- He was lonely or whatever.”

“He was. I- He still may be. But-“ Joshua sighed, and shook his head. “It might be easier, for you to understand yourself, and come find me after.”

Joshua stepped to the side, and Dean squinted. The vines were growing over something. Something lit with red flowers that flickered like torches, with water that glowed like those plastic stars he used to stick on the top of motel ceilings to help Sammy sleep.

“Understand myself?” He rasped, and Joshua bowed his head.

“I know more of you than you think, Dean Winchester,” he said gently. “You may not believe me, without the proof in front of your eyes.”

Dean nodded, and took a cautious step forward. He paused when he passed Joshua, looking over the man’s face any sign of worry, any clue that this might be some sorta trap. He found only sympathy, and it made his heart restless in his throat.

“Is is bad?” He asked, like a child, and Joshua chuckled.

“No. I don’t think it could be, if it tried.”

There was that cryptic angel talk again. Nice to know some things never changed. 

Dean stepped past Joshua, pushing the vines out of the way and ducking into the cave. The whole place smelled like Her. Sugar and vanilla and Her apple, so strong that Dean could swear he’d turn around, and she’d just… Be there. And he knew better, but all the same. Dean could almost feel Her, through this whole damn place. The path went down, and the feeling only got stronger. He saw the end of the tunnel, shimmering with silver light, and swallowed. He almost turned back. This was where She’d been when Cas grabbed her. When he’d thought he’d finally lost her forever. And part of him really didn’t want to know, what kind of paradise she’d left, or what kind of Hell she’d been trapped in.

But the other part was masochist. The other part knew that, what, ever the hell it was, Dean deserved it. So he took the last step forward, and almost fell to his damn knees.

It was like Her, if she was a place. That was the only way he could rationalize it. Pure white walls of stone that shimmered gold, silver water tumbling down the cliffs and falling into black lake, every ripple almost making freaking art with it’s patterns. All of it stained in so much color and life. More of those jade bird nested along the rocks, fish the color of gemstone darting through the lake, more of those burning flowers growing near the shore and sending pollen like fireworks through the air.

Dean walked slowly, not sure if he was in a dream or not. She wasn’t here. It couldn’t be.

Renovations, Joshua had said.

She made all this shit. The trees and planets and animals. It had all been Her.

Dean’s eye caught on a dip in the land, and the smooth surface of the cliffs. Another cave. He walked towards it, watching his step over the crystal like stones and strange looking critters. Something like a chipmunk-cat sniffed him, then cooed. It ran up his damn leg, and he didn’t have the heart to kick it off.

“No bein’ evil,” he muttered, and it cooed.

Four more joined it, by the time Dean got to the cave. He cradled them in his hands, worried that if he dropped them, She’d somehow feel it. They were also pretty cute. And fluffy. Far from the worst thing he’d ever held, that was for sure. They scattered when he ducked inside, anyway. Dean pretended that didn’t weirdly hurt, and let them go.

Then he turned, and this time, didn’t have enough strength to stay on his feet.

The floor of the cave was covered in flowers, and the walls were dripping in glowing lichen and vines, but that wasn’t what Dean cared about it. Because under the overgrowth and over every inch of stone, there were paintings. Paintings of wings—copper and wooden and electric—and of thick greens and twisted up purples and rushing  blues. There was a kitchen that Dean felt like he’d seen before, flowers on the table and pictures on the fridge. Bobby’s library, with Cas’ standing near a shelf and wearing a trenchcoat made of feather, and Sammy hunched at the table with his laptop glowing in his face.

And there no was Dean.

There was the Impala, her wheels roses and her windows water and her body looking sorta like a bull or something, which would be hard to maintain, but still seemed pretty fucking cool. There was Jo on the couch, asleep with hair all over her face. There was even Claire, holding a golf putter like a shotgun and smiling, but there was no Dean.

But there was gold.

Inlaid over every single painting, on the spines of books and lining the Impala, over Indy’s wings and running through that kitchen like a backsplash, there was so much gold. Written between the margins of every image was that one word, printed in golden ink, glowing like a lighthouse in the dark.

Dean’s heart knotted and strained against itself. His throat got tight, like it was trying to hold all his organs down. He looked up to the ceiling and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through his nose and stop the burn of useless tears down his face.  

“She spent most of her time like this,” Joshua said softly, and Dean started.

“Jesus fuckin’- So all of you just like sneakin’ up on poor assholes trying to have a moment, huh?”

Joshusa’s mouth twitched. “My apologies. I assumed you might have some questions, but if you would rather be alone-“

“No- No,” Dean rubbed his face, trying to wipe away the ache under his skin. “I actually, I got a-“ He swallowed, looking back to that damn word. Etched into the stone and over Sammy’s brow and into the veins of Cas’ wings. There was a painting of Her hands, coated in gold and blue, and the word was drawn into her skin like a tattoo, and Dean-

He took a ragged breath, and looked back to Joshua.

“That word- What’s it say?”

“Dean.”

“No, I know, Enochian ain’t a lanugae for lowly humans or whatever-“

“You misunderstand,” Joshua placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, the touch almost like he was fragile. “The word translates to Dean.”

Dean swallowed. The tears pressed out of his eyes. He didn’t bother to wipe them.

Dean. It meant Dean. It had always just meant Dean, and Jesus, he couldn’t even remember how long She’d been writing it.

“God, when he was talkin’ to you,” Dean cleared his throat, but his words still came out choked and small. “He didn’t- There’s this thing, that she and I got, that’s- Uh- More than just, you know-“

“Soulmates,” Joshua nodded, smiling gently. “Yes. I am- Maybe one of four beings aware in the universe. Five, if we count yourself.”

Dean blinked. “Uh- You, God- Death-“

“Amara.”

“Yeah, I don’t know who the hell that is-“

“You will.”

Dean swallowed, shoving away a tear that had reached his jaw. “Great,” he muttered. “That’s- If God knows, then what the hell is he thinking?” He snapped. “She’s got a hand on me, I got a hand on her, God ain’t in that picture- Can’t he just pick someone else?” Dean glared up at the ceiling. “Lotta chicks out there who probably don’t have their soulmates in orbit or whatever, there’s- There’s gotta be someone else-“

“But there isn’t,” Joshua cut him off, and Dean’s jaw clenched.

“There should be,” he grunted through his teether. “Billions of fuckin’ people, and he’s gotta go after her?”

Joshua sighed, squeezing Dean’s shoulder gently. “I admit, I have my own… Questions. But it is not my place. I only know that this- It will not end easy.” He frowned up at the ceiling, voice dropping to a murmur. “For any of us.”

Dean swallowed down his pain, and kept rubbing his face until it was raw. He’d break over this later. He had to be made of something strong than titanium right now. Something that would catch whatever light She was making, so she’d know where to find them. He’d fall into Her later, once he’d cleared this belt. Once it all stopped stinging, and they were home, and he was dragging Her and Sammy and Claire up to Michigan, where God couldn’t find them.

In the morning.

He’d fall apart when a new sun was rising, in the morning.

“We need angel oil,” he muttered, and Joshua raised a brow. “If we’re going after Dick Roman, it’s all we got left. Cas- He’s a little outta commission-“

“I am not a viable option either,” Joshua said apologetically. “My wings- They’re different. They would not produce the kind of oil you need. But- If there’s anything else I can help with, I’m rooting for you. For her.”

Dean swallowed, and nodded. The oil thing had been a long shot anyway. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the phoenix egg—tiny in his had, black like coal but almost burning his damn fingers—and held it up to the light. “You got an idea of how to hatch this?” He asked, and Joshua shrugged.

“I think you may only have to pray.”

Dean’s fingers curled on the sleek shell. He’d been worried that would be the answer. It had been his bet, but no one had asked, and he didn’t want Her worrying about shit unless it was nessecry. He put the egg back in his jacket and moved to his feet, giving Joshua a tight nod that he returned.

“I am, truly, on your side,” Joshua said softly. “He,” he glanced up to the roof of the cave. “Is a strange father. A strange creator. But- Making something is not the same as knowing it. A craft is nothing, unless it has a soul. He is nothing, if his inventions never grew souls.”

Dean nodded again, a little lost, but he was pretty sure he got the gist. That was two whole angels on their side. Three if they counted Balthazar, still wandering around the Garden on detail. Dean didn’t doubt he’d flip back to their team the moment She showed up. Goddamn coward.

“Sammy,” he grabbed Sam’s arm and dragged him to a shrouded corner of the Garden, looking over his shoulder to make sure Balthazar wasn’t in earshot. “Stop bitching, I gotta talk to you-“\S

Sam whined, yanking his arm free. “But you don’t have to pull me-“

“Get over it.” Dean pulled the phoenix egg out of his jacket, holding it low between their bodies. “I talked to Joshua, he says she can hatch it with a little extra juice. But-“ He wrapped his fist around the egg, glaring at the tiny goddamn thing, putting him in this stupid, stupid position. “Look, this ain’t-“ He sighed Her name. “She thinks we’re only gonna get one shot outta this thing, when it hatches. Don’t wanna drain the baby, right? So-“

“It’s me or Cas,” Sammy finished, and Dean nodded tightly.

“Cas- He’s happy the way he is,” Dean muttered, trying to logic his way around this. He loved Cas, he did, but- Sammy was Sammy. He’d made promises. He’d done things he’d never be able to wipe off his skin, that he’d do all over again to keep his baby brother safe. And Sam couldn’t stay like this. Downing pain meds and hunching on the curb and seeing ghosts. That was the kind of thing Dad would’ve shot Dean for allowing. The thing he was supposed to fucking fix. “The angel oil, we could take it from Balthazar-“

“Balthazar would ask for money,” Sam muttered, and Dean didn’t like that tone. The sheer defeat under it. “And I don’t think we can jump him, Dean.”

“Could get Meg to jump him-“

“Meg and Crowley are basically worse than humans right now. I mean- Jo punched Meg when she was- It’s not important,” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There were sex jokes. A lot of them. And Meg’s bleeding now, and Crowley won’t stop shouting at the birds about being king, and- They’re both kinda useless.”

Dean grunted, scanning over Sammy’s tight face. “Sam-“

“You need to heal Cas.”

“Sam-“

“I’m alright,” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “I promise I’m alright, Dean. I- I can hold on a little longer. I can consent to holding on longer, Cas- He’s barely even Cas right now. And we’re going to need everyone on our side. We’re going to need him back.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. Sam gave him a sad, pointed look.

“If it was you or Cas,” he added softly. “You’d pick Cas too.”

Goddamnit. That was a good, stupid point. “That’s different-“

“Dude.”

Dean glared at Sam. Sam didn’t even blink, because he was a smart little freak, and son of a bitch, it was so annoying when he was right.’

“Fine.” Dean grunted, and Sam’s mouth twitched.

“Great. Um-“ He glanced around the garden. “Do we have a plan to get out of here, or-“

“I’ve got one,” Dean shoved the egg into Sam’s hand. “Find cover. Take Jo, and uh-“ He glanced up at the sky. At the permanent sunset, and the flashing angel wings against the horizon. “Maybe don’t look too high up.”

Sam’s throat bobbed, but he nodded. Dean took an unsteady breath and moved out to the clearing, shooting Joshua a small nod as he moved to his knees. Balthazar paused on the edge of the clearing, watching carefully as Dean pressed his palms together. Against the skyline, the angels stopped soaring. Dean would ask for God to have mercy on them, but god wasn’t the one they should be worried about. And Dean had a pretty good feeling, as he bowed his head, that the deadbeat wasn’t going to save them either.

“Hey, Princess,” he murmured, trying not to feel too stupid. “I- Uh- I know you’re out there somewhere. Know you’re probably pissed that we vanished, that you’re looking for us. Well, we got dropped in the garden. All of us- And Crowley, but you can make the call ‘bout him staying here or whatever. Just- We’re in the garden.” Dean cleared his throat. He didn’t know how the hell to sign this off. “Uh… I love you.” He coughed. “Over.”

He looked up. Everything seemed to have gone still, from the shifting light to the leaves on the trees. Even the water in all the rivers and waterfalls was suspended. He frowned, and turned his head to the sun. Shining gold and bright.

And brighter. And brighter. And brighter.

The whole world shook. The angels rattled in the sky and the clouds glowed like they were on fire and the trees seemed to push themselves futher out of the ground. The water rushed again, faster than before, and bird started singing loud enough to split through the air. Dean stumbled to his feet, shielding his eyes with a hand as he peered at the horizon. Silloutes of angles, vanishing at the light got brighter and brighter. It wasn’t golden anymore.

It was pure shining silver.

And Dean grinned. The world kept shaking, but he just stood in the center of the clearing and grinned. A few fools dove at the approaching silver light, and vaporized in a second. Roots were pushing out of the ground around the clearing, blocking him from angels trying to dive and get him. Balthazar had slipped inside the ring, but wasn’t making any attempts to grab Dean. He wasn’t that stupid. Balthazar and Joshua both were covering their eyes, as She approached. Dean found Her bright, but he didn’t need to look away. He could see Her just fine, and she was fucking gorgeous.

Her eyes were pure Silver, Her hair floating around her, her skin glowing. Behind her, misty light seemed to be waving in and out of the air. When She landed, only an arms length away from Dean, the branches all fell away, and lush, burning flowers bloomed under Her feet. Dean held out a hand, smiling wide. She blinked at him, and crashed forward.

Dean grunted, stumbling back from the force of Her hug, and held her face into his neck. He could feel the burn of tears against his skin, and he shushed gently, rocking them back and forth. “Hey- Hey-“ He kissed the top of Her head. “We’re alright, Princess, we’re alright.”

“I- I lost you,” She choked out, nails digging into Dean’s back. “I couldn’t find you- I couldn’t- I- I thought-“

“I know,” Dean muttered, pulling back, holding Her face between his hands. “But you found us, right?” He gave Her a firm look. “Right?”

She nodded, and Dean smiled. He kissed the space between Her eyes, and she made a weak, broken sound.

“We gotta go home, okay?” He whispered against Her skin. “I got a way to hatch the egg, and- Heaven’s got a new boss. Who’s lookin’ for you, so- We should grab Sammy and Jo and go-“

“Wait- But-“ She shook her head, pushing a little back. “The Leviathans, Dean- The spell-“

“We got a way to kill them first, it’s okay-“

“But what if Eve makes more,” She whispered, holding Dean’s hands tight enough he thought they might break. “We don’t have a way to kill her, De, and if- If she tries again-“ She took a deep breath, pressing her brow to his. “Whatever that last ingredient is, it’s here. They wouldn’t have send Crowley for nothing, and- And I just need to check, because if I can stop it- If I can get rid of it- She won’t have a way- She won’t need me, or- Or you.” Her voice cracked. “She won’t need you.”

Dean took a long breath through his nose, scanning over her beautiful, wound up features. She was right. If Eve couldn’t get whatever that last thing was, she’d stop bothering to hunt Her altogether, and it would be one less thing to worry about.

“Alright,” he muttered, and she looked up with wide, glossy eyes.

“Are you-“

“Don’t ask me that,” his mouth twitched. “I’ll change my mind.”

She giggled, soft and a little wet, but real. Dean kissed Her, fast enough to keep time but deep enough for her to feel it, and squeezed Her cheek.

“You gotta be fast,” he muttered, and She nodded.

“Oh- Okay,” She pulled back, scanning around the clearing, her gaze landing on Joshua. “Okay.”

She walked away from Dean, chin high and power bleeding out of Her like an open wound. Dean didn’t want to leave Her. Not right now. He grabbed Balthazar—still pressed against the edge of the clearing—and told him to get Sam and Jo and, if they were behaving, Meg and Crowley.

“But you flip again,” he hissed. “I’ll tell her. And you’ll fuckin’ wish angels could go to hell.”

Balthazar swallowed, hands up in surrender, and agreed. He stumbled off and Dean went back to Her and Joshua, talking in low, concerned voices.

“We got an update?” He asked, and She gave him a look that didn’t exactly inspire hope. “What- What’s wrong-“

“As I was telling her,” Joshua said, low and regretful. “I only know because of God’s last order, to all of Heaven.” He sighed. “Protect the tree.”

“The tree?” Dean echoed, brow knitting. “You don’t- You mean-“

“The tree,” She murmured, hugging herself tight. “The first tree. Eden’s tree. She just needs an apple.”

“That’s good though,” Dean said desperately. “’Cause- If it’s up here and the angels are protecting it- We don’t have to worry-“

“Dean.” She gave him a heavy look, and he swallowed.

“We can just leave it to them, Princess. We don’t- This doesn’t have to be our thing.”

She shook Her head, and Dean’s hands flexed. He said Her name lowly, a warning. Not to stop as a threat, but to pull up. Before they crashed into something they couldn’t put back together.

“He doesn’t want the tree to be destroyed,” She said, and Dean didn’t love where this was going. “So the angels can’t. But- I can.”

“But-“

“I’m already doing him one favor,” Her voice was cold, and her eyes were glowing again. It was hot, in a scary kind of way. Dean really wished She was looking like this under different circumstances.

“He ain’t gonna take it lying down, baby,” he tried, and her mouth just curved up.

“Good.”

And that was that. Dean knew when to pick his fights with Her. This wasn’t one he was going to win. He gave Joshua a questioning, almost begging, you gonna stop this? look, and Joshua just shrugged. Dean sighed, gave Her a tight smile when she kissed his cheek and whispered a thank you, and tried not to grab Her when she started to walk away.

“What’s going on?” Sammy asked when Balthazar brought them back to the clearing, and Dean grunted.

“Ecoterrorism, I think.”

“What?”

Dean sighed, and muttered the breakdown to Sam and Jo. He shoved the egg into Sam’s hand with a tight nod, looking over his shoulder where She was glowing, even through the trees. Where Her power was pouring over the world. Where a prayer wouldn’t be answered, so much as tossed like a coin into a wishing fountain. Meg and Crowley could hear too, but Meg just seemed smug and pleased that She was doing something about it, and Crowley…

Crowley looked mildly worried, but not in the way Dean thought he’d be. If anything, he seemed mostly annoyed. Like them blowing up a key part of his plan was more of a mild inconvenience than anything else. Dean didn’t love it. It made something scratch at the back of his head. Something he couldn’t drag apart from the rest of this mess, but mattered. There too many fucking things happening, but something loud was trying to remind him that it mattered-

“Shit,” Jo breathed, and Dean yanked himself out of his thoughts.

They’d caught up with Her at the tree, and part of Dean wondered if this is what those suckers in the Bible felt like, witnessing the rainbow after the floor, the bush on fire, the light at the top of the mountain. This felt like something humans shouldn’t be allowed to see. Like something bigger than any of them could even begin to understand.

Because Dean had seen Her show more power. He’d seen Her hold archangels in her hands and fill up with the power from purgatory, but that had still just been Her. This, for reasons Dean couldn’t fully figure out how to explain to himself, because everything he came up with—the confidence, the anger, the freedom—still didn’t fully cover it, was different. She looked different.

And if Dean had never understood why Death saw Her as an equal—because maybe he hadn’t, maybe some part of him only ever looked at Her and saw the bright-eyed, doe faced and sweet girl who cried into his neck and giggled at stupid things and danced in his arms with a delicate smile—he got it now. She wasn’t just another kind of angel or demon or witch.

Framed against the burning Tree of Eden, looking up at the sky that was clouded with smoke that glowed like it was still of fire and stars that shined like ice trying to break free of itself, She was… Everything.

Not Dean’s everything. Just-

Everything.

The Sky flared, and Dean could swear he saw the light bending like stormfall, threatening to crash over them all. She flared brighter, and the smoke grew thicker. It turns and pressed the foreign light out, like it was something alive. The tree crackled, the fruit shriveling and falling to the ground like dropping flies. Lightning stuck close enough to their group that Sam practically shrieked in surprised. She raised a hand, and the next lightning strike bent into Her. Dean roared Her name, sprinting forward before he could think better, but she didn’t fall. 

The lightning blasted out of Her fingers, and the Tree split in half.

The sky roared and Dean stumbled to a stop, covering his ears and bending in pain. Silver light washed over him like a flood, until he couldn’t even see. When he breathed, all he could taste was Her apples. Eden’s apples.

Her apples. The same as Eden’s apples. That had grown when She blasted those miracles across the world, that Dean had kept, until-  

The world cleared, and Dean tripped forward with a groan, catching himself with a hand on the table.

The table. The library table. He opened his eyes, and they were back at Bobby’s. Sam was slumped against the wall, rubbing his temple and cradling something in his hand, Jo was shaking herself in the middle of the room, Meg was sitting in one of the chairs, and She was standing on the table, blinking around with unfocused eyes. She swaying, Her fingers trembling, lip wobbling. Dean said Her name, his voice still hoarse, and Her gaze snapped to his. Still faintly silver, like a waxing moon.

“De- Dean-“ She stumbled forward, and Dean dove, catching Her right before she hit the ground.

She was out cold in a second. Warmer than Dean wanted, but She’d also just been sort of on fire, so he wasn’t that worried. He lay Her on the couch, and whipped around with narrowed eyes, grabbing his gun off the table.

Crowley had been trying to hide near the door. Dean wasn’t letting him get away that easy. He grabbed Crowley by the throat and slammed him the wall. Sam jumped, Jo blinked, and Meg just watched with mild amusement. 

“Dean, what the hell are you doing-“

“He’s already got an apple,” Dean hissed, words spitting over Crowley’s face. “I gave it to him, so he’d tell us where the Leviathans were keeping her. He’s had it the whole fuckin’ time.”

Crowley scoffed. “Please, squrill, why would I risk myself going to Heaven if I already had the apple?”

“That’s a good point, Dean,” Sam said nervously. “And- If he has it, he would’ve given it to Eve-“

“Or he wanted to keep it, all for himself,” Dean snapped. “And now he’s gotta give it to Eve, or she’ll turn him into fuckin’ Leviathan chow.”

Sam didn’t have a counter for that. Crowley didn’t seem to either, his mouth just hanging open and a look of pure indignace on his face. Dean balled up the collar of his shirt and slammed him back against the wall, hard enough to snap his head. To make the house shake.

“You ain’t givin’ her that apple.”

“And how do you plan to stop me?” Crowley sneered. “The boss burned herself out on the tree, Dean. You can only put your hand on me because I let you.”

“Yeah,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “Right now. But I know you can’t get outta this house without walking, and you’re not getting anywhere without your little fucking powers. ‘Sides- Sammy, it worked?”

Sam sighed, and nodded. He held out his hand, and there it was. Gold and red and ruffling soft feather, sort of looking like an ugly duckling.

The baby phoenix. Ready to become a donor and bring their Cas back. Dean smirked at Crowley, who’s face had gone slack.

“We’re about to have two new weapons, douchebag,” Dean snapped Her name. “She’s gonna be up soon. And she can either waste you, or you can trade to the winning team.”

Crowley’s eyes darted around the room. None of them flinched, and his mouth twitched.

“So I’m part of the team, boys?”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “You’re a contractor.”

“Ah- I’m hearing membership at the club-“

“Don’t push it,” Dean grunted. “You in?”

Crowley smiled. “Not much of a choice, is it.”

It wasn’t. Still the smart thing, though. Dean let go of him, and he coughed dramatically—overkill, demons didn’t even need to breathe—as Dean turned back to Sam.

“Showtime,” he muttered, and Sam nodded tightly.

It was a surprisingly quick process. Jo held the phoenix chick, Dean woke Charlie up and made her draw blood—and didn’t ask why she was so good at it—and Kevin scanned through Her Book until he found the instructions. Just… Feed it to Cas.

“Take this, buddy,” Dean muttered, passing over a bowl of ice cream, the blood just looking like a strawberry glaze. “Gonna make you feel better.”

Cas nodded, but didn’t eat immediately. He squinted at Dean, tipped his head, and sighed.

“What-“

“You are sturdy, Dean,” he said plainly. “I hope you find us shore soon.”

Jesus, he wasn’t gonna miss that. “Thanks, buddy.” He muttered, tapping the bowl. “Eat up.”

Cas looked at the ice cream, and sighed. “My draw to the light… It is stronger than my wings can carry right now.”

“This is gonna make your wings stronger-“

“But,” Cas looked at him again. “I will miss the dark. Of the tree. The world seems safer, when I don’t have to fly.” He tilted his head. “You are in bloom, though. And I would not want to miss the sunrise.”

Dean blinked at him, a little worried that Cas was going to refuse to be fixed. But before he could push a little further, Cas took the first bite. Dean let out a sharp breath, and watched him finish the whole bowl. He watched anxiously, tapping his fingers against the back of Cas’ chair. He should’ve waited for Her to wake up. He couldn’t see Cas’ grace. He had no damn idea if this had worked or not-

“Dean,” Cas said, and his voice was… deeper. Steadier. “My head hurts. My head should… Not be able to hurt.”

“Uh- Yeah, that might be the blood.” Dean ducked down, trying to look for signs. Cas eyes were dilated. Maybe this was kinda like a concussion. “You feeling alright, buddy?”

Cas frowned, and nodded slowly. “I feel…  Awake.”

“And- You got any riddles or something?”

“Riddles…” Cas looked at him like he was crazy. “Why would I tell you a riddle. I am not a sphynx, and you are… Not good at them.”

Dean laughed, choked and rough. “It worked,” he muttered, moving back to his feet. “Son of a bitch, it worked- She’s gonna be so happy.” Dean grinned at Cas, who just blinked slowly back.

Cas said Her name slowly. “Where is she? Is she- Has she recovered? Dean, she- Purgatory was not her fault.”

“Uh- Yeah, we’re past that.”

“Already?”

Dean blinked. That wasn’t great. He decided they’d worry about it when She woke up. “I’ll explain later, bud, just- Uh- You got some wing oil for me?”

It took a bit to get Cas on board, but he was back, and Dean could explain things to him again. They got the oil. When She was awake, Dean would be able to show Her the weapon. Completed and ready for action.

And all they would have left was to use it. And then-

They would finally be free.

✦chapter 72

✦End note: one more chapter in season 7! I hope you guys have enjoyed it, and extra shoutout this week to people reading the chapters as they're coming out. i've said it before and i'll say it again, i appreciate you guys more than i can say <3. Thank you for sticking with me this far into the series. see you next week! Chapter Title from True Blue by boygenius

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

Burning with rage was an understatement for how you felt. You were watching the video where he was being forgiven for the alleged betrayal of the United States of America—with the claim that the reports had actually been false. Your foot tapped restlessly against the floor as the video ended and Ashley began to speak before a crowd of journalists.

“It is my honor to present Soldier Boy with the first ever Democratic Medal of Patriotic Freedom.”

A smattering of applause broke out, and you narrowed your eyes as Soldier Boy walked up to Ashley, ducking his head so she could place the medal around his neck. You imagined a thousand ways to strangle him with that very ribbon.

The bastard should have been dead. The virus had reached him, yet he’d survived—and with that, your hopes of reclaiming your role as second-in-command had vanished. And it seemed he knew it. He seemed to know just how much you hated him in that moment for taking your position and relegating you to his fucking pet; he looked right over the heads of the journalists and flashed you an arrogant smile.

Sister Sage glanced sideways at you, sensing your anger. She was standing right beside you.

“Don’t get angry. Men always get what they think they deserve.”

It didn’t sound like something meant to calm you down, but you said nothing, merely clenching your jaw as the son of a bitch posed for the cameras.

“I’m also very proud to say” Homelander’s presence made you stand up straight and smile slightly, forgetting about Soldier Boy for a few moments. “That this great hero is my father.”

You shook your head in amusement. Of course, Homelander couldn’t stand anyone upstaging him in front of the cameras; the reporters loved the drama, going wild in seconds and firing off rapid-fire questions. You hoped that would put Soldier Boy in his place.

⋆⋆⋆🝳✞✧★ఌ𐙚⋆⋆⋆

You walked alongside Homelander until you reached his father.

“Gentlemen,” Sage said, approaching you. “And lady. Lab results are in.”

“Forty years out of the spotlight, you still got it, huh?” He laughs lightly, placing his hands on his hips. “Sage tells me, uh, socials are blowing up.” He pointed out the aforementioned woman, who was standing in the doorway and holding her cell phone to speak with someone. “People magazine, they’re-they’re calling us, uh, América’s sexiest dynasty. You believe that?” He laughed again, but Soldier Boy simply turned around and looked at both of you. “Come on.” He continued. “I would never have sent you in there if I knew that Butcher had the virus. I wouldn’t have.” He murmured. “Swear to God. Although, I did tell you not to engage, so… If we’re pointing fingers, I don’t think I should be exclusively at fault here.”

Homelander looked at his father and raised both hands, shooting you a sideways glance.

“Lab results.” He repeated before walking out of the room.

You stood rooted to the spot, still silent. Soldier Boy kept his serious gaze fixed on you. You simply offered a half-smile and followed behind Homelander.

Fine—let it hurt him, or let him feel whatever sense of betrayal was already washing over him. Let the bastard suffer.

⋆⋆⋆🝳✞✧★ఌ𐙚⋆⋆⋆

“V1’s ten times more potent that today’s formula.” Sister Sage said as she spoke to Soldier Boy, who was holding a piece of paper in his hands. “Highly unstable. Only worked on a handful of early Supes: you, Bombsight, Torpedo, Private Angel,” He turned to look at Homelander, who was standing beside you. “Stormfront.”

“Who is Stormfront?” Soldier Boy asked.

“Dr. Vought’s wife Clara. Uh, I think you knew her as Liberty?”

He fell into thought, looking at Homelander uneasily before lowering his gaze back to the paper. You narrowed your eyes curiously.

“Point is, V1 saved your life.” She continued. “And is likely why your generation of Supes doesn’t age.”

“I’m his son.” Homelander spoke beside you. “Am I immune, too?”

“No.” Responded. “Your embryo was shot up with plain old garden-variety V. Like me, like her, like every other Supe.”

You took a deep breath. If that virus infected either Homelander or you, you would be done for—suffering a painful death.

“Bring me some.”

“I can’t .”

“Why not?”

“Vought destroyed every vial. There’s none left.”

You looked at Soldier Boy. His expression was serious, but you knew he must be enjoying it. The conversation ended and Soldier Boy walked away, but Homelander and you followed close behind.

“Wow.” Said the second one. “Thank God that stuff’s in you and saved you. Um… Guess all’s well that ends well...”

“Yeah, well, fuck you.” Soldier Boy turned around and looked at both of you. “You both knew Butcher had the virus. You defrosted me just to send me into the fucking woodchipper.”

“No. No, we did not.”

“We didn’t know.” You spoke. “What we wanted—”

“Well, joke’s on you, assholes.” He interrupted you. “Cause i’m gonna live…” He pointed you out. “And you’ll die. And before you die, you’ll be my bitch.” He said that last part to you. “If the virus doesn’t get you, time will.” He looked at Homelander. “And when you’re sitting in that wheelchair, shitting in a colostomy bag, i’ll be running The Seven, shitting on Shari Lewis’s tits.” You furrowed your brow slightly in displeasure. “Look at you.” He looked him up and down. “Just the softest, wettest boy. You’re pathetic. You’re nothing at all.” He looked at you one last time before leaving.

You took another deep breath and turned to look at Homelander in silence. What could you say to make him feel better? After this, perhaps there was nothing. You needed good news—and urgently.

⋆⋆⋆🝳✞✧★ఌ𐙚⋆⋆⋆

“Soldier Boy!” You called out, entering his room.

You looked around, but he didn’t seem to be there. You walked further in, hands clasped behind your back as you surveyed the place. In fact, this had been your room before Homelander demoted you, and seeing it so drastically changed—and so quickly—made you sad.

You heard running water coming from the bathroom and moved closer, pressing your ear against the door. You could even hear him moving beneath the water and the spray hitting his skin. You knocked twice and called out to him.

“Soldier Boy!”

He didn’t answer, so you sighed. Cursing under your breath, you opened the door while shielding your eyes with one hand.

“Hey, Soldier Boy!”

A few moments passed, and you heard the glass shower door slide open.

“Well, look at you. Finally decided to come for me? Then strip down and get in here.”

You rolled your eyes behind your hand.

“Homelander asked me to call you. He wants to talk to you.”

“Ugh, fuck him. I’m busy.”

You pursed your lips in anger the moment you heard him curse.

“It’s not a suggestion. You have to go.” You said firmly.

The water stopped, and the sliding door opened fully. You heard his footsteps. You heard his wet feet hitting the floor with every step he took toward you until he stopped right in front of you.

“Take your hand off your face.”

“No.”

“Do it, or the deal I have with Homelander is off.”

You sighed and pulled your hand away, looking him in the eye. His hair was soaked, water was running down his body, and—tempting as it was—you forced yourself to look only at his face. He looked you up and down and crossed his arms.

“I gotta hand it to you, doll. You sure are fucking arrogant. But you know that if you look at me, you’re gonna want a taste.”

“I don’t find you even remotely attractive.”

He leaned toward you, his lips close to your ear.

“We both know that’s a dirty lie. Just as dirty as your mind.”

He walked past you and out of the bathroom. You let out the breath you’d been holding for so long.

⋆⋆⋆🝳✞✧★ఌ𐙚⋆⋆⋆

You were pouring yourself another cup of coffee. It was already the third one, and the day was far from over, yet your stress just kept mounting.

“Rough day?” You jumped and turned to look at him.

“Shit! What the fuck is your problem?”

He laughed and pushed off the wall where he’d been leaning with his arms crossed.

“Sorry, doll.”

You grunted and turned your attention back to your coffee, adding sugar and stirring it.

“No, you’re not.” You muttered.

You felt him move closer and lean his hip against the counter beside you, watching you with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face. You ignored him, but he spoke anyway.

“What’s your history with him?”

You were about to tell him to go to hell—that it was none of his fucking business—but you remembered Homelander’s words about humoring him, so you sighed.

“We just have a simple history, okay? Nothing more than that.”

“Romantic?”

“Oh, God, no.” You grimaced in disgust. “What is your fucking problem with real human relationships that don’t involve sex? Homelander and I never slept together.” You took a sip of your coffee before continuing. “He, uh, doesn’t feel that way about me, and I don’t feel that way about him.”

“Well, the way you follow him around like a dog in heat says otherwise.” You clenched your jaw and swallowed the insult rising in your throat. “Are you telling me he’s like family? A fucking brother to you?”

“Yeah, you could call it that.”

“Yeah, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” You asked, turning to glare at him fiercely.

He snorted and raised both eyebrows.

“Some brother. Selling you out at the first fucking chance he got.”

His smile faded, and you thought he might hit you or, at the very least, hurl his worst insult at you, but he simply licked his lower lip and went on.

“You know, I still have no idea what your superpower is. They call you by a certain name here and you’re in your suit all the time, but I still haven’t got a fucking clue.”

“And that eats at you, doesn’t it?”

“A bit.”

“Believe me, it’s better that way.”

He looked you up and down.

“And why is that?”

You turned your gaze back to your coffee.

“If I tell you what my superpower is, you’ll want me to try it out on you. And that won’t be good for either of us.” But you decided to tell him something about your history with Homelander—at least a little bit. “I’ll just tell you that he rescued me, okay? Leave it at that.”

“Huh.” He uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to you. “A mystery woman. I like it.” He slid his hand up your back, and you let him, as Homelander’s words were still echoing in your mind.

He traced a finger along your bare shoulder and caressed your cheek with his thumb while you stood perfectly still. He leaned in close to your ear and whispered:

“I hope not everything about you remains a mystery.”

He planted a feather-light kiss on your cheek and turned your face so you were looking at him. He grazed your lips with his thumb and even bit his own lower lip, but just as he was leaning in to kiss you, you turned your face away, causing him to kiss your cheek instead.

Soldier Boy let out a sigh and lowered his head before taking a step back. You said nothing. Neither did he. He simply straightened his suit and walked away. You finally breathed normally again.

⋆⋆⋆🝳✞✧★ఌ𐙚⋆⋆⋆

Homelander’s words kept playing over and over in your head: “If Soldier Boy asks you to do something, you’ll do it, right?” You had already disobeyed him, and you couldn’t stop thinking that Soldier Boy would probably tell him everything just to make your life miserable.

You agonized over it for hours until you finally worked up the courage to walk toward his room. You were ready to give in. Whatever he wanted, you’d give it to him.

Anything.

But when you opened the door and didn’t see him, you walked inside, looking around. Nothing had changed, but you heard voices in the distance. You followed the sound and then saw him.

Firecracker was in bed with him, lying side by side. Their clothes were scattered across the floor. They had clearly just had sex.

“What the fuck?!” They both turned to look at you, but neither seemed to care. Firecracker simply rolled her eyes and settled back into the bed, while Soldier Boy smiled, grabbed a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Ugh, oh, Godamnit! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

“God, live a little,” Firecracker said.

“You’d better not speak, bitch. Get dressed before I change my mind about telling Homelander what you did.”

She clenched her jaw but got up—unbothered by her nudity—and started gathering her clothes from the floor before disappearing.

“Wow, she really is a firecracker, huh?” He exhaled a cloud of smoke, but you just stared at him curiously, your brow still furrowed from the scene you’d just witnessed. “What’s wrong? Did that make you jealous? Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite.”

“What did you talk to Homelander about?”

He sighed and took the cigarette out of his mouth.

“If you weren’t there—like a little dog on a leash—right beside him, it’s because he doesn’t want you to know.”

Now it all made sense. His sudden interest, the questions he’d asked, and that attempt to kiss you.

“So that’s what this was about, huh?” You scoffed and put your hands on your hips. “I have to admit, I actually thought you were interested in me.”

“I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re talking about.” He said dismissively.

“You clearly had a fight with your son and wanted revenge by sleeping with someone who mattered to him. You couldn’t get me, so you went for that slut.”

“The only thing clear here is that you’re jealous because she got a taste of the power of my cock.” He pointed his cigarette at you. “And you haven’t yet.”

“What did you talk about?”

“You know what?” He ignored your question. “Why don’t you dress me instead?” He raised his eyebrows lecherously.

“You were stupid enough to take your clothes off. Now put them back on.”

You turned and were already walking away when he spoke again.

“Why did you come to my room?”

You stood frozen. You couldn’t admit the truth about why you were there in the first place. You couldn’t. Not to him. Not to anyone.

“It’s nothing.” That was the last thing you said before walking away.

You walked down the corridors. You even dared to smile, thinking that Soldier Boy would ignore you now, leave you alone, and perhaps even break off that stupid arrangement with Homelander. But the smile didn’t last long.

“Deep?” You saw him holding Stan Edgar by the arm, who was handcuffed.

You knew him from photos and videos, but you had never seen him in person. The Deep said your name and straightened up. He looked uncomfortable and hesitant.

“Relax, I’m on my way to hand him over to Homelander right now.”

“I’m coming with you.” You stepped toward both of them.

“No, uh, really, there’s no need.” He tried to smile at you, but you glared at him.

“You and your need to please him make me sick. He’s not going to let you suck his dick, so stop being an idiot.”

He fell silent and lowered his head. You grabbed Stan by his other arm, and the three of you walked toward Homelander’s room.

“So, you’re the one, aren’t you?” Edgar asked curiously. “The woman he’s so fond of.” You said nothing. “Funny how things turn out.”

You didn’t know what things he was referring to, or even what was curious about the situation; you just kept walking without looking back at him once.

You entered the room and walked slowly until you saw him sitting on the sofa.

“Homelander?”

He was staring straight ahead, covered in blood. Your eyes went wide, though you didn’t think it was his blood. It couldn’t be, yet worry washed over you, causing you to let go of Edgar and take a few slow steps forward. But Homelander seemed lost in his own world. He simply tilted his head back toward the ceiling, as if offering thanks. He stood up and walked past you—seemingly without noticing you—as he made his way toward Stan. He slowly placed his hand behind the man’s head, as if handling something sacred, and embraced him gently. You exchanged glances with The Deep, but that was all.

You remained right where you were, the faithful and loyal soul you were—and always would be.

Soldier Boy One Shots

Soldier Boy Masterlist

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D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

You pretend you don’t know, but he’s not that good at hiding it. Your underwear doesn’t just grow legs and walk off by itself. Before you were dating, Dean used to steal it used, clenching your panties in one fist and beating his cock with the other. He’d smell that little wet spot and moan your name against the fabric, the arousal and need in his chest just managing to outweigh the shame. Once you’re together, you start just passing them into his hands without a word. The day you let him eat you out through your panties, then keep them after? One of the best of his life.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Dean’s the first to call himself a whore, as if it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. And it didn’t used to. Sex was for fun, to feel good, to forget about the pain and—for once in his damn life—do something useful for someone else. But after you, it’s different. The experience was just practice, just building up to this. To knowing exactly what women like, exactly what makes them feel good, and using his mastery to turn you into a pretty little puddle beneath him. He’s a champion, and you’re quickly the only game he wants to play.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

There isn’t really a position Dean doesn’t like—he can make anything feel good, and he takes pride in it—but his favorite position soars above the rest of the already high standard. When he’s got you in his lap, brows pressed together, mouth slack and easy to kiss, it’s close to heaven. Your boobs bounce and push against his chest, your ass wiggles in his massive palms, and your cunt hugs his cock just right at the angle. You can ride him until you get whiny, and he can pin you down and fuck up like an animal, watching your face go slack with pleasure, your eyes glazing over and tiny moans of his name falling from swollen lips. You cling to him, and he holds on back, keeping you just as close as you’ll allow.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Dean lets you set the tone, every time. He’s just happy to be there, and he can make anything work. If you need to be treated like lace, he’s serious and gentle, murmuring low praise and worshiping every inch of your body. If you fall into bed after a date or climb on top of him in the middle of a movie, he’ll tease and joke until you’re whining and glaring at him under lidded, glossy eyes. His shit eating grin won’t fall until you’re screaming his name, and it turns smug and proud. He knows you love it, when it’s easy. He loves it too.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He tries to stay groomed, but life on the road makes it hard. Even when he gets to settle in the bunker for a week or two, shaving isn’t very high on the list of priorities. He does his face because a beard is hard to maintain, and basic maintenance around his cock to keep it clean, but not much else. The look of the tool doesn’t matter much. He knows how to use it right either way.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

When it was just hookups, he sometimes wouldn’t even bother to learn the right name to moan. It wasn’t about being vulnerable or romantic, it was about being a fleeting, passing ship that lent another some warmth. A shadow of intimacy, to stead over the gap in his chest from sinking too deep. But then he had you, and even when you’re play fighting before sex or giggling while he fingers you stupid, there’s a thin layer of adoration under every single kiss and touch. It’s rawer and sharper in the dead of night, when he cradles you in his lap and presses his face against your neck, or folds himself over your body and drives in with slow, torturous thrusts. He’ll never say it allowed, but that’s how he loves you. With a real good show and undying attention, whether the sex is rough or slow or quick in the bathroom, it’s all just to be close to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Sam used to joke about him taking long showers, but he had no idea. Dean tries to ignore his cock when it gets demanding—when you’d bend over in a skirt or brush past him in the hall—but he started feeling like a teenager with no damn control, and he’d storm into the bathroom to care of himself, quickly and brutally. It gets better after you start dating, but sometimes you have to be apart. Then old habits return, and he finds himself kicking Sammy out of the motel room just so he can pull out a picture of you and jerk himself off.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

There are more of them than he cares to count, but three stand out above the rest. There the only three that can still make Dean, of all men, blush. 

Cockwarming until the sun comes up. Holding you around him until you’re dripping and wiggling and whining his name, until he’s so hard it hurts and ends up just rutting into you like a dog. It’s not the filthiness of the act that gets him, but the intimacy of it. You’re so close he can’t tell where he stops and you end, and it makes him so dizzy he almost loses control. He’d trade a life to keep you like that all the time. Soft and completely, totally his.

The first time you call him sir, he almost feels something in him shift. He’d always said he didn’t get that kind of shit—sex was supposed to be give and take, not just a girl doing everything for him—but then he had you below him, babbling the word by sheer accident, and his cock twitched like it had been jumpstarted. He liked it. He liked it too much. He’d follow you like a dog to the end of the earth, but right here, when he was making you feel good, he was the one in charge. He had a handle over the situation, you trusted him to be in charge of you like this, and that tiny whimper of sir made him lose his goddamn mind.

And the breeding kink he tries to hide. He’s not trying to baby trap you, or reduce you to just a body for him to knock up, but the idea of it makes his mouth water. Fucking you so good a little bit of him sticks. Forcing his cum into you until you’re stuffed up, your eyes rolling back in your head from the pleasure. Making you round and glowing with his baby, letting the whole world know just how well he treated you. You notice it, because you always do, and son of a bitch, you encourage him. You let him press his hand flat on your stomach so he can feel his cum spurting into your heat, you cling to his shoulders and moan when he asks if you like it, and he can’t help it. He wants you good and bred. He wants you to be his.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He wouldn’t call himself an exhibitionist, but there aren’t many places he won’t do it. As long as it’s not a crime and you’re comfortable, the bathroom in a police station is as good to go as the kitchen in the bunker. However, there’s nothing he loves more than his bed. A good mattress, the sheets sticking to your skin, the smell of you all around him, it’s almost enough to get him hard all on it’s own.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The list is so long, he stopped trying to understand it a long time ago. There are the simple things—your mouth around a banana, the curve of your ass, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, when you get mouthy and bratty and he wants to drag you over his knee or pin your to the wall—but then there’s… other stuff. The time you shoved him and spat in his face after a fight, and he was seconds from splaying you out on the table, squeezing your jaw with one hand and fingering you with the other, all while rutting against your leg like an animal, kissing away the drool when dribbled down your chin. The other time you drove baby for five seconds, and he made you pull over so he could eat you out in the backseat. He’s starting to think it might just be you. He doesn’t really care, either way.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

When he was younger, Dean would try anything once. The benefit of that is that now he knows what he really doesn’t love. He doesn’t get piss stuff or age play, but he doesn’t count himself one to judge. The one time he let a girl tie him up, he ripped his hands out of the bonds and had a knot in the top of his chest for a week after. Life is hard enough as it is, and as fun as a lot of that kind of stuff looks, there can be too many deep, serrated scars in him for it to feel good.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

While he’ll never say no to getting some head, the only sight better than you on your knees with his cock in your mouth is you flat on your back, grabbing at anything you can reach as he tongue fucks you into oblivion. He thinks he could live and die between your legs, your pussy gushing on his face and his name falling from your lips. And he’s good at it. He knows he’s good at it. He’ll shoot you a wink before he kisses his way down your body, because he knows you’re never even try to resist him. Once he convinced you to sit on his face, and he’d never known anything closer to heaven.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He can read and match the tone well,  depending on what you want. When he’s rough, he bullies his cock into your like a drill, making the bed creak and tears spring into your eyes from the almost overwhelming pleasure of being fucked over and over and over like some sweet little doll. When he’s slow, he’s slow, taking his time to make your feel every thrust, every kiss, every brush of his fingers over your clit. But even when he’s slow, he drives into you with the force of a man falling into a black hole. He can’t help himself. The way your gummy walls squeeze him just feels too good, to not make them clench and flutter around him.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If you’d let him, Dean would just fill the whole day with quickies. Wake up and fuck you between the sheets, get breakfast then have a second meal between your thighs, interview a few vics and cradle your head while he drive, pulling off to the side when you suck his cock a little too well, and his vision starts to go blurry. Sometimes he’ll spend a whole day teasing you, just to try and get you to start it. It’s a great victory, if you drag him into a supply closet to bang one out. It’s all he’s ever wanted in the world.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Anything once really did teach him to know what he liked, so at this point it’s more indulging any risks you’d want to take. He knows his lines, and he’s more than willing to help you find yours. If you shyly ask him to tie you up or wrap a hand around your throat or fist you, he’d have to be a madman to tell you no.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Even at his age, Dean counts himself impressive. He might not be pulling the day long marathons he did in his twenties, but he can go the whole night if he keeps the focus on your pleasure, which he finds easy to do. If you make him cum in your mouth or hands, he’ll dedicate as long as he needs to teaching you a few lessons and opening you up, before he’s hard and ready to go again. Once he’s in you, though, he’s no chump. He can hold himself off for over an hour on the best of nights. Sure, there were the few cases when you were just too soft and pretty and he couldn’t stop himself, but you found it hot anyway. The loss of control, just from looking at you, you’d never felt more beautiful. And it wasn’t like he didn’t make it worth your time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s tried a few toys on himself, but they’re all complicated, and he lives with his damn brother. Knowing each other’s porn habits is bad enough, the idea of sex toys getting exposed makes him feel a little sex. He’s got a perfectly good hand, and a hot girlfriend, and that’s all he’s never going to need. If you want him to pull out that vibrator you keep in your nightstand, though, he’s never going to protest. Watching you come apart—your thighs rolling against the head of the toy and your mouth hanging open—is always too good an opportunity to pass up. The toy might be the one giving you the pleasure, but Dean’s the one holding it. He’s the person you’re crying for when you cum, and he usually gets to fuck your already swollen pussy after. Doesn’t get much better than that.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Some might call him a monster. And the some is you. You didn’t know how much you could get worked up, until Dean came around and showed you. Through the day he’ll make you flush with little comments, then trace his fingers over your inner thigh in the car, making you flush and pant before he just kisses your cheek and walks away. And you thought that was bad, until he actually got his hands on you, and you learned how much the asshole loves edging. Getting you so wet and flustered your almost sobbing for him, whispering dirty praise until your face is burning, somehow keeping you on the edge with teasing touches, even as his cock drives right into that gummy spot inside of you. He says you’re too adorable not to tease. You roll your eyes, but never ask him to stop. It’s always, just a little, too good.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

The mouth on him should be worthy of a lawsuit. Between the moaning and grunting, the strangled, rumbling sound he makes when he pushes himself inside of you, and the deep, filthy dirty talk, you think you might just be able to cum from his voice. It’s not fair, but Dean doesn’t play fair, and you don’t want him to. One day, when you’re brave, you’ll ask him to test the theory. He’ll oblige, and you’ll certainly end up right.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Dean’s never in it for himself. If his partner wants him to hand over control, he’ll do it, but it’s never going to be what he prefers. He spends every day of his life begging for the people he loves to listen to him, for once in their damn lives. He’s got a grip over his own world, even if his hands shake on the worst of nights. It’s not liberating for him to be degraded in sex when all he’s known is bruises and spit from the people who were supposed to love him. He wants to be trusted more than he’s ever going to be able to say, to be the only person you turn to for pleasure, to take his hands and mouth and body and have them feel safe for just one, one fucking person. He might be in control during sex, but it’s still all about you, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He doesn’t get his confidence from nowhere. For a while—before you—it was sort of the only kind of confidence he had. Dean didn’t count himself for much, but no one could deny their own eyes. The size of him is one thing—long enough to hit spots you didn’t know you had, veiny and uncut and almost pretty—but the girth- It makes your mouth fall open, the first time you see it. You’re not sure you can stretch that wide, and when Dean tells you that you will, sweetheart, you almost roll your eyes. But, damn him, he’s right. You mold around that thick, big cock like a glove, and feel him in every inch of your body.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

If anything, he only gets worse with age. In his younger days, fucking was something he could work himself up to almost any day of the week, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to an hour ago. A pretty girl and a good drink, the engine could get itself going. Then you came along and made him feel things, and then he let you get close and start making him eat well and drink water and go for stupid walks, and suddenly there isn’t a second that’s enough. If life didn’t get in the way, he’d never let you leave the bed.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He’ll push through the exhaustion for some proper aftercare, but the moment he’s sure you’re good, Dean’s out like a stone. He doesn’t sleep well under any other circumstance, but you work him hard, then let him use you like a human body pillow, and he finds the closest thing he knows to peace, right there, with you in his arms.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: i think about him. all the time <3✦

Somewhere beyond your bedroom walls, the ventilation system hummed its steady, comforting rhythm, accompanied every so often by the soft click of pipes hidden behind thick walls adjusting to the day's changing temperatures. The bunker had its own soundtrack, one you'd grown so accustomed to over the years that you'd stopped consciously noticing it.

This morning, though, you noticed everything.

Your eyelids finally fluttered open. The room was dim.

Not because it was still early, but because the thin line of light under your door was pushing its way into the space. The darkness wrapped the room in a quiet calm that made it difficult to judge the time. It could have been dawn.

Or noon.

You honestly had no idea, not in the mood to even glance toward the clock on the nightstand.

For another minute, you simply lay there, staring at the ceiling while your thoughts lazily drifted from one thing to another.

Then something tugged at the edge of your awareness.

Your room.

Slowly, your eyes wandered toward your desk.

Your laptop sat exactly where it belonged, closed and plugged into its charger, the little charging light glowing softly beside it.

A faint crease formed between your brows. You didn't remember putting it there. Your gaze continued around the room.

The overflowing pile of snack wrappers you'd left scattered across your bed yesterday was gone. The bags of chips had disappeared. So had the open container of cookies. Even the empty popcorn bag had vanished without a trace.

You turned your head toward the nightstand.

Your coffee mug was gone. The empty soda can you'd finished sometime after Dean had handed you a fresh one...

Gone too, along with the second one you’d finished sometimes into The Mummy.

Even the small trash can tucked beside your desk caught your attention. A clean white liner folded neatly over the rim.

Your stomach sank.

Dean.

It had to have been Dean.

The realization settled quietly over you, bringing with it an odd mixture of gratitude and guilt. He hadn't simply gotten you back into bed.

He'd cleaned up after you.

You let out the smallest sigh, lifting one hand to rub tiredly at your face before letting it fall back onto the comforter.

"...Thank you," you murmured into the empty room, even knowing he couldn't hear you.

Silence answered.

You rolled onto your back again, intending to enjoy another few peaceful minutes before getting up.

That was when the first memory surfaced. Not gradually. Not gently. It simply arrived.

"...Come here."

You blinked.

The image appeared in your mind with startling clarity.

A can of soda.

One inch out of your reach.

"...You're being difficult."

Your eyes widened. "...I argued with a soda." The words escaped in a whisper.

Heat immediately began creeping up your neck.

"Oh..." You closed your eyes. "...No."

You could still see it. Lying flat on your back. Talking to a can of soda as though it had intentionally refused to cooperate. Your stomach twisted.

Maybe...

Maybe that had been the worst part.

You could live with falling off the bed.

Gravity happened. Gravity happened to everyone. Even for you, although you were supposed to land on your feet.

Talking to carbonated beverages, however...

You pulled the comforter halfway over your face. "...Please let that have been the worst part."

For one blissful second...

You almost believed you'd gotten lucky. Then another memory floated to the surface.

"They're like little constellations..."

The blanket slid the rest of the way over your face. "Oh, God."

Your voice came out wonderfully muffled beneath the comforter. You squeezed your eyes shut, as though somehow hiding from the memory would make it disappear.

It didn't.

Instead, more pieces arrived.

One after another.

"I like your smell."

You groaned softly into your pillow.

"Your heart's fast."

Your face burned hotter.

"You hum when you think."

One eye opened beneath the blanket. "...I said that out loud."

You already knew the answer. Unfortunately.

"I like when you carry me."

The blanket became your sanctuary.

You lay perfectly still beneath it, contemplating whether there was any possible way to remain in your room for the next...

Week?

Month?

Possibly the rest of your natural life.

Because sooner or later...

You were going to have to leave this room, which meant facing Dean. And Sam.

Both of whom had witnessed every wonderfully unfiltered thought your brain had apparently decided was worth sharing. All the things you silently held onto and never once spoke aloud to anyone.

A long, slow groan escaped you as you buried your face deeper into the pillow. "...I am never going to recover from this."

The bunker, of course, offered no sympathy. Its quiet hum continued around you as another memory threatened to surface.

You immediately pulled the blanket tighter over your head. "No."

Not yet.

You weren't emotionally prepared for whatever came next.

The kitchen had long since settled into its usual morning rhythm.

Fresh coffee filled the room with its rich, earthy aroma, the scent weaving effortlessly through the bunker's cool air. Somewhere deeper in the bunker, the ventilation system maintained its steady hum, accompanied by the occasional click from aging pipes expanding with the warmth of the building waking for another day.

Dean leaned comfortably against the center island, one ankle hooked over the other while both hands wrapped loosely around a ceramic coffee mug. Wisps of steam curled upward, disappearing long before they reached his face. Every now and then he lifted the mug for another sip, but more often than not he simply watched the steam rise, his thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely.

Yesterday had left him with a problem he hadn't expected.

It wasn't taking care of you. That part hadn't bothered him in the slightest. Getting you back into bed, cleaning your room while you became completely absorbed by the carbonation in your soda, making sure you drank enough water before finally convincing you to sleep—none of that had felt unusual. If anything, it had simply felt... natural.

No.

The problem was everything you'd said.

Dean frowned faintly into his coffee.

He'd spent years around you, never once questioning the quiet way your eyes always seemed to be taking in more than you let on. It had simply become another part of who you were. You noticed things. Tiny things. The sort of details most people walked past without a second thought. He'd never given it much consideration. And not once had he considered he had little things.

Now he couldn't seem to stop.

Without realizing it, his thumb began slowly turning his mug against the palm of his hand, the rough ceramic scraping softly beneath his fingertips.

"You don't waste any movements."

His grip paused. The memory arrived uninvited, clear as if you were standing beside him, saying it all over again.

"You already know where you're going before you move."

Dean's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Did he?

He'd never consciously thought about how he moved through a room. After years of hunting, years of fixing cars, years of reaching for tools without looking because he already knew exactly where they'd be, efficiency had simply become habit. Yesterday, though, you'd spoken about it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He hadn't even realized you were watching. Not like that. Not like someone who saw past every wall he’d ever constructed around himself.

His fingers resumed their absent rotation around the mug.

"You hum when you think."

Almost immediately, Dean stopped moving altogether. His eyes narrowed toward the coffee.

Had he...?

No.

Surely not.

He stood there another few seconds before quietly pushing himself away from the island to refill his mug. The coffee pot gurgled softly as he tipped it, dark liquid splashing into ceramic while the familiar scent grew richer between them.

Without thinking...

A low hum escaped somewhere deep in his chest. It lasted perhaps two seconds.

Dean froze.

The coffee pot remained suspended over his mug.

Very slowly, he lowered it back onto the warming plate before glancing toward absolutely no one.

"...Son of a..."

Across the kitchen, Sam looked up from where he'd settled at the table with his laptop open beside his own mug.

"What?"

Dean looked over. "...Nothing."

Sam studied him for a moment longer before quietly returning his attention to the screen. He didn't believe that for a second. Truthfully, he'd noticed the humming nearly fifteen minutes ago.

He'd also noticed Dean catch himself pacing once already before forcing himself to stand still. Every few minutes his older brother seemed to become aware of another little habit that had existed for years without him ever giving it a second thought.

Sam found the entire thing endlessly amusing. Not because Dean was embarrassed.

Well...

Maybe a little because of that.

Mostly, though, because of the look on Dean's face every time another piece of yesterday clicked into place. It wasn't mortification.

It was bewilderment.

As though he'd suddenly discovered he'd been living with an audience all this time without ever realizing someone had been paying attention.

Sam clicked to another tab, eyes moving over the words of another article, hiding the smile threatening the corners of his mouth behind another slow sip of coffee.

He understood exactly what had happened. You hadn't invented those observations yesterday. You'd simply spoken them aloud.

That was the part Dean was still trying to come to terms with.

Somewhere down the hallway, faint enough that either brother might have missed it on any other morning, came the quiet creak of a mattress shifting beneath someone's weight.

Dean's eyes lifted instinctively toward the kitchen doorway. His expression remained carefully neutral. After several long seconds, nothing else happened.

He looked back down into his coffee.

Sam noticed that, too. He didn't comment. There wasn't any need. Sooner or later, you'd come out of your room.

Sooner or later, all three of you were going to have to pretend yesterday hadn't happened. Sam suspected that plan was doomed almost immediately.

He also suspected it was going to be one of the more entertaining breakfasts the bunker had seen in quite some time.

So, for now, he simply clicked into a new tab, took another drink of his coffee, and waited with all the patience of someone who knew the best part of the morning hadn't happened yet.

For several long minutes, you remained exactly where you were.

The blanket had long since slipped back down around your waist, leaving you staring up at the familiar seams in the bunker's ceiling while your mind stubbornly refused to move on from yesterday. Every time you thought you'd finally worked through the worst of it, another memory floated to the surface with perfect, merciless clarity, each one somehow managing to be just a little more embarrassing than the last.

Eventually, another problem began asserting itself.

Coffee.

You weren't desperate for it, not in the way you usually were after first waking up, but the thought settled comfortably into the front of your mind all the same. The rich smell of fresh coffee seemed almost tangible, even from all the way down the hall. Dean had clearly already made a pot.

The realization brought with it another small wave of guilt. He'd cleaned your room. Made sure you'd gotten into bed.

Probably checked on you more than once before turning in himself. And then he'd gotten up early enough to make coffee for everyone.

You let out a slow breath through your nose. "...I really owe him."

The words disappeared into the quiet room.

You finally pushed the blankets aside and sat up, letting your feet settle against the cool concrete floor. The chill climbed pleasantly through the soles of your feet, helping clear away the last remnants of sleep. For a moment, you simply sat there, elbows resting on your knees, fingers loosely intertwined as you stared toward your dresser across the room.

Wasn’t I wearing socks yesterday? You shook your head slightly, focusing again on the dresser.

Getting dressed. That was the logical first step. Normal people got dressed before facing other human beings.

Especially after accidentally telling one of those human beings that his freckles looked like constellations. Your face warmed all over again. With a quiet groan, you forced yourself to your feet and padded across the room.

The dresser waited exactly where it always had. You reached for the top drawer, pulled it open, and looked down at the neatly folded shirts inside.

Your hand hovered.

I like when you carry me.

It wasn't even the words. It was the memory that came with them. Dean standing beside your bed. The warmth of his arms. The surprised little squeak you'd made when he'd lifted you without warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut. "...Nope."

The drawer slid shut again.

You stood there for another second, one hand still resting against the smooth wood as though perhaps another idea might present itself.

None did.

Coffee still sounded nice. You turned instead toward the small bathroom connected to your room. The light flickered on with a familiar buzz. Your reflection blinked back at you from the mirror.

You looked...

Comfortable.

Your oversized sleep shirt hung crookedly off one shoulder, wrinkled from an unusually restful night's sleep. Your pajama shorts weren't much better, and your hair...

You stared.

It looked as though someone had introduced it to a tornado.

Dark strands curled in every direction imaginable, refusing to cooperate with gravity or basic common sense. A few stubborn pieces still stood almost straight up near the back of your head while the rest framed your face in thoroughly uneven waves.

You couldn't help the tiny sigh that escaped. "...That explains a lot."

Your gaze drifted toward the hairbrush resting beside the sink. You reached for it automatically. Your fingers stopped just short.

Your freckles... they're like little constellations all over your skin.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks so quickly it almost startled you. "Oh..."

Your hand retreated. "...No."

The hairbrush remained exactly where it was.

You stared at it for another few seconds before quietly switching the bathroom light back off and stepping into your bedroom once more.

Coffee.

You'd brush your hair after coffee. Probably. Maybe. At least that sounded like a reasonable plan.

You paused beside your bedroom door, your hand settling around the cool metal handle without turning it.

Beyond the door, the bunker carried on with its familiar morning sounds.

The faint clink of ceramic against metal. Someone setting a mug onto the island. The soft scrape of a chair shifting somewhere in the kitchen.

The low murmur of pages...

No.

Not pages.

Your brow knit together.

Keys.

A keyboard. Sam's laptop.

For some reason, recognizing that tiny sound made everything beyond your bedroom feel suddenly, unmistakably real.

They were both out there. Both awake. Both remembering yesterday just as clearly as you did.

Your hand tightened around the handle. You could still turn around. Nobody knew you were awake yet. You could absolutely crawl back beneath the blankets and emerge sometime around...

Next Tuesday.

That seemed perfectly reasonable.

Unfortunately...

Coffee.

Coffee won.

You let out one long breath, squared your shoulders as best you could, and eased the bedroom door open.

The hallway stretched ahead of you, quiet and familiar. Concrete walls. Warm overhead lights. Nothing about the bunker had changed overnight.

Only you had.

Your bare feet carried you forward almost of their own accord, each step unhurried, almost reluctant. The closer you drew to the kitchen, the stronger the smell of fresh coffee became until it wrapped around you with comforting familiarity. It should have eased the knot in your stomach.

Instead, it somehow made the moment feel even more inevitable.

You reached the edge of the war room and slowed.

The kitchen lay just beyond.

You stopped just out of sight. Not hiding.

Just...

Gathering yourself.

From where you stood, you could see only part of the center island, but neither brother. One more steadying breath filled your lungs before you lifted a hand and unconsciously tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

It immediately slipped free again, falling across your cheek exactly as it had before. You didn't bother trying a second time.

Coffee first.

You could survive the rest of the morning after that.

You lingered for only another heartbeat before forcing your feet to move again.

The kitchen opened itself to you one familiar step at a time, the scent of fresh coffee growing stronger with every foot you covered. It mingled with the brothers’ scents that lingered in rooms they spent more time in, wrapping around the cool, clean smell of concrete that never truly left the bunker. Ordinarily, those scents would have settled something inside you.

Today, they simply reminded you that you weren't alone. Even before you crossed the threshold, you knew exactly where they were.

Dean's heartbeat reached you first, slow and steady from somewhere near the center island. Every so often, ceramic clicked softly against the countertop as he shifted his mug between holding it and setting it down. Sam's heartbeat carried from farther to your left, accompanied by the almost constant, uneven rhythm of fingers moving across the keys of his laptop. The tiny sounds blended together so naturally that your mind sorted them without conscious effort, painting a picture of the room long before your eyes confirmed it.

It was something you'd done for years. Usually without thinking.

This morning...

You found yourself wishing, just briefly, that you couldn't hear any of it.

Drawing one slow breath through your nose, you finally stepped into the kitchen. Almost immediately, you felt it. Not in any supernatural sense.

Just the unmistakable awareness that both sets of eyes had lifted toward you.

You kept yours firmly on the coffee pot.

The distance between the doorway and the counter where caffeine waited wasn't more than a handful of steps, yet it somehow felt considerably farther this morning. Each footfall echoed faintly beneath your bare feet, sounding entirely too loud against the otherwise peaceful quiet of the bunker.

No one spoke.

You weren't sure whether that made things easier or infinitely worse.

The coffee pot sat exactly where Dean had left it, a thin ribbon of steam still curling from its spout. Beside it rested a clean mug, already waiting as though someone had anticipated you'd eventually make your way here. Yours. The same one he’d taken from your room when he’d cleaned up.

Your chest tightened ever so slightly. Of course he had.

Without looking anywhere but your hands, you reached for the mug and filled it almost to the top. The familiar sound of coffee pouring into ceramic grounded you in a way little else had managed all morning. You wrapped both hands around the mug almost immediately, welcoming the warmth against your palms despite the fact that the bunker wasn't cold enough to warrant it.

The first sip was almost embarrassingly comforting.

Rich. Strong. Exactly the way Dean always made it. You closed your eyes for the briefest moment as the warmth spread through you.

"...Morning." Dean's voice broke the silence gently.

Not forced. Not awkward. Simply... there.

You lowered the mug just enough to answer, your eyes still lingering somewhere around the countertop instead of either brother.

"Morning." Your own voice sounded remarkably normal. Far calmer than you felt.

Silence settled over the room once more. Not uncomfortable. Just... careful. Like all three of you were unconsciously feeling out unfamiliar footing.

You became acutely interested in the slow wisps of steam rising from your mug. Anything to keep your attention occupied. Anything except the memories that insisted on replaying themselves with painful clarity.

They're like little constellations...

Heat immediately crept back into your cheeks. You took another drink before your brain could volunteer another memory.

Across the room, Dean watched the top of your head dip with another sip from your mug and had the distinct impression that you were trying very hard to become one with it. It was almost enough to make him smile.

Almost.

Instead, he quietly shifted his own weight against the island, choosing not to say anything more. He'd noticed the same oversized sleep shirt you'd worn yesterday. The same pajama shorts.

The same tangled hair that looked as though you'd made it halfway through your morning routine before giving up somewhere along the way.

He didn't need to ask. Embarrassment had written the story plainly enough.

Sam noticed it too.

He watched you cradle your coffee with both hands as though it were the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor, your gaze refusing to rise higher than the countertop. Every few seconds, another loose strand of hair slipped across your face, and without thinking, you'd tuck it behind your ear again.

Each time, gravity patiently undid your efforts.

He hid the beginning of a smile behind his own mug. Not because he wanted to laugh at you. Because he knew exactly what was happening.

You were buying yourself time.

As long as you didn't look at either of them, perhaps yesterday could remain safely tucked away where all embarrassing memories belonged.

It was a nice plan.

Unfortunately...

Sam was fairly certain it wasn't going to survive much longer.

The silence lingered another several heartbeats. Not uncomfortable anymore. Just... tentative.

Each of you seemed content to let the quiet exist for a little while longer, as though everyone instinctively understood that yesterday's events required a little gentleness this morning.

Dean shifted his weight against the island. He drew in a slow breath, finally deciding he ought to say something. Anything.

A simple How'd you sleep?Feeling better?Coffee's fresh.

His mouth had only just started to open when Sam beat him to it.

"So..." Sam's voice carried easily across the kitchen, warm with unmistakable amusement. He closed his laptop with an unhurried motion before looking over at you with the kind of smile that had always managed to walk the line between teasing and reassuring. "How're you feeling?"

You glanced up just enough to meet his eyes for the briefest second before dropping your attention back to your coffee.

"...Actually..." You considered it honestly. "I feel really good."

"You look like you slept."

"I did."

"Headache?"

You shook your head. "No."

"Nauseous?"

"No."

He nodded thoughtfully, as though mentally checking items off a list. "So Charlie was right."

That pulled your attention back toward him. "Charlie?"

Dean answered before Sam could. "I called her yesterday."

Your eyes widened. "You..."

He nodded once, his expression apologetic without ever becoming dramatic. "I didn't know how two brownies would affect you."

"Oh." You looked back down into your mug again. "...That makes sense."

Another quiet settled over the room. This one lasted only a few seconds before Sam spoke again.

"So..." He rested his forearms against the table. "Do you remember much?"

The question hung gently between you.

You stared into your coffee long enough that Dean was already preparing to change the subject entirely.

Then...

You gave one very small nod. "...All of it."

Dean winced.

Sam's eyebrows climbed. "Everything?"

Another nod. "...Unfortunately."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched despite his best efforts. 

"I've been hoping since I woke up that maybe I dreamed it." You sighed softly. "I didn't."

"No."

"...I definitely didn't."

Dean finally looked up from his mug. There was something unexpectedly earnest in your voice that tugged at him.

You weren't trying to laugh it off. You genuinely wished you could rewind the previous afternoon.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," he said quietly.

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it. It wasn't really laughter. More...

Disbelief.

"I argued with a soda."

Dean pressed his lips together. "You did."

"I thought the refrigerator was judging me."

"It... might've been."

You looked at him then.

Really looked at him for the first time since entering the kitchen. "I said your freckles looked like constellations."

Dean's composure cracked just enough for one corner of his mouth to betray him. "...Yeah."

"Oh, God." You covered your eyes with one hand. "I remember saying that."

"You did."

"I remember all of it."

Dean pushed himself away from the island then, carrying his coffee with him as he rounded the counter.

He stopped beside you, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that his hip rested comfortably against the edge of the counter near you.

For a moment he simply stood there.

Then, with the smallest shrug, he looked down into his own mug. "...For what it's worth..."

You peeked at him through your fingers.

"...I didn't mind."

You blinked. "What?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "You weren't mean." He shrugged again, searching for the words. "You were just..."

His brow furrowed. "...Really honest."

The warmth that flooded your face somehow found another gear. "I'm not sure that's better."

"It is," Dean said it simply. Matter-of-factly. "You just didn't have a filter."

Before either of you could say anything else, Sam leaned back in his chair, watching the two of you with an expression that bordered on entirely too pleased with himself.

"I do have one question, though."

You groaned quietly. "...Sam."

"What?"

"I'm already regretting whatever you're about to ask."

"I was just curious."

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously over the rim of your mug. "Curious about what?"

Sam's grin grew just a fraction wider. "...Did the bubbles ever win?"

For exactly one heartbeat...

Silence.

Then you closed your eyes. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Not because it wasn't embarrassing.

It absolutely was.

But because, hearing it out loud the morning after… It sounded just as ridiculous as it had felt perfectly reasonable yesterday.

Dean let out an exasperated huff beside you, shaking his head into his coffee. "...I'm never gonna let Charlie leave something like those brownies lying around."

The laughter faded naturally, leaving behind something altogether lighter than the silence that had greeted you when you'd first walked into the kitchen.

It hadn't erased the embarrassment. You doubted anything ever truly would.

But somewhere between Sam's gentle teasing and Dean's quiet reassurance, the sharp edges had begun to wear away. What had felt, only minutes earlier, like a memory you'd spend the rest of your life trying to outrun had already started becoming something else.

A story.

One that, given enough time, would probably be told far more often than you'd prefer.

You took another sip of your coffee, the warmth settling comfortably in your chest this time instead of serving as little more than a distraction. The knot that had occupied your stomach since waking had finally begun to loosen, replaced by the quiet familiarity that always seemed to settle over the bunker whenever the three of you simply... existed together.

No hunts.

No monsters.

No looming disaster.

Just morning.

Dean finished the last of his coffee before pushing himself away from the counter with an easy sigh. He carried his mug to the sink, rinsing it beneath the faucet more out of habit than necessity before setting it in the drainer. As he reached for the refrigerator door, he glanced back over one shoulder.

"So..." His tone had settled back into something wonderfully ordinary. "You hungry?"

You hadn't really thought about it. Not until he asked. The answer arrived almost immediately.

"...Actually..." You smiled faintly. "Yeah."

"I figured."

The refrigerator opened with its familiar suction, cool air spilling into the kitchen as Dean leaned inside to inspect its contents. Eggs. Bacon. Cheese. Leftover hash browns from the night before. His movements carried the comfortable confidence of someone who had prepared the same breakfast hundreds of times before, reaching automatically for ingredients without needing to stop and think about where anything had been put away.

Behind him, Sam quietly reopened his laptop as the screen flickered back to life. He wasn't particularly focused on whatever article had occupied him earlier. Every so often his eyes drifted over the top edge of the screen, lingering for a moment before returning to the display.

Years.

It had been years of watching the two of you orbit one another. Years of shared glances neither of you ever seemed to notice.

Years of one always making coffee if the other had slept in, of automatically grabbing an extra blanket before movie nights because the other always got cold, of reaching for the same toolbox at the same time and somehow never colliding.

Neither of you ever said anything. Neither of you seemed willing to.

At this point, Sam had accepted that trying to hurry either of you along would probably only send you both running in opposite directions.

So...

He waited. It seemed to be working about as well as anything else.

You wandered toward the table almost absentmindedly, your coffee mug still cradled between both hands. The chair scraped softly against the floor as you pulled it out and settled into it, curling one leg beneath yourself out of long-standing habit. The warmth of the mug seeped pleasantly into your fingers while you watched Dean move comfortably around the kitchen.

Even after everything yesterday...

Nothing about him had changed. He still nudged the refrigerator closed with his hip because both hands were full. Still reached for the cast-iron skillet instead of any of the others. Still hummed under his breath without realizing it.

Your lips twitched. You noticed the moment he caught himself. The humming stopped so abruptly that you couldn't help smiling into your coffee.

Dean glanced back just enough to catch the expression before quickly returning his attention to the stove. "...Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"I wasn't."

"You absolutely were."

There wasn't any heat behind the accusation.

Only the comfortable familiarity of conversations you'd both had a hundred different ways over the years.

A soft chuckle escaped Sam before he managed to hide it behind the rim of his mug.

The skillet settled onto the burner with a heavy clunk, followed by the familiar hiss of butter beginning to melt across the seasoned surface.

The smell alone was enough to make your stomach remind you that, despite yesterday's impressive collection of snacks, it had been quite a while since you'd eaten anything resembling an actual meal.

You rested your chin lightly against your hand, watching Dean crack eggs one-handed into a bowl with practiced ease.

"...You know..."

Both brothers looked toward you.

You stared thoughtfully into your coffee before continuing.

"I think..." Your brow furrowed. "I'd try them again."

Dean stopped whisking. "...The brownies?"

"Not two." You laughed quietly to yourself, shaking your head. "Definitely not two."

Sam's smile returned. "What then?"

"Maybe..." You considered it seriously. "Half."

Dean looked somewhere between amused and horrified. "Half."

You nodded. "I slept really well."

"You also had a philosophical discussion with a soda."

"I know."

"And the refrigerator."

"I know."

"And my freckles."

Your face warmed immediately. "I know." A smile tugged at your mouth anyway.

"But..." You searched for the right words. "It wasn't..." You looked down into your mug for a moment. "It wasn't like drinking."

The humor in the room softened.

"I wasn't trying to forget anything."

Neither brother interrupted.

"I didn't wake up still tasting whatever I’d drank the night before."

You slowly turned the mug between your palms, watching the last curls of steam disappear into the air.

"I just..." Another small shrug. "I felt... peaceful."

The admission settled gently over the kitchen.

Dean looked down at the eggs for a long moment before returning them to the skillet. "I can understand that."

His voice was quiet.

Honest.

"But next time..." He pointed the spatula lightly in your direction without looking away from breakfast. "...I'm cutting you off after half."

A laugh escaped you, easy this time. "Deal."

"And Charlie's labeling the container."

"Bigger note?"

"Bigger note."

"Maybe one that says Dean's brownies. Do not touch."

Dean snorted. "I'm thinking bigger."

"How much bigger?"

He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow lifting. "I'm thinking skull and crossbones."

You laughed again, the sound filling the kitchen so naturally that it seemed to settle into the concrete walls alongside years of other mornings just like this one.

Outside the bunker, the day carried on unnoticed.

Inside, breakfast sizzled on the stove, coffee stayed warm in well-loved mugs, and the three of you gradually found yourselves talking less about embarrassment and more about whether Charlie would ever let any of you live the story down.

Some memories, you suspected, would never stop being embarrassing.

Given enough time...

They simply became the ones everyone laughed about together.

And somehow, sitting there around the kitchen table with the people who had quietly taken care of you instead of judging you, that didn't seem like such a terrible thing after all.

Part 2 Brownies Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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It wasn’t really a question. Not because he was ordering her, but because she knew him well enough to hear the worry tucked underneath it. Natalie looked toward the sink, where Sam had very deliberately turned his back and started scrubbing a plate with exaggerated focus, then toward the living room, where Bobby was already swearing softly at the state of his books. Finally, she looked back at Dean. His expression had softened when their eyes met, but the tension was still there, sitting in the line of his shoulders and the set of his jaw.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Okay.”

They went out through the back door into the pale morning light, stepping down into Bobby’s yard with its familiar uneven ground and rusted silhouettes. The junkyard stretched out around them like a graveyard for old machines, except Natalie had never thought of it that way when she was a kid. Back then, it had been a kingdom. A battlefield. A playground. A maze where she and Dean could vanish for hours and come back with scraped knees, filthy hands, and the kind of grins that made Bobby start yelling before he even knew what they had done.

Now it was quieter. Or maybe they were.

Dean kept hold of her hand as they walked, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles before stilling. It was such a small thing, but Natalie felt it everywhere. Last night, that touch had felt like wonder. This morning, it still did—but there was something else beneath it too, something heavier. Fear, maybe. Possession, not in the ugly sense, but in the human one. The astonished, fragile realization that something precious had finally been placed in his hands and he had no idea how to keep the world from breaking it.

They passed an old truck with its hood missing, then a row of cars stacked two deep near the fence. Dean slowed near one of the narrow gravel paths that wound farther into the yard, where the house sat behind them but still close enough to see through gaps in the metal. He stopped there, turning toward her, and for a moment he didn’t speak. He only looked at her, and Natalie felt that old instinct rise in her again—the urge to deflect, to tease, to make him laugh before he could ask for something honest.

Dean saw it before she could act on it. “Don’t,” he said softly.

Natalie blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

She let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “You know, this knowing-me-too-well thing is getting inconvenient.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, but he didn’t smile much. “Tell me about it.”

That sobered her.

He looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her face. “I need you to understand something.”

Natalie’s stomach tightened. “Okay.”

“This thing with the Master,” he said, and the name itself seemed to darken the air around them. “I get that we need information. I get that we don’t know enough. I get that maybe hunters and books and Bobby’s cranky-ass filing system aren’t gonna cover it.”

“Dean—”

“But demons?” he continued, his voice still low, still controlled, which somehow made the fear in it easier to hear. “Psychics, fine. Spirits, maybe. Whatever weird source Sam digs up in some dusty journal, sure. But demons? Bargains? Anything that even smells like you putting yourself back in front of something that can take a piece of you?”

Natalie looked away, toward the rows of old cars shining dull under the morning sun. “I said I wasn’t making deals.”

“I know what you said.”

“Then what are we arguing about?”

Dean stepped closer, not crowding her, but closing the distance enough that she had to look at him again. “We’re arguing because I know how you think.”

Her expression tightened.

“And before you get mad,” he added, “yeah, I know how I think too. I know what hunters do when they’re desperate. I know what grief makes people justify. Hell, I know what I’d do if it were Sam. Or Bobby.” His voice roughened slightly as his gaze moved over her face. “Or you.”

Natalie’s heart gave a painful little twist.

Dean swallowed and looked past her for a second, jaw working. When he spoke again, the words came slower, more stripped down. “I just got you back. Not as some memory. Not as Bobby’s girl from when we were kids. Not as the person I call when everything else is falling apart.” His eyes returned to hers, green and earnest and edged with fear. “I got you. This. Us. Whatever we’re calling it.”

Natalie’s voice softened despite herself. “Boyfriend?”

Dean blinked, startled by the word. A faint flush crept up his neck. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, almost shyly. “That.”

It should have been funny. It was funny, a little—the two of them standing in Bobby Singer’s junkyard, fully grown hunters who had faced monsters and death and supernatural impossibilities, stumbling over a word as ordinary as boyfriend. But it was also tender enough to ache. Natalie watched him absorb it, watched the word settle into him with the same cautious wonder she had felt upstairs when she woke beneath his chin.

Dean drew in a breath. “I’m saying this as that. Not just your friend. Not just the guy who knew you when you were thirteen and mean with salsa.”

She smiled faintly. “You deserved that.”

“I did not deserve that.”

“You absolutely did.”

His mouth twitched, but the humor faded almost at once. “I’m saying it as the guy who loves you.” He seemed to surprise himself with the bluntness of it, but he didn’t take it back. His fingers tightened around hers. “I can’t watch you walk toward something that might take you from me because you think it’s the only way to save your dad.”

Natalie went very still.

The junkyard seemed to quiet around them, the faint wind moving through old metal with a low, whispering scrape. She stared at him, feeling the force of his words move through her—not as accusation, not even as demand, but as a plea he was too proud to phrase that way. Dean Winchester had never been afraid of monsters the way normal people were. But loss? Love? The helplessness of standing too far away while someone he loved bled alone in the dark? That terrified him.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” she said.

Dean’s face shifted, the guarded edges softening. “I know.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I mean it, Dean. I am not looking for a way to run back into this alone. I did that already. I learned exactly what that gets me.” Her free hand drifted briefly toward her stomach before she caught herself, but Dean saw it anyway. Of course he did. “I’m not eager to feel that again.”

His gaze dropped to where her hand had moved, and pain crossed his face before he could hide it.

Natalie stepped closer this time, closing the last bit of distance between them. “But I can’t pretend I’m not going to follow every lead we get. I can’t pretend that if there’s a way to free my father, I won’t want to take it.”

“I’m not asking you not to want it.”

“Then what are you asking?”

Dean’s answer came quietly. “I’m asking you to let wanting me matter too.”

The words hit harder than she expected.

Natalie looked up at him, throat tightening. There was no arrogance in his face, no assumption that he should outrank Leandro or Bobby or the past that had shaped her. There was only naked honesty, terrifying because it asked something of her she had spent years refusing to give anyone. It asked her to weigh her life not only by what she owed the dead, but by what she meant to the living.

Dean lifted his free hand, hesitated for the space of a breath, then cupped her cheek. “I’m not saying don’t fight for him,” he murmured. “I’m saying don’t let that thing convince you that dying for him is the same thing as saving him.”

Natalie closed her eyes briefly.

Because that was the cruel truth beneath everything.

The Master had known exactly how to bait her. It had known grief was not always loud and dramatic. Sometimes it was dutiful. Sometimes it wore the face of love. Sometimes it told you that sacrifice was noble even when it was only despair with prettier language.

When she opened her eyes again, Dean was still watching her.

Still waiting.

Still afraid.

“I promise,” she said, the words quiet but steady, “I won’t bargain with demons. I won’t trade myself away for information. I won’t make decisions about the Master without you, Sam, and Bobby knowing what I’m doing.”

Dean searched her face. “You mean that?”

“Yes.”

The relief that moved through him was not dramatic. He didn’t sag or exhale like some great weight had vanished. But she saw it in the minute loosening of his jaw, the easing of his shoulders, the way his thumb brushed her cheek with almost helpless tenderness.

“Good,” he said roughly.

Natalie leaned into his touch. “But you have to promise me something too.”

Dean’s brows lifted. “What?”

“If this gets dangerous—and it will—you don’t get to decide my life matters more than yours.”

His expression shifted immediately. “Nat—”

“No.” Her voice sharpened just enough to stop him. “You don’t get to protect me by throwing yourself in front of every blade. You don’t get to make some stupid noble sacrifice and call it love. If you’re asking me to stay alive because this matters, then you have to do the same.”

Dean stared at her.

For a moment, she thought he might argue. It was right there in him, instinctive and stubborn, the Winchester martyrdom practically written into his bones. Then his mouth tightened, and he looked away with a faint, humorless laugh.

“You don’t ask for easy stuff, do you?”

“Neither do you.”

“No,” he admitted. “Guess not.”

She waited.

Dean looked back at her and nodded once. “Okay.”

Natalie narrowed her eyes. “That was too fast.”

“What, you want me to make it dramatic?”

“I want you to mean it.”

He stepped closer, until their foreheads nearly touched. “I mean it.”

She studied him for another second, then let herself believe him—not fully, maybe, because Dean’s reflex for self-sacrifice was not something one conversation could undo, but enough for now. Enough to let the breath she’d been holding slowly leave her body.

Dean’s hand slipped from her cheek to the back of her neck, gentle and warm. “So we do this together?”

Natalie nodded. “Together.”

“And no demon deals.”

“No demon deals.”

“No mysterious solo road trips.”

“No mysterious solo road trips.”

“No letting creepy extradimensional soul accountants stab you.”

Her mouth twitched. “That one feels more situational.”

“Natalie.”

“I’m kidding.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

Dean huffed a laugh despite himself, and the sound eased something between them that had been wound too tight since breakfast. Natalie smiled, and then Dean leaned in and kissed her—not long, not heated, just a firm, quiet press of his mouth against hers, like a seal on the promises they had just made in the middle of Bobby’s junkyard.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.

Inside the house, faintly, Sam dropped something in the sink and cursed.

From somewhere deeper in the house, Bobby yelled, “You break it, you bought it!”

Natalie laughed softly.

Dean closed his eyes with a pained expression. “We’re never getting a normal moment, are we?”

“No,” she said, still smiling. “Probably not.”

His thumb brushed the side of her neck. “Worth it?”

Natalie looked at him, at the man who had been her friend, her almost, her unfinished sentence for most of her life. The man who was now standing in front of her as something new, asking not for easy promises but honest ones.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Worth it.”

Dean smiled then, small and real, and laced his fingers with hers again as they turned back toward the house, toward research, toward family, toward whatever terrifying road waited beyond the safety of Bobby Singer’s junkyard.

For once, Natalie did not feel like she was walking toward it alone.

Then:

A year after Natalie Guimet learned her father was never coming home, she decided she was going to sleep outside in Bobby Singer’s backyard because nobody could stop her.

That was not true, technically. Bobby could have stopped her. Bobby could have taken one look at the small, stubborn child dragging a blanket and a flashlight through his kitchen and told her, flat out, that she was not sleeping in a tent by herself with the clouds building ugly over Sioux Falls. He could have reminded her that she was six years old, that the tent had a zipper that stuck, that thunderstorms were not impressed by tiny girls with grief in their chests and more pride than sense. But Bobby had already learned, in the year since Leandro died, that there were some things Natalie needed to do before she could let anyone help her.

So he let her.

He set up the tent himself, of course, because he was not a monster. He checked the stakes twice, laid down an extra blanket against the damp ground, tucked a lantern just inside the flap, and told her in his usual gruff voice that if she got cold, scared, wet, hungry, bored, or suddenly developed common sense, the back door would be unlocked. Natalie had stood there with her arms crossed over her chest, chin lifted, pretending not to hear the softness beneath his words.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Bobby looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Sure you are.”

Inside the house, Dean Winchester watched from the kitchen table with a half-eaten sandwich in front of him and suspicion written all over his seven-year-old face. John had dropped him off earlier that afternoon with a duffel, a quick warning to listen to Bobby, and an explanation Dean accepted because he had been trained to accept explanations that were not really explanations. Sammy was somewhere else, being watched by someone else, and Dean did not like that, but he understood the rules well enough not to argue. Grown-ups moved kids around when hunts got complicated. That was just how things worked.

Natalie had barely looked at him when he arrived.

Dean had seen her before, but not enough to know what to do with her. She was Bobby’s almost-niece, except not really, except everyone acted like she belonged there anyway. She had dark hair that kept falling into her face, serious eyes, and a way of moving around Bobby’s house like she was trying not to touch anything too loudly. Dean knew something bad had happened to her dad. He did not know the whole story, because adults liked to lower their voices when they talked about death around kids, as if kids could not feel the shape of it anyway.

He understood enough to leave her alone.

For most of the evening, he gave her space. He stayed inside, poking through Bobby’s shelves, pretending to be interested in an old car magazine, listening as Bobby moved around the kitchen muttering to himself. Every now and then Dean looked toward the back window and saw the tent sitting in the yard, a small lopsided triangle in the fading light. Natalie’s shadow moved inside it once or twice, then went still.

The first thunder rolled in just after dark.

It started far away, low and grumbling, but Dean noticed Bobby’s head lift from where he stood at the sink. The older man looked toward the window, jaw tightening, then deliberately turned back to his coffee like he had decided not to interfere yet. Dean watched him, then looked outside again. Rain had not started, but the wind had picked up, shivering through the junkyard and tugging at the tent fabric.

Natalie was still out there.

Another rumble sounded, closer this time.

Dean shifted in his chair.

Bobby glanced at him. “What?”

Dean shrugged too fast. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

The rain began as a patter, then thickened into a steady rush against the roof. The backyard blurred through the glass, the tent shaking slightly with each gust of wind. Dean imagined Natalie sitting inside with her blanket pulled around her shoulders, jaw set, refusing to come in because coming in would mean admitting something. He knew that kind of stubbornness. He lived in that kind of stubbornness most days.

Lightning flashed.

The thunder cracked hard enough to rattle the window.

Dean flinched before he could stop himself.

Bobby did not comment. He only took another sip of coffee and said, very casually, “Tent might need checkin’. Stakes weren’t great on the east side.”

Dean looked at him.

Bobby looked back.

Neither of them said what they were actually saying.

Dean slid off the chair. “I can check.”

“Figured you could.”

Dean pulled his jacket on, grabbed the flashlight from the counter, and went out the back door before he could change his mind. The rain hit him cold and immediate, soaking through his hair and collar as he crossed the yard. By the time he reached the tent, his sneakers were wet, his jeans clung to his knees, and the flashlight beam bounced wildly over the grass.

Inside, everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

Dean crouched near the flap. “Hey.”

No answer.

He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “Bobby said I gotta check the stakes.”

A small voice answered from inside, tight with irritation and something else. “They’re fine.”

Dean looked at the nearest stake, which was absolutely fine, then looked toward the house where Bobby was almost certainly watching through the window. “Yeah, well, he said the east side was bad.”

“That’s the west side.”

Dean frowned, glanced around, and realized she was probably right. “Whatever. I’m checking all of them.”

There was a pause. Then the zipper dragged down a few inches, and Natalie’s face appeared in the gap, pale in the lantern light, eyes too wide for someone who was pretending she was not scared. “You’re getting rain inside.”

Dean immediately shifted, blocking the worst of it with his shoulder. “Sorry.”

She looked past him toward the storm, then back at him. “You can go.”

“I’m not done checking.”

“You didn’t even check.”

“I’m about to.”

A burst of thunder rolled over the yard, so close it made the ground seem to tremble. Natalie’s fingers tightened around the zipper. She did not make a sound, but Dean saw her shoulders jerk, saw her mouth press into a hard line like she was angry at herself for being afraid.

He knew that too.

So instead of saying anything about it, he leaned closer and lowered his voice like he was sharing important information. “Also, I think there’s a raccoon by the shed.”

Natalie blinked. “What?”

“A raccoon,” Dean repeated solemnly. “Big one. Might be armed.”

Despite herself, her brow furrowed. “Raccoons don’t have weapons.”

“You don’t know that.”

“They have paws.”

“Exactly. Tiny criminal hands.”

For one second she only stared at him.

Then, against her will, a tiny laugh slipped out.

Dean grinned, pleased with himself in a way he did not bother hiding. “See? Dangerous.”

Natalie hesitated, then opened the tent flap wider. “You’re soaked.”

“Yeah,” he said, as if this had only just occurred to him. “Rain does that.”

She gave him a look that was almost annoyed, almost amused, and shifted backward. “You can come in while you check for armed raccoons.”

Dean climbed inside with all the dignity of a wet puppy, dragging rain and grass and cold air with him. Natalie immediately complained, which seemed fair, and shoved one of the extra blankets at him before he could drip all over hers. He wrapped it around his shoulders and sat cross-legged near the entrance while the storm pounded above them.

For a few minutes, they listened to the rain.

The tent shook with the wind, but it held. Bobby had made sure of that.

Dean clicked the flashlight on and off against his knee until Natalie reached over and grabbed it from him. “Stop that.”

“You’re bossy.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You invited me in.”

“You were dripping on the door.”

“Tents don’t have doors.”

“They have flaps.”

“That’s not a door.”

“It closes.”

“So does a coffin. Doesn’t make it a door.”

Natalie stared at him for a long beat, then snorted. It was not a full laugh yet, but it was closer than before. Dean saw it and felt, for reasons he did not fully understand, like he had won something important.

The storm kept going.

At some point, Natalie pulled a small paper bag from under her blanket and opened it with the seriousness of someone revealing treasure. Inside were marshmallows, slightly crushed. She offered him one without looking at him directly, like the gesture would be less embarrassing if she pretended it was casual.

Dean accepted immediately. “You brought food?”

“Camping requires provisions.”

“These are marshmallows.”

“Provisions.”

He nodded, impressed despite himself. “Good provisions.”

They ate them straight from the bag because the rain had ruined any possibility of a fire, and within minutes Dean had challenged her to see who could fit more marshmallows in their mouth without choking. Natalie told him that was stupid. Then she tried it anyway. She won, because Dean laughed too early and nearly spit his onto the blanket, which made Natalie laugh hard enough that she had to cover her mouth with both hands.

It was the first real laugh Dean had heard from her.

It startled him.

Not because it was loud, though it was, but because it changed the whole tent. The storm outside did not stop. The thunder still rolled over the yard. The rain still battered the canvas. But inside, the air shifted, and for a little while Natalie did not look like a girl trying to hold herself together with both hands.

She looked like a kid.

Dean, who was seven years old and already knew too much about not getting to be one, recognized the miracle of that without knowing how to name it.

Natalie leaned back against her rolled blanket, cheeks flushed from laughing, and glanced at him more shyly now. “You don’t have to stay.”

Dean shrugged. “I gotta make sure the raccoon doesn’t attack.”

“That’s not real.”

“Could be.”

“It’s not.”

“Maybe that’s what the raccoon wants you to think.”

She smiled again, smaller this time. Then the smile faded as another roll of thunder moved farther off, less violent now, but still enough to remind her where she was. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket.

Dean noticed and looked away on purpose.

“My mom died,” he said suddenly.

Natalie went still.

He did not know why he said it. Maybe because she looked sad again. Maybe because the tent was dark and loud and somehow safer than Bobby’s kitchen. Maybe because grief felt less impossible when you handed someone else a piece of it and they did not drop it.

“I was four,” Dean continued, staring at the flashlight between them. “There was a fire. I don’t remember everything.”

Natalie watched him quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shrugged, but it was not a careless shrug. “Yeah.”

“My papa died,” she said after a while, voice small. “Last year.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her hands. “I keep thinking he’s going to come back anyway.”

Dean did not tell her that was stupid. He did not tell her dead people did not come back. In his life, even at seven, the rules were already too strange for that kind of certainty. Instead he picked at a loose thread on the blanket and said, “Sometimes I think that too.”

Natalie looked at him then, really looked, as if seeing him properly for the first time.

Outside, the storm began to soften.

Inside, the two of them sat in the yellow glow of the lantern, surrounded by damp blankets and half-eaten marshmallows, while something quiet and sturdy began to take shape between them. Not instantly. Not with some grand declaration. Just in the way Natalie handed him another marshmallow without being asked, and in the way Dean stayed even after the rain eased, and in the way neither of them tried to pretend they had not been scared.

By the time Bobby came out to check on them an hour later, the storm had moved on. He found them side by side inside the tent, the flashlight wedged between them, both of them whispering dramatically about the armed raccoon army gathering by the shed. Natalie was giggling into her blanket. Dean was gesturing with a marshmallow like it was a weapon.

Bobby stood in the wet grass for a moment, rain dripping from the brim of his cap, and felt something in his chest twist hard.

Leandro’s girl was laughing.

Dean Winchester was laughing with her.

Bobby cleared his throat, gruff because anything else would have given him away. “You two idjits planning on sleepin’ at any point?”

Natalie looked up, face bright in the lantern light. “We’re guarding the yard.”

Dean nodded solemnly. “Raccoon problem.”

Bobby stared at them.

Then he looked toward the shed, because apparently this was his life now.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Well, keep it down. Some of us ain’t at war with wildlife.”

He turned back toward the house, pretending not to hear their laughter follow him through the rain-wet dark.

And in the little tent behind him, Natalie curled under her blanket, still sad, still grieving, but not alone in it anymore. Dean settled beside her with the flashlight between them, keeping watch against imaginary raccoons and real storms alike.

By morning, they would be best friends.

Neither of them knew that yet.

But Bobby, looking out the kitchen window one last time before bed, had a pretty good idea.

Now:

By the time Dean and Natalie made their way back inside, the kitchen had been restored to something resembling order, which meant Sam had finished the dishes and was now being punished for his competence.

He stood in Bobby’s living room with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand braced on his hip, staring at the shelves with the focused frustration of a man who had survived Stanford, demons, and Dean Winchester, only to be defeated by Bobby Singer’s filing system. Books sat in crooked rows. Loose papers had been shoved between cracked spines. A stack of journals leaned dangerously near a jar of mismatched bullets, and three different boxes on the floor appeared to contain a mixture of receipts, Latin translations, old newspapers, and what looked suspiciously like a half-eaten granola bar from another decade.

Bobby stood beside him, arms crossed, glaring at the shelves as if they had personally betrayed him.

“I told you, it’s on the second shelf,” Bobby snapped.

Sam looked over his shoulder. “This is the second shelf.”

“No, that’s the second shelf from the left.”

Sam stared at him. “You didn’t say from the left.”

“Thought it was obvious.”

Dean stopped just inside the doorway, brows lifting as he took in the scene. Natalie, beside him, went utterly still for one heartbeat before her face shifted into a familiar expression of long-suffering resignation. It was the same look she had worn as a kid whenever Bobby insisted that his library made perfect sense to anyone with a functioning brain, despite all evidence suggesting the opposite.

Sam pulled out a thick, dust-coated volume and read the spine. “This is a 1978 manual on septic tank maintenance.”

Bobby grunted. “Useful book.”

“For the Master?”

“For life.”

Dean made a soft choking sound that might have been a laugh. Natalie gave him a look that said not to encourage them, then stepped forward before Sam could disappear entirely into the madness.

“All right,” she said, lifting both hands. “Move.”

Sam turned toward her with the exhausted relief of someone being rescued from a battle he had not agreed to fight. “Please.”

Bobby immediately frowned. “I had it handled.”

Natalie snorted. “Bobby, with love and respect, no, you didn’t.”

“Watch it.”

“No,” she said, already nudging Sam aside with her shoulder and stepping into the narrow space in front of the shelves. “You have many talents. Hunting, research, mechanical triage, scaring grown men with one look.”

Bobby’s expression softened a fraction, though he tried to hide it under a scowl. “Damn right.”

“But organizing?” Natalie continued, turning toward the shelves with a critical eye. “Absolutely not. The only person who can find anything in this mess is me, and apparently that remains true even after three years gone.”

Sam surrendered so quickly it would have been embarrassing if he had not looked so genuinely grateful. He stepped back, hands raised, and moved beside Dean, who was now watching Natalie with open curiosity and a little bit of awe already warming his expression.

“You sure?” Sam asked.

Natalie didn’t even glance at him. “What book?”

Bobby grumbled something under his breath, then said, “Black binding. No title on the spine. Old. French notes tucked inside the back cover. Should have a red string tied around it unless some idjit moved it.”

Dean opened his mouth.

Bobby pointed at him without looking. “Don’t.”

Dean closed his mouth, offended.

Natalie tilted her head, scanning the shelves with a concentration that seemed casual until Dean noticed how precise it actually was. Her eyes traveled from one cluster of books to another, not reading the shelves so much as reading Bobby himself—the way his chaos had patterns no one else could see unless they had grown up inside it. She ignored the obvious row of old occult texts Sam had been searching, crouched, shifted a box of newspapers with one foot, and reached behind a stack of brittle county death records that looked like they had not been touched since the Reagan administration.

Sam frowned. “I already checked there.”

“No,” Natalie said, fingers feeling along the back edge of the shelf. “You checked the visible part.”

Dean slowly leaned toward Sam. “There’s an invisible part?”

Sam muttered, “Apparently.”

Natalie’s hand disappeared behind the records. A second later, she made a small sound of satisfaction and tugged. Something shifted with a papery scrape. She pulled out a narrow black book, its cover worn smooth at the edges, a faded red string still looped around it twice. A bundle of loose notes had been tucked into the back, exactly where Bobby said they would be.

The entire room went silent.

Natalie turned and held it out. “This one?”

Sam’s jaw dropped.

Dean stared at the book, then at her, then back at the shelves as though Bobby’s library had just violated several natural laws in front of him.

Bobby took the book from her with a gruff little sound. “Took you long enough.”

Natalie crossed her arms. “It took me less than two minutes.”

“Used to take you thirty seconds.”

“I was twelve, and your knees worked better, so half this crap wasn’t on the floor yet.”

Dean let out a laugh, still staring at her like she had performed actual magic. “Wait, hold on. You can just do that?”

Natalie looked over at him. “Do what?”

“Find things in here.”

She glanced at the shelves, then back at him. “Yes.”

Dean pointed toward the mess. “In that.”

“It has a system.”

Sam made a strangled sound. “No, it doesn’t.”

Natalie and Bobby both looked at him at the same time.

Sam froze.

Dean slowly grinned. “Oh, Sammy. Wrong room.”

Bobby tucked the book under his arm and grumbled, “System’s perfectly clear.”

Natalie nodded solemnly. “Perfectly clear.”

Sam looked between them, betrayed by the sudden alliance. “There was a septic tank manual next to three books on necromancy.”

Bobby shrugged. “Death and waste disposal. Same neighborhood.”

Dean stared at him for a long second, then looked at Natalie. “You understood that?”

“Unfortunately.”

Sam rubbed both hands over his face. “I hate it here.”

Natalie laughed then, bright and easy, and the sound moved through the room like sunlight cutting through dust. Dean’s smile softened as he watched her, the moment catching him off guard in its simplicity. An hour ago they had been standing in the junkyard making promises about demons, death, and impossible beings outside Heaven and Hell. Now she was teasing Bobby about his catastrophic shelves and looking more at home than she had since she walked back through his door.

Bobby noticed too.

Of course he did.

His grumbling eased just enough to reveal the relief beneath it, though he covered the feeling by thumping the book onto the table with more force than necessary. “All right, geniuses. Since Natalie’s done showin’ off, maybe we can actually get some work done.”

Natalie arched a brow. “You’re welcome.”

“Didn’t say thank you.”

“You implied it.”

“I did not.”

“You did in Bobby.”

Dean leaned closer to Sam and murmured, “She’s right. That was definitely Bobby for thank you.”

Sam nodded gravely. “Fluent translation.”

Bobby glared at all three of them. “I can still kick every one of you out.”

Dean grinned. “You won’t.”

Bobby opened the black book, dust puffing faintly from between the pages. “Don’t test me, boy.”

But his voice lacked bite, and everyone knew it.

Natalie moved to Dean’s side without thinking, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Dean’s hand found hers just as naturally, his fingers curling lightly around hers while Bobby flipped through the old pages and Sam leaned over the table, already drawn back into the research. This time, neither Dean nor Natalie hid the touch.

And this time, nobody teased them for it.

The hunt had found its shape again. The strange warmth of the morning remained, but beneath it ran purpose, steady and dangerous. Somewhere in Bobby’s impossible mess of a library, inside a book hidden behind death records and forgotten manuals, there might be one more piece of the Master’s truth waiting to be found.

For once, Natalie did not dread reaching for it.

She was home.

And this time, when the past opened its mouth, she had people standing beside her.

Continuing:

Bobby flipped the black book open and skimmed the first page with a scowl that deepened almost immediately, which Dean had learned over the years could mean anything from this is useless to this is exactly what I needed and I hate that it’s written in French. The room settled around the table again, the kitchen warmth bleeding into the living room, dust motes drifting lazily through the morning light as if the house itself had decided to pretend this was just another ordinary research day and not the beginning of a hunt aimed at something outside Heaven and Hell.

Sam, however, was still standing there.

More specifically, Sam was standing beside the table with his mouth slightly open, eyes shifting from Natalie to the shelves to the book Bobby had just dropped in front of him, as though he was trying to reconcile everything he knew about research, logic, organization, and basic physical reality with the fact that Natalie had just reached into Bobby’s library swamp and produced exactly the right book in under two minutes.

Bobby looked up.

He stared at Sam for a beat.

Then he lifted both brows. “You gonna do research too, or you just gonna stand there like a giant tree with your jaw swingin’ in the wind?”

Sam’s mouth snapped shut so quickly Dean made a strangled sound under his breath.

Natalie pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to laugh.

Sam blinked, recovered what remained of his dignity, and reached for the nearest stack of books. “Research. Right. Doing that.”

“Good boy,” Bobby grunted, already looking back down.

Sam paused, giving him a wounded look. “Did you just—”

“Book. Chair. Read.”

Sam wisely decided not to continue that argument. He pulled out a chair and sat, dragging a heavy volume toward him with the grim resignation of someone who had briefly glimpsed Bobby Singer’s personal chaos dimension and accepted that survival required obedience. He opened the book, flipped past two pages, frowned, and pulled his notebook closer.

Dean was still grinning when Bobby’s attention shifted.

That was his mistake.

Bobby fixed him with a look, then flicked his gaze to Natalie, whose shoulder was still brushing Dean’s. Their hands were no longer linked only because Bobby had dropped the book between them and forced everyone into work mode, but they were standing close enough that the absence of touch somehow looked more obvious than the touching had.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed.

Dean immediately straightened. “What?”

“Oh, don’t you ‘what’ me,” Bobby said. “Lovebirds need to study too.”

Natalie’s eyebrows shot up. “Lovebirds?”

Dean pointed at Bobby. “No.”

Bobby ignored him completely. “You two got enough time to make moon-eyes in my junkyard, you got enough time to read.”

“We were not making moon-eyes,” Natalie said, with far less conviction than she probably intended.

Sam did not look up from his book, but his mouth twitched.

Dean saw it. “Sam.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I’m always thinking something.”

“Yeah, well, stop.”

Bobby slapped a second book onto the table in front of Dean hard enough to make the dust jump. “Read.”

Dean looked down at it, then back at Bobby. “This thing has mold on it.”

“Then don’t lick it.”

Natalie lost the battle and laughed outright, one hand coming up to cover her mouth as if that would somehow make the sound less obvious. Dean looked at her, betrayed and hopelessly fond at the same time, which only made Bobby’s expression sharpen with the grim satisfaction of a man who had been proven right by the universe before breakfast had fully settled.

“You too,” Bobby said, pointing at Natalie.

She lifted both hands. “I was already going to help.”

“Uh-huh. You were also standin’ there looking at Dean like he was the last slice of pie.”

Dean choked.

Sam dropped his pen.

Natalie went scarlet.

“Bobby!”

“What?” Bobby asked, maddeningly innocent. “Was I wrong?”

Dean looked like he was seconds from either laughing himself sick or walking into traffic. “You cannot say stuff like that.”

“This is my house. I can say whatever I damn well please.”

Natalie sat down with great dignity, grabbed the black book before Bobby could torment her further, and pulled it toward her. “I’m researching now.”

“Good.”

Dean sat beside her, still muttering under his breath as he opened the moldy book Bobby had assigned him. He shifted his chair a little closer than necessary, his knee brushing Natalie’s beneath the table, and when she glanced sideways at him, the irritation on his face softened into something private and bright before he remembered Bobby was watching.

Bobby was, in fact, watching.

Dean looked down immediately.

Bobby smirked into his coffee.

For a few minutes, the house became quiet except for the sounds of work. Pages turned. Sam’s pen scratched steadily across paper. Bobby muttered translations under his breath, occasionally reaching for another book without looking and somehow selecting the correct one from a pile that should not have made sense to any living creature. Natalie moved through the black book with careful focus, her fingertip tracking old ink as she worked through the French notes tucked into the back cover. Dean tried to concentrate on the text in front of him, but his attention kept splitting between the page and Natalie’s profile, the way her brow furrowed when she found something interesting, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way she belonged here so effortlessly that it made his chest hurt.

He had spent years thinking of Bobby’s house as one of the few places in the world that counted as safe.

Now Natalie was part of that feeling again.

Maybe she always had been.

Across the table, Sam noticed Dean’s distraction, because of course he did, and cleared his throat with a little too much innocence. “Dean, you find anything in the mold book?”

Dean’s eyes snapped down. “I’m reading.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m multitasking.”

“You’re not.”

“I can read and stare.”

Natalie’s lips twitched. “That explains a lot about your research style.”

Dean turned to her, offended. “You too?”

She looked up from the black book, eyes bright with amusement. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen your notes.”

“My notes are efficient.”

“Your notes once said, and I quote, ‘weird squiggly thing, ask Bobby.’”

Bobby pointed toward Dean without looking up. “And he did ask me.”

Dean spread a hand toward Natalie, vindicated. “See? Efficient.”

Sam gave a soft laugh, shaking his head as he bent over his own book again. “Somehow you survived high school.”

Dean shot him a look. “Barely attended high school.”

“Also explains a lot.”

Bobby grunted. “Less yappin’, more readin’.”

The quiet returned, but this time it sat easier. The teasing had not erased the threat of the Master or the terrible uncertainty around Leandro’s soul, but it had made the room livable. It reminded Natalie that research did not always have to feel like obsession. It could be this too: old books, bad coffee, Bobby’s insults, Sam’s careful notes, Dean’s knee pressed warmly against hers beneath the table.

She turned another page.

Then stopped.

Dean noticed immediately. “What?”

Natalie did not answer at once. She leaned closer to the page, eyes narrowing as she studied a handwritten note in the back margin, the ink faded almost to brown. The words were not much, only a fragment, but something about them pulled at her memory of Missouri’s parlor, the Master’s house, and the ledger where her father’s name had sat like a wound.

Bobby looked up. “You got somethin’?”

Natalie swallowed, then tapped the page. “Maybe.”

The room shifted instantly.

Sam set down his pen. Dean turned fully toward her. Bobby closed his own book and waited, his face going hard and attentive in that way that made him look less like the cranky man who raised them and more like the hunter other hunters called when the world stopped making sense.

Natalie read the line again, slowly.

“It mentions a collector beyond the gates.”

Sam’s expression sharpened. “Beyond what gates?”

“That’s the problem,” Natalie said, still staring at the faded handwriting. “It doesn’t say Heaven or Hell.”

Dean’s knee pressed more firmly against hers. Not a question. Not a warning. Just a touch that said he was there.

Natalie drew in a breath and looked up at them.

“It says the collector waits where judgment cannot reach.”

Bobby’s face darkened.

Sam leaned forward.

Dean went very still.

And just like that, the teasing drained from the morning, leaving the hunt sitting plainly between them again.

The Master had left a trail.

And this time, Natalie was not the only one following it.

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The glow of the lamp barely touched you from across the street, enough to illuminate the sidewalk without revealing the shape crouched behind your wheel. Your hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, eyes scanning the small church parking lot a few dozen feet away. The pastor’s car sat where it always did, dark and unassuming, the familiar contours already burned into your memory from three days of observation.

Through the windshield, you saw the Impala pull into the lot and come to a smooth stop. Two men stepped out, moving with the kind of quiet purpose that betrayed the instincts of hunters. 

You caught their silhouettes for a brief moment, the way their jackets hugged the lines of their bodies, the tilt of their heads as they scanned the lot. You didn’t look closer. They weren’t the reason you were here. Not tonight.

The streets around you hummed with quiet life: a dog barking in the distance, the faint hiss of tires on wet asphalt, a couple of voices drifting down the block. None of it mattered. You were waiting. 

Every movement inside the church counted, every slight tilt of a head, every shuffle of feet. Waiting until the last sermon concluded, until the congregation filtered out in murmuring clusters. Waiting until the pastor stepped outside and locked the doors.

Inside the church, the hum of conversation and the scrape of chairs carried to Dean and Sam as they moved slowly along the aisle, eyes trained on details rather than faces. Dean had parked his car in the lot, close enough to keep a line on the entrance, but far enough not to draw attention. 

Sam’s hand rested lightly on his knee, but his gaze darted repeatedly over heads, over hats, over the way people shifted in the pews. Neither could pinpoint the werewolf among the flock. Every person looked ordinary, every movement mundane. But something always set Dean’s gut on edge.

A light breeze swept along the street, carrying the faint scent of rain still clinging to the night air. Your fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel, tracing the familiar contours of the dashboard as your eyes flicked back to the church. 

Minutes stretched like hours. The congregation thinned. Laughter and hushed goodbyes spilled out the doors, sneakers scraping against the steps, coats brushing against wood and metal. You barely shifted, letting the shadows keep you hidden. And then, finally, the doors closed behind the last of the attendees. A click of the lock echoed faintly in the lot.

The pastor moved with practiced ease, locking windows and doors, tucking keys into his pocket. Your pulse picked up slightly, muscles tensing in quiet anticipation. This was it.

Dean and Sam didn’t notice you parked in the shadows across the street when they’d left, tailing a grey van a twitchy man drove. He’d been the only one who looked even remotely suspicious among the rest. Their minds running through the facts, theories spinning. 

The world outside settled into a hush. The faint buzz of the streetlamp. The gentle rustle of leaves along the lot. Everything paused for a heartbeat. Everything waited.

The pastor lingered beneath the awning a moment longer than necessary.

You noticed that.

Noted the way he adjusted his cuff. The slow sweep of his gaze across the empty parking lot—not casual. Not distracted. Measuring.

Your fingers stilled against the steering wheel.

He descended the steps, shoes striking concrete with an unhurried rhythm. No rush. No nerves. Just a man finished with his duties for the night.

But he didn’t get into his car immediately.

He stood beside it.

Listening.

Your pulse ticked higher, steady but alert. Three nights. Two victims. The pattern had been clean. Predictable. Almost arrogant in its consistency.

If he left town, you’d follow. If he cut toward the woods, you’d already mapped the fastest route to intercept. If he—

He finally unlocked the driver’s side door.

The interior light blinked on, casting his face in a warm, harmless glow. Soft smile. Gentle eyes. The same expression he wore behind the pulpit.

The door shut.

Engine turned over.

Headlights flared to life.

Across the street, you waited two full seconds after he pulled out before you started your own engine. Long enough not to be obvious. Short enough not to lose him.

The Charger purred beneath your hands.

And somewhere across town, Dean Winchester was chasing the wrong ghost.

The pastor’s sedan rolled out of the lot without hurry, tires whispering over damp pavement. You waited until he was halfway down the street before easing your car into motion, keeping the engine low, the distance comfortable. Not too close. Never too close.

He didn’t hesitate at the first intersection. No pause to check a phone. No second-guessing a turn. He drove like a man following a routine etched into muscle memory. Left. Straight. Right. The small town unfolded around him in sleepy silence—dark storefronts, modest houses set back from narrow streets, porch lights glowing like scattered embers. There wasn’t a single traffic light in town, only the occasional reflective stop sign catching the glow of distant lamps.

You kept your headlights off.

You didn’t need them.

The world was sharp and silver-edged through your windshield, every shadow layered in texture. The sheen of moisture on asphalt. The slow sway of tree branches overhead. The faint curl of exhaust drifting from the pastor’s tailpipe. There was enough ambient light bleeding from porches and streetlamps to guide you, and your eyes adjusted effortlessly, pupils wide, gathering every detail with feline precision.

You stayed three turns behind when you could. Two when the roads narrowed. Each time he signaled, you counted to five before following. When he turned down a residential street lined with older homes—paint chipped, lawns trimmed but tired—you let him disappear fully before you followed.

Curiosity pressed at you, but caution held tighter.

He wasn’t driving toward his house. You knew the route to that address by heart. This wasn’t it.

The street he chose was quieter. No barking dogs. No flicker of televisions through half-drawn curtains. Just a row of darkened homes sitting close together like they were sharing secrets.

The pastor slowed, then pulled into the driveway of a modest single-story house near the end of the block. No porch light flipped on in greeting. No one came to the door. His brake lights flared red against the siding before fading into darkness.

You drove past without looking directly at him, counting houses in your peripheral vision.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

You turned the wheel smoothly and parked along the curb several houses back, tucking your car beneath the heavy shadow of an overgrown maple. The vantage point let you see everything. You didn’t move to shut it off immediately, just watched.

You leaned back slightly in your seat, lowering yourself just enough that the dashboard hid the shape of your face from any wandering glance. The town had gone still again, the kind of stillness that felt expectant. Waiting to see what would break it first.

And you watched.

Because he hadn’t gone home.

Not speeding. Not panicked. Just inconsistent enough to stand out.

The driver had looked nervous back at the church. Twitchy. Sweat at the temples despite the cool night air. Eyes that moved too much. Dean had clocked it immediately, and Sam had noticed too. In their line of work, nervous usually meant one of two things: guilty or prey.

Either way, it was worth following.

Miller’s Creek Road stretched darker the farther they drove, the town thinning behind them until only scattered houses and dense trees remained. Gravel crackled beneath the van’s tires when the driver finally pulled into the small parking lot of a roadside bar tucked against the woods.

The neon beer signs in the windows buzzed weakly against the dark. Country music drifted faintly through the air each time the door opened, carrying with it the scent of cigarette smoke, grease, and stale alcohol.

Dean parked across the lot beneath a dying lamp that flickered every few seconds.

“That’s our guy?” Sam asked quietly, watching the man climb out of the van.

Dean tracked him with narrowed eyes. “Maybe.”

The man adjusted his jacket three times before heading inside.

Nervous.

Dean hated nervous.

Inside, the bar was dim and warm, crowded enough to disappear into but not packed enough to get lost completely. Hunters’ eyes adjusted quickly, scanning exits, faces, hands. The grey van driver took a stool near the end of the counter and ordered whiskey with the kind of tension that sat visibly in his shoulders.

Dean and Sam slid into a booth near the back.

They watched.

And waited.

Minutes dragged slowly.

The man drank one whiskey. Then another. He spoke briefly to the bartender but never relaxed. Every time the front door opened, his head turned too quickly toward it.

Dean’s instincts stayed hooked.

But something about it felt off.

Not wrong exactly.

Just… incomplete.

Forty-five minutes passed in fragments of country songs and clinking glasses. Sam nursed a beer mostly untouched while Dean kept his gaze moving between the nervous man, the windows, and the parking lot outside.

Nothing happened.

No claws. No twitching. No signs of aggression.

Just a scared man trying very hard not to look scared.

Dean finally shoved out of the booth with a quiet exhale. “Need something from the car.”

Sam nodded absently, eyes still on the sedan driver. “I’ll keep watching him.”

The night air hit cooler outside.

Dean stepped onto damp gravel, the bar door thudding shut behind him as muffled music faded into the background. The woods surrounding Miller’s Creek whispered softly in the breeze, branches creaking overhead.

He reached the Impala and opened the trunk.

Silver glinted faintly beneath the low light.

Then movement caught his eye.

A car.

Low. Sleek.

Midnight blue.

Dean straightened immediately.

The Charger crossed the far intersection at the end of the road without headlights, turning smoothly onto a narrow dirt path half-hidden by trees.

His pulse kicked hard once.

No civilian drove roads like that with their lights off.

Not unless they wanted to disappear.

Dean’s jaw tightened as he watched the last glimpse of dark metal vanish into the trees.

Son of a bitch.

The trunk slammed shut harder than necessary.

He moved fast back toward the bar, boots crunching over gravel. Inside, Sam looked up immediately at Dean’s expression.

“What happened?”

Dean jerked his head toward the door. “We need to go.”

Sam was already standing. “The guy—”

“Ain’t our wolf.”

Confusion flickered briefly across Sam’s face, but he followed without argument.

By the time they reached the road, the Charger was gone.

Only darkness stretched ahead beneath the trees.

Dean slowed the Impala at the mouth of the dirt road, eyes narrowing as memory clicked into place.

“There’s an old cabin down there,” Sam said quietly, realizing it at the same time. “Supposed to be abandoned.”

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel.

The woods swallowed the headlights as the Impala turned onto the dirt road.

You counted.

Not consciously at first. It just happened. Your fingers tapping once against the steering wheel every sixty seconds while your eyes stayed fixed on the quiet little house near the end of the block.

No lights turned on inside except the living room.

No movement at the windows.

No signs of alarm.

Just silence.

Then the front door opened.

Your posture straightened immediately. 

The movement is small at first—just a wash of warm light spilling across the porch.

Even at this distance, there’s no mistaking the careful set of his shoulders or the composed, almost gentle way he moves. He steps onto the porch like he belongs in the quiet, like he carries nothing heavier than a sermon in his pocket.

He isn’t alone.

Another man follows him out, mid-conversation, the sound of low laughter drifting faintly through the night air. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind of ease that only comes from trust.

The pastor gestures lightly as he speaks, then gives the man an easy clap on the shoulder before heading toward the driver’s side of the car parked at the curb. The other man circles around and slides into the passenger seat without hesitation.

That settled something cold and heavy in your stomach.

The sedan pulled away from the curb smoothly.

You waited.

One Mississippi.

Two.

Three.

Then you eased the Charger back onto the road, headlights still off.

The darkness didn’t hinder you. If anything, it sharpened the world around you. Wet pavement reflected faint silver beneath the moonlight leaking through clouds overhead. Trees shifted in textured shadows. Mailboxes, cracked sidewalks, drifting leaves—every detail stood out with unnatural clarity.

You stayed far enough back to disappear into the night between intersections while never fully losing sight of the sedan ahead.

The pastor never hesitated.

No missed turns. No circling blocks.

He drove with purpose.

Your grip tightened slightly on the wheel as the town slowly began thinning around you again. Fewer houses. Longer stretches of trees. Less light.

Then the sedan passed the bar near Miller’s Creek.

You barely spared it a glance.

Neon signs buzzed weakly in the windows. A couple trucks sat scattered around the gravel lot. Just another roadside place full of tired people and stale beer.

Not important.

Your focus stayed locked on the taillights ahead.

The pastor turned onto the dirt road without slowing.

Your pulse picked up.

The trees swallowed his sedan almost immediately, darkness folding around it beneath the heavy canopy overhead.

You followed a few seconds later.

Gravel crackled softly beneath your tires as the Charger slipped into the woods behind him, engine low and smooth. The road narrowed quickly, branches arching overhead thick enough to blot out most of the sky.

No headlights.

No moonlight worth trusting.

But your eyes adjusted effortlessly, pulling shapes and depth from darkness the way a cat tracked movement at midnight. Every rut in the road. Every swaying branch. Every drifting shadow.

The deeper you drove, the quieter the world became.

No houses.

No distant traffic.

Just forest.

And somewhere ahead of you, a pastor drove calmly into the dark with a man who trusted him completely.

Your jaw tightened.

Because now you knew two things for certain.

The pastor wasn’t hunting randomly.

Chapter 4 ----- Chapter 6 - coming soon Doppelganger Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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

Thunk.

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

For reasons you still couldn't quite explain… 

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

It didn't work.

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

"Oh..."

You giggled.

"...That was..."

A breath.

"...so dumb."

You laughed all over again.

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

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

Cold. Refreshing. Beautiful.

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

Almost.

Just...

A little...

More.

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

The soda remained exactly where it was.

You frowned. "I said..."

Another stretch.

"...come here."

Nothing.

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

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

Silence.

You sighed.

"I crawled across the cold floor for you."

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

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

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

You tilted your head back.

Slowly.

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

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

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

They were simply...

Looking at you.

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

Dean's gaze traveled from your hopelessly tangled hair—

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

—to one arm stretched dramatically over your head—

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

—and finally...

To the soda.

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

You looked back at the can.

Considered the offer.

Then looked at Dean again.

"...Maybe."

A thoughtful pause.

"...But."

Dean waited.

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

"...right there."

Sam pressed his lips together.

Hard. Very hard.

You frowned at him. "What?"

"Nothin'." His voice sounded suspiciously strained.

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

"I'm really not."

"You are."

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

You nodded solemnly. "I did."

"You okay?"

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

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

"Mhm. It was very helpful."

For just a second...

Neither brother said anything.

Sam looked down at the floor.

Dean looked at Sam.

Sam looked back at Dean.

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

"Hm?"

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

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

"...Because."

Another thoughtful pause.

"I already came down."

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

His eyebrows climbed a little higher.

"...I..."

Nothing came out.

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

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

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

You smiled. "Oh, good."

Dean looked back at you. "What?"

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

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

He opened them again, looking from you...

...to the soda...

...then back to you one last time.

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

Dean let out a slow breath through his nose.

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

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

"I gathered."

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

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

Your face lit up. "Oh!"

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

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

You wasted absolutely no time cracking it open.

Pssht.

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

You took one long drink.

Another.

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

A pleased little hum vibrated in your chest.

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

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

Really look.

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

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

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

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

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

Beside it...

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

Then slowly around the room once more.

"...Huh."

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

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

Then...

A soft rumble. Barely audible.

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

Sam nodded once. "She's purring."

Dean looked back at you.

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

"...It's cold."

Dean blinked. "...Yeah."

"I like it."

"I can see that."

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

The brownies.

Dean followed his brother's line of sight.

Kitchen. Brownies. Six. Chocolate.

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

Charlie's note. Two missing brownies. 

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

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

Sam bit the inside of his cheek.

Dean looked at you.

Then at the soda. Then back toward the hallway.

"...No."

A beat.

"...No."

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

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

You smiled proudly. "They were really good."

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

Dean slowly turned to look at his brother.

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

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

"You did."

"I said she'd know."

"You absolutely did."

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

"Nope."

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

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

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

Every few steps he managed to compose himself...

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

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

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

Looking from you...

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

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

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

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

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

He looked...

Tall. Really tall.

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

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What?"

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

Another soft rumble vibrated pleasantly in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

Dean opened his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hair had become an absolute disaster.

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

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

Completely content.

Completely unconcerned.

Completely...

High.

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

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

You held your free hand up toward him.

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

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

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

Before you had the chance to process what was happening—

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

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

His neck.

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

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

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

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

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. "I cheated?"

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

"I know."

"You picked me up."

"I did."

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

"Nope."

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

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

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

Your eyes wandered.

His jaw.

The faint stubble beginning to return.

The curve of his nose.

Then...

You stopped.

Your entire expression softened.

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

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

Back again.

His freckles.

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

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

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

Tiny patterns.

"...They're like stars."

Dean frowned. "...What is?"

You lifted one finger from around the soda can.

Very carefully...

You pointed toward his cheek.

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

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

"...All over."

Dean went very still.

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

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

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

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

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

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

You looked genuinely surprised. "They should."

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

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

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

And somehow...

That felt like the understatement of the century.

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

It looked...

Occupied.

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

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

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

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

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

Dean glanced down. "Hm?"

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

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

Underneath it all...

Just...

Dean.

Comforting. Warm. Safe.

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

Dean blinked. "...Thanks?"

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

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

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

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

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay..."

"But you smell warm."

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

If he moved the laptop...

No.

She'd probably notice.

Maybe the chips—

"...Your heart's fast."

Dean froze. "...What?"

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

Thump. Thump. Thump.

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

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

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

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

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

Dean swallowed once. "...Yeah."

"I like listening to it."

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

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

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

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

Dean paused. "...I what?"

"You hum."

"I don't hum."

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

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

He stopped.

Realized. "...Do I?"

"Mhm."

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

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

"You've always done that."

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

His attention returned to clearing enough space on the mattress.

Blankets.

Move those.

Pillow.

There.

Almost—

"...Your beard's scratchy."

Dean looked back down. "What beard?"

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

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

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

"I like it."

"You do?"

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

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

You looked at him with complete sincerity.

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

Dean laughed. "No."

"I'm pretty sure."

"Nope."

"The brownies were enchanted."

"They weren't enchanted."

"They absolutely were."

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

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

"It is."

"...It tasted like chocolate."

"Yeah."

"I didn't taste any weed."

Dean snorted. "I know."

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

Another laugh escaped him. "Something like that."

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

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

He started lowering you carefully toward it.

Halfway down...

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I am too."

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

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

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

Dean sighed. "...Yep."

He wasn't wrong.

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

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

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

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

"...Yeah, you do."

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

"...Mm."

Dean couldn't help smiling. "Good?"

"So good."

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

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

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

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

The crinkling plastic seemed impossibly loud to your ears.

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

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

He never hesitated.

Never reached twice.

Empty wrapper.

Trash.

Half-empty popcorn bag.

Trash.

Cookie lid.

Stacked neatly.

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

Dean looked over. "Hm?"

"You don't waste any movements."

He blinked. "I don't?"

You shook your head. "No."

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

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

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

"I don't?"

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

Dean frowned thoughtfully. "...Huh."

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

"You bend with your knees."

Dean laughed. "...What?"

"You don't bend with your back."

You demonstrated poorly from the bed.

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

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

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

Dean chuckled. "Thanks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean snorted. "Ropes?"

"They move before your hands do."

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

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

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

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

Dean actually laughed at that. "Years?"

"Mhm."

"I watch everybody."

He relaxed. That... made sense.

Then you added, "But mostly you."

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

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

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

"You fix things."

Another sip.

"You cook."

Another.

"You clean."

Another.

"You pace."

Dean blinked.

"...I pace?"

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

Dean looked genuinely horrified. "I do not."

"You do."

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

Unfortunately for him...

Sam wasn't there to deny it.

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

Dean stood in your doorway for another few seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

"Mhm..."

"They're very determined."

Dean slowly nodded. "...Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

Or...

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

The kitchen looked almost normal again.

Almost.

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

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

...and the plastic brownie container.

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

Sam looked over. "The brownies are innocent."

"They absolutely are not."

"They're baked goods."

"They're accomplices."

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

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

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

Dean thumbed through his contacts before hitting her name.

The phone rang twice.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

"...Charlie?"

Another second.

Then—

"...She what?"

"She ate two."

"...My brownies?"

"Your brownies."

"...The pot brownies?"

Dean looked at the ceiling. "Charlie."

"Oh my God."

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

...or the beginning of laughter.

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

"I need you to try harder."

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

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

"What happened?"

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

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

Dean sighed. "She ate 'em."

"Mhm."

"Watched a movie."

"Mhm."

"Apparently became fascinated by the bunker making noises."

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

"So she wandered around listening to air vents."

"...Dean..."

"I'm not kidding."

Sam snorted.

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

Charlie made a strangled noise.

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

The strangled noise became unmistakable laughter.

Dean closed his eyes. "Charlie."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

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

Dean sighed. "Then she forgot her soda."

"...Dean..."

"Climbed back onto the bed."

Another laugh.

"Forgot the soda was still on the floor."

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

Finally...

"She tried reaching it from the bed."

"Mhm."

"Fell off."

"Oh, no..."

"Hit the nightstand."

Charlie inhaled sharply. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine."

"Thank God."

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

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

"...Charlie."

"I'm here."

"You don't sound here."

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

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

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

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to."

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

"No, you're not."

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

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

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

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

"Well..."

He could practically hear her slipping into analytical mode.

"I made those with you in mind."

Dean frowned. "...Okay."

"Your height."

"Mhm."

"Your weight."

"Mhm."

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

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

Sam coughed loudly into his fist.

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

Dean nodded. "Two?"

"...About four hours, maybe."

Dean relaxed slightly. "Okay."

Charlie wasn't finished. "For you."

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

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

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

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

Dean absolutely did not want to.

"Her body heals ridiculously fast."

"Yeah."

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

Dean frowned. "...Negative?"

"Nausea."

"Mhm."

"Dizziness."

"Yeah."

"Headaches."

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

"No?"

"No."

"Anxious?"

"No."

"Paranoid?"

Dean almost laughed. "No."

"Sleepy?"

"...Not really."

Charlie paused. "So what is she doing?"

Dean thought about it.

"...Complimenting my freckles."

Silence.

"...She what?"

"Said they looked like constellations."

Another beat.

"...Charlie."

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

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

"I—"

She tried.

She really did.

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

Dean could already hear it.

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

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

Dean pointed at him without looking. "You."

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

"You are not helping."

"I know."

Charlie was laughing again.

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

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

Dean's stomach sank.

"I don't know."

"...You don't know?"

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

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

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

Dean nodded once. "...Or?"

"...Or longer."

"How much longer?"

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

Dean was quiet.

Charlie softened her voice. "The good news?"

Dean waited.

"She's safe."

That helped.

A little.

"Keep her hydrated."

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

"Let her enjoy the ride."

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

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

"...Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...The bubbles are winning."

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

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

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

"Oh, thank God."

Half a pot.

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

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

The first sip was heaven.

Rich.

Hot.

Strong enough to wake the dead.

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

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

You picked it up.

Supply Run. Won’t be gone long.-D

A small smile tugged at your lips.

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

You snorted softly to yourself.

Hopefully they'd remember everything.

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

Your gaze wandered idly around the kitchen.

Then stopped.

"Huh..."

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

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

You frowned.

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

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

Another note rested neatly on top.

You picked it up.

You win. Never betting you again.

-C

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

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

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

You set the note aside and popped the lid open. 

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

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

"Hm." 

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

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

“...Dean won’t miss one.”

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

You hesitated.

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

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

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

The first bite nearly made you groan.

"Oh my God..."

It was ridiculously good.

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

You took another bite.

Then another.

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

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

Two hours later…

John McClane was in the middle of blowing something up.

Again.

Honestly, you'd lost track.

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

The brownies were long gone.

So was your coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did it again.

Slower this time.

Watching the pads of your fingers glide over your skin.

The sensation was oddly mesmerizing.

"...Huh."

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

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

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

The movie had simply...

Ended.

Without asking whether you were finished watching it.

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

You nudged the cursor toward the search bar.

Almost there...

Almost...

There.

Success.

Pleased with yourself, you started typing.

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

"...No."

You stared at the keyboard.

It stared back.

You frowned harder.

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

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

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

"...There."

That seemed much more manageable.

The second attempt at typing went considerably better.

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

A few clicks later, The Mummy filled your screen.

"There you are."

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

Which...

It immediately did.

Something clicked. Not loudly. Just...

Tick.

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

Silence.

Well... not silence. Never silence.

Your brow furrowed.

There.

Another one.

Tick... tick...

"...What..."

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

Not the hallway. Further.

Maybe one of the pipes?

No...

Too sharp.

The ventilation?

No.

Different.

You held your breath.

Tick.

Your eyes widened ever so slightly.

"...Has that always done that?"

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

Just...

Present.

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

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

Not rushing.

Just... moving.

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

"...Huh."

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

round?