i kinda feel like an orange ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 781 words
you feel like an orange and dean will do anything for you.
on his wrist ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 589 words
dean loves your simple, worn-out, black hair tie. it's awfully handy for your extracurricular activities.
cuddled confessions ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 407 words
dean doesn't cuddle. or so he says.
miniskirt ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 900
you're rocking a miniskirt and dean goes crazy! ⌗ teen!dean
voicemail ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 1.6k words
you and dean broke up, he tries to call you a couple of hours after.
two winchesters walk into a bar ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 5k words
making a quick stop at harvelle's has never been more fun
harder than heaven ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 630
you fell first. he fell harder.
handled with rage ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 1.5 words
you and dean are fighting and you make the mistake of slamming the impala's door.
responsible guy ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 6k words
dean is a true gentleman. a young man raised right. and boy does that do things to you!
never getting laid ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 1.1k words
you really should've thought better before getting involved with a hunter. or dean really should've thought better before crossing you. now he's forever cursed.
speed dial to trouble ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 635 words
you drunk dial dean and he drops everything to get you
little star ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 425 words
girl dad dean fluff where reader walks in to him singing to his daughter
santa’s little helper, dean’s big problem ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 410 words
you have to dress up for the case; dean wants to dress you down.
let me show you how ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 992 words
when you confess you’ve never touched yourself before, dean doesn’t laugh—he leans back against the headboard and talks you through it.
the ring thing ˗ˏˋ x ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 3.2k word
dean runs into you at a park, sees the ring, the kid, the life—and tries very hard not to want something that was never his.
in chronological order, but not necessarily in favorite order. this will be closest thing we'll ever get to a masterlist of all my works.
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Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singer’s house brings Natalie Guimet—an old childhood friend and constant from his time there—back into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds don’t fade with time—they wait.
Word Count: 12,293
Tags/Warnings: Mention of death, grief, old loss, guilt, 18+ implied smut/smut
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Eleven: Love As A Tether
Natalie swallowed hard.
Collector.
The word sat on the page like it had been waiting for her to find it. Not Master, not the name she had carried back from Nova Scotia with blood under her fingernails and stitches pulling tight across her stomach. Collector. Older. Plainer. Somehow worse because of that, because it made the thing sound less like a ruler and more like a function. A purpose. Something that did not simply possess souls by accident, or opportunity, or hunger, but gathered them because gathering was what it did.
Dean felt her go still beside him.
He looked from the book to her face, watching the color drain slightly from her cheeks. Beneath the table, his knee pressed more firmly against hers, and though he did not reach for her hand this time, the nearness of him steadied her anyway. Natalie kept her eyes on the faded handwriting, willing herself not to be thrown backward into that cold coastal house, into the ledger, into the Master’s calm voice explaining suffering like an inventory problem.
“Collector,” she said, the word barely above a whisper. “It was known before.”
Bobby leaned over the table, one hand braced beside the open book. His gaze sharpened behind his glasses, but he did not rush her, which told Dean he understood exactly how dangerous this moment felt. Not physically. Not like a monster lunging from the dark. More like the ground shifting under them after they had already survived one collapse. One wrong assumption could break a hunt wide open. One right word could do the same.
Sam, across the table, went very quiet.
Dean saw it happen—the sudden stillness, the flicker in his eyes, the way his mind caught on something and started tugging. Sam sat back slightly, brow furrowing, one hand already reaching toward a stack of books without quite touching them.
“Wait,” Sam said slowly. “I’ve seen that.”
Bobby’s head snapped toward him. “Seen what?”
“Something about a collector,” Sam said, voice gaining speed as memory started to arrange itself. “Not in connection with the Master. I didn’t think it had anything to do with this. It was in one of the older references, maybe not a hunter journal exactly—more like a translated account. I remember because it didn’t fit any category. It mentioned something that gathered the unjudged.”
Natalie’s breath caught.
Dean’s jaw tightened. “The unjudged?”
Sam nodded once, eyes unfocused as he searched backward through the mess of the morning. “Souls that hadn’t been received. Not ghosts, not damned, not ascended. The note made it sound like folklore, like some obscure afterlife superstition. I set it aside because I thought it was metaphorical.”
Bobby pointed toward the shelves immediately. “Go find it.”
Sam was already moving before the order finished landing. He pushed back from the table, nearly knocking his chair into the wall, and crossed the room with long, urgent strides. The earlier confusion over Bobby’s library system seemed forgotten now, replaced by the focused, relentless energy that made Sam so dangerous when he had a thread to follow. He pulled one book down, rejected it after a glance, grabbed another from a lower shelf, then crouched near the boxes Natalie had shifted earlier, digging through old notes and brittle paper with a care that somehow still looked frantic.
Dean watched him for only a second before turning back to Natalie.
She had not moved.
Her fingertips rested on the edge of the black book, but she wasn’t touching the ink itself, as though the page might burn her if she pressed too close. Dean could see the memory working through her, the way her expression had gone distant and tight. She had worn that same look when she spoke of Nova Scotia, when she described the Master letting her leave because fear traveled faster when carried by the living.
Bobby turned back to her too.
The gruffness had not left him, exactly, but it had settled into something more careful. “Natalie.”
She blinked, then looked up.
“This is information,” Bobby said.
It was simple. Deliberate. The kind of statement that might have sounded obvious from anyone else, but from Bobby it carried weight. He was not minimizing it. He was anchoring her to it.
Natalie swallowed. “It’s a name.”
“It’s more than you had yesterday.”
Dean nodded, keeping his voice low. “More than we had.”
Her eyes flicked toward him at the correction.
We.
Not you.
The word seemed to land where he meant it to, because some of the rigidity in her shoulders loosened. Not much, but enough. Dean let himself breathe a little easier.
Bobby tapped the table with two fingers, drawing her focus back. “You said the Master called itself that?”
Natalie shook her head slowly. “No. It never used that name. It let me call it the Master because that’s what the rumors called it. Or maybe because it liked the implication.” Her mouth tightened with disgust. “It talked like names were something other people needed. Like it was above them.”
“Of course it did,” Dean muttered. “Pretentious son of a bitch.”
Bobby gave him a look. “Helpful.”
Dean shrugged. “Accurate.”
Natalie almost smiled, but it faded quickly as her gaze dropped back to the page. “Collector feels older. Like something people called it before the stories got distorted.”
Bobby nodded slowly. “That happens. Names shift. Hunters mishear. Translators clean up things they don’t understand. One generation calls a thing a collector, next one calls it a master, next one calls it a god if it scares ’em bad enough.”
Dean hated that more than he wanted to admit.
Because Bobby was right.
Monsters grew in the telling. Sometimes the story got exaggerated. Sometimes it got softened. Sometimes the important part got buried under the part that sounded good around a bar table at two in the morning.
Sam’s voice carried from across the room. “Bobby, where do you keep the compiled death-route folktales?”
Bobby answered without turning around. “Third shelf from the bottom, behind the Campbell indexes.”
Sam paused. “There are four third shelves from the bottom depending on which stack you count.”
“Then count right.”
Dean closed his eyes. “This place is a nightmare.”
Natalie, despite everything, huffed out a small laugh.
Bobby pointed at her without looking away from the book. “Don’t you start. You found the damn thing in two minutes, you don’t get to complain.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking Sam’s doomed.”
From the shelves, Sam said, “I heard that.”
Dean called back, “She’s not wrong.”
“I also heard that.”
“Then find faster.”
Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience, then resumed digging.
The brief humor softened the room, but it did not break the tension. If anything, it made the silence afterward feel sharper. Natalie stared at the phrase again—collector beyond the gates—and felt the meaning begin to spread outward in her mind, touching every piece of information she had gathered over three years. The rumors of souls caught in transit. The stories of monsters guided toward specific kills. Missouri’s refusal to explain too much. The ledger in Nova Scotia. The Master’s calm amusement when she realized Leandro’s name was not lost, but held.
“What if Master was never a title?” she said.
Dean looked at her. “What do you mean?”
Natalie leaned closer to the book, thinking aloud now, assembling the possibility piece by piece. “What if people called it the Master because they saw monsters obeying it? Because it controlled them, directed them, used them. But that wasn’t what it was. That was just what people saw from the outside.”
Bobby’s expression sharpened with interest. “And underneath?”
“Collector,” Sam said from the shelves, voice distant but listening.
Natalie nodded. “Underneath, it collects. That’s the core of it. The monsters are just tools. The bargains are tools. The fear is a tool. But the souls are the point.”
Dean’s hand curled into a fist on the table.
He could not help it.
Every time she said it, he thought of Leandro. He thought of Natalie bleeding alone. He thought of every hunter who died believing the worst thing waiting was Hell, never knowing there might be something else crouched in the cracks with a ledger and a use for them.
Bobby saw his hand. Saw the anger in his face.
“Easy,” Bobby said.
Dean’s eyes flicked to him. “I’m easy.”
“You’re the opposite of easy.”
Natalie’s hand found Dean’s under the table then, her fingers sliding into his clenched fist until he let her open it. The touch was quiet, hidden by the table’s edge, but it did what she intended. Dean’s fingers loosened. He turned his hand and held hers instead.
Bobby pretended not to notice.
He did notice.
“This is what we needed,” Bobby said, voice firm enough to cut through the fear circling back into the room. “A second source. Not Missouri. Not that thing’s own mouth. A reference that predates your hunt.”
Natalie looked up at him. “But it doesn’t tell us how to stop it.”
“No,” Bobby said. “It tells us we’re not chasing smoke.”
The words struck her harder than she expected.
For three years, some part of her had feared exactly that. Even after Missouri. Even after the ledger. Even after the wound. There had still been a quiet, terrible voice in the back of her mind asking whether grief had made her see patterns where there were none. Whether the Master had merely played along with the shape of her desperation. Whether Leandro was truly trapped, or whether she had built a nightmare around the absence of answers.
But this book had been here.
In Bobby’s house.
Buried behind old death records and septic manuals and whatever other insanity made up Bobby Singer’s so-called system.
It had been waiting long before Natalie went north.
Long before the Master cut her open and sent her home with a message.
Dean leaned slightly toward her, his voice pitched low enough that it was meant mostly for her. “Hey.”
She looked at him.
His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand. “We’ve got a trail.”
Natalie nodded, but her throat felt tight. “Yeah.”
“And Sammy’s gonna find the other book.”
From across the room came an immediate, aggravated, “I’m trying.”
Dean did not look away from Natalie. “He’ll find it.”
Bobby grunted. “He better. Tall as he is, he can reach the stupid shelves I can’t.”
Sam emerged from behind a stack with dust in his hair and offense on his face. “I am useful for more than my height.”
“Prove it,” Bobby said.
Sam opened his mouth, then stopped. His gaze caught on something in the box beside his knee. Slowly, he reached down and pulled free a thin, water-damaged journal bound in cracked brown leather. A strip of paper stuck out from between the pages, marked in handwriting that was not Bobby’s.
The room went silent.
Sam looked at the journal.
Then at Natalie.
Then at Bobby.
“I think,” he said carefully, “I found it.”
Dean felt Natalie’s hand tighten around his.
Bobby straightened.
The morning seemed to hold its breath.
And for the first time since Nova Scotia, the Master—the Collector—felt less like a shadow waiting beyond the world and more like a thing with a history.
A thing that had been known.
A thing that had left marks.
And if it had left marks, then maybe, just maybe, it could be tracked.
Sam brought the journal to the table like he was carrying something breakable.
Nobody spoke while he crossed the room. Even Dean, who usually had a comment ready for everything, stayed quiet as Sam cleared a space between the black book and Bobby’s coffee mug. The journal looked unimpressive at first glance, thin and warped along the edges, its leather cover cracked from age and water damage. A faint line of mold had crept along one corner, and the pages had swollen unevenly, giving the whole thing the look of something rescued from a flood and then forgotten in a box by someone who had intended to deal with it later.
Bobby narrowed his eyes at it. “Where the hell’d you find that?”
Sam glanced back toward the shelves. “Bottom box under the Campbell indexes.”
Bobby frowned. “That ain’t where that goes.”
Dean stared at him. “That’s the part you’re worried about?”
“It has a place.”
Natalie gave him a look.
Bobby scowled. “It does.”
Sam ignored them, carefully loosening the strip of paper that marked the page. “This isn’t a formal grimoire. It reads more like a field journal, maybe late nineteenth century or early twentieth. Some of the spelling is inconsistent, and the notes switch between English and Latin in places.”
Bobby reached for the journal.
Sam slapped his hand lightly away before thinking better of it.
The room froze.
Bobby looked down at his hand, then up at Sam.
Dean slowly leaned back in his chair, eyes widening with appreciation and horror. “Oh, Sammy.”
Sam seemed to realize, one second too late, that he had just swatted Bobby Singer in Bobby Singer’s own house while holding one of Bobby Singer’s books.
“I just—your hands are greasy,” Sam said quickly.
Bobby’s expression went flat. “My hands are clean.”
“You were eating bacon.”
“Boy.”
Natalie covered her mouth, but her eyes betrayed her.
Sam turned the journal toward himself protectively. “I’ll read it.”
Bobby grunted, clearly deciding to postpone retaliation until after the apocalypse-adjacent research, which was very mature of him and therefore deeply suspicious.
Sam bent over the marked page, smoothing it with two fingers. “Okay. This section is titled De Colligente Ultra Limina.”
Natalie’s shoulders tightened. “The Collector Beyond the Thresholds.”
Sam glanced at her, impressed despite the circumstances. “Yeah.”
Dean looked between them. “Thresholds like gates?”
“Possibly,” Sam said. “Threshold can mean physical boundary, ritual boundary, spiritual boundary. In this context, it’s probably metaphysical.”
Dean stared at him.
Sam sighed. “It means between places.”
“I knew that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I got the gist.”
Bobby pointed toward the journal. “Read.”
Sam looked down again, the faint amusement fading from his face as he moved into the text. “It says the Collector is not a reaper, not a demon, not an angel, and not a god, though it has been mistaken for all four by people who didn’t survive long enough to correct themselves.”
The humor left the room at once.
Dean felt Natalie’s fingers tighten around his beneath the table, and this time he tightened back first. He watched her face as Sam read, saw the way she held herself carefully still, as though any movement might expose how badly the words were landing. The description matched too cleanly. Not angel. Not demon. Not god. Not anything neatly placed in the categories they knew. A thing defined by what it was not, which somehow made it feel larger.
Sam continued, voice lower now. “The writer claims the Collector appears where death is interrupted, but not by accident. It is drawn to moments of violent transition where will, fear, sacrifice, and unfinished purpose converge.”
Bobby’s face darkened.
“Hunters,” Dean said.
Sam nodded slowly. “Hunters would qualify. Soldiers too. Maybe anyone who dies in a moment where their soul is… actively resisting the crossing.”
Natalie closed her eyes for half a second.
Leandro.
Dean didn’t need to hear her say it.
Bobby did not sit down, but he leaned both hands on the back of a chair, his knuckles going pale around the wood. The thought had hit him too, and probably harder. Leandro pushing Bobby out of the way, Leandro dying mid-fight, Leandro’s last act not surrender but protection. If the journal was right, then Leandro had been exactly the kind of soul the Collector wanted.
Sam read on. “It does not steal every soul. It cannot. It requires a fracture.”
“A fracture in what?” Bobby asked.
Sam scanned ahead, then shook his head. “The text isn’t clear. It says fractura judicii—a fracture of judgment, maybe. Or judgment interrupted.”
Natalie opened her eyes. “Missouri said he hadn’t crossed cleanly.”
“Yeah,” Sam said softly. “That fits.”
Dean hated the way those words sounded. That fits. Like they were solving a puzzle instead of confirming that Natalie’s father had been trapped in some impossible spiritual no-man’s-land for most of her life. He knew Sam didn’t mean it coldly. Sam never did, not with things like this. But research had a way of making horror sound academic because sometimes that was the only way to survive looking at it straight.
Bobby swallowed hard and looked away toward the shelves.
Natalie saw it. Of course she did.
“Bobby,” she said quietly.
He shook his head once. Not dismissing her. Not angry. Just asking her not to comfort him yet, because comfort would make the guilt worse before it made anything better.
Sam turned the page carefully. “There’s more.”
Dean’s gaze snapped back to the journal.
“The Collector doesn’t own souls in the way demons claim ownership after a deal. It holds them in suspension and uses them as currency.”
Natalie’s voice came out thin. “Currency.”
Sam nodded, looking sick. “That’s the word. Currency, leverage, and anchor.”
Bobby looked back. “Anchor to what?”
Sam read silently for a moment, then frowned. “That part’s strange. It says the Collector cannot enter the ordered realms, but it can influence their borders. Souls held in suspension act like… weights, maybe. Points of pressure. The more it holds, the more it can widen the spaces between systems.”
Dean’s stomach turned. “In English.”
Natalie answered before Sam could. Her voice was quiet, but horrifyingly steady. “The more souls it collects, the more reach it has.”
Sam nodded.
Dean looked down at their joined hands. Natalie’s fingers felt cold now.
He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, a small attempt at warmth.
Bobby swore under his breath. “So it ain’t just hoardin’. It’s building somethin’.”
“Maybe,” Sam said. “Or maintaining something.”
Natalie’s gaze sharpened. “A territory.”
Everyone looked at her.
She stared at the table, but Dean could see that she wasn’t seeing the wood anymore. She was back in Nova Scotia, in that house, facing something that spoke as if Heaven and Hell were neighboring countries. “It talked about structures. Systems. Rules. Like Heaven and Hell were places with borders it could approach but not enter.”
Sam leaned forward. “If it can’t enter those realms, but can widen the cracks between them…”
“Then the border souls aren’t just trapped,” Natalie said. “They’re being used to hold the cracks open.”
Bobby’s mouth tightened. “Like stakes in the ground.”
The comparison made Dean’s skin crawl. He thought of the water spirit from the day before, bound to land and water, contained by old boundaries that could be broken and reset. He thought of Leandro’s soul not as a person, not as a father, not as someone Julia still loved and Natalie had chased across borders to find, but as something pinned in place to serve a function.
“No,” Dean said, the word coming out before he decided to say it.
Natalie looked at him.
He didn’t know what else to add. The refusal was useless. A reaction, not a plan. But it came from somewhere deep, somewhere furious and human. No, because Leandro was not a damn nail in some cosmic fence. No, because Natalie was not going to keep bleeding for this thing’s amusement. No, because if the universe had decided there were cracks where souls could fall through, then maybe the universe needed a Winchester with a crowbar.
Bobby seemed to understand the sentiment, because he did not call Dean on it.
Sam turned another page. “There’s a warning here.”
“Of course there is,” Dean muttered.
Sam ignored him. “It says the Collector cannot be compelled by the usual rites of exorcism, banishment, binding, angelic invocation, or demonic contract language. Its bargains are not contracts. They are exchanges of placement.”
Natalie’s brow furrowed. “Placement?”
Sam read the phrase again, lips moving silently as he worked through the Latin. “It may move a soul from one threshold to another. It may hide a soul from judgment. It may delay a crossing. But it doesn’t create ownership in the legalistic demonic sense.”
Dean gave him a look. “You’re saying demons have paperwork and this thing has a filing cabinet?”
Sam grimaced. “In a terrible, oversimplified way? Kind of.”
Bobby grunted. “I hate that I followed that.”
Natalie’s face had gone very pale.
Dean noticed immediately. “Nat?”
She pulled in a slow breath. “When I found Leandro’s name, it wasn’t just written down. It had markings next to it.”
“What kind of markings?” Sam asked.
Natalie closed her eyes, trying to picture the ledger without letting the whole memory swallow her. “Columns. Symbols. One looked like a gate. One looked like a hook or an anchor. And one was blank.”
Sam’s attention sharpened. “Blank how?”
“Like it hadn’t been assigned yet.”
Bobby’s expression tightened. “Assigned to what?”
Natalie shook her head. “I didn’t know. I didn’t exactly have time to study it after the Master walked in.”
Dean’s hand tightened around hers, anger flaring again at the casual reminder of how that encounter ended. He forced himself to breathe through it, because she was right here. Alive. Sitting beside him. Not bleeding out in that house. Not alone.
Sam flipped back one page, then forward again. “This journal mentions three states: held, anchored, and rendered.”
Dean frowned. “Rendered?”
Sam looked uncomfortable. “It doesn’t explain fully. But from context, I think rendered souls have been converted into power.”
The room went cold.
Natalie’s face went utterly still.
Dean knew exactly where her mind went. He went there too.
Leandro.
Bobby’s voice was low and dangerous. “Can we tell which one he is?”
Sam did not answer quickly, and that was answer enough.
Natalie’s fingers started to slip from Dean’s hand, as if she were retreating inward without meaning to. Dean caught them gently before she could pull away, not trapping her, just reminding her he was there. She looked at him, eyes bright with a fear she was trying so damn hard to master, and Dean shook his head once.
“We don’t know,” he said.
“But—”
“We don’t know,” he repeated, firmer this time. “And until we do, we don’t let that thing win twice by assuming the worst.”
Bobby looked at him sharply, and for one brief moment Dean wondered if he had overstepped. Then Bobby nodded, slow and rough, and looked back at Natalie.
“Dean’s right.”
Dean blinked. “Can somebody write that down?”
“Don’t ruin it,” Bobby snapped.
Sam actually laughed once, softly, and it helped. Not much, but enough to loosen the choking dread in the room by one notch.
Natalie let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Held, anchored, rendered.”
Sam tapped the journal. “The writer says held souls can still be released.”
The room went still again, but this time the silence changed.
Natalie looked up. “Released how?”
Sam read ahead, his brow furrowing. “It says a held soul may be restored to judgment if its tether is severed before anchoring completes.”
Bobby moved around the table quickly now, leaning over Sam’s shoulder. “What tether?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Find out.”
“I’m trying.”
Dean looked at Natalie, and for the first time since Sam opened the journal, he saw something like hope flicker in her face. Tiny. Terrified. Almost afraid to exist. But real.
Held souls can still be released.
The words had changed everything.
Sam kept reading, slower now, careful not to miss anything. “The tether is created at the moment of interrupted death, then reinforced by memory, grief, or unfinished intent. The Collector feeds the tether by drawing the living toward pursuit.”
Natalie’s expression shifted.
Dean felt the meaning land one second before she said it.
“Me,” she whispered.
Bobby went rigid.
Sam looked up.
Natalie stared at the journal, horror and understanding dawning together. “It wanted me to chase him. It knew I would. Missouri warned me because she knew. The Master let me leave because my grief was strengthening the tether.”
Dean’s blood ran cold.
“No,” he said immediately.
Natalie looked at him.
“That’s what it says, Dean.”
“I don’t care what it says.”
“Dean—”
“No.” He turned toward Sam. “There’s gotta be more. Some way around it.”
Sam was already scanning the next lines, eyes moving fast. “There might be. It says grief reinforces the tether, but so can recognition, naming, and ritual attention. That doesn’t mean Natalie caused it. It means the Collector manipulates the living into sustaining the connection.”
Bobby’s voice was harsh. “So it uses love.”
The words landed with a terrible simplicity.
Nobody contradicted him.
Natalie looked down at her hands. “That’s what it does.”
Dean felt a pulse of hatred so clean and hot it almost steadied him. The Collector didn’t only take souls. It weaponized the people left behind. Julia’s grief. Bobby’s guilt. Natalie’s desperate search. Maybe even Leandro’s final act of protection. It took love, the best thing people had, and turned it into a rope.
Natalie’s hand trembled in his.
Dean lifted it before thinking and pressed his mouth gently to her knuckles.
The gesture surprised the room into silence.
It surprised him too, a little, but he didn’t take it back. He kept his eyes on Natalie, not Bobby, not Sam, not the journal.
“You hear me?” he said quietly. “It used you. That’s not the same as you helping it.”
Natalie’s eyes filled, though she blinked hard against it.
Bobby cleared his throat roughly and looked away, pretending to study a bookshelf that had not moved.
Sam’s face softened, but he returned to the journal because giving Natalie something useful was probably kinder than staring at her pain.
“There’s a passage here about severing,” Sam said. “It’s damaged, but I can make out part of it. The tether can be weakened by confronting the false claim.”
Dean frowned. “False claim?”
Sam nodded slowly. “The Collector’s hold depends on an unresolved claim over the soul. A debt, a bargain, an interrupted purpose, something like that. If the claim is proven false or fulfilled outside the Collector’s control, the soul may be released.”
Natalie sat forward. “Leandro died saving Bobby.”
Bobby’s face tightened.
Sam nodded. “That may matter.”
“How?”
“If the Collector’s claim is based on interrupted purpose,” Sam said, thinking aloud now, “then maybe Leandro’s final intent was never incomplete. Maybe the Collector is treating his death like unfinished business because he died mid-fight, but his actual purpose in that moment was fulfilled. He saved Bobby.”
Bobby looked like he had been struck.
Natalie turned toward him.
For years, Bobby had carried Leandro’s death like a debt he could never repay. He had raised Natalie partly because of love, partly because of loyalty, and partly because guilt had sunk its teeth into him and refused to let go. Now Sam was suggesting that Bobby’s survival might not be the failure Bobby had always believed it to be.
It might be the proof that Leandro’s soul had no rightful claim against it.
Bobby’s mouth opened, then closed.
Dean watched him struggle, and for once, he did not crack a joke.
Natalie stood slowly, her chair scraping softly beneath her. “Bobby.”
He shook his head, eyes fixed on the table. “Don’t.”
She ignored him, because she was Natalie and because he needed to hear it whether he wanted to or not. “If Sam’s right, then you living is the reason my dad’s soul can be freed.”
Bobby’s face twisted.
“That ain’t how guilt works, kid.”
“No,” Natalie said softly. “But maybe it’s how truth works.”
The words broke something open in the room.
Bobby looked at her then, and Dean saw twenty years of grief sitting behind the older man’s eyes. Leandro’s death. Julia’s widowhood. Natalie at five years old, sitting at a kitchen table with her feet not touching the floor. Bobby had built half his life after that around the belief that Leandro died because he failed him. But if Leandro’s last choice had succeeded, if Bobby’s life was not evidence of failure but evidence of love completed, then the Collector’s hold was not only cruel.
It was fraudulent.
Sam looked back down at the journal, his voice careful. “We still need more. A lot more. But this gives us a direction.”
Dean squeezed Natalie’s hand once more, then looked at Bobby. “We prove Leandro finished what he set out to do.”
Bobby swallowed hard.
“And then,” Dean continued, his voice going colder, “we make the Collector let him go.”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Then Bobby drew in a rough breath, wiped a hand over his face, and straightened.
“All right,” he said, voice gruff and uneven. “Then we find every damn thing this journal’s got.”
Natalie nodded, eyes wet but steady.
Sam turned the fragile page with reverent care.
Dean stayed close to Natalie, his shoulder pressed to hers, his hand still wrapped around hers beneath the edge of the table.
The Collector had a history.
It had methods.
It had rules.
And for the first time, it also had a weakness.
Bobby was the first one to move.
Not much. Just enough to break whatever spell had settled over the room after Sam’s last words. He drew in a rough breath, dragged one hand down over his beard, and looked at the journal on the table as if it had personally reached across twenty years and punched him in the chest.
“Sam,” he said, voice gruff and clipped. “Gather everything you can from that. Every line, every translation, every reference. Cross-check it with the black book and anything else we got on interrupted crossings, reapers, unjudged souls, whatever the hell category this thing thinks it belongs in.”
Sam nodded immediately. “Yeah. I’m on it.”
“And don’t assume the translation’s clean.”
“I won’t.”
“Especially not with threshold language.”
“I know.”
Bobby gave him a look.
Sam sighed. “I’ll be careful.”
“Good.” Bobby stood there another second, jaw working like he wanted to say something else and couldn’t trust what might come out if he tried. His eyes flicked to Natalie, then away just as quickly, and that small avoidance somehow said more than any speech could have. “I need a minute.”
No one stopped him.
He turned and walked out through the back door, letting it swing shut behind him with a soft wooden clap that sounded too quiet for the weight he carried with him.
Natalie remained where she was, one hand still resting on the back of the chair, her gaze fixed on the door. The instinct to follow him rose at once, but so did the old fear of making it worse. Bobby was a man who loved fiercely and retreated roughly. He had raised her with engine grease on his hands, sarcasm in his mouth, and worry tucked behind every grumbled order to eat, sleep, or stop being an idiot. When he walked away, sometimes it meant he needed space. Sometimes it meant he needed someone to ignore the fact that he needed someone.
Dean seemed to read that hesitation in her.
He stepped close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. “Go.”
Natalie looked at him.
Dean’s expression had softened, but his voice stayed certain. “He needs you.”
Her throat tightened. “What if he doesn’t want to talk?”
“He probably doesn’t.” A faint, sad smile crossed Dean’s face. “Go anyway.”
Natalie stared at the door for one more heartbeat. Then she nodded and followed Bobby outside.
The backyard was bright with late morning sun, but the warmth felt muted after the dim, dust-thick weight of the house. Bobby stood near the edge of the junkyard with his back to her, hands planted on his hips, cap tilted low as he stared out over the rows of rusted cars and old metal. He looked smaller out there than he ever did inside, which was strange, because Bobby Singer was not a man anyone with sense would call small. But grief had a way of doing that. It bent people inward, even the stubborn ones.
Natalie stopped a few feet away.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The wind moved through the junkyard, rattling something loose in one of the stacked cars. Somewhere overhead, a bird called once and then fell silent. The world kept going with insulting ease, as if it had not just handed Bobby a possible answer to a wound he had carried for twenty years.
Bobby did not turn around, but he knew she was there.
Of course he did.
“You didn’t have to come out,” he said.
Natalie wrapped her arms around herself, not from cold, but from the old instinct to hold herself together. “I know.”
“Dean send you?”
A tiny smile touched her mouth despite everything. “A little.”
Bobby huffed. “Figures.”
“He said you needed me.”
That made Bobby go quiet.
Natalie watched the back of him, the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed once against his belt before stilling. She knew that movement. She had seen it when she was ten and he found her crying over one of Leandro’s old shirts. She had seen it when she was sixteen and her prom date never showed. She had seen it when she left for Nova Scotia and he let her go because she had been an adult, technically, even though neither of them had believed that made it easier.
Bobby finally turned his head slightly, not enough to face her fully. “You were so damn little.”
The words caught her off guard.
She blinked. “What?”
“When Julia brought you here after Leandro died.” His voice was low, rough with memory. “Or hell, maybe I brought you. Don’t even remember it clean anymore. Everything from back then’s all mixed up.” He swallowed, eyes still on the junkyard. “You had these little shoes with flowers on ’em. Mud all over the toes, because you wouldn’t stop wanderin’ out to look at the cars.”
Natalie’s breath caught softly. She did not remember the shoes, but she remembered the shape of those early days in pieces. Bobby’s house feeling too big. Her mother crying when she thought Natalie was asleep. The smell of coffee. The clank of tools. A man who did not know what to do with a grieving child and did it anyway.
Bobby’s jaw worked.
“You’d lost your father, and I stood there thinkin’ I had no damn business tryin’ to help raise anybody. I couldn’t even keep my own life from turnin’ into a pile of ash.” His mouth twisted. “But then you looked at me like I was supposed to know what came next.”
Natalie’s eyes stung.
“So I pretended I did.”
She stepped closer, slowly. “Bobby.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You were five. Then you were six, insistin’ on campin’ in my backyard like a thunderstorm was gonna take orders from you. Then you were ten, bringin’ Dean outta whatever hole John had shoved him into that week. Then you were sixteen, sittin’ in that damn dress in my yard, tryin’ not to cry because some idiot boy didn’t know what he’d stood up.”
Natalie looked down, a faint, aching smile passing across her face.
“And now look at you,” Bobby said, finally turning enough to face her. His eyes were red-rimmed, though he would probably blame the wind if she mentioned it. “Grown woman. Hunter. Scarred up. Stubborn as hell. Standing here tellin’ me that maybe the worst thing I ever carried wasn’t what I thought it was.”
Natalie held his gaze.
The silence stretched again, but this time it was not empty.
Bobby looked back toward the junkyard, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter. “I built a lot on that guilt.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it.” He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck, looking suddenly exhausted. “I took care of you because I loved your father. Because I loved your mother in the way you love a friend’s family after he’s gone. Because you were just a kid and someone had to.” He paused. “But there was guilt in it too.”
Natalie nodded, even though the admission hurt. “I know that too.”
His eyes cut to her.
She stepped fully beside him now, standing shoulder to shoulder as they looked across the yard together. “You think I didn’t know? Bobby, I grew up in this house. I knew when you were helping because you loved me, and I knew when you were helping because you were trying to answer for something that wasn’t your fault.”
Bobby’s face tightened. “It was my fault.”
“No,” she said, quiet but firm.
He looked at her sharply.
Natalie did not flinch. “No. If what Sam read is right, then my father died doing exactly what he meant to do. He saved you.”
“That don’t make it better.”
“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t. It doesn’t make him less dead. It doesn’t give my mother back the life she should’ve had with him. It doesn’t give me the father I lost.” Her voice trembled, but she kept going. “But it means his last choice mattered.”
Bobby looked away, eyes shining with something he was fighting hard not to let fall.
Natalie turned toward him. “And you living because of him isn’t proof that you failed him. It’s proof that he succeeded.”
The words landed hard.
Bobby closed his eyes.
For a moment, he looked like he might argue. Natalie could almost see the old reflex rising in him, that instinctive rejection of comfort because guilt had lived in him so long it had begun to feel like loyalty. Then his shoulders sagged, just slightly, and the fight went out of him in a way that made her heart ache.
“Damn you,” he muttered.
Natalie let out a wet little laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
“You sound like Missouri.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Wasn’t meant as one.”
“Yes, it was.”
Bobby huffed, but there was no bite in it.
They stood there a while longer, looking out over the junkyard that had held so many versions of them. A grieving child. A reluctant surrogate father. Two reckless kids becoming best friends under storms and moonlight. A young woman leaving for Nova Scotia with too many secrets. A grown woman coming home with scars, answers, and more fear than she knew what to do with.
Bobby finally spoke again.
“I should’ve told you more.”
Natalie’s throat tightened. “Maybe.”
He glanced at her.
She gave him honesty, because after everything, he deserved that much. “I understand why you didn’t. But yes. Maybe if I’d known more, I would’ve looked differently. Maybe I would’ve brought you in sooner. Maybe I wouldn’t have gone alone.”
Pain crossed his face.
“I ain’t ever gonna forgive myself for that.”
“Bobby—”
“No.” He shook his head. “Let me have that one.”
Natalie studied him, then sighed softly. “Fine. But don’t make it bigger than mine.”
That startled him into looking at her.
She folded her arms. “I’m the one who went alone. I’m the one who didn’t call. I’m the one who thought I could face something outside Heaven and Hell because grief made me arrogant.”
“Grief made you desperate,” Bobby corrected.
“Same neighborhood,” she said, and that earned the smallest twitch of his mouth.
He looked back toward the house, where Dean and Sam were just barely visible through the window, bent over books at the table. Dean was not reading. He was watching the yard, because of course he was. Sam, beside him, appeared to be pretending not to notice.
Bobby saw it too.
“He loves you,” he said gruffly.
Natalie’s heart warmed and ached at once. “Yeah.”
“You love him.”
She smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
Bobby nodded, though his expression carried the complicated strain of a man watching two children he had helped raise step into something that could either steady them or destroy them, depending on how cruel the world decided to be. “That boy’s got more heart than sense.”
“I know.”
“He’ll throw himself in front of anything for you.”
“I know that too.”
“Don’t let him.”
Natalie looked at him.
Bobby’s voice dropped. “And don’t you do it for him neither.”
She thought of her conversation with Dean in the junkyard that morning, the promises they had made about no demon deals, no solo hunts, no noble sacrifices dressed up as love. “We talked about that.”
“Good.” Bobby grunted. “Talk again. He’s a Winchester. Takes more than once for sense to stick.”
Natalie laughed softly.
Then, after a moment, she reached for Bobby’s hand.
He looked down in surprise when her fingers curled around his.
For one second he seemed frozen, as awkward with tenderness as he had ever been. Then his hand closed around hers, rough and warm and familiar.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Natalie said.
Bobby swallowed. “You oughta be.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She smiled sadly. “I know.”
He squeezed her hand once, then released it before the moment could become too much for either of them. His eyes returned to the junkyard, but his voice, when it came, was softer than before.
“We’re gonna find him.”
Natalie’s breath caught.
Bobby glanced at her. “Leandro. We’re gonna find out what happened. We’re gonna prove that bastard’s claim is false, or whatever fancy words Sam wants to use. And if there’s a way to get your father where he belongs, we’ll do it.”
Her eyes filled again, but this time she did not hide it.
“And if there isn’t?” she whispered.
Bobby’s face tightened, but he did not lie to her. “Then we’ll face that too.”
Natalie nodded, because that was the only honest answer.
He turned toward her more fully then, and for a moment the gruff hunter fell away enough for her to see the man who had crouched in front of a five-year-old girl and told her she would always have a place with him.
“But you listen to me,” Bobby said. “Your father’s soul matters. What happened to him matters. But you are not a payment. You hear me?”
Natalie’s lips trembled.
“You don’t pay for the dead with the livin’,” he continued, voice roughening. “Not with your life. Not with Dean’s. Not with mine. Not with anybody’s.”
She nodded once. “I hear you.”
“Good.”
A beat passed.
Then Bobby cleared his throat and turned back toward the house, gruffness dragging itself back over him like armor. “Now come on. Before those idjits misread Latin and summon somethin’ stupid in my kitchen.”
Natalie laughed, wiping quickly at her cheek. “Sam wouldn’t.”
“Dean would distract him.”
“That’s fair.”
They started toward the house together, steps slow at first, then steadier. Through the window, Dean’s head lifted the second they moved, his attention snapping to Natalie with such open concern that Bobby let out a low snort.
Natalie glanced over. “What?”
“Nothin’.”
“Bobby.”
He shook his head. “Just thinkin’ your father would’ve liked that boy.”
Natalie stopped.
Bobby kept walking for two more steps before realizing she was no longer beside him. He turned back, brows raised.
She stared at him, heart caught somewhere between grief and joy. “You think so?”
Bobby looked toward the window again, where Dean was now pretending to read while very obviously monitoring them. A smile tugged faintly beneath Bobby’s beard.
“Leandro liked stubborn idiots with good hearts,” he said. “Explains why he put up with me.”
Natalie let out a shaky laugh.
Bobby opened the back door and stepped inside first, voice rising immediately. “All right, what’d you two break while we were gone?”
From the table, Dean looked offended. “Nothing!”
Sam lifted a hand. “A pencil.”
Dean pointed at him. “Traitor.”
Natalie followed Bobby inside, the ache in her chest still there, still deep, but no longer quite so lonely.
For the first time in years, talking about her father did not feel like opening a wound in the dark.
It felt like bringing him home.
The rest of the day disappeared into paper.
Not cleanly. Not neatly. There was no single revelation that solved everything, no one passage that made the Collector suddenly understandable. Instead, the truth came in fragments, scattered across books that had no business knowing about one another. A water-damaged field journal. Bobby’s black-bound volume with the French notes tucked in the back. A brittle collection of nineteenth-century death customs from the northern Atlantic. A hunter’s private correspondence copied in shaky handwriting, then shoved between two unrelated volumes as if even the person who saved it had not known what to do with what they had found.
Sam found the first cross-reference a little before lunch, buried in an old account from a hunter who had investigated a cluster of deaths near Quebec. Natalie found the second half an hour later, not in the main text of a book, but in the handwritten correction some unknown researcher had scrawled in the margin after disagreeing violently with the translator. Bobby found a third while swearing at a stack of papers that had tried to collapse on his foot. Dean, who complained loudly that half of Bobby’s books were written by lunatics with terrible penmanship, still managed to uncover a mention of “souls used as posts along unclaimed roads,” which silenced the room so completely that even he stopped pretending not to be shaken.
By noon, Sam had dragged a clean notebook to the center of the table and declared that they needed one place to compile everything before the information scattered across Bobby’s house swallowed itself again. Bobby objected to the implication that his library was anything less than functional, Natalie pointed out that one of the relevant documents had been sitting behind a manual on septic tanks, and Dean helpfully added that the septic tank manual had at least been written in English. Bobby told him to shut up and sharpen pencils.
So they built the notebook together.
Sam wrote the cleanest notes, because of course he did. Dates, sources, names, alternate translations, possible meanings. His handwriting stayed steady even when the subject matter turned uglier. Natalie handled the terms that did not translate cleanly, especially the ones that seemed to orbit border language: threshold, crossing, judgment, held, anchored, rendered. Bobby drew arrows between concepts with the grim authority of a man who trusted a good diagram more than a paragraph, and Dean made blunt little additions in the margins whenever the others got too academic.
Collector likes loopholes.
Doesn’t own souls. Uses them.
Love = tether? Gross. Kill it.
Natalie saw that last note and stared at it for a long moment, her mouth tightening as if she could not decide whether to laugh or cry.
Dean noticed. He always noticed. “You okay?”
She nodded, but it was the sort of nod that only meant she had not fallen apart yet. “I hate that it makes sense.”
Dean looked at the note, then back at her. His expression shifted, anger and tenderness colliding in that familiar way of his. “Then we use it against the son of a bitch.”
Bobby grunted from the other side of the table. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.”
Dean pointed at him without looking away from Natalie. “I’ve said at least three sensible things.”
“Name two.”
Dean opened his mouth, then frowned. “Not the point.”
Sam, without lifting his head, said, “One of them was probably ‘pass the bacon.’”
Natalie laughed despite herself, and for a few brief seconds the room loosened. It needed those seconds. They all did. The day kept pressing down on them, page after page, discovery after discovery, and without those little interruptions of family irritation and tired humor, the weight of the research would have crushed the air out of Bobby’s house.
Lunch was sandwiches eaten over open books, because no one had the patience to clear the table properly. Bobby made Natalie take the thickest one and did not even pretend he was not watching her eat. She gave him the same warning look as before, but this time there was less bite behind it, and he answered with a gruff little lift of his brows that said he knew exactly how much he could push before she snapped. Dean slid a bag of chips toward her without comment. Sam, who noticed both gestures, wisely kept his eyes on the notebook and his mouth shut.
By midafternoon, the picture had grown clearer and worse.
The Collector did not simply wait for souls to fall into the cracks. It engineered cracks where it could. It guided monsters, manipulated timing, and fed on unfinished purpose the way some things fed on blood. It did not need every violent death. It needed the right ones. Deaths with force behind them. Deaths charged with sacrifice, panic, devotion, refusal. A hunter throwing himself between a monster and a friend. A mother dying before she could protect her child. A soldier refusing to retreat. A lover turning back when every instinct screamed to run.
Dean went very still when Sam read that part aloud.
Natalie did too.
Nobody mentioned Mary Winchester.
Nobody needed to.
Dean stared at the table, jaw clenched so hard Natalie could see the muscle jumping near his cheek. She reached beneath the table and touched his knee, not to distract him, not to soothe something that old with one touch, but to remind him that he was not alone in the room with the memory. His hand found hers immediately, rough and warm, and he held on so tightly she knew exactly where his mind had gone.
Sam noticed, and his voice softened as he moved on.
Bobby noticed too, but his face had already gone dark with another grief.
Leandro.
Every useful passage led back to him eventually. Not by name, not always, but by shape. A hunter dying mid-fight. A final act completed in body but disrupted in spirit. A soul taken at the instant when will and sacrifice were strongest. Each time the research circled that truth, Bobby seemed to grow heavier in his chair. He did not break. Bobby Singer did not break where people could see him if he could help it. But by late afternoon, his voice had gone rough enough that Natalie stopped pretending not to hear it.
“This doesn’t mean it was your fault,” she said quietly after Sam read a passage about “borrowed guilt strengthening a tether through the living witness.”
Bobby’s eyes lifted to hers.
The room paused around them.
Natalie held his gaze. “If anything, it means the Collector used what you felt afterward.”
Bobby looked down at the table, his hand resting near the notebook but not touching it. “Don’t know that that’s better.”
“No,” she admitted. “It isn’t better.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, expression hard. “It means it’s a parasite.”
Sam nodded slowly. “That’s actually not a bad way to put it.”
Dean looked offended. “Why do you always sound surprised when I’m useful?”
“Experience,” Sam said.
Dean glared at him.
Natalie almost smiled, but Bobby did not. His gaze stayed on the open page, on the ugly little phrase Sam had translated three different ways and disliked more each time.
The living remember. The Collector fastens.
Bobby dragged a hand over his beard. “So every time I blamed myself—”
Natalie’s voice cut in, gentle but firm. “No.”
He looked at her.
“No,” she repeated. “We are not doing that.”
His mouth twisted. “Kid—”
“The Collector does not get to make your love for my father into evidence against you.” Her voice shook on the last words, but she did not back away from them. “It doesn’t get that.”
Dean looked at her then, and the pride in his face was so naked it nearly undid her.
Bobby sat there for a long moment, absorbing it badly, because Bobby absorbed kindness the way some men absorbed punches—by pretending they had not landed until the bruise showed later. Finally, he gave one short nod and looked back at the notebook.
“Write it down,” he muttered.
Sam blinked. “What?”
“That.” Bobby pointed at the page. “Collector uses memory and guilt to reinforce tethers. But if the claim’s false, there’s gotta be a way to challenge it. Write that down.”
Sam wrote it down.
Dinner came later than it should have, and by then none of them had the energy for anything complicated. Bobby reheated leftovers and opened cans of whatever looked least expired. Dean made a half-hearted complaint about the lack of burgers, but Natalie bumped her shoulder into his and told him he could survive one meal without red meat. Dean informed her this was medically unproven. Sam said, without looking up from the notebook, that Dean’s cholesterol would probably appreciate the break. Bobby told all of them to eat before he threw the pan at someone.
They ate in the middle of the research again.
By then the notebook had become something almost sacred. A map of horror, yes, but also a map of possibility. Sam had divided it into sections: known names, reported behaviors, soul states, tether mechanics, possible weaknesses, unresolved questions. Natalie had added a page for Leandro specifically, though writing his name at the top had taken her longer than she expected. She had stared at the blank line until Dean’s hand settled at the back of her chair, steady and silent, and only then had she written it.
Leandro Guimet.
Held or anchored unknown.
Claim basis unknown.
Final act: saved Bobby Singer from fatal attack.
Possible challenge: final intent fulfilled.
When Bobby saw it, he got up without a word and went into the kitchen. They heard the refrigerator open, then close. A bottle cap hit the counter. Nobody followed him that time. He came back a minute later with a beer in hand and eyes that looked suspiciously bright, then sat down and told Sam his column headings were too damn neat.
Sam accepted that for the emotional deflection it was.
The worst discovery came after dinner.
It was Natalie who found it, buried in one of the French notes tucked behind the black-bound book. The passage had been copied from an older source, probably translated twice before it landed in Bobby’s house, but the meaning survived well enough to turn her hands cold.
She read it once.
Then again.
Dean saw her face change. “Nat?”
She did not answer immediately.
Bobby sat forward. “What is it?”
Natalie swallowed. “It says anchored souls can still be aware.”
The room went so quiet that the ticking clock sounded obscene.
Sam reached for the note carefully, his eyes scanning the passage. His expression tightened with every line. “It says awareness varies. Held souls are suspended, often unaware of duration. Anchored souls may experience memory loops, emotional echoes, or impressions from the living tether.”
Bobby’s chair creaked under his grip.
Dean’s stomach turned.
Natalie stared at the paper until the words blurred. “So if my father’s anchored—”
“We don’t know that he is,” Dean said immediately.
“But if he is—”
“We don’t know.”
She looked at him, eyes shining now, grief breaking past the control she had held all day. “Dean.”
He stopped, because she was right to be afraid and he could not protect her from the possibility by refusing to say it aloud.
If Leandro was anchored, he might know.
He might know time had passed.
He might feel Julia’s grief. Bobby’s guilt. Natalie’s desperate search for him. He might have been trapped for two decades in the echo of the last thing he ever did, not suffering exactly, not damned, but not free either. Held in place by love turned into rope.
Bobby stood so abruptly his chair slammed backward. “Damn it.”
The words cracked through the room.
Natalie flinched, but Bobby was not angry at her. He was staring at the page like he wanted to burn it and could not because they needed it. His breath came rough, his face flushed with helpless rage.
“That son of a bitch,” he said, voice low and shaking. “That goddamn son of a bitch.”
Sam looked down, giving him the dignity of not being watched too closely.
Dean looked at Natalie.
Natalie looked at Bobby.
For a moment, all the research stopped being research. It stopped being translations, categories, and possible ritual mechanics. It became a man named Leandro who had laughed in Bobby’s kitchen, taught him how to track a thing through bad weather, loved Julia, carried his daughter on his shoulders, and died pushing his friend out of the way.
It became personal again.
Maybe it had never stopped being personal.
Natalie rose slowly and crossed to Bobby. She did not touch him at first. She had learned that much from him. Instead, she stood beside him, close enough that he could feel she was there, and looked down at the page with him.
“We don’t know,” she said, echoing Dean now.
Bobby’s jaw worked.
“We don’t know,” she repeated. “And until we do, we don’t let it make us imagine every possible way it could hurt him.”
Bobby let out a rough, humorless breath. “That advice you plannin’ on takin’ yourself?”
Natalie’s mouth trembled. “Trying.”
He looked at her then, and the anger in his face broke into something far more painful. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
Dean rose as well, not crowding either of them, but unable to sit still with Natalie hurting that badly. Sam stayed seated, one hand resting on the notebook, grounding the work because someone had to.
After a while, Bobby picked up his chair and sat back down.
Nobody commented.
They worked another hour after that, but exhaustion had begun to make everything harder. Words blurred. Translations tangled. Dean read the same paragraph three times and still had no idea what it said beyond the fact that it made him want to hit something. Sam’s notes grew less tidy. Bobby’s temper shortened. Natalie’s composure thinned until every mention of Leandro’s possible state felt like fingers pressing into an open bruise.
Finally, Sam closed the journal with care.
“We need to stop for tonight.”
Dean looked ready to argue on principle, but one glance at Natalie stopped him.
Bobby did not argue either.
That alone said enough.
The notebook lay in the middle of the table, thicker now with inserted pages, copied passages, rough diagrams, and a growing list of questions they could not yet answer. It did not give them a way to defeat the Collector. Not yet. It did not tell them whether Leandro was held, anchored, or something worse. It did not promise that he could be freed.
But it gave them more than they had that morning.
A name older than Master.
A function.
A method.
A possible weakness.
And a truth that changed the shape of Bobby’s oldest guilt: Leandro’s final act had not failed. Bobby had lived because Leandro saved him. If the Collector claimed otherwise, then the claim was a lie.
Natalie sat back in her chair, drained to the bone, and looked at the notebook through tired eyes.
Dean’s hand slid into hers.
This time she clung to him openly.
Bobby saw it and did not tease. Sam saw it and did not smile. The room was too raw for that, too full of ghosts that were not ghosts and grief that had been opened too many times in one day.
Bobby rubbed both hands over his face, then let them fall heavily to the table.
“All right,” he said, voice worn down but steady. “We sleep. Tomorrow, we keep diggin’.”
Natalie nodded.
Dean squeezed her hand.
Sam carefully stacked the most important books beside the notebook, as though arranging them neatly could give shape to the chaos of what they had learned.
Outside, night settled over Sioux Falls and Bobby’s junkyard, covering rusted cars and old paths and the tent-shaped memories of childhood beneath darkness. Inside, four hunters sat around a table with too much knowledge and not enough answers, bound together by love, guilt, fear, and the stubborn refusal to let the Collector have the final word.
For now, that refusal was all they had.
For tonight, it would have to be enough.
One by one, the house emptied.
Sam was the first to give in, though not without stacking the most important books into a careful pile beside the notebook and marking three places with scraps of paper torn from an old receipt. He looked like he wanted to keep going, because Sam Winchester had never met a terrible supernatural mystery he did not believe could be solved through stubbornness and sleep deprivation, but even he had reached the end of what his mind could hold. He said good night quietly, squeezed Natalie’s shoulder as he passed her chair, and gave Dean one of those long brother looks that said several things at once.
Take care of her.
Take care of yourself.
Don’t be stupid.
Dean gave him a small nod.
Bobby lingered longer, because Bobby always lingered when worry had him by the throat. He checked the locks even though everyone knew they were already locked. He grumbled about leaving books on the table even though he was the one who told them not to move anything. He looked at Natalie twice like he wanted to say something else about Leandro, about the Collector, about the fact that her father might have liked Dean, but whatever words he found were too large for the hour and too raw for the room.
So he only touched the back of her chair once as he passed.
“Sleep,” he said gruffly.
Natalie looked up at him, exhausted and soft-eyed. “You too.”
Bobby snorted. “Bossy.”
“You raised me.”
“Apparently I made mistakes.”
She smiled faintly, and that was enough for him. He gave Dean one sharp look, not teasing this time, not warning exactly either. More like trust wrapped in threat because that was the only language Bobby could stand to use when something mattered too much. Then he went down the hall to his room, and after a moment his door shut.
The kitchen fell quiet.
Dean and Natalie stayed where they were.
Neither of them spoke at first. The notebook sat in the middle of the table, closed now, but still heavy with everything they had forced into it. The Collector’s older name. The border souls. The possibility that Leandro had been held not because his final act failed, but because something cruel had lied about the meaning of sacrifice and fed on the grief left behind. The day had taken them apart piece by piece, then left them sitting in the wreckage with too many truths and not enough answers.
Dean’s hand was still wrapped around Natalie’s.
His thumb moved slowly over her knuckles, again and again, a small rhythm in the silence. He did not seem aware of doing it at first. His gaze rested on their joined hands, his expression drawn with grief and exhaustion and the kind of fear he had spent most of his life turning into anger because anger was easier to survive.
Natalie watched him watch her hand.
She could feel the tremor beneath the steadiness of his touch.
Not strong. Not obvious.
But there.
“Dean,” she said softly.
He looked up.
The rawness in his eyes stole whatever else she might have said.
All day, they had talked about souls and tethers, about love being used as a trap, about what the Collector did with people who died before judgment could take hold. But beneath every word, every translation, every ugly line of lore, Dean had been carrying one simple image: Natalie on a floor in Nova Scotia, bleeding, alone, nearly gone before he ever knew she needed him.
His hand tightened around hers.
“I keep thinking about it,” he admitted, voice low.
She did not ask what.
She knew.
Dean swallowed, jaw shifting as he tried to force the words through the place where fear had lodged itself. “How close it was.”
Natalie’s throat tightened.
He looked down again, thumb brushing over her knuckles with aching care. “You were lying there, and it just… let you leave. Like your life was nothing. Like it could decide whether you got to come home.”
The words landed quietly, but Natalie heard the fury beneath them. The helplessness too. That was the part he hated most. Not the danger. Not even the blood. Dean could face danger. Dean could face blood. But the idea that she had almost vanished from the world while he was somewhere else, unaware and unreachable, had shaken something deep in him.
“I did come home,” she whispered.
Dean looked back at her, and his face softened with so much relief that it hurt to see. “Yeah.”
His thumb stilled.
“I’m really damn glad you did.”
Natalie’s eyes stung.
The day had stripped her down too. Not only because of the Collector. Not only because of Leandro. But because Bobby’s words had stayed with her long after he said them in the yard, settling somewhere tender she had not known was waiting to be touched.
Your father would’ve liked that boy.
Bobby probably did not know what that had done to her.
Maybe he could not know.
Leandro had been a story most of her life, a warmth remembered through Julia’s grief, through Bobby’s guilt, through photographs and old shirts and the shape of absence at every important moment. Her father had not watched her grow up. He had not met the friends who became family. He had not seen Dean Winchester stumble into her life as a bruised little boy with too much responsibility and somehow become the man she loved.
But Bobby had known him.
Bobby had known Leandro’s laugh, his temper, his instincts, his measure of people.
And Bobby believed Leandro would have liked Dean.
The knowledge settled in Natalie’s chest like a blessing she had not realized she needed.
“He said my father would’ve liked you,” she said.
Dean blinked, surprised by the turn. “Bobby?”
Natalie nodded.
Dean looked almost uncomfortable, as though the idea mattered too much to receive easily. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He huffed softly, glancing down at the table. “Well. Your dad had questionable taste in friends if he liked Bobby.”
Natalie laughed, but it broke halfway into something quieter. Dean looked up immediately, worry sharpening in his face, and she shook her head before he could ask.
“It just meant a lot,” she said. “More than Bobby knows, I think.”
Dean’s expression changed.
He understood then.
Maybe not the exact shape of it, but enough. Enough to know that for Natalie, loving him had always carried ghosts with it. Julia’s grief. Leandro’s absence. The fear that love in their world always ended with someone left behind. To be told that her father, the man whose death had shaped her whole life, might have approved of Dean—might have liked him, trusted him, seen the good in him—was not a small thing.
Dean lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.
Natalie’s breath caught.
The gesture was tender enough to undo the last of the distance between them.
For a long moment, they only looked at each other across the scarred kitchen table, the closed notebook between them like the dark road waiting tomorrow. But the hour was late, and exhaustion had thinned the walls they usually kept around themselves. There was no room left for deflection. No room for jokes. No room for fear pretending to be practicality.
There was only the truth.
Dean stood first.
He did not tug her up. Did not assume.
He only held her hand and waited.
Natalie looked at him, saw the question in his eyes, and answered by rising from her chair.
They left the kitchen lights burning low behind them.
The walk upstairs felt different from the night before. Last night had been full of uncertainty, the awkward sweetness of two people learning how to share a bed without crossing a line they were not ready to cross. Tonight was quieter. Heavier. Not rushed, not feverish, but certain in a way that settled deep beneath the skin.
At his door, Dean paused and looked at her.
“You sure?” he asked.
Natalie’s heart squeezed at the question, at the steadiness of it, at the way he still gave her the choice even now, after everything they had said and survived and admitted.
She stepped closer, her free hand resting against his chest. “Yes.”
Dean searched her face for another heartbeat.
Then he nodded once and opened the door.
Inside, the room was dim and familiar, lit only by the faint moonlight at the curtains and the soft spill from the hallway before Dean closed the door behind them. His duffel still sat near the bed. His jacket still hung over the chair. The room still looked like Dean in all the small, chaotic ways Natalie had already started to love openly instead of privately.
Dean turned back to her.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Natalie reached for him.
That broke whatever fragile distance remained.
Dean kissed her slowly, his hands coming to her with care rather than urgency. Her waist. Her back. The side of her face. Each touch asked and answered at once, and Natalie gave herself permission to lean into all of it, to feel the warmth of him without flinching away from what it meant. He held her like someone grateful, like someone afraid, like someone who had almost learned too late that love was not made safer by being denied.
She kissed him back with the same tenderness, fingers curling in his shirt, then smoothing over his shoulders as if reassuring herself that he was real. Dean made a soft sound against her mouth, not desperate, but overwhelmed, and the sound moved through her with aching force.
They had spent years being careful in all the wrong ways.
Tonight they were careful in the right ones.
Dean guided her toward the bed, but he did not hurry her. He kept stopping to look at her, to touch her face, to kiss her again like every kiss was its own decision. Natalie found herself smiling through the emotion rising in her chest, because there was no performance in him now, no swagger, no mask. Just Dean, nervous and tender and utterly present.
When they came together, it was not about proving anything.
It was not about erasing fear, or grief, or the shadow of the Collector waiting beyond them. None of that vanished. The world did not become kinder because they loved each other. Leandro was still trapped. The Master still existed. Tomorrow would still demand research, plans, and danger.
But for this one night, love was not a tether used by something cruel.
It was a choice.
A shelter.
A place to rest.
Dean loved her with a gentleness that made Natalie ache, kissing her as if every part of her was precious because he knew how close he had come to never having this at all. He held her through the tremble of emotion that overtook her, whispered her name against her hair, and stayed with her in every sense that mattered. Natalie held him back just as fiercely, giving him the trust she had been too afraid to offer for years, letting the truth of what she felt move through her without turning away from it.
Afterward, they lay tangled beneath the blankets, breath slowly easing, the room quiet around them.
Natalie rested with her head against Dean’s chest, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. His arm was wrapped around her waist, his hand spread warm against her back, and every so often his fingers moved in small, absent strokes as though he still needed to remind himself she was there.
She understood.
Her own hand rested over his heart.
Dean turned his face into her hair and pressed a kiss there. “You okay?”
The question was soft, roughened by emotion and exhaustion.
Natalie closed her eyes.
For the first time, the answer did not feel fragile.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Dean’s hold tightened slightly.
She lifted her head enough to look at him. In the moonlight, his face looked younger somehow, stripped of bravado and sharpened edges, leaving only the man beneath all of it. The boy she had known. The friend she had loved. The lover who looked at her now with quiet wonder and no regret.
Natalie touched his cheek. “Are you?”
Dean looked at her for a long second.
Then he smiled.
Small. Tired. Real.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
She settled back against him, and he drew the blanket higher around them both. Outside, the junkyard was still. Downstairs, Bobby’s house slept around them, old walls holding old grief and new hope with the same stubborn endurance that had carried all of them this far.
The Collector had taken love and twisted it into a tether.
But here, in the dark of Dean’s room, love became something else.
Not a trap.
Not a debt.
Not a weapon.
A home.
And for one night, held safely in each other’s arms, Dean and Natalie let themselves believe that home was worth fighting for.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
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(Or: Dean Winchester Decides They're Going to Watch Fireworks)
Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean decides to properly celebrate the Fourth of July with Sam. This is a one-shot. (And does take place after Supernatural Summer Solstice.)
Word Count: 4,048
Tags/Warnings: Fourth of July, holiday celebration, fireworks, memories, callbacks
Author's Note: I couldn't resist. After writing Supernatural Thanksgiving, Supernatural Christmas, and Supernatural New Year, Dean's birthday, Valentine's Day, Summer Solstice, and enjoying it, I had to do a short story to celebrate the Fourth of July! I'm going to keep doing little one-shots with various events and holidays to shove Dean and Sam in (usually) comedic moments, I think, for the time being--so if you're interested to read future one-shots, let me know and I'll add you to those tag lists!
Divider: by @talesmaniac89
The declaration came at breakfast.
In retrospect, Sam probably should have recognized the warning signs sooner.
Dean was awake early. Not hunter early, not the kind of early that came with a case, a phone call, or the aftermath of a nightmare. This was different. Dean moved around the kitchen with a kind of purposeful energy that immediately put Sam on edge the moment he shuffled through the doorway in search of coffee.
The bunker was quiet in that peculiar way it often was in the mornings. The hum of ventilation drifted through the corridors, the old Men of Letters machinery carrying on with its mysterious subterranean business somewhere behind the walls. Sunlight filtered weakly through the high garage windows at the far end of the bunker, enough to suggest morning existed somewhere above them even if the bunker itself remained stubbornly disconnected from concepts like weather and seasons.
Dean, however, looked very aware of the date.
He was standing at the stove wearing jeans, boots, and an old Led Zeppelin shirt, one hand occupied with a spatula while bacon crackled in a pan beside him. There was coffee already brewed, eggs on a plate waiting to be served, and an expression on Dean's face that Sam had learned to distrust over the course of his entire life.
It wasn't excitement.
Excitement was manageable.
This was certainty.
Sam stopped beside the coffee maker and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What."
Dean looked up from the stove. "What, what?"
"That look."
Dean frowned. "What look?"
"The one that says you've made a decision and I'm going to find out about it in the worst possible way."
Dean looked offended by the accusation, which only made Sam more certain he was right. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Uh huh."
Dean transferred the bacon onto a plate, turned off the burner, and finally faced him fully. There was no grin. No dangerous enthusiasm. No signs of another Summer Solstice campaign waiting to happen. If anything, Dean looked strangely calm about whatever was happening inside his own head.
Then he dropped the bombshell with all the gravity of a man announcing the weather. "We're going to fireworks tonight."
Sam blinked.
The statement sat in the air between them for several seconds while his brain attempted to catch up. "...Fireworks."
"Yep."
"Fourth of July fireworks."
Dean slid a plate onto the table and pulled out a chair for himself. "That's generally when they happen."
Sam ignored that. "We haven't done Fourth of July in years."
Dean shrugged as he sat down, reaching immediately for the coffee pot. "Seems like a good year to start again."
That gave Sam pause.
Not because Dean was wrong, exactly. They'd certainly had years where celebrating holidays had ranked somewhere below preventing apocalypses and somewhere above remembering to pay motel bills. But there was something about the way Dean had said it that caught Sam's attention.
Not excitement.
Not nostalgia.
Decision.
The kind of decision Dean made when something mattered to him.
Sam settled into the chair opposite him and studied his brother over the rim of his coffee mug. Dean was focused on pouring cream into his coffee with the kind of concentration that suggested he was deliberately avoiding eye contact.
That, more than anything, made Sam suspicious. "Okay," Sam said carefully. "What's going on?"
Dean finally looked up. "Nothing's going on."
"Dean."
"It's the Fourth of July."
"Dean."
Dean pointed at him with his coffee mug. "People celebrate the Fourth of July, Sam."
"Normal people celebrate the Fourth of July."
Dean stared. "I have no idea how to respond to that."
Sam ignored him and pressed on. "You hate crowds."
"Selective crowds."
"You hate traffic."
"Bad traffic."
"You hate standing around waiting for things."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it again. "...Okay, fair."
"And yet," Sam continued, "you're announcing fireworks at breakfast like this is a military operation."
Dean leaned back in his chair and considered that for a moment. Then he shrugged. "I just wanna go."
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
No jokes.
No deflection.
For some reason, that answer unsettled Sam more than if Dean had shown up with brochures and a countdown calendar.
Dean wanted to go.
Not because there was a hunt.
Not because there was a mystery.
Not because there was a monster hiding behind a patriotic festival.
He just wanted to go.
Sam took another sip of coffee and watched his brother for a long moment over the edge of the mug.
Somewhere above them, America was apparently preparing for parades and barbecues and fireworks displays. Somewhere above them, kids were probably already waving sparklers around in driveways while parents shouted warnings about keeping them pointed away from faces and dry grass.
Down here, beneath layers of concrete and steel, Dean Winchester had decided they were going to participate.
"We're driving separately if you buy illegal fireworks."
Dean looked genuinely scandalized. "Sam."
"Dean."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
Dean considered that for exactly two seconds. "Okay, but in my defense, they're significantly cooler than legal fireworks."
Despite himself, Sam laughed.
The sound earned him a small grin from across the table, quick and fleeting enough that he almost missed it. Whatever this was, whatever had put the idea into Dean's head, it clearly mattered enough that Dean was trying very hard to play it cool about the whole thing.
Unfortunately for him, Sam Winchester had spent his entire life learning to read his brother.
And this?
This wasn't enthusiasm.
This was something else.
Something quieter.
Something older.
Sam wasn't sure what it meant yet.
But he had a feeling he was going to find out.
Dean did not mention the fireworks again for almost three hours.
That should have reassured Sam.
Instead, it somehow made him more suspicious.
Normally, when Dean became interested in something, everyone within a five-mile radius knew about it almost immediately. The Summer Solstice Festival had come with eight days of facts, historical context, educational ambushes, and what Sam still maintained was psychological warfare involving Castiel and astronomy.
This was different.
Dean simply... carried on with his morning.
He washed dishes after breakfast. He disappeared into the garage for a while. He emerged smelling faintly of motor oil and grease, grabbed another cup of coffee, and wandered into the library with a maintenance manual under one arm. If not for the fact that Sam had known him for over thirty years, he might have believed the fireworks comment had been entirely casual.
It wasn't.
Sam knew it wasn't.
Because every once in a while, when Dean thought nobody was looking, he'd glance at the clock on the wall.
Not anxiously.
Not impatiently.
Just checking.
As though mentally measuring the distance between now and sunset.
By late morning, Sam had migrated to the war room with his laptop and a stack of lore books, mostly because old habits died hard and because research felt productive even when there wasn't an active case attached to it. Across the table, Dean had somehow acquired a newspaper and was pretending to read it while very obviously not reading it at all.
Sam watched him turn the same page three times. "You know you're holding that upside down, right?"
Dean looked down.
The newspaper was, in fact, upside down.
He flipped it over without a trace of embarrassment. "Testing you."
"Sure you were."
Dean grunted and folded the paper.
For a few minutes, silence settled comfortably around them, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the distant hum of the bunker ventilation. Then Dean spoke without looking up.
"They're doing food trucks this year."
Sam looked over his laptop. "What?"
"The fireworks show." Dean shrugged as though this were completely normal information to possess. "Lebanon's got food trucks coming in this year."
"You looked it up."
Dean frowned. "I glanced."
"You researched fireworks."
"I did not research fireworks."
"Dean."
"Okay, maybe a little."
Sam leaned back in his chair. There it was. Not excitement exactly.
Investment.
Dean wasn't the kind of person who casually looked up event schedules and vendor lists. This was a man whose vacation planning generally consisted of getting in the car and seeing where the road went.
"You know," Sam said carefully, "we don't actually have to stay for the whole thing if you don't want to."
Dean looked up immediately. "What makes you think I don't want to?"
The answer came too quickly.
Too automatically.
Sam held up both hands. "I'm just saying. Crowds, noise, traffic—"
"I'm aware of what fireworks are, Sam."
"Okay."
Dean held his gaze for a moment longer before looking back down at the newspaper. "I wanna stay for the whole thing."
Simple.
Definite.
Again.
Sam frowned slightly.
There it was again, that strange certainty from breakfast. No joking. No sarcasm. No carefully constructed cool-guy act to pretend he wasn't invested in something deeply sentimental.
Just honesty.
Dean wanted to go.
Dean wanted to stay.
Dean cared.
The realization sat oddly with Sam.
Not because Dean wasn't allowed to care about things. God knew Dean cared about things deeply and fiercely and often to his own detriment. But Dean usually hid it beneath layers of sarcasm and humor and carefully cultivated indifference.
This felt... exposed.
Around lunchtime, Dean disappeared into town and returned carrying two grocery bags.
Sam looked up from the couch as Dean dropped them onto the kitchen counter. "What'd you get?"
"Stuff."
"Specific stuff?"
"Very specific stuff."
That immediately narrowed the possibilities to either food or explosives.
Dean began unloading the bags.
Hot dogs.
Hamburger buns.
Potato salad.
Chips.
Beer.
More beer.
Sam nodded approvingly. "Okay, barbecue supplies make sense."
Dean continued unloading.
Ketchup.
Mustard.
Paper plates.
Napkins.
Then, finally, Dean reached into the bottom of the second bag and carefully set a long rectangular box on the counter.
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
The box sat between them.
Sparklers.
Not fireworks.
Not Roman candles or bottle rockets or anything likely to get them arrested.
Just sparklers.
For some reason, the sight of them hit Sam like a physical thing.
Heat.
Summer air.
Smoke hanging in the darkness.
A field.
The Impala.
Something tugged at the edge of memory before slipping away again.
Dean saw him looking. "Oh." His voice softened slightly. "Yeah."
That was all he said.
No explanation.
No joke.
Just... yeah.
Sam looked from the sparklers to his brother and back again.
The feeling of almost remembering lingered stubbornly at the edge of his thoughts.
Somewhere deep in his memory, something was trying very hard to be found.
Dean picked up the box and set it carefully aside with the rest of the supplies. "We should leave around seven," he said, almost casually. "Get there before the crowds get bad."
Sam looked up sharply. "You're planning arrival times now?"
Dean pointed a hot dog package at him. "Preparation prevents suffering."
"You mocked me for saying that in Minnesota."
"Different context."
"Same sentence."
Dean shrugged. "Growth."
Sam laughed despite himself.
Across the kitchen, Dean grinned.
For just a moment, he looked younger somehow.
Lighter.
Like there was something he was looking forward to with both hands.
Sam wasn't sure he'd seen that look on his brother's face nearly enough over the years.
Whatever this was, he thought as he watched Dean disappear into the pantry with hamburger buns under one arm, maybe it was worth the mystery a little longer.
By six-thirty, the bunker had taken on the peculiar atmosphere that always accompanied departures that weren't hunts.
There was no frantic scramble for weapons. No last-minute checks of ammunition supplies or lore books shoved hastily into duffel bags. Nobody was researching local disappearances or suspicious deaths or unexplained animal attacks in neighboring counties.
Dean was packing a cooler.
Sam stood in the kitchen doorway and watched his brother carefully arrange bottles of beer between bags of ice with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for rebuilding engines.
"You know," Sam said, "most people just buy drinks when they get there."
Dean looked up. "Most people also pay eight dollars for a bottle of water at baseball games."
"Fair."
Dean nodded once and returned to his work. A few moments later he added, almost as an afterthought, "Besides, parking lot food before fireworks is tradition."
Sam frowned slightly. "Since when?"
Dean shrugged. "Since always."
That wasn't an answer.
Dean knew it wasn't an answer.
But he also clearly wasn't interested in elaborating, so Sam let it go.
For now.
The drive into town was quieter than Sam expected.
Not awkward quiet.
Not heavy.
Just comfortable.
Kansas rolled past outside the windows in shades of green and gold as the sun slowly began its descent toward the horizon. The fields surrounding Lebanon seemed to stretch forever in every direction, the summer heat softening the edges of the landscape beneath a sky so blue it almost looked artificial.
Dean drove with one arm hanging out the open window, fingers tapping absently against the door in time with the music drifting from the speakers. He looked relaxed in a way Sam hadn't fully appreciated until he saw it.
Not distracted.
Not forcing it.
Relaxed.
No case waiting in the bunker.
No apocalypse breathing down their necks.
No phone waiting to ring.
Just an evening.
Just fireworks.
The realization felt stranger than it should have.
By the time they reached the fairgrounds, the town was already beginning to gather.
Cars lined the roads leading toward the fields, and clusters of people moved through the warm evening carrying folding chairs, blankets, coolers, and enough snacks to survive a siege. Children darted through the crowds waving glow sticks while parents called after them with varying levels of success.
Dean parked farther back than necessary.
Sam noticed. "You hate walking."
"I hate parking lot exits more."
Also true.
They climbed out of the Impala and were immediately greeted by the sound of distant laughter and country music drifting across the grounds. Somewhere nearby, somebody had started grilling hours ago, and the air smelled like charcoal, barbecue sauce, and fresh-cut grass baking beneath the last heat of the day.
Dean closed the driver's door and stopped for a moment.
Not long.
Just long enough to look around.
Sam watched him do it.
Families spread blankets across the grass. Teenagers tossed footballs back and forth while waiting for darkness to arrive. A little girl in a red shirt ran past carrying sparklers bigger than her forearm while her older brother followed close behind looking equal parts annoyed and protective.
Dean's expression softened.
There and gone again.
But Sam saw it. "You okay?"
Dean blinked and looked over. "Yeah."
The answer came easily.
Honestly.
Not defensive.
Just yes.
For some reason, that unsettled Sam more than if Dean had brushed him off.
They found a spot near the edge of the field overlooking the fairgrounds and set down the cooler. Dean seemed oddly particular about where they sat, adjusting their location twice before finally settling on a patch of grass with a clear view of the open sky above the trees.
"Good enough?"
Dean glanced around. Then nodded. "Yeah."
Again with that certainty.
Sam lowered himself onto the blanket and stretched his legs out in front of him while Dean remained standing, hands shoved into his jacket pockets despite the warmth of the evening.
Around them, the crowd continued to grow.
The sky had begun its slow transformation from blue to gold now, the sun hanging low enough to cast long shadows across the field. Somewhere in the distance, someone tested a firework prematurely and a small burst of red exploded against the horizon.
The sound cracked through the evening air.
Dean's hand immediately twitched toward his hip.
Sam turned instinctively toward the sound.
For one ridiculous second, both brothers froze.
Then they looked at each other.
Dean snorted first.
Sam followed a second later. "Conditioning," Sam said.
"Yep."
Neither of them mentioned that Dean's hand had gone for a gun that wasn't there.
Neither of them mentioned that Sam had immediately started scanning for threats.
Some habits settled too deep to ever fully disappear.
Another small firework popped somewhere in town.
This time neither of them reacted.
Progress.
Dean dropped onto the blanket beside him and reached for the cooler. "You want a beer?"
Sam accepted the bottle automatically.
As Dean settled back against his hands and looked out over the growing crowd, Sam caught that expression again.
Not excitement.
Not exactly.
Recognition.
And suddenly, standing in a Kansas field as the sun slipped lower toward the horizon, Sam felt that memory tug at him again.
The Impala.
Fireworks.
Smoke.
A field.
Dean driving.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "...Dean."
"Hm?"
"This wasn't your first choice of spot, was it?"
Dean glanced over. "What do you mean?"
"The field."
Sam looked around at the open grass surrounding them. "The edge of town. Open sky. Away from the crowd."
Understanding flickered across Dean's face. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Dean looked back toward the horizon. "No," he said quietly. "It wasn't."
And suddenly Sam knew they weren't really talking about parking anymore.
Dean was quiet for a while after that.
Not evasive quiet. Not the kind of silence that meant he was building walls or looking for an exit from the conversation. This was different. Softer. More like someone standing in front of an old photograph they'd forgotten they still owned.
Around them, the fairgrounds continued to fill. Someone nearby was arguing good-naturedly about the proper way to grill a hamburger. A group of teenagers kicked a soccer ball back and forth near the tree line while younger kids darted through the grass wielding glow sticks like tiny lightsabers. Somewhere off to their right, a radio played an old country song that Sam was fairly certain Dean secretly liked and would deny under oath.
The sun continued its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the fields in gold.
Dean cracked open his beer.
For a long moment, Dean said nothing at all.
Then, quietly: "I was seventeen."
Sam turned toward him.
Dean wasn't looking at him. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon where the last traces of sunlight were bleeding out of the sky.
"You were thirteen," he continued. "Dad was gone on a hunt somewhere. Nebraska, maybe. Oklahoma. One of the square states."
Sam laughed. "Most of them are square states."
"Yeah, well, geography's never really been my thing."
That was difficult to argue with.
Dean rolled the beer bottle between his palms for a moment before continuing. "Dad left instructions."
Sam snorted. "Which means you ignored them immediately."
Dean looked offended. "I considered them."
"You stole the Impala."
"Borrowed."
"You stole the Impala."
Dean considered this carefully. "...Temporary unauthorized borrowing."
"That's called stealing."
"Agree to disagree."
Sam shook his head, laughing despite himself.
The memory was beginning to return now, not in flashes anymore but in actual moments. The humid summer air. The smell of cut grass. The deep, impossible excitement of being told to get in the car because Dean had somewhere they were going.
Not a hunt.
Not a motel.
Not another town they'd forget by morning.
Somewhere else.
Somewhere normal.
"We found one of those roadside fireworks tents," Dean said. "You know the ones. They show up for about two weeks every year and somehow sell enough explosives to finance a small country."
Sam barked out a laugh.
"That's actually pretty accurate."
"We bought sparklers."
The memory clicked into place.
"And fireworks."
Dean grinned. "Oh, we bought so many fireworks."
"You bought Roman candles."
"Absolutely."
"Firecrackers."
"Yep."
"Bottle rockets."
"Oh, definitely bottle rockets."
Sam stared at him. "Dean, where did you get the money for all of this?"
Dean frowned thoughtfully. "I honestly don't remember."
"That's because you spent all of it on fireworks."
"Entirely possible."
The grin widened slightly. "Worth it, though."
And suddenly Sam could see it perfectly.
Dean standing beside the Impala with a lighter in one hand and all the confidence of a seventeen-year-old boy who had never seriously considered the possibility of consequences. Sam standing nearby with sparklers while Dean insisted that this next one was going to be awesome.
Smoke hanging in the summer air.
Sulfur.
Laughter.
Freedom.
Then: "Oh my God."
Dean glanced over. "What?"
"The field."
Dean immediately winced. "...Yeah."
"We set the field on fire."
Dean held up a finger. "We set part of the field on fire."
"Dean."
"It wasn't the whole field."
"It was enough of the field that we had to put it out."
Dean considered this. "That's fair."
Sam was laughing now.
Not because it wasn't dangerous.
Not because it hadn't been monumentally stupid.
Because it had been so spectacularly, perfectly Dean.
"You told me not to panic."
"Solid advice."
"You were panicking."
"I was managing the situation."
"You yelled, 'Get the Sprite!'"
Dean pointed immediately. "It was the nearest liquid."
"It was lemon-lime soda."
"It was an emergency."
"You threw soda on a grass fire."
"And eventually the grass stopped being on fire."
Sam stared at him.
Dean stared back. "...Technically successful."
The laugh that escaped Sam this time was helpless.
Beside him, Dean was laughing too, shaking his head at the memory. "You know Dad would've killed us."
"Oh, absolutely."
"He would've buried us in that field."
"He would've buried me in that field."
That, at least, was undeniably true.
The laughter faded slowly after that, settling into something quieter as the sky overhead darkened another shade and the first stars began appearing above the fairgrounds.
Dean took another sip of his beer and looked back out over the crowd. "Still worth it, though."
The words came easily.
Without hesitation.
Without qualification.
Sam looked over.
Dean shrugged. "Come on. We had fireworks. We had sparklers. We committed minor arson."
"Minor arson."
"Moderate arson."
"Dean."
Dean grinned. "My point is, it was a good Fourth of July."
The simplicity of it landed harder than Sam expected.
Because thirteen-year-old Sam had remembered the fireworks.
He'd remembered the sparklers.
He'd remembered the excitement of doing something forbidden and wonderful and loud beneath an open summer sky.
What forty-something Sam saw now was something else entirely.
Dean had been seventeen.
Seventeen.
Still a kid himself.
And somehow his first instinct when John Winchester left town had been to look at his little brother and decide: He deserves a Fourth of July.
Not a hunter's Fourth of July.
Not another night in a motel room waiting for Dad to call.
A real one.
Messy.
Loud.
Potentially flammable.
But real.
Sam swallowed against the unexpected tightness in his throat. "You know," he said quietly, "I don't think I ever thanked you for that."
Dean frowned. "For what?"
"The fireworks."
Dean looked genuinely confused. "Sam, it was fireworks."
"No," Sam said softly. "It wasn't."
For a moment, Dean didn't answer.
Then he looked back toward the darkening sky and shrugged one shoulder.
"Figured you deserved one."
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
As though he were talking about lending Sam twenty bucks or picking up groceries on the way home.
Not stealing one ordinary summer night from a childhood that hadn't offered many of them.
Not giving his little brother something Dean himself had never really gotten to have.
Just Dean.
Just being Dean.
And somehow, Sam thought, that made it mean even more.
The first firework exploded overhead.
Both brothers flinched.
Dean's hand twitched toward his hip.
Sam's head snapped toward the sound.
For one absurd second they sat there in full hunter mode, scanning a fireworks display for threats.
Then Dean looked over.
Sam looked back.
Dean started laughing first.
The sound was warm and helpless and genuine.
"Oh, that's sad."
"We're broken people."
"Little bit."
Another firework bloomed across the sky, red fading into gold above the fairgrounds.
This time neither of them moved.
Instead they leaned back against the blanket and watched the colors spill across the darkness overhead while children cheered around them and applause rolled through the crowd.
Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.
Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM
Word Count: 4306
Warnings: Mentions of abuse, Grief, Angst - LOTS, Everything's Coming to a Head, Doesn't follow the show timeline, Altering POV's.
A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.
Chapter 5 ----- Chapter 7 - coming soon
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Main Master List
Chapter 6
The dirt road stretched deeper into the woods than you expected.
Trees crowded closer the farther you drove, their branches knitting together overhead until the sky became little more than fractured slivers between black leaves. Gravel shifted softly beneath your tires as you kept your distance, eyes locked on the faint glow of the pastor’s taillights ahead.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
He drove this road like he knew every bend by memory.
Your fingers rested lightly against the steering wheel, steady despite the slow climb of adrenaline tightening beneath your ribs. The deeper into the forest you went, the less the world felt real. Town lights had vanished miles ago. There were no houses here. No distant highways humming somewhere beyond the trees.
Just woods.
Dense. Ancient. Watching.
The sounds of the forest wrapped around your car in layers at first. Crickets chirping in uneven rhythms. Leaves whispering against one another overhead. The occasional rustle somewhere unseen beyond the road.
Then gradually—
Silence.
Not natural silence.
The kind that arrives all at once.
The crickets stopped first.
Then the rustling.
Then everything.
Your pulse slowed instinctively instead of quickening. Predators recognized silence for what it was.
Warning.
Every instinct beneath your skin sharpened.
Ahead, the sedan slowed.
Through the trees, you finally caught sight of it: an old cabin tucked deep in the woods, half-hidden behind thick brush and towering pines. The structure looked forgotten by the world. Weathered wood. Sagging porch. Dark windows reflecting almost nothing back.
The pastor pulled beside it and parked.
His headlights cut across the trees one final time before the engine died.
Darkness swallowed everything immediately.
For one brief moment, the woods disappeared entirely.
Then your vision adjusted.
Two doors opened ahead.
Two figures stepped out.
You were still too far back to stop anything.
Your jaw tightened.
The sedan doors shut softly. Muffled. Controlled.
Then nothing.
No voices.
No movement.
You slowed the Charger carefully, easing it farther down the road before finally pulling beneath the heavy cover of overhanging branches. The engine clicked quietly as you killed it.
Still no sound from the cabin.
Your hand moved automatically to the silver knife at your hip, fingers brushing the worn handle in practiced reassurance. Then to the gun tucked against the small of your back beneath your flannel. Silver rounds.
Ready.
Always ready.
You glanced once toward the cabin through the trees before shifting your weight toward the open driver’s side window.
The door stayed shut.
No unnecessary noise.
You slipped silently through the window frame and landed lightly against damp earth, crouched low beside the Charger. Cool air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of wet bark, old wood, and something deeper underneath.
Something animal.
Your movements stayed careful as you closed the distance through the trees. Silent footsteps against dirt and fallen leaves. No snapped twigs. No shifting gravel.
Your eyes tracked every movement automatically.
A branch swaying gently overhead.
Leaves drifting across the forest floor.
Shadows shifting between trees as the wind moved through them.
But no sign of the pastor.
No sign of the second man.
The closer you got, the more wrong the silence felt.
When you finally reached the sedan parked outside the cabin, you paused beside the rear bumper, body still and listening.
Nothing.
The metal ticked softly as the engine cooled.
No voices inside.
No footsteps.
No heartbeat close enough to track.
Your eyes swept the cabin windows again.
Dark.
Empty.
Then suddenly—
A light flicked on inside.
Warm yellow spilled briefly across the front room window.
And for the first time since entering the woods—
You froze. Heart hammering against your ribs.
You stayed motionless beside the sedan, every muscle held taut beneath your skin as your eyes locked onto the shifting silhouette inside. A figure moved across the small space slowly, casually. No frantic pacing. No signs of struggle. No violence.
Just movement.
Like someone settling in for the evening.
Your brow furrowed slightly.
That wasn’t right.
You hadn’t heard a door open. Hadn’t heard footsteps crossing the porch. And you knew with absolute certainty neither man had entered through the front.
The woods were too quiet for you to miss that.
A chill slid slowly down your spine.
Your gaze flicked once toward the trees surrounding the cabin before returning to the window. Instinct prickled hard beneath your skin now, not with the sharp warning of immediate danger, but something stranger. Unease layered with confusion.
The silhouette moved again.
Then the front door swung open.
Not violently.
Not suddenly.
Almost lazily.
Warm light spilled across the porch and into the darkness beyond, cutting long pale shapes between the trees.
You tensed automatically.
The pastor stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame. His expression remained calm, softened by the amber light behind him. No claws. No blood. No sign of panic at being followed miles into the woods.
Just quiet awareness.
“I know you’re out there,” he said.
His voice carried easily through the stillness. Warm. Steady. The same voice that delivered sermons every Sunday from behind stained glass and scripture.
“If you want to know the truth,” he continued gently, “you’re welcome to come inside.”
A brief pause.
“I’m no threat to you.”
The words should’ve sounded ridiculous.
Every instinct you possessed screamed trap.
Your fingers twitched near the silver knife at your hip as your pulse slowed into something colder and sharper. Werewolves lied. Predators lured prey closer. Monsters wore friendly faces all the time.
You knew that.
You’d built the last five years of your life around that truth.
And yet—
Something about him wasn’t matching the picture in your head.
No tension sharpened his voice. No false bravado. No edge of concealed violence waiting beneath the surface.
Just calm.
That calm unsettled you more than anger would have.
The pastor stepped away from the doorway a moment later, disappearing back inside without another word, leaving the door standing open behind him.
An invitation.
Or bait.
You stayed where you were for several long seconds, eyes fixed on the glowing rectangle of light cutting through the darkness.
The forest remained silent around you.
No crickets.
No wind.
Nothing.
Then slowly, cautiously, you moved.
Your footsteps stayed soundless against damp earth as you emerged from behind his sedan. The porch came into clearer view with every step, weathered wood silvered faintly beneath the cabin light. The old boards creaked softly under your weight as you climbed the few steps, each sound seeming unnaturally loud against the stillness surrounding the woods.
You paused at the threshold.
The cabin interior unfolded in front of you in one slow sweep.
One room.
Small.
Worn.
A bed sat tucked against one wall beneath a narrow window, blankets neatly folded despite the age of the mattress beneath them. A small wooden table and mismatched chairs occupied the opposite side near an empty stone fireplace dusted faintly with ash. Along the far wall sat a cramped kitchen space—old counters, faded cabinets, a rusted sink.
And directly across from you—
The back door stood wide open.
Cool night air drifted through it softly, stirring the thin curtains hanging above the sink.
The pastor stood there with his back partially turned to you, gaze fixed out the dark window above the basin. His hands rested clasped loosely behind him, posture relaxed enough that it should have felt vulnerable.
Instead, it felt deliberate.
Like a man who already understood exactly how dangerous the room had become.
And still wasn’t afraid.
He didn’t need to turn to see you.
“I clocked you that first day when you came into my church.”
His voice carried through the cabin low and even, warm in a way that should have been comforting. Instead, it settled beneath your skin like something alive. Certain. Knowing. The kind of certainty that didn’t come from guesswork.
Your fingers flexed once near the silver knife at your hip.
The cabin smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and rain soaked into the walls over decades. Beneath it lingered another scent now that you were closer. Iron. Not fresh blood, but memory of it. Faint enough most people would never notice.
“What makes a monster a monster?”
The question settled heavily into the room.
The pastor finally shifted slightly near the sink, not enough to face you fully, just enough for the light overhead to catch the silver threading through his beard. Outside the open back door, the woods remained deathly still. No insects. No movement. Like the entire forest was listening.
Your pulse beat slow and hard against your ribs. The question wasn’t just for him. It was for you. Every hunter you’d faced, every choice you’d made in the past, every life weighed against another—what drew the line between monster and man? And standing there, watching him, you felt the pull of that line.
“The first man,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the trees beyond the window, “he used his power over others to hurt those who trusted him.”
Your jaw tightened immediately as your pulse spiked, muscles tensing as your mind traced the implication without moving. Every word painted a pattern, a chain of intentions and consequences, but it was his tone—the measured, almost mournful cadence—that made you pause.
The floorboards creaked softly beneath your shifting weight as you remained near the doorway, muscles coiled tight beneath your skin. Ready. Waiting for the moment this calm mask finally cracked open into teeth and violence.
It didn’t.
“The second man,” he continued, voice softening almost imperceptibly, “he did harm in a different way, twisting control into fear. Using trust and god’s word as a weapon.”
A faint breeze drifted through the open back door, stirring the thin curtains near the sink. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a branch groaned quietly before falling silent again.
You didn’t move, though your breath hitched once, soft, careful, a sound lost to the night. Your mind ran faster than your body could, cataloging details, piecing together what he said with what you already knew. Missing pieces you hadn’t fully connected yet.
Your stomach twisted.
Because predators wore human skin more often than claws.
“This man,” he said, flicking a glance toward the open back door, “he was planning something cruel. He finally revealed it all in confessions.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Confessions.
Church.
Trust handed over freely behind closed doors.
Your throat tightened slightly before you forced it back down. The silver ring on your right hand felt suddenly colder against your skin as your fingers curled reflexively.
Still he didn’t move toward you.
Still he wasn’t afraid.
“And the woman,” his voice came again, deliberate and unwavering, “she’s been plotting in her own way. Calculating. Obsessing over a married man. Thinking she can bend someone to her will.”
The cabin suddenly felt smaller.
Tighter.
“The man’s wife is pregnant,” he continued quietly. “None of them knows.”
Your breathing slowed instinctively. A shiver ran down your spine, but you didn’t flinch. You absorbed, cataloged, let the words settle in your chest like stones in a stream.
Your eyes tracked him carefully now, searching for deception in every subtle movement. Every twitch. Every shift in posture. But there was nothing frantic about him. Nothing unstable.
Only exhaustion buried beneath restraint.
Outside, the trees swayed faintly against the night sky. The scent of damp earth drifted through the open doorway.
His gaze remained fixed on the darkness beyond the open door, on patterns only he seemed to see. His final words hung in the air, almost a plea, almost a warning:
Then finally—
He looked at you.
Fully.
Brown eyes steady beneath the warm cabin light.
“All I ask, little cat,” he said softly, “is that you don’t let that unborn child die, if you choose to kill me tonight.”
Silence crashed into the room afterward.
The words twisted inside you. Choices. Consequences. Monsters and men. And suddenly, the question he asked earlier wasn’t just his. It was yours. It had always been yours.
Your chest tightened, a low, uneasy rhythm echoing in your ears. The pastor’s words had settled over you like a weight, pressing questions you’d asked yourself into sharper focus. What makes a monster a monster?
You’d asked it before, in mirrors, in quiet moments in the dark, when the reflection staring back wasn’t fully human. And now… standing in the cabin, you hesitated. The line between justice and vengeance, predator and protector, had blurred in the span of a single confession.
The silence stretched long enough for your pulse to finally begin slowing.
Not fully.
Not safely.
But enough that the knife at your hip no longer felt like the only answer in the room.
Your shoulders eased by degrees, tension bleeding out slowly instead of all at once. The instinct to fight still lingered beneath your skin, sharp and ready, but it no longer screamed. It watched. Waited. Measured.
The pastor remained where he stood near the sink, giving you space to think. To choose.
The cabin creaked softly around you as the night air drifted through the open back door, cool against your skin. Somewhere far off in the woods, an owl called once before silence swallowed the sound again.
You swallowed carefully.
Then finally—
“I’ll protect them.”
Your voice came quieter than you expected, roughened slightly by everything tightening in your chest. The pregnant wife. Her husband. A child that hadn’t even drawn its first breath yet.
The pastor’s eyes softened almost immediately.
You forced yourself to continue before doubt could creep in. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to them.”
The words settled heavily between you, carrying the weight of a promise. Not empty reassurance. Not pity.
A vow.
The silver ring against your finger caught faintly in the cabin light as your hand flexed once at your side.
A beat of silence passed.
Then another.
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the open back door, toward the endless dark beyond it, before returning to him.
“You need to leave town.”
The pastor didn’t react outwardly, but something weary flickered behind his eyes.
“Go somewhere nobody knows you,” you continued quietly. “Start over somewhere else.”
Your throat tightened slightly around the next words.
“I’ll make sure you aren’t followed.”
The cabin fell still again after that.
Not tense this time.
Something stranger.
Something mournful.
The pastor lowered his head slightly, almost like the beginning of a prayer before looking back at you fully. Relief moved across his features first, subtle enough most people would’ve missed it. Beneath that came something deeper.
Compassion.
Not fear of you.
Not judgment.
Compassion.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
The sincerity in his voice settled awkwardly against the sharp edges inside your chest. You weren’t used to gratitude from monsters.
Or maybe—
The thought stopped before you could finish it.
He studied you quietly for a moment longer, the warm cabin light catching in his brown eyes. Then slowly, a small smile touched his lips. Gentle. Kind in a way that felt almost painful after everything he’d confessed.
“You’re not the monster you think you are, little cat.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
Your breath caught faintly.
Because he said it like he knew.
Not guessed.
Knew.
Before you could find a response, the pastor turned toward the open back door. His footsteps remained calm and unhurried across the old wooden floorboards as he stepped into the darkness beyond the cabin.
“Andrea Johnson.”
Then, the night swallowed him quickly.
One moment there.
The next—
Gone.
You stood frozen in the center of the small cabin long after the woods fell silent again.
The lamp above the sink buzzed softly overhead. The curtains near the window shifted faintly in the cold air drifting through the open doorway. Somewhere nearby, the sedan’s engine ticked quietly as it cooled.
But your mind remained trapped on the same question looping endlessly through your chest.
What makes a monster a monster?
You had come here tonight ready to kill him.
Certain.
Certain enough to bring silver.
Certain enough to follow him into the woods alone.
And now he was gone because you let him go.
Not because you couldn’t pull the trigger.
Because you chose not to.
The realization settled heavily into your bones as you stared into the darkness beyond the cabin door, trying to come to terms with the impossible weight of mercy.
The Impala crawled slowly down the dirt road, tires crunching softly over gravel and damp earth. Dean kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting low near the gun tucked beside his seat. The headlights cut narrow paths between the trees, branches twisting overhead thick enough to swallow most of the moonlight above.
Neither brother spoke much.
The deeper they drove into the woods, the heavier the air seemed to become.
Not silent.
That would’ve almost been easier.
Crickets chirped unevenly somewhere beyond the trees. An owl called once from high above before another answered farther off. Leaves shifted softly whenever the breeze moved through the forest. Life still existed out here.
But something felt wrong.
Dean couldn’t explain it.
The kind of wrong hunters learned to trust anyway.
His jaw tightened slightly as his eyes swept the narrow road ahead again. The cabin wasn’t far now. He remembered enough from the maps and half-forgotten case notes to know this road only ended one place.
Then Sam suddenly leaned forward slightly in his seat.
“Dean.”
Dean’s gaze sharpened immediately. “What?”
Sam pointed subtly toward the trees off the side of the road. “There.”
At first, Dean saw nothing but shadows.
Then the angle shifted as the Impala rolled forward another few feet.
Midnight blue paint caught faintly beneath the moonlight filtering through the branches.
The Charger sat tucked deep enough into the shadows that it nearly disappeared entirely unless you were close enough to know what to look for. No lights. Hidden deliberately.
Light spilled warmly from the open front door, stretching across the battered porch and bleeding pale gold onto the dirt below. Beside the cabin sat a dark sedan they knew belonged to the pastor.
Still warm enough that faint heat shimmered above the hood beneath the headlights.
Dean’s grip tightened instinctively against the wheel.
“Stay sharp,” he said quietly.
The forest pressed close around the clearing, branches swaying faintly overhead. Crickets still chirped somewhere nearby, but the sounds only made the place feel stranger. Like the woods themselves were holding their breath around something unseen.
The Impala rolled to a careful stop several yards from the porch.
Dean stared at the open doorway, every instinct he had pulling taut beneath his skin. Something had already happened here.
He could feel it.
But whether they were too late to stop it—
Or too late to survive it—
He didn’t know yet.
The Impala’s engine idled low for another few seconds before Dean finally killed it.
The sudden quiet settled heavily around them.
Crickets filled the spaces between the trees in uneven waves, their sound carrying sharp in the cool night air. Somewhere deeper in the woods, leaves rustled softly beneath something small moving through the underbrush. An owl called once overhead before silence swallowed the sound again.
Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on the cabin.
The open front door.
The light still burning inside.
Nothing moved across the windows.
That bothered him more than if something had.
Beside him, Sam shifted slightly in his seat, gaze sweeping the clearing again. The sedan parked outside. The dark tree line surrounding the cabin. The narrow dirt road behind them that suddenly felt very far from town.
“Feels wrong,” Sam murmured quietly.
Dean nodded once.
Because it did.
Not immediate danger.
Not yet.
But the kind of tension hunters learned to feel before a fight started. The air itself seemed tighter somehow, stretched thin enough that one wrong movement might snap it.
Dean opened his door carefully.
The old hinges gave the faintest creak before his boots touched damp earth. Cool air brushed against his face immediately, carrying the scent of wet leaves, old wood, and something faint underneath it that made instinct tighten low in his gut.
Sam stepped out on the opposite side a second later, shutting the door slower than normal to avoid the sound carrying through the clearing.
The brothers moved automatically after that. Muscle memory built over years.
Dean reached back into the front seat, fingers curling around the grip of the handgun resting there before tucking it securely into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Hidden beneath worn fabric. Easy reach if things went sideways.
Silver rounds loaded.
Just in case.
His other hand briefly checked the silver knife strapped at his hip. Backup weapon. Close quarters insurance.
Hunters who survived learned fast not to trust a single weapon.
Across from him, Sam mirrored the motions almost unconsciously. Gun concealed beneath layers of flannel and denim. Silver knife secure against his leg.
Prepared for claws.
Teeth.
A close fight in tight spaces.
Prepared for a werewolf.
Dean’s gaze drifted once more toward the hidden Charger farther back among the trees. A strange unease twisted through him again at the thought of the woman somehow being mixed up in all this.
Hunter?Victim?Something worse?
He still didn’t know.
And somehow that uncertainty bothered him more than the monster waiting somewhere nearby.
The porch creaked softly as the wind shifted through the clearing.
Dean’s attention snapped back immediately.
Nothing moved.
The cabin light still spilled warmly through the open doorway, standing in stark contrast against the cold darkness surrounding it.
Like an invitation.
Or a warning.
Dean exchanged one final glance with Sam.
No words needed.
Then slowly, carefully, the two of them started toward the cabin.
The cabin felt different after he left.
Too quiet.
Too still.
You stood near the small kitchen counter, both hands braced against the worn wood, fingers curled tighter than you realized against the rough edge. Your head remained slightly bowed, eyes unfocused on the sink beneath the window while your thoughts spiraled somewhere far deeper than the room around you.
What makes a monster a monster?
The question echoed endlessly now, threading through every memory you’d tried burying over the years. Every hunt. Every creature. Every human face twisted uglier than claws ever could be.
The pastor’s words clung stubbornly beneath your skin.
You’re not the monster you think you are, little cat.
Your throat tightened faintly.
The cabin smelled colder now without him there. Old dust. Damp wood. Faint traces of rain drifting through the open back door. The lamp above the sink buzzed softly overhead, casting warm yellow light across peeling counters and warped floorboards.
You didn’t hear the Impala outside. Didn’t hear the crunch of boots against dirt. Didn’t hear the soft creak of the porch steps beneath cautious weight.
Your thoughts had swallowed everything else whole.
Even when the brothers entered the cabin silently, guns already drawn toward a target that no longer existed, you remained motionless near the counter, unaware of the danger suddenly filling the room behind you.
Then—
“Where is it?”
The voice was firm. Low. Carrying authority without malice. And it cut through the fog of your thoughts like a blade.
Your breath caught violently in your chest.
No.
Your body reacted before your mind fully caught up.
You pivoted sharply on your heel, instinct taking over in one fluid motion, and suddenly the cabin shifted around you in a fraction of a second.
Two figures stood just inside the doorway.
Solid. Armed. Guns leveled. Eyes sharp.
The two men you’d seen around town.
But your focus locked onto the shorter one instantly.
And the world tilted beneath your feet.
Green eyes.
Freckles dusted across tan skin.
Broad shoulders beneath layered flannel.
Even the way he held himself—
Your stomach dropped so hard it bordered on pain.
Mark.
No—
Not Mark.
Your pulse slammed against your ribs as your mind tried desperately to separate memory from reality. Because Mark was dead. You’d watched him die.
But the voice—
God, the voice sounded almost identical.
The air inside the cabin tightened into something suffocating.
The brothers’ breaths stayed steady. Controlled. Hunters trained for violence standing in a room that suddenly felt one wrong movement away from exploding into it.
You hadn’t heard them approach. The night had swallowed their footsteps whole. But now you felt the full weight of their attention fixed squarely on you.
Assessing.
Calculating.
Dangerous.
Your chest rose slowly beneath the pressure building there, breaths measured despite the violent confusion twisting through your thoughts. Your hands remained visible at your sides. You didn’t reach for the knife at your hip. Didn’t touch the gun hidden against your back.
You simply stood there.
Staring.
Your gaze flicked once toward the taller one beside him before returning helplessly to the man in front.
The similarities hit too hard. Too sharp.
Not exact.
But enough.
Enough to crack something open inside you that had never fully healed.
Everything seemed to pause inside that tiny cabin.
The rustle of leaves outside.
The sway of curtains near the open back door.
Even the old buzzing lamp overhead.
And as your gaze locked fully with his—
You understood with sudden, terrible certainty—
Nothing from this moment forward was ever going to be simple again.
Chapter 5 ----- Chapter 7 - coming soon
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Change my mind so much it’s exhausting - Dean Winchester (smut)
It only feels right to return to posting with a Dean fic. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. Xxx
Summary: Dean is the best friend of reader’s dad. She’s in love with him, he can’t stay for longer than one night. Tonight, they decide to spend one last night with one another before ending things
Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, oral(f), some angst, age gap, dbf Dean, Dean having commitment issues
Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader (2.3k words)
It became a pattern before either of them admitted it. Dean would disappear for weeks. Sometimes months. No calls. No texts. Nothing but the occasional update her father would mention over dinner.
“Dean and Sam are in Montana.”
“They’re chasing a case in Oregon.”
“Dean said he’ll stop by when they’re back.”
Her father never noticed the way (y/n)’s heart skipped at those words. Because he always came back, not for the bunker, not for the hunt. For her.
The soft rumble of the Impala’s engine outside her apartment had become a sound she knew by heart. She would tell herself not to look through the window. But she always did. There he’d be, leaning against the driver’s door with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking exhausted. Like he’d spent weeks carrying the weight of the world.
He never knocked twice.
“You awake?” he’d ask when she opened the door.
“You knew I would be.”
And just like that, the distance between them disappeared for a night. Pizza boxes left open on the coffee table, old movies neither of them actually watched. Conversations that wandered from stupid jokes to childhood memories, to hunts that almost went wrong, to dreams neither of them dared believe could ever happen.
Sometimes he’d fall asleep on her couch before making it to her room. Yet, their bodies would always find together some time throughout the night. He’d wake before sunrise, already pulling on his boots. Every single time.
“You don’t have to leave yet,” she would whisper, still wrapped in a blanket. Dean would pause and for one impossible second, she’d think he might stay. Then he’d force that familiar crooked smile onto his face.
“I do.” No explanation, just those two words.
He’d press a lingering kiss to her lips, grab his keys, and disappear before the sun had fully risen. The only proof he’d been there was an empty coffee mug in the sink and the faint scent of leather and motor oil that lingered long after he’d left.
She tried convincing herself not to wait for him anymore. She dated other people when he was gone for months. Ignored his messages. Promised herself that the next time the Impala rolled into her street, she wouldn’t answer the door.
Then, weeks later, headlights would sweep across her curtains. And despite everything, her feet would carry her to the door. Because somehow Dean Winchester always knew exactly when to come back. Just never how to stay.
One rainy night, as he stood in her doorway with damp hair and shadows beneath his eyes, she looked at him for a long moment before speaking.
“You only ever come here when you’re running from something.” His jaw tightened.
“I’m not running.”
“No?” She folded her arms. “Then why do you always leave before morning?”
Silence stretched between them. The rain tapped against the windows. Finally, Dean looked down at the floor.
“You know this is complicated.” Her chest ached.
“Because of my dad?”
Dean was her father’s best friend. The man who had carried her on his shoulders when she was little. The one who taught her how to throw her first punch, change a tire, and drive stick in the Impala after weeks of relentless begging.
He wasn’t supposed to look at her differently. (Y/n) wasn’t supposed to notice the gray beginning to dust his stubble. Or the way his voice dropped when he said her name. Or how lonely he looked when he thought nobody was watching
He kept quiet, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at her with those green eyes until she sighed and let him in; once again. An hour later, empty takeout containers littered her coffee table. Dean sat with one arm stretched across the back of the couch, his head tipped toward her as she talked about her week. He listened more than he spoke, smiling at the parts she didn’t even think were funny.
“You disappeared for five weeks,” she eventually said quietly.
“I know.”
“No call.”
“I know.”
“No text.”
Dean rubbed a hand across his face.
“I know.”
Her frustration had been simmering for weeks, and now it spilled over. It felt ugly, too cutting, too intense. “You vanish, Dean.”
He looked away.
“I had a job.”
“You always have a job.”
“You know what my life is.”
“And what am I?” Her voice cracked despite her best effort. “Some place you stop when you get tired of running?”
His jaw tightened at her words. “Don’t.”
“No.” She stood, putting space between them while anger began to drip from her words. “Answer me.”
Dean rose too. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the room too cold
“I come here because it’s the one place I don’t have to think, don’t have to play some role. Don’t take this from me.” His eyes finally snapped back to her. They were full of something he’d spent months trying to bury. “It matters too much.”
The words stole the air from the room. She laughed once, bitterly. “You keep pretending this is easier than it is.”
His shoulders sagged. For the first time since she’d known him, Dean looked defeated, head hanging, hands balled into fists.
“You make me forget,” he admitted. “For one night I forget all the things waiting for me out there. And then morning comes and I’m reminded of the years between us, the memories, the promises.”
She reached up before she could stop herself, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruise on his jaw. His hand found hers, almost cautiously, as though he expected her to pull away. She didn't.
“You know I don’t care about the age gap or you being my dad’s best friend. All I care about is you, Dean.” A long silence stretched between them.
“So simple,” he murmured.
“It could be.”
He gave a small, sad smile. “No.”
The word hurt more than she expected. She started to step back, but Dean caught her wrist. His thumb brushed against her pulse.
“I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes.
“We can’t keep doing this,” she spoke quietly. “This has to end, Dean. I won’t survive otherwise.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His grip loosened, giving her every chance to walk away. Instead, she closed the distance. The kiss was hesitant for exactly one second. Then weeks of distance, missed phone calls, unsaid apologies, and impossible feelings crashed together all at once.
His hand slid to her cheek, and hers tangled in the front of his shirt as if she was afraid he’d disappear before she could convince herself he was still real. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, both of them breathing a little harder. Dean closed his eyes.
“One last night is all I’m asking for,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer. (Y/n) stared at him for at least ten seconds before nodding her head, hoping to cover the hurt laced in her gaze. He followed her to the bedroom, the familiar path he had walked too many times to count.
It didn’t take long for their clothes to hit the floor, one by one the layers were stripped away. Lips found skin, fingers found roots to tug on, hearts found a similar beat. One last night. One last high. One last kiss. The house of cards was about to collapse, and there would be nothing but hurting memories afterward.
“Dean,” she panted his name, pressing herself closer to him while he lingered between her thighs. He cherished her taste, let it linger on his tongue while his arms had a tight grip around her thighs. He was set on pushing her over the edge with his mouth first, needing to watch her fall apart without being distracted himself.
She shook as her orgasm rose, pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. His name left her, her fingers tugged on his roots, but his gaze never wavered. It stayed glued to her trembling body until her first high let go of her.
“Condom?” She shook her head at the question.
“Not if it’s our last time.” She had always asked for extra protection, not daring to wonder if he spent his weeks away around other women. But tonight she couldn’t care, tonight she needed all of him.
Dean kept quiet at that. He moved up her body, lips leaving kisses every now and then, and then entered her, slowly, cautiously. Both moaned at the sensation, bodies adjusting after all that time apart.
“Fuck,” it was a deep breath leaving him. He moved slowly, taking his time while she kept her legs wrapped around him. Their bodies met with every thrust, he was set on leaving marks as if he wanted to make her remember this for the next weeks. But (y/n) was sure her heartbreak would do a good job of reminding her anyway.
“Atta girl, fuck, my pretty girl, you feel so good like this.” Tears gathered around her lashes, she tried to blink them away, but without luck. They began to drip down her cheeks while he kept moving, oblivious to them at first. It felt as if watering a grave, an empty home with a soul no longer there, yet the love remained, like it always would.
The second he looked down at her, eyes no longer closed, his pace began to falter. He wiped the tears away with his thumb, but he kept quiet, not speaking words she needed to hear, confessions, promises, nothing.
Her walls fluttered around him, even though she fought against the sensation. She didn’t want to cum yet, didn’t want to end it this quickly, but his fingers began to circle her bundle of nerves, pushing her over the edge once again.
Dean fucked her through the high, eyes not leaving hers while chasing his own release. He pulled out of her seconds before letting go, painting her stomach white with a deep groan. Both were heavily breathing, staring at one another until he closed the gap for another kiss.
…
Morning arrived too soon, sunlight slipping through the curtains in thin stripes across the floor. Everything felt strangely still, as though the world outside had agreed to wait just a little longer.
She lay on her side, watching Dean pull on his T-shirt in silence. Neither of them mentioned what had happened. Neither of them needed to.
The air between them had changed. He sat on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots, elbows resting on his knees for a moment before he let out a slow breath.
“So,” he started quietly.
“So.”
His lips twitched into a tired smile.
“We’re really bad at ‘one last time.’”
She smiled despite herself. Dean reached for his jacket from the floor, turning it over in his hands before finally slipping it on.
(Y/n) wondered what would happen after today. She imagined Dean leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer while her father complained about a hunt. Sam would probably notice the silence first. He always noticed; her dad wouldn’t. He’d clap Dean on the shoulder, laugh too loud at one of his jokes, maybe even say something about how good it was to have everyone together again. The thought made her stomach twist.
“You think he’ll know?” She asked, eyes not meeting his.
Dean’s expression hardened.
“No, he trusts me.” The words landed between them like broken glass. Dean closed his eyes for a brief second before crossing the room until he was right in front of her again. “I don’t regret you.”
Her eyes lifted to his.
“Not for a second.”
His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles.
“I regret the position it puts you in.” She had no answer to the words, aware that there was no use in fighting Dean Winchester on a decision like this.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
It sounded strange. Not like a promise, more like a warning.
“Tonight,” she began, unable to finish while her throat grew tighter.
“We go back to pretending.” The words seemed to hurt him too, making his face harden.
Dean looked toward the apartment door and then turned from her. He opened the door, hesitated with one hand on the frame. For just a second, she thought he might come back. Instead, he looked over his shoulder.
“You deserve more than stolen nights.”
Before she could answer, he was gone.
…
By seven that evening, the bunker looked exactly as it always had. The smell of burgers drifted from the kitchen. Classic rock echoed faintly from the garage. Her father was laughing before she even stepped through the door.
“There she is!” he called. “Perfect timing.”
She forced a smile while greeting her dad.
Dean was already there, leaning against the counter, beer bottle in hand. He looked up as she walked in, just for a heartbeat. There was no smile, no lingering glance. Nothing anyone else would notice.
“Hey, kid,” he said as casually as if he’d last seen her weeks ago instead of hours.
Her father tossed Dean another bottle from the fridge. “Dean was just telling me about that hunt in Wyoming.”
Dean smiled with practiced ease. It was the same smile everyone knew. The same one that hid everything. Across the room, their eyes met for the briefest moment. No one noticed. No one could.
But in that fleeting glance lived an entire night neither of them could take back and no answer to what came next.
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Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 10: Meet The Winchesters
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Nine✦
✦summary: dean introduces you to his family✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: their mental gymnastics to pretend they don't really want each other... insane.✦
You think Dean might be drugging you, with all the hand holding and kissing.
When he squeezes your hand, it does to your mind and body. He’s moving you towards his family. You’re stumbling after him and everything is all a fever dream.
Dean’s hugging his Mom. Exchanging a tight nod and awkward shoulder clap with his dad—who, at the very least, grabs Dean’s arm and nods back—before turning to the impossibly taller man next to the empty seats, and shouting Sammy so loud some of the glasses seem to shake. Sam stands—you’ve never seen him in person, he’s somehow even taller than you thought—and drags Dean into tight hug, muttering something that makes Dean laugh.
You smile, because it’s impossible not to when he seems this happy.
Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river.
Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.
But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place.
They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and-
“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”
You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.”
Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground.
“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar-“
“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary.
She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum.
And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too.
“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”
“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“
“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”
“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog.
This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face.
And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-
“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”
“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space-
Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back.
He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.
“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”
“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”
“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”
Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”
“Sam-“
“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”
Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest.
Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.
You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean.
But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift.
Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-
Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you.
But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.
“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”
“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“
“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”
The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped.
Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.
In your cover story, you don’t live together.
But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti.
“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”
You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“
“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.
He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.
“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”
Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far.
“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”
You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out.
Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down.
“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“
“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”
“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“
You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.
“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect.
He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”
“Ah. The lowest bar.”
He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.
For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge.
“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”
“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.
“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”
You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless.
That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family.
It’s not the story Dean says.
“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”
You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago.
You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.
There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation.
But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it.
What if it hadn’t faded.
Why does he remember.
Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it-
“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again.
You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”
“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.
“Dad, c’mon-“
“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”
“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“
“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow.
“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”
“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”
“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight.
This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.
But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored.
“You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“
“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding.
“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“
“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”
Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.
“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“
“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.
“Dad, don’t use us for this.”
John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“
“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”
The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter-
“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”
Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles.
“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”
John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this.
Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“
“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table.
You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams.
Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat.
It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-
“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow.
He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once.
Not real. So unfairly not real.
You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show.
He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again.
You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all.
It’s been a really long day.
You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.
You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back.
You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back.
But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real.
“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“
“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”
He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“
“I know.”
“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“
“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”
Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”
“Dean-“
“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”
You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me.
“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”
That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”
“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”
“And you didn’t do anything about it?”
“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”
“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.”
You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”
Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“
“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”
He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”
You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“
“And I said I’m gonna.”
“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”
He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.
“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”
“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“
“Yeah, you do.”
Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“
“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away.
You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips.
“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”
His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench.
He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire. Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face.
Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.
He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.
Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that-
There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks.
Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.
“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.”
“Dean-“
“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”
You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back.
Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh.
Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask.
And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under.
You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor.
No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real.
Whatever it was, it was far, far too real.
✦Chapter Eleven✦
✦End note: the illusion... it's falling... ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Hey y’all! I promise perfect mistake pt.3 will be out very soon!!! Here’s a collage for the TPM AU in the meantime 💗
ps— thank you everyone for your support!! It’s kinda surreal to write silly fangirl stuff and for people to actually enjoy it, so thank you! And don’t worry, I’m just as excited to see where this story leads XD
Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 5438
Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Shifting, Pregnancy, Angst.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Chapter 66 ------- Chapter 68 - coming soon
A/B/O Master List
Main Master List
Series Master List
Chapter 67
Jess didn’t realize she’d stopped moving at first.
There was no dramatic break in stride. No sound. No warning that something had shifted under the world itself.
Just—
One heartbeat she was running.
The next, she wasn’t.
Her paws still touched the earth, but the rhythm beneath her had changed. Like the ground had stopped answering her properly. Like the bond—normally a steady thread woven through all four of you—had gone thin in one direction.
Wrong wasn’t the word.
Just… distant.
Jess lifted her head.
The forest didn’t look different. The air didn’t smell different. Nothing visible had changed.
And still—
Her fur lifted along her spine in a slow, deliberate ripple, as if her body had decided to listen before her mind had caught up. Her wolf searching in a way she’d learned how to lean into.
She exhaled.
The sound felt too loud in her own ears.
Behind her, a wolf bounded past, brushing her flank in passing—Sam, still caught in the momentum of the run. He didn’t notice her stop. Or maybe he did, and just assumed she’d catch up.
But Jess wasn’t following anymore. She stood there.
Listening.
Not to the wind through the trees.
Not to the yips or paws against the earth around her.
To something underneath it all.
A pull.
Faint enough that if she had been anywhere else, she might have ignored it entirely. But she wasn’t anywhere else.
She was here.
Her head turned before she consciously chose to move it.
West.
Not a direction she could explain. Not something she could justify with scent or sound.
Just—
West.
Toward the cabin. Toward you.
The realization didn’t come like thought.
It came like impact.
Jess’s breath hitched, sharp and sudden, claws digging once into the dirt beneath her as her weight shifted forward without permission.
For a fraction of a second, she stayed still. As if the world itself was holding its breath with her.
Then—
She moved.
Not gradually.
Not cautiously.
Gone.
Jess broke into a run so fast the earth barely registered her leaving it. Branches blurred at the edge of her vision. Wind tore through her fur, but even that felt secondary now—background noise to something louder underneath everything else.
The bond snapped tighter with every stride.
She and her focused in a way they’d never been before.
And behind her, faintly—so faint she almost missed it—
Confusion flickered through Sam. Not alarm. Not panic. Just the beginning of not understanding why she was gone.
Jess didn’t slow to explain.
Couldn’t.
Because whatever was waiting at the cabin wasn’t something that could wait for language.
It was already happening.
It doesn’t feel like Jess is in danger or lost. It feels like she’s… no longer where she was a breath ago. That distinction matters for him—his mind immediately tries to map it. Distance. Direction. Intent.
But the bond doesn’t give him clean answers. Just pressure. Like a thread tugged tight toward the cabin.
And Sam—being Sam—doesn’t panic. He tests. Slows. Lets his senses widen instead of narrowing.
The forest is still full of life around him. Pack members moving. Running. Playing. Normal.
Which makes the shift stand out even more. Because everything else is stable.
Only one line in the web just changed tension.
That’s when Dean feels it too.
Not as analysis. As resistance.
Like Sam is no longer fully beside him in the rhythm of the run.
Dean cuts slightly to the side, shoulder brushing Sam’s flank—not checking in, but confirming: you feel that too.
Sam answers without looking at him. A shift in posture. Weight forward. Ears angling toward the same invisible point Jess vanished toward.
The cabin.
Dean’s response is immediate in that quiet wolf way—no hesitation, just alignment. His pace adjusts, not stopping the run entirely, but changing its shape. He’s no longer moving through the forest.
He’s tracking it.
Sam stays half a stride ahead now—not because he’s leading, but because he’s listening harder. Pulling at the bond like a thread between teeth, trying to find where it thins.
And that’s when it gets stranger.
Because the thread doesn’t feel steady anymore.
It feels… thinned.
Like Jess didn’t leave the pack. She just stopped participating in this direction of it.
Dean picks up on Sam’s tension then—not emotion, but intent. That subtle tightening in posture that means something is not what it was a second ago.
Their pace slows together without needing agreement. The run doesn’t stop.
It reorganizes.
Around them, the forest keeps moving—other wolves, distant yips, the living noise of the gathering—but the Winchester brothers’ world narrows into that single, shared pull toward the cabin.
Sam finally breaks formation by half a step, angling slightly west again.
Dean follows instantly, currently too focused on his brother and Jess to consider something might be going on with you.
No question. No debate.
Just instinctive confirmation: we go where she went.
And under it all—
That same low, growing awareness neither of them can name yet.
Not fear.
Not urgency.
Something closer to a storm that hasn’t found its shape. Because beneath all of it, neither can feel you through the bond like they had been.
It started feeling like resistance.
Jess didn’t register the space she’d already crossed anymore—only the pull. That steady, invisible line dragging through her chest, tightening with every stride she refused to slow.
Wind tore through her fur, but it didn’t matter. Sound blurred at the edges—birds lifting, branches shifting, distant calls from the pack behind her—but none of it landed properly anymore.
Everything outside that pull had become background noise.
Inside it—
there was only direction.
The cabin wasn’t far. But it felt like it was waiting.
Not still. Not empty.
Waiting.
Her paws hit the ground harder now, urgency bleeding into rhythm without her choosing it. She didn’t think in steps anymore. Didn’t measure distance. Just followed what was suddenly the only thing that felt real.
The bond stayed taut behind her—Sam’s confusion now sharper, more focused. Dean’s awareness folding into it like a second weight pressing forward.
They were close. Not physically.
But in understanding.
Jess pushed harder.
Branches broke past her vision in streaks. The scent of home—wood, stone, familiar pack warmth—began to thread through the air, faint at first, then growing stronger with each breath.
And beneath it—
something else.
Something that made her pace falter for half a heartbeat.
Not alarm. Not fear.
A storm without context.
Her body responded before her mind could name it, claws digging into dirt as she adjusted direction without thinking.
The cabin was there now.
Warm light spilled through the trees in soft edges, cutting through the darker green of the forest like it had no intention of hiding. The porch glow. The worn path. The shape of home sitting steady against the woods like it had always been there waiting for her return.
Jess slowed only when she reached the bumper of the Impala.
Not because she needed to.
Because something in her made her.
The air here felt different.
Thicker. Charged.
Like the space itself had shifted while she was gone and only now decided to settle back into place around her.
Her ears flicked forward. Every instinct in her went still.
Not frozen.
Focused.
The cabin was quiet. Too quiet for what she was feeling.
And that—that absence of explanation—was what made her finally move forward again.
One step.
Then another.
Closing the distance between her and what had pulled her home. Jess shifted before she reached the porch.
It wasn’t a thought so much as a release—bone and muscle realigning under skin, fur receding as familiarity returned in slow waves. The ground steadied beneath her feet. Her balance changed. Sound sharpened differently now, less instinct, more awareness.
By the time she stepped onto the porch, she was already human again. Barefoot. Breath still slightly uneven from the run.
The cabin door was open.
Warm light spilled out into the night air, soft against the darker edges of the trees. For a second, she just stood there, letting herself cross that threshold between outside and inside like it might mean something more than it did.
Inside, everything was still. Too still in a way that didn’t feel empty.
It felt held.
Jess stepped in.
The familiar shape of the cabin wrapped around her immediately—wood, warmth, the faint lingering scent of pack and home. She didn’t pause to think. Just moved forward on instinct, still riding the thread that had pulled her here in the first place.
Down the hall, she saw it.
Light.
Soft, steady, coming from beneath a half-closed bathroom door on the right side of the hallway.
She slowed.
Something in her chest tightened—not alarm, not quite. Just recognition of the fact that whatever she was about to walk into had been building long before she arrived.
Sam’s flannel was draped over the back of a chair near the entryway—left behind in the rush of everything earlier. Jess grabbed it without thinking, pulling it over her shoulders like instinct remembered warmth before she did. As an afterthought, she grabbed Dean’s flannel, her movements never slowing.
Sam’s flannel hung loose on her frame, sleeves too long, scent of him still embedded in the fabric. She didn’t stop to adjust it. Because the bond hit her harder the closer she got.
Not Sam’s.
Yours.
It wasn’t words. Not images. Not even clear emotion at first.
It was flooding.
A pressure behind Jess’s ribs that didn’t belong to her body but still moved through it anyway—tight, shaking, layered with something so dense it made her breath catch.
Shock.
No—disbelief.
No—something sharper underneath that.
Hope trying not to collapse under fear.
Joy so sudden it hurt.
Fear so quiet it barely existed until you felt it bleeding through everything else.
Jess’s steps slowed at the bathroom door. Her hand hovered there for half a second before she pushed it open.
The light inside was bright compared to the hallway, too clean, too exposed.
And there—
You were standing at the counter.
Still.
Barely moving at all except for the faint rise and fall of your breath like it was the only thing keeping you anchored.
Hands gripping the edge of the sink so tightly your knuckles had gone pale.
The pregnancy test sat on the counter in front of you.
Jess didn’t speak immediately. Because there was nothing in her that felt like it belonged to humor anymore.
Only understanding. And something softer underneath it that settled deep in her chest as she looked at you.
You didn’t turn right away.
Couldn’t, maybe.
Your voice came first. Barely there. Like if you said it any louder, it might stop being real.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words barely left your lips before the air seemed to change around you.
Jess didn’t hesitate.
She crossed the space between you in two quiet steps, closing the distance like it had never existed at all. One arm came around your shoulders, the other wrapping tight around your back, pulling you into her without force—but without room to refuse it either, sliding Dean’s flannel over your shoulders in the process.
Solid. Warm.
Her cheek pressed lightly against your temple, the fabric of Sam’s flannel soft where it brushed your skin, his scent layered with hers—familiar, grounding, pack. Then Dean’s scent wove through theirs.
Jess didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to.
Her hand slid up your back in a slow, steady pass, then again—anchoring, not soothing in a way that dismissed what you were feeling, but in a way that held it with you so it didn’t have to sit so sharply in your chest alone.
The bond shifted with the contact. Not quieter.
But steadier.
Like the storm hadn’t stopped—but you weren’t standing in the middle of it by yourself anymore.
Your arms came around her, letting the steadiness of her keep you from falling to the floor.
Jess exhaled softly against your hair, her hold tightening just a fraction as if she could feel that shift the second it happened.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured, voice low, steady—certain in a way that didn’t ask questions yet. Didn’t rush ahead of you.
Just met you where you were.
Her hand stilled between your shoulder blades, palm warm, grounding.
And still—
she didn’t pull away.
Didn’t look at the test. Didn’t need to. Because she could feel it.
All of it.
And she was right there with you inside it.
Jess’s arms didn’t loosen. If anything, they tightened the second your body gave. It wasn’t loud at first. Not a sob. Not even a sound.
Just—
something inside you finally giving way.
Your fingers twitched for the briefest moment before gripping at the fabric of the flannel, at her, like you needed something solid to hold onto before everything inside you scattered too far to gather again.
Your breath hitched.
Once.
Then again, sharper.
And Jess held on through all of it.
Her hand came up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you in closer, her cheek resting against your hair as she steadied you through the shift from silence into something that couldn’t stay contained anymore.
“It’s okay,” she murmured softly—not dismissing, not quieting—just giving the moment somewhere safe to land. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
The bond surged.
Not chaotic. Not broken.
Just full.
Too full to stay quiet anymore.
Dean barely registered it.
One moment fur, the next skin—breath already pulling too sharp in his lungs, chest tight with something that had no shape yet, only urgency.
Something was wrong.
He didn’t question it. Didn’t slow down to understand it.
He felt it.
And it was enough.
He was already moving toward the cabin before his feet had fully steadied beneath him.
Sam hit the ground beside him a second later, the transition to human form cleaner, quieter—but the impact of the bond no less sharp.
It punched through him in a wave.
Not fear.
Not danger.
But—
intensity.
Raw. Unfiltered. Too layered to name all at once.
His head snapped toward the cabin. Dean was already halfway up the steps.
“Dean—” Sam started, but it wasn’t a warning.
It was a reach.
Dean didn’t stop. Didn’t even turn. Couldn’t.
Sam exhaled sharply and moved after him, faster now, grabbing at what grounding he could on the way in. His gaze flicked once—just once—taking in the room, the scattered remnants of where they’d left their clothes earlier.
Yours were there. All of them.
That told him enough.
He reached for his boxers, yanking them free, then Dean’s, and following him down the hall.
“Put these on,” he said, quick, low—already moving, not waiting for a full response.
Dean caught his boxers mid-step, barely breaking stride. It was just enough. Just enough to keep moving forward without slowing down.
The light down the hall hit them both at the same time.
Bathroom.
Open door.
Dean felt you before he saw you. Felt the break in you echo through the bond like something physical. It hit his chest hard enough to steal the air from his lungs.
And just like that—
everything in him narrowed to one thing.
You.
He didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t think.
He moved.
Dean hit the doorway fast enough that the frame rattled faintly under the force of it. He didn’t register that.
Didn’t register anything beyond the fact that you were there. And that something in you had broken open.
The sight of you—shaking, folded into Jess, his flannel draped over your shoulders—landed all at once, too much and not enough at the same time. Your scent hit him next, thick with emotion, sharp with something that sent his wolf surging forward under his skin.
Distress.
It snapped through him like a live wire.
Dean moved.
Two strides—maybe three—and he was there, hands already reaching for you before thought could catch up. One braced at your back, the other coming up to your face, thumb dragging quick beneath your eye like he could physically wipe away whatever had put that look there.
“Hey—hey—” His voice was rough, too tight, not quite steady. “I’m here. What’s—”
His gaze flicked over you, fast, searching.
Hurt?Threat?Anything he could fix?
There was nothing visible.
That didn’t stop the instinct. It only sharpened it.
His body angled instinctively between you and the open space of the room, half-turned like he was already prepared to put himself between you and something that hadn’t even shown itself yet.
Behind him, Sam slowed at the threshold.
Took it in.
Jess holding you. Your body folded in on itself, not from pain—but from overwhelm. The counter.
The test.
Sam’s breath caught. Understanding clicked into place before Dean had even fully processed what he was looking at.
The room blurred at the edges. Not gone. Just… distant. Your thoughts hadn’t slowed, even if your wolf had gone utterly still inside you. Like she still hadn’t fully grasped the reality of the moment.
Dean’s hand stilled against your face. Not because he chose to stop. Because something in you shifted just enough that he felt it.
Not distress.Not pain.Something deeper.Wider.
Your grip tightened in Jess’s flannel.
Your breath hitched again—not breaking this time, but trying to steady.
And through the bond—
something else bled through.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Dean frowned, just slightly, confusion cutting through the urgency as his gaze finally dropped—following the line of your body, the direction Jess had angled you away from—
The counter.
A pregnancy test.
He went still.
Not frozen.
But—
caught.
Like his body had reached the end of one instinct and hadn’t yet caught up to the next.
His hand slipped from your face, not pulling away entirely—just lowering, settling instead over your lower back, grounding, anchoring, needing to stay in contact even as everything in him tried to reorient.
His wolf didn’t settle.
Didn’t calm.
It stilled.
Watching.
Recalibrating.
Dean’s voice, when it came this time, was quieter. Not because the urgency was gone. Because it had changed shape.
“…you’re—”
His breath caught.
“…you’re pregnant?”
Dean didn’t move right away.
Not after the words left his mouth. Not after the shape of them settled into the space between all of you.
Something in him had gone still again—but not the same kind of stillness as before. Not confusion. Not bracing.
Processing.
His hand remained at your lower back, warm and steady, thumb shifting once like he needed to remind himself you were still there. His gaze hadn’t left your face, but it wasn’t searching anymore. It was… taking you in. Every detail. Every breath. Every flicker of emotion that crossed your features as you tried to hold yourself together.
Jess didn’t move either, keeping you in her arms. She felt it—the exact moment the tension in him changed. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t come with a sharp inhale or a sudden motion.
It was quieter than that.
It was the way his shoulders dropped. The way the sharp edge of instinct melted into something deeper. The way his scent shifted—subtle at first, then unmistakable.
Understanding.
It hit him all at once.
Not in pieces. Not fragmented.
Whole.
Your scent. The test. The way you were shaking—not from fear, not from pain, but from something too big to hold on your own. The way your wolf had gone so still, like she was waiting for something outside of herself to anchor her.
And beneath all of that—
the bond.
It wasn’t frantic anymore. It wasn’t jagged or uncertain. It was so full it was spilling over within you.
Dean’s breath left him in a slow exhale, like something in his chest had finally unlocked.
And then he smiled.
It didn’t start small.
It wasn’t hesitant.
It broke across his face—wide and bright and unguarded, something boyish and reverent all at once. It reached his eyes, lit them from the inside out, turned something deep in him soft in a way he never let anyone see unless it was you.
Joy flooded the bond.
Not cautious. Not held back.
It poured through, warm and steady and certain, wrapping around you before you even realized you’d been waiting for it.
Jess felt it the same second you did.
Her hold on you shifted—not loosening, not pulling away—but changing. One hand smoothed up your back, grounding, reassuring. And then, gently, carefully, she guided you away from her embrace.
Toward him, helping you slip your arms into the flannel through the movements.
Dean didn’t hesitate.
His arms came around you the moment there was space, pulling you in close—firm, certain, like he needed you right there against him to believe this was real. One hand slid up your spine, the other settling low at your back again, anchoring you fully this time.
You went without resistance. Folded into him like something in you had been waiting for that exact place.
His scent wrapped around you immediately.
Warm. Familiar. Him.
And beneath it now—something new. Something fuller. Richer. Threaded through with a quiet kind of awe that made your chest tighten all over again, but not in the same way as before.
Your breath hitched once—
then again—
and then, for the first time since the lines had appeared—
you inhaled.
Deep.
Full.
Your wolf shifted inside you, not stilled anymore, not frozen in that suspended moment between knowing and not knowing.
She leaned into him.
The tension that had been coiled tight through your muscles loosened in slow, uneven waves. Your hands, which had been gripping the counter hard enough to ache earlier, moved—one curling against his chest, the other wrapping around his side like you needed to hold onto something solid. Your fingers splayed across his back before relaxing against his skin.
Dean’s chin dipped, his mouth brushing into your hair.
He didn’t rush to speak. Didn’t fill the space just to fill it.
He breathed you in first. Let the reality of it settle into his bones, into the way he held you, into the way his hands refused to let you go.
Jess stepped back. Not far. Just enough.
Sam’s arm came around her the moment she reached him, pulling her into his side without looking away from the two of you. His hand rested around her waist, grounding her the same way Dean grounded you. The two of them stayed quiet, steady, letting the moment belong where it needed to.
Dean’s hold tightened just slightly.
Not restrictive.
Protective.
Reverent.
His breath shifted against your hair, uneven for just a second before it steadied again.
“We’re…” he started, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
He paused. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Because the words were bigger than his breath for a second.
His grip on you firmed, just enough to pull you closer, like he needed you to feel it too.
“We’re gonna have a pup.”
The words settled into the room like something sacred.
Not loud.
Not overwhelming.
But final.
Real.
Your fingers twitched against his chest. Not from fear. Not from uncertainty.
From feeling it land. From those words being spoken aloud. From it becoming more than just hope that you’d kept carefully contained for the last two weeks.
And this time—when your breath came in—
it didn’t catch.
For a moment after the words settle, nothing moves.
Not because there’s nothing left to feel—
but because there’s too much.
Dean keeps you close, arms firm around you, breath still warm where it brushes your hair. His hand spreads against your back, thumb dragging once, twice, like he needs the contact to steady himself just as much as you do.
You feel it before you see it.
The shift.
Not in his grip—he’s still holding you like something precious—but in the way his chest rises under your cheek. A deeper inhale. A sharper exhale. Something building.
Your wolf stirs first. Not restless. Not uncertain.
Bright.
Like something inside her just… lit.
It rolls through the bond a second later—stronger than before, no longer just steady warmth but something fuller, fuller, fuller until it has nowhere left to go.
Dean lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. It catches halfway—like he didn’t expect it to come out—but once it does, it doesn’t stop.
“Holy—” he huffs, the sound breaking apart into something disbelieving, something awed. His hands tighten on you—not hurting, never that—but anchoring, like he needs to make sure you’re still right here. That he’s not dreaming.
His forehead dips briefly against yours, a quick, almost frantic touch.
And then—
he moves.
It’s not careful the way everything else has been.
It’s instinct.
Joy, finally too big to stay contained.
His hands slide—one bracing at your back, the other under your thighs—and before your mind can catch up, he lifts you clean off your feet.
A startled sound leaves you—half breath, half laugh—as your hands grab for him on instinct, arms wrapped around the back of his neck.
“Dean—!”
But he’s already turning.
Not wild. Not out of control. But enough—just enough—to pull you with him, to break the heaviness that had settled into your bones.
Your laughter breaks through it. It surprises you as much as it does him.
It spills out, breathless and bright and edged with tears that haven’t quite stopped falling yet. Your forehead knocks lightly against his as he steadies, your body still lifted in his arms, his grin right there, inches from yours.
It’s different up close.
Wider. Softer. Completely undone in a way that’s new.
“We’re—” he starts again, voice rough, almost tripping over itself.
He exhales, shaking his head once like he still can’t quite believe it, like saying it once wasn’t enough to make it real.
Then he says it again. Stronger this time.
Clear.
“We’re having a pup.”
The words don’t just land.
They expand.
They fill the space, the bond, your chest—everything—until there’s no room left for anything else.
Your breath catches—
then breaks into another laugh, softer this time, shaking at the edges as your forehead presses into his, your nose brushing his without you even thinking about it.
Your wolf leans fully into his now, no hesitation, no stillness left.
Just there.
With him.
Your hands slide from holding on as tightly as you had, to cupping the sides of his neck, grounding yourself in him the same way he’s grounding you. Your thumbs brush just under his ears, your touch unsteady but sure.
“Dean…” you breathe, his name barely more than a whisper, but full—so full it almost aches.
He doesn’t set you down right away. Doesn’t seem to realize he’s still holding you. Or maybe he does—and just doesn’t want to let go yet.
Behind him, the room shifts.
Not loudly. Not intrusively.
Jess lets out a soft, breathy laugh of her own, one hand coming up to cover her mouth for a second like she’s trying—and failing—to keep it in. Her eyes shine, fixed on the two of you, that familiar warmth in them deepened into something almost overwhelming.
Sam’s arm tightens around her shoulders, pulling her closer into his side. His head tips slightly toward hers, but his gaze stays forward, steady and quiet and seeing.
There’s a flicker of a smile there too—soft, a little stunned—but unmistakably there.
No one interrupts.
No one rushes in.
They just… witness it.
Dean finally shifts his weight, easing you down just enough that your feet brush the floor—but his hands don’t leave you. One stays at your back. The other slides to your hip, thumb tracing a slow, grounding path there like he’s memorizing the feel of you in this moment.
Like everything just changed—and he’s not letting a second of it slip past him.
Your laughter fades into softer breaths, your chest still rising a little too fast, but it’s not tight anymore.
Not overwhelming.
Just… full.
And Dean?
He’s still smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.
There wasn’t.
The test still sat on the counter. The lines still there. Still unmistakable.
But the frantic edge that had filled the bathroom only minutes earlier had dissolved into something softer now. Fuller. The kind of quiet that settled after a storm finally passed through.
Dean kept touching you like he couldn’t help himself.
His hands never fully left you as the four of you slowly untangled from the cramped space of the guest bathroom. One stayed at the small of your back as he guided you out into the hallway. The other brushed your arm, your hip, your waist—small grounding touches like his body was checking over and over that you were still there.
Still real.
You barely made it three steps down the hall before he pulled you against him again.
Not urgent this time, but just because he wanted to.
His forehead pressed briefly against yours, his grin returning softer now, but no less overwhelming. Joy still poured through the bond in warm, steady waves, easing the last lingering tightness from your chest every time it brushed against you.
The cabin felt different as you stepped back into the open living room.
Warmer.
Fuller somehow.
The lamps near the couch cast soft amber light across the wood floors while moonlight spilled silver through the tall windows overlooking the trees. The house had settled into that strange quiet that only existed deep into the night—when the world outside still felt awake, but everything inside had softened.
Jess moved first.
Always practical even through her own excitement, she disappeared briefly toward the laundry basket near the stairs before returning with a pair of soft sleep shorts and one of your oversized shirts. Her smile turned fond when she handed them over.
“You should probably wear something other than Dean’s flannel, before he combusts from sensory overload,” she teased gently.
Dean snorted immediately. “Hey.”
But his arm tightened around your waist possessively anyway, proving her point.
A breathy laugh escaped you—still fragile around the edges, but real.
God, it felt good to laugh.
You changed quickly, the oversized shirt swallowing you in softness while Dean hovered nearby like he physically couldn’t force himself farther than arm’s reach. The second you were dressed, his hand found your stomach again as he held you from behind, chin resting on the top of your head.
Not absentminded this time.
Intentional.
Reverent.
His palm spread carefully over the fabric like he still couldn’t quite comprehend what it meant.
Sam noticed.
You saw it in the way his expression softened further as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, Jess tucked against his side. The two of them looked almost as overwhelmed as you felt, though in a quieter way.
Not shock anymore.
Wonder.
Dean guided you toward the couch a moment later, settling beside you immediately—close enough that your thighs touched, one arm stretched along the back cushions behind you while the other stayed draped over your middle like he’d decided that was simply where it belonged now.
No one seemed entirely sure what to do next. And somehow… that made the moment feel even more real.
Jess laughed softly under her breath at something only she seemed to notice. “You’re both staring at her stomach.”
Dean didn’t even look guilty. “Can you blame me?”
“Nope,” Sam answered instantly.
That pulled another laugh out of you, warmer this time. The kind that loosened something deep inside your ribs.
For a while, conversation came in scattered little pieces.
Disjointed. Breathless at times. Jess asking if you needed water. Sam quietly mentioning that there were probably books somewhere at Mary and John’s place.
Dean muttering something about building another room onto the cabin before immediately realizing what he’d said and burying his face briefly against your shoulder while Jess burst into helpless laughter.
“You already have room for a pup, Dean.”
“Yeah, well—” he mumbled into your shirt. “What if we need more room later?”
Sam made a choking sound from the kitchen. Jess outright cackled.
And finally—
finally—
you felt the last trembling remnants of panic leave your body completely.
Because this wasn’t fear anymore. Not even close.
This was your pack.
Your family.
Your mate pressed impossibly close beside you, smiling like he’d been handed the moon itself.
And somewhere beneath your own heartbeat, your wolf curled warmly around the truth of it all.
Chapter 66 ------- Chapter 68 - coming soon
A/B/O Master List
Main Master List
Series Master List
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Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
Summary: You've never smoked weed before, nor have you had an edible. It was something you'd never even thought about before. Perhaps that was because alcohol was always available. But when a container of brownies sits innocently in the kitchen with a note stating they're very clearly Dean's, you can't help but snag a couple.
Pairing: None
Word Count: 5631
Warnings: Marijuana, Edibles, Hilarity, Reading being high, Dean and Sam being themselves.
A/N: I hope you guys like this one as much as I did writing it. Lots of humor in Parts 1 & 2. A bit of embarrassment in Part 3.
Part 2
Brownies Master List
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Main Master List
Sleep released you slowly.
Not all at once, but in that hazy, comfortable way where awareness seeped back a little at a time. Warmth surrounded you beneath the blankets, the mattress soft beneath your body, your pillow molded perfectly beneath your cheek. For several long moments, you simply stayed where you were, eyes still closed, savoring the feeling of having nowhere to be.
Every muscle in your body felt loose, relaxed in a way that only came after an exceptionally deep night's sleep. There wasn't the slightest hint of a headache lingering behind your eyes or heaviness pressing against your limbs. If anything, you felt... refreshed.
You drew in a slow breath through your nose, letting it out just as gradually. The familiar scent of your laundry detergent clung to your blankets, mingling with the faint, ever-present smell of old concrete that belonged to the bunker no matter how often it was cleaned.
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
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Yay! I'm so glad to hear that. I've been debating adding to this, since I sorta left it open to lots more hilarity, and maybe something a little tender too. Who knows. :)
Interlude Summary: After eleven years, you finally return home.
Warnings: 18+ language, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, reader x OMC, angst, friendships, family mysteries, witchcraft
Word Count: 3.4k
A/N: Get your first official house tour as we go back to Sugar Hill, where it all started a long time ago. And don't worry – the Winchester boys will visit this place soon as well (and give Dean a few things to think about lol). For now, enjoy this little deep-dive! 🤓
🔮 Chapter Title: Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) by Arcade Fire
You’ve been driving for hours already, Salem disappearing in your rearview mirror a while ago as the country roads unwind under the tires of your Aveo, the crisp morning air drifting in through the cracked windows. Dawn has fully broken now, taking the strangeness and horror of last night with it and painting the sky in soft pinks and golds that stretch across the hills and farmland ahead.
The landscape swells around you as Sugar Hill draws nearer. Rolling hills are draped in clover-green, ancient woods pressing close before opening into wide, untouched meadows that glow in the morning light, wildflowers dotting the fields in splashes of rainbow colors. Even the air feels different here – purer, more alive, vibrating with the same natural power that flows through your veins. You can feel it tingling in the tips of your fingers.
Despite the beautiful landscape that feels almost sacred, however, the knot in your chest tightens with every familiar bend.
Eleven years.
You haven’t traveled these roads since the night everything you’d known and loved smashed to smithereens. The memories of that night still haunt your soul – waking to screams downstairs, the acrid stench of sulfur, your mother and grandmother’s voices raised in desperate spells, the roar of flames.
John Winchester had saved you that night. Carried you out the back and bundled you up in the backseat of the Impala while the yellow-eyed demon hunted you through the smoke. He’d been a family friend, their ally against the demon that haunted his own family. Then he’d hidden you in Salem with Mia and told you to stay hidden and never come back.
You grip the steering wheel tighter. Part of you still wants to turn around and run as far away into the other direction as possible. What if the house rejects you? What if going back opens doors that should stay closed? What if you’re not strong enough for whatever waits inside?
Or worse, what if you are?
“You okay?” Cameron asks from the passenger seat, his large hand resting warm and steady on your thigh, his long legs stretched as much as your tiny car allows.
“Yeah, you kinda got that thousand-yard stare going on,” Paige chimes in, lounging in the backseat with her bare feet propped against the door.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking,” you reply. “Haven’t been back in so long, part of me keeps expecting the house to be gone – or worse, look exactly the same.”
Cameron squeezes your thigh gently. “It’s gonna be alright. Whatever we’ll find, you’re not alone in this.”
But maybe you should be. You know how dangerous it is to bring both Paige and Cameron with you, considering demons are apparently hot on your trail. You feel incredibly selfish, not being strong enough to do this on your own. What if something happens to them because of you?
You can’t let that happen.
Your thoughts thunder like storm clouds after eleven years of carefully built normalcy. Lab coats, glitter gel pens, nights out with Paige, and lazy Sundays with Cameron are all unraveling with every mile closer to Sugar Hill. Going back means facing the ritual and the full weight of your bloodline, and you’re honestly not sure you’re ready for any of it.
You then turn onto the dirt road that climbs the hill, overgrown grass scraping the underside of the car as your old childhood home comes into view. This entire place had always felt like another realm where witches would keep watch over hunters and innocents alike and where the veil between natural and supernatural was whisper-thin. You remember how the sunsets here felt like a sacred blessing – a dream woven from birch trees, wild grass, and centuries of protection.
This very land had been a sanctuary for generations of Berkano women, your Northern European ancestors who crossed with the first English settlers, survived the witch hunts by fleeing north, and built their hidden home on this very hill. So many mothers and daughters had lived and died here. Their graves even still lie in the small, hidden cemetery behind the pond at the edge of the property, marked only by birch trees and the family rune.
But now that same beauty feels elegiac, wilder, and sadder somehow.
The house’s brightly blue siding has faded to a weary periwinkle over the years, wild grass surging tall and untamed around the foundation and vines climbing the columns, nature reclaiming what grief had abandoned. Wildflowers fight through thistles and brambles in the front yard, shattered windows reflecting the sunlight. The white wrap-around porch sags on one end while a section of the roof above the kitchen looks partially collapsed.
But it’s still so heartbreakingly, achingly beautiful it hurts.
Your breath catches as you slow the car to a stop, your birthmark on your collarbone tingling warmly under your skin as if the land recognizes its last daughter returning.
Cameron’s hand tightens on your thigh. “Stay behind me when we get out. Both of you,” he says, voice reassuring. “I’ll take point until we know it’s clear.”
“Always the hero,” you murmur, affection easing your anxiety a little.
His Ranger instincts comfort you more than you can say. Some part of you wants to tease him for treating your family home like a potential hostile building, but another part – the part that watched a demon nearly kill Mia last night – feels nothing but grateful.
Paige leans curiously forward between the seats and stares out the windshield. “Wow, this entire place looks like a painting of heaven. I mean, right now, it looks like it’s been brooding in its trauma for a decade, but I can see the appeal.”
She doesn’t know how right she actually is. This place truly was heaven once.
You sit there a moment longer, heart hammering against your ribs before you reach for the door handle and step out. The air smells like pine resin, damp earth, wildflowers, and lasting traces of old smoke that the breeze couldn’t quite carry away over the years. There are no neighbors or rooflines anywhere near, just the silence of nature enveloping you – birdsong, pattering water, and wind through the leaves.
Your sneakers sink into the overgrown grass before you reach the porch steps, the old wood creaking loudly under your weight. The front door gives with a push, Cameron walking in first with one hand subtly resting on the gun he insisted on bringing while Paige links her arm through yours, uncharacteristically quiet for once as you cross the threshold together.
As soon as you set foot inside the house, memories flood your senses like a tidal wave. Dust motes dance in the midday sunlight slanting through the broken windows, catching on thick cobwebs that decorate every corner and crevice of this place and drape from the big chandelier in the entrance like delicate lace.
The living room, on the other hand, still bears deep, black scars in jagged circles where the worst of the fire had raged – where your mom and grandma made their last stand. And for a heartbeat, you feel eleven years old again, frozen on top of the stairs, helpless and scared.
Cameron tries to flip a light switch unsuccessfully. “Power seems to be cut,” he muses and then glances at you. “Is the breaker box in the basement?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Alright.” He nods and already turns toward the basement door. “You guys stay here till I give the all-clear.”
Paige wraps herself tighter around your arm, resting her chin on your shoulder as you both watch Cam disappear downstairs. “He’s kind of hot when he’s all business,” she says. “Maybe I should start dating a soldier.”
You snort and shake your head at her. “Sorry to disappoint, but I think he’s the last of a dying breed.”
While Cam’s gone, you drift through the ground floor, your fingers tentatively brushing the dining table with three place settings covered in a thick layer of gray. Even your mom’s brittle herb bundles still hang in the kitchen where they always used to be like she never left in the first place and was coming back any second now to brew you your favorite tea.
Every creak of the floorboards and every familiar shape beneath the dust sheets twists the dagger deeper into your heart.
The lights then suddenly flip on with a few coughing flickers before Cameron returns a minute later, dusty but satisfied. As he trudges back up the stairs, he raises a small and worn leather booklet in his hand. The Berkano rune is embossed on the front cover.
“Found this next to the breaker box,” he says. “Looks like a manual for the house.”
“It is,” you reply with a small laugh. “Elsbeth was the first witch who claimed this land and built a home here. The first house was actually a lot smaller before they rebuilt it in 1886, but Elsbeth wrote down the first instructions and rules after her husband suggested selling the land at some point before the other generations kept adding to it.”
“Since this is still in your property, I’m guessing Elsbeth’s husband didn’t win that fight, huh?” Paige quips.
“Nope.” You smirk a little. “Rumor has it, he accidentally fell off a ladder shortly after.”
Cameron cocks a brow, amused. “Accidentally?”
You grin. “You better not disagree with me, Cooper.”
“Noted.” Cam laughs and hands you the manual.
Your fingers tremble a little as you take it. The leather is soft and darkened with centuries of handling, the handwriting on the first pages elegant yet unfamiliar, although both your mom and grandma had added notes in the margins over the years. But the core spells that keep this place protected and running belonged to generations long before them.
“I remember this. They always kept it handy,” you say, carefully tracing the rune on the cover before leafing through the first few pages. You then look up at them and grin. “You guys ready for some magic to spruce up this place a little?”
Paige nods vividly with an excited smile. “If it’s half as efficient as your cleaning spell, I’m game. Otherwise, a spell that renews my tetanus shot would help.”
You stroll to the center of the scarred living room with a pounding heart and flip the manual open to a restoration spell. “By blood and bone and Berkano’s mark, awaken, renew, and heal the dark,” you speak the first lines. “From foundation deep to rooftop high, return this home beneath the sky.”
You can feel the magic flow through your blood like warm sunlight – golden, alive, and shimmering.
The dust then rises in sparkling spirals and vanishes first. Charred and broken floorboards lighten and mend right in under your feet. Shattered glass lifts from the ground in front of your eyes, knitting itself back into the window frames. Peeling paint smooths and deepens into the purest colors. The sagging porch outside straightens with a groan while vines and overgrown brush retreat from the walls and foundation as if gently ushered away by invisible hands.
Even the kitchen herbs regain their vibrant color and rich fragrance. The dining table gleams with fresh polish, the three place settings shining like they’re waiting for a family to sit down to dinner. The sunlight outside brightens visibly, pouring through every window in rich, honeyed waves that chase away eleven years of shadow and sorrow.
When the final sparks fade, the entire Queen Anne has transformed back into its former glory, no trace of the tragedy left behind as though it never happened.
The only thing still missing is the presence of your mom and grandma. Sadly, no spell can bring them back.
Paige spins slowly in the now-gleaming foyer, eyes wider than the full moon. “Okay, I’m officially speechless.”
“Rare occurrence,” Cam quips with a little grin.
You, on the other hand, flip through the manual. “I need to renew the protection wards as well. They shield the whole property. Nothing evil should be able to cross the boundary once they’re active.” You glance toward the staircase. “But I’ll need a few ingredients first. If I remember correctly, my grandma kept them up in the attic.”
Cameron pulls you into his chest, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Alright, let’s get it done. Make this place a fortress again.”
You nod, drawing strength from him before leading them upstairs.
The first door on the right opens into the octagonal tower, where your childhood bedroom used to be. It’s situated on the southeast side of the house, letting sunlight stream through the tall windows every hour of the day.
As you glance up at the midnight blue ceiling, you can still see the gold constellations your mother painted for you. The quilt your grandma made still lies folded at the foot of the twin bed. You remember lying here as a little girl, fingers tracing the Berkano birthmark near your collarbone while she told you stories of Eira and the natural magic that flowed through your veins like sap through ancient birch trees. You remember practicing your first spells at age seven and scribbling them into the notebook you still use to this day while your mom taught you how to make flowers bloom on the windowsill with pure delight.
You used to feel so safe here once – like the whole world outside couldn’t touch you as long as you stayed here.
You wander farther down the hall till you land in your mother’s bedroom. Her bed is still neatly made, her herb journal resting on the nightstand beside a half-burned citrus candle. The room holds memories of late-night talks, hair braiding, and quiet lessons about your family’s purpose – guardians to hunters, protectors of the innocent.
At the end of the hall then lies your grandmother’s room. It carries a deeper and older weight. There are dried protective herb bundles hanging from the ceiling beams, her large oak desk cluttered with yellowed papers and ink pots. You remember sitting at her feet on the rug while she taught you how to write spells properly – how clear intention mattered more than perfect rhyme. She always smelled of old books and fresh pine.
Now, you stand in the hallway between the three rooms that once held your entire world. The restored house glows warmly around you, feeling like centuries of Berkano women are watching over their last daughter.
And for the first time in eleven years, it doesn’t feel like a tomb. It feels more like this place has been waiting for you to come home and remember who you truly are.
“Hey! There’s another staircase up here,” you suddenly hear Paige’s voice echoing from above, bright with excitement. “Cameron’s already trying the door!”
You exhale a breath you’ve been holding in for too long and glance back at the bedrooms one last time before heading toward the narrow attic stairs at the end of the hall. When you reach the top, Cameron is gripping the old brass doorknob, turning it with increasing force.
“It’s stuck,” he mutters, brows furrowed. “I think it might be locked. You got a key for this somewhere, babe?”
You don’t, but another memory creeps into your mind as you step closer to the door. “Let me try.”
The moment your fingertips brush the cool brass, a familiar warmth blooms beneath your skin. And then, all of a sudden, a soft little click echoes through the stairwell. The door creaks open a crack all on its own, releasing a breath of old paper, dried lavender, and centuries of quiet power.
“Okay…” Paige lets out a low whistle. “That was officially a little creepy. Is this place haunted by any chance?”
“Maybe,” you say absentmindedly, already stepping carefully inside.
“I’m sorry… did you just say maybe?” Paige checks behind you, but you don’t answer her anymore, your focus taken fully by what waits for you inside.
God, the attic looks like a living museum of your bloodline.
The sunlight filters through the large stained-glass window at the far end – a magnificent birch tree with hazel bark and leaves in every shade of green. The colored light spills across the old oak floorboards in changing patterns of emerald, amber, and soft rose. Exposed wooden beams arch overhead, strung with bundles of dried herbs, copper charms, and strings of tiny crystals that chime as you pass.
Shelves line every single wall in the room, packed with curiosities: rows of glass jars containing shimmering powders, dried flowers, colorful liquids, and gemstones. Ancient maps of ley lines and demon hotspots are pinned beside yellowed sketches of creatures you don’t yet have names for.
Other witchy trinkets fill every surface available as well – silver rune pendants, carved wooden wands, a small collection of ornate daggers, a cracked hand mirror you remember being able to reflect auras, and stacks of leather journals filled with handwritten lore. And then, in the center of the room, stands a heavily carved pedestal holding the ancient Berkano spellbook, its cover moulded with the same rune you bear on your skin.
Paige already curiously drifts toward the spellbook. The second her fingers graze the cover, however, an electric little zap cracks through the air. She yelps and yanks her hand back.
“Ow! What the–”
You can’t help drawing a small, amused smile. “Only bloodline can touch it,” you explain. “The book protects itself. Grams always said it would never let itself fall into the wrong hands.”
“Rude.” Paige shakes her hand dramatically, clearly still feeling the sting. You’re pretty sure if she were a demon, she would’ve gone up in flames, though. “But also admittedly kind of badass.”
You nod in agreement before moving to the shelves, your eyes scanning the labels written in your grandmother’s hand. For the ward renewal you need a very precise mix: coarse sea salt blessed under a full moon, fresh rosemary, strips of birch bark from the oldest tree on the property, a small moonstone, scraps of rowan wood, dried elder flowers, powdered shavings of stag antlers, and a vial of quartz dust gathered from the hill itself. Usually, all these things wouldn’t be easy to find, but your grandmother always liked to be prepared.
You gather everything into a small cast-iron bowl and mix it together under the glowing stained-glass birch before you cast the protection spell, your voice as clear and strong as possible.
“By blood and bone and Berkano’s light, by earth and sky and ancient right, we call upon the natural vein to guard this home from every bane. No demon, spirit, dark, or fell may cross this threshold, break this spell. From hill to pond, from tree to stone, this sanctuary stands alone.”
The ingredients in the bowl flare brightly in green and gold before dissolving into shimmering dust that rises and shoots through the walls, floor, and ceiling, the entire property inhaling its protective magic.
Cameron, standing by the stained-glass window, suddenly straightens. “Look, the fence.”
You join him and take a peek out the window. Down the slope, the old birch fence marking the property boundary glows with a soft, pulsing light before fading back to normal wood. The wards are active once more.
“It worked,” you breathe with a relieved smile.
Cameron studies the land stretching out below – the wild fields, the pond reflecting the sunlight, the distant tree line. “It’s beautiful here,” he says quietly. “Feels… different already. Safer.”
You stare at the boundary for a moment longer, a quiet question lingering. “I still don’t understand how they broke through last time. The wards should have held. They always held before…”
Strong arms then slide around your waist from behind. Cameron pulls you back against his chest, chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out over the newly protected land. His warmth chases away the last chill of uncertainty.
“You’re home,” he says against your hair. “Really home. And whatever comes next, we face it from here. Together. On your terms.”
You lean into him, letting the attic’s peaceful magic ground you. The ancient spellbook, the curiosities of generations, the light dancing through the birch tree window… it all feels like it’s been waiting.
For the first time in eleven years, the weight on your shoulders doesn’t feel like devastating grief anymore. It feels like purpose. Something new, something powerful, is only just beginning.
And you? You’re finally back home – back where you've always belonged. You can feel it in your heart.
▶️ Interlude II : Call Me, Beep Me – July 31
How did you like this first interlude? These are honestly just scenes that I could never quite fit into chapters theme-wise and were too short to stand as their own chapters, so I figured this was a good solution. If you ever have ideas for an interlude or something you want to see, let me know! 🤓
We have two smutty one-shots posting the next Fridays before we'll return to this series. Stay tuned, friends! 💜
Series Masterlist
Coming Up || Posting Schedule:
💦 Aquamarine (Part 3 of the Florida!!! series) – July 17
🩺 Midnight Rhythms (Russell Shaw x nurse!reader) – July 24
🔮 Interlude II: Call Me, Beep Me – July 31
🔮 Chapter 7: Loose Lips Sink Ships – August 7
🔮 Chapter 8: Salt Air – August 21
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Chapter Summary: A terrifying vision leads Sam and Dean back to Salem and back to you. But can they stop whoever's coming for you before it's too late?
Warnings: 18+ language and violence, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, major angst, family mysteries, demons, injuries and hospitals, hurt/comfort, jealousy (unless you're in denial like Dean), fluff if you squint hard, some spiciness (reader x OMC)
Word Count: 15.9k
A/N: Ready to meet the other guy, guys? 'Cause Dean surely isn't 😝 Be nice to Cam, friends. He's a fun plot device to torture Dean with, so enjoy him while he lasts till the end game starts 😉
Dean just knows when he’s dreaming these days. Granted, it’s not right away, usually. There’s always that blurry stretch at first till he forgets himself enough to sink into it. But then, the recognition comes, familiar like an old scar aching in winter.
He also knows this house by now, too.
He’s inside this time and slightly older, probably around fourteen. The bones of the old Queen Anne groan around him as gusts of wind brush against the siding outside, the sound somehow comforting beneath the murmur of low voices downstairs.
Early autumn has already taken over the mountain, the cooler air drifting through cracked-open windows and carrying the scent of damp leaves and chimney smoke into the hallways. The trees outside have only just started turning, streaks of maroon, amber, and gold bleeding through the dark green forest surrounding the hill.
The entire house smells like cedar, apple, and cinnamon from your mom’s baking tonight, and everything always glows softer and warmer here somehow.
Safe.
Dean stands near the top of the staircase while he struggles into his jacket. The sleeves are slightly too short now, but Dad still hasn’t gotten him a new one. His father’s getting ready to leave again, and Sammy’s probably already waiting outside in the car. Dean knows he should be heading down soon as well before John starts barking orders again.
But instead, he pauses and leans against the hallway wall, his attention catching the conversation in the kitchen downstairs. He can hear silverware and dishes clinking beneath the voices drifting through the house.
Slowly, he steps closer to the staircase landing, careful not to let the old floorboards creak beneath his weight and give him away. His father’s deep voice cuts through first.
“…doesn’t sit right with me,” John says gruffly. “It’s the third set of tracks this month. This thing’s closing in.”
“John,” your mother says gently, patient like always whenever his father starts spiraling into hunter paranoia. She sounds like she’s had this exact argument at least ten times before.
“I’m serious, Freya,” his father says. “They’re getting bolder. They’re searching.”
“And I’m telling you the protections are intact.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way forever.”
Your grandmother lets out a sigh, long-suffering and unimpressed. “John, if a demon crossed the property line, you’d know. The wards are holding.”
Aine.
Dean remembers her as well, his stomach twisting strangely at her voice, firmer and older than your mother’s warm tone. She always wears long dark dresses around the house, silver rings adorned with gemstones glinting on her fingers whenever she touches his shoulder or pushes hair out of your face. She always looks at him like she can see every single thought rattling around in his skull before he even opens his mouth or can cause trouble.
He shuffles a little closer toward the staircase, fingers curling loosely around the banister rail. He probably shouldn’t listen. Last time he got caught eavesdropping, Aine glared at him for so long afterward he swore she could see the guilt physically crawling around inside his guts.
Still, he can’t really stop.
He can picture all three of them perfectly without even seeing the kitchen – Dad pacing near the table, Freya standing by the stove with her arms crossed over her chest, trying to keep the peace like always, and Aine sitting perfectly still nearby, watching all of it unfold with that sharp-eyed look, thinking three steps ahead of everyone else.
“The demon’s getting desperate,” his father says then. “You said yourself it’s been searching for years.”
“We don’t know exactly what it’s searching for, though,” Freya replies.
“We know enough,” Aine says sternly. “It wants the boy.”
Dean’s brow furrows wildly at that. What the hell are they talking about? What boy? Do they mean him or Sammy?
“And it sees our bloodline as a threat,” your grandmother adds.
His dad lets out a deep breath through his nose. “We still don’t know what the demon wants with Sam.”
Sam.
So they’re talking about his little brother and not Dean. The relief of that only lasts a few seconds, however.
“No, we don’t,” Freya admits quietly. “We only know he’s important somehow.”
“And we know what it wants with my granddaughter,” Aine adds with a huff.
“She’s not ready yet,” Freya notes softly. “Not for whatever’s coming.”
“She won’t be ready before her twenty-first birthday,” Aine agrees. “Until then, her abilities will remain limited.”
“And if the demon makes a move before then?” his father asks sternly.
“We protect her,” Freya says simply. “All of them.”
Aine hums in agreement. “Which may require difficult decisions.”
Dean frowns slightly. He doesn’t like the sound of that.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed that the children are attached to one another at this point,” Aine says. “That attachment creates vulnerability. As long as they’re together, one of them will always have a target on their back.”
“Mom,” Freya sighs tiredly. “They’re just kids.”
“And children grow.”
“You can’t expect them not to care about each other.”
“No,” Aine agrees calmly with her daughter. “But perhaps we can make it easier.”
Something about the way she says it makes the hair on Dean’s arms stand up.
“Separating them now would only hurt them, Mom,” Freya continues gently.
“Hurt them temporarily,” Aine corrects. “Protect them permanently.”
What the hell are they talking about? His jaw clenches before he even understands why, his heart thudding strangely against his ribs.
“We don’t know that,” Freya argues.
“Like I said, we know enough, dear.”
There’s a moment of silence before his father speaks again.
“What are you suggesting?”
Aine hums thoughtfully. “Only that there may still be ways to loosen certain attachments before matters escalate further.”
Dean doesn’t fully understand what any of that means, but he knows immediately he doesn’t like it. An ice-cold shiver crawls unpleasantly down his spine.
Why are they talking about separating him, Sammy, and you? Does that mean they’re never coming back here?
That doesn’t seem right. Dean won’t stand for that.
A floorboard then creaks behind him suddenly, causing Dean to turn.
He finds you standing in the hallway in plaid pajama pants and fuzzy socks, clutching a mug almost too big for your hands. Steam curls upward from whatever Freya apparently made you before bed. Your hair’s still damp at the ends from your bath and woven into loose pigtails as you squint your eyes at him suspiciously.
“You’re eavesdropping again,” you whisper accusingly.
Dean’s straightens in an instant, shrugging it off. “No, I’m not.”
“You are, too.”
“Am not.” Dean then quickly grabs your wrist and pulls you farther down the hallway before the adults downstairs can hear either of you. “Shh,” he hisses. “Would you keep it down? They’ll hear.”
“So you are eavesdropping.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, crossing his arms, “you and Sammy aren’t allowed to hear it. I can.”
Your brow furrows. “Why?”
“Because I’m older.”
“You’re fourteen.”
“Exactly,” Dean scoffs loudly. “I know how to shoot a gun.”
But you only stare at him like that proves nothing at all.
He rolls his eyes back and sighs. “They talk about weird crap when they think we’re not around.”
You curiously lift a brow. “What kind of weird?”
Dean shrugs, pretending not to care all that much, although his chest still feels strange from whatever the hell Aine mentioned downstairs.
“The usual weird stuff,” he replies simply.
“Demon weird stuff?”
“Yeah.”
You take another thoughtful sip from your mug. “Grandma says you shouldn’t call it weird.”
Dean snorts a chuckle. “Your grandma also thinks tea fixes everything.”
“It does help.”
“Yeah? Tell that to Dad’s cholesterol.”
You wrinkle your nose, clearly not understanding the joke at all. Dean still grins, though.
It’s stupid how easy it always feels around you here. Easier than anywhere else. Easier than with most people, honestly. There’s no carefulness. No trying. He can just be himself.
He can’t lose that.
You then glance toward the stairs again before your gaze drops to the duffel bag by his feet.
“Are you leaving again?”
Dean nods with a light swallow, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Dad’s got a hunt.”
Your shoulders slump. “Again?”
Dean winces internally, feeling the guilt trickle into his gut.
“Won’t be long,” he replies softly, although the words spoken downstairs ring through his head.
What if he can’t really make such promises anymore? What if Dad’s never taking him and Sammy back here? What if he never sees you again? What if this is the last time?
“Can I come?” you ask suddenly, causing his brows to shoot up.
Dean barks a laugh, shaking his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
“I can do dangerous things.”
“You’re nine.”
You straighten your spine indignantly to make yourself taller. “I know things.”
Dean frowns a little, pointing a finger at you. “That right there? That’s exactly why you can’t come.”
Your mouth falls open in protest. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“I could help.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“I know more than Sammy does.”
Dean groans, throwing his head back. “And there it is.”
“It’s true!”
He exhales hard through his nose. God, you’re annoying when you get like this – tiny and yet determined and impossible to argue with because you always sound so damn sincere about everything.
“Yeah, well,” he sighs and scratches the back of his neck, “this stuff’s different, alright?”
You stare up at him stubbornly for another beat before your expression softens again, your lips pulling into a small pout. “When are you coming back?”
Dean follows your gaze toward the front yard outside. Through the stained glass window above the stairs, he can see the Impala parked out front, Sammy already sitting in the backseat and waiting for him and his father.
But something feels wrong about the picture.
Ten-year-old Sam is curled awkwardly against the door, one hand pressed tightly against the side of his head. Even from here, Dean can see pain flashing across his face.
The realization that something isn’t right hits hard enough to send a strange feeling through the dream around him. The hallway suddenly feels too long, the wind outside howls louder, and the edges of his vision begin to blur.
Sammy didn’t get migraines at that age.
“Dean?”
Upon your call, he looks back at you. You’re watching him carefully now, concern creeping into the creases of your brow.
“When are you coming back?” you repeat softly.
Dean swallows once against the strange panic climbing up his throat. Before he can think about it for too long, he reaches out without thinking and tucks a loose strand of hair out of your face.
“I don’t know yet,” he admits but then sends you a smile. “Promise I’ll come back, though.”
And he means it. Every damn inch of him means it.
Your face brightens, trust flowing warm and absolute into your smile as if his promise alone is enough to steady the entire world again. You look at him like his word means something permanent to you and nothing could ever possibly break it, and that little fact twists his heart painfully deep inside his ribcage.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
But down in the yard, Sammy suddenly doubles over harder in the backseat, and the dream snaps violently apart.
Dean jerks awake so fast his right shoulder slams painfully into the motel wall beside the bed. Darkness crashes back around him all at once – the cheap wallpaper of a motel in bumfuck nowhere, the buzzing neon outside, and the stale smell of old cigarette smoke buried deep inside the mattress beneath him (and God knows what else).
But for a moment, he can still smell a trace of the woodsmoke and cedar from his dream before he notices Sam thrashing against the sheets with a strangled sound next to him.
Dean’s on his feet before even being fully awake.
“Sammy.” His deep voice comes out rougher than usual as he grabs Sam’s shoulder hard enough to shake him. “Sam.”
Sam jolts awake with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instantly to his forehead. His breathing comes uneven and shallow, pain still written all over his face.
Dean’s stomach drops, heart pounding. He already knows it’s not a nightmare but another vision.
“You with me?” he checks sternly.
Sam nods quickly between ragged breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before forcing out a strained, “Yeah.”
“What happened? What’d you see?”
Dean then waits for an answer, stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.
Finally, Sam looks up at him, and Dean can see the fear sitting naked and clear behind his little brother’s hazel eyes, turning his blood ice-cold before your name bleeds from Sam’s lips.
Every muscle in Dean’s body locks up in an instant.
“A demon found her,” Sam says hoarsely, swallowing harshly. “She was at the lab. It had Mia and Paige, too. I saw blood, black eyes–…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “Dean, she was screaming.”
A shudder so cold it could freeze a volcano runs down Dean’s spine. He’s reaching for his jeans off the chair before Sam can even finish talking, adrenaline crashing at full speed into his bloodstream.
Sam’s visions usually don’t leave a lot of wiggle room, much less giving the brothers a head start most times. They can’t sit around for hours till they’ve come up with a plan. This isn’t just some random case.
It’s you. And for some reason he can’t explain, that changes fucking everything.
Salem, Massachusetts
After your little headless adventure a week ago, there have been exactly three things keeping you emotionally functional.
One: caffeine.
Two: spite.
And three: Cameron finally coming home today after six months overseas.
Obviously, the third one’s carrying most of the weight.
A yawn escapes you under the fluorescent lights of the lab as you try to fish out bullet fragments from a bloody denim jacket with tweezers. The safety goggles sometimes make seeing not any easier.
Meanwhile, the AC works with military-grade precision inside the depressing government-beige walls every police station in America apparently requires, while outside the tall windows, Salem bakes beneath late summer heat.
Beside you, Paige sits cross-legged on top of one of the empty lab counters despite multiple signs explicitly telling civilians not to sit on literally any surface in here. Naturally, that only encouraged her.
“You know,” Paige says thoughtfully from her spot, “normal people usually put little hearts in notebooks. Maybe doodle initials if they’re feeling really cray-cray.”
You don’t look up from the microscope. “Uh–huh… Your point?”
“You labeled a blood spatter diagram with the words Mrs. Cameron Cooper in pink glitter pen.”
You pause, then slowly glance down at the file in front of you.
Oh. Huh.
“Well,” you mutter and clear your throat. “That’s embarrassing.”
In your defense, glitter gel pens shouldn’t be that accessible in a government building. That’s just asking for trouble, especially when you’re running on four hours of sleep and one iced coffee the size of Rhode Island.
Paige beams triumphantly. “You’re in love.”
“I’ve been in love for like two years now,” you point out.
“Yeah, but now he’s coming home and suddenly you’ve become clinically insane about it.”
“That’s not true,” you retort, quickly scribbling over the doodles with a black marker.
Paige snorts into her iced coffee while you turn to carefully scrape another sample into a glass vial. Honestly, she should feel lucky you haven’t hexed her into temporary silence yet.
She grins knowingly. “Cameron’s flight lands in, what, an hour?”
“Fifty-two minutes.”
“God, that’s disgusting,” she teases. “But granted, you do look happier than you did all summer.”
That part might actually be true.
This whole week everything felt normal again. No demons. No destiny. No Winchester brothers showing up out of nowhere to emotionally clothesline your life into another dimension.
The lab door then swings open behind you.
“Good morning, ladies.”
Pete, one of your younger colleagues, wanders inside, balancing two coffees and a stack of files tucked beneath one arm. Usually, he comes to work like an overexcited Golden Retriever who learned forensic science instead of fetch. Today, however, something about him feels oddly muted.
Normally, he carries an unopened comic book with him and is already halfway into a rant about some obscure sci-fi reboot nobody asked for. Pete practically vibrates with nerd trivia at all times. Last month, he spent twenty minutes passionately explaining why practical effects peaked in the eighties while holding a human femur. Once, he compared fingerprint dusting techniques to Pokémon evolution charts.
Today, though, he just sets the coffees down silently and starts sorting files beside the evidence cabinet.
No movie references. No rambling. No Star Wars shirt, either. No asking if anybody watched Battlestar Galactica again.
Weird.
You glance over your shoulder briefly while sealing another sample tube. “You feeling okay?”
Pete looks up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You haven’t mentioned Star Wars once.”
He shrugs. “Figured I mention Star Wars too much.”
“What if I called Spock a Jedi? Does that do something for you?” you quip.
But he only gives a brief chuckle that doesn’t mirror in his eyes and reaches for a pair of gloves from the supply shelf.
The wrong shelf.
You snort. “Pete.”
“What?”
“The nitrile gloves are literally behind you.”
He pauses and looks at the shelf.
“Oh, right,” he says lightly and turns around toward the correct one.
Your brows crease slightly. Pete normally knows this lab better than you do half the time. The man alphabetized the evidence freezer for fun once. You’re pretty sure he’d survive longer than everybody else during an apocalypse purely because his organizational skills border on supernatural already.
Still, grief does strange things to people, and you know his grandmother only died a few weeks ago. Dark circles shadow the skin beneath his eyes, and his shoulders seem tenser than usual under his wrinkled sweater vest. Maybe his brain’s just foggy today. It happens.
You hesitate only briefly before flicking the switch inside your head and letting color bloom beneath skin.
Paige glows bright firecracker orange beside you as usual – loud emotions, fierce loyalty, stubbornness, and some light homicidal tendencies, especially when someone cuts the line at Starbucks.
Pete’s aura, however, definitely leans darker than usual.
There are literal storm-gray clouds drifting around his dandelion-yellow aura, tangling sluggishly with thin, oily-black strands.
Huh. That’s… new.
You’ve seen grief darken people before, clinging to them like cigarette smoke. Sadness, too. Depression leaves heavy marks sometimes and muddies auras. But still–
“You good?” Pete glances up from the evidence cabinet.
“Yeah,” you answer and look away quickly, dropping the aura reading. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
Before you can think any harder about it, the lab door opens again. This time, Mia strolls inside, carrying an evidence box beneath one arm and an iced coffee in the other hand. Her dark sunglasses rest on top of her head, and her gun belt clinks as she walks.
“You alive in here?” Mia asks dryly.
Paige waves enthusiastically from the counter. “Hi, Mom.”
Mia snorts and points toward her without missing a beat. “Still not yours.”
Paige grins in return. “Emotionally, though.”
Mia laughs softly before placing the evidence box down on your workstation. Usually, you’d already be teasing her about paperwork or stealing her coffee or asking about whatever disaster patrol dealt with this morning.
Not this time, though.
Instead, you pull your gloves off carefully and avoid looking at her for too long. It’s awful, actually, because Mia notices immediately. Of course she does. She raised you.
“You still doing toxicology on the Harbor case?” she asks.
You give her a quick nod. “Mm-hm.”
“I left the supplemental reports in there, too.”
“Okay.”
The silence that follows is haunting and so awkward even Paige and Pete don’t know where to look to avoid it. Paige suddenly becomes very fascinated with the nutritional values of her coffee cup while Pete pretends to organize paperwork that’s already organized.
Full disclosure: you’ve been sort of avoiding Mia to the best of your abilities since returning from Sleepy Hollow and going through her basement safe, finding a letter from your mother.
You haven’t told her about the letter. You haven’t told her about the Winchesters, about the ritual, or about your other discoveries. You haven’t told her a single thing. Haven’t really asked any questions, either. And now, it feels like there’s this big secret sitting between the two of you – and Mia doesn’t even know what your distance is about.
God, you hate everything about this.
Mia then rests one hand lightly on the counter. “You working late tonight?”
“Probably not.”
“Cam gets in today, right?”
You finally glance at her for the shortest second. “Yup, in less than an hour.”
A small smile rises on her face. “Bet you’re excited.”
“Uh-huh.”
The next silence is even worse. She definitely knows something’s up with you now. You can practically feel the unasked questions sitting between you.
And sure, a part of you understands why Mia hid everything. Why she tried so desperately to give you a normal life after the fire – school dances and science fairs and college applications instead of prophecies and demons and whatever horrifying supernatural nonsense apparently stalked your family tree for generations.
But another part of you keeps remembering the letter, followed by the awful realization that everybody around you seems to know pieces of your life you were never allowed to have.
You know you have to tell her eventually. But there’s nothing wrong with a little procrastination, is there?
“Tell Cameron I said welcome home,” Mia says finally.
“I will.” You nod quickly and force a smile, although she can definitely tell it’s fake. You know she can hear the distance in your voice.
You have to get out of here before you explode and spill everything in front of an audience.
“Well, uhm, I gotta go. Don’t wanna be late,” you excuse yourself with a swallow and grab your bag from the chair, shoving your sunglasses onto your head before the guilt catches up to you.
“Drive safe,” Mia calls after you.
You pause for half a second but then force yourself not to turn around.
“Always do,” you answer lightly before disappearing out into the bright Salem heat.
The rain starts sometime during the second half of the movie flickering across your bedroom TV screen, pattering softly against the window, blurring the town into blobs of gray and gold.
But as pretty as Salem looks in weather like this, your focus isn’t on the rain outside but on the man sprawled currently beneath you. Being this close to Cameron again feels too good to be true.
He still smells the same. He still feels the same. And his laugh still sounds the same, too.
God, you missed him.
And not just because he’s your boyfriend, although that obviously falls into the equation as well. But it’s mostly because, aside from Paige, Cam just gets you – every little part of you. He understands you better than anyone else on this planet, and you’ve never met anyone like him before who does.
You still remember when you spotted this tall, pretty boy staring into an old book in the library with a deeply wrinkled brow. And the book in his hands? It was about the Salem witch trials.
Naturally, you got curious – friend or foe, right? And as you sat down and chatted him up, Cameron then told you that his history professor gave them an assignment to dig deeper into their family tree and write a paper about it.
And sweet, handsome Cam? He just so happens to be a direct descendant of one of the Salem witches. He has zero magical powers, which makes him slightly more boring again (his ancestors were falsely accused), but he’s been a loyal defender of witchcraft ever since.
In fact, the man didn’t even blink when you told him you were a witch and rescued the sad ficus in his dorm room. All he said was ‘cool,’ grinned, and kissed you harder.
And you didn’t just miss him because he’s one of the few people who understands you. You didn’t miss him in a dramatic movie-monologue, Romeo-and-Juliet, Maria-and-Tony, ‘I’ll-poison-and-stab-and-kill-myself-without-you’ kind of way. You missed him in the quiet, awful ways that sneak up on you – hearing his keys in the lock, feeling his warmth next to you at night, smelling his body wash in the shower.
Now, your head rests on his chest while he absently plays with the ends of your hair, the pizza box lying open near your feet, completely demolished after several hours of mutual starvation and no self-control. His deployment bag still sits half-unpacked near your dresser, tan-colored fabric spilling slightly out of the zipper. He’d barely made it through your apartment door before you’d practically tackled him into the nearest horizontal surface available.
It’d been a very enthusiastic and acrobatic reunion to say the least.
In your defense, though, six months is an unreasonable amount of time to go without kissing someone you love.
You snuggle deeper into his embrace and watch Brendan Fraser on screen, running away from at least fifteen angry mummies while Rachel Weisz yells at him in fake Ancient Egypt.
“See? This is romance,” you quip teasingly.
Cameron scoffs a chuckle above your head. “This is grave robbing.”
“No, Cam, grave robbing is the backdrop,” you explain with a grin. “The romance is the unresolved sexual tension during life-threatening situations.”
“They’ve known each other for two days.”
“So what? Chemistry hits instantly,” you quip, wiggling your brows.
He snorts and wraps his arms tighter around you, pecking the top of your head.
A smile tugs at your lips as you settle more comfortably against him. His skin’s still warm from the shower you took together earlier, one of his hands resting lazily against your bare thigh beneath the oversized Army shirt you stole from him.
The past few hours almost feel normal enough to pretend the last weeks never happened – no demons, no hunters, no terrifying family revelations hidden inside dead moms’ letters.
Tonight, it’s just Cameron’s heartbeat beneath your cheek and stupid movies and rain outside.
But you honestly may be cursed, because right in the midst of that ordinary peacefulness, your phone buzzes loudly on your nightstand, shattering the illusion of normalcy when Sam Winchester’s name flashes across the screen.
Damn. You know that boy is psychic, but that’s impressive even for him.
Cameron shifts slightly under you as he sneaks a peek at your screen. “Who’s that?”
You grab the phone quickly and silence the call before it finishes ringing. “One of the hunters,” you reply, tossing the phone back onto the mattress.
Cameron’s fingers still against your leg for the briefest second. “The ones you told me about earlier?”
“Mhm.”
After the first round of reunion activities, you finally managed to fill him in on everything that happened this past month, including almost getting shot and hunting a headless ghost on a horse. Cameron had listened through all of it while you talked yourself in circles, his fingers tracing comforting patterns along your spine while you tried explaining things you still barely understood yourself.
You still don’t understand most of it even now. And when you were finished, it was the first time you actually watched his jaw go slack.
“The guy who pointed the gun at you?” Cam checks.
You snort softly, shaking your head. “No, the other one.”
“That honestly doesn’t make me feel better.”
Yeah, obviously, he wasn’t a big fan of that particular part of your story. There’s no smooth way of telling someone you almost got killed, but you admittedly find his concern for your life slightly adorable.
You smile a little to yourself as you reach for another slice of pizza. The mattress dips slightly as Cameron props himself up against the headboard behind you, his expression quieter and more serious than before.
“You really think you should be involved with these people?”
There’s no accusation in his voice. All you hear is worry, which you suppose is fair. You’re not sure how you would feel if the roles were reversed.
You stare at the television for a second longer before answering. “They’re not bad people.”
“You said one of them tried to shoot you.”
“He thought I was dangerous,” you argue lightly.
Cam smirks. “You are dangerous.”
The smile fades a little from your face as you look back toward the TV again. You’ve spent most of the afternoon trying not to think too hard about any of this, but now the thoughts are creeping back in.
Sam’s intensity whenever the ritual came up. Dean stepping in every time the conversation started pushing too far.
Truthfully, tarot cards and auras aside, you still don’t know what to make of either of them.
“I think Sam means well,” you say slowly. “He just seems to want answers really badly.”
“And the other one?”
You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip as the rain taps softly against the window while the movie soundtrack swells dramatically in the background.
“He’s kind of a jerk,” you admit.
Cameron snorts a laugh. “Strong endorsement.”
“But… I don’t know.” You draw a small frown and shrug your shoulders. “He surprised me, I guess.”
And that’s probably the closest you can explain it right now.
You weirdly trust Dean not to kill you again. After all, he had plenty of chances in Sleepy Hollow and never took a single one. In fact, it even seemed like he cared enough to keep you alive, although he hid that concern under several layers of armor. Still, whatever misguided notion he harbored about you in the beginning seemed to have passed enough to tolerate your presence.
“I trust him to keep me alive,” you add quietly.
Cameron studies your face for a beat. “That’s a pretty big thing to trust somebody with.”
You swallow slightly and play with the napkin between your fingers. “Yeah, I guess.”
Silence falls between you for a second afterward before Cameron’s hand begins to move slowly along your thigh under the blanket again.
“So what are you gonna do?” he asks eventually.
“I don’t know,” you sigh and avert your eyes thoughtfully to the pizza box.
Most days, you’ve felt like you were trapped in a tragic play by Shakespeare – to be a full-powered witch, or not to be, that truly is the question.
“I don’t wanna wake up one day and realize my whole life stopped being mine. I liked things the way they were before all of this,” you explain quietly, a lump forming in your throat. “But I also can’t stop thinking about why my mom wanted me to know all this so badly. I mean, this is a part of me, right? The only thing I’ve really got left of my family. And if demons are actually looking for me… What if something happens to you? Or Mia? Or Paige because I stayed ignorant on purpose?”
You’ve spent eleven years carefully crafting a normal life in Salem – school, college, work, family, and friends. Tiny apartments and bad coffee and movie nights and futures that made sense. But now, all of a sudden, there’s this other thing standing beside it all – this enormous shadow of a life you were apparently supposed to have instead.
Your mother’s life. Your grandmother’s.
But what if you don’t want to be some kind of weapon?
The thought alone makes your stomach twist, but Cameron reaches over and gently stills your fidgeting hands before you can shred the napkin entirely into pieces.
“Don’t worry about us, okay?” he assures you. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”
You finally look up at him and nod. “I know.”
The warm lamplight softly illuminates the scar near his left eyebrow, and your heart flutters as you watch the smile rise on his lips. Cam always feels safe. No matter where you are, he’s home to you. So instead of answering and spiraling further into family destinies, you lean over and catch his lips in a kiss.
Slowly at first. Then much less slowly.
Cameron’s hand wanders up your waist beneath the oversized shirt, pulling you halfway into his lap while the movie continues forgotten in the background.
But then your phone buzzes once more against the mattress beside you, disrupting the peace yet again. Neither of you moves for a second, but you don’t exactly break apart either.
“Ignore it,” Cam mutters against your mouth with a grin.
A smile hitches on your lips. “Oh, gladly.”
He kisses you harder and deeper in response, causing a few moans to escape you. Your brain has barely managed to stop thinking altogether again when the phone vibrates a third time.
You groan loudly and drop your head against his shoulder. “What in the living hell–”
Cameron chuckles in amusement while you reach blindly toward your phone. But as you glance at the screen this time, it’s not a call, and it’s not from Sam either.
Instead, a text message glows on the screen.
>>Pete (9:47 PM): hey sorry i know ur off but theres some kind of emergency at the lab. can you come in??
Your eyebrows draw together slightly. “Huh.”
Cameron cocks a brow at your reaction. “What?”
You reread the text once. Then again. Pete usually types like a nerdy suburban dad trapped inside a twenty-five-year-old forensic tech. Proper punctuation. Correct spelling. Entire text messages that sound almost robotic – like talking to C-3PO.
This one looks rushed, though. Messy. Wrong.
“Pete says there’s some emergency at the lab.”
“After nine at night?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.”
You bite your lip thoughtfully. Outside, thunder rumbles near the harbor. You stare at the message another second before locking your phone and shaking off the weird feeling in your gut.
“Probably evidence contamination or some chain-of-custody disaster again. God knows Salem PD can turn literally anything into a crisis,” you mutter with a long sigh, already climbing reluctantly out of bed.
Cameron catches your wrist before you can fully stand, however. “You want me to come with you?”
You shake your head softly and lean down, kissing him once more. “No, stay here and get some rest,” you tell him with a smile. “You just got home.”
His fingers linger a heartbeat longer around your wrist before letting go. “Text me when you get there.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” You smirk and playfully salute him.
Cam snorts, shaking his head at you. “That’s not even my rank.”
“It is in my heart.”
Cam chuckles as The Mummy continues descending into chaos while you reach for your jeans on the floor. But just as you do, another tarot card slips out of your bag on the dresser and lands right on the hardwood floor by your feet.
The Tower.
It depicts a jagged black tower split open by lightning, tiny figures tumbling from the burning windows while smoke billows into the painted sky. It stands for sudden destruction, catastrophe, and the truth arriving violently enough to rip your life apart at the foundation.
It’s change you can’t outrun anymore, and you certainly feel the unease that comes with a card like that prickling down your spine. You glance back at Cam one last time and swallow before shoving the card back into your bag and heading out into the storm.
There are truly only four times in your life when you felt like you were unwittingly part of a horror movie.
Only one of those times happened before meeting the Winchesters – when you watched your old life go up in flames. The other three all happened within the span of a month after the brothers crashed your life.
There was one creepy stroll through the dark woods of Sleepy Hollow, and another walk through a graveyard in the middle of the night while fog obscured any sight. And then, there’s this one right now – walking through the eerily dark and strangely quiet hallways of the forensic wing at Salem PD.
Unless there’s an emergency, an ongoing manhunt, or a kidnapped child in danger, there’s truly no reason for anyone to be here at this hour, including you. Most evidence doesn’t grow legs overnight and can usually wait till daylight to be processed.
Even the parking lot outside was half-empty, only a few windows on the building’s upper floor glowing dimly as the night shift tries to keep the city safe and a few overworked detectives don’t know when to quit and go home.
Your rain-soaked boots squeak on the polished linoleum as you take your usual route to the main lab. Something still feels off, but not in a grand, noticeable way. It’s more of a tiny feeling in your gut that someone moved all the furniture in the room half an inch to the left, but you have no way of proving it yet.
“Pete?” you call out as you push through the double doors with your bag hanging from your shoulder.
No answer.
Only half the overhead fluorescents are switched on as you enter. The stainless steel counters gleam cold beneath the pale blue light while computers and machines hum quietly in sleep mode around the room.
Your pace slows instinctively as that horror-movie feeling begins to prickle in the back of your neck again. The cards did warn you.
“Pete?”
Not even a cough echoes back before your eyes spot something dark and liquid on the floor.
Drops – small, scarlet stains are scattered unevenly across the tile near the center workstations. At this point, you recognize the sight of blood even from a distance.
It’s luckily not enough for a murder scene. Not even enough to panic. It’s enough to assume one of your co-workers might have dropped a vial or accidentally spilled something or–
God, please let it be Pete having another nosebleed.
Your heart is pounding viciously against your ribs as you move faster around the nearest counter and then stop dead in your tracks with a sharp intake of air.
Paige and Mia sit tied to chairs near the back wall of the lab, and for one full, horrible minute, your brain refuses to process the image correctly.
It doesn’t make sense. Why are they here? Why are they–
Paige’s wrists are bound tightly behind her back with duct tape, her mascara streaking below two wide and terrified eyes while she makes desperate muffled sounds through the tape stretched across her mouth. Beside her, Mia’s chair has been tipped slightly sideways from struggling. Her hair’s escaping from its usual neat bun, fury burning behind her eyes so fiercely it almost hides the fear underneath.
Every nerve in your body goes ice cold.
“Oh my God–”
You lunge forward toward them without wasting another thought. You don’t think about who put them there or if that person might even still be around, although judging by both Mia’s and Paige’s vivid head shakes, you really should’ve.
The lab door then crashes shut behind you with a force violent enough to rattle the glass cabinets, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot.
You spin around so fast your shoulder slams painfully into the edge of a metal workstation before you can make out Pete standing near the entrance in the dark.
Or maybe it’s not Pete after all.
His posture, his expression, his behavior – everything that subtly felt wrong about him today suddenly makes a ton of sense. The gray storm clouds, the oily strings in his aura – it never was grief. It was always a demon.
Welp, good news is you’ve finally learned to spot demon aura. The bad news is that it might be slightly too late to be even remotely helpful knowledge right now.
Whatever’s wearing Pete stands completely still with a lazy confidence sitting under its skin. He then lifts and tilts his head at you fully, a sneer spreading across his lips before his eyes turn pitch-black.
“There she is.”
Paige lets out another muffled cry behind you while Mia immediately starts shaking her head sharply at you, eyes wide with warning.
You take one tentative step backward, your pulse hammering violently in your ears as your mind frantically sorts through every conversation you’ve had over the last month – salt, devil’s traps, holy water, exorcisms.
Dean made sure of that before leaving Sleepy Hollow, shoving a scribbled note into your hands with a few gruff instructions, as if he had already expected trouble to crawl out of the walls eventually.
You memorized the exorcism and also carry a bottle of holy water in your bag, but something in the demon’s cunning smile already tells you your hand won’t be stealthy enough to reach for it and your mouth won’t be fast enough to send that thing straight back to Hell before the demon probably cuts out your tongue.
One may almost call this a hopeless situation.
But then you remember the episode of Buffy in Season 2 when she used a pencil to stab a vampire. If there’s anything fighting evil on TV taught you, it’s that literally everything can be turned into a weapon if the protagonist feels desperate enough.
And you? You feel pretty damn desperate right now.
The demon takes a patient sweep around the room before looking back at you with a grin that stretches all wrong across Pete’s familiar face.
“You know,” he says conversationally, “this was easier than I expected.”
Your fingers twitch slightly toward your bag, but of course the demon notices that little movement instantly.
“Oh, relax.” He snorts an amused chuckle. “If I wanted you dead already, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
You swallow thickly and try to calm your wildly beating heart. “What do you want?”
The demon’s smile widens. “You really don’t recognize me?”
Your brow knits in confusion, lips pursing the slightest bit.
The demon tilts his head, studying your face almost curiously. “Huh.” He laughs darkly. “Guess that makes sense. You were what? Eleven?”
For a moment, the world turns freezing cold and darker than a black hole around you. There’s nothing there anymore. Even your blood feels like it’s draining out of your body, leaving nothing for your heart to pump.
The demon starts strolling slowly toward you. “I gotta admit, though – your family made my job real difficult after that. All those protection spells, wards, hex bags, birch barriers…” He rolls his eyes dramatically and lets out a sigh. “Whole damn bloodline was paranoid.”
Your breath halts in your lungs.
“But your grandma?” he continues. “Mean old thing. Nearly took my head off that night.”
The world tilts upside down under your feet. Your heartbeat stutters hard against your ribs.
That night. The fire.
The demon watches as realization begins to dawn on your face. Then he grins like he won a prize.
“There it is.”
Your mouth goes dry. “No…”
“Oh, yeah.” He sounds almost pleased now. “I remember that house real well.”
Paige whimpers behind you, Mia goes frighteningly still, but the demon unfortunately keeps talking.
“Your mother screamed a lot. Could barely hear myself think by the end of it.” The demon’s smile only widens at the horror blooming in your eyes. “She kept trying to get upstairs. To get to you.” His voice turns mockingly thoughtful. “Even after her dress caught fire. Real determined woman.”
“Stop,” you grit, but that only seems to encourage him more.
“And your grandma?” he continues almost fondly. “Now that was ugly. Think one of the others broke her leg before we finally got her down.” He sneers. “Still tried casting spells through it, too.”
Your vision starts blurring around the edges. The demon notices your shaking hands and laughs in dark amusement.
“Oh, come on. Don’t look so upset. Family reunions are supposed to be emotional.”
Rage then flashes hot through your panic. Your fingers close hard around the strap of your bag. The holy water still sits inside. If you can just distract him long enough–
“And don’t even think about it,” he tsks with a sharp look.
Before you can respond, something invisible suddenly slams into your chest like a speeding car. Pain explodes through your spine as your body hits the wall hard enough to knock the oxygen from your lungs. Your feet leave the ground for half a second before an unseen force pins you there, crushing against your ribs and shoulders so tightly you can barely breathe.
You gasp sharply as you struggle against the invisible strings holding you upright, but nothing moves or even budges.
Paige screams behind the tape over her mouth while Mia starts fighting violently against her restraints again, chair scraping across the floor.
The demon doesn’t seem bothered by any of it, though, and then strolls casually past you toward Mia.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the big boss wanted you dead quick. But after eleven years of tracking your ass down?” He glances back at you over his shoulder, smirking broadly. “Figured I earned a little fun first.”
“Mia–” Your voice cracks around the pressure crushing your chest.
The demon ignores any failed protests and casually reaches down, grabbing the side of Mia’s chair and jerking it hard enough to slam her sideways onto the floor. She cries out through the gag.
“Don’t touch her!” The words tear out of you in a snarl.
The demon crouches slowly down to her. “You know what’s funny?” he asks, one hand gripping Mia’s jaw hard enough to make her flinch. “She still tried protecting you, too.”
“No, please–… Don’t–” Your stomach drops as soon as you realize his intentions in the black pits of his eyes.
A smirk twitches on the demon’s lips. “Guess you’re about to lose your second mommy as well.”
“Dammit,” Sam huffs and snaps the phone shut in frustration when it rings out to voicemail yet again. “She’s not picking up.”
The Impala tears through the highway fast enough that the engine starts sounding strained under Dean’s feet, but he ignores it and presses down harder on the gas pedal. Rainwater streaks across the windshield, reflecting in passing headlights while mile after mile disappears beneath the tires. But Salem’s still too damn far away for Dean’s liking.
Sam immediately dials your number again for what has to be the twentieth time in the last hour.
Dean’s jaw tightens as he aggressively shifts gears. “What the hell is she doing?”
The question comes out rougher than intended, sharpened by the same ugly knot of anxiety that’s been marinating in his chest ever since Sam woke up in that motel room sweat-drenched, pale, and shaking from another vision.
Dean keeps replaying the sight of his brother clutching his head in pain, disoriented and breathless while trying to explain what he saw. Sam’s visions have never exactly been wrong before, and that’s the part Dean can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard he tries to focus on the road ahead.
“Come on, come on…” Sam murmurs impatiently as he listens to another string of unanswered rings, bouncing one restless knee hard enough to cause the dashboard to vibrate.
Dean reaches over finally and shoves the phone downward. “Dude.”
“What?” Sam snaps.
“You calling every thirty seconds isn’t helping.”
Sam shoots him an irritated look. “And what? Doing nothing is?”
Dean opens his mouth, ready with some smartass response, but nothing actually comes out. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know what the hell they’re supposed to do either, besides drive faster and hope they’re not already too late.
Sam rubs tiredly at his forehead before staring back down at the phone in his hand. “She doesn’t know what she’s dealing with.”
Yup, that’s exactly the problem, Dean thinks in agreement.
Right now, you only know enough to be truly dangerous to yourself if he’s being completely honest. You may be able to draw a devil’s trap, recite an exorcism, and carry holy water, but that only might buy you a little bit of time.
By the time Salem then finally comes into view, the rain’s mostly stopped. The town glistens beneath streetlights and neon signs while Dean swings the Impala hard around another corner downtown.
The police station looks downright dead when they pull up.
There are no lights in most of the windows and no movement either. There’s just the sound of rainwater dripping off the building’s awning as Dean kills the engine in the parking lot – right next to your car.
Considering Sam’s vision showed you being attacked in the lab, Dean doesn’t necessarily take that as a good sign, though.
Again, a head start would’ve been nice.
Sam jumps out of the Impala first, practically running toward the entrance while Dean grabs the shotgun from under the seat and follows closely behind.
Inside, the station feels wrong in the same way horror movies feel wrong in the beginning – it’s too damn quiet, and the stupid lights are flickering, too.
Their footsteps echo through the empty hallways, the entire building feeling abandoned in an unsettling late-night way. Sam leads without hesitation, sneaking through the forensic wing like he already knows exactly where he’s going from his vision alone.
Dean keeps one hand tight around the shotgun as they round another corner. There’s still no sound, nothing to point them in the right direction, which can be either good or bad. His eyes can barely make out shapes in the dark before a loud crash explodes down the hallway.
A scream follows immediately after – yours.
Both brothers break into a run at the exact same time. Dean nearly shoulder-checks Sam trying to get through the lab doors first, adrenaline rushing into his blood the second another crash rattles from inside. The sound of glass shattering follows before a distorted scream that surely doesn’t belong to anything human overpowers every other noise.
Dean shoves through the doors hard enough they slam against the wall behind him, but the sight in front of him makes him stop short for entirely different reasons than he expected.
Instead of finding you half-dead, bleeding out on the linoleum, you’re sitting breathlessly on the ground near the far wall, one hand braced shakily against the tile while your chest rises and falls like you’ve just crossed the finish line after a marathon.
Several feet across from you, what seems to be a demon thrashes furiously inside a devil’s trap burned black into the linoleum floor. Smoke still curls from the charred lines while steam rises visibly from the meat suit’s skin, black eyes wild and crazed with unmatched anger as the thing screams loudly enough to shatter the glass cabinets.
For a full minute, Dean genuinely has no idea what he’s looking at. Even Sam stares with his mouth agape, tilting his head with that familiar knit in his brows that says he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, either.
You look up at them, pale and visibly trembling but conscious, alive, and somehow still coherent enough to speak and joke around. “If this is you guys coming to save me, you suck at your job,” you gasp out between breaths.
Dean’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “How–, uhm, how did you–”
You smile breathlessly. “Did you know the human body is made up of roughly sixty percent water? So, technically…”
Understanding flashes across Sam’s face first, immediate fascination overtaking the earlier panic. “You turned the water inside his body into holy water?”
“Yup, like Jesus – or something like that. Thought I give it a shot.” You nod, swallowing thickly as you still try to catch your breath. “And then I burned the devil’s trap into the floor before he could move again.”
Dean’s eyes drop toward the blackened symbol carved into the linoleum beneath the demon’s feet once more, the melted plastic edges still smoking from the intense heat.
“You gave it a shot?” he repeats in disbelief, raising a brow at you.
You shrug your shoulders. “Sam told me to improvise.” Then a small grin spreads on your lips. “So did Buffy.”
He shoots you a dry look. “A TV show? That’s what you were going off on?”
Sam throws him a raised look at that, pretty much saying and how many times have you done that, huh? But that’s all beside the point. You’re still a rookie, an amateur, and you need to at least level up a little more before you can afford stunts like that.
Still, good job overall, he supposes. You’re alive. Congratulations on not dying would probably be in order.
And then the relief crashes fully through his system, leaving him almost dizzy for a moment. Because the entire drive here, some ugly part of his mind had already started preparing for the possibility of being too late – of walking into blood and bodies and another failure they’d have to live with afterward. Another pyre he’d have to light at the end of this.
Instead, you trapped the damn thing yourself.
Before he fully thinks about it, Dean closes the remaining distance and holds a hand out to you. “You hurt?”
Your eyes flick briefly to his hand before you take it. Your fingers feel unbelievably warm against his calloused palm as Dean pulls you gently to your feet. Up close, he notices the bruising already darkening near your shoulder and the lingering panic and fear still written across your face no matter how hard you’re trying to keep yourself together on the outside.
“I’m fine. Just a little banged up,” you reply and then nod toward the two innocent hostages still tied up. “But Mia–… He got her pretty bad before I could trap him. We need to get her to a hospital.”
Dean turns and instantly sees the blood soaking through Mia’s side, dripping steadily from the chair onto the floor beneath her. Her breathing sounds shallow, strained through clenched teeth while Paige struggles frantically with the restraints around her wrists.
Dean moves immediately while Sam grabs a discarded towel from the counter and presses it hard against the wound. Mia hisses sharply in pain.
“We need to go,” Paige says as soon as Dean has carefully removed the tape from her mouth and wrists, her voice shaking badly.
You dig out your keys from your bag with trembling hands and toss them toward her. “Take my car,” you tell her quickly. “I’ll come after.”
Paige catches the keys awkwardly before Sam and her help Mia carefully to her feet. She nearly collapses immediately again with a sharp gasp, blood already soaking through the towel Sam pressed against her side.
Dean manages to catch her before she hits the floor. “Easy there, Sarge.”
“Someone better fill me in on what’s going on here,” Mia hisses through anger and pain.
You bite down on your lips and nod. “Yup, later. Promise.”
The demon laughs in cruel amusement behind them, but Dean ignores it for now, helping steady Mia while Paige gets her arm around her properly. The second they disappear through the lab doors, the room falls into silence.
Dean then turns back toward the trap and watches the black eyes gleam through steam and smoke.
“Well, this is cozy,” the thing quips, snickering in delight. “So glad the Winchesters could join us tonight. I really wanted to thank you guys.”
Sam steps a little closer, brow furrowing. “For what?”
“My, Sammy, for finding her, of course,” the demon retorts with a wide smirk. “You boys truly did the hard part for us.”
The silence only thickens like molasses in the room as Dean meets your eyes briefly before you avert yours first, and he feels the sting of that between his ribs.
“Big boss spent years trying to track the little witch down again after your daddy hid her away,” the demon says mockingly. “Then you two idiots show up in Salem asking questions about Berkano witches and demons.” A sharp laugh escapes. “Might as well’ve mailed us her damn address.”
Dean’s stomach twists into more knots while Sam goes pale next to him.
The demon seems to notice and only grins wider. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. John Winchester covered his tracks real good after that fire. Got her out before the house came down, dumped her with the cop lady, and disappeared before we could pick the trail back up.” Its black eyes slide between the brothers. “Smart man. Shame his sons ain’t.”
Dean’s jaw locks tightly. You haven’t said a single word since the revelation hit, but he can still feel the suddenly freezing temperature in the room that has nothing to do with anything supernatural.
Sam steps closer toward the trap despite Dean grabbing unsuccessfully for his arm. “What does Yellow-Eyes want with her?”
The demon gives a careless shrug. “Her dead.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a threat.” He then glances down and around himself, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Starting to understand the hype. My mistake. She seemed more harmless when she was still a little girl, crying for her mommy.”
“Yeah, guess I grew up,” you retort bitterly.
The demon smirks deviously. “Won’t happen again, sweetheart.”
“Damn right it won’t,” Dean growls. “‘Cause I’m sending you right back into the hole you crawled out of.”
The demon snorts. “Oh, please do. You think I’m the only one after her?” He lifts a brow in mock. “The entirety of Hell is looking for her. Got a high reward on her head. She made it to the top of the most wanted list, especially since you two woke the sleeper cell. What is she, your Plan B after you lost the Colt?” He smirks triumphantly. “She is, isn’t she?”
Sam’s eyes flick to you. “He was there that night?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug slightly, keeping your gaze trained on the demon.
“I thought you said the demon’s eyes were yellow.”
“They were,” you grit through your teeth.
“Oh, boss was there,” the demon offers. “Witches as powerful as her mommy and grams? Took a lot of us to take them down. And man, they fought.” He whistles lowly and shoots you a grin. “Got about ten of us before we’d finally torn them apart enough to make a difference. Does that make you feel better, sweetheart?”
You glare at the demon, jaw clenching. “Screw you.”
Sam’s expression darkens. “You said they got about ten of you… Got how? Did they send them back to Hell?”
The demon smirks, amused. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”
Sam’s jaw tightens sharply. “What really happened that night?”
A smile slowly rises at the corners of the demon’s mouth. “Your daddy showed up right in the middle of it, grabbed the kid before boss could get to her, and then ditched outta there while the witches tried holding us off. Didn’t even try to save them.” He cackles and finds your eyes. “Obviously, that didn’t work out too great for them.”
Dean’s eyes drift to you. Your cheeks have lost all color, fists clenched tightly at your sides, your eyes overwhelmed and brimming with tears that you don’t let fall, not wanting the thing to win.
“Oh, c’mon, sweetheart,” the demon croons. “You should’ve heard your mom screaming for you.”
“The ritual,” Sam cuts in thankfully before the thing could continue his taunts. “What does it do?”
“No clue.” The demon snorts a laugh. “Witch crap’s above my pay grade, Sammy. All I know is the old bastard wants the Berkano line wiped out before she comes into her full power.”
Dean’s nostrils flare as he takes a slow step forward.
The demon’s grin widens. “There he is.”
“You got about five seconds before I send your ass screaming back to Hell,” Dean threatens.
“Oh, I’m terrified.”
“And I mean it.”
The demon laughs again, black eyes sliding toward you. “Sooner or later, one of us is gonna get outta a trap long enough to carve you open real slow and figure out exactly why even the boss is so scared of your bloodline. Maybe we’ll start with your hands first. Or your eyes. Or your tongue. Bet a witch can scream for a real long time before she dies–”
Dean steps right to the edge of the trap, fury flashing across his face. “You touch her again and I will personally drag your ass apart piece by piece.”
The demon smirks wider. “See? That’s cute. You actually care–”
That’s when Dean snaps and the exorcism starts tearing out of him at a furious pace before a hand on his arm halts him in his tracks – yours. He glances at your hand briefly before finding your eyes.
“Wait, what happens to Pete?” you ask.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Pete?”
“My co-worker,” you clarify and nod toward the demon in the trap. “You can’t kill him.”
Sam steps in. “It’s not gonna kill him unless the vessel’s already hurt. If that’s the case, then there’s nothing we can do anyway. Keeping this thing inside of him would just be crueler.”
You look between both brothers for a moment before you give a subtle nod, and Sam continues the exorcism.
The demon then begins to convulse violently inside the trap again, black and thick smoke starting to pour out from Pete’s mouth while the thing screams agonizingly and curses in several languages at once until the final Latin word leaves Sam’s mouth. The smoke then finally breaks free completely, slamming upward toward the ceiling before vanishing.
Pete, on the other hand, collapses unconsciously inside the trap before blinking groggily up at the three of you a few beats later.
“Where am I?” He glances around the dark lab through squinted eyes. “Why am I at work? What happened?” His gaze then falls to the symbol burned into the floor underneath him. “What is that?”
“Uhm… shit,” you curse under your breath and look wide-eyed at the brothers. “What am I supposed to tell him?”
Sam and Dean share a brief glance, both their mouths opening without anything useful coming out because, yeah… that is a hard one to explain away.
You huff an exhausted breath after receiving no answer from either of them and spin back toward Pete, crouching to his level and snatching a pen from a nearby counter.
“Okay, Pete? Everything will be fine,” you assure him with a deceptively calm smile and hold up the pen. “Just look at this, alright?”
Dean then watches you hurriedly rummage through your bag. You practically empty the whole thing onto the counter – an assortment of dried herbs wrapped carefully in twine, small polished gemstones, an owl feather, and a little cloth pouch filled with some kind of dust. You look frantically through it all till you stumble upon a small vial with silver powder inside and hold it up with a smile.
“There it is.” You grin and empty the potion into your palm before moving back over to Pete. “Mind grows clouded, sight grows dim, leave no trace of what has been. Let the waking world unwind, erase the previous day from conscious mind.”
The powder glimmers strangely in the dim light before you blow it directly into Pete’s face. And just like that, the guy coughs a few times before his entire body goes limp.
Dean’s brows lift slightly as Pete slumps unconsciously against the floor, breathing deeply and evenly now, like he’s merely fallen asleep at work after an exhausting shift.
“Sam, help me move him,” you order his little brother as you grab one of Pete’s arms.
Sam takes the other side, and together the two of you heave Pete onto a chair by a workstation, resting his head gently on a countertop in front of a keyboard – a perfectly staged crime scene.
You then turn around and glance at the remaining mess, letting a tired sigh pass between your lips.
“Okay,” you murmur quietly to yourself and chew on your lower lip as you take in the destroyed lab – glass littering the floor, cabinets hanging half-shattered from their hinges, and the blackened devil’s trap scaring the linoleum. “Turn back ash and shattered stone… make undone what hate has sewn. Leave no mark and leave no trace… return everything to its… proper place.”
For half a second, nothing happens, but the hairs on Dean’s arms still rise, so he knows magic can’t be too far away.
And then, the damage starts reversing itself.
The black scorch marks across the linoleum slowly fade, the warped plastic smoothing itself back into place while shattered glass trembles across the floor before dissolving into dust that then vanishes entirely. Cabinet doors straighten with a few metallic creaks and cracked surfaces seal shut piece by piece until the entire lab looks almost untouched again.
Sam lets out a quiet huff of fascinated amusement beside Dean, but Dean’s still too busy staring at the spotless floor where a demon had been screaming a minute ago.
You sway slightly afterward, fatigue finally catching up with you as the adrenaline drains out of your body. Dean instinctively shuffles forward a little in case you fall, but you steady yourself against the counter before he is forced to make a move.
“What did you just do?” he asks then, brows tightly creased.
“Repair spell,” you answer simply, still sounding rather impressed with yourself. “Don’t wanna leave any evidence behind that gets me hanged in the town square.”
“No, I mean–” Dean shakes his head, swallowing lightly. “Before that… with Pete. What’d you do to him?”
“Oh.” You glance toward Pete’s snoozing form and casually shrug your shoulders. “It’s a memory spell. My grams taught me it for emergencies. Don’t worry. He’s not gonna remember anything from the last twenty-four hours.”
Your words don’t carry any malevolent meaning, but Dean freezes in his boots, his mind flashing back to last night’s dream.
The kitchen. Your grandmother. Difficult decisions. Severing attachments under the guise of protection.
Was that what they were talking about? Is that what actually happened?
“Memory spell?” Dean repeats carefully, looking at you. “Your grandma taught you that one?”
“Yeah.” You sling your bag over your shoulder after shoving everything back inside, still innocently oblivious to the fact that Dean suddenly looks like somebody punched straight through his ribcage. “Never used it before. Sure as hell is practical, though.”
“Yeah, uh-huh,” he mutters, trying to rub the tension out of his jaw. “I bet it is…”
You either don’t notice the tone or choose not to comment on it. Instead, you glance once more toward unconscious Pete before rubbing at your bruised shoulder with an exhausted sigh.
“Okay,” you breathe and look at the brothers. “Let’s get outta here before he wakes up again. Can you guys drive me to the hospital?”
Dean’s only capable of giving you an automated nod before you and Sam head out of the lab, his gaze drifting back to your sleeping co-worker whose memory just got wiped – an entire day of his life just got erased like it never happened and the guy will be none the wiser afterward.
And suddenly, Dean can’t stop thinking about all the things he probably isn’t supposed to remember either.
Nobody talks during the entire ten-minute drive to the hospital, which makes time pass a lot slower than it actually does as Salem blurs past the windows in flashes of neon and wet pavement.
Dean catches glimpses of you in the backseat every now and then through the rearview mirror despite trying not to stare. You’re curled into yourself right behind him, one arm wrapped across your middle while you look blankly out the rain-streaked window, but you haven’t looked at either of them once since leaving the lab.
And honestly? Dean can’t blame you.
His mind keeps jumping back and forth between anger, confusion, and guilt – between thinking about possibly being hexed with a memory spell that’s suspiciously got your grandmother’s handwriting on it and replaying the demon’s words over and over again, confirming his worst fears that him and Sam led all this crap to your doorstep.
He should’ve had his head more in the game before coming to Salem the first time. He should’ve cared more, kept a closer eye on Sam, and slowed him down when he went too fucking far. Most of all, Dean can practically hear the old man’s disappointment.
His father had been so careful – choosing his words wisely, encoding it all, sealing it shut, and then throwing away the key. He’d kept you safely hidden for eleven years till Sam and Dean opened the box with a bunch of firecrackers and stomped into your life, dragging dirt all over your polished floors.
Even Sam seems to feel the guilt for once, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He throws a glance toward the backseat as well before looking away again just as quickly. He clearly feels it too – the realization that they walked thoughtlessly into your life and carried enough trouble to get everybody around you nearly killed in one night.
Dean swallows hard against the lump lodged in his throat.
Because before tonight, this had all still felt weirdly temporary somehow – like maybe you could still walk away from it if you wanted. In his mind, there was a chance that you could just go back to your job and your apartment and your normal little Salem life while Sam and Dean disappeared down another highway, chasing their own mess.
Welp, that illusion’s gone now.
Demons found your family, your home, your people. And Dean knows exactly what that means because he’s watched it happen to everyone else who ever got too close to this life.
You can’t walk away from this anymore, and it’s all his fault.
The hospital then finally appears through the windshield in a wash of white lights. Dean parks near the emergency entrance, but before he even fully kills the engine, you’re already out of the backseat and hurrying toward the building.
Dean exchanges one quick glance with Sam before both brothers follow.
The waiting room carries that familiar hospital smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Paige then notices you first as you storm through the doors, relief lighting up on her face as she jumps up from one of the plastic chairs lining the wall. But there’s a guy right next to her that rises immediately as well like he’s part of the group.
Dean slows his steps and tilts his head.
The guy’s tall – really tall, actually. Dean can see the broad shoulders and solid built under the dark gray henley even from a distance. The dude certainly looks like he could throw a decent punch if he needed to. There’s visible exhaustion under his eyes, but the second he spots you, all of that vanishes and his entire face lights up.
“There you are.”
The guy crosses the waiting room in a few strides, and before Dean fully registers it, the man’s already pulling you into him.
And you? You go willingly – completely willingly.
Dean watches your hands fist into the fabric at the back of the guy’s shirt while his arms wrap tightly around you, one hand settling against the small of your back like he’s done it a thousand times before. He kisses your temple the second you bury your face into his chest, holding you there a moment longer than necessary like he needed the physical proof that you’re still alive.
Dean uncomfortably averts his gaze, not sure where to look, but this whole thing feels too private and intimate for an audience. It doesn’t feel like it was meant to be witnessed by his eyes, a strange little sting knotting his stomach.
The guy then pulls back just enough to look at your face properly, both hands carefully wandering to your arms as his eyes seem to inspect you for injuries. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “Are you hurt?”
And just like that, your entire expression softens in a way Dean hasn’t seen before. Not with Sam. Definitely not with him.
“I’m okay,” you say softly, though your voice still sounds frayed. “What about Mia? How is she? Have you guys heard anything?”
The guy exhales visibly in relief at hearing you speak and offers you a warm smile. “She’s okay, too,” he tells you. “Doctor said she lost a lot of blood, but they got the bleeding stopped. She also told me she’s apparently been through worse and started telling me that story about getting shot during a drug bust in 2001 again.”
A watery laugh escapes you at that, wiping a few stray tears from your cheeks. “Yeah, she loves telling that story.”
The guy smiles softly at that and pulls you closer again, your shoulders loosening significantly. And Dean suddenly realizes with growing irritation that the dude clearly knows you really well because he’s somehow managing to calm you down in under thirty seconds after the night you just had.
Then the guy finally notices the brothers standing behind you, and the warmth in his face cools almost immediately. It’s not exactly hostility but definitely wariness. Protective. Dean recognizes the look because hunters wear it all the time around strangers – sizing people up and assessing threats.
“I’m gonna grab coffee,” the guy says after a second, eyes flicking briefly toward the brothers again before they land back on. “You want anything?”
You shake your head tiredly before changing your mind halfway through. “Actually, yes. Sugar. I need sugar in medically concerning amounts.”
That earns you another smile from him. “I got you. Wanna come with? Mia’s still resting.”
You nod with a smile, and his hand brushes lightly against your lower back again as he steers you gently toward the vending machines, the two of you disappearing down the hallway. And Dean finds himself staring after you longer than he probably should, catching the way your fingers intertwine with the guy’s.
Weirdly domestic. Weirdly intimate. And Dean doesn’t like how much he notices that.
Pursing his lips, his gaze then drifts to Paige, who’s watching him with a slightly amused expression she tries to hide behind a styrofoam cup of bad coffee.
Dean sways a few steps closer and then casually motions with his chin down the hallway. “So… who’s the guy?”
Paige doesn’t reply instantly. Instead, she bites harshly down on her lips like she’s swallowing down a few comments before regaining her composure and meeting his eyes.
“Oh, that’s just Cameron,” she replies breezily and takes another sip, feigning innocence. “Her boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend,” he repeats, wrinkling his nose slightly at the term. It hits oddly somehow and irritates him for some reason.
Paige gives him a big nod, very clearly enjoying the show now, judging by the giant grin rising on her lips. “They met in college.”
Dean’s eyes flick briefly down the hallway again where the two of you disappeared. He shouldn’t be that surprised, right? You’re gorgeous and funny and weird in that oddly charming way where you carry glitter gel pens next to crime scene photos, somehow making it work.
You have a normal life. Of course you’d have a boyfriend, too. Dean’s not stupid. This is the logical conclusion. It makes complete sense.
Still, the realization catches him more off guard than it probably should, mostly because Dean’s never really pictured you belonging to somebody else before.
And leave it to Paige to notice the exact second that thought crosses his mind because her grin widens in an instant.
Dean scowls, narrowing his eyes to a glare at her. “Why’re you smiling like that?”
She gives a causal shrug of her shoulders. “Nothing. You’re cute.”
“Shut up,” he scoffs, shaking his head at her.
But she only snorts a laugh into her coffee cup while Dean mutters a curse under his breath and looks away as fast as he can. Whatever she’s thinking right now, she’s absolutely wrong about it. Dean’s at least sure of that if nothing else.
An hour later, the waiting room’s grown even quieter, fully falling into nightly silence.
The doctor informed you ten minutes ago that Mia’s stable after surgery and just woke up, summoning you almost instantly. You looked rather reluctant to accept the command, and as Dean aimlessly wanders the endless hospital corridors and happens to stroll past Mia’s room, he begins to understand your initial hesitancy.
Judging by Mia’s raised voice, you’re apparently getting the lecture of a lifetime in there. Dean isn’t able to hear every word, but he catches enough to understand the gist – something about keeping secrets, getting everyone in danger, and running off with two guys who wanted to kill you.
Dean assumes him and Sam are meant with that last one.
He doesn’t expect you to leave the room so abruptly afterward before you suddenly stand right in front of him and close the door behind you with an exhaustive sigh.
“Man, she’s mad,” you huff, shaking your head. “If I still lived at home, she’d probably ground me till I’m thirty.”
Dean offers you a comforting smile, scratching his throat as he saunters closer. “That bad, huh?”
You scoff a dry laugh. “Yup, but she’ll get over it,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. “Maybe if she’d shown me the letter sooner and told me the truth, I wouldn’t have gone snooping behind her back.”
“Cut her some slack,” Dean says gently, catching your attention. “This ain’t exactly easy to figure out. Nothing wrong with wanting to protect someone you love from all this crap.”
You lift your brow. “So lying to someone’s face is better?”
“Sometimes.” Dean shrugs, his gaze briefly flicking to Sam talking to Paige by the vending machines. He looks back at you then, clearing his throat rather awkwardly. “You–, uh, you got a minute to talk?”
You study him for a beat before nodding, a teasing smile flashing across your lips. “You wanna give me a lecture too now?”
Dean chuckles softly and shoves both hands into his jacket pockets, shaking his head. “No, uh, just figured we need a plan, y’know?”
“A plan for what?”
He lets out a deep sigh, rubbing his jaw. “You know you can’t stay here anymore, right? In Salem. That demon wasn’t random, and now that they found you again…” He pauses, licking his lips. “There’ll be a lot more.”
You go very still at that. Dean can see how the reality visibly takes hold of you.
“But I can’t just leave. This is my home,” you argue just for the sake of bargaining it seems.
“I know.” Dean nods quietly but doesn’t offer anything else. He knows you already know and decides to let you play through the options on your own.
“What about my job? I’ve barely been on it for a year. I can’t just quit now. What am I supposed to do for the rest of my life?”
Dean just stares at you patiently, waiting for the truth to settle as you start to pace maniacally in front of him. “Look, this is just temporary. Just until the demon’s dead. Then you can slip right back into your old life. Pretend this never happened.”
“You really believe that?” You doubtfully arch a brow. “You said it yourself – that never happens. And what about Mia and Paige and–” You close your mouth before finishing.
“Your boyfriend?” Dean supplies with a raised brow. God, again with that word. He hates how annoying it sounds in his head now. You then nod slightly, and he mirrors it with his own nod. “Our friend Bobby knows how to hide people properly – wards, devil’s trap, safe houses… The whole nine yards. Nothing’s gonna happen to them. I promise.”
Your brows shoot up in surprise. “You’d do that?”
“Yeah,” Dean assures you before the guilt punches him square in the chest all over again. “Look, I know this happened because of us. If me and Sam hadn’t shown up–”
“Dean–”
“No.” He shakes his head sharply, interrupting your well-meant protest, but he needs to get this out for good. “That thing was right. My dad kept you hidden for years and we waltzed into your life, dragging all our crap behind us.” He grinds his molars painfully before daring to look fully into your eyes. “I’m sorry, alright? We screwed up.”
The words feel strange coming out of his mouth because Dean doesn’t really apologize – not sincerely and not often at least. But this one matters.
Your expression softens slightly, and for some reason, that almost makes him feel worse.
“Bobby can hide you, too,” he adds after a beat.
“No.” You shake your head slowly, and Dean finds your eyes again, brow furrowing. “I think I’m gonna go to Sugar Hill,” you announce. “I wanna know what the ritual is. What my family was trying to protect. What that demon is so scared of. I think I’m done pretending this has nothing to do with me.”
Dean studies you for a long moment then.
A month ago, you wanted nothing to do with any of this. Now you’re standing in a hospital hallway talking about chasing down ancient family rituals because demons nearly murdered your adoptive mother tonight, just adding proof that this life changes people too damn fast.
“You sure?” he asks quietly.
You give him a resolute nod, and Dean already knows there’s no talking you out of it this time. His gaze then drifts toward the waiting room, landing on Cameron sitting beside Paige now.
“So…” he says casually then, smacking his lips. “Boyfriend, huh?”
Your mouth twitches for a second before you press your lips together. “Yep.”
“Never mentioned it before,” he mutters, biting the insides of his cheeks till he tastes a hint of copper on his tongue.
You toss him a slightly amused look at that, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t know we were that close. I mean, considering you tried to kill me and all that, excuse me for not being too keen on giving you a full list of my loved ones.”
Loved ones.
Something sour rises in his throat at that, but he swallows it back down and subtly loosens his shoulders once, brushing the thought away.
“Yeah, yeah…” He scoffs and rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance. “Whatever. Just didn’t know you were hiding a six-foot-three linebacker somewhere. That’s all.”
“He’s in the military.”
Dean hums nonchalantly, his eyes wandering back to the waiting room. He can see the dog tags under the henley now. “What branch?”
“Army. Rangers,” you reply with a trace of pride in your voice that strangely annoys Dean as well.
“Huh.” He starts biting his cheek anew.
“He was deployed overseas for the last few months. Just got home yesterday.”
At that, Dean’s head slowly turns to you, shooting you a dry look. “Wait, yesterday… Is that why you didn’t pick up the phone when Sam called?”
You press your lips guiltily together, shrugging. “We were having dinner and watching a movie…”
Oh, Dean knows what that translates to. There’s no way you did any of these things. God, he so doesn’t want to think about this – about you and–… Why the hell is he thinking about this?
It shouldn’t bother him. It doesn’t. Not even a little. He feels perfectly neutral about this. Just–
“Sam and I thought you were dead, bleeding out on the fucking floor!” he snaps furiously, puffed chest rising and falling a little too fast. “Just pick up the damn phone next time!”
“Jesus, fine,” you scoff and cross your arms, rolling your eyes back. “Would you relax?”
“I am relaxed,” he huffs rather unconvincingly.
You give him a raised look. “It’s truly fascinating you keep lying to me when you know damn well by now I can read your aura.”
“Well, stop doing that.”
“Stop lying.”
Dean exhales a long and deep sigh before nodding toward the waiting room. “He know about all this?”
“What, me being a witch who’s getting hunted by demons?” You catch his gaze, and he nods briefly. You laugh a little. “Yeah, obviously.”
Obviously.
That word almost makes Dean scoff out loud. Because obviously has never been part of his experience. It’s barely part of his vocabulary. Most people he’s met in his life run away screaming the second monsters become real.
Hell, the only girl Dean ever seriously tried telling the truth to called him insane before walking out of his life entirely. Hunters don’t get steady relationships and soft hospital reunions and someone waiting for them under fluorescent lights afterward.
People like Dean usually get motel rooms and one-night stands and empty passenger seats.
So yeah, hearing you say obviously like trusting somebody with your entire horrifying supernatural life is the easiest thing in the world feels… deeply unnatural, grossly romanticized, and infuriatingly naive. Not to mention, it’s also delusionally simple.
“Right, okay…” Dean clicks his tongue, squishing the bitterness around in his mouth like he’s tasting wine for the first time. “So how’d you get him anyways?”
Is self-destruction his new hobby these days?
You blink, your head swirling toward him. “I’m sorry–…what?”
Dean shrugs slightly. “Just sayin’. Did you pour some kinda love potion into the poor guy’s drink one night or what?”
You snort a small laugh, biting down on your tongue. Judging by the little fiery twinkle in your eyes, you surely want to slap him right now.
“Contrary to your deeply concerning beliefs about women, I don’t need magic to get a man,” you retort wryly. “I can do that very well on my own, thank you.”
Dean only gives you a skeptical hum in return. “Sure, sweetheart.”
“Have you forgotten that you hit on me a few weeks ago?” you shoot back.
“You flirted back,” he grits, shaking his head with a scoff. “Certainly didn’t seem that attached when you pushed your boobs out at the bar.”
“How dare you–” You gasp before narrowing your eyes to a glare. “I flirted for survival.”
Dean snorts at that, not even hiding his amusement.
Survival his ass. That felt real. You weren’t faking shit – not the smiles or the laughs at his jokes or the light touches of his arm… Right?
Dammit. Son of a–
“You know, you can be a real bitch sometimes,” he huffs.
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and you’re an even bigger and significantly more annoying asshole after midnight.”
“Yet, you’re still here.” Dean smirks cockily down at you.
To his surprise, though, your lips twitch a little as well and that shouldn’t feel as good as it does because it’s–
It’s delusionally simple.
It’s almost morning, the dark night sky morphing into that lighter, washed-out blue-gray at the horizon right before dawn as they all pull into Mia’s driveway.
Everything suddenly feels heavier now after the adrenaline has finally burnt out of everyone’s systems, and the entire neighborhood looks half-asleep beneath glowing streetlights and damp tree branches, peaceful and serene in the way New England towns like this one get around five in the morning.
The hospital released Mia an hour ago with strict instructions to rest, which she immediately argued with three separate nurses and you about before finally losing the fight once medication kicked in and you threatened her with knocking her out with a spell.
But even now, stepping carefully out of the house with Sam hovering nearby, your adoptive mother still looks more annoyed than injured despite the bandages wrapped under her jacket as everybody helps her pack and grab the most necessary items from the house.
You, on the other hand, are leaning against Baby, oversized sweater sleeves covering most of your hands from the cooler morning air. The exhaustion still clings visibly to you, even in the dim porch light, and Dean catches himself checking whether you’re standing steady enough after the night you’ve had.
You are. Barely. But still.
Paige comes through the front door carrying another duffel bag over one shoulder. “Mia keeps trying to pack case files,” she huffs exhaustively.
“Because I have active investigations,” Mia argues while Sam carefully helps her lower into the backseat.
Every slight wince she tries hiding immediately tightens something in your expression. Dean notices the way your fingers curl harder into your sleeves whenever Mia shifts wrong or presses unconsciously against her side.
“You also got stabbed,” you remind her pointedly.
“And?”
Paige throws both hands up dramatically before looking toward Dean and you.
Dean chuckles a little. “Yeah, Bobby’s gonna have fun with this one.”
“I’m sure this Bobby can survive the experience,” Mia says, unimpressed.
Sam shuts the trunk with a solid thunk before moving back toward the car. “We’ll get you someplace safe,” he assures her. “Bobby knows what he’s doing.”
Mia studies both brothers carefully for a second, and Dean can practically see the cop instincts working behind her eyes, even exhausted and drugged-up – assessing risk, weighing trust, deciding whether these two strangers are worth it.
Then she nods once. Dean glances toward you automatically afterward.
“They’ll be safe,” he assures you quietly. You look over at him. He jerks his chin toward the car. “Bobby’ll ward the hell outta wherever they’re staying. Devil’s traps, salt lines, iron. Nothing’s getting near them.”
Your shoulders loosen slightly at that. “Thanks,” you say softly.
Dean shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it is a little. Bobby’s probably already awake and cursing both Winchester boys out while throwing together emergency packages and booking cabins somewhere.
Still worth it.
As the front door then creaks open once more, Dean looks up when Cameron steps outside, carrying another bag in one hand. The guy heads down the porch stairs toward you, dark hoodie pulled over the gray shirt now, broad shoulders filling the damn thing annoyingly well.
Dean notices the military posture more clearly this time – the controlled movements, the constant alertness in his eyes, the sort of stance people pick up after years of training whether they mean to or not.
Cameron then sets the bag down near the trunk before his eyes swerve fully toward Dean for the first time.
“So,” he says evenly and clicks his tongue, sizing the green-eyed hunter up from head to toe. “You’re the guy that pointed a gun at my girlfriend, huh?”
Dean almost swallows his damn tongue.
Meanwhile, Sam becomes oddly fascinated by reorganizing bags in the trunk again while you close your eyes briefly like you already know this conversation’s about to become painful.
Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Okay, look, in my defense–”
“You pointed a gun at her.”
Dean opens his mouth again, but truly nothing comes out. Because honestly? There really isn’t a defense for it now that he’s standing here at five in the morning while your boyfriend looks at him like he’s evaluating whether Dean deserves to keep all his teeth.
“It wasn’t–” Dean starts before stopping himself. “I thought she was–”
A witch. Dangerous. A threat.
The words sound worse out loud now somehow.
Dean exhales sharply through his nose instead, scratching the back of his neck guiltily. “Yeah, I got nothing.”
Cameron studies him for another long second before stepping slightly closer. “Do that again, and you’ll regret it,” he says calmly without an ounce of aggression, which is truly quite the achievement, considering the meaning of that sentence.
But weirdest of all, Dean understands it in some way, because if some stranger had shown up aiming a gun at someone Dean cared about, Dean probably would’ve reacted a hell of a lot worse than this.
So after a second, he gives one accepting nod with a slight swallow. “Fair enough.”
The tension eases after that, and Cameron looks at you again, expression softening almost instantly.
“I’m coming with you to New Hampshire,” he says then.
Your head lifts, brows shooting up in bewilderment. “Cam–”
“I mean it.” His hand settles lightly against the small of your back when he steps closer to you again, thumb brushing the fabric of your sweater almost absentmindedly, familiar and comfortable. “You’re not doing this alone.”
There’s something strangely intimate about how easy the two of you are together. Not dramatic or over-the-top – like Cameron touches you constantly without even thinking about it and you naturally lean into him every single time.
It feels weirdly foreign to watch.
You glance up at your boyfriend then, softer than you’ve been all night. “You sure?”
“Yeah, pretty damn sure,” Cameron says, smiling.
You bite back a smile as well before your gaze drops to your boots. Dean catches the emotion flashing across your face – relief that somebody’s staying. He knows what that feels like.
Paige then eagerly raises her hand. “And I’m coming too!”
You stare at her in disbelief. “Paige, no–”
“What? You think I’m letting you wander into haunted witch houses unsupervised?”
A tired laugh slips out of you. “There could be more demons,” you point out, though Dean notices you don’t actually sound resistant to the idea – more worried for them than anything else.
“And there could also be bears,” Paige argues. “And yet, we survived summer camp in ninth grade.”
“That’s not even remotely the same thing.”
“It is spiritually the same thing.”
Cameron snorts softly beside you while your head tips against his shoulder in exhausted amusement.
And Dean? Yeah, he immediately wishes he hadn’t noticed that.
“You guys don’t have to do this,” you add more quietly then. “Seriously.”
“Oh, we know,” Cameron says easily.
“That’s why we’re doing it anyway.” Paige grins.
Dean watches the exact second it hits you that they genuinely mean it – that neither of them is backing out despite everything that happened tonight. Your eyes go a little glassy afterward before you blink the tears away.
“Okay,” you say softly and nod.
Cameron presses a quick kiss against your temple, and Dean abruptly looks toward the street instead. Witnessing affection kind of feels like a personal attack now.
Sam closes the trunk then a second later before joining them. “We should probably get moving.”
You nod once before looking toward the brothers, and for a moment, nobody really knows how to say goodbye after a night like this.
Dean then breaks the silence first, clearing his throat. “We’ll call once Bobby got Mia somewhere safe.”
“Okay,” you reply with a small smile. “Just know that if Mia starts threatening people, don’t take it personally.”
“I can hear you,” Mia calls from the Impala’s backseat.
“I’ll try not to.” Dean chuckles lightly. “We’ll keep her safe. Don’t worry.”
“I know,” you say with a soft smile and look at Dean one last time.
And Dean knows that look in your eyes all too well – resolve. Like tonight finally pushed you across some invisible line and there’s no going back now. Hunters wear that same look all the time. He kind of hates it on you, but there’s nothing he can do about it now, is there?
All he can do now is watch you and your friends squeeze into that tiny car of yours, hoping for the best as you disappear down the road.
▶️ Interlude I: Purify the Colors, Purify My Mind
God, Dean needs some help. Truly all I can say at this point 😂 In other news, what do you think of that little memory spell theory and Dean's latest dream? Surely seemed... interesting. I think he's slowly catching on that it might be a little realer than he hoped for (but watch him keep all of that locked up tight for ages). That man's sitting on secrets like a dragon on gold 😆😝
Next Friday, we're approaching our first Interlude of this series, which are smaller, more one-shot/drabble-like parts between major chapters. Most of them are funny or take little deep dives, but they are still plot-relevant in some way, shape, or form. Afterwards, this series is on break for two weeks with some one-shots coming your way till we'll return with another Interlude and then Chapter 7 and so on...
I'm also so, so sorry for taking so long to respond to comments these days. I've already announced it on Patreon a few weeks ago, but I'm making it tumblr-official as well: I'm currently three months pregnant with Baby #2 🩵🩷
The first trimester fatigue and nausea have been a little rough, but it's slowly getting better, so I'll be back soon in full capacity 😅 Just know I appreciate everyone who's been commenting and reading this story so much! Y'all have put the biggest smiles on my face and I love every single one of you!! 🥹💜
🔮 Series Masterlist
Coming Up:
The landscape swells around you as Sugar Hill draws nearer. Rolling hills are draped in clover-green, ancient woods pressing close before opening into wide, untouched meadows that glow in the morning light, wildflowers dotting the fields in splashes of rainbow colors. Even the air feels different here – purer, more alive, vibrating with the same natural power that flows through your veins. You can feel it tingling in the tips of your fingers.
Despite the beautiful landscape that feels almost sacred, however, the knot in your chest tightens with every familiar bend.
Eleven years.
You haven’t traveled these roads since the night everything you’d known and loved smashed to smithereens. The memories of that night still haunt your soul – waking to screams downstairs, the acrid stench of sulfur, your mother and grandmother’s voices raised in desperate spells, the roar of flames.
i don't believe in god, but i believe that you're my savior
when you live a life that never allows you to understand the existence of home, you start to find it in other places. people, too. dean winchester's home is the driver's side seat of the impala, and always with sam next to him. bunny norton's home is across an ocean, and preferably as far away from dean winchester as possible. when they asked her all those years ago for her help, she'd come running. but dean makes her wish every day that she hadn't stayed.
slow burn, enemies to lovers. they hate bang in chapter four, but that's just to add flavor to the hate. canon is followed whenever i feel like it, tags will be updated as story progresses. slightly OOC dean in the first few chapters bc i like when the pretty man angry…
previous chapter
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.”
“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.
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 70✦
✦summary: you revisit old wounds✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: can you say "emotional progress"?✦
The house was about ninety percent books now. Between the collection Rowena and Adam had dropped off—Rowena complaining about her boy luggage being only good for carrying extra things—the books you and Sam have been borrowing from the library, and all the PDFs Charlie printed out, there’s barely room to stretch your legs. Dean thinks it’s overkill. You told him that he could live with it, or buy you a tablet.
“I will,” he mutters, pushing other stack off to the side. “I’ll buy you three if it means I get the freakin’ kitchen back.”
“The kitchen is clean,” you hum, flipping another page. “You can use it right now-“
“There are books on the oven, sweetheart.”
“Then move them to the floor.”
“I can’t, someone is gonna trip, and we don’t have any space to do triage or- Or bandaids.” He sighs. “I’m just sayin’, you could do some of this on the porch or something.”
“You could do it on the porch,” you grumble, and Dean snorts.
“I could, Princess? That right?”
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
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Summary: It is obvious that Soldier Boy isn't done tormenting you yet, and Homelander's warnings to appease him are still on your mind. Nothing seems to be going your way, yet you remain loyal.
Word Count: 2,956
Tags/Warnings: Firecracker and Soldier Boy (yeah, is a Warning)
Legal's notes: requested by @mayafatimakhan @flori-alexandra
Part 2
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.
“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.
✧･ﾟ:when he loves you—and he does—after care becomes just as intimate as the sex itself. He’ll spend a few minutes after you’re done laying over you, his face pressed between your breasts as he collects himself, and then he’s moving. Starting a warm bath and heating a towel to clean up the mess he left between your thighs, then carrying you into the steaming water and sitting on the lip of the tub as long as you let him. He gets water and sits you on the toilet after you rinse off, then carries you back to bed. You don’t protest—you couldn’t if you wanted, your thighs made of jelly and your head still a little dazed from the pleasure he wrung from your body—and press you face into his neck and letting him coax a little more food into your before you knock out in his arms.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
✧･ﾟ:if you ask Dean, he’ll say he loves all of you, but both of you know the truth. There’s nothing he loves more than your breasts. Big and bouncing when you ride him, or small and able to fit in the palm of his hand, it doesn’t matter. They’re soft and pretty, almost a toy for him to play with when he has you beneath him. He’ll mouth at them and roll your nipples between his fingers, watching almost obsessively the way your back arches into his touch. It make it easy for him say that his favorite body part is his hands. Anywhere else they’re weapons, coated in blood and dirt and grime, but on your body they’re tools, and he never apricates himself more.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
✧･ﾟ:dean loves to mark you up in any way he can. It’s possessive and dirty, but he’s past the point of caring about such things. If he can paint it over your stomach and tits, it’s a good day. A better one when he can smear it on your face, his sore cock twitching when you lick the excess off your lips. But nothing is better than spilling inside of your warm, wet heat. Watching the proof of your effect on him dribbling out of your little hole, down your ass and thighs, it makes him want to bury his face back against you, pushing himself into your with his tongue. If he’s lucky you’ll let him fuck you with slow lazy thrusts after you’ve both finished, making sure he’s driven it properly inside of you. His messy girl.
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✦
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Summary: You've never smoked weed before, nor have you had an edible. It was something you'd never even thought about before. Perhaps that was because alcohol was always available. But when a container of brownies sits innocently in the kitchen with a note stating they're very clearly Dean's, you can't help but snag a couple.
Pairing: None
Word Count: 5631
Warnings: Marijuana, Edibles, Hilarity, Reading being high, Dean and Sam being themselves.
A/N: I hope you guys like this one as much as I did writing it. Lots of humor in Parts 1 & 2. A bit of embarrassment in Part 3.
Part 2
Brownies Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Sleep released you slowly.
Not all at once, but in that hazy, comfortable way where awareness seeped back a little at a time. Warmth surrounded you beneath the blankets, the mattress soft beneath your body, your pillow molded perfectly beneath your cheek. For several long moments, you simply stayed where you were, eyes still closed, savoring the feeling of having nowhere to be.
Every muscle in your body felt loose, relaxed in a way that only came after an exceptionally deep night's sleep. There wasn't the slightest hint of a headache lingering behind your eyes or heaviness pressing against your limbs. If anything, you felt... refreshed.
You drew in a slow breath through your nose, letting it out just as gradually. The familiar scent of your laundry detergent clung to your blankets, mingling with the faint, ever-present smell of old concrete that belonged to the bunker no matter how often it was cleaned.
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
Image, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC
You can also find me on Patreon
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singer’s house brings Natalie Guimet—an old childhood friend and constant from his time there—back into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds don’t fade with time—they wait.
Word Count: 7,432
Tags/Warnings: Mentions of death, promises, grief, childhood memories
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Ten: Trails
Breakfast ended slowly, not with any real sense of peace, but with the kind of practical surrender that followed a room full of hunters realizing they had talked themselves into another impossible problem and still needed to clean the damn kitchen. Sam volunteered for the dishes again, partly because he was decent that way and partly because he had apparently decided the sink was the safest place in the house whenever Dean and Natalie started looking at each other like the rest of the world had gone soft around the edges. Bobby grunted his approval, gathered an armful of loose notes and half-open books from the table, and announced that since everybody else was apparently too busy being young and stupid, he would go see if his wrecked library had anything useful to say about the Master.
Dean let that pass without comment, though Natalie could feel the slight tightening of his fingers around hers. He had been quiet since the conversation about supernatural sources. Too quiet, in that very Dean way that usually meant his thoughts were running hot beneath the surface while his face gave away almost nothing. When Sam turned on the faucet and Bobby disappeared toward the living room with a muttered complaint about “damn apocalyptic research before noon,” Dean glanced down at Natalie and gave her hand a small, careful tug.
“Walk with me?”
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.”
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?”
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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