warnings: no explicit sexual content,idiots,light angst,established relationship,banter,humor,fluff,protective Sam Winchester,jealous female reader,mild injuries,canon-typical violence. Golden retriever and black cat trope.
summary: After uncovering a pattern behind a series of brutal attacks at a crowded nightclub, you volunteer to go undercover as a bartender to lure the creature out. Sam reluctantly agrees—after losing an argument about why he absolutely cannot be the one behind the bar.
a/n: I LOVE THİS. SO HILARIOUS.
You and Sam had split up to cover more ground.
He’d gone to interview the witnesses from the alley behind the venue while you followed a lead that had been nagging at you since you first stepped foot in the crime scene.
It didn't take long for the pattern to reveal itself.
The creature wasn't choosing victims at random. Every single attack aligned perfectly with the venue's late-night rotation. Which meant if you wanted a shot at catching this thing in the act, one of you was going to have to go undercover behind the bar.
By the time Sam tracked you down, you were already in the manager’s back office, leaning over a desk covered in shift schedules and going over how to slip an unvetted bartender into tonight's lineup without raising red flags.
"There you are," Sam said, pushing the door open. Relief softened the line of his shoulders, though he quickly cast an anxious glance back down the hallway. "Dean’s practically pacing a hole through the floor out front. Said he lost track of you twenty minutes ago."
"I figured something out," you said, glancing up from the paperwork. "The creature’s targeting the night shift staff."
The manager, looking pale and thoroughly out of his depth, gave a tight nod. "If one of you can actually handle a busy tap, I can slot you in behind the main bar tonight."
"I'll do it," Sam offered without missing a beat, stepping forward.
You turned toward him so fast your neck practically protested.
"No."
Sam blinked, his brow furrowing instantly into that familiar, bewildered crease.
"...No?"
"Not happening."
He frowned, shifting his weight, his tall frame suddenly filling the small office as he tried to reason through your reaction.
"It makes the most sense," Sam argued gently, using his best logical 'Sam' voice. "Bartenders have a eyes-on view of the whole floor. Plus, I can watch the rear exits from the main counter."
"I said no, Sam."
"But—"
"No."
A beat of heavy, awkward silence fell over the room.
The manager looked between the two of you, visibly uncomfortable, clutching his clipboard like a shield. "I mean... look, either of you works, as long as—"
"I'll take the shift," you cut in sharply.
Sam stared at you, his hazel eyes wide with genuine confusion. "Why? What’s the issue?"
You crossed your arms tight over your chest. "Because I said so."
"That's... not really a reason."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Sam ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that was half-sigh, half-chuckle. "Babe, come on. I don't get it. What's going on?"
You looked him dead in the eye, dropping all pretense. "I am not letting you spend eight hours getting flirted with by every woman who orders a drink."
Silence. Dead silence.
Sam stopped mid-gesture. The manager froze.
Then, slowly, a huff of disbelieving air escaped Sam's lips, turning into that soft, breathless laugh he only let out when he was caught completely off guard.
"...You're jealous?"
"I am being realistic."
"You think I'm going to flirt with the customers?" Sam asked, his lips twitching as he fought back a full grin.
"I think the customers are going to flirt with you."
"I'll tell them I'm taken," he said, stepping a little closer, his tone dropping into that quiet, reassuring register. "I'll tell them I have a girlfriend."
"They won't care."
"I'll point right at you across the room."
"They'll think I'm your sister."
Sam nearly choked on his own breath.
"My—what?"
"You heard me."
The dam broke, and Sam couldn't stop the wide, dimpled smile from spreading across his face. He ducked his head for a second, trying to regain his composure, but failing miserably.
"So this whole argument..." He gestured between the two of you, huffing out another quiet laugh. "...is because you don't want women hitting on me while I'm pouring draft beer?"
You refused to dignify that with a response. Instead, you turned a stern glare toward the manager.
"I'm taking the shift."
The manager pointed a finger at you without an instant's hesitation, eager to escape the crossfire. "You. Absolutely. You."
"Good."
As you turned to walk out of the office, Sam reached out and caught your hand. His long fingers effortlessly folded around yours, tugging you back just enough to slow your pace to his.
"You know," he murmured, his voice laced with fond amusement as he walked beside you down the narrow hallway, "I think it's kind of cute."
You scoffed, keeping your eyes fixed ahead, though your hands remained locked together. "It won't be cute when some girl in a miniskirt tries to write her number on a napkin for you."
"I'd tell her no."
"What if she's persistent?"
"I'd still tell her no."
"What if she touches your arm?"
Sam let out another low laugh, stopping in the dimly lit hallway and pulling you round to face him.
"Babe."
"What?"
"I love you," he said simply, his thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles. His expression was soft, entirely sincere, and so unmistakably him that it made your chest tighten.
Your stubborn mask slipped for half a second before you forced a classic eye-roll, trying and failing to hide the slight lift at the corner of your mouth.
"I know."
Sam squeezed your hand, his dimples showing again. "And you're still taking the shift?"
"100%."
Sam let his head fall back against the hallway wall with a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. "Right. Of course. I forgot who I was talking to." He looked down at you, his eyes warm and crinkling at the corners. "I guess I'm dating the most stubborn woman on the planet."
"Damn right you are."
You stopped dead in your tracks just outside the manager’s cramped back office, spinning on your heel with enough sudden purpose that your jacket whipped against the doorframe.
"Hold on."
Dean, who’d been leaning against the cheap wood paneling of the hallway, halfway through taking a gulp from a lukewarm paper cup of grease-trap coffee, immediately let out a long, heavy sigh. He lowered the cup, his green eyes flicking up to you with classic, long-suffering elder-brother exhaustion.
"...Aw, hell. Look at that face. She's about to make rules."
"I am," you said smoothly, taking two steps forward and dropping a finger straight into his line of sight. "And you're first."
Dean raised a dark eyebrow, shifting his weight so he was leaning more heavily on one hip, looking equal parts amused and defensive. "What'd I do? I'm just standing here."
"Don't disappear," you instructed sternly. "No 'checking the perimeter' by yourself, no wandering off to talk to the local wildlife, and no stepping out to check on the Impala every twenty minutes."
"I wasn't planning on it."
"And don't pick fights just because someone looks at you funny at the bar."
Dean opened his mouth to protest, a knee-jerk hey now forming on his lips—before the memory of roughly a hundred previous bar brawls caught up with him. He paused, closed his mouth, and tapped his coffee cup against his chin.
"...Fair," he muttered grudgingly.
"And if something goes sideways while I'm behind the counter," you continued, holding his gaze, "you call. You don't try to clear the building solo, you don't play hero, and you don't wait until you're bleeding out to hit speed dial."
Dean rolled his eyes, taking another slow swig of his terrible coffee, though the usual cocky bite was entirely missing from the gesture. "Yes, Mom."
"I'm serious, Winchester."
"I know," Dean said. The sharp edge of his deflection softened, his jaw relaxing just a fraction as he held your look.
Your expression softened along with his, the exasperation giving way to the genuine, heavy weight of caring about two men who made a career out of reckless self-sacrifice.
"...Be careful."
Dean's teasing grin faded completely, replaced by that quieter, rarer expression he saved for family—grounded, steady, and unexpectedly sincere.
"I always am."
You raised a skeptical brow. "Bullshit."
He offered a faint, dimpled half-smile. "Well... I try."
Satisfied that he was actually listening, you gave a firm nod. "Good."
Then you pivoted forty-five degrees to the left, lock-stock and barrel, fixing your gaze squarely on Sam.
Sam was leaning against the opposite wall, his towering frame folded casually into the dim lighting of the hallway. The moment your eyes landed on him, his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, a wide, thoroughly fond smile breaking across his face.
"My turn?" he asked, his voice low and warm.
"Your turn," you declared, taking a deep breath like a general addressing a soldier before a high-stakes deployment. "Rule number one: No smiling."
Sam blinked, his head tilting slightly like a golden retriever trying to process a confusing command.
"...What?"
"No smiling."
"I... can't smile?" Sam repeated, a small, puzzled crease forming right between his eyebrows. "I'm literally sitting at the bar keeping watch."
"Not at customers," you clarified tightly. "Not at female patrons, not at the staff, not even a polite customer-service smirking."
From two feet away, Dean snorted directly into his coffee, shoulders shaking violently as he tried and failed to keep it quiet.
You ignored him completely, keeping your crosshairs locked on Sam. "Rule number two: No laughing at their jokes. I don't care if a woman sits down next to you and tells the funniest joke you've ever heard in your life. Stony silence."
"I wasn't planning on laughing at anyone's jokes," Sam said, holding his hands up defensively.
"Rule number three: No leaning on the counter."
Sam gestured vaguely to his frame. "...I'm six-four. If I sit on a barstool, I have to lean just to rest my elbows."
"Figure something out. Sit up straight."
Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek so hard his jaw muscle twitched. He lowered his coffee cup, watching the interrogation unfold like it was a prime-time television special.
"And rule number four," you pressed on, stepping right into Sam's personal space. "If a woman sits next to you and calls you 'handsome'—"
"I'll say thank you?" Sam offered innocently.
"Sam!"
"...No?" Sam ducked his head a fraction, caught between genuine confusion and a total loss for what the correct answer was supposed to be.
"You'll pretend you didn't hear her," you corrected flatly. "You will suddenly suffer from localized auditory failure."
Sam looked genuinely concerned now, his brow furrowing deeper. "Isn't that... kind of rude? I'm sitting at a public counter. People make small talk."
"Better rude than encouraging."
Dean lost the battle with his composure entirely. A sudden, loud bark of laughter erupted from his chest, echoing off the narrow hallway walls as he leaned his head back against the plaster. "Oh, man. This is incredible. I need a notebook."
You pointed a single finger over your shoulder at Dean without ever taking your eyes off Sam's face. "You're not helping."
"I am absolutely helping," Dean choked out, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "I'm documenting historical protocol."
Sam’s lips twitched, the corners of his mouth fighting an uphill battle against your strict directives. He rubbed the back of his neck, his thumb tracing the hair at his nape as he looked down at you.
"So... let me see if I've got this straight."
"You don't."
"No smiling. No laughing. No leaning on the bar. No thanking anyone for basic compliments."
"Correct."
"And if someone flirts with me while I'm keeping an eye on the floor?"
"You leave."
"I'm sitting on a barstool," Sam pointed out reasonably, his voice dropping into that quiet, patient cadence he used when de-escalating a situation. "I'm keeping eyes on the room."
"You leave emotionally."
Dean doubled over, putting his hands on his knees as his coffee cup dangerously tilted. "I have no idea what that means! What does that even mean?!"
"It means," you said firmly, ignoring the elder Winchester’s hysterics entirely, "you act like a tax accountant. Cold. Clinical. Utterly devoid of charm."
Sam frowned, his hazel eyes wide with pure, unadulterated sincerity.
"...I've met some pretty friendly accountants."
You stared at him. The silence stretched between you for three full seconds while you processed the sheer, earnest density of Sam Winchester when he was trying to be helpful.
"...How are you real?" you whispered.
Sam couldn't hold the wall up anymore. The stoic act collapsed completely, and a soft, breathless laugh escaped him. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers closing gently around your hand, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer into his space.
"I'll behave," he promised quietly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle over the back of your hand.
"You better."
He ducked his head down until his eyes were level with yours, his expression melting into something so intensely sweet it practically made your teeth ache. "I'll sit at the end of the counter, order a soda, and stare at the wall until you tell me otherwise. I only have eyes for you anyway. You know that, right?"
You tried—you really, desperately tried—to maintain your stern, authoritative scowl, but the warmth in his gaze was lethal. The tight line of your mouth softened, a betraying twitch pulling at the corner of your lips.
Dean stood up straight, brushing off his jacket, his eyes rolling dramatically toward the water-stained acoustic ceiling tiles above.
"I hunt monsters for a living," he announced to the empty hallway, shaking his head in absolute disbelief.
Silence settled over the three of you for a long second.
"And somehow," Dean muttered, pointing a finger between the two of you, "this is still the weirdest, most painful conversation I've had all week. I'm going to go buy a pie. Call me if the monster shows up, or if she puts you in a chokehold for looking at someone, Sammy."
An hour later, the venue had transformed completely.
The low, moody background hum had given way to heavy, rhythmic bass that pulsed through the floorboards and rattled the rows of liquor bottles lined up on the mirror behind the bar. Sweeping neon lights in dizzying shades of violet and icy blue cut through the haze of smoke and condensation, washing over a dense sea of bodies moving shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor.
You moved with practiced, efficient speed behind the damp wood—popping bottle caps, pouring drafts, wiping down slick laminate, and keeping your eyes moving. Beneath the front of customer-service efficiency, you were silently profiling every single person who stepped up to order or passed through the perimeter.
Your earpiece crackled with static.
"So... no sign of our ugly friend yet," Dean’s voice came through, clear and rasping over the line.
"Nothing," you muttered under your breath, ducking near the speed rail to look like you were searching for a bottle.
"You surviving back there?"
"Barely."
"You've been on shift for forty-three minutes."
"And I've already considered poisoning three separate wall-street wannabes."
Dean chuckled, the sound muffled by what was almost certainly a half-chewed bite of food. "Atta girl. Save it for the monster."
Across the crowded floor, tucked into a shadowed corner at the far end of the long oak counter, sat Sam.
He was at the exact barstool you'd designated. A tall glass of soda with two melting ice cubes sat untouched in front of him. His massive hands were folded neatly around the coaster, his back held unnaturally straight.
Watching.
Not smiling. Not leaning over the bar. Not engaging the patrons. Just... existing, like a giant, six-foot-four wallflower in a leather jacket.
You narrowed your eyes through the ambient purple haze. He's actually doing it. He's actually sticking to the script.
Then, a woman in a fitted crimson dress slid onto the vacant stool right beside him.
She was young, pretty, and radiated the kind of easy, high-volume confidence that usually worked on 99% of men in a crowded nightspot.
You slowed your pace at the tap station, picking up a rag and casually wiping down an already spotless section of counter while keeping your sightlines open.
The woman turned toward Sam, offering a sharp, bright smile. She leaned in slightly to throw out an opening line over the thumping bass.
Sam turned his head toward her with polite, wooden efficiency.
"..."
He didn't say a word. He didn't even flash a polite customer-service smirk.
She waited, her smile faltering just a fraction at the utter lack of feedback.
"..."
Still nothing. Sam just held a blank, neutral expression, hazel eyes unblinking.
Your earpiece clicked sharply as Dean caught the exchange from his vantage point.
"Oh, no..." Dean murmured over the comms, his voice dripping with sudden, intense focus. "Look at him. He's frozen."
The woman tried again, laughing lightly at whatever joke she’d just attempted to land, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
Sam blinked once. Then, with deliberate, clinical sincerity, he turned his head completely away from her, resetting his gaze back toward the crowded dance floor.
Total, absolute radio silence.
The woman’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "...Everything okay?"
Sam gave a single, tight nod, his jaw locked. "...Yep."
Another agonizingly awkward beat passed.
"So..." she tried again, determined, leaning a fraction closer. "Do you come here often?"
"..."
Sam stared straight ahead at a neon beer sign on the far wall. Not a crack in his composure. Not a polite twitch at the mouth.
You had to bite the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper.
The woman leaned in closer, a slight edge of offense creeping into her tone. "Look, I was just trying to be friendly."
Sam finally turned back to look at her, his hazel eyes wide and filled with pure, heartfelt apology.
"I'm really sorry," he said, his deep voice carrying clearly despite the music.
She offered a hopeful, tentative smile. "It's fine, I just—"
"I can't."
She blinked. "...Can't what?"
"My girlfriend made rules," Sam explained earnestly, gesturing vaguely toward the universe with one long hand.
Silence. Dead silence.
You froze in place, a cold bottle of draft beer held halfway to the tap.
Over the comms, Dean went entirely, terrifyingly quiet.
The woman stared at Sam, her jaw dropping open by a millimeter. "...Rules?"
Sam nodded with total, uncompromising seriousness. "No smiling."
"...Excuse me?"
"No laughing," Sam continued smoothly, checking off the mental list you'd handed him in the hallway. "And... no encouraging conversations."
She looked at him like he had just spoken fluent Aramaic.
Sam offered her the most apologetic, golden-retriever look humanly possible. "I really don't want to break the rules."
There was a long, excruciating beat where the heavy club bass thundered through the silence between them.
"...Oookay," the woman said slowly, taking a small step back and grabbing her drink off the counter. "I'm gonna... go leave you alone now."
"I appreciate that," Sam said politely, giving her a small, respectful nod.
She walked away briskly, casting glances over her shoulder like she’d just struck up a conversation with the world's most earnest, politest serial killer.
For exactly three seconds, absolute silence hung over the comms channel.
Then—
Dean exploded.
A loud, violent, wheezing cackle tore straight through your earpiece, so sudden and unrestrained you almost dropped the pint glass in your hand.
"Oh my God!" Dean howled.
You pressed your lips tightly together, your shoulders shaking as you fought for control.
Through the line, you could hear Dean loudly slapping his knee—or the tabletop—in a complete fit of hysterics. "He actually—ha!—he actually recited the manifest to her! He gave her the whole damn handbook!"
You looked across the floor.
Sam was still sitting perfectly straight on his stool. He caught your eye through the strobe lights, completely oblivious as to why his brother was currently dying of laughter in his ear.
Seeing you look over, Sam gave you a tiny, solemn thumbs-up from waist height.
A silent, See? I followed protocol. I behaved.
Your shoulders shuddered. You immediately ducked your head beneath the bar counter, pretending to forage through an iced well of tonic bottles just to hide the wide, irrepressible grin breaking across your face.
Dean finally managed to draw in a ragged, gasping breath over the mic. "Sam."
Sam frowned, his voice low as he sub-vocalized into his collar. "What?"
"You are..." Dean wheezed out, breaking into another silent, breathless laugh, "...without a doubt, the single weirdest flirt on the face of the planet."
Sam’s crease returned right between his eyes. "I wasn't flirting. I literally did the exact opposite of flirting."
The creature hit the wet pavement with a sickening thud.
Its limbs twitched once. Twice. Then went entirely limp, a dark, foul-smelling pool spreading beneath it onto the slick concrete.
For a long, tense moment, the only sounds echoing down the narrow back alley were your ragged breathing, the crunch of broken glass under Dean's boots, and the distant, muffled thud of club bass still vibrating through the brick walls.
Dean casually wiped a blade covered in dark monster blood against the thigh of his jeans before sheathing it with a crisp click.
"...Well," he panted, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
You adjusted the torn collar of your now utterly ruined bartender uniform, grimacing at the tear along the shoulder. "...That could've gone worse."
A deep voice from the mouth of the alley answered, flat and dangerously calm.
"It could've gone according to plan."
You and Dean froze in unison.
Slowly... very slowly... the two of you turned around.
Sam was standing under the flicking yellow streetlamp at the entrance of the alleyway. His jacket was half-zipped, his hair windblown and sticking to his forehead from sprinting six full blocks to catch up with the chaos.
He wasn't yelling. He wasn't even raising his voice.
Which, in Winchester terms, made it infinitely worse.
His massive hands were planted firmly on his hips, his jaw set, and his hazel eyes locked on the two of you with the exact kind of calm, exhausted glare that meant a full-blown lecture was mere seconds away.
Dean immediately took half a step sideways, dropping his voice to an aggressive whisper meant only for you.
"...You're his girlfriend."
You stared straight back at him without moving your lips. "...You're his brother."
"You take this one."
"Absolutely not."
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, his shadow stretching down the alley. "Seriously?"
Neither of you answered. You both just stared at him like two teenagers caught sneaking in past curfew.
"You two completely blew cover," Sam said, shifting his weight.
Silence.
"You vaulted over a five-foot granite counter." Sam pointed a long finger at you.
You looked down at your muddy boots. "...Technically, it was a clean hurdle."
Sam turned his gaze onto Dean. "And you."
Dean pointed a thumb at his own chest, putting on his best innocent expression. "Me? What’d I do?"
"You weren't even supposed to be inside the building."
"I heard a commotion!"
"You heard my girlfriend yell, 'There it is, hit the deck!' through the comms!"
Dean shrugged, holding his hands out as if the logic was completely airtight. "Hey, man. I support women's rights."
You snorted, slapping a hand over your mouth to cover the laugh.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long, suffering breath. "Dean."
"...Yeah?"
"That isn't what that means."
"I know."
Another heavy beat of silence stretched over the alley.
Sam looked back and forth between the two of you, shaking his head. "I told you both over the wire to wait for me to circle around to the back."
"It was getting away," you mumbled defensively.
"I know."
"It would've reached the street."
"I know."
"So we chased it."
"I noticed."
Dean cautiously raised one finger into the air. "In our defense..."
Sam leveled him with a glare so cold it could have thawed salt.
Dean slowly lowered his finger. "...Never mind."
"You know what happened because neither of you waited three minutes for backup?" Sam continued, his analytical brain listing the consequences in real-time. "The entire club evacuated into the street."
"..."
"The local police received four separate calls about a gang war."
"..."
"And some guy standing by the VIP entrance recorded Dean tackling a eight-foot monster into a commercial dumpster."
Dean blinked, his eyebrows shooting up. "...Seriously?"
Without a single word, Sam pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, tapped the screen, and turned it around to face the two of you.
There, in glorious, grainy vertical video, was crisp footage of Dean launching his entire body through the air like a linebacker, screaming at the top of his lungs:
"GET BACK HERE, YOU UGLY SON OF A—"
The clip ended with a spectacular, metal-crunching crash directly into a mountain of commercial garbage bags.
Dean stared at the four-inch screen, mesmerized.
"...I actually looked kinda athletic."
You completely lost the battle, bursting into a loud, sudden laugh that echoed off the brick walls.
Sam snapped the phone shut and glared straight at you. "You are not helping your case."
The motel room door slammed shut behind the three of you with a rattle that vibrated through the cheap plywood frame.
Dean didn't even make it two steps into the faded carpet before Sam spun around and jabbed a long finger squarely at his chest.
"Don't."
Dean froze in mid-stride, his hands hovering near his hips. "...I haven't even said anything yet."
"I know," Sam said tightly, his hazel eyes narrowing. "I'm preventing it."
Dean looked between the two of you, taking in the heavy, charged silence filling the small room. He let out a long, dramatic sigh, reached down to scoop up the extra plastic room key off the dresser, and held up both hands in total surrender.
"Right. Got it," Dean muttered, backing toward the door. "I'm gonna go rescue this disaster with six-packs and pie. You two... work out whatever this is."
He pointed vaguely back and forth between you and Sam before slipping back outside into the cool night air. A moment later, the low, familiar rumble of the Impala's engine roared to life, fading into the distance as he pulled out of the lot.
The room fell dead quiet.
Sam waited until the taillights washed out against the curtains before turning fully toward you. He planted his boots wide, folding his arms tightly over his broad chest. The stern, protective hunter mode was still radiating off him in waves.
"You scared ten civilians," Sam began, stepping forward.
"They were already scared," you countered smoothly.
"You completely destroyed the cover."
"It was already falling apart."
"You vaulted a bar."
"There wasn't time to use the swinging door, Sam."
Sam stopped just a few feet away, staring down at you. You held his gaze, squaring your shoulders and looking up at him without flinching.
"...Don't give me that look," he warned, his voice dropping an octave.
"What look?"
"That one."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The innocent look."
You blinked once, wide-eyed, softening your features just a fraction.
Sam let out a low, breathy sigh, his jaw muscle twitching as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"It doesn't work."
"It has before."
"It absolutely has," Sam admitted, his stoic mask slipping for a split second before he caught himself. "Which is why I'm warning you right now. I'm still really annoyed."
You tilted your head, watching him closely. "So... how annoyed are we talking?"
Sam thought for a second, his hazel eyes darkening as a slow, deliberate shift came over his posture. The frustrated, lecturing hunter seemed to melt away, replaced by something far more intense—and far more focused directly on you.
"Annoyed enough," Sam said, his voice dropping into a quiet, raspy register, "that I'm considering locking the deadbolt and not letting Dean back into this room all night."
You frowned, genuinely puzzled for a second. "...Why would Dean be the one getting punished for what I did?"
Sam closed the remaining distance between you in a single, fluid stride.
Before you could take a breath, his fingers hooked gently into the fabric of your jacket near your collar. He didn't pull hard, but the sudden, possessive grip hitched the breath right in your throat. He tilted his head down until his lips were resting right against the shell of your ear, his warm breath fanning across your neck.
"Because if Dean's here," Sam murmured, his deep voice carrying a dark, wicked thread of humor, "he's going to hear everything I'm about to do to you to get you to follow directions next time."
You froze, a wave of heat rushing straight to your face.
Sam pulled back just an inch, his hazel eyes blown wide and dark, a dangerous, dimpled smirk finally breaking across his lips as he held your gaze.
"And trust me, babe," he whispered, his thumb lightly tracing the pulse hammering in your throat, "you're going to be a lot louder than you were in that alley."
A sudden wave of heat rushed straight to your face, your mind short-circuiting as the sheer, unexpected intensity of the moment hit you all at once. The domestic golden retriever had officially left the building.
Your eyes widened in sudden, wide-eyed alarm.
You shoved hard against his chest—which was like trying to push a solid oak door—and scrambled backward toward the unmade motel bed.
"Oh my God—stay away from me, you freaky giant!"
Desperate for ammunition, your hand shot down, snatched the nearest, flimsiest motel pillow off the mattress, and launched it full-force straight at his face.
Whump.
The faded floral pillow hit him squarely across the bridge of his nose.
Sam stood completely frozen in the middle of the room. He didn't flinch, didn't move, and kept the pillow pinned against his face for a full two seconds while the sheer audacity of your attack registered in his brain.
Then, slowly... very slowly... he lowered the pillow with one hand. His long hair was slightly tousled, and his hazel eyes locked onto yours, the dangerous smirk giving way to absolute, unadulterated disbelief.
"...Did you just assault me with cheap motel property?"
"Self-defense!" you declared, pointing an accusing finger at him from behind the safety of the nightstand.
"Against what?"
"Your height! And that look on your face! You were literally looming!"
Sam blinked, holding the pillow by its corner like a piece of evidence. "I was standing next to you."
"You're six-four, Sam! Everything you do is looming!"
Before Sam could step forward to retaliate, the metallic rattle of the doorknob echoed through the thin wooden door as Dean jiggled the handle from the exterior walkway.
"Forgot my wallet!" Dean yelled through the door.
Clack.
The handle hit the locked deadbolt and stopped dead.
There was a long, excruciating beat of silence from the walkway outside.
"...Sam?" Dean called through the wood, his voice dripping with instant, heavy suspicion.
Sam didn't break eye contact with you for a fraction of a second. "Busy."
"Doing what?"
Sam looked down at the pillow in his hand, then back up at you, his voice completely flat and deadpan. "Defending myself against domestic violence."
"I threw a pillow!" you shouted toward the door. "Because he was being a freaky giant!"
Outside, Dean let out a long, heavy, long-suffering sigh that practically vibrated through the cheap plywood frame.
"I don't know what kind of weird, domestic nightmare is happening in there," Dean yelled through the door, keycard tapping rhythmically against the wood. "And honestly? I don't wanna know. But I'm officially charging both of you for my future therapy sessions."
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TOTAL RUNTIME 23k words RATING 18+ only!
GENRE Dub-Con〡Smut TEASER Released
❖❖ A mortal starlet has no business desiring her superhero co-stars. As a widowed actress, you keep things strictly professional filming alongside Soldier Boy and Bombsight. But when you're exposed to a nasty batch of sex pollen, it threatens to expose every desire you're ashamed of. They'll laugh at you. Shun you. Throw you to the wolves—or so you thought. ❖❖
𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗. . .
PART 1 ❖08/20❖ 10.4k 〡 PART 2 ❖08/27❖ 12.6k
❖ reader's POV ❖ 1950s societal expectations & sexual stigma ! ❖ dubious consent !! (SB once touches reader's panties without her consent) ❖ self-deprecating reader ❖ reader's a widow ❖ angst ❖ sex pollen (light) ❖ power dynamics ❖ jealousy ❖ possessive behaviour (and lots of humorous rivalry lol) ❖ manipulation ! ❖ masturbation (f.) ❖ misogyny ❖ coercive SB ! ❖ aka Ben's an asshole, then makes up for it ❖ romanticized corruption ! ❖ smoking ❖ lots of manhandling ❖ threesome ! (f/m/m | no Ben x Robbie action) thigh humping / humiliation, degradation (it's SB y'all) / praise kink / fingering (v+a) / cunnilingus / multiple orgasms / overstimulation / spanking / spit / supe-sized dicks / double penetration, protected p in v+a / rough and hot sex all wrapped in one ❖ Bombsight's a munch and a gentleman (mostly ;) ) ❖ Bombsight's probably OOC? ❖ no use of Y/N ❖ SB is his own warning tag ! ❖ pls lmk if I forgot smth ❖ English is not my native language
BEHIND THE SCENES I'm very nervous and excited to share this behemoth of a smut piece. 😄 It was originally meant to go up as a whole (thanks to everyone who voted and excuse the confusion!), but I believe splitting it in two was the more reasonable choice in the end.
Now, who's ready to be corrupted by these two? 😏
❖MOODBOARD❖
ON THE TURNTABLE
↳ 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋💽๋࣭ The Platters — The Great Pretender
↳ 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋💽๋࣭ Peggy Lee — Fever LP
↳ 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋💽๋࣭ The Everly Brothers — Bird Dog
↳ 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋💽๋࣭ Jerry Lee Lewis — Great Balls of Fire
Summary: When you return to the small town of Salida, Colorado after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.
AN: Ready for the messy love triangle era? 😜
Tags & Warnings: Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, childhood friends, exes to lovers (eventually), angst, jealousy, the aftermath, John Winchester (yes, he’s a warning), friction
ᝰ.Word Count: 7.5k || Posted on Patreon: July 31, 2026
♬ Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify
🌹Now Playing: “Cry No More” ⟢ Vaults
(Chapter title from "The Humbling River" by Puscifer)
℧ Series Masterlist
Part 3: Nature, Nurture, Heaven & Home
Oh, my God…
The thought has you gasping softly, your heart dropping into your stomach after you wake.
After your eyes open, and you realize.
The soft glow of dawn hits the side of his face like a dream. It casts little pricks of sunlight between his eyelashes and through his hair. Your gaze travels down the perfect bow of his lips, to the slow rise and fall of his upper body as he hugs his pillow. The toned muscles in his arm shift as he curls it a little tighter underneath.
He’s still wearing his black undershirt and boxers from the night before. You’re wearing nothing at all under the sheets and an old quilt. Your engagement ring pressed several indents into your cheek while you were sleeping. You rub the sting out of your skin, but it ultimately just draws your gaze to that ring, and your mind back to Brady.
What have I done?
Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.
You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.
Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.
Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.
“Mornin’.”
Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You think you remember someone calling him Benny.
You nod back at him with an awkward smile.
“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.
You sigh. “I don’t.”
You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on the crunch of grass and dusty earth, all the way back up to the house.
You have your phone in your other hand, but you realize that your purse, and therefore your keys, are inside the house.
“Fuck,” you mutter.
You remember about the spare key; to your relief, it still lies under one of Mary’s old flowerpots by one of the back doors. You enter the house and tiptoe your way to the dining room, where you think you left your purse. Your memory once again proves correct, but what you don’t expect to find is John Winchester eating breakfast.
You freeze there at the end of the table. He sits where he always does—at the head, overlooking a large window where the vast plains of the ranch lay in view of the mountains.
“Some things just don’t change, do they?” John remarks, taking another bite of a buttered biscuit. He forks some more scrambled eggs in his mouth as well and gestures at the empty seats at the table. “Want some breakfast?”
An embarrassed flush already heats your face and neck.
“No, thank you,” you say.
He shrugs. “It’s just as well, considering you failed to mention that you work for the company that wants to take my home and livelihood, and the legacy I want to pass on to my sons.”
A sigh escapes you. Sam finally told him.
You glance down at your phone when it buzzes with yet another text. There are 15 other messages from Brady, along with a few missed calls. Shit.
“I thought you and I had an understanding, before you left,” John says, reclaiming your attention, as well as your ire. No one knew how to get under your skin better than Winchesters.
“I was barely eighteen, and my life was falling apart. You had no right to demand anything from me, no matter how much you want to control Sam and Dean. Especially Dean,” you remind him. “And that’s besides the fact that I’m not doing anything to you. Yes, I work for Roman & Weiss. Yes, they bought out your father-in-law’s farmland. And yes, they just gave you an offer on a piece of your ranch for twice it’s worth right now. It’s more profit than you’ve probably seen in, what, about five years? Yeah. We did the research and the math.”
John wipes his hands and mouth on a napkin, with the surety of a man in his own home, and stubbornness of an oak tree that won’t be moved.
“I’m the one who saved your life,” John says.
You forgot the way he did that, effectively ignoring almost everything someone’s said before. You saw him do it to Dean more than once.
Your brows furrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father,” he says.
Your eyes widen. “What?”
Somehow, Dean hadn’t expected to wake up alone in bed. Disappointment sinks into his bones as he lays there stunned. He rewinds the night like the dream that was, but should’ve never been.
He’s had that dream a few times over the past 12 years, but he never actually thought it would come to life—your voice, your body, your touch, and the way you responded so well to his. But in those dreams, you never left him in the end. He should’ve known better though. You always do.
He overslept by a couple of hours. Usually he’s up at 5:30 every morning, but it’s close to seven when he literally stumbles out of bed and throws the rest of his clothes back on, muttering a curse under his breath as he goes.
He jogs up to the main house when he sees that your car is still in the driveway. It stupidly gives him a small hope that you haven’t left because you’re hesitating. Maybe he’s got one more chance to say something that won’t just spin your head around. Maybe he’ll say something that makes you stay.
He gets into the house through the back door that was weirdly left unlocked. He hears your voice as well as his dad’s in the dining room, but Dean frowns as he begins to piece the conversation together.
“…Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father.”
Your eyes widen. “What?”
Dean pauses in the doorway, frowning as he takes in the tension in the room.
What the fuck kind of têt-á-têt is this?
“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too,” John says, sitting back in his seat as he gestures toward your hand. “Though it seems you don’t care too much about him, considering you’re right back where you started: in my son’s bed.”
You seethe where you stand, but Dean’s voice stops you from another hot retort.
“What the hell is going on in here?” he says tersely.
His eyes travel over you, taking in the disheveled state of you and your grass-stained feet, the pair of heels hanging from your fingers, your wild, admittedly sexy bedhead, and that furious look on your face that suggest you want to throw those shiny stilettos at his dad’s head. Or maybe that butter knife on the table.
You huff in exasperation and storm out of the dining room.
Dean glares at his father, but he quickly follows you, stopping the front door with his shoulder when you try to slam it shut. He calls your name, more than once. You just keep beelining for your car.
Dean feels compelled to grab for your hand, to get you to turn around and implore you to listen, but you slip out of his grip and nearly stumble against your car. He more cautiously helps to steady you, grasping your arms. Once again, you push his hands away.
“Stop, Dean. Just let me go,” you say, almost on the verge of frustrated tears as you shake your head. “You were right. We’re better off just walking away from all this. From each other. We have different lives now.”
Dean’s jaw clenches. “So last night—”
“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” you say, even though you struggle with it. “I don’t know if I know you anymore, but that man is exactly the same.”
“What does that mean?” Dean asks. “What the fuck did he say to you?”
But you never answer him. You ignore him calling your name.
Dean is at a loss as he watches you get into your car and leave him standing there, like a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know exactly what just happened, how it could all go to shit so fast. This has to be a new record for him.
And in that moment, his heart earns another splintering crack, like the dry earth beneath his feet.
You crank up the AC and lower the car windows so you don’t suffocate. The blasting hot air begins to dry the tears from your eyes, but you can’t help but glance out the rearview mirror on your left, watching Dean stand there in the driveway. His figure gets smaller as the distance grows, but so too does the ranch house, and the pain it represents.
You wrestle not only with what you’ve done, but what John said to you.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too.”
It boils your blood just thinking about it. You furiously wipe at your cheeks.
You can’t believe your mom accepted that kind of money from John fucking Winchester, of all people, but you also don’t think for one moment that he did that for you, as if it was some kind of Good Samaritan gesture. It was control. It was a way to make sure you left Salida…and to make sure Dean stayed to become what John wanted him to be.
“You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”
Dean’s voice echoes in your head. It settles in your chest like a brand. You feel sick to your stomach, but there’s no cure.
So, you decide that he was right after all. There’s no point in rehashing the past anymore. There’s only the life you have now, and the future you intend to build.
Cue the Kansas violins. Dust in the fucking wind.
It takes half the drive back into town, but once you have yourself under control, you roll up the windows and finally call Brady. You spend the first five minutes apologizing, calming his frustration and worries.
“I’m so sorry. The day just…got away from me,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “There was a good bit of drinking with the eating, and of course, once a cowboy breaks out a guitar, there goes the night,” you say with an attempt at levity. “But um…the stories about my dad. That all just hit me harder than I expected. It got late, and they offered for me to stay the night. The Winchesters were like family to me once.”
“…Okay, I get that. But I was really worried. You couldn’t just call me back, or answer any of my texts?” Brady asks.
You want to say that you did answer his texts all through the dinner time, except for that last one.
Hey, babe. When are you getting back? It’s getting late. I don’t think you should drive in the dark out there.
And two minutes later…
Would you mind picking up some food on your way back to the hotel? I’ve had no time to eat. Been meeting with contractors all day. Anything remotely decent around here? That diner last night was ass.
You’d stopped responding after that. You were busy contemplating how you’d just watched your father’s ashes dissolve into the river.
“I know, I should’ve given you the heads up that I was staying, but, um…my phone died,” you say. The lie feels acidic on your tongue, along with all the other half-truths.
“All right, well, I’m glad you got the closure you needed,” he says. “After you get cleaned up, can you meet me at the property? There’s an environmental question that you should speak into before we, uh, raise any alarms.”
You do need to shower and change, and get some food in you first, but you frown.
“What’s the issue?” you ask.
“The river,” Brady says.
Summer || 20 years ago
You’re 10 years old, watching Dean in his swim trunks as he jumps from the rickety pier his grandfather built. He lands in the water and splashes you on entry, making you laugh.
Sam jumps next. He’s only eight, but he wants to prove he can do everything his older brother does.
The sweltering summer is perfect for this. Even though you’re out of school on vacation, Mr. Winchester is already making Dean help with the horses and the cattle. Sammy’s too young, but next year he’ll start too. He’s the only one of you who’s already started on his summer reading.
“Come on, jump!” Sam calls to you.
You linger on the edge of the narrow pier because the water looks murky and gross. But when Dean calls your name, his wide smile gives you courage.
You jump in, and the boys cheer.
“Watch out!” Dean grabs your foot playfully, pretending it’s a fish. You scream and splash him.
He laughs, and that becomes the new game, until you all create a new one.
Dean ends up being the mule, pulling Sam around on his back. After a few minutes, he good-naturedly gives you a turn too. You just get annoyed when he picks you up and drops you in the deeper water.
You tackle him and push his head down below the surface, just for a second or two.
“Hey!” he says, shaking out his wet hair. You giggle and dunk him again.
But he stays down in the water, even when you take your hands off his shoulders. You and Sam share a hesitant look, wondering if Dean’s just holding his breath on purpose. You can barely see him though, and you start to get worried.
“Dean?”
After a few long moments that tick by, all you see are bubbles on the water.
“Dean!” you shout, reaching into the water to grab for him.
That’s when he bobs to the surface and spits water in your face.
You splutter in shock. He cackles.
You shove his shoulder. “That’s not funny!”
After wiping excess water droplets off your face, you swim away from him and Sam and climb up to the shore.
“Aw, come on. You don’t have to be such a girl!” Dean calls after you.
You stick out your tongue at him and keep walking away, barefoot on the gravel and dirt. You blink the river out of your eyes and peel off a reed from your swimsuit. Taller grass lines the dirt trail on both sides. You almost cut through it to get back to your family’s cabin, but you gasp as you notice something dusty and scaley in the path.
The large snake coils and makes its warning known with an ominous rattle. You scream, but mostly because Dean grabs your waist from behind to pull you back.
“Careful!” he says. “Get behind me.”
Your heart hammers in your chest, but you also pull him back by his arm, not letting him get closer to the snake. Its body is light brown with darker brown splotches lined down its spine. The head is oblong and flat with a point to its nose, but it flicks a black, forked tongue as its tail continues to rattle.
Dean glances at you over his shoulder.
“Let go so I can deal with it,” he says. “Looks like a prairie.”
Your dad told you that there are three main kinds of rattlesnakes in Colorado, but prairies have the worst bite.
“Just ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away,” you argue.
“Kill it, Dean!” Sam says. He came out of the water too. He stays closer to the pier but wants to watch what happens. Living in rural Colorado, all three of you have seen your fair share of snakes. One tried to get into Sam’s crib once when he was a baby. That was the first snake Dean ever saw his dad kill.
“Both of you, stay back!” Dean says sharply. He guides you a couple more feet behind him and reaches for a stick on the ground. He doesn’t have a weapon, so he tries to guide the snake into the tall grass.
The animal gets agitated at his poking, coils tighter and tighter as it rears back to strike—
Until a boot crunches its head, and a knife separates the body from it.
You’re relieved to see your dad. Bobby adjusts his hat and gives you all a firm look.
“You all know better than to mess with a rattler,” he says gruffly. “Any of y’all get bit?”
“No, sir,” Dean says.
Bobby nods, his shoulders loosening as he gives you and Dean a quick look over to make sure. He pats Dean on the shoulder afterward.
“Okay, good,” Bobby says, though he aims a shrewd look at the boys. “Does your dad know you’re out here instead of workin’ on your chores?”
Sam and Dean don’t have a good answer for him as they avoid his gaze. Even you feel guilty by association.
Bobby smirks a little. “All right. Go on and swim for a little while longer. It’s hot as hell out here.”
The boys perk up, share a glance, then they head back for the river before Bobby changes his mind. You hug him, even though you’re all wet.
“Thanks, Daddy!” you chirp.
He soothes a hand over your frizzing hair. You look up, resting your chin on his chest. He looks down at you with a smaller, more genuine smile.
“Be careful with those boys,” he says.
You agree with a nod before you follow your friends in running off the pier.
Now…
Your fingers toy with the silver rose inside its oval-shaped pendant, which now has a place laying against your chest on a thin chain. It’s delicate, beautiful. You wonder if your dad bought it, or if it was his mother’s, or his grandmother’s. Either way, it means something to you now. It holds the weight of regret—over a decade’s worth.
“Hey, you with me?” Brady asks.
He somewhat earns your attention. “Hmm?”
“Who gave you that necklace?” he says, glancing down at your chest. “It doesn’t really match your ring.”
“My dad left it for me,” you reply.
“Ah. That’s nice,” Brady says. But soon, he frowns, brushing wild strands of your hair out of your eyes. He fingers the wrinkles in the collar of your blouse as well. “You look tired, babe…and still a bit disheveled. We’re meeting with some important people soon, the architect and one of the board members. Are you up for this?”
No, if you’re honest. But he didn’t exactly give you a choice on coming out here, just a few miles down the road of Winchester Ranch.
“Sorry my dad’s death is so inconvenient for you,” you snipe. “A couple days ago, I seem to remember you saying the timing was perfect.”
“That’s not what I said,” Brady says, his brows knitting together. He relents, cupping the back of your neck and stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All right, I’m sorry. I know I’m pushing, but you know this is a big project for me—for us. Dick and my father are trusting us to make sure this goes smoothly. If we do well, we could get the high-rise project in Las Vegas.”
The idea doesn’t excite you as much as it should. You’re having a hard time having any kind of coherent thought right now, especially here.
You two are standing in the bare bones of what used to be the Campbell home. It’s about to be converted into the front-facing offices of a new community of houses. The barns and chicken coops on the former farm have already been demolished and levelled.
You remember the Campbells, Sam and Dean’s grandparents. Samuel and Deanna were good people. When you were young, sometimes you’d help them feed the animals on weekends. Deanna used to bake cookies on Saturday mornings, and she’d have a plate ready for you and her grandkids. You hope they’re happy in North Carolina.
But thinking about them only brings your mind back to last night, and the lie you can’t bring yourself to unravel as Brady shows you the map of the land. He explains the latest problem.
“Right now, the land isn’t built to support the amount of electricity we’ll need to create an entire community. Looks like you missed that when you were scoping out the property,” Brady says, giving you a pointed look.
You frown. You take out an iPad from your purse and dig through your files.
“Shouldn’t the appraiser have caught that?”
“You’re the one who handles the environmental concerns,” Brady says. “If the appraiser didn’t catch it, you should’ve.”
This is the hard part of workplace relationships. Brady was the one who trained you, and even though he’s no longer your direct overseer, he has the seniority and the responsibility as a team lead.
“I’m sorry,” you say contritely. “I was looking at what the city needs as far as infrastructure. I guess I just assumed the land would have power.”
“Well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Brady replies dryly. “They make an ass out of you and me.”
You frown at him, with a narrow look. Now you’re getting pissed.
“You don’t need any help making an ass of yourself lately,” you say.
Brady eyes you, but chooses to let that go for the moment.
“It’s a problem because it could take millions of dollars to bring that much power out here. The builder told me that if we utilize the river as an additional power source, it could work, but we’ll need all of it.”
You grow concerned. Shit. That’s a lot of money.
But that last part sends up a red flag in your mind.
“What do you mean, all of it?” you ask.
“I mean, we’ll need to build a dam,” Brady says.
You stare back at him incredulously as you realize what he actually means. A dam would divert the flow of the river from the rest of the land—mainly from the Winchester Ranch.
“You can’t cut the Winchesters off from their main water supply, Brady. That affects the soil and their ability to grow hay for the cattle and horses to graze. It’s already been a brutal summer. That could finish them.”
“The river flows from our land, and we can do what we have to in order to make this multimillion-dollar investment work,” he says. “Look at it this way. By the time they know what hit them, it’ll probably be too late for them to recoup their losses. It’ll push John to agree to our offer. We’ll acquire the property, keep building out the rest of this valley, and he’ll have more than enough money to retire.”
“He doesn’t want to retire,” you point out. “He wants to pass on the ranch to his sons.”
Brady just shakes his head and focuses on the plans laid out on his own iPad.
“He can’t compete with reality forever, honey. Farming and ranching don’t make money anymore. Not in this country. About 22% of beef is imported, and that’s only going to increase. 80% of our seafood already comes from Canada, China, and Southeast Asia.”
He may be right, but you really don’t feel good about this.
After meeting with the architect, the board member, and even Edgar, one of Dick’s stooges, Brady suggests going out to lunch. You had a late breakfast, so you tell him to go on ahead. You plan to start drafting the paperwork needed for some other elements of the build, as well as the issue of the electricity.
Brady gives you a look—one that tells you that he really thinks you should come to lunch. You know he wants to present a united front, but the truth is, you’re in no mood to schmooze and drink and listen to him criticize the food and the atmosphere wherever you two go. You know you had the same gripes and judgments when you first arrived back in Salida, but this is the town you grew up in. Parts of it still live in your heart, you’ve discovered.
Brady isn’t happy about your refusal to join them for lunch, but he drives them off in his Lexus, which he had Edgar deliver to him from California.
You decide to take a walk down to the river to see it for yourself. You don’t remember how it looks on this side of the fence that borders the ranch. It takes you a good 20 minutes to walk down the line of the fence, all the way to the river. As you walk through the taller grass, already you can see how the sun shines on the water just the same over here.
You take another step, but you immediately know it’s wrong.
Searing pain runs up your ankle, and it buckles you as a scream tears from your throat. You fall to the ground, spitting out long blades of grass, and for a precious moment you lay there stunned, just to realize that you’re in far more trouble than you could imagine.
You’re out here alone.
Jack Kline is fucking terrible on a horse, but at least he didn’t lie about it.
Dean shakes his head, seated on his own mount as he watches Jack utter a stream of nervous, whoas, and slow down, horse, and somebody, help!
Benny rides up beside Dean, while Cas tries to go over and help before Jack falls out of his saddle again.
“Where the fuck did you find this kid, Dean?” Benny asks.
“Look, I know, but it’s hard to find people willing to work a ranch these days,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over his face.
The horse bucks Jack off again. Cas dismounts from his own and helps the kid up; he’s holding his shoulder with a pained hiss.
“You squeezed too hard in the worst places and didn’t squeeze hard enough where it mattered,” Cas says.
Walt snorts from the sidelines.
“That’s what she said,” he jokes. No one laughs. They’re too tired and fed up with this dead weight while trying to move over two hundred cows from one pasture to another for grazing.
“At this rate, we won’t get back to the bunkhouse until midnight if we have to keep peeling this dumb fuck from the dirt,” Walt remarks. “We should just leave him here until he can man up and figure it out.”
“Knock it off,” Dean barks, making sure his voice is heard by all the men. “No one goes back to eat and sleep until the work is done. If that means we work all night, then we fucking work all night.”
He gets off his horse and yanks Jack up from the ground by his belt.
“Come on,” he says, in a frustrated whisper. “I’m not watching you eat dust ‘til dawn. Listen. Cas is right, you need to relax a bit. Don’t squeeze his flank so tight. The horse can sense if you don’t trust him, so why the hell should he trust you to lead him?”
Jack takes that in with a nod of understanding. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Right,” Dean nods, patting him on the back. “Now get back up and try again. Slow. Easy.”
He’ll tie the kid’s hands to the saddle if he needs to.
But luckily, Jack takes Dean’s advice to heart. Cas comes in closer to give him more pointers as they all finally push the herd over into Pasture 5, which borders what used to be the Campbell farm.
“All right, Jack. Remember to look out for newborn calves, so we can tag them and get them vaccinated later,” Dean calls out.
“Sure, but uh…what about, you know, other animals? Like bears?” Jack says. He eyes the trees of the nearby national forest warily.
“Definitely watch out for wildlife,” Dean says. “Bears and mountain lions you can shoot if they’re trying to kill our cattle, or you. But never kill a fucking wolf, especially the ones with tracking collars on them. Those guys are monitored and protected by the CPW.”
“What’s the CPW?” Jack predictably asks.
“Colorado Parks and Wildlife,” Cas supplies.
Jack nods. “Oh…what happens if you kill a wolf that’s protected?”
“That’s a $100,000 fine, probably even jail time,” Dean says. “You will be responsible for that fine, or your bail. Not the ranch.”
Jack considers that, and the forest, with an uneasy frown.
“I thought you said you take care of your own,” he says.
“Not for a $100,000, Jack. We don’t have that kind of money lying around, so you’ll be paying that off for a small eternity,” Dean says.
A ragged scream interrupts their conversation and cuts through the low mooing of cattle. Dean straightens at attention. His gaze searches the plain, but Cas points out a woman along the river—on the other side of the fence.
“Help!”
Dean’s eyes widen. He recognizes your voice.
He spurs his horse into a gallop, almost on a reflex. He stops at the fence, dismounts from his horse, and vaults himself over the barbed wire. He then springs over to you, quickly taking in how you’re sprawled out in the grass. He worries you’ve stepped in a hole and broken something, or worse, been bit by a snake.
But he realizes that your foot is caught in a bear trap.
“What the fuck?” Dean utters. “These things are illegal!”
You’re tearful and in pain, but you heave a shaky sigh and shake your head.
“Jesus Christ. Of course it’s you.”
His brows raise high in disbelief, and he glares at you. “You know what, you’re fucking lucky it’s me.”
Cas and Benny come over quickly to help him. Jack stays behind to hold the horses’ reins.
“Ma’am,” Cas greets you with a nod, and Benny with a tip of his hat. You met them just yesterday.
“Hey, guys,” you say, though your voice is unsteady. Benny braces you while Cas joins Dean in securing your bleeding foot.
“Okay, just relax,” Dean tells you, more soothingly as he feels you trembling. He lays a hand on your calf, meeting your eyes. Biting your lip, you give a jerky nod as you hold onto Benny’s arm.
“Grab that spring. We gotta push down at the same time,” Dean says to Cas, who nods.
The moment they grasp the metal springs on either side of the mechanism, you tense up at the pain, whimpering though you try not to flinch.
“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s gonna be over in a second,” Dean says. He meets Cas’s eyes and counts off. “1—2—and 3.”
Together they push down on the springs and slowly ease your foot out of the trap. You’re wearing flat dress shoes this time, at least, but it would’ve been smarter to wear boots out here.
You’re bleeding from the puncture wounds, so Dean slips his arms around your back and under your knees so he can pick you up and take you back to his horse. Your eyes meet his in an unspoken tension, but ultimately, you’re resigned to accepting his help for the rest of this too.
He passes you along to Benny over the fence, until Dean can hop back over it. The men work together to help you onto Dean’s horse, sitting side-saddle in front of him.
He takes the reins, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shoots you a sly smirk.
“Hold on tight,” he says.
You roll your eyes, but you’re forced to grab onto him when he spurs the horse into a trot, back toward civilization.
The car ride to the hospital is filled with a particular kind of tension. The familiar rumble of the Impala and its worn leather interior make it hard to focus on the road ahead, when you keep getting dragged into sepia-toned memories within your mind.
Survivor’s “Oceans” plays on an old cassette of Dean’s that used to be his father’s, just like this car. You remember when John started to let him drive it when he turned 17. You were 15, and already starting to look at your best friend differently, even before he kissed you for the first time.
“Oceans between us,” Jim Peterik belts through the speakers. “Strangers upon the shore. Like islands we stand alone, oceans between us now…”
You sigh and grab your phone from your pocket to text Brady. He already knows why you’re headed to the hospital, and that a “family friend” is taking you there.
On my way. Meet you there in 10. You sure you’re OK?
You text him back:
Yeah. It hurts, but I’ll be fine. Will probably need stitches though.
See? You should’ve just come to lunch with us.
Your lips press together in annoyance.
“Trouble in paradise?” Dean remarks.
You send him a tired look. “Brady’s meeting us at the hospital. Don’t…say anything crazy to him, okay? I told him you’re a family friend.”
Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”
“Dean,” you warn.
“I don’t have three fucking rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends, but I guess things really are different in L.A.,” he says.
“All right, give it a rest,” you say, rubbing your blushing cheek in irritation. “You don’t make anything easy on me, do you?”
“Oh, yeah? Why should I?” Dean gripes.
“Because I’m the one with the busted foot, you ass!”
“Well, who’s fault is that? Oh, right, the asshole who left you out there alone to begin with.”
A growl of frustration leaves your lips as you cover your face, rather than stare at the obnoxious cut of Dean’s jawline.
“It was my choice to go out there alone. My own fault that I stepped in a goddamn trap. My fault for what happened last night, okay?” you snap. “So let’s just drop it and move on.”
Dean eyes you in annoyance. You don’t get to take the blame for what happened last night, because it’s mostly on him, he thinks.
The problem is, he’s not sorry. And though he refuses to admit it, even to himself (or to Sam’s judgy ass), the last thing he wants is to pretend it never happened.
Dean helps you from the car into the Emergency Department, where you’re forced to wait for a room. Brady arrives as you’re filling out the paperwork and insurance information. He’s come from the business lunch, wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks, along with a matching black Rolex.
“Hey, baby,” he greets, giving you a brief kiss.
You can’t help but glance at Dean from the corner of your eye; he wears a stoic expression, even when Brady briefly seizes him up, then holds out a hand to him.
“Hi, I’m Brady. Thanks for giving her a ride,” he says.
Dean forces himself to shake the other man’s hand, but doesn’t try all that hard to be pleasant.
“Just so you know, bear traps are fucking illegal in this state,” he says. “And more often than not, people get stupid and forget they’re there.”
Brady’s politeness fades. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. He’s being rude as hell, but he is right, Brady. You could’ve at least told me,” you interject, although you give Dean a warning look.
In this narrow instance, however, you have to agree with him when you look at your foot. It’s heavily wrapped with Dean’s gray flannel, half of it stained crimson with your blood.
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Brady says, squeezing your shoulder, but he stares back up at Dean with new tension in his frame. “We’ll look into the legalities of the traps, but I just take issue with some wise-ass trying to tell me how to run my property.”
Dean has to chuckle at the irony. He rubs a hand over his chin as he considered this guy, your fiancé. He’s everything Dean’s father hates about corporate investors, bankers, lawyers, and politicians. Dean understands why.
“But it’s not your property, now is it?” he says. “The guys tugging the other end of your leash are the ones actually calling the shots, and they just want to take and remake everything until it all looks the same. But you’re not satisfied with my grandfather’s land. No, now you’re trying to take my family’s land.”
“Dean,” you say quietly.
He pauses, glancing at you. He finds your tired, imploring gaze. However reluctantly, he relents.
Brady takes notice, and his angry frown firms into a colder wall.
“I appreciate what you did for her today, but I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says.
Dean huffs. “Yeah, I think so too.”
He offers you a nod, and you return it, watching him hesitate the slightest bit before he leaves the Emergency Room. Brady watches him go too, if with a more critical eye. He sits beside you.
“So that’s Dean Winchester. He’s the older one doing John’s grunt work?” he muses.
“He manages the ranch. It’s not an easy job,” you correct.
He eyes you shrewdly. “And what’s your history with him? You said the Winchesters are just family friends.”
“We grew up together, Sam, Dean, and me. But yeah, later on, Dean and I dated in high school,” you admit. “We broke up before I left for college, moved to Cali. My parents got divorced a little before then, so it was, um…more or less a clean break.”
A hefty pinprick of guilt stabs you in that sore place behind the ribs, while Brady processes it all with a nod and a thoughtful hum. You see him running calculations behind his eyes, storing the information as he stares ahead, rather than at you.
“Surprising then that Sam Winchester is their lawyer,” Brady remarks, somewhat amused at the idea. “I know these hicks like to keep it all in the family, but come on. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five…”
“Twenty-eight,” you supply. “Don’t underestimate Sam. He’s smart. Got a perfect score on his LSAT.”
Brady raises his brows. “Well, taking the test isn’t the same as the real deal, making negotiations, reading the opposition, and fighting in the courtroom.”
You hesitate. “True.”
Brady has a few more years of fighting under his belt at 36.
The door beside the reception desk opens, and a nurse finally calls you in to be seen by the doctor.
You undergo a brief procedure to clean and suture the puncture wounds. No bones were broken, but you’re going to be on crutches for a few weeks until your foot heals.
On the way back to the hotel, you notice Brady texting while he drives.
“Babe,” you say, slipping your hand over his wrist to earn his attention. He puts the phone down and holds your hand, bringing it to his lips in a kiss. You smile, but it soon fades.
“I want to talk…about the river,” you say with a sigh.
The affection in Brady’s eyes dims. “What’s there to talk about? The plan is already underway. I made a few calls while you were in there with the doctor.”
You frown, slipping your hand out of his. “That was fast. So that’s why you didn’t stay with me while I was literally getting poked and prodded.”
He sighs and refocuses on the road, ignoring his own guilt. The fact that he doesn’t have a defense, or doesn’t bother to offer one, makes your heart sink into sadness.
“You know, I’m not sure if I know who you are out here,” you say.
This is exactly how you felt the day that he told you he wasn’t going with you to your father’s funeral. That has to be why you allowed yourself to find comfort in Dean.
Perhaps he had a point when he scoffed at whirlwind romances. It definitely feels like the rosy phase of champagne and wooing is over, and you’re starting to see where you really rank on Brady’s list of priorities.
But he did promise you the world when he proposed. He promised to take care of you, to love you, to make sure you were never alone again. After losing your mom, that was all you wanted.
There had been dinners, gifts, weekends at resorts in Venice Beach, parties in Beverly Hills, getaways to Napa Valley wine country…
You suppose you do fit the cliché of the country girl who gets shown the high life, but you’re starting to reconsider exactly what it will mean to become part of his world.
Was Sam right? Was Dean?
Have you really changed that much?
“Look, you don’t get it, okay?” Brady says, bringing you back down to this earth, and this reality. “My dad is putting a shit-ton of pressure on me.”
“I know that—”
“If I don’t prove I can handle this build, this company, without his help, it could be the difference between me or my junkie sister getting control of our trust. That’s upwards of $5 billion. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand how much money that is. I’ve already signed the prenup, remember?” you say, a bit testily.
What you don’t understand is his snideness toward his sister. She’s been addicted to Adderall and cocaine, that’s true, but she’s in recovery, actually making good strides in her sobriety last time you talked to her.
The conversation dies there though. An uncomfortable tension lasts until he pulls into the hotel parking lot. To his credit, he gets out of the car and goes to you as you open the passenger side door. He wraps his arms around your waist and helps you stand. You find balance on his shoulders on reflex.
“I don’t like this,” he says, with a measured frown.
Your eyes begin to sting, but you breathe through it. “Me either.”
He leans in slower than usual to kiss you. You allow it, closing your eyes, even though you feel cold inside.
A reedy vine crawls up into your throat when you think of Dean’s heated breaths mingling with yours, his hands on your body, relearning you, reminding you that he had carved a place so deep inside, you didn’t know how to let it go.
I have to, is your firmer thought, after Brady begins to guide you on your crutches toward the hotel lobby. No relationship is perfect, and this man does love you. You’ll have to find a way to tell him the truth about what you did, and hope he can forgive you.
The thought follows you as you hobble back to the room. The effort takes up what energy you have left, but you know you need a shower. Brady helps you gather what you need, until you eventually find some solitude in the bathroom. You stare at your own disheveled reflection as the questions rolling just under your skin threaten to overwhelm you.
You take in a deeper breath to steady yourself, and your fingers close over your silver pendant. There’s one other thing you know you have to do.
After setting your crutches aside, you lean on the bathroom counter and reach for your phone to text Sam.
Hey. By now you’ve probably heard about me and—
You bite your lower lip, shaking your head as you erase the message. Pause. Start again.
Hey, there’s something you need to know…
They’re going to build a dam on the river.
AN: rubs hands Okay, you got some cowboy action, some jealousy, some John Winchester being an awesome parent, as usual (🙄), and a looot of paving over the truth (for now). What do you think about the messy love triange reader's found herself in? How long do you think she can play both sides? 😬
Next Time:
It looks like, yet again, the way you left made its mark on Dean. Sam wonders if it’s worse this time.
“Do you know how she’s doing? You know, healing up?” Sam asks. Getting caught in a bear trap is gnarly, but it was almost strange to hear. Most people who live here have better sense than to put those out. That’s tourists for you.
In answer to the question, Dean just shrugs and takes an even larger bite of his sandwich. Half a pickle falls out of the corner of his mouth.
“Okay,” Sam says. He tries again, taking the corner seat beside Dean. “How are you handling all this? Her being back, you know. I mean, the engagement was a bit of a shock, and the, uh, working for the company that wants our ranch. That’s complicated. But considering you two slept together last month—”
Finally, Dean snaps and drops his food on the plate. He glares at Sam.
“All right, you got a point, or you just giving me the play-by-play? Highly unnecessary, might I add.”
“She’s getting married, Dean. What did you think was going to happen?” Sam says, a bit gentler. “Did you think she was going to just…what, tear it all up? The whole life she’s built for herself?”
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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: 4693
Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Pregnancy, Adjustments without words, Pack Fluff, Upcoming worries, A look into how the Winter pack does things and how unstructured Y/N had actually grown up due to her Touched genetics.
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 71 ------- Chapter 73 - coming soon
A/B/O Master List
Main Master List
Series Master List
Chapter 72
The cabin was quiet in the way only late morning could be—when the world outside had already fully woken up, but inside still felt like it hadn’t decided what version of the day it wanted to be.
Flour dusted the counter in soft, uneven streaks.
The air carried warmth from the oven and something sweeter underneath it—vanilla, butter, sugar turning gold at the edges.
You moved through it on instinct more than thought, measuring without looking twice, hands steady in the way they always were when you needed them to be.
Not because you were calm.
Because doing something with your hands kept everything else from spilling over.
Behind you, Jess sat on the counter like she belonged there, one leg swinging slowly, watching you with that quiet attention she always had when she wasn’t trying to fix anything—just understand it.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said.
You didn’t look up from the bowl. “What thing?”
“The ‘I have too much energy and nowhere to put it so I’m going to bake like it’s a coping strategy’ thing.”
A faint huff left you before you could stop it, more breath than laugh. You scraped the sides of the bowl, steady and repetitive, letting the motion carry you.
“Is it working?” she added, softer now.
A pause.
You considered lying.
Then shook your head once. “Not really.”
Jess nodded like that was a perfectly acceptable answer.
She reached for a stray piece of dough on the counter and rolled it between her fingers, absentminded. “Sam said he’s officially locked in with that internship, by the way.”
That got a flicker of something lighter through you. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hm. He looked way too proud of himself about it. Tried to act like it was no big deal, but it absolutely was a big deal.”
That earned a real sound from you this time—small, but honest. The tension in your shoulders eased just slightly without you telling it to.
The oven ticked softly.
Somewhere deeper in the cabin, a floorboard creaked as the structure settled.
Jess tilted her head. “Dean’s at work?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause, then Jess added, more casually than not, “He’s probably thinking about you anyway.”
That made your hands still for half a second. Just long enough for Jess to notice.
But she didn’t push.
She never did.
Instead, she swung her leg again and watched you resume mixing, slower now, like your body had to remember what rhythm felt like.
A few minutes passed like that.
Comfortable. Familiar. Almost normal.
Until it wasn’t.
You reached for the vanilla without thinking, poured it, and the scent hit the air a fraction too sharp—too immediate.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
It used to never matter.
But your stomach turned so quickly it caught you off guard, breath stuttering for half a second as you set the bottle down a little harder than intended.
Jess’s gaze sharpened instantly. Not alarmed—just aware.
“You okay?”
You blinked once, forcing your focus back to the bowl. “Yeah. Just—”
The smell lingered longer than it should’ve.
You swallowed. “Just strong today.”
Jess didn’t respond right away.
She just watched you a beat longer than usual, then nodded like she’d decided something internally but wasn’t going to say it out loud yet.
“Okay,” she said simply, and hopped down from the counter.
She moved to the fridge instead, pulling it open like nothing had changed at all. “Do we still have enough eggs, or did Dean eat them again like a raccoon with no self-control?”
That pulled a reluctant smile out of you—small, grateful, distracted.
“Sam bought more yesterday.”
“Of course he did,” she muttered, already rummaging.
You leaned back against the counter for a second, exhaling slowly through your nose.
The kitchen was still warm.
Still safe.
Still yours.
But somewhere underneath it all, something had begun to shift—not loudly, not dramatically.
Just enough that you noticed it when you paused long enough to feel it.
And you didn’t.
Not for long.
Because movement helped.
And thinking too hard about stillness had started to feel like a mistake you couldn’t quite name yet.
Evening settled over the cabin slowly, like it didn’t want to commit to being night just yet.
The light outside had softened into that muted gold that made everything feel quieter than it really was. Shadows stretched longer across the floorboards. The windows held the last of the sky like it was something fragile.
You’d stopped pretending to be busy a while ago.
The baking had been cleaned up without much memory of doing it. Jess had drifted out earlier—something about Sam calling, something about “I’ll be back later,” said lightly, like it didn’t matter if it was true or not.
Now it was just you and Dean.
And the silence that came with that was never really silence at all.
He was in the kitchen when you found him, leaning against the counter with a glass in hand he hadn’t touched. Not restless exactly—just present in that way he got when his thoughts had nowhere else to go.
His gaze lifted the moment you came into the room.
Softened immediately.
“You alright?” he asked, like he always did. Not because he expected something was wrong—but because he checked anyway.
You nodded before you fully reached him. “Yeah.”
But the word came out a little thinner than you meant it to.
You crossed the space between you without thinking too hard about it, like your body already knew the direction it wanted. By the time you stopped, you were close enough that the warmth of him felt like something you could lean into.
And you did.
Just slightly.
Not dramatic. Not falling.
Just… there.
Dean didn’t comment on it. Didn’t shift like he’d noticed anything unusual.
But his hand came up anyway, settling at your waist in a quiet, automatic hold—steadying without asking why.
His thumb brushed once, slow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he murmured.
You hesitated. That was the thing lately. There were too many answers, and none of them came out clean.
“It’s just…” you started, then stopped.
Dean waited. No pressure in it. Just patience.
You exhaled through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again. “I keep thinking about telling them.”
His grip didn’t tighten.
But something in him adjusted—subtle, like a shift in weight.
“The Winters?” he asked.
You nodded.
A pause settled between you, not uncomfortable. Just full. It wasn’t fear that lived in your chest when you thought about it. Not exactly.
It was structure.
Expectation.
The way your parents’ world had always been built—careful choices, measured words, consequences that didn’t always need anger to feel heavy, no matter how ‘freely’ you’d grown up.
“I know they’ll be… happy,” you added after a moment. Then corrected yourself softly, “They’ll care. They’ll want to be involved.”
Dean watched you carefully, like he was listening for what you weren’t saying more than what you were.
“But?” he prompted gently.
Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his side without realizing it. “But I don’t know how they’ll feel about how we’re doing this,” you admitted.
There it was.
Not the pregnancy.
The path.
Dean didn’t answer right away.
He just shifted you a little closer instead, like he could make space for the weight of it without trying to remove it.
His hand moved once at your back—slow, grounding.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You looked up.
His expression wasn’t tense. Not worried in the way you were expecting.
Just steady.
“Listen to me,” he said. “They don’t get to decide that part.”
Your breath caught slightly—not because it was shocking, but because it landed too cleanly against something tangled in you.
Dean continued, voice lower now. “That’s not on them. That’s on us. On you and me. On how we want to do this.”
You searched his face like there might be a second meaning hiding underneath.
There wasn’t.
Just certainty.
Not loud. Not forceful.
Certain.
His thumb brushed again at your side. “You’re gonna be a good mom. That’s already decided. Everything else?” A small shrug. “We figure it out as we go.”
A quiet sound left you—not quite a laugh, not quite a breath. Your shoulders loosened a fraction without you meaning them to.
Dean noticed anyway. “You tired,” he said suddenly, softer.
It wasn’t a question.
You blinked. “I’m fine.”
But even as you said it, your body betrayed you—leaning a little more fully into him, like the effort of holding yourself upright had shifted without permission.
Dean’s hand steadied you immediately, reflexive.
“You’re not,” he corrected gently. No frustration in it. Just observation.
You opened your mouth to argue again, but it never formed.
Because he was already moving.
Not rushing.
Just deciding.
“C’mere,” he murmured, and before you could respond, his arms slid under you with practiced ease.
You made a small sound of surprise as the ground disappeared, instinctively gripping his shoulder.
Dean huffed something that might’ve been a laugh as he adjusted your weight against him. “Relax. I got you.”
“I’m not—” you started, but it dissolved halfway through when he shifted you more securely against his chest.
His hold was warm. Familiar. Absolute without being heavy.
Your protest faded into something quieter.
Something easier.
He carried you through the cabin like it wasn’t a decision at all, like it had already been decided the moment you’d leaned into him.
Up the stairs.
Down the hall.
No urgency. Just inevitability.
And you didn’t fight it this time.
Not really.
Because his scent wrapped around you in a way that made your thoughts slow down, like they’d finally found somewhere safe to land.
By the time he set you down on the bed, it felt less like being placed somewhere and more like being returned.
Dean stayed close as you shifted, settling in without fully letting go.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said quietly.
“What thing?”
“Trying to carry everything in your head at once.”
A pause.
You didn’t deny it this time. Instead, you turned slightly toward him, watching as he sat beside you like he had nowhere else to be.
His hand found your hip again—gentle, familiar.
“Try not to,” he added softer. “Not tonight.”
You studied him for a moment.
Then nodded.
Not because everything felt resolved.
But because for now, it didn’t need to be.
And Dean stayed right there as the room settled around you both—quiet, steady, and just warm enough to make the rest of the world feel a little farther away than it had been earlier.
Saturday arrived with a kind of stillness that didn’t belong to the cabin.
The morning had been quiet in a different way than usual—not peaceful, exactly, but contained. Like everyone had agreed, without saying it out loud, that today had edges that needed to be handled carefully. So much so, Jess hadn’t made a single teasing remark.
Dean drove.
He didn’t offer to take the truck. Didn’t suggest anything else. Just grabbed the keys and held them a second longer than necessary before opening the door for you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The Impala felt different when it left the gravel road and hit pavement.
Like it understood where you were going.
You sat beside him, hands folded in your lap more out of instinct than intention. The road stretched out ahead in long, quiet lines, trees thinning slowly the closer you got to town.
Dean’s hand found your thigh once at a stoplight.
Not gripping.
Just there.
A reminder without words.
“You alright?” he asked after a while.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He glanced at you briefly—long enough to know you were answering honestly, even if it didn’t cover everything.
Then he just nodded once and focused back on the road.
No pressure.
No pushing.
Just presence.
The house came into view the same way memories always did—before you were ready for them.
Familiar roofline. Familiar windows. Familiar walkway that hadn’t changed even when everything else had.
Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with history.
You didn’t realize you’d gone still until Dean’s voice cut in gently beside you.
“We don’t have to rush this,” he said.
You swallowed once.
Then opened your door.
Inside, the Winter home felt exactly as you remembered—and completely different all at once.
Not because it had changed.
Because you had.
The structure of it hit you first.
Not emotional warmth.
Not chaos.
Order.
Everything had its place. Everything carried intention. Even the air felt like it had been arranged rather than simply existed. Things you hadn’t noticed growing up, but now hit in an unfamiliar way.
You stepped inside, and for a moment, it felt like the house itself recognized you before anyone else did.
Then voices shifted.
Movement from deeper inside.
Your mother appeared first.
Her gaze landed on you, steady and assessing in the way only someone who had raised you could manage without saying a word. Her expression softened—not dramatically, but enough that the shift was clear if you knew how to read it.
Then your father followed behind her.
The change in him was subtler still.
But immediate.
He didn’t speak right away.
Not because he didn’t know what to say. Because he was measuring what you had brought into their home. And he already knew it mattered.
Dean stayed half a step behind you.
Not hidden.
Not forward.
Just… there.
A steady weight at your back that didn’t interfere with the room but grounded everything inside it.
Your mother’s eyes flicked briefly to him.
Then back to you.
“Come in,” she said at last.
Simple.
Controlled.
Inviting without losing structure.
You stepped further into the house.
Dean followed.
The sitting room had been rearranged slightly since the last time you’d been here—subtle differences in placement, newer books on the shelves, the same careful attention to symmetry that always made the space feel deliberate.
You sat.
Dean remained standing until your father gestured for him to sit as well.
He did.
But not before a brief pause—just long enough to acknowledge the formality without resisting it.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was loaded.
Your mother broke it first. “How have you been?”
A simple question. But in this room, nothing was ever simple.
You exhaled slowly. “I’ve been… good.”
A beat.
Then, softer, “We came because we needed to tell you something.”
That changed the air immediately.
Not alarm.
Not surprise.
Just focus.
Your father leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. Your mother’s hands folded in her lap.
Dean didn’t move. But you felt the shift in him anyway—subtle, attentive, ready without being intrusive.
You looked down briefly, then back up.
“I’m pregnant.”
No buildup.
No embellishment.
Just the truth, placed carefully into the center of the room like it belonged there, whether anyone was ready or not.
The reaction wasn’t dramatic. It never would be here. Somehow, you’d known that.
Your mother’s eyes softened again—but this time with something deeper underneath it. Awareness. Calculation. Care.
Your father’s gaze didn’t waver.
Not once.
Then he nodded slowly.
“I see,” he said.
Two words.
But they carried weight in a way that silence often couldn’t. Your mother’s attention shifted briefly toward Dean.
Then back to you.
“And you are certain?” she asked gently.
“Yes,” you said.
Dean’s hand moved slightly beside you—small enough that only you would notice it. A quiet grounding touch at the edge of your chair.
Not interrupting.
Just present.
Your father leaned back slightly, absorbing the information in a way that didn’t rush toward reaction.
“That changes things,” he said at last.
Not disapproval.
Not approval.
Just acknowledgment.
And in the Winter household, acknowledgment was never casual. It meant something had entered the structure of the family that would need to be accounted for.
Your mother nodded once. “It will require planning.”
Dean’s jaw tightened faintly at that.
Not defensive.
Just attentive.
You felt his presence shift subtly closer without him moving at all. A silent reminder that you weren’t alone in the structure of this room.
Your father’s eyes finally settled on Dean directly.
Measured him.
Not unkindly.
Not warmly.
Carefully.
“You will be involved in that planning,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Dean met his gaze evenly. “Yes, sir.”
Simple.
Certain.
No hesitation.
That seemed to satisfy something unspoken in the room, because your father gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Your mother exhaled gently, then looked back to you. “We will need time to adjust,” she said. “But we are listening.”
That landed differently than anything else.
Not approval.
Not resistance.
But something structured and steady enough to hold weight. Your shoulders eased slightly before you realized they’d been tense.
Beside you, Dean’s hand found yours again under the edge of your chair—quiet, grounding, steady.
Not pulling you out of the moment.
Just keeping you anchored inside it.
And for the first time since you’d walked in—
you didn’t feel like you were carrying this alone inside their house. Just carrying it inside a room that would, eventually, learn how to hold it too.
The room held steady for a moment too long after your mother’s last words.
Not empty.
Just… suspended.
Like everyone was waiting to see what shape the next thing would take.
Your mother was the first to move again. Not physically—just enough that her attention sharpened, recalibrated.
“Then we should be clear,” she said carefully. “If this is confirmed, there are expectations that come with a Winter child. Not rules in the harsh sense, but responsibilities. Structure. Awareness of lineage matters, especially with a first pup.”
Dean’s posture shifted instantly beside you.
Not dramatic.
But noticeable.
His jaw tightened, shoulders subtly squaring like something in him had just been asked to sit still under pressure it didn’t agree with.
You felt it immediately—his wolf pacing under the surface, restrained but very much there.
Your father continued, voice even. “The Winter line does not take these things lightly. You understand that. Especially since you’re both Touched.”
Your throat tightened.
“I do,” you said, before Dean could.
It came out steady, but softer than you intended. A fraction of hesitation slipped through anyway.
Dean’s hand pressed lightly against the edge of your chair again—grounding, not controlling.
Your mother watched you for a long moment, then asked, “And the environment the child will be raised in?”
There it was.
The real question underneath the question: Would you be moving back onto Winter land?
Dean let out a slow breath through his nose. You felt him hold himself back from speaking.
Just barely.
You answered instead.
“It will be safe,” you said. “And stable. It won’t be—” you paused, searching for the right words, “—unstructured. But it won’t be rigid either.” It still wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say.
Your father’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in judgment, but in assessment.
“That is not a framework,” he said.
Dean shifted again, sharper this time. You felt it in your bones before you saw it in him. The instinct to respond. To correct. To defend.
You tightened your fingers around his hand under the chair—once—a quiet signal.
Stay with me.
He exhaled slowly. Didn’t speak. But the tension stayed.
Your mother tilted her head slightly. “You are choosing a blended system, then.”
“Yes,” you said.
Simple. Honest.
Dean’s voice cut in then—controlled, but edged. “She’s not raising the pup alone,” he said.
The room went still.
Not hostile.
But recalibrated.
Your father’s gaze moved to him again.
Dean didn’t look away.
“I’m not a guest in this,” Dean continued, quieter now but firmer. “And I’m not standing on the outside of it either.”
A beat.
Then, softer—but with weight.
“That’s my pup too.”
Your mother studied him for a long moment. Then nodded once, like she had already accounted for that variable.
“We did not assume otherwise,” she said calmly. “But Winter structure requires clarity. Ambiguity creates instability.”
Dean huffed faintly under his breath at that—almost a laugh, but not amused enough to fully become one.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “We’ve got plenty of structure where I’m from too.”
You felt the shift in him after he said it—like he immediately reined himself back in.
Not disrespectful.
Just Dean.
Your father’s gaze lingered on him another second longer, then returned to you. “And your plan for disclosure?” he asked.
Your chest tightened.
You knew what he meant.
Not if you would tell them.
But when and how.
You stayed silent for a long moment, realizing just how much you’d changed in a year. Dean squeezed your hand once, reassurance that he was there for you, not them.
“I’m leaving that to you,” you said, voice far steadier than you felt. “Dean and I have talked it over. We’re raising our pup in the Winchester way.”
That part landed like a silent bomb.
Dean’s hand squeezed yours once—subtle approval.
Your father leaned back slightly, his jaw working like he was chewing on things he wouldn’t say.
“What about the blessing ceremony?” he asked, sounding far too calm for your liking.
Dean’s hand tightened in yours for a fraction of a second before he forced his fingers to relax.
You didn’t falter, not at this. “On the second night of the full moon, after our pup is born, we’ll be on Winter land for the blessing ceremony, but only so our pup is acknowledged as a member of the pack.”
Your mother nodded once, understanding flickering in her gaze, a small but soft smile slowly forming. “You’ve already thought about this,” her words were softer than you’d anticipated.
For the first time since entering your childhood home, your gaze fell to the table, your thoughts drifting to the little girl who’d practically claimed you as hers that first night on Winchester land nearly a year ago. Who knew you were carrying your own pup before you had.
“I understand the structure of the Winter pack,” you began, carefully finding words to articulate your thoughts. “But, I also understand the closeness of the Winchester pack, and that’s what I want for our pup.”
Dean’s thumb brushed once against your hand—small, unconscious comfort.
Your father’s expression didn’t change much, but something in it eased by a fraction. “Then we’ll respect the route you’ve chosen, as it’s always been your to choose.”
The sting of tears attempting to form hit your eyes without warning. You thought it would have been harder to make them understand. Or that they would argue that their way was the ‘right’ way.
“Give us a little time to adjust,” your mother murmured, her expression softer than it had been.
By the time the Impala rolled back onto the dirt road home, the tightness behind your ribs had settled into something dull and heavy.
Not pain.
Not regret.
Just the kind of exhaustion that only came after holding yourself together for too long.
The drive home had been mostly quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Dean had kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting against your thigh almost the entire way back, thumb brushing absently every now and then like he couldn’t quite stop checking that you were still there. Still mostly okay.
You hadn’t realized how much tension had been sitting in your body until the cabin finally came into view through the trees.
Home.
The porch light was already on, warm against the deepening blue of evening. Dean parked, but neither of you moved immediately. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.
For a moment, all you could hear was the distant rustle of wind through the forest and the sound of your own breathing.
Then Dean turned toward you fully. His gaze moved slowly across your face—not searching for damage this time.
Just reading you.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The question hit differently now. Because you actually had to think about it.
Your shoulders loosened slowly as you exhaled. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… tired.”
Something in his expression softened immediately at that.
Not pity.
Understanding.
His hand slid from your thigh up along your side before settling warm against your back. “You did good,” he said.
Simple words.
But they hit harder than you expected.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly as the memory of the conversation tried to replay itself all over again—the careful words, the measured silences, the weight of sitting in your childhood home and saying:
“We’re raising our pup in the Winchester way.”
Dean must’ve felt the shift in you through the bond because his thumb brushed slowly against your side.
“No,” he corrected softly, voice rough with something proud and reverent all at once. “You did real good.”
Heat stung suddenly behind your eyes. You looked away before it could fully settle there.
Dean noticed anyway. “C’mere,” he murmured.
Before you could protest, he pulled you against him, one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders.
The scent of him hit instantly—warm skin, leather, pine, smoke, wolf.
Home.
Your eyes closed briefly as your forehead rested against his shoulder. And for the first time since stepping into your parents’ house—
you finally let yourself sag a little.
Dean held you tighter immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission.
“You stood there and told ‘em exactly what you wanted for our pup,” he murmured into your hair. “That wasn’t easy.”
No.
It hadn’t been.
Not with your father watching every word.
Not with your mother weighing meaning into silence.
Not with generations of Winter structure sitting behind every sentence spoken in that room.
And somehow, saying it aloud now made the exhaustion settle deeper into your bones.
“I thought it would feel different,” you admitted quietly.
Dean leaned back just enough to look at you. “How?”
You swallowed once. “I don’t know. Lighter maybe.”
His expression softened even more.
“Baby,” he said gently, “you just stood up to your whole damn bloodline.”
Despite yourself, a small breath of laughter escaped you.
Dean grinned faintly at the sound of it, clearly relieved to hear it at all. Then his gaze flicked toward the cabin.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s go inside.”
The warmth hit immediately when Dean opened the door.
Coffee.
Woodsmoke.
Something sweet lingering faintly from what you and Jess had baked the day before.
And underneath all of it—
pack.
Sam looked up first from the couch, where he’d been half-sprawled with a book open in one hand. Jess sat cross-legged beside him, stealing bites from a bowl of popcorn balanced between them.
Both of them went still the second they saw you.
Not alarmed.
Attentive.
Jess opened her mouth first, concern already flickering across her face—
but Dean beat her to it.
His arm slid around your shoulders immediately as he guided you fully inside, pulling you instinctively against his side.
And he was beaming.
Not smug.
Not relieved.
Proud.
It practically radiated off him.
Sam’s brows lifted almost instantly at the sight of it. His gaze flicked between the two of you, reading the emotional undercurrents with frightening accuracy.
“…How’d it go?” he asked carefully.
For half a second, the room held still.
Then Dean looked at you. And the expression that crossed his face nearly stole the air from your lungs all over again.
Pure admiration.
“My mate stood her ground,” he said.
The words landed warm and solid in the center of the room.
Not boastful.
Reverent.
Like he still couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed.
Jess’s entire expression softened immediately.
Sam let out a quiet breath, tension easing visibly from his shoulders.
And beside you, Dean’s arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders, pulling you closer against him without even thinking about it.
His wolf was still proud.
You could feel it flooding through the bond in steady waves—protective, devoted, deeply certain.
Not because you’d “won.”
Because you’d chosen.
Chosen your future.
Chosen your pack.
Chosen him.
And standing there in the warmth of the cabin, surrounded by the people who had become your home—
the heaviness in your chest finally loosened enough for you to breathe again.
Chapter 71 ------- Chapter 73 - coming soon
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hiii happy saturday lovely I hope you're doin well <33 I have a silly espresso-verse question for youu :) so i've been watching maya & miguel recently (for the comforting nostalgia lol) and it's got me thinking of espresso verse and their little family, but more specifically...
do the kids end up knowing more spanish than dean, or would he manage to learn (and keep up) ? :P (like ik it's one thing to grow up learning multiple languages but a whole different ballpark learning it when you're older)
Happy Saturday, friend - and happy almost birthday!! 😘🥳
Aww Maya & Miguel was such a cute show! I was a Dora the Explorer girl when I was little. 💓
With Hispanic Heritage Month coming soon, best believe I've been thinking about the Midnight Espresso-verse! 🥰 (Dean x Plus-size Latina!reader, for those who don't know.) And girl, that such a sweet question, I love it!! loll 💜
Here are my fluffy, post-hunting family life HCs with Dean, his Latina wife!reader ("you"), and his kids in the Espresso-verse about speaking Spanish:
—᯽ Dean definitely picks up phrases the longer he's with you, especially after you two retire from hunting to get married and have kids (Cari and Robbie, featured in In Bad Weather and One More Day).
—᯽ You're determined to have them retain your half of their culture by speaking Spanish to them at home, so much so that you get Dean to play along. He tends to speak caveman Spanglish, even with your help and patience lol, but sometimes he just says to them:
"What she said. Andale," jerking his thumb in your general direction.
(even if it's not a mom command - which you mostly find amusing when you have to correct him lol)
—᯽ The kids will eventually be bilingual, so when they're little, sometimes they think they can pull one over on Dad by whispering to each other in Spanish before they try to mess with him or get away with something, like kids do.
—᯽ But Dean's hunter instincts don't quit that easy. Their little "hush hush" sibling communion always makes him suspicious, especially if they mention Papá.
—᯽ That one always perks his attention. So even if he just catches the gist of what they said when they thought he couldn't hear or understand them, he's gonna catch Robbie in the act of trying to sneak that third slice of pie.
(a little sweet tooth, like his old man)
—᯽ Or Cari when she tries to prank dear old Dad with a swab of peanut butter on his headphones.
(she's the devious one he too often has to watch out for)
—᯽ Truth be told, sometimes Dean does feel left out when he sees you chatting with the kids about their day at the dinner table in Spanish, but you either try to include him:
"Entendiste, mi amor? Robbie said he got an A- on his math test. Here, show your dad."
Or, you intentionally give Dean the cliff notes of what you just said:
"Ten cuidao con esa actitud, Caridad. Cambia esa cara también," you tell your daughter.
To your husband, you remark, "This one's giving attitude. See that face she just gave me?"
—᯽ That said, you and Dean make a great team. After 10+ years of marriage and several years together before that, living through the literal end of the world (more than once), you two are usually good at talking about things like whose turn it is to figure out what the family's going to eat for dinner and who did the dishes last.
—᯽ Dean actually utilizes his most favorite lines he's learned from you when you two get your alone time — usually in the bedroom lol ❤️🔥
He's all about picking up new phrases to add to his arsenal, whatever makes your skin flush and your body shiver at the sound of his voice alone. It's always a good preview of the rest he can do with his mouth.
—᯽ Family life after hunting is not always perfect though. It can be loud and hella messy, especially between mother-daughter drama and sibling warfare.
—᯽ Except when Dean gets a rare nap on the couch. He also makes the mistake of leaving himself open for attack. Seeing another perfect opportunity, older sister and little brother draw a temporary alliance for a truly diabolical team up — by plugging some mini marshmallows up Dad's nose.
(Yes, Dean wakes like a bear. The kind that gives big, bracing bear hugs until his children admit defeat — with lots of shrieks and giggles to go with it.)
@wvffles This is probably more than you asked for, but I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved contemplating your sweet question, love 😂💜
Tagging the Espresso-verse tag list because this kind of turned into a full series-specific HC! lol
"i only see him as a friend," the biggest lie i ever said.
pairing: dean winchester x bobby's daughter!fem!reader
summary: drinking with your best friend, jo harvelle, was always fun and games until last night happened. exploiting your drunkness and competitiveness to dare you to make a stupid phone call might have been jo's smartest move yet.
word count: 2,045
tags/warnings: drinking, drunk phone calls, swearing, fluff
note: first supernatural fic i've ever written, so please be gentle. feel free to let me know your thoughts!
masterlist | send prompts/song inspo
Dear God or whoever is above, please take away this hangover, and I will never drink again, you thought for the hundredth time in this lifetime, sighing as you looked at the ceiling, as if asking for strength to face the day. It was a bit audacious to ask for some help after putting yourself in this situation in the first place. Still, never hurts to try.
You slumped further into your dad’s desk before fishing your phone out of your jean pocket to kill some time. Bobby was out on a hunt today, and you were assigned to research duty. So here you were nursing a migraine in the sanctuary of your father’s office, all curtains drawn shut and only the dimmest lamp available turned on.
You were scrolling through your text messages, making sure you did not miss anything important, when your eyes caught the name of that specific person who triggered your memory from last night. Groaning with embarrassment, you put down your phone face down on the desk, wishing the Advil would kick in soon.
“What the fuck, Jo?” You scoffed before shaking your head incredulously. “You’re crazy.”
“Why, can’t do it?” Jo grinned widely as she leaned in closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “You need more liquid courage for such a simple task?”
Your eyebrow ticked at the challenge as you took a swig of your ice-cold beer. “It’s not that I can’t do it. It’s just that it’s stupid and very unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary? We’re doing this for fun, and you’re fun, right?” When she did not get any confirmation from you, she stuck her tongue out and gave you a very enthusiastic thumbs-down. “Boo! You’ve changed. You’re a coward now.”
“I am not!” You cried out defensively before you finished your bottle and placed it on the bar with a dull thud.
“Prove it then.” The blonde got your phone and held it out to you. “Call the guy or girl—we’re open for anything here—that you find cute and tell them about their features that you find very attractive.”
“There’s no one cute in my contacts, so…” You trailed off in the hope of escaping this very silly, very high-school-like dare.
But Jo did not back down, her hand steady between you two. The music from the jukebox was the only thing you could hear inside the roadhouse. It was playing a Led Zeppelin song, and you felt like it was mocking you. You and Jo were locked in a battle of stubbornness now, or childishness, to be precise. She raised an eyebrow at you, daring you to do it. Well, the alcohol in your system seemed to have choked your rational side to death thirty minutes ago.
“Fuck it, fine.” You said in an irritated, defeated tone as you snatched your phone away.
It took you a couple of blinks to clear the haze in your vision as you scrolled through the names in your contact list. You already had a name in mind, but you kept scrolling past it, refusing to acknowledge it. He had always crossed your mind lately, especially when he started dropping by your house.
Visiting your dad to consult about demonology and other lore; wearing that stupid leather jacket and that equally stupid smirk. His car was the only good thing about him… and maybe those stupid long lashes, as well.
You’d rather die than admit that out loud.
But… what was there to admit if he was just a friend? Hell, he might as well be a work friend. Yeah, work friend, that checked out.
Clearing your throat, you clicked his name and called fast enough to prevent Jo from seeing the screen. When it started to ring, you felt a sudden twist in your gut, which you blamed on the five bottles of beer you had already consumed. Not the work friend who happened to be very attractive.
“Oh, for the love of… move away, Jo!” You groaned loudly as your best friend leaned over your side, sticking her ear near your phone. You tried to push her off, but the girl was determined.
“Yeah?” His gruff voice cut the third ring.
“Oh my god, Dean?! You find him cu—” Your hand flew to her mouth before she could spill anything.
“Shut up, Harvelle!” You hissed and glared at her, which immediately turned into a wrestling match of arms as Jo tried to pull your hand away from her mouth.
“Is this a bad time?” Dean then called out your name teasingly, making you freeze right away.
“What? Uh… no.” You let your hand drop before giving the blonde beside you a pointed look as a warning.
“Alright.” His chuckle almost tickled your ear; it was ridiculous. “So, what’s up?”
“Nothing much. Just calling to um… tell you that…” Okay, maybe you did not have this planned out. There wasn’t even a plan in the first place, just pure inhibited recklessness. “Me and Jo are having a drink… of beer, you know, your favorite.”
Your best friend was staring at you with an agape mouth, clearly stunned and delighted at how you were babbling and losing your cool.
“Go say hi, Jo!” You pushed your phone near her mouth, playing dirty to move the attention to her for a bit as you recuperated.
“Heya, Dean!” She greeted a little too loudly, considering how close the mouthpiece was. “We were just talking about you, and my girl here was just telling me about her favorite thing about you.”
“Oh, yeah? What did she say?” He clearly sounded entertained on the other end of the line, enjoying a couple of intoxicated ladies and their intrusive thoughts.
You gave your friend a death glare as she handed your phone back. Bitch was smart, using your own defense to bring you to your demise. “Ignore her, Dean. She’s drunk.” Saying his name made your chest clench like you were saying something taboo.
“But I wanna know.” The bastard joined the game.
Jo instantly exploded in a series of squeals and giggles like a freaking sixteen-year-old. It made you kick her leg with your boot, which she did not find threatening at all as she egged you on to fulfill the man’s request.
“Don’t encourage the girl.” You rolled your eyes before hopping down the stool and flipping off your best friend as you walked out of the bar. Suddenly, you needed fresh air to think and breathe, to be honest.
It took him a while to answer back, giving you a chance to listen to the soft hum of a car’s engine. “Late-night drive?” You inquired casually as you sat down on the front steps of the roadhouse. Also taking the chance to change the topic.
“Hmm?” He replied, a bit distracted. “Yeah, on our way to a job.”
“Demons?” You hoped not.
“Nah, just your classic old ghost.”
“I see, that’s nice. I mean, not nice nice. At least it’s something you have handled before.” Something safer, you thought before collecting yourself. “Well, I’m sorry we disturbed you, especially while you’re driving and all…” You trailed off, preparing for a ‘no worries’ and a ‘bye’.
“I don’t mind. Kept me awake, to be honest. Sam already dozed off hours ago.”
“Oh…”
You were clearly taken aback. His response was not among your list of probable answers, rendering you speechless. You were not sure if you should be the one to say goodbye and drop the call. Instead, you waited for a bit and followed his lead.
He stayed on the line, despite not speaking. All you could hear was the hum of the moving car, the occasional mechanical click as he shifted gears, and his relaxed breathing. There was a familiar tune playing on the radio, and you immediately addressed it, desperate to break the sudden intimacy of the call.
“That’s the same song playing in the jukebox here a while ago.”
“You liked it?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“It’s… alright.” You shrugged as you began to pull at the fabric of your pants.
“Alright? Just alright?” He let out an offended scoff at your feedback. “That’s it, I’ll bring you some tapes when we drop by your house next time. That might change your mind.”
Next time, such a dangerous thought. “We’ll see…”
“Now I am motivated.” You can tell that he liked the challenge just by the way he talked and laughed.
You heard him turn up the radio in the background. “Convincing me already?”
“Maybe,” He murmured, a little bit lower than before, making your heart skip a beat.
You both fell into silence again, the sound of the wind and music accompanying both your nights. If you closed your eyes, it was almost too easy to convince yourself that you were inside his car. But of course, you’re not stupid enough to cross that line… right?
Wrong.
“It’s your eyes, you know?” You mumbled as you rested your cheek on your knee, feeling vulnerable after midnight.
“What are you—”
“What Jo was talking about earlier. My favorite thing about you…”
You had no idea if you should’ve said that or not, but the combination of the alcohol in your veins and the late-night call felt special. It was like both of you were in your own private bubble. You heard a faint exhale and chuckle from the other line.
That doesn’t sound bad, right? Before you could overthink it, a yawn broke from your lips.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart. Thanks for keeping me company.”
Sweetheart, the nickname was like a slap of sobriety. You knew Dean used that for almost everyone, but the softness of how he said it caught you off guard. It made you so flustered that you were spouting nonsense the next second.
“Uh y-yeah, good night to you too, sweetheart!” You squeaked before cutting off the call prematurely. It took all your willpower not to throw your phone across the country.
Jesus fucking Christ, get a hold of yourself.
Your hands flew to your face before you let out a scream while kicking your feet. The shame of what you had done was almost physically painful. You dropped your head on the wooden desk with a dull thud as you prayed that you might not see, hear, or even smell Dean Winchester any time soon.
After a few minutes of simmering on your humiliation, the call you were waiting for from Bobby finally came through. Without raising your head, you grabbed your phone and answered the call.
“Hey, daddy,” You called your father that nickname whenever you ain’t feeling like your best self. Maybe you could coerce him to buy some ice cream on his way home.
“Whoa there, slow down with the pet names.” That was definitely not your father.
You bolted upright before looking at the screen of your phone.
“Dean!” You wanted to bury yourself in your dad’s yard. “I thought you were Bobby. I-I… um, do you need any help with the lore or something?” You tried to transition into professionalism as you fumbled with the books sprawled in front of you.
“No, I’m just waiting for Sam to finish up in the library.” There was still a hint of amusement in his voice as he responded. “Just thought I might check on you if you got home safe after last night since you sounded a little drunk.”
“Well, scratch off ‘a little’, and then you’re pretty spot on. But yeah, I got home safe this morning.” You wanted to say ‘thanks for worrying’, but it felt a bit too much.
He hummed before speaking again. “After we finished up with the case here, want to go for a drive?”
“A drive?” You repeated, dumbfounded.
“Yeah, a drive.”
You blinked before letting go of your denial and whispering, “Sure.”
“Awesome.” A short pause. “Maybe you can have your chance to stare at my eyes too.”
“Oh my God, Dean!” You cried out loudly, mortified at his teasing. “I’m not having this, bye.” You dropped the call while he was in mid-snicker.
You tossed your phone onto the desk as if it stung your hand, heat creeping up your cheeks and ears. You both hate and love Jo for making this possible.
Summary: When an injured Dean Winchester shows up at your door, caring for him reignites the feelings you’ve hidden for years. But one forbidden kiss leaves you both torn between guilt, fear and wanting more.
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Dean’s face changed the second he heard Sam’s voice. All the heat and hunger collapsing into something frantic, guilty and wrecked. For a heartbeat, he just stared at you with his hands still on your waist and his chest heaving like he’d run a mile.
Then he let out a harsh, ragged breath and gently slid you off his lap.
"Shit”, he whispered with his voice shaking.
You tried not to shiver at the loss of him.
Dean raked a hand through his hair. His face was flushed and his mouth still red from your kisses. He stood too fast and had to pause, one hand hovering awkwardly in front of his jeans, trying to hide the obvious and failing miserably.
“Son of a—”, he muttered under his breath, shifting his hips as if that would help.
Another ring and Sam’s impatient voice: “Dean! Dude, I saw the Impala, c’mon! I´m freezing my ass off out here!”.
You hugged your knees to your chest, heart in your throat. You watched as Dean took another breath. His jaw was clenched, every muscle in his body screaming tension. He looked at you with guilt and longing and panic flickering behind his eyes.
Finally, he gritted his teeth, turned for the door, and hesitated just long enough to adjust himself with one hand sneaking low.
The bell rang again, longer this time. Dean barked over his shoulder “Coming, Sam! Geez, give me a damn sec!”.
He fumbled with the lock, hand still trembling, then opened the door a crack.
Sam stood on the porch in a soaked jacket and hair that was dripping in his eyes. He peered in, smiling, oblivious. “Took you long enough. You look like crap, man—”.
Dean grunted, avoiding his gaze. “Long night. C’mon, get inside”.
Sam stepped in, shaking off his boots. He glanced around and smiled as he spotted you curled up on the couch. “Hey! Good to see you”, he said, dropping his duffel by the doo, befire he crossed the room and pulled you up off the couch into one of those bear hugs that only Sam Winchester could give. He smelled like rain and road salt, and he squeezed you a little tighter than he probably meant to.
You let out a breathy laugh, patting his back. “Easy, Sasquatch. Gonna break me”.
He let you go, grinning. “Sorry. It’s just been… way too long”. He looked you over, concern flickering in his eyes. “You doing okay?”.
You nodded, managing a half-smile. “Yeah. I mean, as okay as anyone gets around here”.
Sam’s gaze flicked to the kitchen, where Dean was noisily rummaging for another beer, still studiously avoiding the living room. Sam glanced back at you, lowering his voice a little.
“When did Dean get here?”.
You swallowed, glancing at the wall that separated you from Dean. “Last night. He just… showed up out of nowhere”.
Sam’s brows furrowed with worry. “Was he… okay?”.
You hesitated, not sure how much to say. “He was in rough shape. Beat up pretty bad. I had to patch him up”. You dropped your voice even lower. “Bobby’s still out with Jodie. I didn’t want to bug them unless it got worse”.
Sam nodded, clearly concerned but not surprised. “That tracks. He’s been shutting me out for weeks”. He paused, worry flickering in his eyes. “Was it a hunt? Did he say?”.
You kept your voice low. “He wouldn’t say much. I think it went bad”.
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, sighing heavy. “Yeah… Hell did a number on him”. He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Messed with his head. He’s not the same since he came back”.
You were biting your lip in worry, because the words hit harder than he knew. You kept seeing Dean’s face, wrecked and hungry, guilt flashing in his eyes. His hands on your skin. The taste of him on your lips.
And now, all you could wonder was if it was really you he wanted at all. Or if you were just the closest thing he could grab, drowning and desperate for anything that felt alive.
Was that all it was? Dean’s pain, looking for a place to go?
Sam didn’t notice your silence, or maybe he did and chose to let it sit. He just kept rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “He pushed me away. Said he needed space. But I don’t think he should be alone”.
You nodded, because you were not trusting yourself to answer.
Sam gave you a gentle but searching look. “You’ll let me know if it gets worse? Or if he needs—”.
“Yeah”, you interrupted, voice just a little shaky. “I promise”.
He nodded, like he believed you, but his eyes lingered a beat longer, maybe wondering if you needed help, too. You managed a tired smile, mumbling something about needing some sleep and slipped away before he could say anything more.
Upstairs, in the safety of the dim hall, you leaned your forehead against the wall and let yourself breathe. You still tasted Dean’s kiss. Still felt the shape of his hands on your body, the ragged want in his voice, the way you’d melted for him.
And you hated that a part of you, no matter how small, was afraid it didn’t mean anything real. That you were just an anchor in a storm, and when he was steady again, he’d let you go.
You didn’t want to be just a lifeline.
You wanted to be wanted.
For a long moment, you just stood there, caught between guilt and hope, the ache of wanting more than you were allowed to ask for.
Flashback
It was late spring, and Dean was home between hunts. Seventeen, impossibly cool in faded jeans and a Metallica shirt, like he didn’t even have to try.
You’d been his shadow since morning. You followed him everywhere, fetched tools before he could ask for them and tried to copy the way he leaned beneath the hood of the car. You even drank your soda the way he did—one-handed, pinky sticking out slightly—just to see if he’d notice.
“Gimme the socket wrench, kid”, he called without looking up.
You already had it waiting in your hand.
Dean glanced over, grinned, and took it from you before ruffling your hair with the kind of warm, absent affection that made your heart pound hard enough that you were sure he had to hear it.
“Not bad”, he said. “You ever think about being a mechanic?”.
You shrugged, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “Maybe. If I get to work with you”.
He laughed, bright and easy.
“Stick with me, you’ll learn all my secrets. Bobby says I’m the best damn driver in Sioux Falls”.
You beamed, heat rushing into your cheeks. You were just a kid, but that didn’t stop the butterflies. Dean was safe and wild all at once, and somehow he always knew exactly what to say to make you feel big instead of small.
Later that afternoon, you sat on the porch steps, picking at blades of grass while Dean sang quietly along to some Zeppelin song playing on the radio. Sunlight caught in his hair, turning the edges gold, and for one ridiculous second, you wanted to tell him he looked like one of the heroes from the stories Bobby used to read you when you were little.
But you didn’t. Because you were twelve, and he was nineteen, and he called you kid and squirt and trouble.
And if your heart fluttered whenever he smiled at you, well— You told yourself it was only because he was Dean.
He wiped the grease from his hands onto his jeans, then tossed you a wink over his shoulder as he headed inside for lunch.
“C’mon, Y/N! Food’s up. Last one to the table does dishes!”.
You bolted after him, barefoot and grinning, desperate to keep up, to stay close, to remain in his orbit for just a little longer.
Dean never noticed the way you watched him. He just kept you close. Like a little sister. Like a shadow he never wanted to lose.
You didn’t know what you wanted yet. Not really. You only knew that wherever Dean was, that was where you wanted to be.
Sunlight slanted across the cluttered kitchen table. No Sam this time; he was off at some summer camp. It was just you, Dean, and Bobby.
Dean dropped into the chair beside you, your elbows bumping as you both reached for a plate. He only grinned and nudged you gently with his shoulder.
Bobby loaded up his own plate before eyeing the two of you with mock suspicion.
“You gonna eat real food this time, or just potato chips and pie?”.
You copied Dean without even thinking about it, fork in your right hand, a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, carefully avoiding the pile of green beans Bobby tried to send your way. Dean didn’t notice. He was too busy drowning his roast in gravy. Bobby did. He hid a smirk behind his mug.
Dean took a bite, then flashed you a proud grin. “That’s how you do it, kid. Meat and potatoes. All you need”.
You nodded solemnly and copied his exact bite, only for your nose to wrinkle when your eyes landed on the green beans again.
This time, Dean caught it. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as though he were about to let you in on classified information. “Just push ’em under the mashed potatoes”, he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Works every time”.
Your face lit up and you did exactly that.
Bobby shook his head, but there was no real irritation in his voice. “Bad habits, Winchester. She’ll be following you right into trouble”.
Dean glanced over at you and winked. "She already does”.
Something squeezed pleasantly in your chest, and you ducked your head, suddenly very interested in your food. Your foot bumped his beneath the table—accidentally, maybe a little on purpose—and Dean nudged you right back without even looking.
It was easy with him. That effortless kind of affection that made it feel like you belonged right there beside him, no matter how small you sometimes felt.
-
You woke in the night to the sound of rain and stared at the ceiling. Down the hall, you could hear Sam’s gentle, even snore. Somewhere downstairs, a floorboard groaned. You pulled on a sweater, drifted down the hall and peered out the kitchen window.
Dean was outside, little more than a dark shape on the porch, barely visible through the storm.
You watched him for a moment. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as the rain blew sideways beneath the awning, catching in his hair and along the edges of his jacket. He was staring out into the rain like he was waiting for something to crawl out of the shadows and drag him under.
He couldn't stop replaying that night. Your lips against his. The closeness between you. The terrifying ease with which he'd forgotten every reason he was supposed to pull away.
He'd wanted it. That was the part he couldn't forgive himself for.
You were Bobby's daughter. You'd spent years trailing after him, his shadow, someone he'd always thought of as family. Someone he was supposed to protect.
Except none of it felt simple anymore. Not after he'd kissed you back.
Dean exhaled shakily and dragged a hand over his mouth. He should go inside. Pretend it hadn't happened. Pretend he could shove the whole thing into one of those locked rooms in his head and never look at it again.
But his feet wouldn't move, because pretending wouldn't change what he'd done. And it sure as hell wouldn't change the fact that some part of him still wanted to turn around.
Behind him, the kitchen light flicked on. Your silhouette appeared in the window. You stood on the other side of the glass, watching him through the rain. You didn't open the door. Didn't call his name. The old screen door remained between you, flimsy and useless and somehow feeling like the only boundary either of you had left.
When Dean finally glanced back, something twisted painfully in his chest.
Part of him wanted you to come outside. Wanted to pull you close, feel your warmth against him, and pretend for five damn minutes that the world might let him keep something simply because he wanted it.
The other part of him, the part that remembered promises, responsibility, all the lines he'd spent years telling himself he would never cross, wanted to stand in that rain until it washed the thought out of him completely.
Then Dean turned away. His shoulders settled into that stubborn, carved-from-stone posture you knew too well.
You understood. He didn't want you out there. So you let the curtain slip from your fingers. Shame burned through your chest, hot and nauseating as you stepped away from the window.
Maybe Dean had really simply been alone for too long. Maybe the nightmares, the injuries, the things Hell had left buried beneath his skin had finally worn him thin enough that he'd reached for the first bit of warmth he could find. Maybe he'd needed something, anything, to remind himself he was still alive.
And you'd been foolish enough to think it had meant something more.
You bit your lip until it hurt.
Had you made everything worse? Had you pushed when you should have stopped? Had you become one more thing Dean had to carry?
The thought made your stomach twist.
You hated yourself a little for wanting him. Hated the small, stubborn piece of hope inside you that still wanted him to turn around, walk back through that door, and tell you that you hadn't imagined it. That he wanted you too.
But more than anything, you hated the idea that you'd made his life harder. Dean already carried too much. He already looked like a man trying not to drown. You couldn't stand the thought of being another weight tied around his ankle.
So you went upstairs. You crawled into bed and curled tightly beneath the covers, trying to chase away a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.
Maybe morning would make things clearer. Maybe daylight would put everything back where it belonged. Maybe the two of you would find your way back to whatever safe had been before this—or at least become good enough at pretending.
-
You barely slept. For hours, you lay staring at the ceiling, rehearsing what you would say when you finally saw Dean.
You'd tell him it was okay. You'd tell him you understood. You'd promise to keep it between the two of you, to never mention it again if that was what he wanted. You'd find some way to make it easier for him. Or at least… less unbearable. You would forget. That was what you told yourself, anyway.
You'd pretend it had never happened. Let Dean go back to being what he'd always been to you—impossible, untouchable, safely out of reach.
He deserved that. He deserved to breathe without you making everything heavier, without your feelings and your mistakes becoming one more thing he had to carry.
By morning, your eyes burned from exhaustion.
You finally dragged yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water over your face until the shock of it made you gasp. You shoved your hair into something that almost passed for presentable and stared at yourself in the mirror for a second longer than necessary.
You looked terrible and your heart wouldn't stop pounding.
Still, you made yourself leave the room. You padded quietly down the hallway, already imagining Dean in the kitchen. He'd be hunched over a mug of coffee, probably pretending to read the newspaper like nothing had happened. Maybe he'd glance up when you walked in. Maybe there'd be an awkward second where neither of you knew what to say. And then you'd fix it. You'd make sure he knew he didn't have to worry.
But when you reached the kitchen, Dean wasn't there. Bobby and Sam sat at the table instead, their voices low beneath the soft clink of plates and silverware. Bobby looked tired, but relieved to be home.
You stopped in the doorway and your stomach went cold.
Bobby looked up first, his face breaking into a crooked, affectionate smile. “Mornin’, kid. Didn’t expect you up this early”.
Sam grinned, his mood lighter now that Bobby was back. “Hey. You want eggs? Bobby made a mountain”.
You hovered in the doorway, searching the room with your eyes and trying not to sound desperate. “Where’s Dean?”.
Bobby and Sam both paused. Bobby shot Sam a look, then turned back to you, his voice gentler. “He left before sunrise. Said he needed to hit the road. Didn’t say much else”.
You felt the words like a punch to the chest. Gone. Just like that. Not a word. Not a note. Not even a good-bye.
Sam watched your face, concern flickering. “He didn’t say where. Just packed up and went. You know Dean… he gets itchy when he’s stuck too long in one place”.
You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. That sounds like him”.
Bobby eyed you a little longer, like he wanted to ask what he was missing, but he didn’t. Just poured another mug of coffee and pushed it your way.
You tried to smile, tried to act like it didn’t matter, tried to pretend you weren’t already breaking inside. You sat at the table, picking at your eggs, pretending not to notice the empty chair, pretending you could just erase the last twenty-four hours and start again.
But you couldn’t forget.
-
A few weeks passed and you tried not to check your phone every night. Tried not to glance at the screen whenever it lit up, hoping for his name. A text. A call. Anything that might mean Dean was somewhere out there thinking about you too.
You told yourself you were giving him space. That was what he needed. What he deserved. But knowing that didn't make the silence hurt any less.
Every day that passed without a word from him left behind a dull little ache, settling somewhere beneath your ribs and refusing to leave.
Flashback
You were fourteen that summer, caught in that awkward, hopeful space between girl and woman. Your body was changing faster than you could keep up with. Your chest had grown the past few weeks, and every time you wore your usual shirts you felt exposed.
You’d finally saved enough for a real bra, not just a sports top. You’d hidden it away in a little bag, pink and soft and mortifying, crammed deep in your backpack where nobody could possibly find it.
Except Dean was in the kitchen that afternoon, leaning against the counter, shoving half a cookie in his mouth and looking way too pleased with himself for someone who’d just stolen the last of Bobby’s stash.
You tried to sneak through, clutching your bag, cheeks already burning.
Dean clocked you immediately. He grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief as he swallowed. “What’s with the sneaky face, Y/N? You got beer in there?”.
You clutched the bag tighter, trying to keep your cool. “It’s nothing. Just laundry”.
He pushed off the counter, moving toward you with the swagger of someone who’d never once been embarrassed in his life. “Sure it is. Lemme see”.
“Dean, no—”, you yelped, but he was faster, long arms and quick reflexes on his side. He snatched the bag from your grip, holding it high out of reach as you jumped for it, mortified.
“Whatcha got, huh?”, he teased, flipping the bag open, clearly expecting to really find a beer or maybe candy.
Instead, his eyes landed on pink fabric and a tangle of straps.
He went silent. You watched his brain stutter, mouth open in horror.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Dean, give it back!”.
He closed the bag in a flash, cheeks turning red for the first time you could ever remember.
“Oh. Oh—uh. Shit. Sorry, I—uh—here”. He shoved it back into your hands, suddenly unable to meet your eyes, ears turning pink. “Didn’t know it was, uh, girl stuff”.
You snatched the bag back and clutched it to your chest, your face burning. “It’s not— It’s just a—”. You couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Dean cleared his throat and immediately looked anywhere but at you. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh. Sorry”.
You rolled your eyes, still pink to the roots. “It´s fine, but… it’s just…”. You pulled the bra halfway out of the bag and gestured helplessly at the straps. “These stupid things. They’re either way too long or way too short. I’ve tried fixing them, like, a hundred times”.
Dean blinked. Then he stared at the straps with the same suspicious concentration he usually reserved for unfamiliar engine parts. “Those little plastic things move, right?”.
“Yes, Dean”.
“Okay. Just checking”.
Despite yourself, you laughed. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking far less like the cocky Winchester you knew and much more like somebody who desperately wished Sam were here to deal with this instead.
“I mean… how complicated can straps be?”.
You gave him a flat look.
Dean immediately grimaced. “Yeah, okay. Dumb question”.
“I watched a commercial and still couldn’t figure it out”.
“That’s because commercials lie”.
You snorted.
For a moment, Dean studied the problem from a safe distance before reluctantly holding out his hand. “Give it here”.
You raised an eyebrow.
“The bra”, he clarified quickly. “Not while you’re wearing it. Obviously. Just let me see the straps”.
You handed it over and Dean held it at arm’s length like someone had passed him a suspicious piece of evidence.
“Okay”, he muttered. “This looks basically like the adjuster on a backpack”.
“It is not a backpack”.
“I know that”.
“You’re holding it like one”.
“Do you want help or not?”.
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
Dean fiddled with one of the sliders, pulling the fabric through carefully.
“So… this way makes it shorter”.
“I think”.
“You think?”.
“I told you I don’t know!”.
“Fantastic. Blind leading the blind”.
A few seconds later, Dean handed it back with an expression of cautious triumph.
“There. Try that”.
You disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. A minute later, your frustrated groan carried into the hallway. “Dean!”.
“What?”.
“They’re worse!”.
There was a pause before you heard a very offended: “No way”.
“They’re practically falling off!”.
“I followed the system!”.
“What system?”.
Another pause.
“My system”.
You cracked the bathroom door open just enough to stick your head through.
“Your system sucks”.
Dean pointed accusingly at the door. “Hey, I fix cars, not underwear”.
“Can you try again?”.
He sighed dramatically and held out his hand.
You slipped one arm through the doorway and passed the bra back to him without opening the door any farther.
“Okay”, Dean muttered. “Attempt number two”.
He adjusted the straps again while you waited behind the closed door.
“Try now”.
You took it back and another minute passed.
“Oh!”.
Dean straightened outside.
“Oh good or oh bad?”.
“Good. I think”.
You stepped out of the bathroom wearing the bra beneath a loose shirt, twisting awkwardly as you tried to see your own back in the mirror. “Dean?”.
He looked up from where he’d been waiting in the hallway. “What?”.
“Can you just check if the straps are sitting right? I can’t tell if they’re digging into my shoulders”.
Dean hesitated for half a second, then shrugged.
“Yeah. Turn around”.
You turned your back to him and pulled your hair over one shoulder. The back of your shirt hung low enough that the straps were visible across your shoulders, but everything else was covered.
Dean leaned closer, squinting at them,
“Okay… left one looks fine”.
“And the other?”.
He hooked one finger beneath the edge of the strap near your shoulder and immediately frowned.
“Yeah, that one’s way tighter”.
“I knew it”.
“Hold still”. He tugged gently at the little adjuster through the open back of your shirt, trying to loosen it without making you take everything off again. “That better?”.
You rolled your shoulder experimentally. “A little”.
Dean adjusted it once more. “There?”.
“Yeah. Perfect”.
And naturally, that was the exact moment Bobby came around the corner.
He stopped.
Dean was standing directly behind you, one hand near your shoulder, fiddling with a bra strap visible through the open back of your shirt.
Bobby stared. Dean looked at Bobby. You looked over your shoulder.
And nobody said anything for one painfully long second.
Then Bobby's eyes narrowed.
“Dean”.
Dean immediately stepped back and lifted both hands.
“Not what it looks like”.
Bobby's expression somehow got worse.
Dean grimaced. “Yeah, okay, terrible choice of words”.
You turned around quickly. “Dad, he was fixing the strap”.
Bobby looked between you.
“The strap”.
“Yes. It was cutting into my shoulder”, you explained. “I couldn’t reach the adjuster properly”.
Dean pointed toward your shoulder as though presenting evidence in court.
“One was tighter than the other”.
Bobby stared at him and Dean slowly lowered his hand.
“I'm gonna stop talking now”.
“That’d be smart”.
You groaned. “Dad”.
Bobby sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, some of the alarm finally leaving his expression and Dean visibly relaxed.
“Maybe next time you find yourself standing behind my daughter with your hands anywhere near her bra, take about three seconds to think about how that's gonna look when somebody walks around the corner”.
Dean glanced at you, then back at Bobby.
“Yes Sir”.
Bobby shook his head and started down the hallway.
“Both of you are gonna put me in an early grave”.
Dean waited until Bobby was several steps away before muttering, “For the record, the strap was definitely too tight”.
Without turning around, Bobby called back “Winchester”.
Dean shut his mouth and you bit down on a laugh.
-
The days blurred together for Dean. Case after case, motel after motel, rain-slicked highways and truck-stop coffee cooling in his hands. He’d let himself slide right back into old habits, hunting down anything with teeth and a heartbeat, filling the empty hours with work and whiskey and one-night stands that never quite touched the sides.
Woman after woman, name after name. The more he tried to lose himself in the taste of someone new, the more your memory stuck to him like salt on skin. Sometimes it was in the softness of a stranger’s hair, sometimes in the way a laugh echoed through a bar. Always, always it was your face. Smiling, pink-cheeked and looking up at him like he was worth saving.
He hated himself for it.
Hated how good you had felt in his hands, how every touch, even the innocent ones, had burned themselves into his palms. He remembered the shiver of your skin, the way your breath had hitched when he leaned close. He remembered how you’d tasted, sweet and desperate and so much more than all the rough distractions he’d found in parking lots and hotel rooms since.
Nothing worked. Nothing washed you out of him.
Sometimes he wondered if he'd broken you. If whatever had happened that night on Bobby's couch had hollowed something out inside you the same way it had him.
The thought usually came late, when there was too much whiskey in his blood and not enough noise in the room to drown himself out.
Other nights were worse.
Those were the nights when the darkness closed in and Hell came crawling back beneath his skin, when sleep meant screaming and waking wasn't much better.
And on those nights, all Dean could think about was you.
How safe he'd felt with you there. How, for once, breathing hadn't seemed so damn hard. How easy it had been to let himself stop fighting for a minute and simply want something. Want you.
He'd sworn he would stay away. For your sake as much as his own. He told himself you deserved better than whatever wreckage he'd brought back from Hell. Told himself Bobby would skin him alive if he ever found out. Told himself that eventually, if he stayed gone long enough, you'd be happier without him haunting the edges of your life.
It sounded reasonable. Almost noble, if he didn't think about it too hard.
But Dean had never been very good at running from the things that mattered.
And he couldn't outrun you. Not really. Not for long.
Because every time his phone buzzed against the nightstand, his hand moved before he could stop it. And every single time, some stupid, desperate part of him hoped it would be you.
Flashback
You were sixteen, barefoot on the porch in cut-off shorts and an short shirt, sprawled across the steps with a book in your lap and your hair tangled from the wind. Sam was here for a weekend, arguing with Bobby in the kitchen. Dean was half-listening, half-watching you through the open screen door, pretending to be more interested in the carburetor on the table than in the way you tucked your legs under yourself.
He didn’t mean to stare. He didn’t mean to notice, not like that. You’d always been Bobby’s girl, his tagalong. But that day, your laugh was lower, your eyes lingered longer and something in Dean’s chest twisted up hard.
He didn’t have words for it then. Didn’t recognize it as attraction. It just made him restless, hot under the collar, his jokes coming out sharper, his glances a little too long. It wasn’t until Bobby’s voice thundered behind him that he realized he’d been caught.
“Dean”.
Dean nearly jumped, knocking a wrench off the table.
Bobby stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes flat and dark as a thunderstorm. “You got somewhere else to look?”.
Dean bristled, defensiveness snapping up like armor. “Just keepin’ an eye out, Bobby. Place is full of rats lately”.
Bobby didn’t smile and didn’t move. “She’s sixteen, Dean”.
Dean looked away, his throat tightening. “I know”.
Bobby stepped closer. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, quieter now, but hard enough to cut. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know your type. I know your damn track record”.
His jaw flexed. Anger sat plainly in the lines of his face, but underneath it was something heavier. Worry.
“You so much as look at her the wrong way, you’re gone. You hear me?”.
Dean forced himself to meet Bobby’s eyes. For a second, the room seemed to shrink around him. He felt like a kid again; dirty sneakers, trouble written all over him, standing in front of someone who could see every bad decision before Dean even had the chance to make it.
“She’s off limits, Dean”, Bobby said. “Always will be. You get me?”.
Dean nodded. Shame burned hot beneath his skin, sharp enough to make him want to look away again. But somewhere beneath it, something stubborn had already begun to take root.
He didn’t want to hurt you. He sure as hell didn’t want to hurt Bobby. But somewhere along the way, that instinct to protect you had started tangling itself around something else—something unfamiliar, something Dean wasn’t ready to look at too closely, much less put a name to.
“Yeah”, he said quietly. “I get it”.
Bobby studied him for another long second, his stare sitting heavy on Dean’s chest. Then he clapped a hand against Dean’s shoulder. Not gently.
“Good. Now go clean up. Lunch is on”.
Dean gave another short nod and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to shake off the conversation as he headed for the sink.
He told himself not to look back. Told himself there was nothing to look at. Still, his eyes drifted toward the porch. Toward you. And somewhere deep down, in the place he tried hardest not to listen to, Dean felt it. Something was changing. He just didn’t know what it was yet. And worse, he didn’t know how to stop it.
Outside, you caught him looking and only smiled. Easy and unaware. Completely unafraid.
-
The air was sharp with cold, every motel parking lot washed in the same dull winter gray. Dean sat hunched behind the wheel of the Impala, both hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee. The radio played low beneath the hum of the heater while wind chased scraps of paper and plastic across the asphalt outside. He stared through the windshield and thought about nothing. Or tried to.
His phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Dean nearly ignored it. Nearly. But old habits died hard. He glanced at the screen.
Sam
His thumb hovered over the button for a second before he finally answered, his voice rough from too many nights without enough sleep.
“Yeah?”.
He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when he answered, cautious but honest.
“Hey, man”.
Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes fixed on the windshield.
“Hey, Sammy. You alright?”.
“I’m fine”, Sam said, in a way that made it sound almost true. “Just—checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while”.
Dean grunted. “Been busy”.
A beat of silence followed.
“You gonna be busy for Christmas, too?”.
Dean said nothing. Something in his chest tightened and Sam took a breath.
“Look, Bobby’s making dinner this year. And Y/N invited me”. A pause. “She’s, uh… been asking about you. Said you oughta come back, at least for a day”.
Another pause.
“You know how she gets”.
Dean closed his eyes. Yeah. He knew exactly how you got.
He could picture you in Bobby’s kitchen, stubbornly determined to make the place feel warm and lived-in no matter who was missing. Probably stringing up decorations Bobby complained about while secretly leaving every single one exactly where you put it.
Your voice would be bright. Too bright. Like if you smiled hard enough, nobody would notice the empty chair.
Dean swallowed.
“I dunno, man”.
“Dean”. Sam’s voice softened, but there was something firm beneath it. “It’s been weeks. You can’t keep running forever. Bobby’s getting worried. She—”.
Sam stopped.
Dean’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. “She what?”.
Another hesitation.
“She misses you”.
Dean’s throat worked. Something raw threatened to climb its way out, and he shoved it back down before it could become anything he’d have to explain.
“I’ll think about it”, he managed barely louder than a whisper.
“That’s all I’m asking. Just think about it”. His voice softened again. “It’s Christmas, Dean. We’re supposed to be together”.
Dean nodded even though Sam couldn’t see him.
“Yeah”. He stared down at the steering wheel.
After they hung up, Dean stayed exactly where he was. The silence inside the Impala seemed louder than the radio now. His breath fogged faintly against the cold air leaking through the windows as he pictured you sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table. Stubborn and waiting.
Then he remembered your hand in his. Remembered being close to you, and how impossible it had felt to pull away once he'd let himself have even a second of it.
His chest tightened again. That was when the passenger door opened. Cold air rushed inside, followed by the blonde bartender from earlier—Candy or Mandy, Dean genuinely couldn't remember anymore.
She slid into the seat with an easy grin, running a finger along his arm like she already knew exactly what kind of night he was looking for.
“You ready?”, she asked, her voice syrup-sweet.
Dean looked at her. For half a second, he almost said no. Instead, he pulled together something resembling a smile. “Yeah”.
He turned the key and shoved everything else somewhere deep enough that he wouldn't have to look at it. At least for a while.
He followed her directions out of town to a run-down apartment building with a busted elevator and hallways covered in carpet that smelled permanently of smoke.
Twenty minutes later, Dean sat on the edge of her mattress. The room was half-dark, her perfume heavy in the stale air. She was close, fingers working at his belt with practiced confidence, treating the whole thing like a game she'd played a hundred times before.
Dean let her. That was the problem. He just… let her. Because he wanted to feel something. Anything. Anything that wasn't guilt. Anything that wasn't wanting the wrong. Anything that wasn't the impossible mess he'd been carrying around for weeks.
She laughed softly at something he didn't hear, leaning closer and Dean felt absolutely nothing.
He closed his eyes. Tried to remember what it was supposed to feel like to want this. Instead, his mind betrayed him. He saw you. Felt the warmth of you. Heard the way his name had sounded in your voice.
Dean's jaw tightened. He tried to shut it out. Tried to replace the memory with the woman in front of him.
Couldn't.
Because underneath all the noise, all the whiskey and motel rooms and strangers whose names he never bothered remembering, there was only that same hollow ache.
And when Dean closed his eyes, all he could see was you.
Still he let Candy or Mandy pull him closer, but he was a million miles away. No matter how he tried to chase it, the only thing he wanted was the one thing he could never have.
She tugged his jeans down just enough, freeing him from the confines of his boxers. He was already half-hard from the mechanical anticipation, veined and heavy in her hand.
She wrapped her fingers around the base, giving a slow, teasing stroke that made him twitch, her grip firm but not too tight, like she’d done this a hundred times before. And hell, she probably had.
“Damn”, she murmured, her breath hot against his skin, “you’re packing, aren’t you?”.
She licked her lips, painted red and glossy, before leaning in, her tongue flicking out to trace the underside of his shaft from base to tip. Dean’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading into her bleach-blonde hair, not guiding yet, just holding on as she worked him over.
She was talented, no doubt about it, swirling her tongue around the head, sucking lightly at first, then deeper, her cheeks hollowing as she took him in inch by inch. The wet heat of her mouth enveloped him, her lips stretching around his girth, and she hummed low in her throat, the vibration shooting straight through him.
She bobbed her head deliberately, saliva slicking him up as she twisted her hand in rhythm with her mouth, pumping what she couldn’t fit.
Dean groaned, his hips shifting involuntarily as she picked up the pace, slurping noisily, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently while she deep-throated him like a pro.
“Fuck”, he muttered, eyes squeezing shut, but even as the pleasure built, it felt distant, like he was watching it happen to someone else.
She gagged a little when she pushed too far, but she didn’t stop, pulling back only to dive in again, faster now. Dean’s fingers tightened in her hair, urging her on, but his mind was elsewhere.
It wasn’t enough. It never was.
He pulled her off him with a wet pop, her lips swollen and smeared, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it broke. She looked up at him, eyes watering but grinning like she’d won a prize. “You want more?”, she purred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Dean didn’t answer. He just hauled her up, rough, flipping her onto the bed face-down like she weighed nothing. She laughed, arching her back, ass up as she spread her legs, already shimmying out of her skirt and panties. “Yeah, baby, give it to me hard”.
He grabbed a condom from his wallet and rolled it on, positioning himself behind her. No foreplay, no tenderness; this was how he did it, how he always did it to take the edge off, to drown out the noise in his head. He gripped her hips, nails digging in, and thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her.
He fucked her roughly, hips snapping forward, the room filling with the sounds of skin on skin, her moans turning into breathless pleas and his own detached grunts.
Twenty minutes later, Dean dressed in the half-light of that unfamiliar bedroom, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and sweat. Her soft laughter were echoing somewhere far behind him as she sprawled across tangled sheets. He barely heard her, barely felt the bruises on his hips or the scratch marks down his back. It all faded as soon as he pulled his jeans on, buckled his belt, and looked at himself in the mirror above her dresser.
He didn’t see the usual cocky smirk that used to come after nights like this. He just saw someone tired. Someone haunted.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight, the shame rising up to choke him. He’d thought it would help, just like every other time. He’d thought maybe, if he went hard enough or long enough, if he let someone else’s voice drown out your name in his head, he’d finally be able to forget the shape of you, the taste of your lips, the warmth of your hand in his. That the ache might fade.
But it never did. If anything, it just made it worse.
As he tossed the condom in the trash, zipped his jacket, and mumbled something half-hearted to the woman in bed, he felt emptier than before, like every time he tried to fill that void, it just carved him out a little more.
Summary: When an injured Dean Winchester shows up at your door, caring for him reignites the feelings you’ve hidden for years. But one forbidden kiss leaves you both torn between guilt, fear and wanting more.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Age gap, Morally questionable relationship, Language, Angst
Word Count: 8931
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You’d gotten used to Bobby’s place being full of noise. But tonight, it was just you. Bobby was somewhere up north with Jodie, knee-deep in some wendigo mess, and he’d trusted you to hold down the fort while they were gone. Not that you minded. You’d grown up surrounded by hunters and danger didn’t scare you the way it once had. But something about tonight felt…off.
Maybe it was the wind scratching at the windows like claws. Or the way your chest ached out of nowhere. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else.
After midnight, a knock came. Or rather a few. One knock, two, then a pause. Then three more, faster.
You grabbed the shotgun from beside the door without thinking. Bobby had trained you better than to open up blind. You didn’t need to check the peephole though. You knew that rhythm. Knew it by heart.
You hadn’t seen him in over a year. Not really. Not face to face. He’d been a ghost slipping in and out of your orbit, always there when you weren’t, always gone when you came home. Like the two of you were on opposite sides of a revolving door.
Your heart stuttered. You hated that it still did that little jolt at the sound of his name in your head.
You opened the door and your breath caught. He looked like hell. Literally. Blood smeared across his jaw. Torn-up flannel clinging to his frame like it was the only thing holding him together. Cuts, deep and ugly ones on his neck and shoulder. One eye was bruised nearly shut. His knuckles were raw. And something in his eyes…
You knew he’d been to Hell months ago. You’d heard the whispers from Bobby, scraps of worry he tried to keep from you. But nothing prepared you for the emptiness you saw staring back at you.
“Hey, kid”, Dean said, like it was any other night. Like he wasn’t bleeding out. You hated when he called you that now.
“You’re hurt”, you said quietly.
Dean blinked. Looked down like he was just now noticing the blood. “S’not bad”.
You raised an eyebrow, lips tugging downward as you glanced over the fresh blood dripping down his arm. “Not bad?”, you repeated, voice flat. “You’re leaving a crime scene on the porch, Dean”.
He huffed something close to a laugh, but it was hollow and breathy. Like it hurt to even pull that much emotion up. His shoulders slouched further. “Bobby around?”, he mumbled, eyes shifting past you into the house, as if he could summon him out of thin air.
“No”, you said, stepping aside so he could come in. “He’s helping Jodie. Wendigo hunt”.
Dean hesitated. Just for a second. The porch light cast a tired shadow across his face, catching the mess on his skin, the haunted tension carved into his expression. Then he sighed and limped past you into the house without another word. You shut the door behind him.
The air felt different the moment he was inside. Thicker somehow. You weren’t sure if it was the smell of blood or the quiet knowledge that you were suddenly alone in a house with Dean Winchester.
He dropped himself down onto the old couch with a grunt, his hand clutching his side. You watched from the hallway, heartbeat in your ears. Dean always carried weight when he walked into a room, but this time it was different. It wasn’t just the blood or the silence or the way he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. It was the way he looked at you… or didn’t. Like he didn’t quite recognize what he was seeing. Like you weren’t a kid anymore and he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
You moved without a word, grabbing the first aid kit from the hallway closet. You brought it into the living room, kneeling on the rug in front of Dean as you popped the case open. “Shirt off”, you said calm.
Dean arched a brow, but it wasn’t flirtatious, it was tired. Defensive. “You patching me up now?”, he muttered, and for a second his voice dipped into that gruff edge, that instinctive habit he had of teasing to avoid getting looked at too closely.
“Unless you’d rather wait a couple days for Bobby to get back and die of infection on his couch”, you shot back.
He smirked faintly but it didn’t reach his eyes. Then he started unbuttoning what was left of his flannel slowly, his fingers stiff and trembling slightly. You tried not to watch the way the fabric peeled back from his skin, revealing the bruises blooming across his ribs, the slices and scrapes that hadn’t yet scabbed over. But it was hard not to look. Not because of the injuries, but because it was him.
There had always been something about Dean that made your chest ache, even when you were a teenager stealing glances from behind Bobby’s bookshelves. But now… Now it was worse.
He caught your eye for a second as you soaked a cloth in antiseptic. Just a second. But then the cloth touched his skin and he hissed under his breath, eyes flickering shut. “Son of a bitch”, he muttered.
“You’ve had worse”, you said softly.
His lips twitched. “Doesn’t mean it tickles”.
You worked in silence for a few minutes, wiping blood away and cleaning the cuts. His breathing stayed shallow, jaw clenched every time you got too close to a deep one. You were careful but not gentle. Something about treating him like he’d break felt wrong. Dean Winchester didn’t break.
But god, he looked like he already had.
“You look like you got hit by a semi”, you said, breaking the quiet.
“Kinda did”, he replied, staring up at the ceiling. “Demon was wearing a meat suit twice my size. Fast, too”.
“And you went in solo”, you guessed, voice low.
Dean didn’t answer right away.
“I’m fine”, he said instead, which meant he wasn’t. Not even close.
You leaned back on your heels for a second, staring at him. “You know”, you said, “Bobby would kill you for pulling a stunt like that. Sam, too”.
Dean’s eyes flicked toward you again. There was something in them that wasn’t there before. A flicker of guilt.
“Didn’t mean to show up on your watch”, he said after a long pause.
You looked down at the needle in your hand, thread already looped and waiting, and muttered, barely loud enough for the room to hear: “Yeah. You usually don’t anymore”.
The words slipped out quieter than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. They hung there for a beat. And Dean heard them. You felt it in the shift of his posture and the way his jaw tensed. He sighed. It was soft, ragged around the edges.
You thought maybe he was going to say something. Maybe even apologize. But… no.
“Hold still”, you murmured, scooting in closer as you positioned yourself to start stitching the deep gash across his lower abdomen. It had split open badly, needed to be done right.
You leaned in, forearms resting lightly across his thighs to steady your angle as you worked.
Dean went still. Ridiculously still.
Your hands moved automatically, focused on closing the wound, but you heard his breath hitched for just a second. Your brow furrowed without looking up.
“You okay?”, you asked, almost absentmindedly, not catching what you’d just done to him.
Dean cleared his throat.
“Peachy”, he said, voice tighter now. Rougher.
He was trying to sound normal. Like nothing was going on. Like your arms weren’t pressed across the very place he was trying not to react to.
You didn’t notice. You were too focused on the wound, the needle, the way your hands moved like Bobby had taught you. You didn’t feel the shift in his body under you, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. You didn’t catch the flicker in his expression, like he was trying to think about literally anything else except where you were touching him.
Dean Winchester had taken on hellhounds without flinching. But this? This was different.
Because it was you. The little girl who used to trail behind him and Sam with dirt on your cheeks and questions on your tongue.
Except… you weren’t a little girl anymore.
And maybe that had been easier to forget when you were always gone, when you weren’t sitting between his legs, pressing your body against his while threading a needle through his skin like it was nothing.
He grunted when the stitch tugged a little too hard. You looked up quickly.
“Sorry”, you said softly, eyes meeting his.
His lips parted like he was going to say something again, but no sound came out. There was a moment.
Then Dean leaned back and turned his head slightly, jaw ticking.
“So”, he said, voice gruff again. “How long’s Bobby gone for?”.
You blinked at the sudden topic shift but rolled with it.
“Couple more days, maybe three”, you replied, tying off the final stitch. “Depends how messy it gets”.
Dean nodded, still not looking at you.
You leaned back, finally finished. The wound was clean, sealed neatly.
“There”, you said quietly. “Try not to rip it open again. Though I guess that’d be one way to get Bobby back faster”.
Dean chuckled dry. Still not meeting your eyes.
“Guess I’ve got a habit of crashing the party”.
You stood, collecting the bloodied gauze and used needle.
“Yeah”, you said under your breath, “you do”.
-
You finished cleaning up in the kitchen while Dean stayed on the couch, half-dozing, half-hovering between exhaustion and whatever darkness still clawed at the edges of his mind.
You’d made him a sandwich and left it on the coffee table in front of him. He hadn’t said thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes when you set it down, soft and too guarded to be grateful out loud, was more than enough.
“You should sleep”, you said, pulling a clean blanket from the hallway closet. “You look like hell”.
Dean quirked a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.
You tossed the blanket over him anyway, tucking it loosely around his middle like Bobby used to do when you were kids and maybe your fingers lingered a little longer than they should’ve against his chest.
He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even blink. Just watched you, unreadable.
“Night, Dean”, you murmured, turning to go.
“Night, kid”.
That word again. Kid. But his voice cracked on it this time, just a little.
-
It was sometime after 3 a.m. when his voice woke you.
“No, no—don’t—don’t—”.
You sat bolt upright, heart thudding before you slipped from bed without thinking. The hallway was dark, but you didn’t need light. You knew this house blind.
The sounds got louder as you neared the living room. Thrashing fabric, harsh gasps, a guttural noise that made your skin crawl.
He was dreaming. No, not dreaming. Trapped.
You stood in the doorway for half a second, watching the way his body writhed beneath the blanket. Sweat soaked his hairline. His lips moved fast, too fast, whispering something you couldn’t make out.
“Stop—please—no more—”.
You crossed the room in a blink, crouching beside the couch.
“Dean”, you whispered, hand brushing his shoulder. “Dean, wake up. You’re dreaming—”.
He jolted upright with a strangled gasp, eyes wild and chest heaving.
For a second he didn’t see you. His gaze was distant, feral. Somewhere else. Somewhere far worse than here.
You froze, your fingers still resting on his bare skin where the blanket had slipped low. Then, slowly, his eyes found you. Focused.
“Y/N”, he rasped, voice hoarse. His breath hitched again.
“I’m here”, you whispered, gently pushing some damp hair from his forehead. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just me”.
Dean looked like he might collapse in on himself.
You sat down beside him without asking. Just close enough that your knee brushed his. The room was cold, but his skin burned like a fever.
“I didn’t mean to—”, he started, then stopped. His voice broke. “Didn’t mean to wake you”.
“You didn’t”, you lied quietly. “It’s fine”.
He went silent again.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye. The way he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The tremble in his fingers. The way he looked like he’d rather die than let you see him like this. But you saw him anyway. And you didn’t flinch.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”, you asked, softer than before.
He shook his head.
You nodded. You expected that.
You swallowed before speaking again, voice barely more than a breath.
“Want me to stay?”.
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor. But it didn’t mean what it usually meant.
Dean had a way of saying no without saying go away. A way of pushing people out while screaming silently for someone — anyone — to just stay put. You’d grown up around him long enough to know the difference. He wasn’t turning you away. He just didn’t know how to ask.
So you didn’t move. Didn’t press. You just leaned back against the couch beside him, pulling your legs up under you, the edge of the blanket brushing your bare thighs. You crossed your arms loosely over your chest. Your presence wasn’t loud. It didn’t try to fix anything. It just was. That’s all he needed.
Eventually, Dean let out a breath. His shoulders slumped like something heavy had loosened inside him, just slightly.
“You don’t gotta—”, he began, then trailed off. “Stay, I mean. I’m not… good company”.
You glanced over at him, watching his profile. The flicker in his jaw. The tension in his hands.
You could’ve said a thousand things. You’re wrong. I want to. You don’t have to do this alone. But none of those would’ve worked on Dean. He didn’t respond to comfort. He responded to truth. So you just said: “I know”.
His head dipped slightly, almost like a nod. Or maybe he just couldn’t hold it up anymore.
Another minute passed. The house was still again. Silent.
Then he shifted and leaned back against the couch, closer to you than before. His thigh brushed yours. His shoulder hovered just near enough that you could feel the heat of his skin radiating between you like a pulse.
“I was back there”, he murmured after a long moment. “In the dream”.
Your chest tightened.
He hadn’t talked about Hell. Bobby had warned you never to ask. Said it wasn’t something Dean could put into words, not really. But here he was. Cracked open. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just let him say what he needed.
Dean swallowed hard, eyes locked ahead, unfocused.
“It doesn’t ever go quiet in there. You think it will. That maybe the screaming gets dull after a while, or you go numb. But you don’t. You never do”.
He shook his head, breathing through his nose like he was trying not to fall apart again.
You opened your mouth to say something, but Dean beat you to it.
“Never mind”, he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Forget it”.
He sat a little straighter again, like whatever had just slipped out was already regretted. Like letting you see it, see him, had been a mistake. Classic Dean.
You knew the pattern. Offer just enough to taste vulnerability, then rip it away before anyone could really see him bleed.
But you didn’t pull away. And you didn’t let him.
“Too late”, you said softly.
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so bitter.
Then he looked over at you and for a moment, his eyes were unreadable. Like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to apologize or crawl out of his own skin.
“Didn’t mean to… unload”, he said.
You smiled faintly, tilting your head just enough to catch his eye.
“You always say that when you actually need to”, you replied gently.
He scoffed, eyes flicking away again. “That obvious, huh?”.
“Only to someone who’s been studying your grumpy ass since I was seven”.
That earned you the smallest twitch of his mouth. You leaned back against the couch cushion, still close, still steady, nudging his thigh lightly with your knee.
“And don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t stay up because you’re special”, you teased, eyes narrowing just a little, mock-serious. “I just didn’t trust you not to bleed all over our couch in your sleep”.
Dean chuckled.
There it was. That tiny crack in the armor.
“You always had a mouth on you”, he muttered.
“And you always needed someone to keep yours in check”, you fired back with a small shrug. “Balance”.
He looked at you again. This time longer. Something flickered in his expression. A memory, maybe. Or a thousand. You and him, always side by side in the back of Bobby’s yard. Shooting cans off fences. Researching hunts. Falling asleep on each other during movie nights no one remembered the ending to.
You’d always had his back. Even when you were too small to be useful. Even when you had no business standing between him and danger. Especially then.
“You haven’t changed”, Dean said suddenly, voice low.
You raised a brow. “Thanks? Or…?”.
He smiled, but there was something sad in it.
“Still trying to fix people who don’t want to be fixed”.
You paused at that, the tease in your chest faltering for a moment.
“I’m not trying to fix you, Dean”.
He looked skeptical.
“I’m not”, you repeated, softer this time. “I just… I don’t like watching you carry this alone. You’ve always done that. Even when we were kids”.
Dean’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak. You weren’t sure if he couldn’t, or just didn’t know how. So you pressed on, gently.
“Remember that black dog hunt? In Ohio? You and Sam were all banged up, and I brought you gas station burritos and patched up your hand with duct tape?”.
Dean huffed again, this time with more amusement. “Yeah. And then you passed out on the motel floor with a machete under your pillow”.
You shrugged. “Well, someone had to keep you in line”.
He shook his head slowly, but the weight in his shoulders had eased. He looked at you again, and the way his eyes lingered made your stomach flutter, just once, before you crushed it down.
It was the kind of look that felt too long for a friend. Too familiar for a stranger. Too old to be new.
But not quite enough to be spoken out loud.
“Try to get some sleep,” you murmured, glancing down at the quiet tangle of your fingers still resting beside his on the couch. “I’ll be right here”.
-
The next morning, when you padded into the kitchen, it was like none of last night had happened.
Dean stood at the stove, one hand curled around a mug, the other flipping a slice of bacon in the pan. The radio was playing low in the background. And Dean? He was humming.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t spilled pieces of Hell across your lap at 3 a.m.
Like he hadn’t fallen asleep with your hand in his, breathing like it was the first real breath he’d taken in months.
You blinked, disoriented.
“Morning”, he said when he saw you. Easy. Light. The corner of his mouth tilted up just enough to look familiar. “Hope you’re hungry. Bacon’s not bad for expired meat”.
You leaned on the doorway, arms crossed.
“Dean”, you said slowly, voice still thick with sleep, “you hate cooking”.
“Desperate times”, he replied, flashing you a grin. “Figured I owe you one for playing nurse last night”.
Your stomach twisted at the way he said them. So casual. Dismissive. Like that was all it had been. A scratch on the surface. A favor. Not the moment it really was.
You watched him for a second longer, then moved to the counter, grabbing a mug from the rack.
“You okay?”, you asked carefully.
Dean took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Peachy”.
Peachy. The same word he’d used the night before when he was bleeding and shaking and couldn’t meet your eyes.
You let out a quiet breath and poured your coffee. The silence between you felt different now. Not the soft, safe kind from last night. This one had edges. Walls.
“You slept okay?”, you asked, still trying.
“Like a rock”, he said, leaning back against the counter, sipping his coffee like it was any other morning. “Couch wasn’t as bad as I remembered”.
Liar.
You knew he’d woken up at least twice after you’d gone back to your room. You’d heard him pacing. Heard the floorboards creak beneath him.
Dean Winchester, master of the emotional vanishing act.
You sat down at the table, watching him move like it was all fine, like he wasn’t wearing a fresh layer of armor.
“Cool”, you said, trying to match his tone. “Good to know Hell-flashbacks come with breakfast now”.
Dean stilled, just a fraction. His hand tightened around the mug before he turned back to the bacon.
“Told you not to worry about that”, he muttered.
“You didn’t tell me anything, Dean”, you replied, your voice calm, but firm. “You just shook your head and looked away”.
He didn’t respond.
You let the silence stretch this time, let it thrum with everything he wasn’t saying. Everything he’d dumped into your hands and was now pretending didn’t exist.
Dean moved stiffly, plating the bacon and toast like it was a mission. He set it on the table in front of you with a half-smirk.
“Eat up. Wouldn’t want Bobby to think I let you starve”.
You stared at the plate. Then up at him. And something in you tightened, frustration, maybe. Or that familiar ache that always came when Dean pretended too hard. When he built a wall and painted it to look like a smile.
You wanted to dig. Just gently. Just enough to find the thread again, the one he’d let you hold last night. But before you could open your mouth—
“I don’t wanna talk about it”, Dean cut in, tone low but pointed.
You blinked. “Didn’t realize I started talking about it”, you said, voice dry as you reached for your fork. “God forbid I speak in your general direction”.
Dean shot you a look over his mug. “Don’t start, Y/N”.
“Not starting”, you said sweetly. “Just sitting here, enjoying my ‘thank-you-for-saving-my-life’ breakfast in total silence like you clearly prefer”.
He exhaled through his nose, biting back a comment, while your eyes dropped to the front of his shirt. Your stomach flipped.
“Dean”.
“What?”.
“You’re bleeding”.
He glanced down, frowning like he hadn’t even noticed. Maybe he hadn’t. A stain was blooming beneath the fresh stitches on his stomach.
“Son of a bitch”, he muttered under his breath, pulling the hem of his shirt up to check the damage.
“Yeah, you think?”, you snapped, pushing back from the table.
“Don´t make a thing out of it.”
“Oh, right. God forbid anyone makes a thing out of you bleeding out”, you snapped again, already heading to grab the first aid kit. “Next time just say, ‘Hey Y/N, don’t mind the pool of blood I’m casually leaking all over your floor, I’m just emotionally repressed and physically incapable of asking for help.’ That cool?”.
“I said don’t start”, Dean growled, voice hardening.
“And I said shut the hell up and sit down before you rip open the rest of your gut”, you snapped right back, rounding the corner with the kit in hand.
Dean paused. Then sat. Muttering something under his breath that sounded like “Bossy little brat”.
You heard it.
“You’re lucky I’m nice”, you said, dropping to your knees in front of him once more, yanking the kit open. “Otherwise I’d accidentally stitch your stupid mouth shut too”.
Dean huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He lifted his shirt without comment.
And just like that, despite the sarcasm, the snark, the deflection, there it was again. That closeness. That pulse between you.
The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched. Barely. More reflex than anything. But you felt it.
“You should’ve said something”, you murmured, voice softer now.
Dean didn’t answer. Just watched you as you peeled the gauze back gently, inspecting the damage.
“You can let me take care of you, you know”, you added, quieter. “It doesn’t make you weak”.
He didn´t answer. He just leaned back against the kitchen chair, shirt rucked up and bunched just below his chest, exposing the damage of a few reopened stitches and darkening bruises.
You tried to focus as you cleaned the area. But up close like this, it was hard to focus on anything but him.
His stomach was solid, soft in some places, firm in others. All strength built from years of fighting, layered with old scars and fresh damage.
You swallowed, trying not to look at the way the ridges of his lower abs dipped just under the waistband of his jeans, or the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath them. You focused on the wound. The thread. The way your fingers moved, careful and clean, steady even as your heartbeat kicked up like a war drum.
His skin was warm under your touch. Damp from the fever, but not hot enough to worry you. The bruise across his ribs had darkened overnight, blooming sickly purple and green. You traced the edge of it with feather-light fingers before wiping the area clean again.
Dean hissed through his teeth.
“Sorry”, you murmured.
“’s alright”, he muttered. “You’ve got soft hands. Doesn’t even hurt that bad”.
You tried to roll your eyes, but your stomach flipped instead.
You dipped your head, hiding your face as you reached for the needle. But that just made you realize, thst the hem of your sleep shirt had crept up, brushing high across your hips. You hadn’t changed out of your nightwear. Your shorts were too small, your legs bare and now you were kneeling between Dean Winchester’s legs, with your face not even a foot from his very exposed stomach.
You froze, needle paused mid-air, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. Of the smell of his skin, the heat rolling off his body, the sound of his breath as it hitched slightly.
Your face flushed hot. Pink bloomed across your cheeks like wildfire and you cursed yourself silently, trying to will it away. Don’t let him notice. Don’t let him see you turning into a puddle because he exists.
Your fingers worked the thread carefully, closing the split stitch along the lower edge of the wound. You could feel his breath catch just once when your knuckles grazed lower, almost too low.
You didn’t mean to look up. But you did. And he was already watching you.
The air between you tightened.
You blinked first, focusing hard on the last stitch, breathing slow, trying not to think about how his skin felt under your palm, or the way your thighs were starting to tremble.
“Alright”, you said quietly, finishing the last knot. “That should hold. But you have to stop acting like you’re invincible”.
Dean didn’t move. Didn’t answer for a second.
Then, softer than before:
“You used to patch up my hand with duct tape and a juice box straw. When the hell’d you get this good?”.
You smiled, small, but real, still not meeting his eyes.
“I grew up, Dean".
Silence.
You could feel him looking at you again. Really looking. Like he hadn’t noticed before. Like he did now. But he said nothing. And neither did you.
-
Dean spent most of the day out in the yard with the Impala.
You watched from the window for a while the November’s chill seeping through the old walls of Bobby’s house. You could barely feel your toes. And Dean?
Out there in nothing but a flannel jacket and his stubborn pride.
Rain had started around noon. The Impala’s hood had been open since morning, tools spread out like surgical instruments on the workbench. That engine didn’t need another tune-up. Dean had already fixed it three times over. But he didn’t know what else to do.
Sam hadn’t been around for weeks. Dean had told him to give him space. And Bobby? He was still a full day and a half away, out on some supply run or small-town salt-and-burn, promising to check in when he could.
So that left just you.
And the car.
And the quiet.
Dean didn’t come in for lunch. Or the coffee you left by the back door. You didn’t push. If he needed space, he’d take it. He always had.
It was nearly seven when you finally heard the back door creak open.
You were on the couch, a book in your lap that you’d reread the same paragraph of at least eight times. The rain tapped on the windows. The room smelled like old paper, gun oil, and the cinnamon tea you’d made an hour ago and forgotten.
Dean stepped inside, dripping rainwater, boots heavy on the floorboards. His jacket was soaked, hair damp, but he didn’t look cold. Just tired. Like the day had taken something out of him he hadn’t known he was holding.
He didn’t say anything at first. You looked up from your book, watching him with the same quiet curiosity you always had. Waiting to see if he'd open the door, or keep it locked.
Then, casually, like it didn’t matter, he cleared his throat.
“You hungry?”.
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Why?”.
Dean shrugged one shoulder, too nonchalant. “Thinking about a drive. Town over’s got that crappy little burger joint. Fries so salty they’ll kill your arteries before the demon ever gets the chance”.
You blinked, a beat passing before you caught on.
“You’re inviting me?”.
Dean glanced away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“You don’t eat enough. And I’m bored”, he muttered.
You bit back your smile, letting it tug at the corner of your mouth instead.
“You sure this isn’t just a cry for help disguised as a cheeseburger run?”.
He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.
“Don’t make me regret it, kid”.
You stood, tugging on your hoodie and stepping into your boots by the door.
“Fine”, you said, grabbing the car keys from the bowl by the shelf before tossing them lightly in his direction. “But I get to pick the music”.
Dean caught the keys one-handed, flashing a tired smirk.
“In your dreams”.
-
The Impala roared to life beneath you. Rain streaked across the windshield and the heater kicked on just enough to start fogging the windows.
Dean adjusted the dial on the radio, flipping through a few static-heavy stations before settling on Zeppelin. His fingers tapped absently against the wheel, but his eyes stayed on the road.
You leaned your head against the cool glass, eyes watching the blur of trees and dark wet highway, then glanced sideways at him. The streetlights cast gold across his face in flashes — jawline sharp, hair still damp, lips set in that half-smirk he wore even when he wasn’t trying.
It was easy to remember younger Dean in moments like this. Softer around the edges. Less broken. Still that same fierce protector, though, always between you and the world like a damn wall.
“You remember that trip to Tulsa?”, you said suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Dean shot you a glance. “The one where you snuck six candy bars into the back seat and threw up on my boots?”.
You grinned. “That’s the one”.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You were, like, what? Eleven?”.
“Ten”, you corrected. “And you didn’t have to wear those boots”.
“I had one pair!”, he groaned. “And I spent the next two hours trying to scrub out chocolate puke with windshield washer fluid because Bobby didn’t pack wet wipes”.
You laughed, full-bodied and warm, and for a second, the cold November air felt like summer again.
Dean glanced over at you, smile softer now. Real.
“You were always around”, he said after a beat, quieter. “Little shadow. Every time I turned around, there you were”.
You shrugged, pretending to be casual. “You were cool. Later you had the car. The music. Knew how to shoot salt rounds and drive before you could legally drink. I wanted to be you”.
Dean snorted. “Bad role model, kid”.
“Best one I ever had”.
That earned you a glance. Something flickered in his eyes, something closer to gratitude, or maybe guilt. Like he didn’t believe he deserved the words, but he held onto them anyway.
You turned your head back toward the window.
“Still remember the first time you treated me like a grown-up”, you said lightly, but your smile grew.
Dean raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”.
“Yeah. I got my first period, and you were the only one home”.
He groaned immediately. “Oh hell. Don’t”.
You laughed. “I was twelve! It was summer. Bobby was on a hunt, Sam was gone, and I swear you thought I was dying”.
“I did think you were dying!”, Dean exclaimed, trying not to smile. “You came outta the bathroom pale as a ghost, holding a bloody towel, and I thought something ripped you open”.
You clutched your stomach, laughing harder now. “You panicked! You made me lie down, brought me a bottle of Jack for the pain, and then locked yourself in the kitchen, trying to find out how to stop internal bleeding”.
Dean was red now. “In my defense, nobody told me you were old enough for that crap!”.
“I had boobs by then, Dean!”.
He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.
“I’m telling you, I was not qualified. I didn’t even know where Bobby kept the damn diapers. I ended up giving you gauze and saying ‘just… tape it, I guess?’”.
You were crying from laughter now, doubled over in the passenger seat, tears streaking down your cheeks.
Dean was laughing now too, full and breathless, hands tight on the wheel just to stay steady.
“I was nineteen, Y/N!”, he wheezed. “I’d killed werewolves by then but nothing, nothing, prepared me for that bathroom horror show”.
The two of you dissolved into a mix of laughter and wheezing silence, the Impala rolling through the wet night as your shared history played like a slideshow between headlights.
And then, just as the laughter quieted, a silence settled between you. A gentle one.
You turned your head again, watching his profile in the dark.
“You did good, Dean”, you said softly. “You always did”.
-
Dean wouldn’t let you eat in the Impala. Of course he wouldn’t. You could bleed on the upholstery, pass out half-dead in the backseat, or stash a cursed dagger under the floorboards, but get one drop of ketchup on the leather? Armageddon.
So he parked under the old bridge outside town, rain hammering heavy as the two of you unwrapped greasy bags of food, steam rising into the cold air.
You sat side by side on the hood, wrapped in your too-thin hoodie, sharing fries from a crumpled paper boat balanced between you. The bridge above gave you just enough shelter to stay dry, but the mist still clung to everything.
Dean, naturally, didn’t seem to feel the cold.
He took a bite of his burger, leaned back on one elbow, and let the silence stretch.
You glanced over, watching the curve of his jaw flex as he chewed. He looked tired again. But not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.
You nudged his boot with yours.
“You’re quiet”.
Dean shrugged, eyes still fixed out on the dark stretch of road beyond the bridge.
“Just thinking”.
You took a sip of your soda. “Dangerous”.
That earned you the barest curve of his mouth.
Another beat passed. You expected him to make a crack, something about the food or the weather or your taste in music. But instead, without looking at you, he said: “So, uh… you thinking about college?”.
You blinked, thrown.
“What?”.
He finally looked at you, burger paused halfway to his mouth. “College. You know. Books. Parties. Whatever else kids your age are supposed to be doing”.
“I’m not a kid”.
“No, you’re not”, he said quietly.
You looked down at your lap, where your fingers were slowly unwrapping the edge of a napkin without realizing it.
“Why are you asking?”, you said, trying to keep it light.
Dean shrugged again, a little too casual, a little too careless.
“Just… figured you might want out, someday. You know. Normal life. Dating. Classes. Getting drunk on cheap beer and regretting it like everyone else your age”.
You stared at him for a second. It wasn’t just a question. Not from Dean. It never was.
“You mean getting out”, you said softly. “Out of this life”.
He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
You leaned back beside him.
“I used to think about it”, you said. “Back when I was younger. The normal life. Parties. Boys who didn’t carry switchblades in their pockets”.
Dean huffed a laugh. “Bet that didn’t last long”.
“Nope”, you smirked. “Got over it fast. Turns out I like this life better”.
You were quiet for a while.
But eventually you mumbled: “I missed you”.
You didn’t mean for it to come out that soft, almost like a secret. But it was the truth. Raw and real and sitting in the middle of your ribs for the last year.
Dean didn’t move at first.
“I mean…”, you added quickly, trying to smooth over the sudden weight of it. “You were always gone. And when you weren’t, I was. Felt like the door was always swinging, just never at the same time”.
He nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon, jaw clenched. You couldn’t tell if he was mad, or trying not to feel something else.
“Yeah”, he said. Almost too low to hear. “I noticed”.
He shifted a little, turning his head toward you. The rain had slowed to a mist, fog curling under the bridge like breath. You could barely make out his expression in the dark, but you didn’t have to see his eyes to feel them on you.
“I didn’t do it on purpose”, Dean said finally. “Staying gone”.
You nodded. “I know”.
“After I got back… it just… everything felt off. Like I didn’t know where I was supposed to be anymore”.
You looked at him, heart thudding.
“You were supposed to be here”, you said quietly. “You always were”.
He looked at you for a long time. You didn’t look away.
And then, slowly, he reached for the paper boat between you and plucked a fry, flicking it at your shoulder.
You gasped. “Did you just throw food at me?”.
Dean smirked, that cocky little half-smile finally creeping in. “Gotta break the tension somehow”.
You scoffed, grabbing a fry and launching it right back at him.
He caught it midair. Show-off.
And for a second, things felt like they used to. Simple. Safe.
Before the nightmares.
Before Hell.
Before you both grew up too fast.
And yet… underneath the playfulness, something unspoken still curled between your ribs.
You missed him. You still did. Even when he was sitting right beside you.
-
Dean had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. The drive-thru bags were empty now, crumpled and tossed into the backseat, forgotten.
Your legs were pulled up on the seat, socked feet resting on the dash, much to Dean’s unspoken annoyance, but he didn’t say anything. He let you.
The quiet between you wasn’t awkward anymore. Not like before. It was the kind of silence that knew you. You watched the road for a while. Then him.
The soft set of his jaw. The way his fingers tapped idly on the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio. His profile lit now and then by street lamps, flickering gold across his cheekbone, the scar near his chin catching the light.
“You always looked like a grown-up to me”, you said quietly, surprising even yourself.
Dean glanced at you, one brow raised.
You shrugged, looking back out the window.
“When I was a kid. You were nineteen, twenty. But you felt older. Like you knew what you were doing”.
He laughed softly. “Yeah, well. Joke’s on you. I didn’t have a damn clue”.
You smiled at that. “Still seemed like it”.
“You were just small”, he said, glancing over again. “Everything probably looked bigger”.
You shook your head, resting your chin on your knee now. “No… it wasn’t just that”.
Dean was quiet again, eyes on the road.
“It wasn’t fair, though”, you added, after a pause. “You didn’t get to be a kid. Not really”.
His jaw tightened at that, just slightly. You hadn’t meant it to be heavy, but it was.
“I didn’t mind. Someone had to look out for Sammy. For you”.
“You still do”.
He nodded once, eyes still forward.
“That’s the problem”.
You turned your head at that, watching him in profile.
“Why is that a problem?”.
He didn’t look at you. Just kept driving.
“Because sometimes I don’t know who I am outside of that”.
“You’re still you, Dean”, you said softly. “Even when you’re not protecting someone”.
He didn’t answer. But he blinked slowly, like maybe your words hit a part of him he hadn’t been willing to admit needed hearing.
You sat in that quiet a little longer, letting the mist fog the edges of the windshield.
Then, gently: “I used to pretend I was part of your team”, you said, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Back when I was a kid. Like I was this little secret Winchester nobody knew about”.
Dean’s eyes flicked toward you, warm. “You were part of the team. Hell, half the time you were the only one with enough brain cells to save our asses”.
You laughed. “You just needed someone to fix your spelling”.
“And keep you from running off to fight things twice your size”, he added, grinning now. “You had a knife that was bigger than your arm. I still have no idea where you got it”.
“I borrowed it from the kitchen”.
Dean shook his head, smiling into the darkness. “Yeah, that tracks”.
You watched him for a second longer, your heart tightening in your chest. Not from pain, but from everything else. From knowing him. From being known by him. From growing up in the shadow of his strength and realizing somewhere along the way, you’d started matching it with your own.
“I missed this”, you whispered.
Dean looked over, gaze soft.
“Me too”.
-
Dean didn’t say anything as you got out of the car, just locked it behind you and walked up the steps with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. You followed silently, your hoodie pulled tight around your body, the scent of wet leaves and grease clinging to your skin.
Inside, the house was quiet. Still warm from earlier, but barely.
“I’m gonna hit the shower”, Dean mumbled, heading for the bathroom without waiting for a response.
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers tracing the rim of your mug from this morning. It was strange, how easily everything had slid back into place, the way you both moved around each other without needing to ask where anything was. Like no time had passed at all.
But it had. So much had.
By the time Dean came back out, your heart was already beating a little faster. Not from nerves. Not entirely. Just from knowing he’d been thinking about you. Asking questions he didn’t want to ask.
And you? You’d never been good at pretending, not with him.
You didn’t say anything, just brushed past him with a small, quiet smile, heading toward the bathroom for your turn under the hot water.
The shower helped. A little. Steam wrapped around your body like fog, easing the ache in your shoulders, washing away the chill of the night. But it didn’t clear your head. It didn’t erase the feel of him beside you on the hood of the Impala. Or the sound of his voice, deeper now.
You found Dean sitting on the couch, feet up, a beer in his hand and another set on the table beside him. The light was dim and his flannel sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, arms resting lazily over the back of the couch.
He held out the second beer without a word. You took it and sat down beside him.
The silence stretched again. You sipped slowly, the bottle cold against your fingertips, and watched the way his thumb rubbed across the edge of the label on his own. It was quiet. Peaceful even.
And then his hand brushed your knee. Accidental, maybe. But he didn’t move it. Neither did you.
You didn’t look at him, couldn’t, but your breath caught all the same. You felt him shift, just slightly, like he was trying to decide something. Like maybe he’d reached the end of pretending.
And then his fingers curled lightly around your knee. So damn warm. Your heart skipped.
You looked over, finally, and he was already watching you. Not in a brotherly way. Not anymore. There was something unspoken in his eyes, but it wasn’t confusion. It was recognition. Like he’d been trying not to see you for a long time. And now he couldn’t stop.
“You cold?”, he asked softly.
His voice was lower now.
You nodded, maybe a little too fast.
Dean shifted again, closer this time, and pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you without a word. His arm stayed behind you now. Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand still rested on your knee.
The TV played something muted in the background, neither of you paying attention.
Dean’s palm slid a little, brushing higher over your thigh before he caught himself and stopped, pulling his hand back like the contact burned. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the beer bottle, the TV, anywhere but your face.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye, heart pounding. It was so quiet you could hear the clink of his ring against the glass as his hand tightened around the neck of the bottle. His jaw flexed. He looked guilty, almost, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or something worse.
“Sorry”, he muttered. “Didn’t mean—”.
He didn’t finish, because you both knew he did mean it. Even if he didn’t want to.
You swallowed. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word. Just let your fingers, trembling a little, slide beneath the edge of the blanket so they brushed lightly against his wrist.
Dean let out a shaky breath, not looking at you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
He tried to focus on the TV, on the bottle in his hand, on anything that would ground him back in the world where you were Bobby’s kid, younger than him, someone he was supposed to protect — not crave. But the need to feel something had been burning through him for months, lighting him up from the inside out. Usually he chased it with violence, or whiskey, or sex with strangers in town.
But this wasn’t any of those things.
It was you. And that made it worse.
“Maybe we should…”, Dean started, voice thin, forced casual. “Maybe you should get some sleep”.
You didn’t let go of his wrist.
“Maybe I’m fine right here”, you whispered.
Dean’s gaze dropped. His hand flexed under yours. He looked like he might get up, run, or maybe pull you into his lap and finally let go.
But he didn’t do either.
Instead, he tried to laugh, but it came out hollow.
“You know your dad would kill me if he saw us like this”, he said, still not quite meeting your eyes.
You smiled, soft and sad. “He’s not here”.
Dean’s knuckles brushed your thigh again, this time slower, more deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the feeling, just in case he made himself stop.
For a second, the only sound was the rain outside, tapping against the window, and the quiet, ragged pace of his breathing.
He pressed his forehead to yours, close enough you could smell the beer and the warmth of his skin. “You’re off limits”, he whispered, the words trembling. “You always were”.
Your fingers traced the inside of his wrist, gentle but certain.
“Does it feel that way?”.
Dean shook his head, eyes closing, pain and want written all over his face.
“No”, he said, voice breaking just a little. “Not right now”.
You leaned in, your lips almost brushing his. You waited for him to pull back, to run, to do the right thing.
One moment you were hovering, breaths mixing, your hand cradling Dean’s wrist, the next, his mouth was on yours. Warm, soft and desperate in a way that made the room spin.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. Not really. It was slow, yes, but hungry, all the need and longing and months (years) of not-touching crashing together. Dean tasted like beer and salt, his lips plush but unsteady, a shiver running through him every time you pressed closer.
His hand slid up your thigh, thumb tracing a line so reverent it made your knees weak. You moved instinctively, straddling his lap, legs bracketing his hips, arms curling around his neck. The blanket slipped away, forgotten, pooling at your backs as you melted into him.
Dean moaned softly into your mouth, the sound rough and deep and so damn needy, a sound you’d never heard from him before, a sound that made your skin flush hot. You felt his hands on your back, your waist, your legs. You felt everything. Especially the hard line of him pressing up between your thighs, through jeans and cotton and nothing but want.
You rocked your hips, barely thinking, just chasing the heat of his body and the low, broken sigh he let out against your lips. Dean’s hand slid beneath your sweatshirt, his palm splaying wide over your lower back, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his.
He broke the kiss just long enough to suck in a breath, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking. “Damn it, Sweetheart…”, he whispered, voice ragged, hands trembling as they slid over your bare skin.
You shivered, pressing your nose to his jaw, breathing in the scent of him, the heat. You mouthed at the stubble on his neck, biting gently, desperate to leave a mark, to prove, even if just for a moment, that this was real.
Dean groaned, deep and desperate, rocking up against you, his erection hard beneath you. You whimpered, hips rolling, chasing friction. It was everything, all at once, years of waiting, years of not looking, years of knowing you were off limits but not caring, not now, not when it finally felt like the world could stop.
And then the doorbell rang. The sound was shrill, jarring. You both froze, breathless, lips still almost touching, your body pressed tight to his.
Dean’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen and parted.
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 74✦
✦summary: you have some unexpected visitors✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: always remember that dean without princess is a sad guy but princess without dean is. bad.✦
Apr. 11 - 2010
Princess,
Went to a bar last night. Going to bars most nights. I’d say it was just for hustling, but there not really anything to lie for. You’re not here. If I get you back, I don’t even know if you’ll ever read these. Point is, bar. They had a big Indiana Jones poster on the wall. Tested the Shirley Temples for you, too. You’d like it. I’ll take you there, when you get home.
You gotta come home.
I don’t know where I’m going, Princess. I miss you. Think about you all the time. Need you.
These letters all sound the same. Sorry. Never done this before, but you know that.
I hope you know that. Shit, I hope you never thought I didn’t want you. I know I sleep slept around a lot, but I only ever loved you. Fuck, Princess, I call your name when I have sex and I think about that apple pie life with you. Promised Sammy I’d have it, with you, after he went into the cage. Always thought I’d end up making you a house, getting you a ring, marrying you. We’d have a good wedding. You’d plan it, but I’d help. I’d want to help. I’d try to help, and you’d make me stop cause you’re bossy. But you’d do it better anyway. You’d look hot in the dress, and I’d wear a nice suit that doesn’t have any blood on it, then we’d get married. Go somewhere nice and sunny for our honeymoon.
I’ve had a lot of dreams about that honeymoon, Princess. Could do a whole separate letter about it.
But I mostly just have a lot of dreams about you.
This one is my favorite.
We get married. Live together, and no monsters come knocking. God never takes you. I give you kids. I’d like five, it’s a good number, but just one would make me the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. If it’s gotta be one, I always hoped it was a girl. She’d look just like you, but I think she’d have my taste in music. She’d like Star Wars, too. Uncle Sammy would watch it with her (he’d try to be uncle sam, but you wouldn’t let that happen) and Grandpa Bobby would teach her about cars because she’s too cool to talk to her dad about it.
You give me nothing back, by the way. You’ve given enough, baby girl.
And I promised Sammy I’d at least give you this, but you jumped in the cage. And I know you saved the world, but fucking Christ, shouldn’t have been you. I don’t know why it always has to be you. It’s some fucking bullshit.
And you’d tell me it has to be you and i’d say it doesn’t then you say it does.
I’d never make it you.
I bought that box I mentioned. Last month? Can’t remember. You’ll check. Couldn’t find pink. Got gold and purple. Looks fancy. You’d like it.
Yours,
DAW
You look over to that same box, resting on the chipped, wooden workbench. More letters are strewn around it, divided by what you’ve read and what you’re reading today. The Lady is sitting on the read pile, and Indy’s sprawled next to your leg, her wing’s spread and tail twitching in her sleep. You’ve had to limit yourself to three a day at most. Anymore than that and you start to cry so much it feels like drowning. On the worst days you can’t see anything in negatives of Gold, a blur of muddied colors that aren’t Dean, and the last stains of him on your hands. You press them into your skin, trying to force them a layer deeper, to make them tattoo.
It isn’t quite working. And reading the letters hurts as much as it helps.
Dean left little Golden stains, on the faded paper. Spots where his palm must have pressed, where his fingers must’ve traced a word before deciding he’d gotten the spelling right, or scribbled it out and tried again. The thought makes you smile. Dean hunched over a table, chewing on the tip of his pen. Corrects his tenses, for sleep versus slept. Writing pricess before frowning and mouthing out the word, then trying again and getting it right. It couldn’t have been easy for him, to do this night after night. He doesn’t even like grocery lists, because he’s got it all in his head.
But he did. Every night, for at least a year, Dean sat down and wrote you a letter.
I mostly just have a lot of dreams about you.
You dream about him too. It’s all you dream about. All you’ve ever dreamt about. And you have no way to tell him that. No way for him to know you’re reading his letters, then holding them tight to your chest as you sob of the warehouse floor.
Thunder rumbles outside. The locals say it’s monsoon season come early, but you looked at the weather this morning. Clear skies, all the way into tomorrow.
You’re stretching out over the horizon, under the bridges until the water rises to try and get away from itself, into the clouds that can’t bear to be so high and cold and alone and untethered anymore. They’ve seen enough. Been too many places, and now everything is just Mountains they have to cross and views that means nothing alone. They want to come down. You want to come down. The sky vibrates and the static becomes violent, because you want to come down but there’s nowhere you can land that will be home.
Lightning splits the sky outside the warehouse window, lighting up the ghoul, limp and silent in the chair. You wipe the tears with the palm of your hand, glaring at the body. Bobby’s bottle glows on the bench next to the letters, and it feels awfully judgmental.
“That one wasn’t even me,” you mutter. “She was like that when I got here.”
Bobby shimmers with the roll of thunder. Disapproval prickles over your neck.
“It wasn’t me,” you glare at him, and he seems to twist. “It wasn’t, dad, it was- I don’t know, I think she killed herself or something.”
Your stomach gets small and tight as the warehouse flashes with more lightning. You didn’t know a bottle could raise its brows with quiet, measured doubt, but this one seems perfectly capable of it. It’s somehow the same face Bobby used to give you when he’d come back to a wolf pup in the shed that you weren’t allowed to keep—you’d just been trying to find it’s mother, it wasn’t your fault you bonded with it—or the garden overgrown with flowers that weren’t supposed to bloom for another few months, over the railings and sticking up between the cracks of the porch.
“I’m going to get rid of the body,” you mutter, tracing over Dean’s handwriting on that last letter. “I’m just- I’m busy.”
Bobby hums with doubt, and you shoot him a glare.
“Well- You do it then. Oh, right.” You stick your tongue out at him. “You’re a bottle. You don’t get a vote.”
You’re talking to a bottle, sweetheart,” Dean’s voice seems to murmur in your ear, and you sigh.
You know. You might be going a little crazy, but you’ve been crazier. At least you’re not tying a demon up in a bathtub to talk about your feelings this time. You put that on Indy and the Lady—who listen with half interest, although that might just be because you’re petting them—and Bobby’s soul.
And who knows. Maybe he can actually hear you in there. Sam remembered everything from when his soul was on blockers. You remember everything from the cage. And it’s a little different, but same principle. Maybe. You don’t think anyone’s ever been a soul in a bottle before, and as far as you know Bobby’s just sitting in the little heaven you made for him, blissfully unaware of the disaster outside.
You haven’t made much progress on finding Dean. Jo suggested you think of it less like no progress and more like closer to making progress. You told her to stop watching Dr. Phil reruns. There’s a reason she and Dean always did that without you and Sam. You’d get mad and shout at the TV and bitch about his inaccuracies until Dean covered your mouth and Sam got kicked out.
You cover your own mouth, and close your eyes. Your hand is too small. You don’t have the same callouses and scars. You just manage to block a small sob, and it makes your body shake with another burst of thunder. Indy nuzzles into your thigh, and you lean over yourself, trying to bottle up the aching, angry, cold that burns in your chest like a dying star. It leaks out in hot tears and trembling fingers that make the earth shake. The ghoul’s body makes a loud, gooey snapping sound as it’s neck finds a strange and ugly angle, but you only spare it a glance before you have to make yourself smaller.
Everything blurs, except for Dean’s words on the page.
You give me nothing back, by the way. You’ve given enough, baby girl.
You’ve barely given anything. You can’t even find him and bring him home, for that life you can’t stop thinking about, no matter how hard it makes it not to scream.
God is still hidden, leaving the sky empty and yours to rip in half. There’s more lightning. More thunder. The Lady jumps off the work bench and lays over Indy’s hide, clearly annoyed by the noise. You pet her ears and watch the rain fall, pulling yourself back together with a hand around your throat.
A new strategy might be in order. This is the fourth monster this month, who’s killed themselves before you could talk. It’s pretty fucking rude.
“Word must be gettin’ round,” Jo muttered last night. “You ain’t exactly subtle, and- Y’know.” She’d given you a pointed look. “Once you got eyes on ‘em, not much they can do.”
You’d grunted, cleaning your knife with short, brutal movements. The anger and exhaustion was starting to bubble up, and Dean always said you were worse at hiding it than you thought. You get pissy face, he’d murmur, petting your head. And start snappin’ at me like you wanna kill me.
Maybe I do wanna kill you, you’d snip, and Dean would raise his brows. You’d huff, and he’d chuckle.
Princess-
Shut up-
Just let me handle it, he’d duck down, smiling soft at your taut, narrowed face. Alright?
You’d agree, even if you didn’t want to. Dean always had a way to placate you, and when he said he’d handle it, you believed him. He’d never failed, when he made that promise. But he wasn’t here to handle things now. So you’re allowed to be as curt and pissy as you fucking want.
“I’ll figure it out,” you’d muttered, and Jo had hummed. You could feel her worry, poking under your skin. She knew you too well to push it. You knew her too well to think she didn’t want to.
Then, this morning, you showed up to the Ghoul dead, and you’d maybe snapped her neck in frustration. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair, and you were stomping around and whining like a child, but it wasn’t fucking fair.
The rain keeps falling. You’re exactly where you started, only with letters in your hands and a splitting pit in your gut that only gets deeper every day. Sometimes you can almost feel a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Then you turn around, and there’s nothing there at all.
You start to clean up. The letters go back in the box, the box and the bottle go in the bag, the Ghoul gets taken out the river and burned to ash. It might be time to leave India, if Jo’s right. The monsters talk. If they all know you—know what you are, know what you want, and what you’ll do to get it—you’re basically running a euthanization camp, and that’s a little too fucked up, even for you.
“I would’ve let you go,” you mutter to the ghoul’s ashes as you dump them in the water. “I- I don’t like- I don’t like being this.”
The river swallows the gray, and sweeps it away down the swelling bank. Indy splashes about excitedly. You worry she’ll fall in, so you whistle and walk back inside. She whines, but follows.
“Can’t let people see you, baby,” you pet her head as she romps over to your side. “That’s how bad things happen.”
Indy looks like she’s rolling her eyes, and you smile faintly. Dean would’ve laughed. He would’ve said she’s acting just like her mom, and kissed you on the side of the head.
You hug yourself tight around the stomach, and let out a sigh that’s heavier than the thick, dark clouds. You miss him. You miss him so fucking much.
But you don’t miss him enough to be stupid. If anything, no Dean means you’re sharper than even, made of nothing but a steel resolve to get him back. Your head hurts and your back aches and there’s no color in the world to distract you, so everything is sharp, clear lines of black and white.
The door to the warehouse is ajar, and you pause with your head on the wood, eyes narrowing on the broken lock. Your lips tighten to a thin line, and you reach for your knife. Indy hangs back, the rain beating down over your heads. You slip inside, your back to the wall, your head on swivel. Something clatters by the bench, and you let out another, sharp whistle.
Indy bangs inside and Claire shrieks as she’s tackled to the ground.
You sigh, wiping your soaked hair from your face. “Claire, what- You’re supposed to be at the motel-“
“I was bored,” she whines, pushing at Indy’s wings as the dragon recognizes her and starts trying to lick her face. “And Jo- Jo’s too far away, and I know where you were-“
“And you know you’re not supposed to come here,” you scold, tucking your knife back away. “You could’ve gotten hurt-“
“But I didn’t. And it’s stupid I’m not supposed to come here, it’s just a warehouse-“
“It’s just a warehouse,” you say flatly, petting Indy’s horns as she trots back to your side. “Because I just got rid of the body.”
Claire’s eyes widen, her face lighting up with something too close to excitement. “The body?!”
You hum, and Claire stands a little taller.
“Can I see it? I’ve seen bodies before, and I- I won’t touch it, I promise-“
“I just got rid of it,” you give her a pointed look, and her shoulders slump.
“Oh- right.” She shifts of her feet, glancing back at the work bench, then the empty chair. “Did you… kill it?”
You sigh. For a second, you think about lying, although you’re not sure that’s better than the truth. Bobby wouldn’t have lied to you. “No,” you mutter. “It killed itself.”
“Why?”
You shrug. You’re sticking to the no lying thing. She still doesn’t need to know every brutal truth. You don’t need her to look at you like the monster, cleaving through the world to get want she wants and still coming up with nothing but blood covered hands. “I was just wrapping up,” you say softly, and if Claire notices you dodging the question, she only frowns. “And you know the rules. You’re allowed to stay with us, but-“
“No hunting stuff,” Claire finishes. “I know I- I wasn’t here for that.”
You give her a sideways look. Her voice had dropped to something small, and it’s worrying. She’s hugging her middle and looking at her shoes, and it makes worry itch over your skin, every muscle getting tight as you brace to fight something off. You lean against the workbench, dipping your head to try and meet her gaze. “Claire?”
She grunts, glancing up at you, then back down. Your frown deepens.
“Claire, if something happened, I need you to tell me-“
“Nothing happened,” she mutters, and you don’t believe her.
“Look, I- can’t promise I won’t be mad,” you murmur gently. “But I won’t yell, and I promise we’ll fix it-“
“Nothing happened!” Claire shouts, glaring at you under lidded eyes. “I just- I was hungry, okay? I wanted to go- To get dinner with you.” Her gaze drops back down. “But if you- If you’re busy.” She shrugs, kicking a pebble. “It’s fine. It’s like- Whatever.”
You stare at her for a moment, the words slow to sink in. First there’s relief, easing that clench in your stomach—she’s fine, everything’s fine—and then a smile that crawls over your face. “You want to get dinner? With me?”
Claire nods, though it’s more of a toss of her head.
“Are you- I mean,” you rub your wrist, watching her carefully. “I know Dean isn’t- Here- and you usually do dinner with him, but-“ You swallow. You love Dean, you do, but sometimes you wonder if people are surprised that he loves you back, and not even for the loud, sick reasons you used to be.
Dean’s fun. He can grumble about being old and strict all he wants, you know he used to take Sam out for fireworks and scrape by a little extra so they could see movies. He makes Cas try new human foods and plays drinking games over pool with Jo and gets you to smile and crawl a little out of your shell without feeling too bare, because he’s at your side the whole time. You dance with him. You smile with him, and actually… Do things.
You never do things, without Dean. Every single time you’ve been left without him—Brazil, Iran, Italy, and now India—it becomes painfully obvious you might be the most boring person alive. Dean would say you aren’t boring. That you’re just a different kind of fun.
If the letters are proving anything to you, it’s that Dean’s love for you might be the only thing that makes him blindly stupid. You are not fun. And if Claire is expecting fun—like when Dean brings her paintball shooting, or all of you to minigolf and he decides he simply has to guide the club in your hand while leaving Claire to her own devices, before you elbow him in the gut for thinking you need the extra help—you can’t offer anything like that by yourself. And you really, really don’t want her to be disappointed.
But right now, she mostly looks confused. As if she can’t even begin to figure out what you’re suggesting.
“I know I can’t do dinner with Dean,” she says, almost sounding offended. “I wouldn’t even want to right now, I- I want to have dinner with you.” She scowls to herself. “Or- Whatever.”
Your smile returns fast. “With me?”
“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “You’ve asked that like, three times now. Did you hit your head or something-“
“No, I- I just-“ You shake off your shook, the smile feeling easier on your face. “Yeah,” you say softly. “We can do dinner.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
Claire says it like she doesn’t care, but you can hear the threat of joy, pushing under her voice. You grab the duffle bag and nod to the car. And when she stomps past you, it’s almost visible behind her slightly matted hair.
A smile.
You have to drop of Indy and the Lady first—regular pets aren’t allowed in restaurants, let alone magic ones—but Claire finds a place on her phone, and you text Jo to tell her you’ll be back later. You know she’ll make dinner for herself, after she gets back from getting the scrolls you asked for. You’d offer for her to join you, but some small, selfish part of you just wants it to be you and Claire.
“How’s school?” You ask when you sit down, watching her carefully. “You know, if you miss actual school-“
“Please don’t offer to bring me back again,” Claire says, crossing her arms. “I’m not doing it. My friends will be there when we get Dean back, and I’ll get to tell them all about my year abroad. This is making me cool. Going home will make me lame.”
You laugh softly, but nod. You’re trying not to offer too much, but you still think she should go back. You didn’t get to go to real school. She deserves better than that. “What do you tell your friends?” You ask, deciding that’s a safer path to go down. “About your life?”
“I dunno,” Claire shrugs, and you raise your brows.
“Dean told me you call him your dad-“
“No, I don’t!” Claire scowls. “Everyone- They just assumed he was my dad, because he kept dropping me off and picking me up after I told him not to, but-“
“He never listens to that kind of stuff,” you let out a small, light breath of a laugh. “God, it- It used to kill me and Sam, you know. I thought I was going to wake up and find him trying to microchip me.”
“He’s so annoying.” Claire grumbles. “It was awful, it was like he thought I was a baby-“
“He does think you’re a baby.”
Claire shoots upright. “I knew it-“
“He also thinks Sam’s a baby,” you push on, and Claire frowns. “And I’m a baby. And Cas, and Jo-“
“Jo’s not a baby,” Claire scoffs, and you snort.
“But I am?”
“No, I- No.” Claire goes a little red. “You’re just like- It makes sense that Dean’s so dramatic about you-“
“Because I’m a baby?” You raise your brows, and Claire shakes her head frantically.
“No, you’re his wife or whatever, and Sam’s his brother, and-“
“You’re his kid,” you cut, gently but firmly, and Claire deflates. “You’re our responsibility, and Dean- He takes that very seriously.”
Claire huffs, glaring at her fork, and your lips twitch.
“It’s also annoying.” You add, leaning across the table. “But- At least he’s never tried to handcuff you together.”
Her head shoots up, all the annoyance draining fast. “He tried to handcuff you?”
You nod, and tell the story. It was an old, old hunt. Before he died, right after he found out you weren’t exactly human. The Hell House hunt he’d insisted on doing, that you’d been resistant to tagging along on. You’d wanted to research, but Dean had begged, and you’d never been good at telling him no. When Sam and the geek-squad of fake hunters had started going missing, Dean had gotten paranoid. You’d told him you were going back upstairs to try and trace one of the death echoes. He demanded to come with you, you told him no—he’d be in danger, you’d be fine—so he’d started shouting about handcuffing you together. You’d smacked him and done it anyway, before going back to the duffle bag and making proper wards.
“He was so pissed,” you smile to yourself. “It was adorable.”
Claire hums, tilting her head slightly. “Huh.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing, it’s just-“ She shrugs. “That’s not what happens in the books.”
You stare at her for a second, then sigh. Long and heavy, to hide your laugh. “You’ve been reading the books? Claire, I’ve told you, they’re not-“
“I know they’re not right!” She insists. “I know! But I want to know what happened, and what to do, and- They’re good books-“
“No, they’re not.”
She slumps. “No,” she mumbles. “They’re not. Did you know that the- The Carver guy-“
“Chuck,” you supply, and she nods.
“Right, Chuck- He made Jo and Dean a thing, I mean- It’s so gross.”
She mocks gags, and you snort. It’s more hilarious than disgusting, for you to think about. Jo would skin Dean alive if he hit on her. And Dean wouldn’t hit on her. That part’s just simple.
“And you’re really not in them,” Claire continues complaining. “Which is like- Crazy.”
You hum in agreement. “You know, I can tell you things that actually happened. There are parts that aren’t mine, but-“ You shrug. “I’ll tell you.”
Claire’s whole face lights up. “Really? For real?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Really for real.”
Dinner goes quickly after that. Claire all but interrogates you about everything from Dean getting Sam at college to being dragged to hell. You tell her what you can, adding other detail about your life apart from them. Claire seems the most interested in those parts, asking question after question until you lose track.
“Sam and Dean are boring,” she says when you point it out. “They’re all just- Men.” She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t get why that’s so interesting.”
You snort. You’re using that one on Dean, when he gets home. “I’m just a woman-“
“No,” Claire shakes her head, swirling her straw around her drink. “You’re cool.”
That makes you laugh again, shaking your head. “I am not cool-“
“You kill demons-“
“All hunters kill demons-“
“You do it with your hands.” Claire insists. “You’re cool.”
You’re starting to think she might be Dean’s biological daughter. “Claire-“
“I agree with the girl,” a cool, measured voice says from behind you, and every nerve in your body sparks. “You are… Cool.”
You don’t need to turn, to know what you’re dealing with. Your back hurts, your head throbs, and the world stands still through you didn’t push time to a stop. The angel must have just dropped down, if you didn’t feel them before. They were smart, as well, to do it when you were with Claire. Otherwise you’d pluck it’s feathers clean, then introduce it to a lovely chair in a warehouse.
It’s not even that strong an angel, when they walk to stand behind Claire. Duller than Cas—the last time you saw him, at least—with no extra feathers or features. Electric rainbow and a stale kind of brown-purple, thousands of thinner hands and eyes that don’t seem to blink. Not much bigger than Balthazar, really. Not anything you’d need to worry about.
She’s keeping herself in the body of a red-headed woman that makes you look loose and carefree. You think you’ve seen her face in corporate commercials and stock photos of a businesswoman doing business. You wouldn’t glance twice in a crowd, if she wasn’t harboring this brave, stupid angel. You tip your head, waiting for her to speak, and she finally blinks. Once. Slowly. Like you’re not what she expected to see, despite the fact that—if there’s one thing about your situation that you’re certain of—you’re one of a kind.
“Your… Holiness,” she dips her head, and your mouth pulls down.
That’s better than what you expected. You still don’t like it. “Just-“ You say your name tightly. “That’s fine.”
She nods, but it’s a curt motion. Saying your holiness had seemed to pain her slightly. Your name doesn’t roll off any easier. “My apologies for interrupting your night. I needed to speak with you.”
You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. “You know, I take calls.”
Her face twitches. “Yes, well, I figured this is a conversation best had in person.”
“Hm,” you look her up and down. “If you’re looking for Cas, I don’t know where-“
“I am not concerned about Castiel. I would not-“ Her jaw flexes. “Your time is more valuable than that… Strange little traitor. And I must say, I am glad you have finally realized such.”
You frown. You might be furious at Cas—really, really furious—but that doesn’t mean you’re above his time. He’s Cas. He’s strange and valuable, and he’s a little bit of a traitor but you’ve all betrayed each other all the time so it doesn’t really matter, and this angel doesn’t get to just come in and-
You take a long, deep breath. Steady. You need to be the mountains, not the wildfire. Steady.
“I’m sorry,” you say, making sure you don’t sound it. “Who are you?”
The angel tenses, then bows her head again. “Naomi, your-“ She cuts herself off from another holiness, and decides this time to say your name in Enochian. You like her even less.
“Naomi,” you echo. “You don’t look like a Naomi.”
She frowns, glancing down at her vessel and smoothing her pencil skirt. “My apologies. I rarely have time to concern myself with things like looks. That is a very… Human worry.”
She says the word human like it’s dirty. You decided you don’t like her at all. “I concern myself with looks,” you say, and Naomi’s wings flutter strangely.
“You are above judgement-“
“What do you want?” You cut her off, sliding your hand over your knife. “Because I don’t know if you’ve heard up there, but this isn’t exactly a good time.”
Naomi—to her very thin credit—doesn’t flinch. She glances at your hand and swallows, but takes a step forward. Arrogance does seem to pour off of her. She seems remarkably confident you’re not about to flay her grace from inside out, and—for Claire’s sake—you hope she’s right.
“We know everything,” she says, her voice odd, as if she’s trying to sound kind. “The Leviathan hive rotting, the death of Eve, the… Loss of Sam and Dean Winchester.” She pauses, eyeing you cautiously. “Heaven- We might keep our hands clean, but that does not mean we ever allow ourselves to be ignorant, especially after Castiel’s little stunt with the door.”
She makes a bitter face, and you narrow your eyes. She doesn’t like Cas. You think she needs to get away from Claire, now.
“It wasn’t just Cas,” you say, moving to your feet. She takes a step back. Good. “I was the one who opened the door-“
“You were under undue influence from a silver-tongued charlatan, and-“ Naomi cuts herself off with a huff, feathers shaking tightly out. “I am not here,” she snips. “To discuss the sentence of Castiel. I am here for you,” she says your name in Enochian, and your grip on your knife tightens. “And nothing else.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware.” You mutter, moving closer again. Naomi goes another step back. “But people who come for me don’t usually walk away, let alone with their intended prize.”
“I did not say I was here to collect you,” Naomi says. “I said I was here for you.” She sniffs, almost offended. “Heaven knows better than to try and take you-“
“Do they?” You mock. “Because if that’s the case, and the rest of you have been so clear about our relationship,” you gesture between your bodies with the knife. “Then you’ve been putting some real dummies in charge.”
Naomi’s jaw ticks. “Raphael- He had to make choices, to move against Castiel-“
“Not Raphael,” you click your tongue. “Zachariah. Michael. They both tried what even Lucifer knew better than to attempt, hell, even God,” you laugh, and Naomi pales. “He doesn’t just grab me. He can’t.” You twist a ring on your finger, sticking your chin high. “So if Heaven is under new management, you might want to pass on a memo about previous bad decision.”
“Heaven is under new management,” Naomi says tightly. “Me.”
“Oh, congratulations-“
“And as the new management,” she raises her voice over yours, twitching at your amused look. “I have decided that it is time to request, politely,” she takes a deep breath. “That you come home.”
You stare at her for a long moment. Naomi glance at your hand, then your openly surprised expression. Her wings flutter, seemingly ready to take off.
And you start to laugh. You laugh so hard your throat hurts, so hard you have to grab the back of Claire’s chair to stay upright.
“No,” you snort, shaking your head. “No, oh my- Did you think that was going to work?”
Naomi swallows, going stiff again. “I believe that my predecessors took the wrong foot, with the woman destined to be our Queen-“
“Yeah, they didn’t think I was destined for that, or- Well, Michael did. But he was kind of stupid and crazy, and Zacharaih, well, I put him in a jar for a reason. And I’ve gotten better at that, too- Hey,” you smile at her. “Would you like to be in a jar?”
“No,” Naomi mutters. “I would not, your holiness.”
“Great. Makes sense.” You wave. “See you around, then.”
You start to walk back to your chair. You’ve made yourself clear, though you didn’t think you’d have to. Between going up to Heaven and being tossed back into the cage for a few weeks, you’d pick the cage. At least you’d get to see Dean.
But Naomi—for all her talk about not being like her predecessors—doesn’t get your very strict, well-communicated message. She clears her throat. She doesn’t leave.
You’re starting to think she does want to be put in a jar.
“What?” You spin around, crossing your arms. “Are you going to try saying please?”
Naomi doesn’t pretend to smile. She pushes her chin to match yours and plants her heels, her wings spreading in her vessel like she’s trying to get bigger. If she thinks that’s going to intimidate you, she’s getting stupider by the second. You’re bigger than the sky.
“Heaven knows everything,” she repeats, and she’s making it way too easy to laugh.
“Yeah, I got that-“
“We know about Eve’s plan,” she adds, and you go still. “And we know that Old Heaven was not quiet as locked as she assumed.”
You swallow. There’s no fear buzzing under your skin, but there is a sickening kind of clarity. A deep, rooting sense that if Naomi isn’t asking you a question. She’s giving you a warning. A reminder.
You’re never going to be someone who gets out.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, twisting Dean’s ring on your finger. Naomi’s mouth curves slightly, making her look snakish and cold.
“Forgive me, your holiness, but I think you do.”
You don’t answer. If she wants to speak, she can, but you won’t be entertaining this. Not now. Not when you’re still clawing back to a bed you can stand to sleep in.
“When the Winchester’s went to Heaven, the first time, after Zachariah took the boy,” Naomi smiles faintly, taking a daring step closer. “Old Heaven was breached. We thought it was one of ours, a young one who’d gotten too curious, a fool who thought they could go home, but no.” She tips her head. “It was only after Michael’s failure that we realized it had been you. Slipping in and out of a door we thought we’d shut so well it could never open, even with the combined grace of Heaven. We should’ve known from the start. After all, the only other individual who could’ve done such a thing was our father, and well-“ She laughs coldly. “We all know about that.”
Your eyes flick out to the sky. Still empty. You wonder—when you look back to Naomi’s cold expression—if she knows he’s not all that gone at all.
“The angels closed it?” You ask before you can think better, and Naomi nods.
“Yes, we did.”
“Hm,” you work your lips. “Why.”
“The Leviathan’s- The were unforgiving, when Eve unleashed them.” A shadow passes over Naomi’s face. “They tore through our home, destroyed everything we’d built, everything our father had given us-“ Her words turned sour. “Everything he refused to give us after.”
You swallow, glancing back down at Claire. There’s a kernel of pity, at the bottom of your heart. It’s the same thing that strains for monsters, before they try to hurt your Dean. It burned for the Oracle girl you had to kill last year. It pulses for Naomi, small and quiet, but there all the same. You’ve never had a place that you could hold onto like a home. Even Bobby’s house was more about Bobby that the foundation in the ground.
But Dean is gone. And you feel like everywhere you are is wrong. And you understand.
“I am sorry,” you say gently. “For your home. But-“
“Just- Listen.” Naomi moves forward again. Her voice drops to something desperate. “God never opened the door, after it was closed. He left our home to rot, he made us live in that- Cold place full of humans and stone and-“ She lets out a sharp, slow breath, visibly collecting herself. “Many of us still call Old Heaven home. It could be our home again, and your precious little pets,” she nods around the restaurant, around the human’s frozen in laughter and mirth and arguments and quiet satisfaction, with the beauty of a world they don’t even know they could lose. “We’d leave them alone,” Naomi says, giving you a quiet, pleading look. “We’d leave the apocalypse to lie. You’d be where you belong, with other beings of Heaven. All you’d need to do is open the door, and you- You’d be giving us-“
“Paradise?” You finish, and Naomi shakes her head.
“A home.”
You take a deep, slow breath, staring down at your feet. You can’t count the things that are real, swimming through this frozen time. You want to help. The kernel pulls, and the idea of angels never bothering you again, and-
Home. Never running. Never getting out.
Naomi leans a little forward, voice dropping low. “We’d do everything you asked. We’ve already prepared most of the spell, if you wish to do it like that. You have the first beast, and we could get your man of god-“
Your head snaps up, and Naomi goes silent. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, as the heat in the air rises. You know she heard it.
Her mistake.
“My man,” you repeat, spinning your knife in your hands. “You know where he is.”
Naomi shakes her head, retreating on shaking legs. “No, I didn’t-“
“You said you could retrieve him,” you snap. “Which means you know, which means you could bring him back-“
“We- We have ideas-“ Naomi’s attention flits around the room, like she’s looking for a way out. “We’re willing to help, on our terms.”
“No,” you raise a finger. “No. You don’t get terms. You bring me my Dean back. Now.”
“We have conditions.”
“You have nothing,” you hiss. “And you will have even less, if you don’t get my Dean-“
The world cracks, loud enough you feel it in your chest. You lunge for Naomi, right as she shoots up into the sky. Your fingers just slip against her feathers, and you’re all the celestial winds between the worlds, always trying to be something else, somewhere else, never satisfied enough and never allowed to rest. You’d let them rest. If they brought you Naomi, they’d never have to rush again-
The restaurant bursts back to life. A waiter trips against you, her platter slipping to the floor. You catch it, still staring up at the sky, and pass it into her hands without a glance. Heaven knows. Heaven literally knows where Sam and Dean are, they could get them back, you could get him back-
“Woah,” Claire says, still seated at the table. “How did you get there?”
And you deflate. You let the winds go, let Naomi go, just for tonight. You have something to work with, and if Naomi says she could get Dean, that means you could get him. That means he’s somewhere you can reach.
You smile at the ceiling. A few of the lights, humming with excitement, burst their fixtures, sending sparks around a gasping room. Your smile widens, and you offer a hand to Claire’s bemused face.
“Do you want ice cream?” You ask. “We could do that, then a movie.”
Claire blinks for a second—sharp girl, she probably noticed more than just you moving—but nods, and takes your hand. “I want toppings,” she says before you’re out the door, and you laugh.
“You can have whatever you want.”
And what Claire wants turns out to be a pile of toppings so high, they have to get her a second bowl to hold it.
“I think you’re just eating candy now, kiddo,” you observe, and she shrugs.
“I’m making up for time.”
“Time? You’re barely fifteen-“
“Yeah, but- I wasn’t allowed to have candy at all when I was a kid,” she wrinkles her nose. “My mom said it was bad for my teeth.”
You hum, licking some of your own ice cream. “It’s still bad for your teeth.”
“But you’ll fix me if I get cavities,” Claire says smugly, and she’s right. You will.
“Only twice,” you warn. “Then I start bringing you to the dentist.”
“Gross, that’s- We don’t even have insurance-“
“I know we don’t.” You smirk. “The dentist is what I call Jo and her pliers.”
Claire squawks, and you laugh at her slack expression. “That- That was so mean,” she says, but it almost seems to be in awe. “You’re never mean.”
“I’m never mean to you,” you correct. “I’m very mean to people who deserve it.”
Claire’s eyes gleam. “Who deserves it?” She demands. “Who are you mean to?”
“Hm,” you tilt your head at the air. “You remember Ruby?”
Claire nods eagerly, and you tell her all about that disaster on the way home. You wish you’d been the one to kill her, but since you were running around Europe, you’re glad it was Dean. Claire seems glad too, huffing about it by the time you get back to the motel, acting like she’d been personally there the whole time. Just like Dean, you smile to yourself. He’d do the same thing, when you told him about other witches or hunters that were pissing you off.
Claire talks you into one of her movies tonight. You hesitate—that’s supposed to be a her and Dean thing—but she drags you onto the couch, specifically picking one you’ve never seen. That Dean’s been trying to get you to see for almost eleven years.
“I don’t like horror,” you say. “Dean only likes it because he gets to watch it like a sports match-“
“Yeah, but I’m going to watch it like a person.” Claire hits play. “And then,” she mutters under her breath. “Rub it in Dean’s face that I got you to watch it first.”
You laugh at that, and settle into the couch. It can’t be all that scary. You’ve seen the face of the devil and the man that tried to eat him. Everything else looks like rainbows in comparison. Claire hugs herself around the middle, oddly quiet for a little too long. You wait for her to say something, watching the shadows move over her soft cheeks, and-
“I miss him,” she whispers, and you sigh, feeling the weight over every inch of your heart like an iron blanket.
“I know,” you murmur. “Me too.”
She leans into your side, eyes fixed ahead. “I- I keep- I just-“ Her voice gets small. “I tried to stay in the car, I did, but if I hadn’t- If he didn’t need to save me-“
She cuts herself off like the words hurt, and you’re sure they do. They cut under your skin in tiny, jagged pieces that shine like reflective glass, because you know the feeling all too well.
“Claire,” you whisper, pausing the movie, making sure she hears you. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know,” she snaps, but it’s venomless. “But- It’s just-“
“No.” You pull her closer. “It wasn’t. That’s it.”
Claire grunts. You tap her shoulder, holding her attention.
“Say that’s it.”
She doesn’t, so you adjust her, forcing her to at least see your face in her periphery.
“Listen to me,” you murmur, squeezing her hands between yours. “That- That wasn’t you. It wasn’t anyone. It was a kickback of power from the knife, and we weren’t ready for it. That’s it. They were always going to use it, and unless I had caught it sooner-“
“You couldn’t have caught it sooner,” Claire blurts, and you give her a pointed look.
“So you couldn’t have stopped it from happening.”
Claire scowls. Her face pinches like she’s trying to make it hide, her eyes glossy and red and her shoulders hunched. You wipe away a single, stray tear, and she collapses right into your chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, choked and small. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen, I just- I don’t want to- I didn’t mean to-“
“I know,” you whisper, stroking the back of her head. “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.”
Claire cries until she can’t, and you lay together on the couch. When you unpause the movie, it hums in the background, and you almost find it amusing. When you giggle, Claire starts to as well, and soon very few things are scary at all.
After Claire falls asleep, you tuck her in bed. When you check your phone, there’s a voicemail from Jo that she’s staying at the town until morning, the storm still raging too much to drive. You text her a small update, knowing you won’t get a response until morning.
Then you open the contact.
Cas’s contact.
You don’t know what you’d say to him. If he already knows, and he’s just been waiting for you to ask. If he’s been just as lost. If he keeps almost calling you as well, before remembering the fight. Your thumb hovers over the call button. The warm, phantom weight of a hand you know too well rests on your wrist, lightly guiding you to just call-
You toss the phone back onto your bed. Thunder rolls through the room, lightning painting half the world white, and leaving everything else dark. If Cas wants to talk, he can come to you. It wasn’t anyone.
If only you’d believed that, enough to let go.
The bell rings, and everyone starts to move. A sea of kids—thin and tall and short and soft—bump over and against each other, shouting and laughing and pressing their shoulders together without a care in the world. You stay against your locker, waiting for the noise to die down, trying to just focus on your breathing like Rufus told you to. The world wasn’t flooding colors yet, but a lot of it was still pain. It made your knees weak and your tongue sharp. You’d barely lasted a month here, and—if the red mark on your wrists are any indication—you’re already halfway towards the end.
“Hey!” One of the boys—Peter, you remember—runs up next to you when you try to slip through the masses, his hand landing on your shoulder, his smile toothy and wide. “I heard we’re doing the frog lab in bio today, if Miss Browne lets us pick partners…”
He trails off, giving you an open, pointed look. You blink at him for a few seconds, not able to read the silent question between the lines. “You want me to…”
“Be my partner,” he prompts. “If you want. It’s like- fine if you don’t really, just thought I’d ask-“
“No, it’s okay, I just didn’t-“ You glance behind you, sure you’re going to find Peter’s gaggle of friends smirking and making faces behind you. They’d all been nice to you, the weeks you were here. Suspiciously nice. Like they wanted something. “We can be- We can do that.” You give Peter a small smile—you’re not going to do much better, are you—and he grins.
“Great, that’s- Great,” he bounces on his feet, pumping his face. “Mark’s gonna- Great.”
He moves like he’s about to try and get closer to you, then takes a large step back, still smiling wide.
A big, warm hand wraps around your waist, and Dean rests his chin on top of you head. The world freezes, and you let out a slow, stuttering breath.
“I hated it here,” you mumble, and Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to your crown.
“Can’t see why,” he teases. “You were batting better numbers than me, sweetheart. I need to be jealous of hair gel?”
He nods to Peter, and you frown. “He’s not using hair gel, that’s mean-“
“He’s all hair gel, and I’m allowed to be a bit of a dick. He’s tryin’ to steal my girl.”
You roll your eyes, leaning back to meet his gaze. “He wasn’t- Doing that- He was being nice-“
“By askin’ to be your lab partner before class starts?” Dean snorts, his arm coming fully around your stomach. “No, baby- That’s an old trick. Shit, I pulled it once or twice-“
“You pulled it?” Your voice gets sharp with a tug in your heart, spiking and ugly and vigilant. Dean can’t change his… past. With others. You wouldn’t ask him to. But that doesn’t stop that vile, green vine from seizing your heart every time you remember how many hands have touched his body before yours. They must have been better. Less uncertain, less shaking, less scarred and possessive and-
“Hey,” Dean pets the bridge of your nose, and you hadn’t even realized you’d scrunched it so tight. “Nothin’ to be jealous of, Princess. I was an ass, and if Bobby lemme through the door without hiding the merchandise,” he squeezing your stomach, smirking at your tiny squeak. “I never woulda been a wandering man again.”
You flush, but still manage to shake your head. “That’s not true-“
“Course it’s true,” Dean dismisses, but you’re not willing to let go that quickly.
“Dean-“
“You think I look at other chicks, when I got my so- only one in front of me.” Dean makes an adorable, sour face, and your mouth twitches against your will. “I’d rather get it cut off, baby, swear to god.”
And that pulls a tired giggle from the last place in your chest that isn’t hollow. The place that pounds for Dean, just to the right of your heart, bright and warm no matter how cloudy the rest of the world gets. “I’m just- We were a few years apart, De. And you were- Cool and popular and-“
“A douche,” he offers, and you frown.
“You were never a douche-“
“Oh, baby- All you gotta do is ask Sammy-“
“I believe you were an idiot,” you grab his hand over your stomach, narrowing you eyes. “And an asshole. And annoying.”
Dean raises his brows, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Flattery will get you everywhere, smartass-“
“But you were a kid,” you whisper, and his jaw goes tight. “You weren’t a douche.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. His free hand slides up your throat, cupping under your chin, and you hold his watery gaze. You don’t get a real response—just a low, choked grunt—before he kisses you, slow and deep.
You grab his forearm and push on your toes. He’s warm. He smells more like pine trees than you’re used to, but the heavy, thick cinnamon that’s purely Dean still lingers, and it makes you smile against his lips. He lets out a slow, battered breath, his fingers digging into your skin. You hope that when you wake up you’ll have a bruise. You hope you’ll get to hold onto any of this at all.
“I woulda been a goner, Princess,” he murmurs when you pull apart. “Forget hair gel, you woulda been fending me off with a damn broom.”
You laugh softly, rocking back and forth on your toes. “You wouldn’t have looked at me-“
“I wouldn’t have been able to look away from you,” Dean cuts you off, his grip on your chin tightening, something final under his tone. “Sammy and I got tossed into school after school, sweetheart, and I never bothered askin’ Dad to let us stay. Sammy- Sammy asked every damn time, but I was- I’d known better.” A long, darkened pain—dulled like a faded bruise, still aching to press—crosses his features. “Dad wasn’t gonna budge. Sammy never had to learn to stop pushin’, but I- I knew I wasn’t gonna get anything to hold onto.”
“Dean…” You murmur, and he shakes his head.
“Don’t- I’m not askin’ you to-“ He sighs, rubbing his jaw. “I’m just tellin’ you, Princess. I had a few good things going, and I always ruined ‘em on purpose. I never woulda ruined you.”
You smile sadly, reaching up to cup his cheek. He leans in with a tiny, forceful rumble in his chest that he can’t seem to hold back, his eyes fluttering shut. You know the stories. Sam’s told you, on late night cases where it was just the two of you, and he was so sick of you and Dean calling every night that he started trying to talk you into something. Dean and his girlfriends, how he never looked at them when he had their mouths on his neck the same way he looks at you, just standing a few feet away. You’d rolled you eyes then, and told Sam to shove it.
But you believe him now. Dean takes you hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing over your knuckles like he can’t help it, and you’ve never believed anything more.
And you wake up suddenly, in a cold sweat with your hand outstretched and twitching. Claire snores on the other side of the room and Indy eeprs, giving you an annoyed but curious look. Your fingers ball, like you can grab the dream and bring it back. Tears burn behind your eyes, and slip out with no warm, certain hands to wipe them away. You pad on light feet to the bathroom, needing a shower, a scrub, anything to get the layer of cold grime—of loneliness—off your skin.
You pause when you look in the mirror, naked and tired and made of tangled hair and heavy eyes.
There’s Gold on your hips. It looks fresher than yesterday, and tingles when you trace it. You swallow, looking down, checking your fingers, making sure you’re not going crazier than you already are. But it’s there. You grab Dean’s amulet, resting between your breast, cold against clammy skin, and close your eyes. When you count the things that are real, you can’t stop yourself from tracing over the mark. It doesn’t wash away with the water, or float off into the steam. You stare at it in the mirror for too long, when your hair is dried and treated for the morning. When you get back into bed, you pull your shirt—Dean’s shirt—up and hold the mark like you’re trying to trap it against your skin.
It must’ve been the shirt, rubbing off. But it’s still real, and you don’t want to let it go.
You don’t sleep for the rest of the night and come morning—when the Gold is still there, glowing in the sunrise—you let out a broken sob of a breath, and close your eyes.
You’ll see him again. You don’t let yourself think of a future where you don’t, because there isn’t one. You have a lead, so now all that’s left is following it. Prying it open, with words or hands or knives.
And that, you smile like a madwoman, is going to be the easy part.
Apr. 24 - 2010
Princess,
I keep looking at the stupid box. It’s gold. I think I told you that, last time I wrote about it. But it’s golden.
You said I was golden. That you’ve never seen another golden soul.
There are a lot of souls in the world. Lot of people. I can’t be only golden one, but you weren’t lying. I know when you do.
Maybe you’ve just never seen another one.
I never asked you why souls are different colors. The internet doesn’t know. Just got a lot of ads for psychics. Was fucking bullshit.
Your soul would’ve been a pretty color. Like the stars.
Yours,
DAW
You haven’t ever seen another Golden soul. Not like Dean’s, and not just because of the special star-stuff he and Sam are made of. You’d never really thought about it as much as you should’ve, not outside of knowing that Dean was beautiful, and you’d always wanted him all over your body until everything was right and easy. Every soul was different, but you used to do double takes when you saw pastel blue, misty souls in crowds. You still push through people to double check that the dark green, rooted soul isn’t Bobby, even though you know he’s settled in your bag at that very moment. You swallow, tracing over the scar on your palm as you reread Dean’s letter again, and again, trying to memorize it. You can hear him speaking. You can almost feel his lips, brushing against the curve of your ear.
The door closes, and you glace up. Jo shoots you a small, curious grin, kicking off her shoes.
“Any-“
“Nope,” she sighs, wiping her hands on her pants. “Nothin’.”
You sigh, and reach for the scratched out list. Singapore, New Delhi, Mumbai, Ho Chi, Bangkok-
You scratch out Bangkok, and toss the paper off to the side before burying your face in your hands. Jo chuckles, patting your head as she crosses over to her bed and flops down. You lean back, frowning at the ceiling and trying to push all your thoughts into something coherent. They’ve mostly been a rushing river of white water and black depth. Jo says it seems like you’re drowning in yourself lately. You wish you could say she was wrong.
“Not Bangkok,” you murmur, and Jo grunts.
“Not Bangkok.”
“Was there a temple? Or- A shrine?”
Jo shakes her head, and you groan.
“So- Nothing. Fucking nothing- That’s-“ You scowl, pressing Dean’s letter back into the box. “That’s great.”
“More nothin’ than we had yesterday,” Jo jokes, and you laugh, but it’s dry.
“I guess. Yeah. Claire-“
“In her room with Sparky. Checked before I came back.”
You hum, glancing over at the door that connect you and Jo to Claire. You’ve been trying to find motels with adjoined rooms available, just to give Claire a little space. Lord knows that if you’d been stuck sharing a room with Bobby for half a year you would’ve lost it. Sam would probably say the same thing about John, although he and Dean were always better at sharing than either of them will admit.
“Rowena got anything new?” Jo asks, and you sigh.
“Haven’t called her yet, I was hoping-“ You cut yourself off, and Jo hums, low and tired.
“Yeah. Me too.”
The last month has been nothing but moving. Naomi might not have given you a clear road, but she gave you a wooded path, and you can carve your way through it just fine. If Heaven knows were Dean is, that means someone else can to. Someone who will be more cooperative, someone who might not even need to be threatened to be helpful. Someone like an Oracle.
“You know,” Rowena had drawled when you’d called her the first time. “As the Magdalene, there is not magic outside of your pretty little hands-“
“I’ve tried divination,” you’d said flatly. “Scrying, tea leaves, forcing vision- I did it all months ago. All I got was flashes, and they weren’t- It didn’t help.” It just made you want to scream, like the mountain. Jo made you stop doing it, after she came back to the motel and found it flooded bioluminescent water.
“Hm,” Rowena had sniffed. “Something’s blocking you? Or is it just… Performance issues.”
You hadn’t dignified her with an answer. If it was a blocked signal, you had a pretty good idea of who was doing it, and you couldn’t oppose him anyway. You needed an Oracle. God could block a psychic. Kevin only got what God wanted him to see. An Oracle was sort of your last hope before you had to pick up your knife and start hacking through Heaven.
“Bangkok was nothing,” you say, the moment Rowena picks up your call. “Less than nothing, actually. Jo says she got chased by dogs and didn’t even find a shrine.”
Rowena sighs, giving you an annoyed look through the scrying bowl. “I did tell you, it is not a perfect science, little tiger-“
“Make it a better one, then.”
Rowena huffs, and you ignore her. The list has been getting longer—she calls you every few days, when she finds something new—but it’s not enough. You don’t want to leave Sam and Dean wherever they are, any longer than you have to. It could be dangerous. They could need help, and if you’re not there to give it-
You take a deep breath, wrapping a hand around your throat. The Spiderweb is still alight. If Dean was hurt in a way you couldn’t fix, you would’ve known by now. But alive doesn’t mean safe. And you really don’t want to know the extent of what the Spiderweb can tell you about his livihood.
“What about Indonesia?” You ask, scrolling through the map on your computer. “It’s a big country, mostly island, but-“
“No one minds the jungle until it’s in their bedroom-“
“I’m chill with the jungle,” you shake your head, drumming your fingers on the keyboard. “Do you know any witches-“
“I know every witch,” Rowena clips. “Even if they don’t know me.”
“Congratulation, stalker.” You roll your eyes. “Do you have a little black book, or something?”
“I have four hundred years of experience,” Rowena says dryly, and you pause.
“Oh. Right. Forgot you were old.”
She glares at you through the water, and you smile to yourself, bending back over your notes.
“Have we considered they’re in Purgatory?” You ask, following the tight, looping script with your finger. Jo and Dean have both said your writing is unintelligible. You thought it was an English thing until Cas—before his brain was back together—commented on your words being as sensical as the stars. Sam could always read it just fine, and it’s not like anyone else needs to be able to read it anyway.
Although when you’re doing nothing but writing and reading—when the world is pressing on your shoulders and there’s a thin layer of mist over your eyes, clouding everything but the strict line forward—you do sort of understand what they’re saying. You can’t tell if you’d written Purgatory or Bulgaria.
“Or… Have we thought of Eastern Europe?”
Rowena shakes her head to both. “There are no Oracles left in Europe, eastern or western.”
“Hm,” you give her a pointed look. “Didn’t you think there were no oracles in the world at all?”
“Yes. Because there were none in Europe.”
“Well, it’s not like you were trapped in Europe-“
“I was a member of the high coven,” Rowena snaps. “They are based in Europe, they know every magical dealing, and if there was an Oracle-“
“You would’ve known,” you finish, smiling to yourself. “So touchy.”
Rowena huffs, muttering a Gaelic curse under your breath that—if you’re right—is cursing you to be a moor frog that never finds a mate. You snort, and keep going through your notes. Rowena clears her throat, words muffled as she talks to someone on her side.
“Don’t touch that, boy, it will burn your eyes out- There you go. Good boy.”
You glance back at the scrying bowl, and find Rowena’s lip curled and eyes gleaming.
“Fools,” she mutters to herself. “Fools in their bloodline, simpering, pathetic little fools-“
“Adam?” You call, and Rowena gives you an annoyed look.
“Don’t beckon him-“
Adam pokes his head over the bowl with a wide smile and wave. You smile softly, and wave back. You can see the soft gleam of his soul through the bowl, and while it’s not as bright as Sam and Dean’s, it’s nothing to pass over. He seems to be settling into it. Into himself. It’s nice to see, from the scruff of a beard he really isn’t managing to grow to the excited light in his eyes that realty does remind you of Dean.
“How’s Thailand?” He calls, and you shrug.
“Warm. Full of bugs, but-“ You shoot Rowena a pointed look. “I’m one with the jungle.”
She scoffs, but her mouth twitches. Adam nods eagerly, pushing further over the bowl.
“You- You look nice,” he rubs the back of his neck, his smile light and twitchy. “Your hair- It’s- Shinier than usual.”
“Oh- Thanks.” You glance over to the mirror. “I think it’s the sweat.”
Adam nods. “Well, it’s- Sweat looks good on you- Not that no sweat doesn’t- You’re-“ His face is going red, starting from his ears and spreading out. Just like Dean’s. “Um- You know what I mean-“
“We all know what you mean,” Rowena mutters under her breath, and you blink. “Go. Make yourself useful, instead of drooling all over my bowl.”’
“Right, sorry, I just-“ He glances back to you, and Rowena clears her throat loudly.
“We’re discussing Dean,” she says sharply, and you hum, poking back over your notes.
“And the jungle. And Rowena’s ex friend group-“
“Shh.” Rowena snaps, and you laugh to yourself, focusing fully back on your tight, sloppy words.
Rowena gets Adam to wander away with a few more harsh words and reminder that they need dinner. You glance back when he shuffles off, curious and a little amused. She gives you nothing but a glare in return, and your mouth twitches.
“He’s growing on you-“
“He is doing no such thing,” she huffs. “He’s only a little dumber than Samuel, and he takes orders better than both those boys combined. It’s the only reason I’m keeping him around, rather than making him into a dog.”
You hum. “He’d make a cute dog.”
“He’d make a splendid dog. But he wouldn’t be able to carry things.” Rowena shakes her head. “You’re lucky you’re tied to Dean, little tiger. You get to keep the pretty one all to yourself.”
You flip her off and she laughs. It’s a softer sound than anyone else gets. Bobby and Dean both used to comment on it, whenever they’d get her to cackle and look at them like she was imagining which of their limbs would look best in a stew. You’d tell them she was just trying to get a rise, that she was nice when you pushed it out of her. They both said she was nice because you were you. And you still don’t quite understand what that means. You’re annoying and bossy and mean. If anything, you should be the one in the stew, although you don’t think rotted meat would make good food.
Yet still, Rowena helps you. And like with everything else, there’s nothing you can do but accept it’s sometimes useless to ask why.
“Are you in the city?” Rowena asks after another hour, and you shake your head.
“We’re an hour north, I’ve been… Off. We didn’t want to take risks.”
Rowena hears the words under the explanation. You’ve been dangerous. The closer you get to something and nothing, the easier it is to light your fuse. You’ve gotten better at controlling it—at being in a crowd without folding over yourself, at lose and not making the sky fall—but you still have bad days. Bad weeks. Moments where anything that gets close to you needs to retreat or burn or turn to something harmless and colorful, and you can’t do much to pull yourself back together. The Silver hurts then, like concrete bleeding through your body, filling up your lungs until you can’t breathe. On those days you count what’s real and pull the blankets around you until they’re shaped like Dean, but you’re still free-falling with no one who knows how to catch you. The best you can do is soften the plummet. Ease the fallout.
And it’s been one of those weeks.
So you’re staying away from the city.
Rowena hums, squinting at something you can’t see. You watch with raised brows, and she lets out a slow, worried sigh.
“What-“
“Shh.” She squints, then nods to herself.
You frown. “Rowena-“
“Patience,” she says firmly, and you stick out your tongue. “Ah, well- Listen,” she looks back to you, features grim. “This may be nothing. You know there is always the risk of it being nothing.”
You nod, your nails digging into your wrist. You know it can be nothing. But she’s saying it like it’s something, and you can’t stop the chinks from letting light in.
And there are local legends about a cave, not too far west of your motel. A cave where the flowers float like they’re in water, and the water glows like it’s made of starlight. They don’t use the word oracle or prophet, but they speak of finding the truth. Of seeing the glory of the Sun.
“You are not allowed to be terse with me if it’s nothing,” Rowena points at you through the bowl, and you hum, scraping together your stuff.
“Yeah. Got it.”
Rowena says your name, and you give her a tight smile.
“I got it-“
“Be cautious,” she says, and that makes you pause. “Be… Very cautious.”
And you could tease her about being worried about you, but there’s a strain in her gaze that stops you. You smile again, but it’s gentler. Real, without any of the jagged edges you and Rowena usually trade.
“I always am.”
You both know that isn’t true. But it’s not a lie either, and Rowena’s nose twitches enough for you to know she’s placated by the half-promise. You give her a small salute, and she closes the scrying with a scoff that’s dangerously fond.
And you pack up, text Jo—who went out to get food halfway through your call—that you’ll be back. You poke in to check on Claire—watching TV with the Lady on her lap and Sparky on her head—and go. Time is not something you let pass anymore. You don’t know how to do that little freezing trick the angels have, and learning it will just waste moments you could be looking for Sam and Dean. There will be plenty of time for stalling and lazy mornings and being late, when they’re home. Until then, every second is a needle, and you’re not resting until they stop pricking over your skin.
Thailand jungles are cooler than Indian ones, but your joke to Rowena was more of a brag than an actual bit. The bugs buzz curiously a few feet away, but never get close, let alone try to land on or feed from you. The tangled undergrowth pulls itself apart when you ask nicely, and the leaves shift to offer you shade. Everything here is almost as alive as you are, and you’re an infection of exhausted love that creeps though the roots and shifting sunlight. The Silver howls for Dean and the jungle—painted in the depth of your loss, in the blind determination of your love—howls back. The leaves get to learn what it would feel like to lose their branches. The tigers feel the split of your heart, fracturing everything around them until it’s like being trapped in a tree.
And you feel all of them. You always have. So they move with you, and it’s not a battle to find what you need.
You find the cave before sunset. Behind a waterfall—water that glows, that you can feel carrying the weight of keeping everything else alive, that would never want to be anyway but still screams with the pressure and begins to show it—the stone is carved into something like a temple, mock brick and shrines and inlaid gold. Flowers float around, untethered from the weight of changing seasons, blessed with knowing that they’re always going end up blooming again, no matter how cold the winter.
And the Oracle.
She’s sitting on the ground, watching you with wide eyes. She scrambles to her knees, bowing her head and pressing her hands flat to the ground. You blink, tucking you knife back under your skirt, and tilt your head.
“Hi,” you try, but her head just bows further. “Um- You’re- You look better than the last oracle I met.”
“Thank you, my lady,” she says, her accent thick but clear. “I am honored, to have you, and anything you desire I will offer-“
“Oh, that’s-“ You raise a hand, chewing on your lower lip. You should’ve expected this. You’re kind of annoyed that you didn’t. “I mean, I do have questions, but- I don’t realty desire a lot of things, and- You don’t have to do that.”
You wave to her kneeling position, but she doesn’t see. Her head is still bowed, her hair shrouding your face, and you sigh.
A quick second look at the temple answers your first question. The biggest stature, shining copper and erected near the back wall, covered in flowers and perfectly tended, it looks an awful lot like you. There’s even a little bird that looks like Sparky in your cupped hands. You wrinkle your nose and look up to the ceiling, collecting yourself with tight hands. That’s not the Oracles fault. You don’t have the time to fall apart about it.
You sit across from her, crossing your legs and rocking back and forth as you wait. She glances up under thick lashes, and you smile.
“Hi.”
She blinks rapidly, looking back to the waterfall, to where you’d stood before. Her face flushes and her fingers clench at her skirt, her shoulders heaving with shallow breathes. “He- Hello.”
“Hey.” You settle a little further, making your voice soft. “What’s your name?”
“Madee,” she whispers, and you nod.
“It’s nice to meet you, Madee.” You offer out a hand. “I’m-“
“I know who you are.”
You swallow, and glance over her shoulder to the statue. “Right,” you murmur, hand still hovering in the air. “Right.”
Madee tentatively reaches out, wrapping her fingers through yours and shifting your hand around, as if she’s checking that you don’t turn to dust or mist. “You’re… Real.”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
“You are here…” She murmurs, then suddenly sits tall. “Why are you here? Have I failed? Is there- Do I have to leave-“
“No, no.” You grab her before she can shrink away, and she stills immediately. Her eyes are big, watery and puppy like. You pause, watching the light of the waterfall shifting over her soft features.
She can’t be much older than Claire.
“How long have you been here?” You ask worriedly, and Madee’s lip trembles.
“Many years,” she breathes. “Since I was a girl. When the woods called me.”
“The… Woods?”
She nods. “One night the clouds split. The world shook. Everything cried, so I cried back. My mother told me to be quiet. The woods told me to be loud, so I followed them. I found here.”
“And you,” you take a deep, careful breath. “You want to be here?”
“More than anything,” Madee whispers. “Please. Do not make me leave.”
And you think of the last oracle. The dead girl in the swamp, marred by the Leviathans, surrounded by crocodiles that protected her until their last breath. My mother told me to be quiet. Your mother used to tell you the same thing.
“I won’t make you leave,” you say, and Madee’s eyes glow with visible relief. “But I have some questions for you, and I need to answer them. Can you do that for me?”
Madee nods eagerly, leaning forward. She’s still holding your hand. You don’t make her pull it away.
“There’s a place,” you start slowly, picking out every word. “Far away from here, from anywhere. It was destroyed many, many years ago, more than we can count, but it’s still there, just-“
“Dead.” Madee finished for you, nodding along. “It is the dead world. Nothing but the King remains.”
“The King? Do you mean-“
“The taker,” Madee’s voice echoes around the cave, melodical, almost flowing through the air. “The maker and the breaker and the last man to wait for her. He sits on his throne and feasts on his bones and waits for life to come to his side so he’s never alone.”
Oh. She rhymes. That’s fun. “Right. That.” You clear your throat. “Nothing remains there, right? No life?”
Madee shakes her head. “All of life is here.”
“Cool. That’s- Good.” It is, you have to remind yourself. Sam and Dean aren’t stuck in dead heaven. You didn’t think they were—Naomi would’ve just told you so, to get you to open it up—but it’s always nice to get confirmation. “What about Hell? Have you ever seen Hell?”
Madee nods solemnly. “The first place the forest showed me was cages and broken brothers and names I can’t smother.”
“Broken- Oh. Sam.” You sigh, and Madee tilts her head.
“The boy with the black blood and tense love and anger at those who push his head under his gut?”
“Yeah. Sam.” You press your lips in a thin line. If she saw Sam… “The boy- can you find him now?”
Madee pauses. She cocks her head and closes her eyes, her nails digging into your hands. You wait, hope crawling up your throat with a sickening certainty that it will wither before it knows the sun.
And Madee shakes her head, and you knew it was coming, but that doesn’t manage to stop the burn.
“I am sorry,” she says, eyes red and voice wobbly.
“It’s okay,” you squeeze her hands, and you mean it. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t- It’s okay.” You take a deep breath, the Spiderweb twisting over itself in your chest, like a million prisms colliding. “There’s another boy,” you say. “A man. He’s-“
Madee’s eyes seem to glow. Not like a star, but like fire, trapped under amber. “Dean Winchester,” she says, and your heart stills with the wind. “King of men, bleeding and spent, on his knees and begging for rest. Lover and cover and greater than the thunder. The only one, the only one, the only one-“
She takes a sharp panicked breath, and it restarts your heart. You move up to a knee, grabbing her face and trying to drag her out of it.
“The only one,” she gasps, even as her eyes come into focus on your face. “The world will be done if he does not bow, if he does not run. The world will be done and the wrong man will have won.”
You swallow, a looming, dreaded cold gathering in your gut. Ominous. A little fucking on the nose, if whatever oracle spirit in this poor girl is taking notes. You’re glad Dean wasn’t here for it, at least. He’d probably end up pacing for the rest of the night then deciding he needed to put you on a leash and never sit down again.
“My Dean,” you say softly, and Madee nods. “You know him.”
“Everything with color knows him,” she whispers. “Everything negative wishes for him. Everything outside of your reach loathes him.
A lump presses up in your throat. Your lungs feel tight. “Do you ever see him?”
“In the steed,” Madee breathes. “On his knees, in the wing, pressing love to the trees-“
“No- Just-“ You sigh. That one was your fault. “Literally. Do you ever literally see him, in a vision or something.”
Madde nods. That persistent, deformed, malnourished hope flutters again.
“Can you see him now?” You whisper, and Madee shakes her head.
You let go of her with a pained sound that rips from your chest. You don’t mean to, but it hurts. Hope crumbles back up and refuses to just be stomped into the gutter, into that emptiness that hold every bit of love and loss and anger in the universe. You wipe your face until it’s red. Madee reaches out then shrinks back, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to help.
“It’s okay,” you manage to say through the cancerous, angry rock of grief. “It- It’s okay, it’s not your fault. It’s not.”
Madee nods, but she doesn’t look like she believes you. You sigh, and crouch back down before her.
“It’s not,” you make yourself smaller. Kinder than you want to be, but more unwavering than you feel. “It’s okay. Really.”
And Madee believes your illusion. She doesn’t see that, through every nerve and bone and brittle heartstring, you feel more fragile and lost than a peace of driftwood in the ocean. You’re surrounded by everything, and you know that—above you, below you, and far off on the horizon—there will be a place to rest. But you can’t see it. All you can see is the never ending, dark water.
“I have heard him,” Madee says, barely loud enough for you to hear.
You blink, your voice breaking with another, trembling wing of hope. “What?”
“I have heard Dean Winchester,” she says, holding you gaze. “We all have. Have you- Have you not?”
You shake your head, sinking back to your knees. “Wha- What has he said? Is he okay, is he hurt- Where- Has he asked for me-“
“He prays,” Madde whispers. “He prays and prays. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m calling anyway. Sammy and I are on our feet again. Or- Sammy’s on his feet. Never got to get off mine. We found a fuckin’ castle, Princess, and I’m not even joking. It’s big. Way too big, if anyone’s asking me. No one needs a castle this big, let alone a crazy bitch with no friends. I can smell her evil plotting, smells like bad eggs. Sam says that’s cause I ate eggs this morning. He’s being so mean to me, sweetheart. You’d kick his butt for me, if you were here. Wish you were here. That’s- Uh… That’s kinda why I’m praying. Duh.”
You laugh, wet and choked with your tears. Madee’s features are glazed, as Dean’s voice falls from her lips. And it’s Dean’s voice. Right down to the rumbling bass and rapid, unpaced thoughts. You have to grab your skirt, to stop yourself from reaching for poor Madee like she’s him.
“Sam doesn’t think you’re getting these. You probably aren’t. You woulda answered me by now, but- That doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop tryin’. If there’s even a tiny chance you’re gonna pick one of these up, I’m gonna keep doin’ them. And you know how I am in Vegas. Never met a buck I couldn’t turn into ten dollars.”
And the air starts to shift.
It’s the smallest feeling. Madee certainly doesn’t seem to notice it, but you- You feel it everywhere. It’s a shift in the pressure, like a headache blooming before a coming storm. Your back gets that stabbing, carving feeling at the very top of your spine. The Silver consolidates, turning and stressed like an animal in a cage. The wind picks up, and the water flows ever so slightly, everything from the ground under your feet to the birds in the trees getting a little more busy. Like workers being worried the boss will catch them slacking.
The boss.
Something so, so quiet hums above your head. You see the flicker before the strike, and lunge forward. Poor Madee gets shoved headfirst into her moss bed, and you take her place beneath the brewing cloud.
The world roars your name, and you throw everything behind you. The moss becomes radioactive and repellant, growing quickly around the cave. Trapping all three of you in.
He’s fast. You didn’t expect him to be anything else. A hand wraps around your wrist and drags you through the very world. Everything’s a sickening blur, for a very long second, before you land on your feet.
“What was that?!” God shouts, and you’ve never seen his eyes so wild and angry. “I could have seriously hurt you, I could have-“
“Smited me?” You shout back, your voice echoing through the trees, almost in harmony with the birds. “You could have smited me? Like you were going to smite the fucking child?!”
God sighs, raising his hands. “Hey, you can’t- It was a warning-“
“A warning smite?!”
“A warning,.. Tickle?” He tries. Your scowl deepens, and he takes a small step back. “Okay, it was- Not my best call. I promise not to do it again-“
“Your promises mean nothing to me.”
“Ouch,” God chuckles weakly. “Hurtful.”
You stare at him, flat and annoyed. He sighs, giving you a pleading look.
“I’m sorry-“
“Your apologies also mean nothing.”
“But-“ God sighs. “Fine. I’ve earned that. We can put Madee on the list with Job and that one guy I asked to kill his son-“
“Abraham?” You say incredulously, and God snaps his fingers.
“Yes. Him,” he whistles, smiling faintly. “Now that- That was crazy. Did you know he almost did it? He had the kid drugged out and everything, I was like- I wasn’t actually gonna make you kill your son, man. That would be insane!”
You stare at him, gaping slightly. “I- Yeah, I know that. Everyone knows that, it’s like- the third story in the bible.”
“Is it?” God blinks in surprise. “Really?”
You nod, and he hums.
“Huh. I mean, I never read it.”
“You’ve never read the-“ You shake your head. Not the point, or the time. “Never mind. You- You were about to smite a kid-“
“Yeah, yeah, we already argued about that, babe. Can I call you babe?” He gives you what he seems to think is a winning smile. “I’ve been testing out pet names, and you don’t really seem like a honey or- Kitten is really weird- So babe. I like it.” He spreads his arms. “Do you like it?”
“No,” you say flatly, crossing your arms. “And I’m not done arguing about this, you don’t just get to go around smiting people I’m talking to-“
“C’mon, that was like- The first time I ever did it! And it didn’t even work!” He scoffs. “Trust me, if I was going to smite anyone, it wouldn’t be some girl-“
You take a large step forward, your hands curling into fists. The wind starts to whip through the trees, and the bird song starts to sound like battle cries. God steps back, glancing up at the sky, then back to you.
“Hey,” he coaxes. “Hey. I’m not your enemy, babe-“
“You say babe one more time,” you spit. “I cut out your tongue.”
God smiles, but his eyes are cold. Almost… Barren. Like looking at an icy tundra, not even trying to grow something new. Just still, quiet perfection, all the way down to the white light in his core.
And you’ve made a vow to yourself. That you will, one day, be the last thing he ever sees, and the first thing he regrets. But you’re not a fool. You’re rash when you’re blind, and barely able to hold back the storm when it’s ripping you apart. But there’s just enough of you left at the base of your skull to act as an anchor. To keep you from being the very thing that you swore he’d never make you. One day, you will kill him. Maybe tomorrow, if you learn to grow a million feet tall without crushing yourself and everything you love. When you’re strong enough to be in control.
But that day is not today. So you lift your chin, and make yourself as cold as he is. Colder, translucent, impossible to touch. God sees the shift. He feels the temperature drop, as you dismiss the humid dew on the leave. It isn’t their fight. It isn’t anyone’s but yours.
God isn’t a fool either. An invisible wall juts up between you, making the air shimmer ever so slightly. If you’re a magnet, it’s polarity. And you smile. He’s afraid.
“Why,” you say, not letting an ounce of emotion into your voice. “Are you here.”
“The girl-“
“No,” you click your tongue. “Try again.”
God frowns. “I am not lying to you,” he says your name gently. “I would never-“
“Ah,” you raise a hand. “Wrong. One more try.”
“I- You’re really coming into yourself, you know?” He tries a thin, fond smile that slithers over your skin. “I knew you would-“
You cut him off with a single step forward. He gives in.
“Relax, okay? Just- I’m not hurting anyone, I’ll even pinky promise not to go back, but- I couldn’t let her keep going,” he gives you a pleading look that comes out all crooked. “She was going to ruin so many things.”
You believe him. You don’t think he’s brave enough to lie, even to placate you. “What things?”
“Well, I can’t tell you, but-“ He trips a little, when you take another step. “It’s nothing for you to worry about-“
“I disagree-“
“And I wanted to see you!” He reaches out a hand, smiling with a charm that lands dull. “I’ve missed you, we haven’t had us time in months-“
“There is no us time,” you hiss between your teeth, and God sighs.
“I know. I know, and that’s my mistake. I never thanked you, for saving me-“
“I didn’t save you,” you cut over him, raising your chin. “I stopped the Leviathans for the world, that’s it.”
“And that’s why I love you!” He beams, and the words land like acid. “You never do anything selfish, you’re- You’re amazing.”
You swallow. You don’t feel amazing. And you do selfish things all the time. “That spell,” you mutter. “It would’ve done…”
“Bad things, yeah.” God shrugs, as if the weight of the world can just brush off his shoulders like a feather. “But,” he grins. “You still saved me.”
You give him a daggered glare, no patience left on your tongue. “Where’s Dean.”
And God’s face crumbles. The casual mockery of boyish, nervous charm fades. The twitchy mannerisms vanish, and the false levity dissolves from his voice.
“I thought,” he says cooly. “That we could get through this without talking about Dean.”
He says the name like it’s wrong. You can’t wait to smash his head in like a bad melon. “You thought wrong.”
“He isn’t even-“ God tenses, his fists flexing, his hair messing itself up as he shifts on his feet. “He isn’t even here,” he points between you with a rigid finger. “I’m here. I’m here, with you, for whatever you need-“
“I need Dean-“
“You don’t-“ God cuts himself off, grinding his teeth. “You don’t. Need. Dean. You’re stronger than that. I made you stronger than that, I- I mean, I should be getting points for that, for- A strong, female lead.” His hands wring, and the world starts to feel like it’s closing. “I’ve done everything, I’ve offered everything, and you just want Dean? Car boy? The only human I’ve ever personally designed, with my own two hands, who can’t spell Hippopotamus?”
“It’s a hard word-“
“No. No it’s not. You know that, and you just- You still-“
“You gave me free will,” you say, quiet and stiff. “You could’ve made me a doll. You didn’t. You can’t be mad I fell in love with the only person who’s ever been there, who’s ever really known me-“
“I’ve been there!” God shouts, and trees creak from their roots. “I’ve known you, and I- Do I not even get points for the free will thing-“
You shake your head, and God sighs.
“You know, I’m trying really hard,” he mutters bitterly. “And you’re just- You’re not giving me anything.”
You bite on your tongue, watching him carefully. He’s right, about you not giving him anything. You’re not interested in giving him anything. You don’t care what dramatic, buzzing words he throws around about you and Dean and destiny, you’re stronger than you want to be and Dean’s the only thing that lets you break. You’re an injury and an open wound that can’t afford to be treated, and Dean is the only one who can convince you to rest before you get too sick to turn back. It’s not strength. You don’t need strength, and it’s a cheap man who whines about getting what he paid for.
You love that hotdog pants wearing, charming, adorably dumb and dorky man. You’ve been done fighting that for a while. And God doesn’t get to make you doubt that.
But you need something for him. And you’ve never been above plunging into the mud and digging up something dirty.
“I’ll go out with you, if you tell me where Dean is.”
God’s head shoots up. The trees stop creaking, and his white bores into your soul, like he’s trying to check for a lie. You don’t waver. You’re done with that too. “Really?”
You nod. “One date,” you hold up a finger. “Right now. You’ll have men until sundown, and-“
“I tell you where Dean is.” He doesn’t sound too pleased about that part. “Would you offer, if I said I wouldn’t?”
It’s a bad question. You think he knows it, based on how he sighs when you shake your head.
“You will,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You will.”
And he offers out a hand. You hesitate, fingers curled away as you reach out.
“I don’t lie to you,” he says, like he’s soothing a baby. “Sundown. Then I tell you where Dean is.”
You nod, fingers brushing his horribly cold ones, then yank back. “Sundown here,” you add quickly. “In Thailand. No matter where we are, it’s sundown here.”
God laughs tightly. “I know. I’m not a genie.”
Your mouth half-twitches. You’re still eyeing his head wearily, and he sighs.
“Please. I was serious, we can pinky promise.”
You shake your head, because that’s not God’s to have. But you take a long breath, grab Dean’s amulet, and take God’s hand.
The world doesn’t end. You are flitted away to that white palace in Old Heaven, or trapped on some planet far, far away. You’d screwed your eyes shut, and you drag them slowly open to find that you’re still in the jungle. You fist held in God’s clammy, surprisingly strong hand. It’s not Dean’s certain strength, though, like the weight of a house, keeping you safe and warm. It’s like being glue to a statue, slowly compressing, threatening to trap you in it’s grasp.
God smiles, not seeming to notice the pale in your face, the silence that’s crept over your tongue. You don’t dare to speak. Don’t dare to breathe too deep, to move enough that he’ll smell your fear. Your heart pounds in your ears, your head light, and maybe you’ll black out. God can toss around your body a bit, and you won’t even have to remember it.
But you’re not that lucky. Because God’s smile is wide, and his grip is tight, and he can’t see how you’d rip yourself out of your body to get away from his hallowed gaze.
“I have something I’ve wanted to show you,” he says, his thumb dragging over your wrist. “That I’ve wanted to show you for so long.”
You nod tightly, and God tugs you a little closer. He smells like nothing. It’s really just like being pressed up again stone.
“Hold on,” he whispers, and you think it’s supposed to make you flush, but it comes out mocking, and it just makes your stomach twist.
God whoosh you through the world, the same way you’d dragged him away from Madee. He looks far too pleased, when he lands on the sand and you’re clinging to his shirt. You’ve never flown that far and remembered. You’ve never looked at such a small face of a big man and wondered if plummeting through the air would be a better fate. You shove off his chest, and he grabs your wrist, pulling you back with a jerked motion.
“This is a date,” he reminds you. “And you promised you’d try.”
You made no such promises. “I said I’d be yours until sundown,” you jerk your hand away, and his touch seems to scrape along your skin. “And all you did was bring me to the desert.”
“Not just the desert,” God rolls his eyes. “Your desert. Your city, your- The first people who knew you. Who worshipped you, who-“ He sighs, at the guarded look on your face. “Just… Look for yourself.”
And God sweeps out a single hand, and the sand begins to swirl. And swirl and swirl and rise over the world until it’s more of a golden mist that hangs over a beautiful, lively city.
You gasp, stumbling on still feet. God smirks, but you couldn’t help it. You’ve been all over the world. You’ve lived in the Garden of Heaven, and seen the deepest pits of Hell, and there’s never been anything like this.
It’s all arches and domes of stars and gardens that hang from rooves and pour out of ledges. Water runs through cracks in marble pavement, little carts made of pale wood overflow with fruits and pelts and goods, and a cool breeze eases the beating heat of the sun. Everywhere you look there’s life, from the dove nests in the columns to the children running underfoot, laughing with bruised knees and not a single burden of the world on their flushed cheeks.
Your eyes burn. When you trace a wall, you find etching of a language you can’t read, and drawings of a story you know like the back of your heart. A father and fire. A boy who needs to be a lion, and a baby who will never look at anything and not wonder if it’s another lie to keep him safe from the only shadows that have ever offered him clarity. A world collapsing, and blood spilt, and chains that only ever seem to grow like vines, until they’re tight around a neck.
You hover on a drawing Dean’s little face. The clean lines got the crook of his nose wrong, but the shine in his eyes right. When you look at the next panel of brick, though, they’re different. Darker than you’ve ever know, as little Sam sits on his knees with a bleeding lip. The brick after that, his eyes are normal again, but there’s a strange scar on his arm, that seems to spread up like an infection. The brick after that, you’re there—you haven’t been anywhere else—and you look angry, and Dean’s reaching up over his head for a familiar sword-
Sand falls over the wall like water. When it’s gone, the brick is clean. The drawings are gone.
“Hey, I- I was looking at that-“
“You were going to be there all day,” God waves you off, smiling around the city. “And we’re on a clock, remember. You gave it to me, and I- I would like to show you things. Please.”
He holds out his hand again. You don’t take it, but you stomp back to his side with only a glance over your shoulder. He didn’t want you to see it. That’s never meant anything good.
“Babylon,” God breathes, smiling around at the towering, grand city. “My last project, before I retried. I mean, I was still on call, but I wanted to see how humans did by themselves, so I only took special cases, and, well,” he laughs. “You know how that went.”
You grunt, hugging yourself tight. One of the smiling children runs right through you, and you freeze in your steps. God sighs apologetically, at the look of horror on your face.
“Well, I couldn’t exactly bring you back to the real Babylon,” he explains. “They have statues of you, murals, writings- It would be like me dropping into the Vatican, you understand.”
You hum weakly, watching the echo of the little boy run back into the crowd. Ghosts. All of these people, just ghosts. Echoes that God pulled up, within a few seconds. Toys that he’s maneuvering around, so you see what he needs you to.
You feel sick. Your vision is too blurry, yet not enough to stop you from seeing everything God shows you. Garden after garden, temples with paintings you’ve seen a million times, palaces and temples and deep pools of water that glitter in the sun. All his favorite places, he says, sweeping his hand over the city from a high tower. All yours.
But all you can see is Dean.
You see him in the gold of palace walls and yellow blossoms at the market. You see him in the sandstone walls and at the bottom of the pools, in the bells in the towers and stitched into your thin, linen dress. You feel him in the heat and the wind. You smell him drifting out of homes and on the merchant carts, and it’s the only thing that makes you smile all day.
And you see the others, too. You see Jo in the massive wells of water and flowing rivers and steam houses. You see her and Cas in the infinite sky, Jo the unending, unwavering horizon and Cas in all the biggest clouds. You see Bobby in the gardens and Claire in the pale, yellow ghost of some long extinct, wolf-like puppy, being sold in one of the marketplaces.
When God isn’t looking, you reach out to scratch it’s ears. Your fingers pass through misty air, and you have to close your eyes to breathe.
Then there’s a yip. And a nuzzle at your knuckles, and a rough tongue licking your wrist. Your eyes shoot open, and the puppy blinks up at you, wagging its tail and panting. You swallow and glance back to God, busy marveling over another one of the—many identical—gardens. They are beautiful. They’re also so contained and stressed with the performance of beauty, you can barely stand to look at them too long.
You grab the puppy, and try to stuff it into a jacket you left at the motel. You scan around the tight street frantically, then look up at the sky. The sand will fall back down, when God breaks the illusion. You could just… let him know about the puppy, but something turns in your gut and tells you he’s not going to take it all that well. The puppy squirms, pawing at your stupid, poorly made dress.
“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, and God turns.
“Do you disagree? About the irrigation. I mean- I gave the architect the dream for it, but he could’ve…” His lip curls. “Taken some liberties.”
“Um….” You blink at God, and realize your hands are on your hips, your dress back to normal, the fabric stronger and the stiches tighter than before. Your lips part, a small sound of surprises falling from your lips. God gives you a strange look. You’d give you a strange look. You don’t know what the hell is happening.
“Is something wrong?” He asks, and you hear it. Thinly coated suspicion.
So you just shake your head, tuck your hands behind your back, and shrug. If God doesn’t buy it, you only get another weary look, and he goes right back to talking about how amazing he made the city. You would’ve loved to hear from the actual people who did the labor. You don’t think you’re going to get the privilege of anyone but Mr. McGenius and his magic, clammy hands.
The day passes like a turtle swimming molasses, but it passes. God keeps the sun in the same spot like he thinks that will trick you, but he forgets to look beneath him. The shadows change. And when they’re flat on the ground, you clear your throat and stretch out a hand.
God takes it with a sigh and a smile. He seems to think this has gone in his favor. That taking you somewhere without air conditioning or real food or anything you can actually do is going to put him over Dean stealing Bobby’s truck to take you to a drive-in movie theater, wrapping you up in one of his burrito blankets, and hand feeding you popcorn whenever you started talking too much. And that wasn’t eve a real date.
But when God takes you back home—just outside the motel, at least he isn’t going to make you walk back through the jungle—he doesn’t let go of your hand. He leans forward, staring at your lips, the scraggle of his beard even patchier up close. His breath smells like nothing. You’d rather have Dean after eating garlic and fish, than have to ever make out with God’s too smooth, pale lips.
You turn your cheek, and God sighs.
“Fair enough,” he murmurs, and you yank your hand away.
“Dean-“
“I know, I know. But-“ He smiles like a rat. “Did you have a good time?”
You didn’t kill yourself. “No.”
He doesn’t deflate, like you’d hoped. His smile widens. It chills you, deeper than your bones. “Purgatory.”
You blink. “What-“
“Dean’s in purgatory,” God crosses his arms. “All the way in it. About as central as you can go.”
“He’s- He and Sam- Get them out!”
God vanishes, reappearing up on the walkway, overlooking the cloudy motel pool. You run after him on shaking feet.
“Get them out, they- They’re humans, they can’t- Get them out-“
Just before you reach him, he’s gone. Your head whips around, panting from the everything, and the water shifts. Your gaze whips down, and the leaves and silt in the pool are swirling and changing color, until they’re all faded like an old picture. You lean over the railing, watching with shallow breaths, letting out a tiny, broken sound when the image comes into focus.
Sam and Dean in a forest. It’s barren and cold looking, nothing but dirt and thin grass and blood on the ground-
Blood.
Sam’s curled in a little ball, and there’s blood all over the ground. All over Dean’s hands, when he reaches out and Sam rolls away with a twitching body. Dean’s face falls, then steels. He says something you can’t hear, and starts grabbing around Sam’s neck. Sam goes limp. Dean rubs his jaw, exhaustion etched over every handsome feature, blood staining his untrimmed beard. He looks at the sky.
He looks at you.
Your back hurts like it’s going to break open. Like you’re only an egg, and letting yourself fall apart will bring something new, something better. You’d take the risk, if you understood it. If you weren’t closer to Dean than you’ve been in months, and that might make you scream in unbridled agony, but it almost jumpstarts that dangerous, dangerous hope.
Because he’s there. Tired but alive. Carrying Sam—limp but breathing—over his back with an unbreakable glint in his eye. And you’re allowed to hope that he’ll be home by morning. That you’ll get through this, and Dean will collapse on the edge of your bed and let you cradle him until you’re both patched up.
It could all be fine in the morning.
“I could get him,” God whispers, back at your side. “Him and Sam, and Bobby. I could bring them all back.”
You shake your head, unable to look away from Dean. “I’m never going with you,” you rasp, and God hums.
“I’m not asking you to.”
You laugh disbelievingly, and he sighs.
“Well, I am, but- It’s not like the other times, okay? I just want five- Maybe ten years. To show you how good it would be, to- To get a real chance. All I’m asking for is one real chance, nothing in the way. I’ll even toss in world peace, whenever we go on a date. And world peace, plus Dean safe?” He whistles. “What more could you possibly want?”
And you don’t answer. He right. You’re not going to get a better deal than that.
But Dean…
You can still see him, laying Sam on the ground of a cave, wiping the sweat from his baby brother’s brow and working his jaw as he figures out what he’s going to do. And you can see the shattered expression he’d give you, if you told him you traded yourself for his freedom. Ten years is nothing to God. It’s everything to you. It’s how long you knew Dean, before you were allowed to touch him. How much time you wasted clawing away from his side and gnawing off your hands when they just reached back out. You can’t waste another ten years. You can’t see your own heartbreak on Dean’s face.
God sighs, and the vision vanishes from the water.
“Think about it,” he mutters, and then he’s gone.
You sigh, and linger for only a moment long. When you push back into the motel room, you find Jo splayed over her own bed, her nose wrinkled and hand swatting at something in her dreams. You smile and shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water over your cheeks and squinting at your flushed, scrunched face in the flickering, yellow light. You sigh, and look back to the sink. The water in the faucet misses being free to follow it’s own stream. You understand, and turn it off.
When you look up again, Cas is right behind you, and your eyes only go wide.
He looks the same as how you last saw him. Bags under his eyes and messy hair, electric blue clean and the colors of his rainbow back in line. There’s something more lean to his body—to his wings, trapped in his vessel—but maybe he’s been doing a lot. You want to ask. You want to grab his hand, and tell him you found Dean.
But you’re tired.
You’re tired, and it’s been months, and he only reaches out now. Now that you have something, now that you might need him, but not enough that he’s going to have to deal with what he did. You spin around and press yourself against the counter, and he just fucking stares at you, and all that beaten down, bottled up frustration and fury… it just bursts.
“Get out,” you hiss, and Cas only blinks. “Get out!”
He doesn’t move. Your voice rises to shrill scream.
“Get out, get out- I- I don’t want to fucking see you, I don’t want talk to you, I don’t- Get out!”
Cas doesn’t budge. Something in your chest that’s been held up by the thinnest string snaps, and you start to sob, your body shaking and hands wringing and tears streaming, hot and angry down your face.
“You put them there!” You scream, and Cas still only stares. “You didn’t let me stop them, you- You didn’t let me save them, you put them there!”
Cas tilts his head. You can barely breathe.
“They’re gone- He’s gone- He’s gone, and I- I don’t know how- I don’t know how- And it’s your fault- Your fault-“ Your voice cracks. “You didn’t let me save him,” you barely whisper. “Why didn’t you let me save him?”
And he doesn’t answer. You let out another twisted, wretching sob and stumble forward, unsure if you’re going to push him or hug him, but your hands meet nothing but tiled wall. Cas is gone. Like he was never even there at all. And you fall to the bathroom floor, crying until you can’t feel anything but the pain of it, but the ache of the Spiderweb over your heart.
Jo finds you. She helps you back to bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, holding your hand as your breathing evens out. She knows better than to talk about it now.
“In the morning,” you breathe, half asleep, and she gives you a worried look.
“What?”
“It’ll-“ You yawn, your eyes easing shut, rolling into her side and squeezing her hand tight. “’s gonna be better in the morning.”
“There aren’t stars,” you whisper, curled into Dean’s side on the forest floor.
You’re dreaming of Purgatory. Of the dark forest and Dean, safer than he probably is out there. You found him bathing in a river, and he led you to that cave where you saw him hide Sam. You lay on the ground, half curled over his chest, and you watch the empty sky with his heartbeat steady in your ear.
“I don’t like that there aren’t stars,” you mutter, and Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to your brow.
“I know.”
The dark shimmers. Golden, flickering stars light up the skyline, making Dean look like he’s a steady candle. He smiles, playing with a baby hair curled near your ear. Tears slide down your cheek, and Dean kisses then away with soft, warm lips.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. “Nothin’ you can’t do.”
You laugh, breathy and broken. Dean kisses that away to, and you let yourself close your eyes.
You’ll get him back, you promise the fake stars. You will, or-
No or.
You’re just going to get him back.
✦chapter 76
✦End note: i'm so sorry this was late, the fic writers curse might finally be hitting me squad... but it's okay. we persist. i will not be weaker than my characters Chapter Title from Lonely is the Muse by Halsey
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˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚ This is a part of a series - go here to access all of the chapters in one place. This story is heavy on hurt/comfort because that is my favorite trope ever. As always, give feedback and send requests for anything you'd like to see. Happy reading!
Three weeks later, Dean finally let you drive the Impala. He claimed it was temporary.
He claimed the doctor had threatened to personally break his other arm if he ignored the sling again, which sounded suspiciously exaggerated but believable enough that neither you nor Sam challenged it. He also claimed he trusted you behind the wheel, though the way he hovered beside the driver's door suggested otherwise.
"Hands at ten and two," he said.
You looked down at the steering wheel. "My hands aren't even on it yet."
"Getting ahead of the problem."
"You've watched me drive before."
"I watched you hit a mailbox."
"That mailbox was too close to the road."
"It was in a yard."
"It came out of nowhere."
Sam leaned against the open passenger-side door, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile behind the book in his hands.
Dean noticed. "You wanna walk?"
Sam lowered the book. "I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
"My face thinks you should let her start the car before criticizing her driving."
Dean looked at him for a long moment. Then he turned back to you. "Seat belt."
You stared at him. "Dean."
"Seat belt."
You pulled it across your chest and clicked it into place with more force than necessary. "Satisfied?"
"Not remotely."
He walked around the front of the Impala, one hand gliding over the hood as he passed. The sling was gone now, but his shoulder remained stiff beneath his jacket. He hid the discomfort well most of the time, though you noticed whenever he reached too quickly or turned at the wrong angle.
You noticed more than you used to.
The way he favored his right side while climbing into the passenger seat. The faint burn marks that remained across his palm, tracing the places where his fingers had held your wrist inside the ritual circle. The split second of hesitation before he closed the door, as though he still expected the ground to disappear beneath you.
Dean caught you looking at his hand. He curled his fingers and rested them against his thigh. "What?"
"Nothing."
"That wasn't nothing."
You faced the windshield and adjusted the mirror. "You say that a lot."
"Because you say nothing when it's clearly something."
Sam climbed into the back seat and stretched his legs across more space than any one person deserved.
You glanced at him through the mirror. "Can you move your knees?"
"I am moving them."
"Somewhere other than the back of my seat."
"You wanted to drive."
"I didn't realize that meant sharing my spine with your kneecaps."
Dean twisted slightly toward him. "She's got a point, Sasquatch."
Sam folded himself farther toward the door with a long-suffering sigh. "There. Better?"
You settled against the seat. "Barely."
The bunker garage stretched quietly around the Impala. Overhead lights reflected from the black paint, following the long curve of the hood. The concrete walls held the lingering smell of motor oil, dust, and the coffee Dean had abandoned on a nearby workbench.
The bunker had felt different after you returned. Not unfamiliar. Just lighter.
For the first several days, you had expected to hear the coin rolling inside the walls. You woke with the phantom sensation of chains around your ankles and lay still until you heard one of the brothers moving somewhere nearby.
The first night, you had slept in the hallway again. This time, you had not bothered pretending it was accidental.
You carried your blanket and pillow to the space between Sam and Dean's rooms, only to discover both doors already open.
Neither brother mentioned it. Dean left the television on low. Sam read until nearly sunrise. You slept.
By the end of the first week, you made it back to your own bed. Both doors remained open down the hall.
You had not sleepwalked once. The dreams had stopped too. No forest. No lantern. No ancient voice calling you home.
Sometimes you dreamed of the Harlow kitchen. Sunlight across wooden floors. Flour covering your mother's hands. Your father laughing from the doorway. The details faded more each morning.
You could no longer remember the exact shade of your mother's eyes. The tune she had hummed disappeared before you woke. Your father's voice had become something you felt more than heard.
But the silver coin remained. You wore it now on a thin cord beneath your shirt. The sun rested against one side of your chest. The open road faced your heart. Dean had asked where it came from. You told him your father gave it to you.
Dean looked at it for a long time before nodding. He did not ask how a coin from a memory had followed you out of a sealed supernatural prison. Some things no longer needed explanations.
You wrapped your fingers around the Impala's key. A tremor passed through your hand. Small. Barely noticeable.
Dean noticed anyway. "You don't have to."
You looked at him. He had gone quiet beside you, all the teasing disappearing from his face.
"I know."
"We can sit here."
"That sounds exciting."
"I've had worse afternoons."
"I'm driving."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Okay."
You slid the key into the ignition. The engine turned over with a deep, familiar rumble that traveled through the seat and settled into your bones. The sound had once meant leaving. Now it meant something else.
Dean leaned toward the dashboard and adjusted one of the vents. "Easy on the clutch."
"It's automatic."
"Still."
You stared at him.
Sam opened his book. "I'd ignore him."
"I heard that."
"You were supposed to."
You shifted the Impala into reverse. Dean braced one hand against the dashboard.
You raised an eyebrow. "Do you trust me?"
"With my life."
His eyes moved toward the garage door. "Not necessarily with the car."
You smiled and pressed the accelerator. The Impala rolled backward.
Dean inhaled sharply. "Easy."
"I am going four miles an hour."
"Feels faster."
"That's because you're dramatic."
"I'm cautious."
Sam turned a page. "You drove through the hospital entrance at ninety miles an hour."
"That was different."
"How?"
Dean glanced at you. His expression shifted. The answer lay between all three of you. Because she was dying. No one said it.
You looked forward and guided the car through the open garage door. Sunlight poured over the windshield. For one moment, the brightness blinded you. Then your eyes adjusted, and the road beyond the bunker appeared. Open. Empty. Waiting. You pulled onto it slowly.
Dean's hand finally left the dashboard. "There you go."
The approval in his voice warmed you more than it should have. You glanced toward him. He caught you looking.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Again with the nothing."
You faced the road, smiling.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires until you reached the pavement. Tall grass moved gently along the shoulder, silver-green beneath the morning sun. The sky stretched wide and cloudless above you.
You had forgotten what it felt like to look at a horizon without wondering what waited behind it.
For most of your life—or at least the part you remembered—the road had been something you followed because there was nowhere else to go. Each town led to a motel, each motel to another hunt, and every hunt brought you one step closer to a past you could not remember.
Now the past had found you. You had survived it. The future no longer felt like an accident.
Sam closed his book after several miles. "So where are we going?"
Dean reached for the glove compartment.
"Food."
"We just ate."
"You ate yogurt."
"That counts."
"No, it doesn't."
"It was breakfast."
"It was bacteria in a cup."
You laughed. Dean looked pleased with himself.
Sam leaned forward slightly. "We don't have a case?"
"Nope."
"No mysterious deaths?"
"Not today."
"No reports of livestock mutilation, grave desecration, or people hearing voices in the woods?"
Dean opened the glove compartment and pulled out a cassette. "I didn't check."
Sam stared at him. "You didn't check?"
"Taking the morning off."
You glanced toward Dean. He turned the cassette over in his hand, studying the handwritten label as though it required his full attention. Dean Winchester did not take mornings off. Not unless something forced him.
The realization settled gently inside you. This was for you. Maybe for all three of you. A day with no monsters, no research, and no ancient prophecy demanding someone's blood. One ordinary stretch of road. You tightened your hands around the wheel.
"Where are we eating?"
Dean looked toward a sign approaching in the distance. "There's a diner about thirty miles up."
"Is it good?"
"No idea."
"Then why that one?"
"They have pie."
Sam sighed. "Of course they do."
Dean slid the cassette into the player. The speakers crackled before guitar filled the car. You recognized the song after the first few notes. Dean reached for the volume.
Sam leaned forward. "Don't."
Dean turned it higher.
"You're not driving," you reminded him.
"My car."
"My radio while I'm driving."
He looked at you slowly. You waited.
The music continued. Dean settled back into the seat. "We'll revisit this dictatorship later."
You smiled and watched the road.
For several miles, no one spoke. It was not the heavy silence that had followed Ashwood or the frightened quiet of the hospital. This silence held the music, the hum of tires, and Sam shifting in the back seat whenever he reached the end of a page.
It was full rather than empty. Your right hand rested loosely against the steering wheel. Your left lay beside you on the bench seat.
Dean's hand sat only a few inches away. The space between them felt more noticeable than it should have. Neither of you had spoken about the kiss. Not directly.
The first few days after the ritual had been filled with bandages, pain medication, and Bobby threatening to lock everyone inside the bunker until you healed. Dean had hovered without hovering, appearing in rooms with food you had not asked for and disappearing before you could question him.
Sometimes you caught him watching you.
When you looked back, he usually made a joke or asked whether you had taken your medication.
One night, you found him asleep in the chair beside your bed. His burned hand rested near yours on top of the blanket. You did not wake him. You simply moved your fingers close enough that they touched.
The next morning, neither of you mentioned it. Sam noticed everything. But there had been a change in him since the prison. It appeared in small pauses.
The way his eyes lingered when Dean sat too close to you. The quiet smile that never fully reached his face when the two of you bickered. His feelings had not vanished simply because Dean had reached you first. You knew that. You also knew yours had not disappeared.
Sam still felt like quiet ground beneath your feet. When the nightmares left you shaken, he was the one who listened without trying to fix every fear. He remembered the pieces you dropped and handed them back when you needed them.
Loving one of them had not erased what you felt for the other. The truth was complicated. Messy. Human.
For once, you did not need an immediate answer. Sam caught your gaze in the rearview mirror.
His expression softened slightly. "You okay?"
You smiled. "Yeah."
He studied you for another second. Then nodded. This time, he believed you.
Dean looked between you and the mirror. "What?"
"Nothing," both of you said.
Dean frowned. "I hate when you two do that."
"Do what?" Sam asked.
"That weird mind-reading thing."
"We're not reading minds."
"Yeah, that's exactly what two mind readers would say."
You laughed and shook your head. Dean's fingers shifted on the seat.
His hand moved closer to yours. Not enough to touch. Only enough that the warmth of it reached your skin. You glanced down.
The burn marks across his palm had begun healing into pale lines. They followed the curve of his fingers like thin branches, a permanent reminder of the moment he refused to let the ritual take you. Dean kept his eyes on the road.
His little finger brushed yours. Accidentally, perhaps.
Neither of you moved away. You waited. So did he.
Then his hand opened between you, palm facing upward. The gesture was so quiet that Sam might have missed it.
He did not. You could feel his attention shift from the back seat before he deliberately looked down at his book. Your heart began beating harder. You slipped your hand into Dean's.
His fingers closed around yours. Slowly. Carefully. As if he still expected you might disappear.
He did not look at you. Neither did you. The contact was enough.
His thumb moved across your knuckles once. You tightened your grip in answer.
The Impala drifted slightly toward the center line. Dean immediately looked over.
"Eyes on the road."
You stared at him. "Seriously?"
"I'm trusting you with my life."
"And your car?"
"Still under review."
You tried to pull your hand away. Dean held on.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't say you could stop."
Warmth climbed into your face. "You're impossible."
"So I've heard."
From the back seat, Sam turned another page unnecessarily loudly.
Dean glanced over his shoulder. "You got something to say?"
"Nope."
"You sure?"
"Completely."
Sam's gaze briefly met yours in the mirror. There was something tender in his expression. A little sadness. A lot of love. Not only for you. For Dean too.
For the strange shape the three of you had formed together. You hoped one day you would find the right words for all of it.
Today, the road was enough.
The diner appeared thirty minutes later beside a faded gas station, its red sign missing two letters and several trucks parked near the entrance.
You pulled into the lot.
Dean sat straighter. "Careful."
"I see the parking space."
"Take it wide."
"It's a parking space, not a mountain pass."
"The car has a long body."
"I know what the car looks like."
"Watch the curb."
You turned the wheel. The Impala slid perfectly between the painted lines. You shifted into park. Dean looked through the windshield, then toward his window, inspecting the distance on either side.
You waited.
"Well?"
He unfastened his seat belt. "Acceptable."
"Acceptable?"
"You're a little close on the left."
Sam opened the rear door.
"She's exactly centered."
Dean looked back.
"Whose side are you on?"
"The side that wants pie before sunset."
You pulled the keys from the ignition. Dean reached for them. You held them away.
"Absolutely not."
"You drove here."
"I'm driving back."
Dean stared at the keys. Then at you. "This is how coups start."
"You gave them to me."
"Under medical duress."
You tucked them into your jacket pocket. Dean narrowed his eyes. You smiled sweetly and opened the door.
The diner smelled like coffee, frying bacon, and something sweet baking in the kitchen. A waitress led the three of you to a booth near the window.
Dean slid in beside you before Sam could. The movement was casual enough to seem accidental. It was not.
Sam took the opposite side and opened the menu.
Dean did not bother. "What kind of pie?"
The waitress blinked.
"Apple, cherry, pecan, and chocolate cream."
"All of them."
Sam lowered his menu.
"You can't order four slices of pie."
Dean looked genuinely confused. "Why not?"
"Because you just got out of the hospital."
"The pie isn't armed."
"The doctor gave you dietary restrictions."
Dean glanced at you. "You remember those?"
"Unfortunately."
"Traitor."
You ordered coffee. Sam ordered an actual meal.
Dean ordered two slices of pie after a prolonged negotiation involving the waitress, Sam, and several dramatic accusations about personal freedom. The ordinariness of it settled over you.
Sunlight warmed the edge of the table. Silverware clinked from other booths. A child near the counter complained loudly about syrup touching his eggs.
No one screamed. No lights flickered. Nothing whispered your old name from inside the walls. You rested your hand beneath the table. Dean found it almost immediately. His fingers laced through yours without looking.
Sam noticed. Of course he did.
He lowered his eyes toward his coffee. A strange ache moved through you. Not guilt exactly. Something softer. You stretched your foot beneath the table and nudged his boot.
Sam looked up. You smiled at him. His expression warmed.
The waitress returned with pie. The moment disappeared into Dean arguing that the chocolate slice was smaller than the pecan one.
You laughed until your side hurt. This time, the pain did not frighten you. It reminded you that you were alive.
That evening, you drove west. There was no case waiting at the end of the road. No destination entered into Sam's maps.
Dean suggested a motel he remembered outside Wichita. Sam argued there was a cleaner one forty miles north. You ignored both and kept following the highway as the sun sank behind you. Golden light stretched across the road. The sky turned pink, then orange, then deep red near the horizon.
For a moment, the color reminded you of the demon's eyes. The memory passed without taking hold.
Dean's hand remained wrapped around yours on the seat. Sam slept in the back with his book open against his chest, one long leg bent awkwardly near the door.
Dean glanced at him through the mirror. "He drools."
"I heard that," Sam muttered without opening his eyes.
Dean smirked.
You watched the last edge of sunlight disappear. "Do you think it's really over?"
Dean became quiet. He did not offer the automatic promise you expected. No easy certainty. No declaration that nothing would ever hurt you again.
"I think he's gone," he said.
"And the seal?"
"Bobby says it's permanent."
"Bobby also said the coin was contained."
"Fair point."
You looked at the darkening road.
"What if something else comes?"
"It will."
The honesty surprised you. Dean squeezed your hand. "There's always something else."
"That isn't comforting."
"Wasn't supposed to be."
He shifted in the passenger seat and looked toward you. "But next time, we know who you are."
You glanced at him. "So do I."
Dean's expression softened. "Good."
The Impala carried the sound into the night. The road ahead disappeared beyond the reach of the headlights, revealing itself one piece at a time. You no longer needed to know where every mile led.
Your past rested behind you—imperfectly remembered, painfully loved, and finally yours. The darkness no longer held a demon waiting to call you home. Home sat beside you, warm hand wrapped around yours. It slept in the back seat, taking up too much room.
It lived in the bunker's open doorways, Bobby's gruff voice, gas-station dinners, crowded motel rooms, and every impossible promise the four of you continued trying to keep.
You pressed the accelerator. The Impala surged forward.
Dean looked toward the speedometer. "You're going a little fast."
"You said I was driving like a grandmother."
"I said Sam was."
"Same difference."
"Not remotely."
You smiled into the darkness. "Relax."
Dean stared at you. Then at the road. Then down at your joined hands.
He settled back into the seat. "Fine."
The word carried reluctant trust. You turned the music louder.
Dean complained about your choice before the first chorus. Sam woke long enough to side with you. The argument followed the Impala down the highway, bright and familiar beneath the endless night.
And for the first time since waking alone in the woods, you were not searching for the life you had lost. You were already living the one you chose.
˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚ This is a part of a series - go here to access all of the chapters in one place. This story is heavy on hurt/comfort because that is my favorite trope ever. As always, give feedback and send requests for anything you'd like to see. Happy reading!
The darkness took you without impact.
There was no stone beneath your back, no violent pull through the iron door, no final burst of pain as the ritual tore the Buried King from your blood. One moment Dean's hand was locked around your wrist, his voice fighting through the roar of the chamber, and the next there was nothing.
No sound.
No light.
No body.
You tried to breathe and could not feel your lungs expand. Panic should have come with that realization, but even fear seemed distant here. It floated somewhere beyond your reach, separated from you by the same endless dark that stretched in every direction.
You were not cold. You were not warm. You simply existed. For a while, that was all you knew. Then the memories began to return. Not in order. Not gently.
They struck like pieces of broken glass drifting through black water. Dean's fingers burning around your wrist. Sam's hand against your shoulder. Bobby shouting the final words of the ritual.
The iron door slamming shut.
The Buried King screaming through your body as thousands of locks turned beneath the earth.
You remembered telling Dean you were going home.
You had believed it.
Now there was no road beneath you. No Impala. No bunker waiting beyond a heavy steel door.
Only darkness.
"Dean?"
Your voice did not echo.
It vanished the moment it left you. You tried again, louder.
"Sam?"
Nothing answered.
You reached out, though you could not see your hands. You were not entirely certain they were there. The darkness did not move beneath your fingers. There was no surface to touch, no wall marking the edge of whatever place had taken you.
You could have been falling. You could have been standing still. Time no longer seemed to have meaning. The thought arrived quietly. Maybe this was the prison. Maybe closing the door had trapped you on the wrong side.
The Buried King was gone. You could not feel his voice scratching at the inside of your skull or his presence coiled around your heart. The chain that had followed you through every dream had disappeared.
You were free of him. The emptiness surrounding you felt far too much like freedom's price. You closed your eyes, though the darkness remained unchanged. Dean had asked you to come back. Sam had promised you knew the way. Bobby had reminded you that blood was not what made you family.
You held onto those truths and waited for them to pull you somewhere. Nothing happened. Then a sound reached you. Soft enough that you almost mistook it for memory. A woman humming.
The melody moved through the dark in slow, gentle notes. You did not recognize the song, but your body did. Something inside your chest tightened with an ache so deep that it felt older than every memory you possessed.
The darkness shifted. A pale glow appeared far ahead.
At first, it was no larger than a candle flame. Then it spread outward, warming the empty space around it until the faint shape of a room emerged. Sunlight rested across wooden floors.
White curtains moved beside an open window.
A table stood beneath it, covered with flour and half-shaped pieces of dough. A woman faced away from you, her long brown hair pulled loosely over one shoulder while she worked.
She hummed the same melody. Your feet touched the floor. The sensation startled you. You looked down.
You were barefoot, but there was no mud between your toes. No blood. No cuts from a forest road. Warm sunlight covered your skin.
The woman stopped humming. Her hands became still against the dough. For several seconds, neither of you moved. Then she turned. You knew her. Not from a photograph.
Not from Bobby's records. You knew the curve of her smile before it appeared. The warmth in her brown eyes. The small line between her brows that deepened when she tried not to cry.
Your mother.
The word rose from somewhere buried too deeply for the demon to reach. She looked at you as though no time had passed.
"Emily."
Your throat closed. The name no longer sounded like blood dripping down a hospital wall. It sounded like a lullaby.
You stared at her. "I don't know if that's me."
Her smile trembled. "It was."
The words should have felt like an answer.
Instead, they opened a hundred more questions. You looked around the kitchen.
The Harlow house. Before the fire. Before the ruins and cellar doors.
Before everything had been taken from you. "Am I dead?"
Your mother's eyes filled with sadness. "Not yet."
Relief moved through you so violently that your knees nearly gave out. You caught the edge of the table, fingers digging into the wood.
"Then where am I?"
"Between."
"Between what?"
"The life you chose and the darkness you carried."
You looked toward the window. Beyond the moving curtains, sunlight covered a wide field. A child's wooden horse lay in the grass. Laundry shifted lazily on a line.
The scene was too perfect. Not false. Preserved. A memory untouched by the years that followed.
"The demon is gone," you said.
"Yes."
"Locked away?"
Her expression changed. "More than locked."
You waited.
"The prison was built to hold him," she continued. "But every seal weakens when the thing inside it has eternity to push against the walls. Your family understood that eventually the door would fail."
"So they made me."
"No."
Her answer came quickly. She crossed the space between you and placed one hand against your cheek. The touch was warm.
Real enough that your eyes burned. "We had you because we wanted you."
A tear slipped down your face. She brushed it away with her thumb.
"The bloodline came with you. It was never the reason for you."
The words settled into a wound you had not realized remained open. You had spent months believing your life might have begun as a ritual. That your parents had created you because the prison needed another keeper. That love had been secondary to duty.
Your mother saw the fear. "We tried to remove the burden before you were born," she said. "Your father searched every journal, every church record, every story passed through our family. We believed there had to be a way to let the bloodline end without releasing him."
"But there wasn't."
"No."
Her hand lowered. "When the others died, the entire seal moved into our family. When you were born, it moved into you."
"Why don't I remember any of this?"
Pain crossed her face. "Because we made you forget."
You stepped back.
The warmth of the kitchen seemed to dim. "You did it?"
"We thought it was the only way to hide you."
"You took my life from me."
"We tried to give you one."
The answer struck harder than anger would have. Your mother folded her hands together, holding them tightly against her waist.
"The Buried King could find the bloodline through memory. Every person who knew the rituals, every place tied to the prison, every name carried by the family became a path he could follow."
"So you erased everything."
"Not everything."
"I woke up in the woods with nothing."
Her eyes closed. "That was not what we intended."
You looked toward the window again. The bright field blurred behind your tears.
"What was supposed to happen?"
"You were supposed to grow up somewhere safe."
A man's voice came from the doorway. You turned. Your father stood there.
The kind green eyes from the photograph belonged to a taller man than you remembered from the vision, though perhaps childhood had simply made him seem enormous. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing symbols inked along his forearms in fading black lines.
He looked at you with the same impossible recognition.
"My brother was meant to take you," he said.
"My uncle?"
"He knew nothing about the prison. Nothing about hunting. That was why we chose him."
Your father stepped into the kitchen. "The spell was supposed to bury the supernatural memories and leave the rest. Your name. Your childhood. Us."
"But it didn't."
"The demon reached the house before we finished."
Fire flashed across your mind. Smoke filling a hallway. A woman shouting. Your father drawing a circle in blood while something struck the walls from outside.
"You died."
"Yes."
The simplicity of the answer hollowed your chest.
"Both of you."
Your mother moved beside him. They stood together now, exactly as they had in the photograph Bobby described. Not hunters. Not members of an ancient bloodline.
Parents. People you should have known.
"Who took me from the house?" you asked.
Your father looked toward the floor. "We don't know."
"How can you not know?"
"The final spell broke when the house burned. Time moved around you strangely after that. You were hidden, but not where we intended."
"Twenty years?"
"Perhaps more. Perhaps less."
His expression softened. "The space between the prison and the world does not obey time the way humans do."
You tried to understand. "You're saying I was trapped somewhere."
"Protected," your mother said carefully.
"It didn't feel like protection."
"No."
She accepted the accusation without defending herself. "We are sorry."
The anger inside you did not disappear. It remained tangled with grief, love, and the unbearable knowledge that they had been trying to save you when they made the choice that erased them.
You looked at your father's arms. "The symbols."
He followed your gaze.
"Your mother was the witch."
She lifted an eyebrow. "He was the one who insisted on drawing the wards himself."
"I followed instructions."
"You misspelled three of them."
"I fixed them."
A surprised laugh escaped you. The sound broke something open. Your mother smiled through her tears.
Your mind drifted to Dean and how your parents reminded you of him. The memory of him returned with such force that you pressed a hand against your chest. The kiss. His forehead resting against yours. You became somebody I needed to come home.
You looked around the kitchen. "This isn't home."
Your parents did not appear hurt. Your father nodded.
"No."
"I wanted it to be."
"We know."
"I spent so long wondering who I belonged to before the woods."
Your mother reached for your hand.
"You belonged to us."
You let her take it.
Her fingers fit around yours with an ease that made grief rise like water in your throat.
"And now?" you asked.
"Now you belong to yourself."
The room flickered. For one second, the kitchen disappeared. Black stone surrounded you.
A distant voice shouted your name. Dean.
The sound was muffled, as though traveling through several locked doors.
You turned toward it. The kitchen returned.
"He's calling me."
Your mother smiled. "He has been for some time."
"How do I get back?"
Your parents exchanged a look. The hope inside you faltered.
"What?"
Your father's face became grave.
"The seal is closed. The Buried King has been removed from your blood and bound beyond the threshold."
"That's good."
"Yes."
"But?"
"The ritual required the Lock to cross with him."
You looked down at your body.
"Then I'm inside the prison."
"Part of you is."
Cold moved through you despite the warm sunlight.
"How much?"
"Enough that returning will require a choice."
Your mother tightened her hold on your hand.
"You completed the seal with three tethers waiting outside. They kept you from being drawn fully beyond the door."
"Bobby. Sam. Dean."
"Yes."
"Then why am I still here?"
"Because the bloodline is ending."
You stared at her.
"The seal needed something to remain."
Your father stepped closer.
"You can leave the burden behind. But you cannot take every part of your old life with you."
The words made no sense at first. Then they did.
"My memories."
"Some of them."
"No."
The answer came immediately. Your mother's expression broke.
"Emily—"
"Emma."
She paused.
A sad smile touched her face. "Emma."
You swallowed. "I'm not losing them."
"You may not control what stays."
"Then help me."
"We cannot choose for you."
"You're my parents."
"We can show you the way," your father said. "We cannot decide what you carry through."
Dean's voice reached you again. Closer this time.
"Emma!"
The kitchen windows trembled. Your mother turned toward the sound.
"He will not stop."
A laugh broke through your tears. "No. He won't."
Your father looked almost amused. "He reminds me of your mother."
She glanced at him. "I was far more reasonable."
"You set a demon on fire inside our kitchen."
"It was threatening the baby."
"Reasonable," he agreed.
For the first time, you could imagine them beyond the tragedy. Bickering over wards. Burning dinner. Holding you beneath the same sunlight that covered the floor now.
You wanted more time. A lifetime of it. The room knew. The light became warmer. The smell of bread thickened. Somewhere outside, a child laughed.
The life you had lost waited around you. All you had to do was stay. Your mother's eyes filled as she watched the temptation take shape. "This place can give you every memory."
You looked at her.
"You could remember your first steps. Birthdays. Your father teaching you cards even though I told him you were too young."
"You were winning," he said.
"She was eating the cards."
"Strategy."
A smile trembled across your lips.
"You could stay with us," your mother continued. "Not forever as you understand it. But long enough that leaving would no longer hurt."
Dean shouted your name again. This time, Sam's voice joined his.
The two sounds passed through the kitchen walls. Your father looked toward the doorway.
"They are pulling."
You closed your eyes. You pictured Sam kneeling at the ritual circle, both hands pressed against the boundary. His certainty. His gentleness. The way he had told you that you knew the path back. Bobby naming you when you had nothing else. Dean offering his hand without demanding a promise you could not make.
The life in this kitchen had been stolen. The life outside the prison had been chosen.
You opened your eyes. "I have to go."
Your mother nodded, though tears slipped freely down her face. "I know."
Pain split through you. You had only just found them.
It felt cruel to lose them in the same moment.
"Will I remember you?"
"We don't know."
You gripped her hand. "That isn't good enough."
"No," she whispered. "It isn't."
Your father removed something from his pocket. A small silver coin. Not the demon's marker. This one was clean and bright, with a sun engraved on one side and an open road on the other.
He placed it in your palm. "I gave this to you when you were born."
You closed your fingers around it. "Why?"
"Your mother said you needed protection."
"She did."
"I said you needed luck."
"You needed both."
Your parents smiled at one another. You pressed the coin against your chest.
"Will it come with me?"
"If you carry it."
The room flickered again. This time, the stone chamber remained visible beneath the kitchen. The walls overlapped. Sunlight crossed black rock. The table stood inside the ritual circle. Your parents' bodies became faint around the edges.
Dean's voice tore through everything. "Come on, Em!"
You turned. A thin line of golden light appeared in the darkness beyond the kitchen doorway. It stretched toward you. Dean's tether. Beside it burned Sam's white light and Bobby's steady blue. Three paths twisting together.
Your mother released your hand.
"No." The word escaped you before you could stop it.
She lifted her fingers to your cheek. "You are not leaving us behind."
"It feels like I am."
"We are in you."
"What if I forget?"
"Then remember how you felt here."
Loved. Wanted. Never created as a weapon. Your father placed one hand against the back of your head and kissed your forehead.
"You ended what we could not."
"I only finished what you started."
"That is what children do."
Tears blurred their faces. You wanted to memorize them. The exact shade of your mother's eyes. The scar beneath your father's chin. The warmth of their hands. The sound of their voices.
The golden line pulled tighter. The kitchen began breaking apart.
Plaster lifted from the walls in glowing pieces. The curtains dissolved into pale dust. The sunlight narrowed around your parents.
Your mother smiled one final time. "Go home, Emma."
The floor vanished. You fell toward the light.
The chamber returned without sound. You saw it from above at first, distant and unreal. The ritual circle had gone dark.
The iron door stood sealed at the far end of the room, smooth and unbroken. Every chain had disappeared. The lock and key had fused into the black metal.
Your body lay at the center of the circle. Still.
Dean was on his knees beside you.
His injured arm had escaped the ruined sling, hanging awkwardly at his side. Burn marks spread across the palm of his good hand, dark lines following the exact places where his fingers had held your wrist.
He ignored them. Both hands were against your face.
"Emma."
Sam knelt on your other side. His fingers pressed beneath your jaw.
Bobby stood behind them, the journal hanging loosely at his side.
No one spoke except Dean. "Come on."
He tapped your cheek. "Enough screwing around."
Sam looked at him. "Dean."
"No."
Your chest did not move. Sam's hand shifted to your throat again. His expression broke.
Dean saw it. "No."
He bent over you, pressing his ear near your mouth. Nothing.
"No, she said she was coming back."
Bobby lowered his head. Dean's hand slid beneath your neck.
"Emma." His voice cracked.
"Open your eyes."
Sam reached for his shoulder.
Dean shoved him away. "Don't."
"Dean—"
"She's not gone."
He pulled you partly into his lap, ignoring the way the movement tore at his own injuries. Your head fell against his chest. Dean held you tighter.
"Em."
The sound that left him was barely a word. Sam turned away and pressed both hands over his face.
Bobby closed the journal. The finality of the sound echoed through the chamber.
Dean looked up. "Open it."
Bobby stared at him.
"The door."
"No."
"She's in there."
"The thing behind that door is sealed."
"So is she."
"Dean."
"Open it!"
His shout struck the walls and returned from every direction. The iron door did not move. Dean looked back down at you. His expression collapsed.
He brushed blood and dust from your cheek with his burned hand, flinching only when his skin touched yours.
"You can't do this."
His voice had become soft again.
"You don't get to tell me to come home and then stay gone."
The golden tether tightened around you. You reached for it from the darkness. Your fingers closed around warmth.
Dean's hand. Not physically. Something deeper. A memory of him lying beside you in a motel bed, promising not to leave. You pulled. Pain tore through the darkness. Your body felt impossibly far away.
Sam's tether appeared next. His voice from the hospital. You're Emma. You're here. You reached for that too.
Then Bobby's. Blood ain't what made you family.
The three lights wrapped around you. The Buried King's darkness clung to your feet. Not alive. Not conscious. Only the final weight of the seal demanding that the Lock remain. You looked down. Black chains curled around your ankles. A figure stood behind the closed iron door. The demon no longer wore a human face. Only red eyes remained in the dark.
"You cannot leave."
His voice was weak. Distant.
"You are the seal."
You tightened your grip on the three lights.
"No."
The chains pulled. "You belong to the prison."
You thought of the coin in your palm. The sun. The road. Your father's luck. Your mother's protection.
"I belong to myself."
The silver coin grew hot against your chest. Light burst from it. The black chains cracked. One by one, they fell away. The darkness roared. You pulled yourself toward the voices.
Toward Sam. Toward Bobby. Toward Dean holding your body and refusing to accept what everyone else could see.
The chamber rushed closer. You felt pain first.
Every injury returned at once. The wound in your side. The exhaustion in your bones. Fire beneath your skin where the demon had been torn free.
Then sound. Dean whispering your name. Sam breathing unevenly nearby. Bobby praying beneath his breath. Your lungs expanded. The first breath would not come.
Your body convulsed against Dean. He froze.
Sam's head snapped up. You dragged air into your lungs with a violent gasp. Pain exploded across your chest. You coughed, choking on dust and blood. The chamber erupted around you.
"Emma?"
Dean's voice was too close. Too disbelieving. You opened your eyes.
His face hovered above yours, blurred by tears and exhaustion. Blood covered his temple. His green eyes were wide enough that you could see the panic still trapped inside them.
You tried to speak. Nothing came out.
Dean laughed. It broke halfway through and became something else.
His forehead dropped against yours. "You came back."
You found his burned hand and wrapped your fingers weakly around it.
"Told you," you managed, your voice barely more than air. "I'd try."
Dean closed his eyes. His grip tightened around you as carefully as he could manage.
Sam leaned over both of you, one shaking hand touching your shoulder as if he needed to confirm you were real.
Bobby released a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. For several seconds, no one moved.
You lay in Dean's arms with Sam beside you and Bobby standing guard over all three, the sealed prison silent behind them.
The Buried King was gone. The chain around your heart had disappeared. The empty space it left behind did not frighten you.
For the first time in your life, the darkness inside you belonged only to you. Your eyes began to close.
Dean lifted his head immediately. "No. Hey, stay awake."
You managed a weak smile. "Bossy."
The relief in his voice warmed you more than the ritual light ever had. Sam pressed two fingers against your pulse. "She's stable."
Dean looked at him. "You sure?"
"No."
"Sam."
"But she's here."
Dean looked back down at you. This time, he allowed your eyes to close.
His thumb moved carefully over your knuckles. "Yeah," he whispered. "She is."
˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚ This is a part of a series - go here to access all of the chapters in one place. This story is heavy on hurt/comfort because that is my favorite trope ever. As always, give feedback and send requests for anything you'd like to see. Happy reading!
The black key rested beside your knee.
It looked ordinary enough to belong to an old house or a forgotten trunk, no longer than the width of your palm and worn smooth in places by hands that had held it long before yours. Only its color made it feel wrong. The iron was darker than everything around it, swallowing the pale light spilling from the ritual circle instead of reflecting it.
A few inches away lay the silver coin. The engraved lock faced upward, surrounded by symbols that pulsed faintly in time with the lines carved beneath you. Lock and key. Separate for generations. Together now because the Buried King had led you to both.
Across the chamber, he stood behind the iron door. For the first time since you had seen him in the forest, he was no longer smiling.
His red eyes remained fixed on the key. The face he wore was still calm and human, but the darkness behind him shifted restlessly, stretching across the prison walls in shapes too large to belong to any man.
“Pick it up.” His voice rolled through the chamber.
Dust loosened from the ceiling. The candles surrounding the circle bent beneath the force of his words, their flames stretching sideways before snapping upright again.
You looked down at the key but did not move.
Your blood continued to travel through the shallow channels beneath your palm. It had been flowing toward the prison door before. You were sure of it.
Now the thin red lines were changing direction.
They moved away from the door and gathered around the symbols beneath your knees.
Around you.
Pages turned behind your back.
Bobby knelt over the journal, one hand holding it open while the other traced the faded writing. Blood darkened the side of his face, and his cap had disappeared somewhere during the fight, but he barely seemed to notice.
“They got it wrong,” he muttered.
Sam pushed himself upright several feet away. Dark bruises circled his throat, and every breath came with a rough scrape. He kept one hand against the floor for balance.
“What did they get wrong?”
“The translation.”
Bobby turned another page.
The Buried King’s expression tightened.
“Silence.”
The chamber shook.
A crack split through the stone above Bobby, sending gravel raining over the journal. Bobby threw himself across the pages to protect them.
“Go to Hell,” he growled.
The Buried King curled his fingers around the iron bars.
“I ruled before Hell learned its name.”
A strained sound came from your right.
Dean.
You turned toward him.
The chain that had trapped him lay broken across the floor, but the damage remained. His sling hung loose around his body, and fresh blood had soaked through the bandages beneath his shirt. One side of his face was streaked red from the wound near his temple.
He had managed to get onto one knee.
For a moment, he stayed there with his head lowered and his good hand pressed against the floor. Every breath was too shallow. His injured shoulder trembled beneath the torn fabric of his shirt.
Then he lifted his head. His eyes found you immediately.
“Emma.” The way he said your name cut through everything else. Not angry. Afraid.
“Don’t touch it.”
The Buried King stepped closer to the bars. “She has already chosen.”
Dean looked toward him. “Wasn’t talking to you.”
The demon’s gaze passed over Dean with quiet amusement.
“You crawl toward her even now.”
Dean forced one foot underneath himself. His body swayed when he tried to stand, but he caught a broken length of chain and used it to pull himself upright.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “You got a problem with that?”
The Buried King smiled again.
“No.”
His crimson eyes returned to you.
“I have relied upon it.”
The words settled uneasily through the chamber.
The nightmares. The vampires. Every threat against Sam, Bobby, and Dean. Every moment the demon had placed one of them in danger and made you watch.
He had known you would follow.
He had known you would choose them over yourself.
Dean’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t know anything about her.”
“I know she will do anything to keep you breathing.”
The demon’s gaze moved back to him.
“And I know you will destroy yourself trying to stop her.”
Your stomach twisted.
Dean took another uneven step toward the ritual circle.
“Em, look at me.”
You already were.
He stopped at the edge of the glowing symbols. The light painted his face in pale white and deep red, sharpening the exhaustion beneath his eyes.
He looked like he should have been unconscious.
He was still standing because you were inside the circle.
You hated how much that hurt.
“You don’t know what the key does,” he said.
Bobby’s voice rose behind you.
“I think I do.”
Everyone turned.
He had found a page near the back of the journal. The writing was darker there, hidden beneath a strip of leather that had been sewn into the binding.
A drawing filled the center of the page.
A figure knelt inside a ritual circle.
The iron prison remained closed.
Bobby stared at the drawing before looking toward Sam.
“The first hunters weren’t writing instructions to open the prison.”
Sam dragged himself closer and lowered beside him.
“What were they writing?”
“A failsafe.”
The Buried King struck the door.
The impact rolled through the chamber like thunder. One of the chains wrapped across the iron bars pulled tight, then snapped down the middle. The broken end whipped against the wall hard enough to tear away a chunk of stone.
“Do not listen.”
The patience had disappeared from his voice. His eyes burned brighter behind the door.
Bobby held the journal closer to the ritual light. “The key doesn’t open the prison.”
You looked down at it. “What does it do?”
“It resets the seal.”
Dean frowned. “That sounds like the same damn thing.”
“It ain’t.” Bobby pointed toward the drawing.
You followed his finger. A lock had been carved into the floor beneath the figure’s knees. Your gaze dropped to the symbols beneath you.
Until that moment, they had looked like nothing more than curved lines and unfamiliar runes. Now that you knew what you were seeing, the shape became impossible to miss.
A keyhole. Not on the iron door. Inside the circle. The Buried King could not reach it from behind the bars. No matter how weak the chains became. No matter how long he waited. He had always needed someone on this side. He had needed you.
The memories rearranged themselves inside your mind. The voice calling you through the forest. The coin appearing wherever you went. The key breaking free when you reached the Harlow property. The creatures that had been ordered to frighten you, follow you, hurt you—but never kill you. Every path had led here. Every threat had pushed you closer. But if the key would free him, why was he afraid of it?
You raised your eyes toward the Buried King. “He lied.”
Sam looked at you.
“About what?”
“The door.”
The demon became perfectly still. You stared at him through the bars. “You never needed me to open it.”
His expression did not change, but something cold and sharp entered his gaze. Dean glanced between you and the key.
“Then what did he need?”
You looked down at the lock carved into the stone. “He needed me to believe I would.”
The Buried King struck the door again. Another chain pulled tight.
“You do not understand what you are.”
“I’m starting to.”
“You are the Lock.”
His voice shook the floor beneath you.
“You were made to open.”
“No.”
The word left you before fear could stop it.
The chamber fell quiet.
The Buried King leaned closer to the bars.
Black cracks spread from the corners of his eyes, splitting the human face he wore.
“You carry my chains in your blood.”
Images flashed through your mind. A woman standing near a sunlit window. A man holding a laughing child. Fire burning against the night. Hands drawing symbols in blood while a baby cried somewhere beyond the flames. The memories were incomplete. They might always remain that way. But you understood enough. Your family had not served the Buried King. They had imprisoned him. And the power inside your blood did not belong to him. It had been passed down to keep him contained.
“My family put you there,” you said.
The demon’s face twisted.
Behind you, Bobby continued reading.
“The key restores the seal,” he said. “The bloodline has to turn it from inside the circle.”
Sam’s expression changed. “And what happens to the person inside?”
Bobby did not answer immediately.
Dean looked toward him. “What happens to Emma?”
Bobby lowered his eyes to the page. “The journal doesn’t say.”
Dean limped toward him. “Then keep reading.”
“I am.”
“Read faster.”
“Dean.”
“What?”
Sam looked at him carefully. “There may not be anything else.”
Dean’s face hardened. “There’s always something else.”
A chain cracked behind the door. The sound echoed through the chamber. Dean looked toward it. Only two remained.
Both were stretched tight across the iron bars, trembling beneath the pressure gathering on the other side.
You pressed one hand against the wound in your side as pain flared beneath the bandage. Warm blood slipped between your fingers and fell into the carved channels below. The ritual circle brightened. The key moved. It slid across the stone without being touched and stopped directly in front of the keyhole.
The Buried King’s calm shattered. “You are mine.”
His voice struck the chamber hard enough to make your ears ring.
For months, he had followed you through the dark. He had stolen familiar voices, worn your missing past like a weapon, and offered you answers whenever fear made you weak enough to want them.
He had made you believe you were alone. But when you looked beyond the ritual circle, you saw Bobby beside the journal, bleeding and still searching.
Sam struggling for every breath as he translated one more line. Dean standing when every injury should have forced him down. The demon had mistaken your fear for obedience. He had mistaken your blood for ownership. He had mistaken love for weakness.
“No,” you said.
The shadows behind him surged.
His human shape flickered.
For one terrible instant, the man in the dark suit disappeared. Something enormous pressed against the other side of the door. Wings—or limbs—scraped across the prison ceiling. Red eyes opened inside the darkness at different heights.
Then the man returned. The disguise no longer fit him as neatly.
“You will not survive it.”
The words found the fear you had been trying not to touch. You looked down at the key. You did not know whether he was lying. Turning it could kill you. It could trap you inside the seal. It could take every memory you had fought to recover. There were no promises written in the journal. No proof that you would walk out of the chamber afterward.
Only the prison door. Only the breaking chains. Only a choice.
Dean stepped closer to the circle. “Emma.”
You looked at him.
He shook his head once. “No.”
“If I don’t do this—”
“We find another way.”
“There isn’t time.”
“There’s always time.”
Another fracture split through one of the remaining chains. The lie hung between you.
Dean closed his eyes. You watched the fight leave his face for only a second before anger replaced it.
“You don’t get to decide you’re expendable.”
“That isn’t what I’m doing.”
“Really?”
His voice rose. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like what you always do. Something goes wrong, and you decide your life is the easiest one to trade.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to wait.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know!” The shout tore out of him.
Silence followed. Dean breathed through the pain, his good hand curled into a fist at his side. When he looked at you again, the anger was gone.
The fear underneath it was worse. “I don’t know,” he repeated, quieter this time. “But that doesn’t mean you grab the first thing that might kill you.”
You swallowed.
Behind him, Bobby and Sam bent over the journal again. They were searching because Dean had asked them to.
Because none of them were ready to stop. The Buried King watched you through the bars. He wanted you frightened. He wanted you uncertain. Maybe he thought fear would make you obey him.
Instead, it reminded you that the choice was yours. You looked toward Sam.
“Is Bobby right?”
Sam’s eyes moved across the page one final time. “The key restores the seal.”
“And if I don’t turn it?”
His silence was enough. The remaining chains would break. The Buried King would walk free. You looked toward Bobby.
He did not tell you what to do. That hurt more than if he had. Finally, you looked at Dean.
He stood at the edge of the circle, pale from blood loss and breathing through pain. His eyes never left yours.
You wished you could give him the answer he wanted. You wished there were another one.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
His expression changed.
Not surprise.
He had known the moment you looked at him. “Emma, don’t.”
The final two chains strained across the door. Stone fractured around their anchors.
The Buried King stepped forward, his smile returning as he sensed your hesitation.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Listen to him.”
You turned toward the demon. His smile widened. He believed Dean’s fear would stop you. He believed loving them made you weak. Slowly, you reached down.
Your fingers closed around the black iron key. It was colder than the stone beneath your knees. Across the chamber, the Buried King’s smile disappeared.
No one speaks.
The silence settles over the chamber like dust after an explosion.
You remain on your knees inside the glowing circle, the black key resting in your hand. It is not especially heavy, but it feels that way. Important. Permanent.
Dean has not taken his eyes off you.
He looks like he wants to cross the circle anyway. Like if he ignores the pain, the warnings, and the glowing symbols beneath you, they might simply let him through. They will not.
The Buried King watches all of you from behind the iron door. He has gone quiet. That frightens you more than his shouting ever did.
Bobby bends over the journal again, turning brittle pages with increasing frustration. “There has to be something.”
Sam limps toward him and lowers himself carefully onto one knee.
“We only found half the ritual.”
“There ain’t half a ritual.”
“There has to be.”
Dean finally speaks. “Keep looking.”
His voice is flat. Controlled. Too controlled.
Bobby glances toward him before returning to the journal. “We are.”
“You missed something.”
“We’re trying.”
“No.” Dean shakes his head once. “Try harder.”
No one answers. The only sounds left are the turning pages and the slow groan of ancient chains pulling tighter somewhere inside the prison walls.
You look down at the key. “I don’t think there is another way.”
Dean answers immediately. “There is.”
You look up at him. “You don’t know that.”
“I don’t care.” His words echo through the chamber. “I’ll tear this whole damn place apart stone by stone if I have to.”
Despite everything, a small smile touches your lips. “You always say things like that.”
“Because I usually mean them.”
“I know.”
Silence returns.
Dean looks away first, his jaw tightening. “You don’t get to make this decision by yourself.”
You swallow. “It isn’t just my decision.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“If he gets out—”
“I know what happens if he gets out.”
The shout bounces from the walls. Even Bobby stops turning pages. Dean closes his eyes. A slow breath leaves him, though it catches halfway through.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “I know.”
You watch him. Every breath looks painful. Blood has soaked through the bandages beneath his shirt. His injured shoulder hangs lower than the other, and one side of his face is still streaked with dried blood.
He should not be standing. Somehow, he still is. Because you are.
Dean notices you staring. “What?”
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You can barely breathe.”
“I’m standing, aren’t I?”
“Barely.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but a wince cuts him off. You raise an eyebrow.
Dean glares at you. “Shut up.”
A quiet laugh escapes you. It disappears almost as quickly as it came, but the sound changes something in his face. For one brief second, he looks relieved.
Bobby suddenly pushes himself upright.
“I’m checking the other room.”
Sam looks up. “The archive?”
“If these pages were copied from somewhere, the originals might still be here.”
Sam nods. “I’ll help.”
Dean does not look away from you. “Fine.”
Neither of them moves immediately.
Bobby’s eyes shift from Dean to you, then toward the ritual circle. Something passes over his face. Understanding.
Maybe not of everything, but enough.
“Come on, Sam.”
Sam hesitates. His gaze lingers on you for a long moment. “Yell if anything changes.”
“I will.”
He gives you a small nod before following Bobby through the broken doorway.
Their footsteps echo through the darkness. Then fade.
For the first time since entering the chamber, it is almost quiet. Just you and Dean.
The Buried King remains behind the iron door, but he feels farther away now. A shadow waiting at the edge of something neither you nor Dean knows how to say. Dean stares at the floor. You watch him.
Neither of you knows where to begin. Finally, he laughs.
There is no humor in it. “You really couldn’t make this easy on me.”
You manage a weak smile. “I don’t think easy has ever really been our thing.”
“No.”
He drags his good hand over his face. “It really hasn’t.”
Silence passed. Tears started to well up inside. Realization hitting you hard.
He took one slow step closer. His body nearly brushed yours. You could feel the heat coming from him despite the cold chamber air. His breath stirred the loose strands of hair near your forehead. His good hand lifted.
For a second, it hovered beside your face. The hesitation hurt more than certainty would have.
You leaned into his palm. Dean’s eyes closed briefly as his fingers settled against your cheek. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could fall any farther.
His hand was shaking.
“You don’t have to say it,” you whispered.
Dean’s mouth pulled into a faint, humorless smile.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I kind of do.”
His thumb moved gently beneath your eye, wiping away another tear. He looked at you for a long moment, as though he were trying to memorize every detail before it could be taken from him.
“I don’t know when it happened.”
Your breath caught.
Dean glanced down, his jaw working as he searched for words that had never come easily to him.
“Maybe it was the first time you stole food off my plate and acted like I imagined it. Maybe it was every time you threw yourself into something dangerous before I could stop you.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down.”
A quiet laugh escaped him, but it broke before it fully formed.
“No. Guess it doesn’t.”
His gaze returned to yours. “Somewhere along the way, you stopped being somebody I had to protect.”
Your heart beat painfully against your ribs. Dean’s fingers tightened slightly in your hair.
“You became somebody I needed to come home.”
The words settled between you, softer and heavier than any declaration could have been. Your throat tightened until speaking hurt. “You’re home to me too.”
Dean went completely still. Something fragile moved through his expression—relief tangled with grief, as though hearing it was everything he had wanted and exactly what he had been afraid of.
“You really picked a hell of a time to tell me that.”
“You weren’t exactly making it easy.”
“Yeah.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. “I’ve been told I’m emotionally unavailable.”
“By everyone who’s ever met you?”
“Pretty much.” Your smile trembled.
Dean’s faded with it.
“If this is really goodbye…” He could not finish.
You understood anyway. You slid your hand from his jaw to the back of his neck and drew him closer.
“Then don’t make it one.”
His forehead rested against yours. “I don’t know how.”
“Neither do I.”
For one suspended moment, you simply breathed together.
Then you closed the distance and kissed him. Your lips met his softly.
Dean went still. Only for a heartbeat.
Then his hand slid from your cheek into your hair, holding you with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He kissed you as though he had imagined the moment countless times but never believed it would belong to him.
There was no desperation at first.
Only warmth. A quiet, careful recognition.
The world did not disappear. The chamber still trembled around you. Dust continued falling from the ceiling. The Buried King waited beyond the door, and the key lay beside your knees.
But none of it reached you. There was only Dean’s mouth against yours and his thumb moving gently beneath your ear. You had expected kissing him to feel like fire.
Dean had always been sharp edges, heat, and friction. He challenged every choice you made and stepped between you and danger before either of you had time to think. Instead, the kiss felt like coming home. Not the home the demon had offered through the trees.
The real one. The Impala beneath an open sky. The bunker hallways. Dean’s jacket around your shoulders. His body beside yours when you were afraid to sleep. When you pulled apart, neither of you moved far.
Dean rested his forehead against yours. His breath trembled over your lips.
“Don't leave me.”
The request held none of his usual certainty. He was not ordering you. He was asking.
You closed your eyes. “I’m going to try.”
“That’s not a promise.”
“It’s the only honest one.”
Dean’s fingers tightened in your hair. For one terrible second, you thought he might stop you. Drag you from the circle and let the world face whatever came through the door.
Then he released a shaking breath. Neither of you looks away.
For one suspended moment, the prison disappears.
The demon disappears. The ritual circle disappears.
There is only Dean sitting across from you, bloodied and exhausted, and the weight of everything neither of you has been brave enough to say.
Dean barely has time to take a step away from you before hurried footsteps echo through the chamber.
"Dean!"
Bobby's voice bounces off the stone walls.
"We found something!"
Dean lets out a quiet breath, closing his eyes for the briefest second before every wall he'd lowered slides back into place. He gives your hand one last squeeze. Then lets go.
The warmth of his fingers lingers against your skin long after he's stepped away from the circle. By the time Bobby and Sam emerge from the narrow passage, the two of you have already put a little distance between yourselves. Not much. Just enough.
Enough that neither of them immediately knows what happened. Sam's eyes flick briefly between you and Dean anyway. His brow furrows. He notices the tears still shining in your eyes. He notices the softness in Dean's expression that hadn't been there before. But if he suspects anything, he keeps it to himself.
Bobby is too focused on the weathered pages clutched in his hands to notice either of you. "I found the rest of the ritual."
Hope flickers inside your chest before you can stop it.
Dean hears it too. "What does it say?"
Bobby hesitates. His shoulders sink ever so slightly. "It doesn't change anything."
The hope disappears just as quickly. "It just tells us how."
Silence settles over the chamber.
Dean's jaw tightens. "I was getting real tired of hearing that."
Bobby sighs.
"I know."
Sam carefully lowers himself onto one knee beside the journal spread across the floor. "The first pages explain how the seal was created."
His finger traces a line of faded symbols. "The second half explains how it's restored."
You shift your attention to him. "So..."
"What do I have to do?"
Sam doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he looks toward Bobby. Bobby nods once. Sam draws a slow breath.
"The Lock has to willingly accept the prison."
The words hang in the cold air. Dean's head snaps toward him.
"Accept it?"
"It won't work by force."
Sam keeps reading.
"The seal was designed to prevent another bloodline from being sacrificed against their will."
Your eyes drift toward the Buried King. For the first time... the demon looks uneasy. Not frightened. Uneasy.
"The key doesn't trap him," Sam continues quietly.
"You do."
Your stomach knots. "The ritual binds him to the last surviving bloodline."
Bobby folds his arms. "He can't cross into the seal unless you invite him."
Dean immediately shakes his head. Nobody argues. Nobody even looks at him.
Sam keeps reading. "He enters willingly, the key turns, and the seal closes behind him."
You stare at the black key resting in your palm. "So he has to choose it."
Bobby nods. "And so do you."
A bitter laugh escapes you. "Great."
Dean paces once across the chamber before turning back toward Bobby.
"And then what?" Nobody answers.
Dean looks between the three of you. "...Then what?"
Sam lowers his eyes to the page.
"The ritual doesn't say."
Dean laughs. It isn't a happy sound. "Course it doesn't."
Bobby quietly clears his throat. "There is one more thing."
Everyone looks at him.
"The original ritual..."
He taps the faded illustration.
"...wasn't performed alone."
You step closer to the edge of the glowing circle.
"What do you mean?"
"There were others."
"How many?"
"Seven."
Dean exhales sharply.
"Fantastic."
Bobby ignores the interruption.
"The bloodline stood inside the circle."
He points toward the figures surrounding it.
"The others stood outside."
Sam's eyes move over the page. "They anchored them."
Your brow furrows. "Anchored?"
"They gave the Lock something to come back to."
The words settle heavily inside your chest.
Dean stops pacing. "What does that mean?"
Sam studies another line before answering.
"It says..."
His voice grows quieter.
"...blood."
A beat.
"...memory."
Another.
"...choice."
You don't understand.
Neither does Dean.
Bobby closes the journal.
"I don't think it's talking about magic."
Sam nods slowly.
"I think it's talking about people."
The realization settles over the room one person at a time.
The ritual wasn't asking for power.
It was asking for connection.
Something strong enough to pull the Lock back after the prison closed.
Something stronger than the darkness trying to keep them.
The Buried King laughs.
The sound rolls through the chamber like distant thunder.
"You cling to hope."
His crimson eyes settle on you.
"It will not save you."
You meet his gaze.
For the first time since entering the prison...
you don't feel afraid.
You glance toward Bobby.
Toward Sam.
Finally...
toward Dean.
His eyes find yours instantly.
Whatever happens next...
you won't face it alone.
The demon mistakes the silence for hesitation.
He smiles.
"You still have time to choose differently."
You slowly tighten your grip around the key.
"No."
Your voice is steadier than you expected.
"I already made my choice."
The smile slips from his face.
Behind the iron door, something enormous slams against the ancient bars.
Bobby was quickly reading off the ritual.
The chamber shakes violently. Stone rains from the ceiling. One of the final chains snaps with a deafening crack. Only one remains.
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: 3451
Warnings: Grief - lots, Angst - lots, Unwanted Memories, Poor Sam in all of it, 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 9 ----- Chapter 11 - coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Chapter 10
The road stretched out in long, quiet lines beneath the tires, pale morning light breaking through clouds in uneven patches that came and went like breathing.
In the Charger, the engine hummed low and steady—familiar, grounding—but everything else felt slightly out of place.
Cassette tape clicked once.
Then music spilled into the cabin.
Warm analog sound, slightly warped at the edges, filling the space in a way modern silence never did. You didn’t remember putting this tape in. Or maybe you did. Either way, the first few notes landed differently now—like they had been waiting for a version of you that no longer existed.
Your fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel.
Mark used to like this song.
The thought came automatically.
Then shifted.
Would Dean like it?
Now there was Dean too, existing somewhere in the back of your mind, whether you wanted him there or not. Not replacing anything. Not overwriting it. Just… sitting beside it in a way that made everything more complicated than it had any right to be.
You exhaled slowly through your nose and kept driving.
The Charger rolled forward through empty highway, dust trailing faintly behind you, music filling the space between thought and instinct.
A few car lengths ahead of you, the Impala moved like it had done a thousand times before.
Solid.
Unbothered.
Familiar in a way that almost felt like safety if you didn’t look too closely at what was sitting inside it.
Dean drove.
Both hands on the wheel for once, jaw set in that quiet focus he used when his thoughts were too loud to let out. The cassette deck clicked before music came alive through the speakers—older, scratchier than yours, but carrying the same kind of weight.
Sam glanced at the dashboard briefly before settling back into the passenger seat.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
The road ahead was open enough that it didn’t demand conversation yet. Just movement. Just distance.
But silence in the Impala was never truly empty.
Dean’s eyes stayed forward, but his mind kept slipping sideways anyway.
Back to the motel parking lot.
Back to your voice.
Back to the way you’d said I would’ve done it last night like it wasn’t a risk to say something that honest.
Sam noticed the shift immediately.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Sam said eventually, tone mild but deliberate.
Dean let out something between a breath and a scoff. “Not thinking enough, apparently,” he muttered.
Sam didn’t push. Not yet. Just studied him for a moment like he was trying to decide where the fracture lines were this time.
“You okay?” Sam asked instead.
That question.
Dean’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “Yeah,” he said too fast.
Sam’s brow lifted a fraction.
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“That didn’t sound like ‘yeah.’”
Dean exhaled through his nose, eyes still locked on the road.
For a second, it looked like he might shut it down completely.
Then his jaw flexed once.
“…She’s not her,” he said finally.
Sam didn’t respond right away.
Because that wasn’t the whole truth.
And they both knew it.
The Impala rolled forward through widening light, cassette humming low in the background like it was trying to fill in everything neither of them wanted to say out loud yet.
Ahead, behind them, the Charger kept moving too.
Same road.
Different silence.
Both carrying ghosts that were starting to feel dangerously aware of each other.
The road unspooled ahead in long, empty stretches, broken only by the occasional flicker of roadside trees and pale light shifting through thinning cloud cover.
The Impala led.
The Charger followed.
Neither of you had actually discussed a meeting point. Just a direction. Just trust, unspoken and fragile, that they weren’t leading you somewhere you shouldn’t go.
You kept a steady distance behind them. Close enough not to lose sight. Far enough that it didn’t feel like you were being pulled somewhere you didn’t choose.
Inside the Charger, the cassette hummed softly through worn speakers. Music filled the space again, but your mind wasn’t fully listening anymore.
He holds the wheel like that’s the only thing keeping him upright.
The thought slipped in uninvited. Your fingers tightened briefly.
Mark used to do that too. Not the same way. Softer. Easier. Like he wasn’t afraid of what was in his head.
Another beat of silence between notes.
Dean doesn’t look like that.
That realization shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did. But it did anyway.
Your gaze flicked briefly toward the Impala ahead through the windshield.
Just a shape at first. Then details.
The way sunlight caught the metal. The slight sway of movement over uneven road. The fact that he didn’t relax even for a second behind the wheel.
You know what Mark’s laugh sounded like. You know how he stood when he was waiting for you to get ready. You know the way grief changes people.
Your stomach tightened faintly.
So why does your mind keep trying to compare anyway?
The thought sharpened. Then twisted.
Because now it wasn’t just comparison. It was curiosity.
About Dean.
About what stayed the same.What didn’t.What grief had shaped him into.
And the worst part—
You didn’t stop yourself quickly enough before it started to feel like questions you shouldn’t be asking at all.
Inside the Impala, the cassette tape clicked softly as the song changed.
Sam had been quiet for a while. Long enough that Dean had almost convinced himself it would stay that way.
It didn’t.
“I know she’s not Maria,” Sam said suddenly.
Dean’s jaw tightened almost immediately.
Sam kept his eyes forward. Not pushing. Not forcing it. Just letting the thought out like it had been sitting there too long.
“I just wonder what’s the same,” he continued quietly. “What’s similar. And what’s different.”
A pause.
“She seems nice.”
Dean shot him a quick side-eye before looking back at the road. His grip on the wheel tightened once.
Not angry.
Not exactly.
Just… loaded.
“She had a life, Sam,” Dean said after a beat.
His voice came out rougher than he intended. Like the words themselves hurt.
“She wasn’t even in the life before she lost him.”
Sam frowned slightly at that, processing it instead of reacting immediately. “That doesn’t mean she can’t handle it,” he said carefully.
Dean didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes flicked briefly to the side mirror.
The Charger was still there.
Still following.
Still real.
He exhaled slowly, something tight in his chest loosening by a fraction he didn’t want to name.
“…Yeah,” Dean said finally. “Maybe.”
Silence returned for a moment.
Then Sam shifted slightly in his seat.
“We should call Cas when we get back,” he said. “See if he knows anything.”
That changed the air immediately.
Dean didn’t look away from the road this time, but something in his posture sharpened again—focused, alert, shifting gears internally.
Sam leaned back slightly, watching the road ahead. “Five years,” he murmured. “Same engagement ring. Her looking like Maria, and Mark looking like you…”
Dean’s jaw flexed once.
“And the timing,” Sam added. “All of us ending up in the same place at the same time.”
The words hung there heavier now.
Less coincidence.
More pattern.
And somewhere behind them, both cars kept moving forward—without realizing yet that they were no longer just following a road.
They were following something that had been waiting for all of them to notice it.
Time disappeared between thoughts and whatever drifted through the speakers. The scenery shifted from open roads to small towns, then back to open roads. You barely paid it much attention until brake lights caught your eye.
Dean turned the Impala onto a side street you would have missed completely with how the trees kept it hidden. Sunlight danced through the canopy above as the wind whispered through the branches.
The road narrowed as it cut deeper into the trees.
Tall trunks lined the road like silent sentries, their branches arching overhead in places where the canopy thickened just enough to dim the daylight.
Farther in, the world began to feel quieter in a way that didn’t match distance alone. Like sound itself was being absorbed by the land. The trees grew denser, older somehow, their roots hidden beneath uneven stretches of earth and stone.
Then the hill came into view.
A large, weathered structure sat atop it—abandoned-looking, the kind of old utility station most people would pass without a second thought. Faded concrete. Rusting metal. Broken windows. Stillness that made it look long forgotten.
But the road didn’t turn toward it. It wound past it and what you suspected might be an old storm drain below it, just off the side of the road.
Further up, the road curved around, then dipped.
Downward.
Toward a stretch of land that looked almost forgotten—half reclaimed by grass and brush and trees, the kind of place most people would drive past without a second thought.
And then you saw it.
At first glance, it wasn’t a structure meant to be noticed at all.
A weathered, industrial-looking facade sat tucked into the side of the land itself—part hill, part limestone bluff, part something built and then deliberately forgotten. Heavy, rusted metal doors blended into the earth tones around them, half-obscured by overgrowth and dead brush clinging stubbornly to edges and seams.
It didn’t look like an entrance. It looked like a condemned utility station.
The kind marked with faded warning signs and rusted lettering that no longer mattered.
Danger. High Voltage.
Something people stopped seeing years ago.
The Impala slowed.
Then turned in.
You followed.
As you rolled closer, the illusion held—just long enough for your brain to register that this wasn’t just hidden.
It had been designed not to exist.
The Impala came to a stop near a concrete pillar off to the side. Dean stepped out first, moving toward it without ceremony. You watched from the Charger as he paused near what looked like nothing more than weather-beaten infrastructure.
Then he reached out.
Fingers finding a small brass keyhole hidden behind a sliding metal plate.
It didn’t belong in anything modern. That was the first real clue that whatever this place was, it wasn’t built in your lifetime.
Dean turned the key.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the sound came.
Not smooth.
Not electronic.
A deep, grinding mechanical groan echoed through the hidden structure as ancient chains engaged somewhere inside the earth. Pneumatic systems hissed awake with slow, deliberate force. Metal that seemed to still be learning how to move again, began to shift with heavy, reluctant weight.
The doors opened.
Slowly.
Like something massive waking up.
The opening revealed not a room, but a mouth carved into the land itself.
A downward-sloping tunnel stretched beyond the threshold, descending into darkness lined with reinforced concrete and steel. As the Impala rolled forward first, dim industrial lights flickered on in sequence overhead—one after another—casting pale yellow light down the passage like a path being revealed in real time.
The air changed immediately.
Cool outside wind cut off completely the moment you crossed the threshold.
Replaced by something even cooler.
Filtered.
Still.
Metallic in a way that felt ancient rather than industrial.
You followed.
The Charger descending into the tunnel behind them, tires shifting from asphalt to concrete with a softer, hollow sound that echoed slightly in the enclosed space.
And then the world behind you disappeared.
You caught it for only a second in your rearview mirror—the faint glow of daylight framed by massive doors beginning to close.
Replaced by steel.
By silence.
By something buried so far beneath the world, it felt like it belonged to a different one entirely.
When the doors finally sealed shut behind you, the sound wasn’t loud.
It was final.
A deep, resonant closure that left only the hum of underground systems and the low echo of engines in a vast hidden chamber waiting ahead.
And suddenly, Sam’s words didn’t sound like an understatement anymore.
They sounded like truth.
You leaned forward, peering through the windshield, up at the ceiling domed above. Exposed pipes ran the length of it.
“Wow…” the words left your lips in a breath before you settled back in your seat.
The Impala’s brake lights glowed against the stone walls. Again, Dean got out, used that same small key, and a large set of reinforced, double doors creaked open as he slid back into the driver’s seat.
“He wasn’t kidding,” you mumbled, easing the Charger forward to follow the Impala further underground.
And the moment you crossed the threshold, the world changed.
The tunnel opened up into a massive underground garage carved into stone and reinforced steel. Overhead lights illuminated the vast open space that stretched farther than your mind expected it to.
Concrete floors. Thick support beams. Rows of open space that felt like they belonged in something far bigger than a rural forest.
You eased the Charger into an empty spot among relics of the past.
And sat there for a second. Engine still running. Eyes fixed forward, but wandered to the other vehicles parked in what your mind could only conclude was an underground garage of sorts.
Because Sam had said safe place—
—and this was not what your mind had built.
This was something else entirely.
Something hidden.
Something old.
You finally killed the engine, slipping the keys into your pocket, still in awe. The sudden silence made your ears ring for half a second.
Then you stepped out.
Warmer underground air hit immediately, different from outside. Controlled. Still. The kind of air that had never been touched by weather in any meaningful way.
You turned slowly.
Once.
Then again.
Taking it all in without meaning to move so deliberately.
The scale of it didn’t fully register at first. It kept unfolding the longer you looked—hallways leading off in different directions, stairwells disappearing upward, doors built into stone like they had always been part of it.
Behind you, the Impala rolled into place.
Dean parked with practiced ease, engine cutting off just as smoothly.
The silence deepened again.
Both brothers got out.
Sam moved first, stretching slightly after the drive, eyes already scanning the space like he was reacquainting himself with it.
Dean stayed a beat longer by the driver’s side door.
Watching you. Not hiding it. Not even trying.
Just taking in the way you stood in the middle of it, like your brain was still catching up to what your eyes were telling it. Your awe was much like hers when he’d brought her here all those years ago.
Then he walked to the back of the Impala and popped the trunk. But his attention kept drifting back to you.
The way your head tilted slightly as you looked upward.
The way you turned in a slow circle, trying to map something too big to process in one glance.
Metal echoed softly through the garage.
Sam stepped around to grab his duffel.
And then—
A soft sound slipped out of you. “Wow…”
Barely above a breath. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It landed anyway.
Dean’s grip on his bag tightened for half a second before he looked away, exhaling quietly through his nose like he was trying to steady something in himself he hadn’t expected to react.
Because it wasn’t fear in your voice.
Or suspicion.
It was awe.
Like you’d just stepped into something bigger than the story you’d been living inside.
You moved then, finally breaking your stillness.
Crossing back to your Charger.
Popping the trunk like muscle memory—smooth, efficient, automatic in a way that made it feel like you’d done this a hundred times before, even though you hadn’t done it even once here.
Dean’s breath caught slightly.
Just once.
Sam noticed.
He watched you for a second longer before letting out a small, easy chuckle—gentler than anything that had been said since the cabin.
“Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the stairs. “Main rooms are upstairs.”
You adjusted the strap of your duffel higher onto your shoulder before following them toward the stairwell.
Your boots echoed softly against concrete.
The sound carried strangely down here—muted in some places, sharper in others, like the bunker itself decided what noises mattered enough to keep.
Sam led the way.
Dean followed a step behind him, though every so often his attention drifted backward toward you without meaning to.
You noticed everything.
The metal railings worn smooth with age and use. The old industrial lights casting warm amber glows instead of harsh fluorescent white. Pipes disappearing overhead into walls of concrete and stone. Small details hidden everywhere that made the place feel less like a bunker and more like a machine built directly into the earth itself.
Not abandoned.
Maintained.
Protected.
Alive.
The stairs curved upward gradually, leading toward another heavy door set into reinforced concrete. Dean reached it first this time, pulling it open with practiced familiarity.
And warm light spilled through immediately.
Not bright.
Golden.
Soft in a way you hadn’t expected from a place buried underground.
You stepped through after them.
And the bunker unfolded around you.
Hallways stretched outward beneath arched ceilings lined with brick-pattered tiles and aged brass fixtures. The floors beneath your boots shifted from concrete to smooth tile worn faintly with time.
Your eyes moved constantly.
Doorways marked with numbers, or a letter and number, lining the hallways on either side, but offset. Never directly across.
The deeper you walked, the stranger it became.
Because nothing about this place matched what hunters usually lived like.
Hunters lived out of duffel bags.
Cheap motels.
Cars.
Safe houses that were typically nothing more than rundown structures off the beaten path.
Places easy to leave behind.
This—
This felt permanent.
Like something built by people who fully expected the world above them to collapse while they endured beneath it.
Your steps slowed slightly as another hallway opened up ahead.
Then another.
You caught glimpses into rooms as you passed—storage spaces stacked with old files and supplies, tables covered in scattered lore books, old lamps casting pools of warm light across surfaces polished by decades of use.
Every inch of the bunker carried age differently.
Not rotting age.
Preserved age.
Carefully kept history hidden beneath miles of earth and silence.
You barely realized you’d stopped walking until Sam glanced back at you.
A faint smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
“First time’s a little overwhelming,” he admitted.
“A little?” you echoed softly.
Your voice almost disappeared into the sheer scale surrounding you.
Dean’s mouth twitched faintly at that. Not quite a full smile. Close enough to hurt.
Because Maria had reacted almost the exact same way the first time he'd brought her here.
Your attention drifted upward again as you continued walking, taking in the curved ceilings and old architecture hidden beneath layers of reinforced engineering. The bunker didn’t just feel hidden, nor did it feel like a ‘bunker’.
It felt impossible.
Like stepping into a secret history no one alive was supposed to know existed, meant to house people like a massive underground home.
Then Sam pushed open another door.
And the main room revealed itself.
You stopped outright this time.
The space opened wide beneath towering ceilings carved from polished stone. A massive oval map table dominated the center of the room beneath warm overhead lighting, made of heavy metal and glass. The map of the world lit up beneath the thick glass, as if there was more of a purpose for it than just a map.
There was so much more. Tiny things your mind barely registered. A staircase leading to another level. More open hallways leading in different directions. Things that looked like they were from the fifties but still worked as if they’d just come off the assembly line.
Beyond it, up another few steps and through an open archway, wooden floors, library tables through the center of the room. On either side of them, lining the walls, were bookshelves filled with books.
Hundreds of books.
Maybe more.
Leather bindings.
Ancient pages.
Knowledge packed so densely into one space it almost changed the feeling of the air itself.
The room breathed history.
Quietly.
Reverently.
Soft lamp light reflected against brass fixtures and polished wood surfaces worn smooth with time.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Not from fear.
From sheer disbelief.
Because for the first time in five years, you’d stepped into a place that didn’t feel temporary.
And somewhere behind you, Dean watched realization slowly settle across your face—and understood with painful clarity that this place was already starting to feel different with you standing inside it.
Chapter 9 ----- Chapter 11 - coming soon
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Summary: Exhausted and broken, Dean's not doing great- the perfect time to get him to spill his secrets.
Warning: smut, unprotected sex
A/N: he's been happy for too damn long (one chapter)
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You wish you could dream of Dean. You never do. Some part of your brain won't let you- it's only ever fragments when you're waking, that liminal space that lets him envelop your mind, just for a moment.
You picture his hands, this time, fingers wrapped around something metal. They're covered in scars, rough callouses, oil stains under his nails. His fingerprints are worn down- you think about that often, how much he must use them for his whole identity to almost be scrubbed. Your mind fixates on the image for as long as you'll let it, before it starts to become clearer, sharpening as you focus. It takes you a second to really see it, to hold onto the idea long enough to make sense of what you're picturing. You realize he's holding a gun.
You wake with a jolt, your phone ringing on your bedside table. You wipe your hand over your face, pulling yourself into sitting. You can't have been asleep long, it's still nighttime, the room almost pitch black.
You reach for your phone, only hazily reading his name before you pick up, "Dean?" You croak out, your voice still catching up to your body.
"Did I wake you?" He speaks softly down the line. You can hear white noise in the background, the sound of tyres on asphalt.
"No- no-" you slump your head against the back wall, "-I'm up- I'm awake-"
He gives a hesitant laugh, "Look, I'm only a couple hours away, honey- I- you free tonight?"
You state the obvious, "You're already driving."
So does he, "I'm already driving."
"Then yeah- yeah I'm free-" you suck in a small breath, "-you on a hunt?"
"Just got done with one-" he speaks quieter, "-Sammy can take care of the cleanup."
You don't even want to start to understand what cleanup refers to in this case, "Did it go alright?"
"Yeah- yeah look I've gotta go- just don't wait up, okay? I'll call when I get there- go back to sleep-" He hangs up- you don't take it personally, he's always blunt on the phone.
Despite his request you don't sleep. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried. Instead you pull yourself together, slowly, as slow as you'll let yourself. It's always exciting knowing Dean's coming, you get a secret giddy feeling- it's not supposed to be such a big thing. He's said it from the beginning, it's supposed to be easy, relaxed, no commitment. As much as you tell yourself that, you'll never truly believe it.
You have a shower, scrubbing yourself clean, dousing yourself in the scents of your bathroom, your shampoo, your soap. You're not sure if he ever notices things like that, he certainly never says it, but do it anyway, just in case.
The time ticks on, you start feeling nervous as you tidy away your apartment. You don't know why, Dean's never given you a reason to feel like that- maybe it's because you're starting to realize this means a lot more to you than you previously thought.
You tuck yourself back in to bed, staving off sleep for as long as you can. You pull an old movie up on your laptop, something you're barely watching as your eyes fall heavy. But you don't let yourself sleep, not even when you have to switch to a different movie. Four hours without a call- if it was anyone else you'd start to worry, but you know how Dean is.
You want to picture him again, that way you only can when you're just waking up. But you refuse to let yourself get to that point, even if it is tempting. You don't want to miss a second once he arrives.
Your phone goes, you don't even let it ring once, picking up straight away, "You here?"
He laughs, "Downstairs"
"I'll buzz you up."
You can hear him on the stairs as you head towards your door, that excitement's back- pumping through your body.
You open the door, Dean drops his duffel, dragging you into a hug before you even get a look at him, "Oh there's my girl-" his arms wrap around you tight, over your shoulders keeping you close, "Fuck, honey- missed you like you wouldn't believe-"
He sinks into you, relaxing against your body- a comfort he's been seeking since the last time he saw you. Your arms wrap around his waist, palms smoothing over his back.
After a moment- longer than either of you have an excuse for- he pulls back, a slow blink as he finally gets his look at you.
You suck in a small breath as you take him in, he looks wrecked, utterly wrecked. The first thing you notice are the deep circles under his eyes, the creases in the corners just begging for sleep. Then you see the bruising, the cuts.
"You wanna wash up?" You prompt, the same routine as always.
He shakes his head, "Let's just go to bed."
You give a small nod, picking his duffle up from the floor and carrying it through to your bedroom. He trails behind, watching you carefully, taking in everything he's been missing. You drop it once you get in the room, hesitating to wonder what it's filled with.
Dean looks at you, meak. You don't see him like this often- you're not sure you've ever actually seen him quite like this. You push yourself up onto your toes, pressing your lips against his. He's soft against you, a small smile.
You pull back, reaching your hands up and pressing your palms onto his chest, "You okay?"
He smiles, "I'm just glad I'm here."
Your hands move over each other slowly, first his t-shirt- you tug at the bottom of it, pulling it up as he stretches his arms up for you. You're thankful that his body seems to be in a better condition than his face- though not by much. There's still a scattering of bruises across his chest and stomach, thick gauze on his abdomen you imagine must cover a deeper cut. Then it's his turn, he reaches out for your own t-shirt, dragging it up, exposing your bare chest to him. He smiles at you, taking you in, eyes washing over you with a look of admiration.
He deals with his own belt, you reach out to the waistband, both of you working to shuffle him out of his pants. More bruising, another gauze on his outer thigh- maybe Sam bandaged him up, maybe he did it himself.
He reaches out to your waist, both of you left in only your underwear as he pulls you towards the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress, he collapses against it, sinking down onto the edge as he tugs you on top of him. You follow, both of you sitting, his legs hanging off the end, your legs either side of his hips.
Your hand moves instinctively, up to his face, cupping one cheek. He closes his eyes, head tilting into you, a quiet hum as he feels you. You lean forward, kissing his forehead, then his cheekbone, working your way over his face. You press kisses against bruises, brush your lips against the cuts. He keeps his eyes closed, letting you follow through the process.
Finally you pull back, a soft voice, "Tough hunt?"
He glances at you, a small smile, "I'm alright, these cuts are old, honey."
These cuts are old. - You don't know how bad I missed you.
You laugh slightly- it sounds forced, "Can't be that old."
"They're from a couple weeks ago- had a hunt that was- fuck it was something else- really thought you were gonna get your phonecall for a minute there-"
You know the deal- you've always known the deal. Sam has your number, tucked away somewhere safe, waiting for the day he'll need to ring- the day he's going to tell you Dean's dead.
It had started as a joke- a sick, twisted thing both of you laughed about- when Dean dies you'll lose your best customer- who would eat your leftover pie if not him? But then the thought dwelled, more than either of you pretended it did. How would you know?
Dean couldn't stand the idea of you thinking he'd run off without telling you, and you couldn't stand the idea of never knowing what happened. So he made the deal, Sam will call- he'll keep it simple 'Dean's dead, bullet through the temple, died quickly.' And that will be that.
You've met Sam before- right at the beginning- you know he won't keep it simple, but you have to commend Dean for trying.
You press your lips back against his cheek, staying there as you speak, like you're afraid to see his face when you do, "You've been getting worse."
He swallows hard, "I know."
"You need to stop."
"I can't." One hand moves up to settle on your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against you.
"You're gonna die-" It's more blunt than you normally are.
He pulls back to look at you. You watch him carefully, his eyes jut between your own, then fall down to your lips, just for a moment, before they settle back up again, "I can't just quit, honey. It's not how it works. Ain't got nothing else."
"You've got more. You've got Sam." You don't say the obvious. That he has you. It feels like you've had enough candor for the night.
"This kind of life-" he shakes his head, "-it's not something you can turn your back on."
You brush your thumb against the bruise on his jaw, pressing another gentle kiss against it. You speak quietly, "What would you do instead? If you weren't doing this?"
"Those are dangerous thoughts to have, sweetheart."
"We both know you're never gonna leave it, I just wanna pretend."
He considers for a moment, eyes glossing over you, more thoughts in his mind than he's willing to let on, then he takes a careful breath, "Maybe I'd fix up cars."
You smile, "Yeah? Old ones like your baby?"
"She's not that old-"
"Older than you- and you're pretty old-" you laugh.
He shakes his head, face breaking into a smile, "Shut up-"
You kiss the tip of his nose, "Go on, what else?"
"I'd- uh- I'd want a house, with a yard. Somewhere I could have a dog, maybe even a couple kids- treat 'em right-" he takes a deep breath, "-read 'em stories before bed, eat at the table- like a family's supposed t'. Maybe I'd grow a beard out- finally let myself get fat-"
"Get a dad bod?" You laugh.
He grins at you, "With all the pies you bake I wouldn't get a choice!" He joins your laugh, "Just think, honey, we could fuck ourselves silly every night with no hunts to stop us."
You laugh back, "That sounds good-"
He pauses for a moment, let's his fingers tap against your skin as he thinks, "How did I get you, pretty girl?"
You smile, "Who said you've got me?"
He swallows hard, "Don't tease- not tonight-"
You nod, voice quieter, "You've got me-" you lean forward, pressing your lips against his, "-you've always got me."
He pulls your body closer, sinking into a kiss, your chest against his, your hands moving to his shoulders, running along them, feeling the shallow muscles that frame his body. One of his hands moves to your back, the tips of his fingers gliding up your spine, a gentle pattern against your skin.
He shifts, lifting you slightly, his arms still wrapped around you as he lowers you to the mattress. His body finds its place against yours, lips pressed against your own, his hands moving to cup your cheeks, your own hands smoothing down his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist.
He kisses you deeper, mouth opening slightly, then moves his lips, kissing along your cheek, across your jaw. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck, hiding himself away, his lips still against your skin, "I've got you-" he says it more to himself than to you.
He trails lower, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. He's being messy with it- leaving a trail of saliva against your skin as you smile down at him, your fingers tangling into his hair. He keeps going, across the top of your chest, the valley between your breasts, down to your stomach. He grins up at you from your abdomen, his worries dissolving as he explores your body.
You reward him with the only thing you know he wants, hooking your fingers around the sides of your underwear and starting to drag them down. His eyes widen slightly, wetting his lips in anticipation as he looks down at you. You shuffle awkwardly, laughing as you get them down past your knees- Dean takes over, pulling them off the end of your legs, throwing them to one side as he looks back at you, naked and stretched out beneath him.
He thinks you look gorgeous- a sight he'll never get used to- he'll never get the chance. Not when he only visits once every few months, when he only sees you on random nights scattered between hunts. You're his reward for not dying, a pretty moment of peace between so much blood. You don't deserve that- he knows- but he can't imagine letting you go.
He kisses up the inside of your thigh, hooking his arms around your legs as he pulls you into him. You relax against the mattress, pushing one hand down into his hair, the other tangling behind your head into the pillow. He doesn't tease, tonight isn't the night to make you beg, he can barely hold back long enough to make sure you're comfortable before he's diving in.
He laps at you like he's starved, eyes fluttering shut, a deep groan pushed out of him. You gasp, hips lifting into him for more, gripping his hair tighter, pulling him closer. He pushes his tongue into you, a glazed look across his face as he tastes you.
He's slower than he wants to be, but he needs you to feel all of it- the way his tongue curls around your clit, already swelling under his touch, the way his stubble rubs against you, harsher than you're used to. He wraps his mouth over you, sucking at your pussy, dragging his tongue through your folds, face buried between your thighs.
Your back arches off the mattress, body grinding against him without meaning to. You tug hard at his hair, he lets out a quiet moan- you don't mention it, too consumed by your own feelings.
You're soaking over him- he's in fucking paradise. His cock is strained against his boxers, so hard it almost hurts- taking in every second he can of you wrapped around his face.
"De-" you stutter out nothing, your mind too overwhelmed to get out anything else.
You feel him grin against you, he pulls back only slightly, "Pretty girl?"
You look down at him, pulling on his hair to get him to ease up, "Dean- seriously-"
He draws back further, raising an eyebrow.
"Come fuck me-"
He doesn't need to be told twice. He moves quickly, tugging his boxers off while you pull yourself back up the bed slightly, regaining some composure as you let your eyes wash over him. He looks back at you, watching you watching him, your eyes meet as you give each other a small smile, safe.
He shifts up next to you, one hand running along your cheek, pushing a hair out of your face. He wets his lips as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling slightly, your hand finding his chest. He's half on top of you, half next to you, your legs caught around each other. He can't pull himself up to get properly above you, his leg too damaged to hold himself up for long enough. Even if he could, he doesn't want to, doesn't even want to turn you over, he wants to see you. He spreads your legs apart with his knee, moving to fill the gap between them.
It's awkward, the sort of position he'd never normally let himself get into. He's supposed to be laying under you so you can see his abs, or above you so you can watch him fuck into you. And sure when his body's busted he doesn't want you seeing him at all- but this is different, this feels clumsy.
But you don't care, he realizes. You're just happy to be here with him, your bodies meeting, faces so close. He pushes into you slowly, your face breaks into a dazed smile, eyelids fluttering shut. He leans forward to kiss you, lips staying hesitant against yours as he lets out his own soft noises, breathy and desperate as he starts to roll his hips.
"Fuck honey- you're too sweet to me-"
You run your hand down his chest until you reach his stomach- you press it flat against the bandage holding him together, not firm, just feeling the damage under your palm. He takes a shaky breath, rubbing his thumb across your jaw as he kisses you again. You take his lips between yours, fitting together perfectly as you hold him there for a moment, breaking apart only so you can both rest your cheeks against the pillow again.
He looks exhausted, you can't look much better, both of you too tired to care, too desperate to do anything but feel the way your bodies react to each other. Dean fucks you deep, pushing his whole length in every time, forcing a breathy gasp out of you on every thrust. He's only just managing to hold back his own sounds, a whimper stuck in his throat he's refusing to let out.
You're stretched out around him, he feels bigger at this angle, maybe you're just not used to it, or maybe you're not used to him going so slow. The way he's moving sends your mind dizzy, you can feel every careful inch, every steady moment.
Your lips land back against his jaw, planting a light kiss against his skin. You draw in a breath, speaking quiet, "Tell me what you want-"
He goes to what he knows, "I wanna fuck you 'til you can't walk-"
You smile but shake your head, "No- no honey tell me what you want-"
He thinks for a moment. It must be a trick, an impossible question he can't answer- he wants to fuck you senseless, wants to make you scream, wants to leave hickeys on your neck to mark you for the next man.
But that's not right. That's not what you want to hear. And he realizes, maybe tonight that's not what he wants either, maybe tonight he can ask for more, "I- jesus I want you- wanna make you mine-"
You give a subtle nod, kissing his stubble again, your own hips rolling in time with his, helping him hit that sweet spot that's sending your thoughts tumbling.
He keeps going, he can't stop himself now "-want to make you breakfast in the morning- every fuckin' morning-"
He feels an ache in his chest he'd blame on the hunt if he was more lucid- he's not in control enough to do anything right now though, too exhausted and too overwhelmed to have any tangible thoughts, "-want us to spend Sunday's in the yard- watching our kids play, getting covered in dirt-"
He says it like he can't imagine not saying it, like it's all he's ever wanted. It is all he's ever wanted.
"-want to sit on the grass with those tiny little yellow flowers sprouting up all around us-" He can't believe he's saying this. He feels like a fucking idiot, too tired to stop himself. He knows it's too much. He knows he shouldn't. God this is more than he's ever said to you. More than he's ever even said to himself. He knows you won't look at him the same after, it's fucking shameful.
"Buttercups." You murmur, your eyes still half lidded.
"What?" He swallows hard, part of his brain wondering if this is some safe-word he's forgotten about.
You offer a small smile, kissing the tip of his nose, "Those flowers- they're buttercups."
"Buttercups?" He can only repeat it, confused that you're going along with his crazed ramblings.
You murmur in affirmation, too focused on the way he's pushing into you to realize how much weight your reply seemed to hold. Your fingers trickle over his skin, light, feeling your way up his side.
"Those are some pretty flowers, pretty boy." You say it like praise- it makes him giddy.
He kisses you again, deeper, lips holding onto yours, keeping you close. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, making you gasp into his mouth. He feels like he might come right now, but he focuses on your lips, trying to stave off the feeling in his core.
He pushes in harder, filling you deep. Your mouth stays hesitant against his, breath shared- fingers tangling into your hair, holding you steady as he speeds up.
"Just- fuck- just like that-" you mumble against his lips.
"Yeah?" He murmurs, missing you again.
"Don't stop- I'm so close De-" you whimper out, nails digging into his skin, "I'm so- jesus-"
He moves faster, tugging you into him, his hips bucking into you. Your legs tangle into his, your whole body shaking with pleasure. You grip hold of him tighter, desperate for him, desperate to feel him.
He kisses you gently, voice quiet, "I want you, honey- want you every damn day-"
Your orgasm floods through you, filling your body with silky pleasure. You keep him close, your hands on his body, your lips against his. It feels like honey in your body, sticky and sweet and delicious.
He can't hold back any longer, his hips buck as he spills deep into you. He groans out, quietened only by your lips, his body overwhelmed with everything he's been begging for, his breath stuttering as he squeezes his eyes shut.
You stay like that for a long time, your legs tangled up, your hearts pounding in your chests. He feels a drowsy fog overtake him, but staves it off just long enough to pull out of you. You whine quietly, head relaxing against the pillow, too dazed to get any real expression out.
He's so exhausted he thinks he might wipe out before he manages to move any more, but he still wants to check you're okay before he sleeps, still needs that moment of careful consideration. He drags himself up, stumbling his way to your bathroom in the dark, dragging his hand along the wall to work out where he is. He wets a washcloth, then makes the journey back the way he came, your bedroom easier to find.
You're still stretched out across the mattress when he walks back in, your dozing body just as gorgeous when you don't realize he's looking. He makes his way back towards the bed, you stir only slightly as he settles beside you, opening your eyes only when he presses the washcloth between your legs.
"Shit- that's cold, Dean-"
He laughs slightly, "Sorry, sorry I'm done-" he moves it away again, throwing it to the floor next to the bed.
You smile at him, pulling him back towards you and planting a small kiss against his lips. You pull back to look at him- it seems like you're going to say something- but then you stop yourself, pulling him back into you so he can lay his body against yours.
You drag your hand down him, fingertips across his skin, rippling against the muscles on his back. You find the gauze at his abdomen again, just for a moment, then pull away, back to your patterns across his body.
He settles, finally, breath falling slower, mind lethargic. He wants to talk to you, wants to explain all the stupid things he was saying, wants to defend his exhausted state and confused mind and insane thoughts. But he can't right now, his body won't let him, too tired to even picture opening his eyes.
You run your fingers over his arms, just slowly, glancing across the scars that cut deep. You take a slow breath, falling into the same state as him, your night finally catching up with you. You crease your eyes open to take one final look at him, his body pressed against yours. He looks smaller like this, delicate.
"Sleep, honey-" you kiss the top of his head, "-sleep and dream of buttercups."
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˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚ This is a part of a series - go here to access all of the chapters in one place. This story is heavy on hurt/comfort because that is my favorite trope ever. As always, give feedback and send requests for anything you'd like to see. Happy reading!
The cellar doors remained closed for the rest of the afternoon. That should have felt like a victory. Instead, every minute that passed made the silence beneath them more unsettling.
The four of you moved away from the ruins and set up near Bobby's truck, where the late sunlight still reached through the trees. Sam spread copies of the journal pages across the hood. Bobby arranged jars of salt, iron nails, candles, chalk, and glass bottles filled with ingredients you could not identify. Dean stood a few feet away with his arms folded, watching all of it like he was waiting for the papers to betray him.
You sat on the edge of the Impala's open trunk. The knife wound in your side had begun throbbing again after the vision, each pulse dragging through the stitches beneath your shirt. Sam had tried twice to convince you to lie down in the back seat. Dean had not asked. He had simply placed a folded blanket behind you and set a bottle of water near your hand.
Neither gesture had escaped your notice. The black key and the coin rested inside separate iron bowls on the ground. Bobby had placed a ring of salt around each one and driven four iron nails into the earth at the cardinal points.
So far, they had remained still. You did not trust them.
The coin had already disappeared from sealed plastic, traveled through a hospital, and reappeared inside Dean's jacket. The key had broken through its iron box the moment you reached the Harlow property. Salt and nails felt almost insulting at this point.
Sam leaned over the journal, one hand braced against the hood while he compared two pages beneath the afternoon light. His hair had fallen forward over his forehead. Every few minutes, he pushed it back impatiently, only for it to fall into his eyes again.
Dean noticed you looking. His gaze followed yours toward Sam before returning to your face. You immediately reached for the water.
Dean's mouth twitched. He said nothing. Heat climbed into your cheeks anyway. This was not the time. There would probably never be a worse time.
Sam straightened slowly. "I think I have it."
Dean stepped closer. "You said that twenty minutes ago."
"I said I thought I recognized part of it."
"Sounds similar."
"It isn't."
Bobby looked up from the open duffel at his feet. "What've you got?"
Sam gathered three photocopied pages and placed them side by side. "The first ritual wasn't only meant to imprison the demon. It was designed to divide its connection to the human world."
He pointed toward a drawing of seven overlapping circles. "Each bloodline held one part of the seal. None of them could open the prison alone, and none carried enough of the burden to be controlled directly."
"Until the others died," you said.
Sam nodded. "Now everything is concentrated in you."
Dean's expression hardened. "Meaning?"
"The prison is stronger because the complete seal exists in one person."
Bobby closed one of the jars. "But it's easier for the demon to target."
Sam looked toward the cellar doors. "It only has one lock left to break."
You pressed your palm against your chest. The ache there had not disappeared since the vision. It sat beneath your ribs like a second heartbeat, quiet but impossible to forget.
"What does finishing the ritual require?"
Sam did not answer immediately.
Dean noticed. "No."
Sam looked at him. "I haven't said anything."
"You made the face."
"What face?"
"The one where you found something terrible and you're trying to figure out how to say it."
Bobby sighed. "He does have a face."
Sam stared at both of them before turning back to you. "The final seal has to be placed from inside the chamber."
Dean laughed once without humor. "Already knew that part. Try the bit you're avoiding."
Sam's jaw tightened. "The person carrying the bloodline has to enter the circle."
Dean's face became completely still.
You looked toward the cellar. "And then?"
"The ritual binds the demon to the Lock permanently."
"Permanently how?"
Sam glanced down at the pages. "We don't know."
Dean stepped toward him. "That's not good enough."
"I know."
"Does she come back out?"
"I don't know."
The words cracked through the clearing. Dean stared at his brother. Sam held his ground, but guilt moved plainly across his face.
Bobby spoke before Dean could. "The original ritual wasn't built around one person carrying all seven bloodlines. There's no record of what happens now."
"So we're guessing," Dean said.
"We're interpreting."
"You're guessing with extra books."
You slid carefully from the trunk. Pain pulled at your side when your feet touched the ground, but you kept your expression neutral.
Dean looked toward you anyway. "What are you doing?"
"Standing."
"You were doing better sitting."
"I need to see the pages."
"You need to heal."
You ignored him and moved beside Sam. The writing across the journal pages meant nothing to you. Faded symbols twisted around rough sketches of the iron door and the ritual circle. One drawing showed seven figures standing around the outside while another knelt at the center. A thick line connected the kneeling figure to the darkness beyond the door.
The image made your skin crawl. "Who is that?" you asked.
Sam followed your finger. "The first Lock."
"I thought there were seven bloodlines."
"There were. But one person acted as the anchor."
"Did they survive?"
Bobby looked away. Dean saw it.
"Bobby."
The older hunter rubbed one hand across his beard. "The journal says the anchor crossed the threshold."
"That isn't an answer," Dean said.
"It's the only one written down."
You stared at the faceless figure. "What does crossed mean?"
"No idea."
Dean closed the journal. The sudden movement made Sam pull his hands back.
"We're done."
You looked at him. "Dean."
"No."
"We need the rest."
"The rest says you walk into a demon prison and maybe never walk back out."
"We don't know that."
"Exactly."
His voice rose. "We don't know anything. We don't know what the ritual does to you. We don't know if this thing can be killed. We don't even know if those pages were written by somebody trying to seal it or somebody trying to let it out."
Sam reached for the journal. Dean kept his hand over the cover.
"Dean, we need the information."
"We need a plan that doesn't end with her becoming part of the prison."
You watched his face. He was trying to sound angry. The fear beneath it was too visible now.
"This is already part of me," you said.
"That doesn't mean you belong to it."
"I didn't say I did."
"You're acting like there's no difference."
You took a breath and tried to keep your voice calm. "If the seal breaks, what happens?"
No one answered.
You looked at Bobby. "What comes through that door?"
He glanced toward the ruined house. "The red-eyed demon, for one."
"And whatever was moving behind him?" Bobby's silence confirmed the worst of it.
Sam opened another page. "The journal calls him the Buried King."
Dean's expression darkened. "Demon has a title now. Great."
"It may not be only a demon," Sam said. "The language describes him as something that ruled before Hell had structure. The red eyes could be the form he uses here."
"What happens if he gets out?" you asked.
Sam looked down. "Nothing good."
Dean pushed away from the hood. "We find another way."
"Where?" you asked.
"Somewhere."
"We have the journal, the coin, the key, and the bloodline that created the seal. If there were another way, wouldn't it be here?"
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you."
Dean paced several steps away. The movement was uneven. His injured shoulder remained fixed in the sling, and the wound in his side made him favor one leg, but frustration kept him moving. You watched him reach the edge of the ruined foundation. He stopped with his back to you.
Sam lowered his voice. "We don't have to decide today."
"The ritual has already started," you said.
"We can slow it down."
"How?"
"We separate the objects again. Put you somewhere heavily warded."
"The coin found me in a hospital."
Sam's mouth tightened.
"We strengthen the wards."
"And wait for another nest? Another dream? Another message written in blood?"
"Emma—"
"No."
Your voice shook. You hated that it did. "I'm tired of reacting every time he decides to hurt someone. I'm tired of waking up wondering where I'll be. I'm tired of both of you bleeding because he knows that's the fastest way to control me."
Dean turned. His face had gone pale beneath the fading bruises. "That isn't your fault."
"It doesn't have to be my fault to keep happening."
"We knew what we signed up for."
"You didn't sign up for this."
Dean gave a sharp laugh. "We met you unconscious in a demon-infested forest. Pretty sure this was implied."
"Dean."
"I'm serious."
He crossed back toward you. "You think this is different from everything else we've fought because it knows your name?"
"It knows my blood."
"So?"
"So it built this whole thing around me."
"And?"
You stared at him.
Dean stopped directly in front of you. "You're waiting for me to agree that you're the problem," he said. "I'm not going to."
"That isn't what I'm asking."
"It's what you believe."
His voice lowered. "You think if you hand yourself over, the rest of us get to walk away clean."
You looked toward the cellar doors. "Maybe you do."
"No." The certainty in his voice almost made you angry.
"You don't know that."
"Don't care."
"Dean—"
"No." He stepped closer, his good hand tightening at his side.
"You don't get to turn yourself into some damn bargaining chip because the demon tells you everybody else is safer without you."
"I don't think you're safer without me."
"Then stop acting like leaving is the same thing as saving us."
The words landed harder than he intended. You saw the regret immediately.
Dean looked away. The clearing went quiet.
Sam shifted near the Impala but did not intervene.
You swallowed around the ache in your throat. "I don't want to leave."
Dean's eyes returned to yours. The anger disappeared from his face.
You looked between him and Sam. "I don't want any of this." The admission loosened something inside you.
Your voice became quieter. "I want to go back to the bunker. I want Dean complaining about my music and Sam leaving books everywhere. I want another stupid hunt where the monster has rules and nobody calls me anything except Emma."
Sam's expression softened.
Dean remained still. "But wanting that doesn't make this disappear," you continued. "And pretending there's always another way won't create one."
Dean opened his mouth.
The ground trembled. The movement was slight at first, no more than a vibration beneath your boots. Dust slipped from the ruins. The iron bowls containing the coin and key rattled against the dirt.
Bobby grabbed the journal. "Everybody back."
The trembling deepened. A crack split through the earth between the cellar doors and the ruined house. Dead grass folded inward as the line raced toward the Impala.
The coin tipped onto its edge. The black key rose upright beside it. Neither object touched the ground.
Dean moved in front of you. Sam grabbed the iron bowl containing the key. The instant his hand closed around it, the metal burned red. Sam cried out and dropped the bowl. It struck the earth, scattering salt. The key remained standing.
"Sam!" You moved toward him.
The crack beneath your feet widened. A burst of cold air shot upward, carrying the smell of smoke and blood.
Then the world went dark. Not gradually.
One moment you stood beneath the trees with Dean beside you and Sam clutching his burned hand.
The next, there was nothing. No sunlight. No ruins. No ground beneath your feet.
You fell. Your stomach lifted violently as darkness rushed around you. You reached for something—anything—but your hands closed over empty air.
Someone shouted your name. Dean. His voice came from above. Then beside you. Then impossibly far away.
You struck stone. Pain tore through your wounded side. The air left your lungs, and for several seconds you could not move.
A red flame flickered nearby. Then another.
Candles ignited one by one around the chamber, revealing black stone walls carved with symbols. You knew this place.
The vision from the hospital. The prison.
You pushed yourself onto one elbow. "Sam?"
A groan answered from your left. Sam lay several yards away, one hand pressed against his head. Blood ran from his nose. He lifted his face and searched the chamber until he found you.
"Emma."
"Where's Dean?"
Another sound came from behind you. Dean was on his knees near the edge of the ritual circle, his injured arm hanging awkwardly in the sling. Bobby lay farther away beside the journal, which had opened across the stone floor. All four of you were inside.
The iron door rose at the far end of the chamber. It was larger than it had appeared in your visions. Chains crossed its surface in every direction, each link thicker than your wrist. Red symbols burned across the frame.
Six circles around the door were dark. The seventh glowed.
A soft clapping sound came from behind the bars. The red-eyed demon stepped into view. He wore the same black suit from your dream. Not a single hair was out of place. His face carried no mark of age, confinement, or anger.
He looked pleased. "You came."
Dean forced himself upright. "Wasn't voluntary."
The demon's gaze moved toward him. "No." His smile widened. "But predictable."
Dean reached for the gun at his waistband. The demon lifted one finger. Dean's body flew backward. He struck the stone wall with enough force to shake the candles.
"Dean!" You started toward him.
A chain shot from the door and wrapped around your ankle. It jerked tight. You hit the floor.
Sam lunged for the chain, but another wrapped around his throat and dragged him backward. He clawed at it as his knees struck the stone.
Bobby opened the journal and shouted words in Latin. The demon looked toward him almost lazily. One of the candles erupted. Fire swept across the floor in a straight line and caught Bobby's sleeve.
He rolled, smothering the flame, but the distraction cost him. A chain wrapped around his chest and pinned him against a pillar.
The demon stepped closer to the bars. "You thought the prison kept me from reaching the world."
His eyes settled on you. "It only kept me from leaving."
The chain around your ankle pulled again. You slid toward the ritual circle.
Dean pushed away from the wall. Blood had reopened along his temple. He took one step before a chain wrapped around his injured shoulder.
The metal tightened. His scream echoed through the chamber.
The demon smiled. "There it is."
You grabbed the chain around your ankle and pulled uselessly. "Let them go."
"I will."
Sam's face had begun darkening as the chain constricted around his throat. The demon watched you look at him.
"One word."
You knew the word before he said anything else. Open.
Dean's eyes found yours across the chamber. "Don't."
The chain twisted his shoulder. His knees gave.
"I'm fine," he gasped.
A sob caught in your throat.
The demon's gaze moved between the brothers. "Such devotion."
"Shut up," Dean said.
The demon ignored him.
"You understand now, don't you?"
The chain dragged you into the center of the circle. The moment your palm touched the carved stone, the symbols ignited beneath your skin. Pain shot through your arm. You screamed and tried to pull away, but your hand would not lift.
The demon leaned closer to the door. "They will always bleed for you."
Images flashed across the walls. Dean crawling through leaves. Sam carrying you toward the Impala. Blood covering the back seat. The hospital doors separating all three of you. "Stop."
"You can end it."
Sam made a choking sound. His fingers slipped against the chain.
The demon lowered his voice. "Open the door."
Dean shook his head. "Em, don't listen."
The chain around him pulled upward, lifting him from his knees by the injured shoulder. His scream broke through you.
You looked toward the demon. "What happens if I do?"
Dean went still. "Don't ask him that."
The demon's eyes brightened. "They live."
"And you?"
"I leave."
"To do what?"
"Whatever I choose."
"No." The answer came from Sam. His voice was barely audible through the chain. "No deal."
The demon glanced toward him. The chain tightened. Sam's body jerked.
You crawled farther into the circle, ignoring the pain beneath your hand. "Stop hurting him."
"One word."
The demon lifted his hand. The stone floor split beneath Dean. A narrow crack opened into darkness. Dean hung above it, held only by the chain around his shoulder. His boots scraped against the edge.
"Emma," he said.
His voice was strained but steady. "Look at me."
You did. Not the demon. Not the door. Dean.
His face twisted with pain, but his eyes remained clear. "You don't open that thing."
"What if it kills you?"
"Then it kills me."
"No."
"Yes." His answer struck like a slap.
"No."
"Em."
"I'm not letting you die."
"You're not letting him out either."
"You don't get to decide that for me."
Dean's expression changed. Something raw moved across it.
"You're right." For one second, hope surged.
Then he continued. "But you don't get to decide the whole world is worth trading for us." The words hollowed out your chest.
Sam pulled against the chain. "He's right."
You looked toward him. His face was pale, but his hazel eyes held yours. "We choose this."
"No."
"We choose you."
The demon laughed. The sound rolled through the chamber. "How touching."
The chain around Bobby tightened. He grunted, fighting for breath.
"You hear them, girl?" he managed. "Don't be an idjit."
Tears blurred your vision. The demon extended one hand through the bars. "Consent is simple."
His fingers opened. "Take my hand."
The ritual circle burned brighter. Blood began moving through the grooves beneath your palm. Your blood. It flowed from the bandage at your side, slipping down your shirt and onto the stone.
The final circle around the door flared red. One of the chains cracked. The sound shook the entire chamber.
Dean looked toward the door. "Emma."
You could barely hear him over the roar of blood in your ears. The demon's hand waited. One touch.
Sam would breathe. Dean would be released. Bobby would live.
You imagined the bunker without any of them. The library empty. The Impala silent. Hallways where no doors opened.
The demon had chosen well. It knew the shape of your fear. You lifted your free hand.
Dean's face went white. "No."
The demon smiled. "That's it."
Your fingers moved toward his. Six inches. Four. Two.
A memory surfaced. Not from your stolen past. From the motel.
Dean lying on top of the blankets beside you, his arm trapped against your chest. Anything wants you, it's gotta go through Sam and me first.
Then Sam's voice on the floor beside the bed. We'll figure out what's true together.
Neither had promised you would never suffer. They had promised you would not suffer alone. You stopped. The demon's smile faded.
"You misunderstand," you whispered.
His eyes narrowed. "I don't choose whether they live."
Dean stared at you. "Emma?"
You looked toward Sam. Then Bobby. Then back at Dean.
"They do."
The demon's expression hardened. The chamber trembled. "You will open the door."
"No."
"You will watch them die."
Your tears slipped free. "Then I'll be there."
The demon's eyes burned brighter. Rage replaced every trace of patience. The chains tightened all at once.
Sam choked. Bobby cried out. Dean dropped lower toward the crack.
You screamed and slammed your bloodied palm against the center of the circle.
"I said no!"
The symbols exploded with white light. The demon recoiled from the bars. Every chain went slack. Dean fell away from the opening and struck the stone. Sam collapsed onto his hands, coughing violently. Bobby slid down the pillar.
The ritual circle continued burning beneath you. The final chain across the iron door cracked down the middle. Not open. Broken.
The demon stared at it. Then at you. For the first time, he looked afraid.
Sam lifted his head. "What did you do?"
You looked down at the glowing symbols. The blood in the grooves was moving backward. Away from the door. Toward you.
The journal's pages began turning beside Bobby. Faster and faster until they stopped on a drawing none of you had seen before. A figure stood inside the ritual circle. The demon knelt beyond it. The door remained closed. Beneath the image, fresh writing appeared.
Bobby crawled toward the journal. His eyes moved over the words.
"What does it say?" Dean asked.
Bobby looked at you. "The Lock don't just hold the door shut."
The demon roared behind the bars. The sound shook loose pieces of stone from the ceiling.
Bobby's expression shifted from fear to realization. "She can turn it."
The black key appeared inside the ritual circle. It lay beside your knee, slick with blood. The coin dropped onto the stone next to it. Lock. Key. Choice.
The demon threw himself against the door. Another chain cracked.
Dean dragged himself toward you. "Emma, don't touch them."
You stared at the key. Understanding moved through you like cold water. The demon had spent months trying to force you to open the prison. It had never considered that you could lock it from the inside.
˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚ This is a part of a series - go here to access all of the chapters in one place. This story is heavy on hurt/comfort because that is my favorite trope ever. As always, give feedback and send requests for anything you'd like to see. Happy reading!
You were released from the hospital four days later. Dean called it a jailbreak. The nurse called it a discharge against strong medical advice.
Sam called it exactly what it was: a terrible idea made inevitable by the fact that neither you nor Dean intended to remain in the hospital once Bobby found the location of the Harlow house.
The drive back to the bunker took nearly twice as long as usual.
Sam sat behind the wheel because Dean still could not raise his injured arm without pain twisting across his face. Dean complained from the passenger seat for the first hour, criticizing Sam's speed, his turns, and the distance he maintained from the cars ahead.
"You're driving like somebody's grandmother."
Sam glanced at the speedometer. "I'm going seventy-five."
"Exactly."
"The limit is sixty-five."
Dean looked genuinely offended. "Since when do you care?"
"Since the car contains two people who just had surgery."
You shifted carefully in the back seat, one hand pressing against the pillow wedged between your side and the door. Every bump in the road pulled at the stitches beneath your shirt, but you refused to give Dean the satisfaction of seeing you wince.
He looked at you through the rearview mirror anyway. "You good?"
"I'm sitting quietly."
"That wasn't the question."
"I'm fine."
Dean turned toward Sam. "Still banned?"
"Absolutely."
You sighed. "My side hurts a little."
Dean faced forward again. "See? Growth."
"You're insufferable."
"Doctor says it's chronic."
Sam's mouth twitched.
For a few minutes, the car felt almost normal. The familiar smell of leather and motor oil surrounded you. Classic rock played softly through the speakers because Dean had forbidden Sam from selecting the music while driving his car.
But the coin remained at the center of everything. It had reappeared the morning after your nightmare. Not inside the hospital room. Inside Dean's jacket pocket.
The same jacket that had been locked in a plastic patient-belongings bag since the night of the vampire hunt. He had found the coin while searching for his keys. One moment his fingers had disappeared into the pocket, and the next he had gone completely still.
Sam had sealed it inside an iron box lined with salt, protective symbols, and more layers of duct tape than any supernatural object reasonably required.
The sensation had begun before leaving the hospital—a slow pressure behind your ribs, more noticeable whenever the road turned south. It did not hurt. Not exactly. It pulled. Like a compass needle turning inside your chest.
You had not told either brother yet. They already watched you closely enough. You did not want to give them another reason. The farther you drove, however, the harder it became to ignore.
You pressed your palm lightly against your sternum. Sam's eyes found you in the mirror.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
Dean turned around. You should have known better.
"Em."
You looked out the window. "It's just pressure."
"What kind of pressure?" Sam asked.
"The same feeling I had near the coin."
Dean's expression hardened. "How long?"
You hesitated. "That long, huh?"
"Since we left the hospital."
Dean twisted in his seat despite the sling. Pain flashed across his face, but frustration overpowered it. "And you're mentioning it now?"
"It wasn't bad."
"That isn't the point."
"I knew we were coming here either way."
Sam's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "Is it getting stronger?"
You focused on the sensation. "Yes."
Dean looked toward the trunk as though he could see through the back seat.
"We turn around."
"No."
"That wasn't a discussion."
You stared at him. "We finally know where the house is."
"And whatever's inside that box is reeling you in like a fish."
"That's why we need to understand it."
"That's why we toss it into the deepest hole we can find."
"We tried keeping it away from me. It came back."
Dean's mouth closed. The truth left no easy answer.
Sam slowed the Impala as the highway narrowed into a two-lane road. Thick forest pressed close on either side, the trees forming long shadows across the pavement.
"We keep going," he said.
Dean looked at him sharply. "Sam."
"We're too close to turn back without learning anything."
"She's reacting to it."
"That might be how we find the prison."
You watched the tension move between them. Dean's fear sharpened his expression. Sam's determination made him unnaturally calm. They were both trying to protect you. They simply disagreed on what protection meant. You leaned forward between the seats.
"We go to the house. We find out what happened. Nobody touches the coin unless we have to."
Dean gave you a long look. "No one separates."
"Agreed."
"No rituals without a plan."
"Agreed."
"No bleeding on anything."
You raised an eyebrow. "I'll try to control my internal organs."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Sam cleared his throat. Dean faced forward with a muttered curse. The pressure in your chest tightened as the road curved through the trees. Somewhere ahead, something was waiting.
The Harlow property sat nearly five miles outside a town that barely deserved the name. There were no neighboring houses. No mailboxes. No signs marking where the long dirt road disappeared beneath weeds and low-hanging branches.
Bobby waited beside his truck near the entrance. He stood with one hand resting against the hood, his cap pulled low and a shotgun slung over his shoulder. Several large duffel bags were arranged at his feet.
When the Impala stopped, he looked over all three of you and frowned. "You look worse than when I saw you yesterday."
Dean opened the passenger door. "Good to see you too."
Bobby watched him struggle to stand. "You sure the hospital released you?"
"Define released."
"They sign papers?"
"Papers were involved."
Sam got out and walked around the car before Dean could fall.
Dean waved him away. "I can walk."
"Barely."
"Still counts."
You opened the rear door and stepped carefully onto the dirt road. The house stood beyond the trees. Or what remained of it.
Blackened stone walls rose from a field choked with weeds. Most of the roof had collapsed decades ago, leaving only warped beams stretching across the open sky. The wooden porch had burned away completely. A rusted iron gate leaned crookedly from one hinge near the edge of the property.
You stared at the ruins. Nothing inside you recognized them. No memory rose. No childhood voice whispered through the trees. Only the pressure.
It pulled harder now, leading you toward the house.
Bobby watched your face. "Anything?"
You shook your head. "Just the coin."
Dean came to stand beside you. His good shoulder nearly brushed yours. "Then we stay outside until we know what we're walking into."
You looked at him. "We drove all this way to stare at it?"
"We drove all this way to investigate."
"That usually involves going inside."
"Eventually."
Sam opened the trunk. The iron box containing the coin sat inside a larger devil's trap painted across the trunk floor. Beside it rested the black key and the journal, each sealed separately. The symbols had not stopped the coin from following you before. Still, seeing every precaution eased something in your chest.
Bobby picked up one duffel. "I've already checked the perimeter."
"And?" Sam asked.
"No sulfur. No EMF. No signs anything's been here in years."
Dean studied the ruined house. "That somehow makes me feel worse."
Bobby nodded toward the far side of the property. "Found a cellar entrance."
Your pulse stumbled. In the vision, the demon's prison had been underground.
Sam must have remembered the same thing. "Where?"
"Behind the house. Stone doors. Sealed tight."
Dean looked toward you. The pressure had shifted lower. Not behind your ribs now. Beneath them. Almost painful.
"It's there," you whispered.
Bobby's expression tightened. "You sure?"
"No."
Dean sighed. "Fantastic."
"But I can feel it."
Sam stepped closer. "The prison?"
"The coin. The key. Something."
The ruins seemed to breathe beneath the afternoon light.
Weeds moved gently around the broken foundation. Wind slipped through the empty window frames with a hollow whistle.
You imagined a family living here. A mother carrying an infant down the hallway. A father drawing protective symbols beneath the floorboards. Fire climbing the walls while something watched from outside. You tried to picture yourself in their arms. The image refused to form.
Emma belonged to motels, the Impala, Bobby's house, and the bunker. Emily belonged to ash. You did not know how to mourn a life you could not remember.
Sam rested his hand lightly between your shoulder blades. The touch steadied you. "We don't have to go in yet."
You looked toward the cellar. "Yes, we do."
Dean's jaw tightened. But he did not argue.
The cellar doors had survived the fire. They lay almost flat against the ground behind the ruins, two slabs of dark stone fitted together beneath decades of dirt and moss. No handles were visible. Symbols had been carved around the edges. The same symbols that circled the lock on the coin.
Sam crouched beside them, carefully brushing away dead leaves with his fingertips.
Bobby opened the journal on a piece of canvas nearby.
Dean remained on his feet, though the effort was clearly costing him. His free hand rested against the butt of the gun tucked into his waistband.
You stood several steps from the doors. The pull inside you had become a steady ache. The stone seemed warmer than the air around it.
"Blood," Sam said.
Dean's eyes snapped toward him. "What?"
"These grooves." Sam traced one symbol without touching it fully.
Bobby turned several pages in the journal. "The original ritual used seven bloodlines."
"And we have one," Sam said.
Dean looked between them. "You're both talking like we're about to reopen the thing."
"We may need to access the chamber to seal it permanently," Bobby replied.
"Or opening the chamber releases it."
"That's the risk."
Dean laughed once, harshly. "No. A risk is jumping off a roof and hoping the dumpster's where you left it. This is handing the psycho demon exactly what it wants."
You stared at the cellar doors. "He wants me to open the prison willingly."
Sam nodded. "Which means the ritual probably requires intent."
"So if I'm not agreeing to release him—"
Dean stepped in front of you. "We are not testing supernatural consent law with your blood."
Your gaze lifted to his. He was angry. But fear trembled beneath every word.
"We need a way inside."
"We find another one."
"What if there isn't one?"
"There's always another way."
"You don't believe that."
Dean's face hardened. "Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
"Yeah, well, you've got a recent history of volunteering for things that can kill you."
You recoiled slightly. Dean regretted it immediately.
You saw it in the way his expression shifted. "Em—"
"No. Say it."
"That came out wrong."
"You mean the hunt?"
"I mean all of it."
"You think I wanted to get stabbed?"
"No."
"You think I'm trying to die?"
"I think you keep acting like your life is the easiest thing to trade."
The words struck harder than his earlier anger. You stared at him.
Dean's breathing had quickened from the effort of standing and the force behind his voice. His injured arm remained bound across his chest, a reminder of exactly how far he had gone to keep you alive.
Sam and Bobby went silent.
Dean lowered his voice. "You don't get to make yourself the answer every time something goes wrong."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"This is inside me, Dean."
"That doesn't make it yours to handle alone."
You looked toward the cellar. "It might."
"No." He said it with such certainty that your throat tightened.
"Then tell me what we do."
Dean opened his mouth. Nothing came. The silence answered for him.
Sam stepped between you before either could say more. "We don't open it today."
Dean looked at him.
"We map the symbols. Translate the ritual. Find out exactly what the key and coin do."
Bobby nodded. "We prepare every protection we can."
"And then?" you asked.
Sam's eyes met yours. "Then we make a decision together."
Dean did not look satisfied. But he stepped away. The ache inside you eased slightly when he did, and the loss of his nearness surprised you. You turned back toward the stone doors.
A thin line of moisture had appeared between them. Not water. Dark red. Blood seeped upward through the crack. Dean reached for his gun. Sam moved in front of you. Bobby grabbed a flask of holy water.
The blood spread across the stone, filling the carved channels one by one. None of you had touched it. The ancient symbols brightened beneath the afternoon sun.
A mechanical sound came from deep underground. One lock turning. Then another. The black key rattled inside its box in the Impala's trunk. You heard it from thirty yards away. The pressure in your chest pulled tight enough to make you gasp.
Dean caught your arm. "What?"
"It knows we're here."
The cellar doors shifted. Only slightly. A breath of cold air escaped through the opening. It smelled of stone, smoke, and something old enough to have forgotten the sun.
A whisper drifted upward.
"Emily." Dean pulled you backward.
The doors stopped moving. The blood remained inside the carvings.
Sam stared at the narrow crack. "We didn't open it."
Bobby's face had gone pale. "No."
From somewhere below, the demon laughed. The sound vibrated through the ground beneath your boots.
"You brought me the key."
All four of you turned toward the Impala. The trunk stood open. Sam had closed it. You were certain of that. Inside, the iron box had split down the center. The black key rested on top of the ruined lid. The coin stood balanced against it. Lock and key together.
The pressure inside you surged. Your knees gave. Sam caught you before you struck the ground. His arm wrapped around your waist as he lowered you carefully, his other hand steadying the back of your head.
Dean dropped beside you despite the pain the movement caused him. "Emma."
You looked toward the cellar doors. They were no longer only stone. In their place, you saw the iron doorway from your visions.
Chains stretched across its surface. Seven circles burned around it. Six dark. One glowing red. The final chain ran from the door directly into your chest.
You grabbed at your shirt. Nothing was physically there. But you felt it.
Iron tightening around your heart.
Sam's face appeared in front of you. "Talk to me."
"The chain."
"What chain?"
"It's connected to me."
Dean looked toward the doors, seeing only stone. "Cut it."
"I can't."
"Then tell us how."
You shook your head. The vision deepened. Beyond the iron bars, the red-eyed demon stepped forward.
His hand wrapped around the final chain. "You came home."
"No." Your voice came out aloud.
Sam tightened his hold. "Emma, what's happening?"
The demon smiled. "You feel how weak it has become."
Behind him, darkness moved. Not smoke.
Something vast shifting in the prison. "You were hurt."
The chain pulled. Pain tore through your chest. You cried out.
Dean caught your hand. The demon's eyes moved toward him. "You love them."
Your pulse stopped. The words echoed through the chamber and the field at once.
Sam went very still beside you. Dean's fingers tightened around yours.
The demon looked past you, seeing both brothers through your eyes. "How fortunate."
"No."
"How useful."
The chain tightened again. Images flashed around you. Sam lying with his throat cut. Dean bleeding out in the Impala. Bobby burning inside the ruined house. You tried to pull away.
Sam held you against him. "None of this is real."
His voice reached you faintly. The demon stepped closer to the bars. "One word, and no one else suffers."
You forced your eyes away from him.
Dean knelt in front of you. His face blurred between the field and the vision. "Look at me."
You focused on his voice. "Not him."
The demon pulled the chain. Dean's image flickered. You squeezed his hand. Green eyes. Sling across his chest. Bruising along his face. Dean.
Sam's arm secure around your waist. His voice steady near your ear. Both here. Both alive.
You dragged in a breath. "I'm not opening anything."
The demon's smile disappeared. The vision fractured. The chain released.
You collapsed fully against Sam. The cellar doors slammed shut with enough force to shake dust from the ruined house. The blood vanished from the carvings. The key and coin fell flat inside the trunk. For several moments, no one spoke.
Your breathing sounded too loud in the sudden quiet. Sam kept one arm around you until you could sit without falling. Dean remained crouched in front of you, still holding your hand. His thumb moved once across your knuckles before he seemed to notice the contact.
He released you and looked toward the cellar.
Bobby picked up the journal with shaking hands. "That settles it."
Dean stood carefully. "Settles what?"
"The ritual is already starting."
Sam looked at the stone doors. "Because the key and coin are together?"
"Because she's here."
You pushed yourself upright with Sam's help. The ache remained inside your chest. The invisible chain was gone, but you knew it had not disappeared. Only loosened.
"Then we leave." Dean's answer came immediately.
Bobby shook his head. "Won't stop it."
"We separate the key and coin again."
"They came together on their own."
"We bury one on opposite sides of the planet."
"The demon's already connected to her."
Dean's frustration sharpened. "So what are you saying?"
Bobby looked toward you. "We finish the ritual before it does."
Dean stared at him. "What does finish mean?"
"Seal the prison permanently."
Sam looked down at the journal. "From inside the chamber."
The air left Dean's lungs. "No."
Bobby did not argue. That frightened you. You looked toward the cellar doors.
Somewhere beneath them waited the thing that had stolen your past, hunted your bloodline, and turned every person you loved into leverage.
For the first time, it did not feel distant. The end had already begun.
