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

“Son of a bitch…” 

Obviously, the empty seat doesn’t answer. It hasn’t all day. The only thing occupying Sam’s side of Baby right now is a growing pile of gas station receipts, empty coffee cups, and Dean’s steadily worsening mood. Every few minutes, his green eyes still flick toward it, however, as if he’s expecting six-foot-four worth of aggravating little brother to suddenly reappear.

But Sam’s not answering. Not his phone. Not messages. Not anything. 

At this point, Dean’s called enough times that he’s starting to memorize the exact length of his brother’s voicemail greeting. At first, he’d been annoyed, of course. Then frustrated. But now he’s just fucking worried, which somehow manages to piss him off even more.

“Come on, Sammy.” The words leave his mouth for what feels like the hundredth time as he drives one-handed down another stretch of highway, washed golden orange under the late afternoon sun.

His jaw clenches so goddamn hard it aches. Baby devours mile after mile beneath him, the engine humming steadily as classic rock crackles through the stereo. Usually, the sound calms him, but today it’s just fucking noise.

Truthfully, this whole damn thing is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It never should’ve happened.

Barely a few days ago, they’d been trapped in godforsaken River Grove, Oregon, while a demon virus turned an entire town into a living, breathing nightmare. People killing each other. Families and neighbors turning on one another. Possessions. Blood. Chaos. The whole nine yards. 

And then there was Sam – infected, untouched, immune. 

Dean had spent months trying not to think too hard about the visions, the nightmares, the headaches, and all the impossible crap Sam could do. Months pretending they could keep hunting while ignoring the giant supernatural elephant sitting between them.

If you can’t save him, you’ll have to kill him.

Dean swallows thickly at his father’s words, still ringing all wrong in his head. It’s the secret he’d been carrying around ever since their dad died – the thing John Winchester had dropped into his lap like a grenade with the pin halfway pulled before taking the rest of the explanation to the grave.

Needless to say, the conversation hadn’t gone well when Dean finally told Sam the truth. Hell, “hadn’t gone well” is probably the understatement of the century.

And sure, Sam has never been particularly good at talking about his feelings. Shocking, considering who raised him. Funnily enough, between John and Dean, Sam’s the one who’s probably even the most in tune with his feelings. And usually, the kid sticks around long enough to argue first. That’s how they work. That’s how they’ve always worked. 

They fight. They yell. They say things they regret. Then they pretend none of it happened and go get burgers and beers. Simple, really. 

But this? This is fucking different.

Dean winces and reaches for another coffee that’s long since gone cold, but the bitterness does nothing to wake him up. Nothing has so far, honestly. Sleep’s been mostly optional since Sam disappeared. Because every time Dean closes his eyes, he sees that look on his brother’s face.

Not anger. Not even shock. Hurt.

And Dean? God, he would’ve preferred angry. Angry, he knows how to handle. Angry sticks around goddamn long enough to yell. But hurt? Hurt just sits there till it fucking leaves.

And now Sam’s gone. Maybe temporarily. Maybe permanently. Dean doesn’t know, and that damn uncertainty is what keeps digging stubbornly under his skin.

Because now, Sam knows. Knows their father thought something was wrong with him. Knows his entire family has been keeping it from him. Knows Dean spent months wondering if one day he’d have to pull the trigger on his little brother. 

Awesome conversation starter. 

Suddenly, his phone buzzes on the seat, and Dean snatches it up so fast he nearly swerves off the road. But his pulse drops again when he recognizes Bobby’s name lighting up the screen instead of Sam’s.

“You heard from him yet?” The older hunter doesn’t even bother with hello.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. “Nope.”

“Alright, I’ve made some calls. Nobody’s seen him.” Bobby sighs. “You wanna tell me what’s really going on?”

Dean stares through the windshield and chews on his lower lip. “Also nope.”

“Figured. You sure the kid’s in trouble?” Bobby asks then. “Look, Dean, maybe he just needed some time to cool off.”

That’s the real question, isn’t it?

Because logically? Sam’s twenty-three, capable, and dangerously intelligent. He sure as hell can disappear whenever he feels like it, and no one can stop him, not even Dean. 

But emotionally speaking? Dean wants to drag the kid home by his stupid mop of hair and handcuff him to the next radiator.

“I don’t know, Bobby,” he admits at last, and it tastes awful on his tongue. 

Even Bobby must’ve heard it. “Alright, son, you hear anything, you call.”

“Yeah,” is all Dean says before the line clicks dead, and he tosses the phone aside again. 

However, only a few minutes later, he’s calling somebody else. Then somebody else. Then another hunter. Then another. He tries Ellen, Ash, and even Jo. And still nothing. Nobody’s seen Sam. Nobody knows where he went – or if they do, they won’t tell him. 

By the time the sun starts sinking toward the horizon, Dean is officially out of options. He’s exhausted every contact he has. His nerves are shot, and his stomach is hollow. 

But there are still numbers left in his contacts. Well, admittedly, not that many. Just one, really.

His eyes drift toward it on the screen and immediately jerk away again.

Nope. Absolutely not.

A minute passes where he just drives and drums his fingers against the wheel before his eyes fall back on it again. It’s still there – the same number Sam’s been calling for weeks now. The same number Dean somehow never calls.

Truly, everything about this is ridiculous, including his hesitancy. It’s not like he doesn’t know you, right? Unfortunately, he knows you pretty damn well at this point. More than he’d like, which means he knows exactly how this conversation’s going to go.

He’s damn desperate. And you? Oh, you’ll enjoy that, won’t you?

Dean groans and drops his forehead against the steering wheel for a second. This is humiliating. Then again, so is spending an entire day searching for his missing brother and getting ghosted like a chick after a one-night stand. At this point, what’s one more indignity, right?

And that’s when he finally grabs the phone and presses call before he can change his mind.

It rings a few times – enough for him to consider hanging up again before the line picks up and your voice floats through the speaker. 

“Sam?”

Dean instantly registers the uncertainty in your voice. Even though this clearly isn’t Sam’s number, you still expected his little brother. You probably hadn’t imagined it in your wildest dreams that Dean would ever call you without a gun pointed to his head. 

“Uh…” 

Your voice sounds warm and yet slightly distracted, and he suddenly realizes he actually didn’t plan this far ahead. He didn’t think you’d even pick up, and now he can’t think of a single word to say. God, where is he even supposed to start?

Awesome. Just awesome…

“Dean?”

Well, at least you sound surprised now, and he imagines those pinched brows again. They’re sort of cute. 

No, God, concentrate.

He clears his throat roughly. “Uh, yeah. It’s me. Dean… Winchester.”

“I know that.”

“Right, yeah…”

Ah, fuck. On a scale from one to ten, how idiotic does he sound right now? Honestly, he’s baffled you haven’t hung up yet. 

“Did Sam lose his phone? What’s going on?” you ask, clearly confused.  

Dean almost laughs but rubs a hand down his face instead. “Uh, no,” he replies. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know.”

That didn’t clear things up, did it? 

“What?”

Yup.

“What happened? Why are you calling me? Where’s Sam?” you press. 

Dean smacks his lips, head bobbing. Saying it out loud why Sam really left just makes it all too real, so he decides to leave out the why. 

“Sam took off, alright?”

“Took off?” you question. “As in voluntarily?”

He lets out a sigh. “Probably.”

“Oh.” A beat passes. “Well, good for him.”

“Good?” Dean wants to gasp in offense, but his brow only creases wildly in irritation. 

“He finally got tired of your helicopter parenting, huh?”

Dean shakes his head, jaw clenching. “Unbelievable. Knew you’d take his side.”

“I don’t even know what happened yet. But yes, statistically speaking, taking Sam’s side seems like the safer bet,” you say. “So, what’d you do?”

“Why d’you think I did something, huh?” he snaps. “Maybe Sam’s the problem. Ever thought about that?”

“Literally never,” you answer without missing a beat. 

Dean scoffs, running a hand down his face. This was clearly a mistake. He never should’ve called you. Of course you’d refuse to help him. Of course you’d side with Sam. 

But for some reason, the noise he made must’ve sounded desperate enough because he can suddenly detect a faint sigh on the other end of the line. 

“Alright, fine,” you relent. Maybe there’s even an eye roll involved, but he doesn’t care. “What d’you need?”

“I need to find him,” he says, still without elaborating on the why.

“Dean…” You exhale another sigh. “I don’t wanna get in the middle of this. If Sam needs some space, maybe you should just let him have it, you know?”

“Look, he might be in trouble, alright?”

“Why are you saying that?” Suspicion creeps back into your voice. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened, okay? I just need to know where he is and if he’s okay, alright?” Dean says more firmly. “It’s complicated. I just–… He might’ve gone after the demon. I just need to make sure he’s alive and breathing, alright?”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, okay? ‘Cause he’s nuts,” Dean huffs in frustration. “Just–… Can you help me?” He lets out a small sigh before pressing out the next thing, which costs him way more effort than he’d like to ever admit. “Please.”

Apparently, that’s the magic word because you finally seem to cave with a final exhale of defeat. 

“Fine,” you say. “I guess I can try scrying.”

“Scrying?” Dean’s brow furrows. “You said this scrying thing only works on supernatural stuff.”

“Yup, it does,” you reply, and he hears a drawer opening and some paper rustling on your end. 

“But Sam’s–… Sam’s human,” he says and swallows harshly in the same breath because it feels like a giant lie. 

“Well, technically, from a magical standpoint, Sam wouldn’t fully register as human. He has psychic abilities, and his aura also indicates he’s gifted,” you explain.

God, he hates that. Not Sam, though. Just the uncertainty of it all. The not knowing. The constant feeling that something is moving beneath the surface while everyone else already has pieces of the puzzle except for him.

And what you said just proves everything Dean doesn’t want to believe about Sam. That his little brother’s not normal. That he’s some weird freak. That he might go – as Sam himself put it – dark side.

But deep down, Dean already knows all of that. That whole Croatoan thing practically shoved that unbearable possibility right into his face. 

“Gifted?” Dean cocks a brow and wants to scoff at the term. It surely doesn’t feel like a fucking gift. “Is that really what we’re calling it?”

“Yeah, why?” Your question comes out almost absent-minded. Innocent. To you, there’s obviously nothing wrong about having abilities. 

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters and then just waits. 

And waits and waits and waits till–

“I got him, I think,” you say after a few minutes. 

“Where?” Dean straightens automatically in his seat and pushes harder down on the gas pedal, even though he doesn’t know the exact direction yet. 

“Lafayette, Indiana,” you reply. “You need me to narrow it down further? ‘Cause I can grab another map and–”

“No, uh, no,” he cuts you off gently. “I got it from here.”

Once Dean’s narrowed down the exact state and town, he’s pretty sure he can find his little brother on his own. Sam’s not as smart as he likes to think because Dean knows how Sam thinks. 

“You sure?” you check. “You want me to come? I could help.”

“No, uh, I’m good,” he says, swallowing lightly. “But… thanks.”

The word surprises both of you. He can tell by the silence that follows.

“You’re welcome,” you say softly after a heartbeat, and Dean swears he can almost hear a smile in your voice before the call ends.

Dean then lowers the phone and stares at the road ahead.

Lafayette, Indiana.

For the last twenty-four hours, finding Sam was the only thing that mattered. Every mile, every phone call, every increasingly desperate attempt at tracking him down had led to the same objective.

Find Sam.

Now, Dean finally has – or at least, he knows where to look, thanks to you. 

Unfortunately, locating his little brother turns out to be the easiest part. Actually talking to him? Yeah, that might require a goddamn miracle altogether.

Lafayette, Indiana

Sam’s alive and well. That’s probably the most important thing, right?

And still, Dean’s honestly not quite used to that fact yet. Because not even an hour ago, the only objective was to find Sam, and now that Dean’s succeeded in that mission, the kid somehow manages to make him annoyed about it. 

Why?

Oh, well, because for the better part of half an hour now, Dean’s been sitting behind the wheel of the Impala in some rundown motel parking lot in Lafayette, watching his little brother’s motel room through the windshield. And guess what?

Sam’s not just fine. Oh no. He’s with a chick. Yet fucking again. 

Honestly, if Dean ever made a bingo card about his little brother, sneaking around behind Dean’s back with strange women should take up several squares at this point. 

First, there was that demon bitch, Meg. Then came witchy little you. And now… well, whoever this brunette chick is. 

And sure, in the first ten seconds after finding Sam, Dean felt incredibly relieved. Genuinely fucking relieved. It was the kind that nearly buckled his damn knees when it finally arrived. Because for more than a day, Dean imagined every possible worst case scenario, convinced he was about to find a corpse, a demon trap, or some brand-new nightmare custom-built to specifically ruin his life in the most creative way.

But alas, none of that happened. 

No, instead, Sam’s sitting fucking comfortably at a table with a pretty brunette Dean’s never seen before, drinking coffee like his little brother didn’t just spend the last day taking fucking years off Dean’s already probably short lifespan. It feels like his hair turned grayer just within the last five minutes. 

Honestly, the audacity of it all is fucking impressive.

And sure, Sam can handle himself. Dean knows that. Hell, Sam probably knows it, too. But knowing something and believing it are two completely different things when every phone call goes straight to voicemail and every scenario one’s brain comes up with somehow ends in a body bag.

So yeah, finding Sam alive had helped. But finding him fucking flirting his ass off was another matter entirely.

Dean squints toward the motel room yet again. The girl laughs at something Sam says. Sam smiles in return. And just like that, Dean discovers a brand new emotion.

Offense.

Not because Sam’s smiling. God knows Dean would rather see that than whatever expression his brother wore after their fight in River Grove.

No, the offensive part is that Sam looks fine. Completely fucking fine.

Dean spent the last twenty-four hours preparing for tragedy only to discover his little brother apparently wandered into a meet-cute. And for a microsecond, Dean even was proud of Sammy. That pride faded quickly, though. 

Un-fucking-believable. Truly.

His gaze then drifts back toward the brunette again, studying her through the glass. Pretty. Definitely pretty. Not Jessica pretty. Nobody’s Jessica pretty. 

Well, one woman he can think of is Jessica pretty – a girl who also ironically met his brother behind Dean’s back, but he’s not ready for that admission yet. 

And yeah, sure, the brunette chick is still pretty enough that Dean can understand why Sam hasn’t exactly been prioritizing family communication. 

Still, people call Dean a womanizer, but at least he’s fucking honest about it and doing it out in the open in front of everyone, you know? 

That realization settles somewhere between amusement and irritation. Mostly irritation. A little amusement.

“You sneaky little bastard…”

The words leave before he can stop them. Across the parking lot, Sam remains blissfully unaware, though. Probably for the best.

Because, truthfully, Dean’s not entirely sure how he’d explain any of this – the relief, the anger, the stalking like a creep, and the overwhelming urge to drag Sam into the Impala and yell at him for approximately three hours straight at full volume.

And then there’s the equally overwhelming urge to leave Sam exactly where he is because he’s clearly alive, clearly safe, and apparently doing just fine without Dean hovering over his shoulder.

That last thought sits badly and probably hurts the fucking most. And Dean can’t even help but agree with that sentiment. 

Sam’s always been independent and more than capable of making his own decisions. He clearly doesn’t need his big brother. 

But Dean? He’s not so sure he can say the same thing about himself. 

Sure, he can handle himself alone perfectly fine. It’s just, most days, he really doesn’t want to. He doesn’t like it. Downright hates it, in fact. That probably makes him weaker than Sam. 

His green eyes then flick to the empty passenger seat before he can stop himself, and the sight punches harder than it should. Because the truth is, Sam leaving was never just about Sam leaving. 

Maybe you and Bobby were right. Maybe Sam just needed space. 

Is that what’s waiting for Dean down the line? An empty passenger seat?

Honestly, it would be so much easier if this were a hunt. Easier if there was a monster. Easier if somebody needed saving. Instead, he’s left staring at the possibility that Sam simply didn’t want to be around him.

And damn, if that one doesn’t fucking sting. Death by a thousand cuts or something like that…

Then, suddenly, the passenger door flies wide open, and Dean nearly jumps out of his fucking skin, already reaching for his gun under his jacket. 

“What the–”

And then, you, of all the damn people in this godforsaken world, slide casually into the seat next to him. “Hey,” you say and close the door behind you. 

Dean’s brows rise to his fucking hairline as he stares at you, wide-eyed beyond belief. “…Hey?!”

“Yeah, hey,” you repeat and scrunch your brow, like you’re suddenly talking to a complete moron. “I know you’re not used to a lot of normal people, but ‘hey’ is generally an internationally recognized greeting among humans.”

“You’re not human,” is all he says as his mind draws a complete blank. 

“Ouch, thanks,” you huff and roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Took you barely five seconds to make me regret coming here.”

Dean opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he can think of an appropriate response. “Why the hell are you here?”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Gee, ever heard of a thank you?”

“No, I mean–…” Dean takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said,” you admit and then shoot him a raised look. “But honestly? You sounded desperate over the phone, my dude. And I know that tone. I worked at a suicide hotline in college. You sounded like you were this close to throwing yourself onto train tracks.”

“That’s not–” Dean wants to argue but stops, because yeah. He was admittedly kind of desperate. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice. “How did you get here so fast?”

“Oh, I flew here on my broom,” you reply nonchalantly. There’s not a blink of an eye or even a smile when you say those words. 

“You, what?!” Dean’s mouth falls open, his brows knitting profusely. “Wait… Seriously?”

You give him a dry look. “No, you dumbass. I took a plane,” you huff, sounding almost offended. “I was joking. What’s wrong with you?”

Dean’s only baffled for another second before an amused smile sneaks onto his face. It’s the first time in a while he’s moved those muscles. And just like that, something inside the Impala finally settles. Even the smile lingers longer than it probably should. 

It doesn’t erase the last twenty-four hours, not completely, but it’s enough to make him forget why he’s here or what’s waiting for him across the parking lot, even if it is just for a heartbeat.

The crushing pressure behind his ribs eases ever so slightly, and it’s a goddamn strange realization, honestly. He hasn’t really expected that. 

Hasn’t expected you to come at all. 

Hell, he even specifically told you not to come. And yet, here you are, filling the passenger seat like you belong there. 

And there it is. Fuck. He’s screwed, isn’t he? He can’t have those thoughts, not about you or anyone for that matter, but especially about you. But the thought still catches him off-guard. 

Shit. 

It’s not even about the here and now. It’s about what all of this, you being right next to him, reminds him of – all the times you’ve been right next to him before. 

In dreams. In hallucinations. In memories. 

For weeks now, those dreams have been showing up whenever they damn well please. Strange fragments of a childhood he doesn't remember having, following him around like ghosts. Sometimes they’re vague. Sometimes they’re painfully clear. But one thing never changes.

You.

You’re always there. The tiny terror who followed him around like a shadow. The girl who somehow always knew when something was wrong. The girl who found him even when he deliberately tried not to be found.

Especially when he tried not to be found and just wanted the world to leave him alone.

And despite all fucking common sense, you came now as well. 

Not for Sam. For him. 

Dean still doesn’t understand what those dreams really are or what they even mean. At this point, he’s even stopped pretending he has answers. But sitting here right now, watching you casually settle into his passenger seat after crossing half the damn country because you thought he sounded upset, the line between dream and reality suddenly feels a lot thinner and blurrier than he’d like. 

Dream-you and actual-you aren’t supposed to overlap this much. Yet, somehow, they keep doing exactly that.

Dean catches himself looking at you, and apparently, it’s long enough to draw your attention.

“What?”

Dean blinks, swallowing as he tries to shrug his shoulders casually. “What what?”

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

Obviously, the only reasonable solution to salvage this whole awkward situation is to immediately avert his gaze and pretend it never happened.

“Wasn’t staring. Don’t flatter yourself, Sabrina,” he scoffs.

Do people call this gaslighting? He’s not sure. Probably. 

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t.” 

“Sure.”

Dean clears his throat and gestures toward the windshield in hopes it offers enough distraction. “You gonna help me stalk my brother now or what?”

At least, that earns a snort. Your eyes then finally follow his toward the motel room, and for a moment, you simply watch.

Sam laughs at something the brunette says. The brunette laughs right back. Your lips hike to an amused smile.

“Oh.” You grin slyly. “Well, good for him. Honestly, you made it sound like Sam was dying. Turns out he’s just hooking up.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “He’s not hooking up. Trust me.”

Your brow scrunches as you glance at him. “How do you know?”

“I know,” Dean replies simply, a small smile dancing on his lips. 

Sam doesn’t have enough game for that. One would think he does, considering he’s handsome, six-foot-four, and college-educated, but his little brother usually manages to wash that all down the drain by carrying too many textbooks. He might as well tattoo uber nerd across his forehead. 

“Is that why you haven’t gone in yet?” Your brow then furrows a little more as you tilt your head at Dean, suspicion growing. “Wait… how long have you been sitting here and watching them?”

Dean twitches his shoulders casually but avoids looking at you. “Not that long. Thirty minutes, give or take.”

“Dude,” you gasp, mouth falling open. “You’ve been watching your brother flirt through a window for half an hour? Who the hell does that?”

“I was making sure he’s okay, alright?” he defends. “Nothing more to it.”

“Whatever you say, perv,” you mutter, unconvinced. “God, please tell me you would’ve left before they’d gotten naked.” 

“What?!” Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again because he doesn’t actually have a defense prepared for that one. 

“I mean, ew.” You visibly cringe. “What the hell is wrong with you, huh?”

“With me?”

“Yes, with you,” you insist. “You’re conducting surveillance on your brother’s love life. You told me he ran away.”

“He did run away, and it’s not surveillance,” Dean argues.

“You’ve literally been parked here for half an hour. Do you even realize how weird that is?”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is that Sam disappeared for twenty-four hours and still managed to have a more productive social life than you,” you counter. 

Dean furrows his brow. “What d’you know about my social life, huh?”

“I can tell that you barely have one,” you quip. “I mean, you practically freaked out when I said hey.”

“That’s not why I freaked out! You just jumped into my car, alright?” 

You snort, amused. “Whatever you say.” 

Dean shoots you a sour look. He wants to argue. Really, really wants to argue. Unfortunately, however, every argument he comes up with somehow makes him sound only creepier. You seem to reach the same conclusion because your expression shifts from horror to full amusement, your grin growing wider. 

“Wow.” You whistle lowly, chuckling. “I haven’t known you for that long, but I think this is a new low for you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean huffs and rolls his eyes back. “You’re probably just jealous.”

You turn your head slowly toward him, raising a brow. “Of what exactly?”

Dean silently nods toward the motel room, where Sam’s still vividly chatting with the brunette chick. 

You snort a loud laugh. “I’m sorry… You honestly think I’m jealous of the girl Sam’s with?”

“Just sayin’…” Dean shrugs. “You and Sam have gotten pretty close. Gotta sting he’s replacing you like that.”

Your mouth opens and closes before finding a response. He’d almost call your speechlessness a win. Almost.

“Did they drop you on your head a lot when you were a kid by any chance?” you shoot back, staring at him in disbelief. “Trust me. I have zero interest in Sam. Have you forgotten I have a boyfriend? You actually met him a few weeks ago. Remember that?”

Oh, how could Dean ever forget tall, confident, and handsome military man? He’s painfully aware of that guy because Cameron looked like the kind of dude who actually belongs in someone’s future. The kind of man women are supposed to end up with.

You specifically. 

He’s not a hunter. Not somebody carrying enough baggage around to sink a damn cruise ship. He’s just… normal. Sorta like you. 

Across the parking lot, Sam smiles again as the brunette touches his arm. And for one stupid heartbeat, Dean’s brain supplies the obvious comparison.

Sam’s smart and stable and just the right amount of caring. Unlike Dean, his little brother can easily pass as normal. Ordinary. He’s proven that time and time again. And honestly, if somebody had to pick between the Winchester brothers, Dean’s not entirely sure why they’d ever choose him.

“Speaking of your boyfriend,” Dean says, clearing the lump in his throat subtly. But he’ll be damned if he looks at you now. “Where’s Army guy? Surprised he’s letting you come here alone.”

You cock an eyebrow in slight amusement. “Letting me?”

“You know what I mean,” Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “He did threaten me.”

“Yeah, and you deserved it,” you counter. “You keep forgetting the part where you tried to shoot me.”

“You ever gonna get over that?”

“Attempted murder?” You raise a brow, then shake your head with a dry smile. “Probably not.”

“Great,” Dean huffs and sinks deeper into his seat. 

“Cameron left again,” you share after a beat then, finding Dean’s eyes. “Got deployed.”

Dean bobs his head quietly. “You know where?”

“Not really.” You shake your head, shrugging. “Paige left as well. Her boss threatened to fire her if she didn’t come back soon. House got kinda empty,” you admit. “Maybe that’s why I came, too. You were admittedly kinda a nice distraction.”

Dean nods, swallowing. He refrains from saying that he likes being a distraction for you. 

Man, maybe you’re right. There clearly is something wrong with him, isn’t there?

You then find his eyes and look at him, offering him a soft smile. Softer than he’s ever seen before. “You finally wanna tell me what’s going on between you and Sam now?” 

Dean shrugs it off, staring out through the windshield again. “What makes you think something’s going on?”

“I know Sam didn’t just run away without any reason,” you point out, but it’s not an accusation. It’s gentle, like you’re touching him with kid gloves for once or handling a wounded animal instead of arguing with him. 

God, it’s almost weird.

For a moment, he considers lying. It’s his first instinct, honestly – crack a joke, deflect, pretend nothing happened.

Business as usual, right?

Except he’s fucking exhausted. Not physically. Not even emotionally. Just tired. So, so goddamn tired. Tired in that deep, aching way where carrying something around for too long starts feeling heavier than simply setting it down.

“My dad told me something before he died.”

The words just leave his mouth before Dean even fully decides to say them. And beside him, you go completely still at that, but he keeps his eyes stubbornly trained on the motel room.

“He made me promise something.”

Your brow furrows slightly. “What kind of something?”

Dean scoffs a humorless laugh, rubbing the tension out of his jaw. “Eh. The kind that screws up your entire life, you know.”

That seems to get your full attention now. He can feel it without even looking.

“My dad thought there was something wrong with Sam,” he continues slowly, chewing on each syllable like it’s made out of glass. 

“What d’you mean… wrong?” you ask carefully.

Dean drags a hand down his face and exhales harshly. "The visions. The psychic stuff. All of it.”

“What does that mean?” You shake your head in confusion. “I don’t understand.” 

“I think he thought it had to do with the demon, you know?” Dean finally looks at you, even if only briefly. His voice sounds flatter and more distant, like he’s reciting somebody else’s nightmare instead of his own. “I mean the demon said as much. It said it had plans for all those kids. Kids like Sam.”

You pinch your brows together, clearly digesting each word. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean–”

“Yeah, it does,” Dean cuts you off and looks at you. “Dad said if I can’t save Sam–… if I can’t save him, then…”

“Then, what?” you ask, leaning forward. “Dean… then, what?”

“Then I might have to kill him,” he finally manages to push the words out. One would think it would get easier the more often he has to say it, but it feels like the contrary and it’s just getting harder and harder. 

You blink faster than a humming bird fluttering its wings, your mouth agape as you stare at him in sheer disbelief, like he just confessed to burying bodies in the backyard.

“Whoa.”

Dean huffs a noise that almost sounds like a laugh if he didn’t know better.

Because, yeah, whoa pretty much sums it up.

“Your dad told you you’d have to kill Sam?” you check for good measure like you aren’t sure if you’ve heard him right the first time around. 

Unfortunately, you did, though. 

Dean nods. “Yup. That’s the short version.” 

"And you told Sam this?”

Dean grimaces, nodding again. “Yesterday, yeah.”

You stare at him for another second. “Yesterday?” You lift an eyebrow. “I thought your dad died months ago.”

“He did,” Dean confirms. “But I promised him I wouldn’t tell Sam, alright? Not that I could’ve if I wanted to. Physically wanted to puke my guts out every time I thought about it.”

You bite down on your lips. “Starting to see why Sam left,” you mutter under your breath. 

Dean’s head snaps toward you, shooting you a look. “See, that’s not really helpful.”

“Not trying to be,” you huff and meet his eyes. “But Dean, seriously, what reaction were you expecting, huh?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. 

“‘Cause if somebody sat me down and said, ‘Hey, by the way, our dead father thinks I might have to murder you someday,’ I probably wouldn’t stick around either,” you point out bluntly. 

“Yeah, I get it.” Dean groans. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m just saying–”

“I know,” Dean snaps, exhales a deep breath, and then looks at you, his gaze softening slightly. “I know, alright?”

His frustration came out sharper than intended, but his regret was also immediate. You seem to notice that because you don’t argue back. You simply watch him and wait patiently. 

Arguably, your boundless understanding feels a lot worse than any lecture. 

Dean lets out a long breath, gathering his thoughts. “I wasn’t gonna do it, you know?”

You tilt your head. “Dean–”

“No, I’m serious, alright?” he tells you. “I wasn’t.” A small, humorless laugh escapes him as he rubs his mouth. “Not sure I ever could, you know?”

For some reason, his voice seems to carry enough sincerity and conviction that you actually stop talking and arguing with him for once. It’s like you know that part is true and he means it with every broken fiber of his being.

Dean never planned on following through. Never even considered it.

At least, not really. Not consciously. The problem is that his dad’s voice has been living in the back of his head ever since. It’s a splinter he can’t pull out. A question he can’t stop asking.

What if?

What if Dad was right? What if the demon really does have plans? What if Sam really is different? What if–

“Dean.” Your voice cuts cleanly through the spiral. 

He blinks out of it and looks at you. “What?” 

“I believe you.” You shrug your shoulders the slightest bit and offer him a small smile. “We’ll figure it out, alright?”

Dean nods and swallows thickly but has to avert his gaze. It just all takes him back to River Grove again, to Salem, to Duane Tanner, to you. 

Every time he’s pointed a gun at someone in his life or raised a weapon at a monster, he’s told himself there was a damn reason for it. Hell, he firmly believed it with every cell in his body. 

He saves people. He doesn’t hurt them. That’s the job. That’s always been the job. Nothing more, nothing less. 

But lately, things stopped being as simple. It’s not straight-forward anymore. It’s not easily distinguishable. 

He would’ve shot Duane. He would’ve shot you. And he would’ve told himself it was the right thing to do, that there was a damn reason for all of it, till he was probably blue in the face. 

And Sam, his smart and kind-hearted little brother, stopped him and told him to think twice. To really fucking look. And Dean did. So how can Sam ever be evil? Sammy’s the good one. That’s how it’s supposed to be. 

“Huh.”

Upon your utterance, Dean’s focus snaps back to you in the passenger seat. He raises a brow, curious. “What?”

“Oh, uh, nothing,” you brush it off, but your brows are pinched again, so he knows you’re putting together puzzle pieces. 

“You were thinking about something,” he presses, but it’s not demanding. If anything, he’s aiming for encouraging. You’re smart. Probably as smart as Sam. Dean could use a dose of that right now. “Just tell me.”

You lick your lips hesitantly but relent. “I was just thinking about Sam’s aura,” you note carefully. “I didn’t really pay a lot of attention to it before. At least not what the color means exactly.”

Dean’s brow creases slightly. “What d’you mean? You said it was purple, right?”

“Among other things, yes,” you confirm. “But it’s not just the color itself, you know? It’s the shade that matters. What it’s mixed with. There’s a lot of nuance to it.”

“So…?” Dean tries to follow along. He really does, but admittedly, a lot of that stuff still sounds whack to him. He knows you’re still usually right about it, though. You’ve always been right about him. 

“So, Sam’s purple is darker than most psychics I’ve met before,” you explain, and Dean instantly doesn’t like where this is going. “His aura’s more mulberry. Mine, on the other hand, is–”

“Lupine, I know,” Dean shoots like a pistol and finishes your sentence before he can stop himself. The answer comes so automatically that Dean doesn’t even realize he’s said it till your head snaps toward him.

And for a full damn second, you simply stare. “You actually remember that?”

Shit.

Dean averts his eyes out the windshield again, playing it cool. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“Kind of hard not to…” you mutter with a slightly teasing tone in your voice. 

“Well, try.”

Your lips twitch the tiniest bit before you bite back the smile. Then your attention drifts back toward Sam.

“My point is that Lupine has more white in it,” you explain. “You understand what I’m saying?” 

Dean nods slowly, following along as best as he can. Black stands for bad. White means good. That’s what you’re going for, right?

“You’re saying Sam’s evil,” he deduces. 

“What? No.” Your brow scrunches. “It’s literally not as black and white. It just means… something darker seems to be pulling at Sam, specifically his psychic abilities. It doesn’t mean his abilities are bad or that Sam is. It just means before you told me all of this, I never had a reason to think about it. Does that make sense now?”

Admittedly, Dean doesn’t understand it entirely. None of it still sounds good in any way, shape, or form. But weirdly, he trusts you. 

“I have to tell you something else,” you say then, drawing his attention to you once more. As he watches you, you’re almost chewing your damn lip bloody. “Promise you won’t shoot me if I tell you or harm me in any other way?”

Dean rolls his eyes slightly. “I wouldn’t hurt you. Figured you’d know that by now.”

“Oh, how reassuring,” you reply wryly and then clear your throat with some awkwardness. “Don’t freak out, but I kind of did a tarot reading on you guys back in Sleepy Hollow.”

But Dean? Oh, he doesn’t freak out like you expect him to. No, instead, he snorts a chuckle, clearly amused, and throws you a sideways glance. “Sweetheart, you really think I didn’t know that?”

“Wait…” You frown. “You know?”

“You weren’t as sneaky as you’d like to think, Miss Cleo,” he quips. “So, what fortunes did you tell for us, huh?”

“Okay, first of all, it’s not fortune telling,” you note, to which Dean only raises his hands in surrender, clearly placating you. “I pulled three cards for Sam.”

Dean leans back in his seat, and, against all common sense, he’s even listening. Usually, he’s completely tuning out when it comes to this crap. 

“The Magician, the Ace of Cups, and the Devil,” you add. 

And that last one? Yeah, needless to say, but that one immediately lands wrong in his stomach. Probably because it’s literally called The Devil. Seriously, what good can come of that, right? If he’s ever heard of a bad omen before, this would be it. 

“Comforting,” he mutters wryly. 

“It’s not what you think,” you try to explain. “The Devil doesn’t necessarily mean evil.”

Dean scoffs at that. “Pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks that, Sabrina,” he says. “Except maybe Satanists. You ever seen Paradise Lost?”

Your brow knits slightly. “Seen? Isn’t that a poem by John Milton?”

“It’s a documentary about the trials of the West Memphis Three,” he explains. “You know, those teenagers who got accused of doing satanic rituals back in the 90s. Had a lot of Metallica songs in it.”

“What’s that got to do w–”

“I’m just sayin’, most people would look at that as a bad omen, you know?”

You let out a little sigh. “Thank you for that groundbreaking observation.”

Dean smirks coolly. “You’re welcome, Sabrina.”

For once, you don’t rise to the bait, however. Instead, your expression turns thoughtful again.

“The first time I interpreted it, I thought it represented obsession,” you share. “As in, being chained to something. Back then, I thought it meant revenge, purpose, control…” Your brow pinches the tiniest bit again. 

“And now?” Dean finds himself asking.

You exhale slowly through your nose. “Now, I’m wondering if maybe I underestimated what exactly he’s chained to."

And just like that, Dean feels the ground shift beneath his boots again.

“How the hell is that supposed to be better?”

You shrug your shoulders defenselessly. “I didn’t say it would be. Just said it doesn’t mean evil-evil. It’s just darkness.”

And there it is again – another drop of proof that Sam isn’t as normal as Dean wishes he’d be. 

That’s the real goddamn problem, though, isn’t it? 

It’s not about Sam. It’s about him. Everything keeps circling back to the same thing. John didn’t hand Sam a burden when he died. He handed it to Dean. 

Next to him, you seem to realize the conversation has drifted into more dangerous territory. The teasing vanished a while ago, as did the jokes. You’re quiet now, your fingers absently tracing the seam of the passenger seat while you think. Dean almost wishes you’d start arguing again. Anything would be easier than this. 

“I know you don’t actually think Sam’s evil,” you break the silence softly. 

And his answer?

“No.”

It’s instant and instinctive. Because despite everything, despite the visions and the demon prophecies and his dad’s warning and every nightmare that’s followed Dean since he died, that answer has never ever changed.

Sure, Sam is goddamn stubborn and annoying in that little brother way and so freaking arrogant sometimes. On top of that, he’s also way too willing to sacrifice himself. But evil?

Nope, never. The certainty of it almost fucking hurts.

You study him carefully. “Then what’s the problem?”

Dean gives a short, humorless laugh. Because how the hell is he supposed to explain this? How does he explain a fear that doesn’t  even fully make sense inside his own damn head?

“It’s not about what Sammy’s now,” he says slowly and finds your eyes. “It’s about… what if. You know, my dad spent my whole life teaching me how to pull a trigger.” He rubs a hand across his jaw. 

You don’t interrupt him, rush him, or even attempt to fill the silence. You just wait for him to finish, and somehow that’s a lot worse. He doesn’t deserve that kindness – especially from you. Not after what he’d done. 

“Every hunt. Every monster. Every decision,” he continues. “I trusted him.”

And honestly? That might be the fucking hardest part of it all – the goddamn trust. Because John Winchester wasn’t just his father; he was the blueprint. The rulebook. The thing Dean measured every damn decision he ever made in his life against. And now? That same blueprint suddenly has a crack running straight through the middle.

What’s he supposed to do with that? 

“What if Dad was right, you know? I mean, what then?” The question slips out before Dean can stop it. 

It’s the thought he’s been choking on since the stupid hospital. He doesn’t believe Sam’s evil or dangerous or any other thing people may want to claim. But what if his dad knew something Dean doesn’t? And if John did know something, what happens when Dean finds out what it is?

Would he pull the trigger? Like he wanted to do with Duane or you or any other thing he came across and convinced himself was evil?

If Dean points a gun at someone, there must be a reason. That’s how hunters survive. That’s how Dean survives. He always believes completely, absolutely, and without question. The same way he believed pointing a gun at you was the right thing. The same way he believed every order his father ever gave him.

Reason, duty, necessity – a hunter’s favorite excuses.

Now, however, that logic has another face – Sam’s. And suddenly, it becomes clearer why his little brother left. Because if Dean ever starts looking for answers, real answers, what happens if he finally finds one? What happens if the trail eventually points somewhere Dean doesn’t even want it to? Somewhere his dad already thought it would? 

Because answers have consequences. Answers become decisions. Decisions become actions. And Dean is suddenly horrifyingly aware of where that road might end eventually.

“You know, I never signed up for this. Any of this,” he says with a dark scoff. “I can hunt monsters, sure. I know how to do that. Vampires, demons, ghosts… You name it, and I can kill it. Things with claws and fangs and glowing eyes. Those are simple. They give you a reason. They make the decision for you, y’know? But this?” He shakes his head, swallowing harshly. “I didn’t fucking sign up for this. Dad did. He made the choice. And now somehow it’s mine.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks then, but the silence isn’t awkward. It isn’t uncomfortable or even strange. It’s simply there, present and steady.

You don’t argue. Don’t tell him he’s right or wrong. Don’t offer some neat little solution that magically fixes everything. You just sit beside him, listening and understanding. And Dean realizes he can’t fucking remember the last time somebody let him do this.

Just this. 

Be exhausted. Be scared. Be angry. At least not without asking him to carry somebody else’s weight, too.

Dean stares out the windshield again. Across the parking lot, Sam’s still there. Still alive. Still chasing answers. Still doing exactly what he's been doing since all of this started.

And maybe that’s the fucking problem in the end.

Dean understands why Sam wants to know. He really does. Hell, Dean would probably want to know, too. If it were happening to him. If he were the one having visions. If he were the one the demon wanted. If he were the one carrying whatever the hell this thing is.

But he’s not, is he?

Instead, he’s the guy standing next to it, watching it happen and waiting for the next shoe to drop. Waiting for the next terrible thing. Waiting for some answers that somehow always manage to make everything even worse.

“I just wanted him to stop. For one goddamn minute, I wanted him to stop looking. Stop finding answers,” he admits at last, licking his chapped lips. “I know that sounds selfish.”

Surprisingly, you shake your head, though. “It doesn’t. I get it,” you say and huff a small laugh that’s lacking any humor. “Trust me. More than you know.”

“Yeah, maybe you do,” Dean agrees. After all, Sam managed to drag you into it as well. That’s truly the only reason you’re here. “He keeps acting like if he finds enough answers, it’ll all make sense.”

You look at him, tilting your head slightly. “And you don’t think it will?”

Dean lets out a hollow laugh. “Dad spent twenty-two years looking for answers,” he replies. “He found the demon. He found out about the other kids. He found out about whatever the hell’s happening to Sam. Look where that got him.” He runs a hand down his face. “I just wanted him to slow down, you know? One minute where we weren’t chasing something. He couldn’t. That’s why he left.”

You follow his gaze to Sam and the girl in the motel room and lean back in your seat. “I don’t think you were asking for that much,” you say quietly. 

Dean slowly glances over at you, his brows raising in sheer disbelief. 

You snort at his expression. “I’m serious.” You shrug, amused. “I mean, dude, you found out your dad basically handed you the worst responsibility imaginable and then died. And now Sam wants answers immediately, which I get as well. But… I don’t know. Maybe taking five minutes to process your entire life imploding isn’t actually that unreasonable, you know?”

A small laugh escapes Dean. Granted, you were the last person he ever expected to agree with him. 

“Five minutes, huh?” He teasingly cocks a brow. 

You roll your eyes, but it lacks the usual annoyance. “If we’re being generous,” you quip, giving him a small smile. “Besides,” you add, offering him another shrug, “we’ll figure it out.”

Dean looks at you, the corners of his mouth twitching the slightest bit. “That’s your pep talk? Pretty weak.”

“Shut up.”

He chuckles and feels the knot in his chest loosen enough to breathe again for the first time all day.

And sure, nothing’s truly fixed. His dad is still dead. Sam is still looking for answers. The demon is still out there somewhere. But somehow the weight doesn’t feel quite as crushing with somebody else carrying a tiny corner of it.

That realization is dangerous and uncomfortable enough that Dean naturally decides to ruin the moment.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat subtly. “You said you read both our cards.”

Your eyes narrow instantly, already shaking your head. “Oh no, forget it. We’re not doing that.”

“C’mon, you told me Sam’s,” he argues, chuckling. “What about mine, huh?”

“I’m taking yours to my grave,” you quip. 

Dean snorts. “That bad, huh?”

You only smirk in return. “Oh, I think you’re safer not knowing.”

“Huh.” He leans back in his seat and smacks his lips. “Honestly? I weirdly believe you.”

You giggle in response. And for a moment, everything feels almost normal. Your smile still lingers when the first gunshot slams through the motel window across the parking lot.

Dean’s head snaps toward the sound in an instant just in time to see Sam dive out of his chair. Every muscle in Dean’s body locks as the moment shatters within a second.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters as he already tears open the car door. “Stay here.”

“Dean, wait–”

But he’s already on the move before he can hear you finish that sentence. 

One minute, you’re listening to Dean Winchester, of all people, emotionally vomit in the driver’s seat of his precious car. The next, some maniac tries to shoot his little brother through a motel window in broad daylight.

Honestly, you should probably stop expecting normal things to happen around the Winchester family at this point.

The gunshot rings across the parking lot so loudly and suddenly that your brain barely has time to register it. Glass explodes from Sam’s motel room before the shouting starts.

“Son of a bitch.”

Beside you, Dean is already moving. Of course he is. Apparently, emotional vulnerability only lasts approximately three and a half seconds before the universe decides that’s enough character development for one day.

“Dean–”

“Stay here.” The order arrives over his shoulder as he throws open the driver’s door.

Then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stare after him for exactly half a second. Truthfully, at this point, you’re starting to think Dean just keeps giving you instructions exclusively so you can ignore them again.

Because seriously? The guy spends the last hour confessing his deepest fears, admits he’s hanging together by what appears to be a single fraying thread, tells you all he wants is one goddamn minute to breathe, and then immediately sprints toward an active shooter.

Amazing. Truly. No notes from you, except maybe some advice to seek out therapy.

Obviously, you’re not staying here and listening to him, stepping right out into the bright afternoon sun.

Across the parking lot, movement then catches your eye. Sam and the brunette are both on the floor now beneath the shattered motel window, scrambling through broken glass and overturned furniture. They’re alive and unharmed – at least for the moment. 

You briefly hesitate because, technically, there are two Winchesters in danger right now. You’re supposed to be their guardian witch or something like that, right? It’s your job to protect them, but you can’t split yourself in two or clone yourself either. Honestly, the decent thing for them to do would be to stay together at all times and make your life easier, but you also can’t see that happening anytime soon. 

You glance back at the motel and then at the direction Dean disappeared. Sam is being shot at. Dean is chasing the person doing the shooting. One of those situations concerns you significantly more.

It ain’t Sam, by the way. Not because you care about Dean more. Obviously not. That would be ridiculous. Moreover, you know they’re both equally capable and even equally smart. They can handle themselves. The difference is that Sam seems generally more level-headed. He never makes decisions that significantly shorten his life expectancy. The younger one simply possesses something the older one clearly lacks:

Self-preservation.

Sam thinks things through. Dean launches himself at problems like a martyr – a completely moronic one at that. He’s even currently demonstrating it at high speed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter and run right after the stupid knight before he manages to stab himself with his uber-righteous sword. 

As you round the corner of the building, the motel disappears behind before you look up. Jesus, why do shooters always have to hide on rooftops? How did Dean even get up there so fast? You always hated PE in high school. 

With a sigh, you grab the railing and start climbing the fire escape. It’s still your least favorite form of cardio. By the time you reach the rooftop, your lungs are already protesting, your hair is sticking to the back of your neck from the humid Indiana afternoon, and the bright daylight feels almost offensive. 

Situations like this should happen at night. At least, darkness has the decency to look dramatic, but instead, the sky is goddamn azure-blue and the sun is smiling down. Meanwhile, Dean Winchester is getting his ass kicked.

So far, it honestly all tracks, considering your past experiences with the Winchesters. 

You heave yourself onto the rooftop just in time to see Dean hit the concrete hard enough that the impact causes you to wince. A second later, the man standing over him drives a fist into Dean’s jaw. 

Ouch.

You then remember your own training, thanks to Mia. SRA-C. Which stands for sex, race, age, and clothing. You don’t expect to give that description to the next cop, considering both Winchesters have an extensive criminal record themselves, but for sake of describing the perp, it’s still quite handy. 

In this case, the stranger is male, Black, and in his late twenties to early thirties, wearing a dark blue flannel over a gray henley and a pair of jeans. He’s broad-shouldered and solidly built, but not monster-broad. Not supernatural broad. Just the sort of broad that suggests he could comfortably throw another human being through a wall if sufficiently motivated. 

At this exact moment, he seems very motivated.

Dean tries to push himself up, but the stranger immediately plants a boot in his chest and sends him crashing back down.

Welp, this is less than ideal.

“Dean!” It escapes you in a panic before you instantly cover your mouth. 

And just like that, the stranger notices you before Dean does. Like a hound lifting its head at the scent of a fox in the forest, his eyes snap up and lock onto you. 

To be fair, you’re a CSI. You’re never actively involved during an ongoing crime. Your job is to come in after. This isn’t exactly your field of expertise. 

“Well, well, who’s your pretty friend, Dean?” The stranger shoots you an eerie grin, which automatically causes a lump to form in your throat. 

“Dammit. I told you to stay in the car,” Dean grunts through gritted teeth, clearly not happy with you. 

“I’m trying to help you,” you hiss defensively. 

“Well done so far,” he shoots back. 

Seriously, sarcasm? That’s what you get for trying to save him? Honestly, next time, you’re gonna pick Sam. 

The stranger’s grin then widens ever so slightly as his attention settles fully on you now. Not Dean. You. 

Apparently, you’ve just become the more interesting problem. The realization sends a cold shiver down your spine.

Dean seems to notice that little fact as well, but you’re currently a lot less concerned with whatever creepy vibe this guy has going on than you are with the fact that he’s actively winning, which means your brain immediately defaults to the most obvious solution:

Magic.

Of course. Magic is always the solution.

Locked door? Magic.

Lost keys? Magic.

Ancient curse? More magic.

Large angry stranger beating Dean Winchester into the concrete? Definitely magic.

Your fingers curl instinctively, but not enough to cast anything yet. It’s just enough that you can already feel the current stirring beneath your skin – the familiar pull, that quiet pressure, the thing that’s always there waiting for you to reach for it.

You need to think this through, though. Judging by the guy’s aura, although very angry and slightly unhinged, he’s clearly human and not some supernatural being, which means restraint is slightly in order. You’re pretty sure you’re in the business of slaying demons and not humans.

Luckily, you’ve recently discovered you’re fairly good at improvising. So the true question is:

What would Buffy Summers do?

There are no plants or vines nearby, but technically, you assume you could probably conjure up a tree or something like it up from somewhere. Seems a little elaborate, though. 

What else?

Fire. You could probably set the guy on fire like a candle. After burning that demon trap into the floor of your lab a few weeks ago, you’ve learned you can do that. Surely, if you can do it to cheap linoleum, you can do it to a human being as well. 

But again, that seems over the top and you’re not in the business of killing people, including the evil ones. Moreover, if Dean sees you set a man on fire, he might classify you as incredibly dangerous and kill you right after, even if you saved his life.

You’ve just spent an hour with this man, telling you how he’s thinking about killing his own brother if he ever turns evil, and you know he loves Sam. Dean doesn’t even like you all that much, so naturally, his inhibitions about killing you would be even lower. You know the guy still has trouble with thinking in shades of gray. Better not risk it and find out how much progress he’s truly made in that way. 

Then there’s wind. You admittedly like that idea. You’ve never used wind all that much. Why would you? It’s kind of boring, and what would you even use it for in every day life? Blowing out birthday candles? Fanning yourself? 

But a gust of wind that blows the stranger off the roof would be neat right now. Maybe you could even create a mini tornado. It’s the Midwest, after all. No one would bat an eyelash here, right?

The stranger obviously doesn’t notice your silent scheming, but Dean somehow does. His green eyes flick toward your clenched fists for barely half a second and then back to your face.

When you meet his gaze, he shakes his head – small and subtle and almost invisible. 

No.

He’s telling you not to do it. Why the hell would he do that? What does he mean? The gesture catches you completely off guard.

You’re currently watching a man beat the absolute hell out of Dean. This seems like a pretty reasonable time for magical intervention. 

But Dean’s jaw only locks tightly before another tiny shake of his head follows.

No, don’t.

You don’t understand it, but for some weird reason – after everything that happened in the Impala, after the last hour, after Dean trusted you with things he clearly hasn’t told anybody else – you stop and let magic retreat again.

For one brief second, you recognize relief flashing across Dean’s freckled face, visibly exhaling the tension in his body.

The stranger’s gaze then moves between you and Dean, studying and calculating, like he’s trying to put the pieces together.

“Come here,” he orders you with a nod. 

You don’t move, however, only raising a brow. “No offense, dude, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how kidnapping works.” 

The stranger’s smile disappears fast after that. The gun appears even faster. 

You almost think he’s going to aim it at you because somehow that’s what always happens these days when you meet strange men. But instead, he’s pointing it directly at Dean’s head, and you admittedly like that option even less. 

Everything inside you goes rigidly cold. Even Dean freezes in place.

“Last chance,” the stranger says calmly. “Either you come with me voluntarily, or your boyfriend here catches a bullet. I promise I don’t wanna hurt either of you. This is just about Sammy.”

Your brow furrows briefly, your eyes landing back on Dean. 

Sam?

Right. That maniac shot at the youngest Winchester. But why? 

Judging by the look in Dean’s forest green eyes, he seems to have an idea. He also seems rather annoyed about it. You can tell he’s twitching for an eye roll. 

Dean doesn’t look at the gun, however. Doesn’t even look at the stranger. He just keeps looking at you.

There’s no panic in his eyes, though. There isn’t fear. It’s just that same quiet warning as before.

Don’t. Don’t try anything. Don’t do anything stupid.

The irony of Dean Winchester silently telling someone else not to be stupid would almost be funny under different circumstances.

But alas, you exhale slowly and then take a step forward.

The stranger nods once, satisfied. “There we go.”

Before either of you can react, however, the gun vanishes from Dean’s head and a sharp crack echoes across the rooftop in the same breath.

Dean’s body goes limp, collapsing against the concrete.

“Dean!”

“Psst.”

The first thing Dean becomes aware of is the throbbing pain of a headache. It feels a little like Gordon looked at his skull and rearranged a few things for fun in there. It makes him wonder if the psycho hit him with a tire iron instead of the end of a rifle. 

Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past the dude.

“Psst.”

Something then bumps his knee.

“Psst, Dean.”

Another nudge follows.

Dean groans before he even opens his eyes and instantly regrets it. The movement sends a fresh spike of pain through his head, making his stomach roll unpleasantly.

“Finally,” you hiss beside him. “I’ve been trying to wake you for half an hour now.”

Dean forces one eye open, and the first thing he sees is you. You’re tied to a chair right next to his, close enough that your knees are touching. Dust clings to your jeans, and a strand of hair has escaped and fallen across your face. You look annoyed, worried, exhausted, and somewhat offended by the entire situation, which, considering recent events, feels appropriate.

More importantly, though, you’re awake, you’re talking, and you’re alive.

He feels the relief surge through his veins at the realization. He was hoping you wouldn’t do something magically stupid that could possibly get you killed. If you ever thought Dean was too black and white in his thinking, you clearly haven’t met Gordon Walker yet. 

Dean then takes stock of their surroundings. The place looks like every abandoned building he’s ever been trapped inside. It’s small, not bigger than a cabin or some shed, made entirely out of rotting wood and dust motes. The windows are broken and partially boarded-up, while the walls carry more cracks than a dry desert ground. The ropes bite into his wrists where they’re tied behind the chair as the smell of mildew reaches his nose.

Awesome. Just lovely, really. 

Then he hears metal clattering in the adjoining room and notices Gordon’s nowhere near, but he seems to be certainly close by.

God, the guy’s nuts. Dean’s only cursing himself because he should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. 

You seem to reach the same conclusion because your expression tightens. “Please tell me you know what’s going on. Who the hell is this guy?”

Dean lets out a slow breath. Where exactly is he even supposed to start?

“Gordon Walker,” Dean replies then. “He’s a fellow hunter.”

“If he’s a fellow hunter, why did he kidnap us and tie us to a chair?” you ask – rightfully so. “Not to mention the murder attempt on Sam.”

Dean purses his lips, clicking his tongue. “Well, last time we ran into him, we kinda pissed him off. Guessin’ this is revenge.”

You scowl deeply. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Well, hey, it’s not technically our fault, okay?” Dean defends. 

You, however, only roll your eyes at that. “Hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” he insists. “Actually, I think you’re gonna like this story.”

“We’ll see about that,” you mutter, unconvinced. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Most people like you probably assume hunters are one big happy family. Truth is, they aren’t. Most of them can’t even stand each other. Some of them are barely housebroken.

And still, somehow, Gordon manages to be the worst of them all.

“A few months ago, me and Sam hunted a vamps’ nest in Montana. Ran into Gordon there and decided to work together,” Dean shares. “Turned out those vamps weren’t hurting anybody, though. They drank animal blood. Slaughtered a few cows, but that’s it.”

Your brow furrows in surprise. “Seriously? I didn’t know vampires could do that.”

“Makes two of us,” Dean scoffs softly. “Anyways, Gordon didn’t really care, though. Still wanted to kill them.”

That earns him a raised look, your lips twitching slightly. “Wow.”

Dean’s eyes flick to you, brow knitting. “What?”

“You let a monster live?” you ask, but Dean instantly recognizes the teasing tone in your voice. 

Dean smacks his lips and gives a small shrug. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. Was mostly Sam pushing for it.”

“Yeah, I can see that one more,” you quip, grinning a little. “Still, you actually saved vampires. That’s huge for you. Kinda like getting a junkie away from heroin.”

Dean rolls his eyes back. “Alright, shut up.”

“Guessing Gordon out there didn’t see it that way, though, huh?”

“Nope,” he confirms, popping the p. He sure as hell didn’t. 

To Gordon, a monster is a monster. End of discussion. No exceptions. No gray area.

Dean then watches the realization slowly dawn on you and spread across your face.

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes slightly widening. “That’s why you didn’t want me to use magic.”

Dean clicks his tongue in confirmation. “Yup.”

“Aww.” The sound surprises Dean, and God, he hates that stupid smile rising on your lips now. “Were you actually worried about me?”

Damn it.

“No,” he huffs quickly, brushing the insane implication off. “Just–… keep quiet about the whole thing, alright? Don’t mention the M-word or the W-word or anything relating to it. Got it, Sabrina?”

You nod, but you also bite your lips to keep the grin from growing, which only irritates him more. 

“Look, Gordon’s not gonna care if you’re helping people," Dean continues quietly, his gaze flicking to Gordon still busy and occupied in the next room. “He doesn’t care if you’re good. Doesn’t care who you save. If he finds out what you are, he’s gonna kill you. Understood?”

The warning lands heavily between the two of you. He watches you swallow harshly. For the first time since waking up, you don’t immediately argue or even make a joke.

Good. 

Meanwhile, Dean finds himself thinking something considerably less comfortable. A few months ago, he might’ve agreed with Gordon. Hell, he even sort of did. 

Maybe it wasn’t enough to pull the trigger for good, but it was enough to point a gun at you, enough to assume the worst, and enough to see the witch before the human.

The memory leaves a sour taste in his mouth now. Because now? Now, Gordon looking at you and seeing a target just pisses him off.

When the dingy floor creaks, both of you immediately look up as Gordon appears in the doorway carrying a toolbox. The smile on his face makes Dean want to punch something.

“Well,” Gordon says pleasantly, his gaze landing on Dean. “Look who’s awake.”

Dean leans back in the chair and tries to play it cool. “Gordy.”

The crazy hunter’s smile then widens. “Dean.”

Over the next several minutes of conversation that levels up in insanity, Dean slowly discovers that Gordon has become even crazier since the last time they ran into each other.

Initially, he’d assumed this whole thing was about sweet revenge. Honestly, it would’ve made sense. After all, Sam and Dean left him tied to a chair for three days, soaking in his own piss and God knows what else.

Gordon seems exactly petty enough to hold a grudge about something like that. But, as it turns out, the truth is so much worse.

Because Gordon isn’t here over vampires or settling a score. Apparently, he’s here solely because of Sam. 

Because of the visions. Because of the psychic kids. Because of the demon.

Because Gordon has somehow convinced himself that Sam Winchester is already halfway to becoming a monster. No evidence required. No trial necessary. Just a conclusion Gordon apparently reached and never bothered revisiting after some low-level demon spilled its damn guts.

Dean argues. Obviously, he argues.

Sam’s a good person. Sam saves people. Sam has more conscience than most hunters Dean’s ever met.

Hell, much like you, Sam probably feels guilty fucking jaywalking.

However, none of it matters. Of course it doesn’t. Hunters are a stubborn breed, and Gordon clearly has already made up his damn mind.

The conversation goes nowhere. Dean knows it. Gordon knows it. Even you seem to realize it by the panicked looks you’re throwing Dean every once in a while. Mostly because every new thing Gordon reveals somehow sounds more insane than the last.

At least, you’re clearly starting to fully understand why Dean wants you to keep the witch thing quiet at all costs. There’s no reasoning with crazy. 

Eventually, Gordon falls silent and ends the discussion about Sam. Then his attention drifts past Dean and right toward you.

Shit.

Dean knows what that means and instantly hates it. He’s seen that look before on other hunters. On himself.

Curiosity. Assessment. Evaluation.

The way hunters look at something unusual. Something useful. Something maybe even potentially dangerous. Something that isn’t entirely human in their eyes.

He can’t possibly know, though, right? Gordon’s smart, but he ain’t psychic. He’d probably off himself if he were. 

“So, Dean,” Gordon says casually then. “Who’s your girlfriend here?”

You immediately open your mouth, and Dean already knows what wants to spill out. You want to correct Gordon.

“Actually–” 

“Yup, girlfriend,” Dean quickly cuts you off. Honestly, Gordon provided him with a great cover there. Random girl is harder to explain than girlfriend. The former would probably draw suspicion, and you’re not nearly equipped enough in hunter lore to pass some hunter test. “Still fresh. Showing her the ropes a little. Just killed her first ghost back in Sleepy Hollow. Was a real head scratcher.”

You narrow your eyes and shoot him a rather bewildered look but luckily don’t argue against it. Dean assumes you’re smart enough to figure out what he’s doing. 

Gordon smirks at that and seems to buy it for now.

“You jealous, Gordy?”

But Gordon barely even acknowledges that and decides to ignore him, focusing back on you. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Dean sees the hesitation in your eyes. You’re probably trying to figure out if going by a fake name is smarter than giving him your real one.

C’mon, you know this one. Fake name. Always go with fake.

“Uh… Sabrina,” you answer with a tiny swallow, which could be chalked off to nerves and not necessarily lying. 

Good girl. 

Dean’s satisfied with that answer, and Gordon seems to accept it as well. 

The crazy hunter nods thoughtfully. “Sabrina,” he repeats and then gifts you an all-too harmless smile. “Does that come with a last name?”

Dean closes his eyes briefly because he can already guess where your mind’s wandering.

Please don’t say Spellman. Please. For the love of fucking God…

Dean can see it in your eyes – the tiny bit of panic, the scrambling. But then you seem to catch yourself and pivot. 

“Uhm, Milano.”

Dean exhales a little breath of relief, although he’s noting to have a conversation with you later about that one, where you’re probably going to point out again that he uses rock band names himself. He’s going to tell you it’s a different context, though. Gordon’s smarter than most run-of-the-mill cops. 

It’s good enough for now, however.

But then, you keep talking, which is less good, and Dean can tell your nerves are completely shot.

“Yeah, uh, my dad’s Italian,” you add. “From Sicily, actually.”

Jesus fucking Christ, stop talking. 

Dean already doesn’t like where this is going.

“He’s got ties to the Cosa Nostra, too,” you continue. “So, you know, you better let me and my boyfriend here go unless you wanna wake up with a bloody horse head in your bed.”

Silence follows. Long silence.

Dean stares at the floor and wants to blow a raspberry. Admittedly, he can’t fault you for trying, but he definitely needs to have a chat with you about that if the two of you ever get out of this one alive. He probably should even train you.

Yeah, he definitely needs to train you. 

Gordon is studying you, but mostly because he honestly seems to try to decide whether that was the worst lie he’s ever heard in his life.

The real worrying part about this whole thing, though, is that you seem proud of it.

Luckily, Gordon eventually snorts and finds it more amusing than anything else.

His eyes find Dean’s. “Oh, I can see why you like her,” he says, chuckling. But then the smile changes, ringing every alarm bell in Dean’s head. “I’m sure she’ll be a great comfort to you once Sammy’s gone. Gonna make things easier.”

And there it is – the thing Dean hates most about Gordon.

Not the violence. Not the obsession. Not even the insanity.

It’s the way Gordon reduces people and turns them into categories.

Weapons. Threats. Collateral damage.

Dean’s little brother becomes a monster before he’s done anything wrong. You become a replacement. A consolation prize.

And suddenly, Dean finds himself angrier than he’s been all day. Both you and Sam deserve better than that, and Gordon will not hurt either of you if Dean’s still got something to say about it. 

Gordon then turns his back and returns to his work of rigging this place with traps and explosives from head to toe, and Dean recognizes the short window of opportunity. 

His eyes drop to the floor and to a cluster of vines growing through a crack in the rotting wood. Then they land on you. When you meet his gaze, he motions silently with his chin toward them, and you understand what he wants you to do in an instant.

Well, team work does make the dream work, huh? Guess the two of you do make a good team, after all. Who would’ve thought?

For the first time since the rooftop, Dean then gives you the slightest nod.

Go ahead. Now.

Dean then watches your shoulders go rigid beneath the ropes, watches your focus sharpen. To anyone else, it probably wouldn’t look like much – just a girl sitting in a chair.

Dean knows better by now, though, and he’s pretty sure the two of you are not getting a second chance at escape if this little plan fails.

The vines near the floorboards then tremble and stretch the tiniest bit, barely noticeable from afar. It’s easy to miss, and that’s exactly what Dean’s counting on. 

But then the crack running through the rotting wood widens another fraction of an inch. And another. And all of a sudden, the old floorboards let out a loud, splintering creak.

Gordon freezes, head turning slowly toward the two of you. 

Shit.

There’s no confusion on his face, only alert. Gordon’s like a predator who heard something move in the tall grass. Dean feels the opportunity slipping further and further away and starts to worry. If Gordon figures out it’s your doing–

Just in that moment, another creak causes Gordon’s eyes to drop to the floor, then to the vines, and then finally to you.

Everything happens very fast after that.

The realization arrives first. Then comes the creepy smile.

“Well now,” Gordon murmurs, causing Dean’s stomach to sink like a stone.

The hunter moves before either of you can react. One second, he’s standing near the workbench, and in the next, he’s crouched beside your chair. A flash of silver appears in his hand just as fast, and Dean barely registers the syringe before Gordon drives it into your neck.

“What the hell are you doing?!” The words tear out of Dean like a bullet, the chair lurching under him as he throws himself forward and fights tooth and nail against the ropes.

You gasp, the vines stop moving, and for one single heartbeat, confusion flashes across your face before your eyes unfocus and close, your body slumping against the chair and the restraints around.

“What the hell did you do to her?” Dean demands angrily, the only hope that you’re still somewhat alive being the ticking pulse he registers in your throat. It’s weak, though. 

Gordon simply pulls the empty syringe free. “Relax,” he assures Dean, but the latter only wants to connect his fist with Gordon’s jaw. “Just a little ketamine, Dean. She’ll be just fine. Promise. I have no intention of hurting her.”

Honestly, that slightly surprises Dean the most so far. 

His eyes drift to you again, watching your chest rise and fall. You still seem to be breathing. Thank God. Gordon better hopes it stays that way, or he won’t make it out of that cabin alive. 

But the relief of you still being alive only lasts a moment, because Gordon’s attention stubbornly remains fixed on you for some reason. The hunter begins to study you again with a look Dean already fucking hates.

Slowly, Gordon then reaches forward and moves the collar of your shirt aside a tiny inch, and Dean suddenly realizes what the hunter’s looking for. His entire body goes rigid. 

No. No, no, no…

Dean knows what’s there and what Gordon will surely find – the Berkano mark sits exposed against your skin, right above your collarbone.

Gordon smiles broadly. “Well, well…” He whistles lowly. “What do we have here?”

Fuck.

How the hell did Gordon even know it would be there? Who the hell told him that?

The hunter crouches lower, studying the mark with open fascination now. Dean wants to rip free from his confines and tear crazy Gordon’s throat out with his bare teeth. 

The look on Gordon’s face isn’t one of a man seeing another person. It’s the look of a collector finding something rare.

“Look at that.” Gordon’s smile widens. “A Berkano witch. Seems like you and Sammy got yourselves a witch as a pet, huh? Gotta be the last one, too. According to my research, they all went extinct in the mid nineties.”

Pet.

Dean’s jaw clenches fucking hard enough to hurt.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Gordon,” he growls. “She ain’t a witch, alright?”

Gordon glances toward the vines protruding through the floorboards, then back at Dean, cocking an eyebrow. “No? Again, how stupid do you think I am, Dean?”

Honestly? Pretty damn stupid, he wants to answer, but he wisely keeps that thought to himself for once.

Gordon continues studying the mark. “Don’t worry. Not gonna hurt her.”

Dean lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, forgive me if I don’t exactly trust your bedside manner.”

“Oh no, heard a lot about them,” Gordon shares, shaking his head. “Been helping hunters for centuries. Millennia, even. She could be useful. Especially with a demon war on the horizon.”

There it is.

Useful.

It’s a word, which Dean has slowly come to hate the most.

To Gordon, you’re not a girl or a person or probably even human. You’re useful – like a knife, a trap, or a gun. 

Dean feels something nauseating twist inside his chest as a memory surfaces – a torn journal page and his father’s handwriting.

Asset.

At the time, Dean hadn’t thought much about it. Now, the memory makes him feel fucking sick to his stomach.

Because Gordon’s looking at you the exact same way his father once did to – as something, as potential, as a resource, as a goddamn solution to a problem.

A sacrifice. 

Dean’s eyes drift to your unconscious form. Toward the loose strand of hair stuck across your cheek. Toward the steady rise and fall of your breathing. Toward the girl who used to sit with him by the pond. Toward the woman who also spent an hour sitting beside him in the Impala while he practically fell apart.

And suddenly, the entire idea feels painfully fucking wrong.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Dean says and catches Gordon’s eyes. “She’s a rookie. Trust me. She’s not as powerful as you think she is.”

It’s mostly a lie, because Dean’s already seen what you can do – rookie or not. But Dean’s also willing to lie all damn day if it keeps Gordon away from you.

“Just let her go, alright?” 

“We’ll see,” Gordon says simply and straightens. “I’m sure there’s a way to unlock that potential. If demons can do it with kids like Sammy, why shouldn’t we? Level the playing field a little.”

Gordon doesn't see Sam. He sees a dangerous weapon pointed in the wrong direction. And apparently, he doesn’t see you either. You’re just another weapon as well – but one that’s pointed the right way.

That fact makes Dean more furious than he ever thought possible because Gordon’s fucking wrong – about both of you.

Maybe a few months ago, Dean would’ve understood it. Hell, maybe a few months ago, he would’ve agreed. Back when he’d pointed a gun at a terrified witch in Salem because it was easier than asking questions. Back when monsters were monsters, witches were witches, and everything fit neatly into categories.

Not anymore.

Now when Dean looks at you, he doesn’t see a weapon. Doesn’t see a threat. Doesn’t see a bloodline. Doesn’t see some magical answer to the demon problem.

He just sees you – just as stubborn as you’re smart. Super fucking annoying. Entirely too willing to follow him into danger. And most importantly, human.

It all then lands with a startling clarity. And once it does, Dean can’t imagine ever seeing you any other way again.

The rest then happens fast.

Luckily, Sam finally bursts through the door only a few minutes later. And honestly, Dean’s never been so damn happy to see his little brother’s giant forehead in his entire life (not that he’d ever admit that out loud).

Sam then navigates Gordon’s little set of death traps exactly the way Dean knew he would – careful, methodical, and thinking three steps ahead while Gordon’s busy congratulating himself on being the smartest guy in the room.

Turns out Sam Winchester is fucking smarter. Who would’ve guessed? Well, clearly not Gordon.

Take that, asshole.

The fight then doesn’t last nearly as long as Gordon probably imagined it would. The guy spends so much time obsessing over what Sam might become that he completely underestimates who Sam already is.

Big fucking mistake.

A few minutes later, Gordon is unconscious, the traps are disabled, and Dean is finally free of the ropes cutting into his wrists.

The first thing he does isn’t check himself, however. 

It’s you. Of course it is.

Dean crosses the room in three strides and drops beside your chair. “Hey.”

Nothing.

You remain exactly where Gordon left you, head slumped slightly to one side, still deep under whatever cocktail he shoved into your neck.

“What’d he give her?” Sam asks behind him. 

“Ketamine.”

“She seems okay, though, Dean,” Sam notes, and Dean nods. “Her breathing’s steady. I can carry her out.”

“No, uh–” Dean quickly shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can do it.”

He then checks your pulse once again just to be sure before he scoops you into his arms and carries you out of that damn cabin, Sam following closely behind and checking over his shoulder if Gordon follows. The adrenaline starts bleeding out of Dean’s system after that, leaving behind something heavier – a mix of exhaustion and relief. 

It’s been one long, crazy fucking day. And yet, somehow, after all of it, Sam is still Sam. You’re still you. Neither of you are monsters. Neither of you are weapons. Neither of you are problems that need solving.

The two of you are just people – people Dean would very much like to keep alive.

Funny how simple that feels now.

His mind drifts back to Gordon. About that asshole insisting that the great John Winchester would’ve done what needed to be done, saying Dean wasn’t the man his father was.

And for the first fucking time in his life, the thought doesn’t sting. Not even a little. If being the man John Winchester was means looking at Sam and seeing a monster before a brother, if it means looking at you and seeing a weapon before a person, then maybe Dean’s perfectly happy not being that kind of man.

Maybe that’s one fucking thing he’s finally getting right.

When Gordon then runs out of the cabin screaming and shooting like a maniac, the sirens aren’t far behind, echoing through the quiet night – another one of his little brother’s genius plans.

The cops then arrive, Gordon gets hauled away, and Dean couldn’t care less.

Good riddance.

By the time the cops slam the cuffs on Gordon, Dean’s already carefully and safely placing you in Baby’s backseat. Nothing or no one can hurt you there. He even makes sure your head doesn’t bump the doorframe and skillfully ignores Sam’s little looks. 

The brothers then slide into the front, each taking their rightful place and exchange a quick look. No words needed.

Sam’s alive. You’re alive. Dean’s alive. And after today, that’s more than enough.

Peoria, Illinois

The drive to Illinois is quiet. It’s the sort of silence that settles after a storm finally runs out of things to destroy.

Dean spends most of it with one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other presses his phone against his ear, chewing Ellen’s head off at the end of the other line before she takes his own head off right back.

Apparently, Gordon really did have connections at the Roadhouse, but Dean believes Ellen when she tells him it wasn’t her, Ash, or even Jo, no matter how angry the young blonde currently is at the brothers or anything associated with the Winchester name – also courtesy of their father. 

Honestly, Dean can’t even blame her. He’s starting to realize John Winchester screwed up more than he ever thought possible. 

He’s heard phrases like don’t meet your heroes or parents are just people too before, but they kind of hit differently now that they apply to him, don’t they?

Every so often, Dean’s eyes then drift to the backseat, where you’re still blissfully knocked out and sleeping off that little drug dose. Gordon’s definitely hit you good, and Dean can’t help but hope that someone’s hopefully repaying the favor when Gordon rots the next few years in jail. 

Meanwhile, Sam fills him in on everything he learned from Ava, the brunette chick and fellow psychic kid, before Gordon crashed the party. About Scott, another psychic Gordon apparently murdered. About Ava’s engagement Dean doesn’t take too seriously. About the warning vision she had that actually saved Sam’s life and Dean’s and yours in the process.

All in all, Ava seems like another psychic kid, desperately wanting to pretend life is painfully ordinary. Dean can only understand that all too well. 

Unfortunately, normal stopped being an option for any of them a long damn time ago.

A few hours later, the lights of Peoria then finally appear. After Sam couldn’t reach her, he wanted to check up on her, and Dean naturally obliged. 

The neighborhood surrounding Ava’s house is dark and quiet when Dean pulls Baby to the curb. The engine rumbles to a halt softly beneath them as Sam’s already reaching for the door.

“I’m gonna check inside,” his little brother says and jumps out of the car. 

Dean nods, not moving an inch, his gaze flicking to you in the backseat only once. It’s enough to make Sam understand he won’t leave you here alone. 

Then Sam is gone, the passenger door slams shut, and the sound echoes through the Impala loud enough to elicit a groggy groan from the backseat. 

Dean immediately straightens and turns halfway back to meet a set of very confused and weary eyes.

Well, look who’s back among the living.

“Morning, Sabrina.” 

He grins at you. You squint at him.

“It's night,” you astutely notice as you blink outside the windows and at the one glowing light in the front. 

“Details.” Dean shrugs and gives you a wink. 

You stare at him for another second before your eyes swerve around the interior, then drift out the windshield at the unfamiliar neighborhood. Then they land back on him.

“What the hell happened?” you ask, still clearly a little dazed. 

Dean can’t help the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Depends.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Depends on what?”

“How much do you remember?”

You frown. “Rooftop.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kidnapping.”

“Yep.”

“Creepy hunter with a syringe.”

Dean clicks his tongue and gifts you a smile. “Bingo.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Dean watches you gather your bearings one painfully slow piece at a time. 

“What the hell was in that syringe?” you ask, rubbing your aching temples. 

“Little dose of ketamine. Knocked you out good for a while there.”

Your brows draw together above your nose, groaning. “Man, Special K feels nothing like Placebo advertised.”

Dean laughs before he can stop himself, a short bark of amusement escaping into the quiet night.

“Yeah, well, I think the fun dosage is a little lower than what Gordon gave you.”

“Noted,” you grunt, unamused. “What happened to the douche? You guys kill him? ‘Cause no judgment from me here.”

“Oh, really?” Dean teasingly lifts an eyebrow. “Just like that, huh?”

“Hey, you wake up with the worst hangover of your life and then we’ll talk,” you scoff bitterly.

“Fair enough.” Dean chuckles a little. “But no, we didn’t kill him, though, admittedly, both me and Sammy wanted to.”

“Man, the one time I need you to make use of that twitchy trigger finger, and you chicken out,” you mutter wryly. 

Dean snorts a laugh. “Yeah, well, forgive me.”

“So, what happened then? Where’s Gordon now? Florida? ‘Cause that’s the second worst place I can think of after death,” you quip. 

“Close enough,” Dean chuckles. “He’s in jail. Gonna be there for a while.”

“Huh,” you breathe, surprised, and then give a small shrug. “Good enough, I guess.”

“Glad you approve.”

As the peaceful quiet settles back in the car, Dean admittedly feels lighter again than he has all damn day. Maybe because you’re awake and well. Maybe because Gordon’s gone. Maybe because Sam’s alive.

But whatever the reason, his chest doesn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

“Where are we anyway?” you ask then, glancing out the windshield. “Where’s Sam? Please tell me he didn’t run away again.”

Dean snorts a little. “No, uh, Sam’s still here. Just checking in on the brunette chick,” he explains. “We’re actually in Peoria, Illinois.”

That earns him another confused look before Dean jerks his thumb toward Ava’s house.

“Turns out Sammy’s little date was another psychic kid,” he adds. “Gets visions, too. He couldn’t get a hold of her earlier, so Sam wanted to check up on her.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly and then fall quiet again.

For a moment, Dean thinks that’s the end of it, but your mouth opens again a few heartbeats later. 

“I heard some of it, you know?” you say, catching him by surprise. 

“Hm?” Dean looks back at you, not quite following.

Your gaze remains fixed on the dashboard when you respond. “Back at the cabin. With Gordon…” 

His stomach sinks slightly. Apparently, the ketamine didn’t knock you out as thoroughly as Gordon advertised. Dude can’t even do that right. 

“I was drifting in and out,” you share softly. “I heard Gordon talking… and you.” You pause for a moment, not meeting his eyes. “I heard you trying to convince him I wasn’t a witch.”

Ah, that.

Dean instantly looks away and turns back to face the windshield. He truthfully doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that information. But for some reason, you don’t force him to act on or even say anything.

“Thanks,” is all you say. 

Dean shrugs as casually as possible. “It’s nothing. Just wanted to make sure Gordon doesn’t get any damn ideas and come after you. Not a big deal.”

“Whatever you say,” you reply simply, but he can see the tiny knowing smile in the mirror. You clearly don't believe him even for a second.

Unfortunately, you are definitely correct about that assumption.

Before either of you can continue, however, the front door of Ava’s house bursts open again. Sam strolls though it, and one single look at his face immediately wipes the remaining humor out of the car.

Sam’s clearly distressed, and Dean’s stomach drops at the sight. Jesus Christ, what now? He really can’t catch a break, huh? The universe is clearly conspiring against him at this point. 

The passenger door then opens as well, and Sam swiftly slides inside.

“What happened?” Dean asks before Sam even manages to catch a breath. 

Sam stares at a glistening ring between his fingers. An engagement ring. 

Uh-oh. Not good. Definitely not good.

“Ava’s fiancé is dead,” Sam says. “It’s a damn blood bath in there.”

“What?!” You lean forward in shock, looking between them. 

Sam blinks at you for a second, noticing you’re suddenly awake but feeling too upset to comment on it. 

He just nods. “Ava’s gone, too. I think the demon took her, Dean. I found sulfur.”

“Crap,” Dean mutters, slumping back into the seat. 

They can never get a win, can they? Not for long, at least. 

Sam then shakes his head, swallowing, the frustration and anger rolling off him in tidal waves. “I need answers, Dean,” he announces, causing Dean already to wince internally. “We need to find out what the demon’s plans are. Once and for all.”

Dean wants to sigh. It’s same damn thing they’ve been circling all day. 

Answers. More answers. Always answers.

Dean feels exhaustion deep in his bones, but he knows Sam’s right. They finally need to get ahead of this. They can’t walk into the storm blindly. Still, Dean wishes he could get a few hours of rest without worrying. Maybe even a weekend. 

“I agree,” you chime in from the backseat, drawing both brothers’ attention to you. You bite your lip slightly when you meet Dean’s surprised look, but there’s something gleaming in your gaze that he can’t quite place. “The attic in Sugar Hill is full of lore stuff, mostly about demons, spells, everything you can possibly imagine… And I honestly only understand half of it. I could use some help going through it. Maybe we find some answers there. We still don’t even know what the ritual entails, and it’s our best lead so far to kill that demon.”

“You sure about this?” Sam checks carefully, but Dean can already see the eagerness shimmering in his hazel eyes. 

And he suddenly also realizes your plan – occupying his little brother enough to give him a break. Books are the kid’s kryptonite, after all. It’s a win-win for everyone. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you reply softly, but Dean registers a sly little glimmer in your gaze. “Why don’t you guys come with me? Got enough bedrooms. You can stay as long as you’d like. I really could use the help.”

“That’d be great. Thanks,” Sam says keenly and barely takes a breath between the words, already glancing at Dean with that familiar puppy look in his eyes. “You wanna go?”

Dean shrugs casually, trying to sell it properly. “Guess I don’t have a choice, huh? Gotta keep looking out for you.”

Sam grins happily. “No, I guess you don’t,” he replies and then gives you a determined nod. “Alright, count us in.”

“Great, thanks,” you say with a smile, but it’s not exactly aimed at Sam, and Dean can tell. 

It’s meant for him. 

Dean meets your eyes and holds your gaze, both of you recognizing the truth. 

This isn’t just for Sam. It’s a solution that gives his little brother answers to chase and Dean room to finally breathe.

You know it. He knows it. But neither of you says it because saying it out loud would ruin the whole damn thing.

Dean gratefully returns your smile for the briefest second before starting the engine, the next destination finally sounding better than he could’ve ever imagined – a place where he’d admittedly never been happier his entire life. 

The sad and truly unfortunate part is, though, that you don’t even have the faintest clue what that does to him.

▶️ Chapter 8: Lost in the Memory – August 21

Alrighty, you guys, how did you enjoy this little reimagining of a familiar episode and plot? Dean surely showed some growth and major character growth here, and I absolutely loved writing every second of it. Reader's pov also cracks me up 😂 As you can see, Dean's already catching some real feels and slowly realizes he can't outrun them anymore. As for reader, I think she's getting there as well. What do you think? 😉

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“Coffee’s fresh,” he says, clearing the annoying lump in his throat. “Pancakes are almost done. Eggs are scrambled. Hash browns are crisping. Don’t touch the bacon again. It’s still hot.”

You only hum appreciatively and lean in again, stealing one more piece anyway because ignoring his orders is apparently a newfound sport for you, your fingers brushing his as you pull back. The brief touch sends white-hot flames racing up his arm. 

Dean swallows harshly, snapping himself out of it. Get it together, idiot.

You, on the other hand, hop onto the counter beside the stove, swinging your bare legs, completely unaware of the war he’s waging in his own head. “You really went all out, huh? What’s the occasion? Trying to impress the resident witch? I didn’t even think you could cook like that.”

The teasing lilt in your voice does fucking dangerous things to him. He then can’t help but picture pulling you off that counter, tasting the salt of bacon on your lips, and tangling his fingers in your messy hair. He shuts the thought down even faster than it came, flipping a pancake with more force than necessary.

What the fuck happened to him? How did he get here? Why can’t he get all these weird images of you out of his goddamn head?

“Just figured we could use a decent meal for once,” Dean mutters in response. “Before Sammy buries himself alive in those books again. Kid forgets food exists when he’s on a roll. Still wondering how he survived college without starving.”

You laugh softly, and he annoyingly realizes he likes making you laugh. He likes the way you look at him when you do. He likes–

“Sam!” Dean calls suddenly, deep voice way louder than probably needed. He’s pretty sure the next neighbor several miles away heard him. Even you flinch at the volume. “Get your ass down here before it gets cold!”

You lift an eyebrow in amusement, licking your lips. “Desperate for backup already?”

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His hospital gown hung unevenly from one shoulder. The rapid rise and fall of his chest pulled at the bandages beneath it, but he made no effort to sit back down.

"Sam!" he shouted again.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway.

Sam appeared in the doorway first, Bobby close behind him. Both stopped when they saw the wall. Sam's face lost what little color it had left. Bobby muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer tangled with a curse.

The blood continued moving. Not downward anymore. Sideways.

The streams gathered beneath the message, joining together until they formed a long, narrow line across the wall. The shape widened at the center and curved upward at both ends. A smile.

Your stomach turned. Dean reached for the rolling table beside the bed and shoved it backward, putting more distance between you and the wall.

"Everybody seeing this?"

"Yes," Sam said.

"Good. Hate being the only one hallucinating."

The lights flickered. Dean's head snapped toward the ceiling. "Don't."

The word was aimed at the demon, the lights, the entire hospital—anything that might be considering making the situation worse. For once, the electricity listened. The lights steadied.

Bobby stepped closer to the wall but stopped before reaching it. "It knows the name."

You stared at the letters. Emily. You repeated it silently, searching for any flicker of recognition. Nothing came.

The name felt too soft. Too delicate. It belonged to the missing infant from Bobby's records. A child with two dead parents and a burned home. It did not feel like yours.

Emma had been given to you by Bobby because you had needed something to answer to. A name scribbled onto paperwork, spoken across motel rooms and shouted through forests. Sam shortened it to Em when he was worried. Dean dragged it out when he was teasing you and snapped it like a command when you were in danger.

Emma had become real because they had said it enough. Emily was only blood on a wall.

"Get her out of the room," Bobby said.

Dean turned toward you. "Can you walk?"

Sam stared at him. "She had abdominal surgery yesterday."

"I'm aware, Sam."

"You can't walk either."

"I walked in here."

"You nearly passed out doing it."

Dean looked down at himself as though the gown and IV pole were personal insults. "Details."

A nurse appeared behind Bobby, took one look at the wall, and screamed. Everything moved quickly after that.

Security arrived. Then more nurses. A doctor demanded to know who had drawn on the wall and why there was blood near a surgical patient. The four of you gave different versions of the same useless lie involving a burst pipe, vandalism, and medication-induced confusion.

None of the explanations made sense. That had never stopped any of you before.

The staff moved you into another room at the far end of the floor while maintenance sealed off the first. Dean was forced into a wheelchair after almost falling into an orderly. He complained the entire way, though he remained close enough to watch as the nurses transferred you into the new bed.

The message disappeared behind closing doors. The name followed you.

By afternoon, the doctors had given up trying to convince Dean to remain in his own room. They compromised by moving him into a private room across from yours and threatening to sedate him if he attempted another unsupervised hallway expedition. Dean responded by asking what kind of sedation they were offering. No one found it amusing except you. Even then, the laugh felt borrowed.

Bobby and Sam occupied the small family waiting room with stacks of photocopies, laptops, and several books Bobby had managed to obtain through contacts who apparently asked very few questions about hospital visitor policies.

You remained in bed. There was nowhere else the doctors would allow you to be.

The room had no marks on the walls, no coins rolling beneath the furniture, and no blood creeping from the ceiling. Still, you kept watching. Every shadow seemed too dark. Every sound in the ventilation carried the possibility of a whisper.

Emily. The name sat beneath your skin like a splinter. A knock came against the open door.

Sam stood in the hallway holding two paper cups. "You awake?"

"No."

He entered anyway. The chair scraped softly as he pulled it closer to the bed. He placed one cup on your tray and kept the other in his hands. "Tea."

You looked suspiciously at it. "Hospital tea?"

"Cafeteria."

"That's not better."

"It's mostly hot water."

"Tempting."

Sam smiled and settled into the chair.

He looked less injured than he had that morning, though the bruising beneath his eye had darkened. The bandage across his forehead was gone, revealing several stitches near his hairline.

"You should be resting," you said.

"So should you."

"I am trapped in a bed."

"You still find ways not to rest."

You looked toward the window. Late-afternoon sunlight filled the buildings outside with a dull orange glow. Traffic moved along the road below, people entering and leaving the hospital with no idea what had been written across the wall three rooms away.

"Did you find anything?"

Sam leaned back. "Bobby's contact recognized some of the symbols from the coin."

"And?"

"They're part of an old binding language. Older than Latin. Possibly Sumerian, but modified."

"What does it say?"

"The circle around the lock refers to blood, inheritance, and consent."

That final word pulled your attention back to him. "Consent?"

Sam nodded. "We think the prison can't be opened by force. Not completely."

"The demon needs me to agree."

"That's the theory."

A cold pressure settled in your chest. The demon had not been trying to kill you. It had been teaching you fear. Every nightmare, every voice, every person hurt because they stood beside you—it all led toward one choice. Let me out, and I will stop.

"What happens if I never agree?"

"We don't know."

"That seems to be our answer for everything."

"For now."

You looked down at your hands. The IV bruised the skin inside your elbow. Tape pulled lightly whenever you moved your fingers.

"What if it keeps hurting people?"

Sam's expression changed. "That's what it wants you thinking about."

"It already sent vampires after us."

"And we killed them."

"You almost died."

"But I didn't."

"Dean almost died."

"He didn't either."

"Next time could be different."

Sam placed his cup aside. "There doesn't have to be a next time."

"You believe that?"

"I believe we can stop it." His certainty sounded genuine.

That was one of the things you had begun noticing about Sam. Dean made promises like weapons. Sharp, immediate, designed to cut through fear before it could reach you. Sam built certainty slowly. He gathered pieces, studied them, and gave you only what he believed could hold weight. You trusted both. In different ways. The realization made your chest ache for an entirely separate reason.

Sam watched you. "What?"

You shook your head. "Nothing."

"Worried forehead?"

Despite yourself, you smiled. "That's your thing."

"I know."

Silence settled comfortably between you. Sam reached for one of the books on the windowsill and opened it across his knees. His sleeves had been pushed above his elbows, exposing fading bruises along his forearms. You watched his hands move across the page. Not the way you had at breakfast before the hunt, when the sudden awareness of his body had embarrassed you enough to flee the room. This felt quieter.

You remembered those hands holding you on the motel floor. Carrying you through the woods. Keeping pressure on your wound while his own blood ran into his eyes. Sam noticed things without making you ask. You wondered when that had begun to matter so much.

"Emily doesn't feel like my name," you said.

His fingers stopped on the page. "No?"

You shook your head. "Maybe it should. Maybe hearing it is supposed to unlock something, but it doesn't."

"That might be good."

"How?"

"If the demon is using it, maybe the name is only another tool."

"It belonged to someone."

"Maybe."

"The records—"

"Could be wrong. Changed, forged, incomplete. We don't know that Emily Harlow was you."

"You think it wasn't?"

Sam considered the question. "I think you're Emma."

The simplicity of it caught you off guard. "That name was made up."

"All names are made up."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He leaned forward, resting his arms against his knees. "Emma is the person who hunted with us. The person who argues with Dean about music and steals my sweatshirts."

"I do not steal your sweatshirts."

"You took two of them."

"You left them in the laundry room."

"That doesn't make them communal property."

You smiled faintly. Sam's voice softened. "Whatever your parents called you, whatever happened before we found you—that belongs to you. But it doesn't erase everything after."

You studied his face. "You always know what to say."

"No, I don't."

"It seems like it."

"I just know what I wanted someone to tell me."

The words carried history. Demon blood. Destiny pressed onto Sam before he was old enough to understand it. He knew exactly what it felt like to become a question other people believed they had the right to answer. 

Your hand moved before you thought about it. You reached across the space between you and rested it over his. Sam went still. His eyes dropped to your fingers.

"Thank you," you said.

He turned his hand beneath yours. For one suspended second, your palms touched fully. His hand was warmer than yours, large enough that your fingers nearly disappeared when his curled gently around them.

The contact felt different from holding Dean's arm in the motel. Dean had felt like an anchor in a storm. Sam felt like quiet ground beneath your feet. His thumb moved once against the side of your hand. Your pulse stumbled.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. You pulled away too quickly.

Sam's hand remained on the edge of the bed for a second before he returned it to the book. Dean appeared in the doorway.

He wore hospital sweatpants beneath his gown now and had somehow acquired a black robe that made him look less like a patient and more like an irritated motel owner.

His gaze moved from you to Sam. Then to the space between your hands.

If he noticed anything, his expression did not reveal it. "Bobby found food."

Sam closed the book. "Actual food?"

"Depends how flexible your definition is."

Dean leaned against the doorframe. He looked tired. More than tired. The effort of walking across the hall had drained color from his face, and his good hand held the frame a little too tightly.

You resisted the urge to tell him to sit. He would only deny needing to.

"What did he get?" you asked.

"Something claiming to be lasagna."

"Hospital lasagna?"

"Which is legally not lasagna."

Sam stood. "I'll go help him."

Dean moved aside to let him pass.

The brothers exchanged a glance. Sam's attention lingered on Dean's posture.

"You okay?"

"Fantastic."

"You look pale."

"I'm naturally radiant."

Sam clearly did not believe him, but he continued into the hall. Dean remained in the doorway. You waited for him to enter. He did not.

"Are you coming in?"

He shrugged carefully. "Figured I'd let you rest."

"You crossed the hall to tell us Bobby found food."

"Critical information."

"You could've sent Bobby."

"He scares the nurses."

"You threatened to escape through a bathroom window."

"It was a strategic option."

A smile pulled at your mouth. Dean looked relieved to see it. Then his gaze shifted toward the wall beside your bed. Checking. Always checking.

"No messages?" he asked.

"No."

"Coins?"

"No."

"Creepy voices?"

"Only yours."

"Good." He nodded and started to turn away.

The distance surprised you. Since the fight, Dean had rarely stayed more than a few feet from you. In the woods, in the car, even after waking in the hospital, he had hovered behind jokes and orders. Now he seemed determined not to remain alone with you.

"Dean."

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"Why are you avoiding me?"

His shoulders stiffened. "I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm standing right here."

"In the doorway."

"That still counts as the room."

"No, it doesn't."

Dean looked down the hall, as though hoping Sam or Bobby would return and rescue him from the conversation. Neither did. He sighed and entered, pulling the door partly closed behind him.

"There. Better?"

"You tell me."

He remained standing beside the visitor's chair but did not sit. You studied him.

The bruises along his face had begun fading from deep purple to sickly yellow around the edges. His hair still carried the uneven shape left by hospital pillows. He looked familiar. He also looked like the man who had pressed his forehead against yours while blood filled your clothes.

"You remember more than you're saying," you said.

Dean's expression closed. "About what?"

"The car."

"I told you. Bits."

"Sam acts strange whenever I ask."

"Sam acts strange all the time."

"And you won't look at me."

Dean finally met your eyes. "I'm looking at you now."

"You know what I mean."

He looked away again. There. Proof.

You lowered your voice. "You were scared."

Dean laughed once. It carried no humor. "We were bleeding to death in the back of my car. Yeah, I was a little tense."

"That isn't what I mean."

His jaw tightened. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

"I just gave it to you."

"No, you gave me the version that doesn't cost you anything."

The words landed. Dean went very still. You almost apologized.

Then he said, "You almost died."

"So did you."

"Yeah."

His gaze returned to yours. "That's kind of the problem."

The room quieted. You waited for him to explain. Dean rubbed his thumb along the edge of his sling. "When things get bad, people say things."

"What things?"

"Whatever they think the other person needs to hear."

"Did you?"

His mouth tightened. "Did I what?"

"Say things you didn't mean?"

A shadow moved through his expression. "No."

The answer came too quickly to be casual. Your breath caught. Dean realized what he had admitted.

He looked toward the door. "I should get back before Bobby eats everything."

"Dean."

He reached for the handle.

"Why are you pulling away?"

His hand remained against the metal. For a moment, you thought he would leave without answering.

Then he spoke with his back to you. "Because I can't do that again."

"Do what?"

He turned. The walls were gone for one brief second. The exhaustion, fear, and something deeper showed plainly in his eyes. "Watch you bleed out."

You swallowed. "I didn't exactly enjoy watching you do it either."

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because it is."

"That isn't an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

He opened the door. You stared at him.

"Dean, I'm still here."

His expression softened. "I know."

"But you're acting like I'm not."

Something shifted behind his eyes. He stepped back into the room but did not come closer.

"You're here," he said quietly. "And I'd like to keep it that way."

The practical phrasing could not hide the weight beneath it. You understood then. Dean was not pulling away because he felt less. He was pulling away because he felt too much. The realization warmed and frightened you at once.

Before you could respond, Bobby entered carrying a tray loaded with plastic containers. "Food," he announced. "Or a reasonable facsimile."

The moment broke.

Dean reached for the tray. "Finally." His walls returned so quickly you could almost hear them lock.

That night, the hospital settled into uneasy quiet. Bobby slept in the waiting room with his cap pulled over his face. Sam had been forced into a nearby room after a doctor discovered he had ignored instructions to rest for nearly an entire day. Dean returned across the hall. At least, you assumed he did. You had not seen him since dinner.

You lay awake watching moonlight slide slowly across the ceiling. The conversation replayed in your mind. That's kind of the problem. I can't do that again.

You thought about Dean's hand bumping your knee beneath the diner table. His body throwing itself between you and the vampire. The way he had said sweetheart when he thought you were dying.

Then Sam's hand beneath yours. His quiet certainty. The way he had said you were Emma as though there were no mystery worth arguing. Your feelings did not form a straight line. They pulled in two directions, different but equally real.

Dean was heat, friction, and the terrifying certainty that he would burn himself alive to protect you. Sam was warmth, understanding, and the quiet place you found when you could no longer hold yourself together.

You wanted both. The thought entered your mind so clearly that you sat upright.

Pain immediately tore through your side. You gasped and pressed one hand to the bandage. The monitor began beeping faster.

"Great," you whispered. "Perfect time for that revelation."

A nurse checked on you, adjusted the medication, and left after making you promise not to move again. You settled back against the pillow. The room darkened as clouds passed across the moon. Sleep pulled at the edges of your mind. You resisted. The forest waited whenever you closed your eyes.

Dean and Sam were nearby. The hospital was full of people. The demon could not physically reach you here. You repeated the facts until exhaustion finally won. 

You stood inside the bunker. The war room was empty. Every light had gone out except the map table, which glowed dark red beneath the glass.

"Sam?" Your voice echoed through the halls. No answer.

"Dean?" 

Something scraped in the distance. You followed the sound into the library. The shelves had been emptied. Books lay scattered across the floor, their pages soaked in blood. Sam stood at the far end of the room with his back to you.

Relief rushed through you. "Sam."

He turned. Blood covered the front of his shirt. A deep wound opened across his throat. You screamed and ran toward him. He lifted one hand.

"Why didn't you open it?"

You stopped. "What?"

His voice came from the wound rather than his mouth. "You could've saved me."

The library changed. The shelves twisted upward into trees. The floor became wet leaves beneath your feet. Sam vanished.

Dean lay against the base of an oak. His body looked exactly as it had in the vampire clearing—blood-soaked, broken, struggling for breath.

You dropped beside him. "Dean."

His eyes opened. Red.

The demon smiled through his face. "You see?"

You scrambled backward. Dean's body rose unnaturally to its feet. "You can't protect them."

"That isn't Dean."

"It will be."

The forest split open behind him. The iron door stood among the trees, chains rattling across its surface. Sam appeared beside it. Alive now. Terrified. One chain wrapped around his throat. Another dragged Dean backward by his injured arm. Both brothers fought against them.

"Emma!" Sam shouted.

Dean reached toward you. "Don't listen to him!"

The demon stood beside the door in his black suit. His red eyes glowed softly.

"You can end this."

"No."

"Open the door."

The chains tightened. Sam choked. Dean screamed as his arm twisted behind him.

You covered your ears. "Stop."

"One word."

The demon extended his hand. "Choose them."

Blood spread beneath both brothers. You took one step toward the door.

"Emma." Dean's voice changed.

No longer part of the dream. Closer. Real.

"Wake up."

The forest trembled. The demon's expression hardened. "You'll choose eventually."

"Em." A hand closed around yours.

Your eyes opened. The hospital room returned in pieces. Moonlight. White walls. The monitor shrieking beside you.

Sam stood on your left. Dean on your right. Both had rushed in, injuries forgotten. Your hand was locked around Sam's wrist. Dean's palm pressed against your shoulder. 

You were crying. "No," you gasped. "No, don't—"

"It's us," Sam said.

His free hand cupped the side of your face. "Look at me."

You focused on him first. His hazel eyes. The stitches at his hairline. Sam.

Then Dean moved into your line of sight. "Both here," he said. "Nobody's dying."

Your breathing broke into a sob. Dean's expression softened, but he did not reach farther.

Sam did. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you carefully against his chest, mindful of the wound at your side. You held on. Your fingers knotted in the back of his shirt as the dream released you.

Sam's hand moved slowly through your hair. "I've got you."

The words settled your breathing. Over his shoulder, you saw Dean step back. He stood beside the wall, pale and exhausted, watching Sam hold you.

Something unreadable crossed his face. Pain. Relief. Perhaps both.

You reached one hand toward him without releasing Sam. Dean looked at it. For a second, he hesitated. Then he moved closer and wrapped his fingers around yours.

Sam held you. Dean held your hand. You closed your eyes between them. Neither brother said anything.

But the demon had made one mistake. It wanted you to believe loving them made you weak. Instead, surrounded by both of them, you understood the truth.

They were the reason you would never open that door.

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And even in all the glory of this strange, quiet world, he didn’t find himself bothering to look anywhere else.

She was crouched in the center of the glossy stone, in the eye of the swirling snowstorm. Her head was bowed, Her hands planted on the ground and her body shaking. Dean swallowed a lump in his throat, his heart straining at just the sight. He’d never been sure if that was a soulmate thing or not. If their bodies were connected enough for him to feel whatever pain seemed to be ripping through his girl, or if he just loved Her so much, his body ached at the idea of Her pain. He hoped it was the latter. He hoped his heart turned heavy because it was bearing some of Her weight, because loving her wasn’t a labor but watching her hurt was the worst kind of torture in the world. He hoped that he loved Her enough his heart would simply eat itself and wither without her. And he hoped that She never felt that kind of pain at all.

Dean murmured Her name as he crossed the strange courtyard, his voice hoarse and cracking and quieter that he though he’d ever been in his life. He expected Her to meet him with glossy eyes and trembling lips. He expected Her to look for him, the same way he’d never be able to stop himself from looking at her. But he stood before Her, ready to kneel in his place—at her feet—and almost tripped flat onto his face.

She didn’t look. She grabbed Dean’s knees, hugging them like a tether and burying her face in his thigh, and curled around him like ivy growing up a tree. Dean steadied himself with a hand in Her hair, petting slowly and pressing his lips in a thin, worried line. His jaw twitched with the strain of grinding his teeth, and his eyes raked over Her with the clinical prescision he hated to use. It was the same one that had found scrapes on Sammy’s knees in their youth, and hidden bullet wounds in their age. The ones that were practiced at noting the bone of Her wrists or bag of her eyes.

He’d been trying not to drive himself mad with it. If all he thought of here was the exhausted line etched in her pretty face, he’d wake and never think of anything else. Most nights, Dean forced himself only to think of the joy. Of the slim damn luck, that with every hell the world put them through, at least they had this. The sanctuary, where nothing rustled in the bushes, and Dean could soak in the light of Her eyes before he returned to the dim horror of Purgatory.

But there was a point where the beautiful, delicate flower of a woman Dean loved was too shrouded in pollen and soot for him to ignore it. And that point was when She sobbed against his legs and knelt at his feet, refusing to even show Her face.

So Dean sank down. He pried Her arms away and moved them around his torso. He took Her face and guided it first to his lips—kissing away tears and the furrow of Her brow—before turning it to the crook of his neck. He pet Her head and rubbed her spine, hauling her slowly into his lap, where She’d be safe.

They were in Her head. And Dean had always had an awful feeling, that it was the most dangerous place in the world for Her to be.

“I’m here, Princess,” he murmured against Her brow, pressing soft kisses between every word. “I’ve got you, you’re gonna be alright.”

She cried harder, and Dean’s ribs split, but he hadn’t expected anything else.

She didn’t know this was real.

Eventually, the snow began to fall. She sniffled and clutched Dean’s ragged, dirty flannel between Her fingers, and the wind slowed to something, somehow, almost warm. The snow melted on the ground, and where it met Her tears, small, sparkling, pure-white flowers grew through the stone. Dean smiled to himself. Even in a dream, he though. Even in a dream.

“De- Dean-“ She cut herself off with a stronger sniff, and Dean offered up his sleeve. She gave him a doubtful look, and he raised his brows.

“C’mon-“

“I am not a child-“

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you and Sammy, just-“ He pressed the fabric right to Her cute nose. “Blow.”

She glared at him. Dean just grinned back.

“That don’t work on me anymore, baby. You’re too cute.”

“I am not cute,” She said, but it came out all nasaly and her nose twitched like a bunny, so Dean’s smile only grew.

“I got all day, sweetheart.”

Her glare narrowed. A stronger man than Dean would break under the sheer wrath of it, but a stronger man that Dean never would’ve been soft enough to be allowed this close. Dean flicked Her nose with light fingers, and she wrinkled it, then sneezed. He barely bit back his laugh, pressing the cloth as close as he could get.

“Blow,” he ordered, and She caved.

Dean shook out the sleeve, and She caught it with still shaking fingers. They grew steadier, against his body, so Dean held as still as a rock, letting the river turn it over.

“You’re dirty,” She murmured, and Dean snorted.

“Gee, thanks-“

“No, you’re- You’re never dirty.” Her brow furrowed, Her teeth poking over her lip as she turned Dean’s hand over, inspecting the dirt and blood under his nails. “You’re never dirty.”

She repeated it like it was gospel, and in any other moment, Dean would’ve laughed. Not at Her. Never at Her. At the absurdity of the idea. He was always dirty. He’d been born dirty—covered in something that smelled like trash, Dad used to say—and he’d grown in the mud, where there was never a second to be clean.

“You got another boyfriend I should be worryin’ about?” Dean asked, wishing he knew how to make that sound like a joke, and She shook her head with a sour expression.

“No.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I think you might be confusing me with-“

“I don’t confuse you.” She said, simple and solid. “You aren’t… You shower.”

“Everyone showers, that ain’t an award worthy achievement-“

“Shhhh.” She glared at him under Her lashes and Dean pressed his lips together, smiling at Her through his eyes.

She flushed, and looked back to his hands and sleeves. Dean didn’t know what She was looking for. He wasn’t sure if he’d want to help Her find it, if he did.

“Where did this come from?” She held up his forearm, tracing over the thick line of a new scar. Dean had gotten it from a werewolf tango, just a few nights back. He didn’t want to tell Her that. He didn’t want to give her any more pain.

“Who knows,” he tugged his hand away, leaning down until their noses bumped. “You gonna tell me where we are, Princess?”

“Not sure,” She mumbled, pulling his hand back between her’s. “Probably Nepal. This is really big, De, it’s-“

“Hey.” Dean caught Her chin between his fingers, forcing Her wide, nervous gaze to his. “I’m alright. Pinky promise.”

She looked doubtful. Dean didn’t blame Her. She didn’t even know that the moment he woke up, he and Sammy were going to be trudging through a Death Swamp with nothing but a few bulletless guns and makeshift knives.

But Dean meant the pinky promise. Here, with Her, he was more alright than he’d been in a long, long while.

“I’m alright,” he repeated, softer this time, and Her face crumpled.

She grabbed Dean’s wrist against Her, lower lip shaking eyes glossy with tears. Dean wove their fingers together and squeezed once. She squeezed back three times, eyes shut and shaking Her head. Dean didn’t really think that this looked like ‘all good’. He didn’t want to press Her further than she could take, and right now even the snow was hanging again, like it was afraid a single flake would shatter Her into a million pieces.

“I miss you,” She whispered, every word shaking and small. “I- I miss you so much, I- I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do-“

Her voice cracked. She folded over Dean’s chest, sobbing so hard the mountain seemed to shake. Dean held Her and pressed his face to Her hair, taking a deep, long breath. She still smelled like Her apples. Even in the cold, She was the warmest thing he’d ever known.

“I missed you,” She said one last time, like a secret.

So Dean whispered back. “You got me right now, Princess.” The words hurt. He didn’t see any other way but to say them. “You got me.”

And She leaned back to look at him, and for a second, Dean wondered. If She knew. If they were once again, trapped in the exact same cage of feelings and secrets, too busy looking for a key or a way to build the wall higher to turn around and see each other. But something was frail, behind Her usually titanic gaze. It wasn’t the look of a woman with a secret she wad dying to tell. It was the look Dean had known before he knew Her. The look he’d had when he’d lost Her, and he’d broken the mirror to try and keep it trapped at the top of his chest and base of his skull.

Lost. The look of a traveler with nothing but black, starless skies and a magnet in their pocket. The trail vanished into the brush and every tree thick and knotted and hiding a monster.

She didn’t know. Dean didn’t get the easy way out.

He said Her name, and her throat bobbed.

“Dean…” She breathed, and he shook his head, dragging his thumb over Her lower lip.

“You know I love you, right?”

For a second, something flashed over Her features. Bright and destructive like lightning, but still. Something cutting through the dark.

And She nodded. 

Dean frowned. He’d like something firmer. Something that told him he’d at least done that part of his job well, if he was failing everything else. But before he could push, She flung herself around him. Her arms around his neck, Her breath hot over his ear, her chest tight to his neck. Dean’s hands hovered for a second, some very old instinct daring to sneer that he still didn’t deserve to smear his shit all over Her crystal and diamond light.

Then Her nails dug into his neck and shoulders, like She was trying to stitch them together, and Dean’s hands fell all over Her body. He hugged Her back with everything he had, the lump in his throat bigger than the world, his fingers pressing into Her soft skin to bruise and mark and remind. They’d been through worse, and gotten out the other side. At least this time, Dean was the one who had to find his way home. All She had to do was wait, and he’d claw his way back through the very crust and stone of the earth.

“I love you,” he rasped against Her skin. “Love you so fuckin’ much.”

She just hugged him tighter, and the lump in Dean’s throat burst open. Tears poured from swollen, stinging eyes onto Her soft skin, but they weren’t magic. They weren’t shed with pure snow and blossoms. They just fell from a broken man, onto a girl he’d worshipped since before he understood what that word really meant.

He would get back, he promised himself, holding Her close enough that they might as well just be one. He would.

And he didn’t let himself think of any other way.

Dean figured out why Purgatory didn’t get the same PR rep as Heaven and Hell.

It was really, really fucking boring.

His tour of Hell in ’08 had sucked, but at least it had been interesting. Rivers of blood and floating rocks and waterfalls of fire. A lucid nightmare, straight out of a Tolkien book. And the fancy parts of Hell—the gentrified parts, She and Sammy would probably call them—where Crowley kept his castle, that was a dead ringer for a classic monster movie, right down to the Gothic castle. Heaven was made of memories, but also the garden that made Dean think he’d only ever really seen one beautiful thing in his life—Her—and he was standing in the only place worthy of being called Her home. Then there was that Old Heaven mess, and Dean couldn’t even fathom what kinda of postcard that would make, but he pictured something like the Garden, blown up and scaled out and plastered all over the world.

Purgatory was just woods.

Endless, stretching woods, where everything was gray and blue and the dirt was packed and infertile, the leaves were a thin canopy, and the branches creaked with the lightest wind. Sometimes they’d come across a clearing with yellowed grass, or a dried up riverbed, nothing left but mud and dead leaves. The most exciting thing all month had been when Sam ran back to their camp with a grin, announcing that he’d finally found a running river. The water had been cold and the rocks had been slippery, but Dean had risked it. She’d been right, in the dream. He was getting dirtier than he allowed up there in the real world, but he didn’t exactly have access to laundry or a shower. Standing in the freezing river with shrivled up balls and the water stinging against his skin, at least he got the grime and blood away.

Nothing he could do about that thicker layer of dirt, that had always lived under his skin. It thrived like a fungus here, in the shade of the woods. It had been less than four months, and he already couldn’t remember what it was like to not have his fingers wrapped around the blade of his bone-knife.

“You’re better at this than I am,” Sammy had remarked last night, frowning at the fire, the shadows making his face look longer than Dean ever cared to see.

“Yeah?” He’d said, because it was all he could.

Sam had nodded, and Dean had flexed his hand on the knife.

“Which part?”

Sam had been silent for a second, and Dean had almost regretted asking. He didn’t need to hear it out of Sam’s mouth, that he was good at being the weapon, the beast, the same as those sons of bitches out there in the dark. Dean knew. He’d known since Dad shoved that first shotgun into his hands, that being a blunt tool who could bludgeon those who dared to hurt his family, it was better than being something pretty and useless. He’d learned how to not be angry about it. He didn’t let himself be angry about it, because there was no damn use.

But Sam hadn’t said that. And now, drying himself off from the river, Dean could only wish he had.

“Being hungry,” Sam had said.

Being hungry.

And Dean hadn’t had an answer. Yeah, he knew how to be hungry. He’d been so hungry that famine hadn’t found anything to press down his throat, because it was like trying to water a river. It was fine without the help. 

But he didn’t know how to hear Sam say it. Sam didn’t say shit like that. Sam took the last piece of bread and didn’t question whether or not Dean had left it out for him to find. Sam told Dean that he ate too much, and that he needed to think a little harder about what he was putting in his body.

Out here, neither of them really got to pick and choose, though. Dean only caught meat, Sammy wasn’t allowed to say it was too fatty. He wanted something lean, he could go out there and hunt it himself, and Sammy was a shit fucking hunter.

“How are you so good at that?” Sam asked that night, when Dean came back with some kind of fucked up rabbit for dinner.

Dean shrugged. “We all got out talents, Sammy.”

“Yeah, but- I’ve never seen you use that talent.”

“’Cause you ain’t paying attention-“

“I pay attention, Dean, it’s just-“ Sam shook his head. “When would you have even learned how to hunt? And not- Not hunt. I know you can hunt. I can hunt. But I- I can’t hunt-“

“Careful,” Dean muttered, starting to skin the rabbit-thing. If She was here, he’d have to make Sammy take her for a walk. Just seeing Dean kill the ugly thing would’ve made her start crying. “Sounds like you’re having a stroke, dude.”

“Ha ha,” Sam said flatly. “You know what I mean, like- I know Dad would’ve leave us with enough money sometimes, but- It’s not like it was ever that bad.”

And Dean’s hand slipped on the knife. He nicked his thumb and swore under his breath, bringing the cut up to his mouth. Sam stood up to help, but Dean waved him off and pointed to the log. He knew how to handle a little cut.

Sam had no idea, how bad it had actually been.

“Shit, Dean, are you-“

“’M fine,” Dean grunted, and he thought he sounded half convincing. “Bobby.”

 Sam blinked. “Bobby?”

“Bobby taught me. How to hunt hunt.” Dean wiped his hand on his jeans, and went back to the rabbit. “Summer of ’96, I think. You were all freakin’- Books. Dad dropped us off, I was bein’ a little ass ‘cause I was pissed he was goin’ on the hunt without me. Bobby asked if I wanted to test myself on some better game. Told me that huntin’ was important, but it wasn’t gonna pay or feed. That I should be ready when it didn’t, when I got stranded, when the going got tough.” Dean laughed to himself, shaking his head. “Took ‘bout fifteen years, but guess it paid off, didn’t it.”

Sammy didn’t say anything in return, and Dean sighed, looking back over the fire.

Both of them were going gaunt. Nothing to do about it, when they couldn’t rest for more than a night or eat anything but berries and freak-rabbits. Dean really hadn’t ever seen Sam’s face this long. Even when he’d popped out of hell, he’d just been small. Never thin. Dean didn’t like it at all. 

“How’s the map going?” Dean asked, to talk about anything else, and Sam sighed.

At least he took the out, and started showing off his little Purgatory pet project. Good. Dean didn’t want to talk about being hungry anymore.

The maps was interesting enough, to listen to while he cooked. Sam had it all figured out. The map was detailed—and the landscape, it reminded Dean of something, though he couldn’t say what—and seemed pretty accurate. Sam’s river flowed North—or what Sam decided was North—and had to empty or start somewhere, so maybe this whole place wasn’t just dreary forests. Maybe if they went far enough, they’d hit a dreary mountain or dreary ocean.

“Don’t see how this is gonna help us get out,” Dean muttered, serving up the rabbit. He gave Sammy the bigger half. Sam didn’t seem to notice. “I mean, it’s good work, Sammy, but unless you think this thing is emptying into a portal ocean…” Dean trailed off pointedly, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“There’s no such thing as a portal ocean, Dean.”

“Ah. Can’t say that for sure, can you?” Dean grinned. “No such thing as unicorns, ‘till one is capturing a bunch of teenagers.”

“Yeah, but-“ Sam huffed. “I’m pretty sure about this one, dude.”

Dean shrugged, still grinning, and shoved some rabbit into his face. It was pretty good. If he wasn’t stuck in super-hell, he’d think about opening a freak-rabbit foodtruck or something.

“I don’t know how we’re getting out,” Sam said, frowning at his map. “But it’s better to move around, right? We’re just sitting ducks if we don’t, and- You know-“ Sam swallowed. “If we’re stuck here…”

“We ain’t stuck here,” Dean grunted.

Sam sighed. “Dean-“

“No.” Dean pointed his spoon firmly. “You know the rules, Sammy. Say ‘em.”

The look on Sam’s face was both exhausted and tight. Dean got a feeling the kid wanted to punch him. He could get the hell in line.

“None of that quitter talk,” Sam muttered, and Dean nodded in approval.

“Damn right.”

“Dean, we have to consider it-“

“The hell we do,” Dean snapped. “You know how this is goin’, Sammy. You and me get back. That’s it.”

Sam was silent for a moment. Dean made the mistake of thinking he’d won.

Then Sam said Her name, and his makeshift spoon creaked under his fingers.

“What do you think she’s doing?” Sam asked softly. “Right now? Up… There?”

Dean grunted, the image from his last dream flashing through his head. The tears and the shaking and the hug. Like She was so, so sure that holding him there was all she might ever have again. “Don’t know,” he said. “If we’re lucky, nothing.”

Sam frowned. “Nothing? Dean, she’s never done nothing in her life-“

“I know that,” Dean shot him a glare. “You think I don’t know that?”

“You said-“

“I said if we’re lucky. We’re never that lucky.”

Sam’s throat bobbed. “So… What do you think she’s actually doing?”

Dean let out a slow, heavy breath. He knew more than he could tell Sam. Details that were gonna raise questions, when they got back topside and he’d been batting a hundred. Fighting with Cas bad enough they weren’t speaking. Dragging Jo and Claire all over the country looking to help. Probably cutting herself open when Dean just needed Her in one piece. Something to do with a weird mountain in Nepal, maybe.

“Probably something crazy, right?” Sam said, when Dean had been quiet for a beat too long. “I mean… It’s for you.”

That made Dean pause. His face crunched in confusion. “What?”

“You know,” Sam said, and Dean ran a hand over his jaw.

“No, Sammy, I don’t know-“

“You know, Dean,” Sam insisted, and Dean didn’t care. He was gonna punch the kid’s lights out. “You- You know-“

“Saying it more isn’t gonna make me know, you know-“

“It’s her! It’s-“ Sam said Her name, almost desperately. “You know her, Dean. You know her more than anyone, it’s- She won’t have exactly been taking this well!”

Dean stared, trying to fit the words together in his head. Of course She wouldn’t take this well. It sucked. Everything about it sucked, but that didn’t mean She was doing something crazy.

But Sam stared at Dean like he was stupid, and Dean decided he must still be missing something.

“Sammy…” He muttered in warning, and Sam sighed.

“Look, it’s- You remember what happened the last time you died?” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “She vanished off the face of the Earth, Dean. Jo and I, we were worried she was dead. I think I convinced myself she was, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have-“ Sam cut himself off, mouth twisting like he’d tasted something bad. “And that- That was before,” he finished, lower than before. “Whatever she’s up to, it’s not-“ He sighed. “She’d destroy the world for you, dude. I’ll be surprised if it’s actually still intact, if we get home.”

Dean grunted. His grip on his bowl was white-knuckled. “When we get back,” he said, and Sam sighed.

“Dean.” He gave him a pleading look. “You- You have to be ready, for all the options. And- We can’t be sure-“

“You can’t,” Dean gave him a long, tired look over the fire. “I can.”

“How?”

And Dean wished he could give an answer. One that Sam would believe. One he’d understand. 

But he was fresh out of excuses and lies. He didn’t have to mind to track them right now. So he stayed silent. And—with another, almost amusingly suffering sigh—Sam dropped it for the rest of the night.

If every night in Purgatory was the same—dinner and shifts to sleep, a dream Dean clung to through the night and into the dawn, Sammy snoring then accusing Dean of doing it louder—every day was a damn photocopy. Treck through the woods. Stop so Sammy could add to his map. Drink water. Dry berries and jerky for lunch. Keep moving, never look over your shoulder, never drop your guard.

“What about Cas?” Sam asked around noon, and Dean grunted.

“What about Cas?”

“I don’t know,” Sam shrugged. “What do you think he’s doing?”

Dean sighed. That one he had a solid answer for, even if he wished he didn’t. “I don’t have a damn clue,” he said. “Not since the fight.”

“The fight?” Sam echoed, confused, and Dean kicked himself. Idiot. “Who would Cas be fighting with, Heaven is- I mean, it probably is- They’re on lockdown.”

Damnit. “Yeah, not Heaven,” Dean muttered Her name, because he’d dug this grave.

Sammy gaped. “You think they fought? Dean they’re like- The same person-“

“They’re not the same person-“

“I mean, it’s kinda close sometimes-“

“They’re both weird,” Dean muttered. “That ain’t the same. And- Yeah, I think they fought.”

“But- Why?” Sam shook his head, like he couldn’t damn believe it. “No offense, Dean, but they don’t fight. You fight. With them.”

Dean scowled. It would be nice if he could say Sam was wrong, but that- “That’s not the damn point, Sammy,” he said, low and rough. “I think I told Cas to do the right thing, and he did it, and she- she doesn’t understand. She won’t understand.” Dean swallowed. He was gonna get an ass kicking when he got home, and that wasn’t counting the soulmate things. “So, yeah. I think they fought.”

Sam gave Dean a strange look, but—again—didn’t push it. Dean understood why. This wasn’t exactly a place where they could shove each other and fight and swear that they were done, storming off with the same lie as always. That they were giving up on each other, that this was the last time they’d tolerate a lie about demons or deals or choices. They might’ve been better about it, since Sammy got back from the cage and his soul started getting patched, but there was still the mess with Becky and the soul bond. Then, Sam had been able to ditch, or Dean could insist they split for a few days to get their heads straight.

Here, if they didn’t stick together, they were dead.

And there was always a reminder of that, right around the corner.

At this point, Sam and Dean were practiced with what Purgatory brought. The whole place was made of territories, and they were always trespassing. If they were lucky, it was some kinda passive monster that didn’t care, as long as no one swung first. If they weren’t—the common option—they were in vampland, or bansheeland, or even something made of goo and mud that Dean named the Swamp Thang, ignoring Sam’s veto entirely.

Today was nothing worse than usual. They tread land that wasn’t theirs, they got mobbed by ghouls. They slashed and hacked, they kept each other’s backs, and they got out. Just like they always did. Just like they always had.

But this time, Sam was slow. And Dean could blame it on a lot of things. The kid jumped in a place Dean hadn’t been expecting him to go. The lighting in the forest was all wrong, making the ghoul look like a shadow. Sam had taken early watch, so he was more tired now. He hadn’t been paying attention, not to the claws going for his leg, not to the root right in front of his foot.

Dean, though, knew exactly who to blame. He should’ve guess Sam was going to jump there. He should’ve been watching everything—shadow or ghoul—more closely. He shouldn’t have asked for second watch, just so he could have a longer dream. He should’ve been faster, and reached the ghoul before it ripped right through Sammy’s leg, and the kid toppled to the ground.

“Sammy!” 

Dean’s roar had made the trees shake. The ghouls had been quick work, when all he could see was red. They were nothing but bodies on the ground, when Dean got to Sam’s side. The kid was shaking, squeezing his eyes shut, groaning through his teeth and clutching his temple with shaking fingers.

“Hey, hey-“ Dean grimaced at the leg—better than he thought, big but shallow, easy spot to wrap and treat—and moved Sam to his back. “Hold on, Sammy, we’re gonna get you outta here-“

Sam whined like a dog, and Dean paused. He flinched, when Dean tried to move him, but his leg did nothing but spasm. He hadn’t even groaned when Dean had wrapped the wound with the cleanest part of his shirt. Sam was just curled up like a massive baby, trying to make himself small, not even acknowledging Dean’s words.

“Sam,” Dean grabbed the kid’s face, but Sam twisted away. “Sam- Sammy- C’mon, you gotta talk to me, dude, c’mon-“

“Shut up,” Sam whispered, so small Dean almost didn’t hear.

He recoiled, hands curling into fists. “Shut up?” He snapped. “I’m tryin’ to help you Sammy, stop tryin’ to piss me off-“

“Shut up,” Sam repeated it, even smaller than before. “Shut up, shut up, shut up-“

Sam was pounding on his head, shouting at nothing but the creaking forest. Dean lunged forward to grab his wrists—to stop him from hurting himself—and Sam made a sound like an animal, and tried to pull away.

“Shut up, shut- Shut up-“

No one was speaking.

No one Dean could hear.

“Sorry, Sammy,” he muttered, lips in a thin line, an ache at the top of his chest. “Can’t help if you’re fightin’ me.”

Dean took a deep, steadying breath, and pressed the base of Sam’s neck. It was a gamble. He’d never actually done this himself, and he wasn’t even sure if it would work for anyone but Her or Cas. But he’d asked Her once, if he could have some magic juice knock annoying people out, and She’d showed him with a hands on demonstration that had him waking up in Her lap, her eyes red and face pale with sweat. She’d been so worried She hurt him. Dean hadn’t been able to imagine anything better than Her finger tracing his jaw and his face in Her thigh.

Turned out he wasn’t that bad a student. Sammy knocked out with a sharp exhale and massive twitch, and Dean sagged with a groan. There was no good way to do this. Not for the first time, Dean really wished the kid had stayed Little Sammy Winchester—the one he could carry like a football, despite protests—forever.

He got them to safety. A shallow cave that he hid behind vines and branches, that smelled like the good kind of smoke after he lit a fire, where he treated Sam’s leg best he could and waited for him to wake up. The time creeped slow. Dean wished he had paper. He wished he hadn’t remembered  he wanted paper, because now he was thinking about her reading the letters, and Christ, what if She didn’t like them.

Sam—after about three hours of Dean rubbing his face red and ripping out his hair—groaned and sat up, pinching his brow.

“What- Where the hell are we-“

“Cave,” Dean grunted, tossing the water flask—made of the best hide Purgatory could offer—into Sammy’s lap. “You lied.”

Sam’s head stayed bowed. He turned the flask between his hands, shrinking back into himself with that hunched posture and sad, puppy dog pout. Dean grit his teeth and held his ground.

Sam had said it was getting better. The vision, hallucinations, Lucifer scars, whatever the hell he wanted to call them. He’d said they were fine. That hadn’t seemed like fine. 

“What do you want me to say, Dean,” Sam muttered, and Dean scoffed.

“I don’t know, maybe the truth? I mean, if you’d just fuckin’ told me you were still dealing with them-“

“I’m always dealing with them!” Sam shouted, glaring at Dean in the dark. “I don’t know what you think they are, but it’s not- I can’t turn them off, I can’t control them, I just-“ Sam let out a long, ragged  breath, his voice dropping in too much defeat. “I just deal with them, okay? I’m sorry it messed with the fight, but- It was just one fight, right?” He gave Dean that pleading, tired look. “And we got out. That’s what matters, right?”

Dean’s jaw was going to snap. Yeah, they’d gotten out. Dean had, by himself, made sure of it. But goddamnit, he couldn’t blame Sammy for having a broken brain. And just like before, they couldn’t afford to pick at scabs until they bled.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mutters, and Dean tasted bile in the back of his throat. “I am. I- I’ll be more careful.”

And he sounded too much like the kid who’s bruised knees Dean had covered in Star Wars band aides. And there wasn’t a single angry thing Dean could say in return.

“You’re dealin’ with it?” He grunted, and Sam nodded.

“Yeah. I- I’m learning. I know,” Sam said Her name. “I know she said she was going to fix it, and if she can-“

“She can,” Dean muttered, and Sam sighed.

“Yeah, but- She’ll kill herself trying to figure it out, Dean.”

Dean swallowed. Son of a bitch, she would. She always had. For either of them. “And you’re seein’…”

“Dad. Lucifer.” Sam got quieter. “Bobby.”

Dean’s head shot up. “Bobby-“

“Yeah.” The kid’s brow pinched tight. “He- He’s not happy. None of them are.”

Dean sighed, running his hand over his face. “You know they ain’t real, right?” He asked, because he had to be sure.

And Sam nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Dean didn’t believe him. He didn’t really think it mattered that much, in the long run.

They were gonna be stuck here, he told Sammy. At least a week, probably closer to two. They couldn’t be out there, not with Sammy handicapped. Sam told Dean not to call him that, and—while they were at it—not to say handicapped like it was something bad. Dean snapped that he wasn’t saying it like it was something bad. He was saying it like a fact, and—in this specific scenario—it wasn’t exactly winning numbers.

“You wanna break your leg when we get back and roll around in a chair, be my guest,” he grunted. “This thing never heals, I don’t care. But I ain’t gonna act like I’m thrilled we’re fish in a goddamn barrel.”

Sam sighed, and shut his mouth. The kid wasn’t worthless. No one—except maybe Her family, Ruby, and sometimes God—was entirely useless. Dean had met too many people in his life to think anything else. Sammy had the map. Sammy could guide Dean on the stitches and herbs, because he’d always been better at that kind of thing.

“Should’ve been lookin’ into med school,” Dean muttered, grinding the plants into a paste that—according to Sam—would stop him from screaming when Dean worked on his leg. “What kinda lawyer did you even wanna be, huh? Big money cooperate?”

“Child safety,” Sam muttered, peering at the mock bowl. “Add more of that one.”

He pointed to one of the plants—Dean was trying to learn the names, but Sam insisted on using the long, complicated ones, and they always made Dean’s head hurt—and Dean grabbed it with a frown. “Child safety?”

“That’s what I said, Dean.” Sam sighed, then squinted. “What- What’s that one?” He pointed to the plant Dean had shoved off to the side. “I don’t know that one.”

“’Cause it’s mine,” Dean pushed a leaf across the cave ground. “Smell it.”

He watched with gleeful eyes as Sammy took the leaf to his nose and gagged on the scent. “What the hell-“

“Awful, right?” Dean took it back with a grin. “Stronger than piss and shit. It’s freakin’ perfect.”

Sammy gaped at him, and Dean waved to the cave opening.

“Hiding our smell, Sammy,” he said. “Right now we’re basically a goddamn candy shop.”

“Oh.” Sam blinked slowly, then nodded. “Oh. That- That’s really smart.”

Dean grunted. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, I’m serious, Dean, that’s really smart-“

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean tossed the leaf aside. Sam’s words sat wrong, at the top of his chest. He didn’t like it. “This good enough?”

Sam gave Dean a sad look—unnecessary, Dean thought—and nodded. Dean fed it to him, and got to work on the leg. This was their new routine. Dean went out for food and water and medicine. Sammy sat in the cave and healed. It was slow. Two weeks were creeping up, and the kid still couldn’t put any weight on the damn thing. Dean would be getting restless, if he was the one bedlocked, but Sam hadn’t been complaining. 

“Head feelin’ alright?” Dean asked when he got home, and Sam nodded.

“Same as always, I guess.”

Dean paused. “And that’s…” He raised his brows, spinning a finger near his brow and whistling with a pointed look.

Sam gave him a flat look. “Yeah, Dean. I’m crazy.”

“I didn’t say crazy-“

“Yeah, that wasn’t you saying crazy-“

“Didn’t say it.” Dean grinned. “Implied it. And, hey-“ He held up his hands, before Sammy could get pissed. “I’m a big fan of crazy.”

Sam snorted and shook his head, but didn’t seem all that pissed. Dean chuckled to himself and got working on dinner. The silence was… strangely easy. Easier than when it had just been them on the road. Back when Dean was either spending nights staring at his phone and hoping She’d call, or pretending he wasn’t doing exactly that. Back when he’d thought She was always looking for a way out, just like the kid across the room. Back when he thought they were still just dreams.

“Hey, uh-“ Dean cleared his throat, because he had to ask. “You ever get dreams?”

“Do I ever get dreams?” Sam asked incredulously, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah, of like- One person. You know, over and over. Like they’re just kinda…” He swallowed. “Livin’ in your head.”

Sam gave him an odd look. “Like… Someone we lost?”

Dean shrugged. He didn’t wanna lead the question, or whatever. He just… He needed to know.

“I have nightmares?” Sam offered. “About Dad, and Jess, and-“ He muttered Her name. “And Jo and you and-“

“Sam.”

“Yeah, you- You get it.” Sam sighed, watching Dean carefully. “But… You’re not talking about a nightmare, Dean, are you.”

Dean grunted. He didn’t have to answer that, so he wouldn’t. He got back to dinner, and changed the subject before Sam could break the unspoken no pushing rule.

Sammy didn’t dream about the same person, over and over and over. Not like Dean dreamt of Her. Had dreamt of Her, since they’d damn met. Maybe Sam just hadn’t met his soulmate yet. Maybe he was walking around without one. Dean wished he had a better idea of how the whole thing worked. He wished he could asked Her, but Dean didn’t even think she believed in soulmates, and there was no way to ask that question without giving himself up.

He was gonna have to give himself up eventually.

Son of a bitch, he was so fucking dead.

He started rehearsing the speech to himself, when he was out. No Sammy meant no snitches, except for maybe the odd monster that was quickly a corpse on the ground, and therefore unable to spill Dean’s deepest secret. 

“Hey, Princess,” he muttered to himself, setting up a trap that should catch them some real good dinner. “So, funny thing, right? You and me, we’re not just lovers- Gross.” He wrinkled his nose. Lovers sounded like they were fifty and annoying. Boyfriend-girlfriend sounded like they were fifteen. Married would sound great, but it wasn’t technically true yet, and Dean didn’t think proposing before he told her was asking for anything but more trouble than he was already in. “Hey, Princess.” He started over. “There’s this thing you’re gonna be pissed about, and- You’re right- But- Remember how I forgave you for Purgatory and staying away after the cage. Well, it felt- Good.” He cringed at himself. “Good to forgive. Like Sammy’s always telling us, which is funny ‘cause he holds more grudges that anyone else we know, but- That ain’t the point.”

Dean took a long breath, glaring at the gray and brown soil. This wasn’t working.

“Hey, Princess,” he tried one more time. “You and me, we’re- You know we’ve got something special. You know that. I know it. But- It’s not just you and me. I mean- It is you and me, but- It ain’t just me lovin’ you- It’s…” His words faltered. It was just a band aide to rip off, but he’d sown it to the skin and made it complicated and just saying soulmate didn’t feel like it was gonna be enough. “Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, running a hand over his face. “I’m so fuckin’ dead.”

“I dunno. Sounded pretty sweet and clean to me.”

Dean whirled around. He knew one voice down here, and that didn’t sound anything like Sammy. He side-stepped behind his trap, raised his knife, and narrowed his eyes at the intruder.

He looked like a man. Few years older than Dean, maybe. Darker hair, burly build, a small, toothless smile on a charming face. Flat cap over his head—Dean didn’t know they sold those down here—and boots just as dirty as the rest of them. Nothing more than a man, if you didn’t know what you were doing.

Lucky, that Dean did.

“Woah, brother.” The man raised his hands, smiling faintly. “I don’t mean you no harm.”

Dean laughed, cold and short. “Wish I could believe that, but I think we might be living in harm land right now. So forgive me,” he angled his knife. “If I’m a little fuckin’ cautious.”

The man’s lips twitched. “Suit yourself. Ain’t nothin’ you’re gonna do with that little toy knife anyway.”

“Oh, you got no idea-“

“Trust me.” Something dark flashed over the man’s face. “I got exactly the kinda idea you’re thinkin’.”

Dean swallowed. He glanced at the woods around them. Silent, save for the leaves and strange birdcalls that always filled the air. No pack. Wouldn’t make sense for there to be one. Jumping him with six was smarter than sending one to what- Play with him or something. Even monsters weren’t that stupid, and this one… He seemed dangerously close to classy.

“You know who I am?” Dean asked, and the man snorted.

“There ain’t a damned in purgatory who don’t.”

Dean raised his brows in prompting. The man sighed, like he didn’t think it was going to be this hard.

“You ain’t tall like a mountain,” he mused, and Dean scowled. He was tall. Sammy was just a little fucking freak. “Which must be makin’ you Dean.” The man tipped his cap. “Name’s Benny. Nice to meet ya, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean grunted looking Benny up and down. No weapons that Dean could see. Not looking at him like he was dinner. He didn’t trust it. “You want an autograph or something?” He snapped, and Benny laughed.

“Ain’t my style. No, I’ve been lookin’ for you since I heard you touched down.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “Flattering.”

“I do try,” Benny smirked.

He took a step forward. Dean took a step back. The leaves under their feet crinkled, and Dean looked between them with an open alarm. He wasn’t afraid. He didn’t get like that anymore, not about his own life. But if Benny took him out, Christ, She and Sammy were gonna kill him.

Benny paused with a sigh. “I really ain’t here for dinner,” he said, and Dean snorted.

“Then you should probably keep it moving, huh? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, even if you were,” he flipped the knife in his hand. “Diner’s closed for business.”

Benny smiled faintly, looking off between the trees, then back to Dean. “You know how I know you?” He asked, like some kinda riddle. It didn’t make Dean any less tense.

“I’ve seen the tabloids,” he said, and Benny laughed.

“Ah, well- There’s that. That and the chatter. Dean Winchester, carvin’ through vamps like me with nothin’ but his hands and a knife. Carvin’ through everything. Carvin’ through the whole damn world.”

Dean swallowed. The knife felt heavier, all of a sudden,. He stomach was churning, making him sea sick on steady ground. Benny took another step forward. Dean took another step back.

“You got a reputation outside of the warning’s, brother.” Benny said, watching Dean carefully. “That how they make the legends. Outta the truth.”

 “Sammy ain’t that tall,” Dean muttered, and Benny’s lips twitched.

“I ain’t talkin’ about the propaganda. I’m sayin’ I’ve heard all the stories. Dean Winchester, the man worthy enough to be dragged outta Hell by the angels themselves. Last one standin’ after the end of the world. Raphael’s blood on his hands, got the favor of God himself-“

Dean laughed at that one. A real, sharp laugh. “Trust me,” he said dryly. “God isn’t putting me on his favor list.”

“No other reason for you to be alive, is there-“

“Oh, there’s a whole lotta them.” Her, mostly. Almost exclusively. Dean was sure he and Sammy would be dead fifty times over if She wasn’t there, whipping them into shape. But if Benny wasn’t talking about Her, Dean wasn’t about to bring it up. “God…” Dean shook his head. “He ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

Benny looked doubtful. Dean didn’t care.

“You a vamp?” He pushed, and Benny bowed his head.

“Guilty, but ain’t ashamed.”

Dean grunted, brow knitting, and Benny took a step back.

“I really ain’t here to spar,” he said, a weary cloud passing over his hewn features. “If I was, wouldn’t have wasted so much time talkin’.”

That was true, from a human perspective. But vamps liked to play with your food. “Then what the hell are you here for?” Dean snapped, and Benny gave him a long, tired look.

“I’m here,” he said slowly. “’Cause I’ve been hearin’ the stories a long, long time. And I’m guessing that, if there’s anyone who’s gonna get the hell outta here, it’s Sam and Dean Winchester.”

She was sitting at the diner booth, alone. Dean lingered at the edge of the bar for a moment, just to watch. Her fingers pulling at the napkin, Her hair shrouding her face, Her lips pouting and being chewed until they were swollen. He thought he could just watch Her for a hundred years, into a thousand, into the end of the damn world. He could watch Her until he went blind, and even then he’d hope she was the only thing trapped behind his eyes.

He moved because he missed Her. He moved because he was still more selfish than he cared to admit, and the moment She looked up and met his gaze, the world flooded with color Dean hadn’t noticed was missing.

He grabbed Her jaw and tipped her head back, pressing a firm, long kiss to her already puffy lips. She opened for him in a second, letting Dean trace his tongue over Her teeth, letting him suck on her lower lip and press down Her throat. She grabbed his wrist with both hands, nails digging in with a dull pain, and Dean smiled against her lips.

“Hey, Princess,” he murmured.

He was met with only a soft, sweet little sound. He’d never heard Her make it for anyone else, and a deeply selfish, hungry and primal and foul part of him, it hoped She never made it for anyone else.

It was the same part of him that knew and savored the fact that She was waiting for him. That She was better than he’d ever been, and was keeping herself for just Dean, even after he’d stuck his dick in anything wet when She was in the cage. He’d never forgiven himself for that. He wouldn’t have blamed Her, if she had decided not to either. Epscially given that loud, animalistic, possive thing in Dean’s chest. The one that knew exactly how many bodies he’d welcomed into bed, and savored the fact the he was the only one who’d ever seen Her cum.

Dean got to swallow that sweet sound and playfully bite at Her nose, and he knew no one else had ever done the same.

But She didn’t look at anyone else, the way She looked at Dean. All doe eyes and fluttering lashes and parted lips, when he dragged his thumb over Her chin. That deep, pretty flush was Dean’s, and Dean’s alone.

She was Dean’s. And that made him a selfish asshole. And at this point, he was starting to forget to care.

She was the one who got all restless and needy when Dean touched Her. She crawled over Dean’s lap the moment he dropped in the booth and traced his features with light hands, checking for something Dean would always give Her, if she just told him what it was.

“You lookin’  for a tag, sweetheart?” He teased, and She shook her head.

Her brow was knit. She looked even more tired than last night, but not in the way of a decay. Just a canyon, splitting further and further open. Dean swallowed, catching Her hands against his face.

He needed to get back home. To put Her back together, before she was so deep that his hands couldn’t reach either side.

“You takin’ care of yourself?” He asked, fearing the answer in the deepest part of his bones.

And She just blinked at him with watery eyes. She cradled his jaw, Her fingers tracing over Dean’s lips, and he felt sick in his throat.

“Baby…” He murmured, and Her lips wobbled.

“I’m sorry,” She breathed, and Dean shook his head.

“No, no. Nothin’ to say sorry, for, just- What’d you eat today. What’d you do today?” He’d ask a million of those questions, just to stop Her from crying. “Talk to me, sweetheart- Talk to me ‘bout- Anything.”

She stared at him, and Dean offered a small, half broken smile. It was crooked from the cracks that were forming in his soul, but still real. Still charming enough to make Her melt a little. He still fucking got it.

“You look good,” he added, brushing Her hair from her face, and that got a small, disbelieving laugh.

“I look like shit.”

“Yeah, and your shit is still heartstopping.” He kissed Her nose, and her flush deepened. “Kills me that you don’t think you’re pretty something, y’know. You made me a doomed man with just one fuckin’ smile.”

She shook Her head, lips twitching up. “You- You’re- Too-“

Dean chuckled, shutting Her up with a light kiss to Her lips. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he whispered, and Her hand curled on his shirt.

“It’s…” She let out a shaky breath, watching him under hooded, nervous eyes. “It’s… Hard.”

Dean smirked and wiggled his brows. Her flush deepened, and Dean was a little worried She was actually going to send Her heart into overdrive. He could feel it, pounding under his hands. Son of a bitch, she was real cute for something that was tempting him more than sin.

“Shut up,” She whispered desperately, and Dean smiled slowly.

He had his rule. No sex in the dreams. Not when She didn’t know it was real.

But if She thought she was dreaming about Dean like this, he could play with Her a little. Distract Her in the way he’d always been best at. The way She trusted Dean—and only Dean—to do.

“I can feel your heartbeat, Princess,” he murmured, dragging his thumb back and forth against Her wrist. “Something makin’  you nervous?”

Her throat bobbed. A weak, pleading squeak escaped Her lips, and Dean smirked. He settled his hand on Her lower back, and dragged Her forward to fully, properly straddle him. None of that leaning back shit. She was going to keep Her clothed, pretty cunt pressed to his bulge, and feel exactly what She did to him, every damn day.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about you,” he spoke softly, right against Her trembling lips. “Every damn day, sweetheart, all I do is think about you. And in the day, it’s real easy to keep it above board. Just thinkin’ about you smiling and laughing, pretending you’re there to talk, missing the way you woulda walked over and sat on me without even knowin’ what the hell you were doing.”

He pushed Her a little further down, guiding the roll of Her hips over his cock. She made another faint sound and grabbed Dean’s shoulders, watching him with those wide, starved, fuck-me doe eyes. Jesus. He didn’t know how the hell he was going without her for so long.

“You feel that?” He rutted up slightly, and Her mouth fell open in a pretty little part. “That’s what you do to me, Princess. That’s what I think about, the moment the lights go out. How pretty you look when you’re sittin’ on my cock, when you’re droolin’ and cryin’ for more.” He pressed featherlight kisses over Her jaw. “When you’ve got that perfect heartbeat, stuck between your thighs, so needy you ain’t even able to speak.”

She whimpered and pressed Her face into Dean’s neck. He smiled, rubbing circles on Her back.

“You can feel it right now, can’t you?” He drawled in Her ear. “You know I’d take care of it if I was there. Touch you right, rub that pretty pussy ‘till it was dipping all over my hand, fill you up nice and tight, maybe put you on my face until you couldn’t stay up.” Dean let his lips brush, right under her earlobe. Her whole body trembled, and he had to take a ragged breath. He was working himself up, his cock hard and straining against Her core, almost painfully trapped between their bodies. “You remember how it feels, don’t you?” He pushed, because he might be a fucking masochist. “When you let me in, let me take care of you. So fuckin’ good, when you let your sweet pussy take some big cock-“

She snapped. Dean wasn’t ready for it. She sometimes couldn’t look at him when he was inside Her, let alone make the first move. Maybe it was the distance. Maybe She was gaining some—basically any—confidence. Dean really didn’t care, if it ended like this.

Her mouth smashed over his, Her kisses desperate and uncoordinated and nothing but pure goddamn want. Dean would take Her sloppy uncertainty over someone who knew what they were doing, every damn time. Told him this wasn’t a game. She was kissing him like She couldn’t help it, like she needed him so bad that not knowing what the hell to do about it didn’t matter. Her hips rolled against the tent in his pants, and a low groan rumbled from his chest. He had to press his fingers hard enough to bruise, right into Her hips, just to keep himself from blowing it. He wouldn’t. Not in here. He kissed Her back, carefully massaging Her waist, and let Her lead, but this was where it would stop.

Christ, he had to get home. He had to get back to Her, just for this. Just to feel Her, as close as he could get.

“Love you,” he rasped against Her lips, and She faltered for only a second.

When She kissed him again, it was like She was drowning in thirst. Dean grabbed the back of Her neck and deepened it, slowly taking over.

He’d get home, he vowed to himself, drinking up every last bit of Her he could get. He’d get back, whatever it took.

And there was always a way. Dean might not like it, but there was always going to be a way.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Benny drawled, leaning against that same tree where Dean found him.

And Dean grunted. He hadn’t thought he would either, but fuck him up and down, Sammy was still bedridden and broken, and he was only one man. He’d take help from the goddamn Devil, if it got him home.

“I got a few questions,” he said, and Benny dipped his head.

“Ask ‘em. I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

Dean swallowed, turning his knife in his hands. There weren’t any that were going to make him just… Trust Benny. Not entirely. He’d been stabbed in the back by people he’d actually have bet his life on, and all Benny had was the fact that he wanted to get out, and an offer to help Dean. “How do I know you won’t eat me,” Dean grunted, because that felt like a good place to start.

Benny chuckled. “Oh, that one ain’t complicated. Couldn’t bring myself to drink from you if I tried, and I ain’t the type to kill for somethin’ other than food.”

That answered Dean’s second question for free. He still paused. “Can’t bring yourself?”

Benny dipped his head. “You’re covered in somethin’ holy, brother.” Benny looked him up and down apprehensilly. “Won’t lie, would probably taste like fuckin’ heaven, but…” He shook his head. “Don’t  think I’d ever taste anything else again.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “So you won’t eat me ‘cause I taste too good?” He said in disbelief, and Benny just shrugged.

“I ain’t gonna eat you,” he said. “’Cause I got enough sins as it is. And whatever that smell is… It ain’t you. And I’m not genius, but whatever smeared itself all over you…” Benny gave Dean a meaningful look. “I’d be more worried ‘bout what it’s gonna do when it finds you than anything else. Brave of the others to risk it. That thing… It ain’t big on sharing.”

Dean’s lips curled. He glanced down at his own body, like he’d be able to see whatever smell Benny was talking about, all over his skin. He had a pretty good feeling about what it was. He only knew one  magic little monster—and though She’d hate to be called that, Dean didn’t think it with anything but love—who tasted like Heaven. He tried not to get too smug about it. He was going into business with Benny, not doing goddamn group therapy.

“I even think you’re trying to take a bite,” he warned. “Your head has a meeting with your feet, you understand?”

Benny bowed his head, smiling softly. “You get real creative, don’t you?”

“I make a lot of threats.” Dean said flatly, lowering his knife. “Show me what you’ve got, before I change my mind.”

Benny nodded, and that was that. Dean had a deal with a vampire, and it felt dirtier than a deal with a demon.

That was probably because he was hiding it from Sam, though. At least—with Sam, specifically—he’d copped up to the demon deal in the first few hours.

He couldn’t give a solid reason, for hiding the situation with Benny from Sam. He could pull a few out of his ass, but he was getting tired of making excuses. It was the call he was making, and he figured it was the right one. He’d tell Sammy when they had something to work with. In the meantime, the kid got to recover in peace, and Dean and Benny wandered around Purgatory, talking and trying to work on a way out.

They ran into other’s most days. That was when Dean started to trust Benny. Hard to watch someone rip up a lich with their teeth in his defense and walk away still thinking they were looking for a shot to kill him.

“Monster population always this thick?” Dean asked one afternoon, cleaning his knife near the river. “Feels like I’m getting fuckin’ swarmed.”

Benny chuckled, but shook his head. “I hate to break it to you, brother, but this is purgatory in a population crisis.”

“No shit?” Dean blinked in surprise, and Benny shrugged.

“We’ve been thinnin’ out, since all the big dogs got sucked out in the jailbreak. Leviathans were apex, keepin’ the rest of us from goin’ after each other. Sure they got a little crazy after Eve left, but it wasn’t this bad.”

Dean nodded, then paused. “Eve? She- Shit, that’s right. Forgot she was in here.”

“She wasn’t just in here,” Benny said. “She was the damn Queen. Carved out her own little kingdom, before she got yanked out by whatever idiot thought they were doin’ something-“

“I’m sure they had a reason,” Dean grunted, and it didn’t really mattered if he remembered the exact reason, and it was real stupid, and he’d yelled at Her about it after. No one got to be pissed about Her poor descion making skills but Dean.

Benny seemed to catch Dean’s tight, sudden anger. It was rolling off of him in waves, hard to miss, made mostly of the pain of thinking about Her. Out there. Probably making worse choices than usual, with no one watching Her but Jo. Dean would be real damn proud, if he got home and no one had been turned into a frog or something.

“What?” He snapped, and Benny raised his hands.

“Nothin’. Didn’t say nothin’.”

Benny was good at that. Better than Sam and Dean had ever been, even here, when they were trying. He never pushed for more about Dean’s life than he was willing to share, never asked the same question twice. Dean liked it. Made it easier to keep company, when he wasn’t worried about fending off prying.

And Benny shared. He shared more than Dean thought he would. Enough make Dean almost like… him.

“You got somethin’ to go back to?” Benny asked, and Dean stayed silent. Benny asked those questions a lot. The ones that were just an excuse fort him to talk himself. “I do. A beautiful woman, my love, my ocean.”

He smiled wistfully at the air, and Dean frowned. Christ, if that was how he talked about Her, no wonder Sammy never believed him when he’d pretended not to love her.

“We went to hell and back together,” Benny told him as they trudged through the woods. “Nothin’ I wouldn’t do for her. Nothin’ I wouldn’t do.”

Dean grunted. He understood the feeling, and it was a little too tempting to start talking about Her. He had to physically bite the words back. He might like Benny and his casual jokes and good work, but She was sacred. Dean wasn’t going to share Her name over a few ideas about portals and magic spells.

“You talk this little up there, too?” Benny asked one day, and Dean’s head snapped up.

It had been a month now. The ghoul gash healed slow, and Sam could walk now, but barely. Dean was still keeping him out of this, especially when they had so little. He and Benny had been interrogating monsters and looking for tablets and ripping through nests, but there wasn’t even a clue that there was a way out. Dean still prayed, every night. Benny caught him doing it once and raised his brows, but didn’t say a damn thing.

Dean should’ve known better, than to think that ease was gonna last forever.

“Nothing to talk about,” he muttered, and Benny chuckled.

“I’m doubtin’ that’s true.”

Dean just shrugged. He hadn’t come here to make friends.

He also hadn’t seemed to come here to make promises. Benny didn’t seem to care about either of those facts at all.

“C’mon,” Benny said, bumping Dean’s shoulder as they walked. “Gotta be somethin’ you miss up there. Somethin’ for yourself, not just- Gettin’ out for Sam.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. Benny raised his brows, looking a little too amused.

“If we’re gonna get along,” he drawled. “I’ve been tellin’ you all about my life. My girl, my boat, my city. Least you can do is share back.”

And Dean let out a long breath. He really didn’t think he needed to. “This isn’t summer camp,” he muttered. “We’re working together. That’s it.”

Benny didn’t looked fazed. “Ah, well. Forgive me for tryin’ to talk to the first man I ain’t wanted to kill since I got thrown into this damn pit.”

Dean shot him an unimpressed look, and Benny just raised his brows.

“You’re a bit of an ass,” Dean told him, and Benny shrugged.

“Takes one to know one, brother.”

Dean couldn’t stop his small, rough laugh. Benny’s lips twitched, and he didn’t keep pushing, but he waited. Like he already knew Dean was going to share, even if it took Dean a few more days to realize he wanted to. There were things he couldn’t talk about with Sammy, because the kid already knew. He’d been sick of Dean talking about Her for years. Hell, Dean was biting it back, and Sam was sick of it now.

“Eat up, Sammy,” Dean said that night, and Sam wrinkled his nose.

“We’ve had this for three days, Dean-“

“And we’re havin’ it a fourth,” Dean snapped. “I ain’t got a grocery store, alright? I can’t pull some damn carrots out of my ass.”

Sam winced slightly, and bowed his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled, poking at his stew. “It- It’s not bad. It’s just- You know.”

Dean sighed. He did know. They’d been stuck here for months now. Everything was both pressing down and getting bigger, and if they didn’t have that escape at the end of the tunnel, Dean would’ve lost it last week.

“You’re a good cook,” Sam said like an apology. “I- I wouldn’t have guessed, but- You’re good.”

Dean gave him a flat look, and Sam frowned.

“What?”

Dean laughed dryly, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“No, Dean, it’s not- What?”

“I said nothing, Sam-“

“Yeah, but- You’re making the angry face-“

“I don’t got an angry face-“

“Yes, you do,” Sam insisted, leaning forward. “Just- Tell me, Dean. Whatever it is, I can take it-“

“How the hell didn’t you know I was a good cook?” Dean snapped, the words clawing their way up from a bitter chamber in his heart he hadn’t even known existed. “I fed you through your whole damn childhood, Sam. I feed her, almost every night, and you think I can’t cook?”

Sam blinked in surprise, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.

“I’m not- You’re always so fuckin’ surprised I can put on my own shoes,” he muttered. “I might not be a genius, but I ain’t stupid. I know what the hell I’m doing-“

“Dean-“

“And,” he shot Sam a glare, snapping Her name. “She thinks I got dyslexia or whatever. So if you’re callin’ me stupid,” he pointed accusingly. “That’s bullying.”

Sam, again, looked almost dumbfounded. Dean glared at him for a moment longer, then turned away with a sigh. It wasn’t worth the fight, or the conversation. That was what they’d agreed. That was the silent rule-

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Dean,” Sam mumbled, and Dean looked back with wider eyes than he meant.

“You don’t gotta-“

“I’m serious,” Sam said, a little louder. “I- I don’t- You’re not-“ Sam cut himself off with a frustrated frown. “I don’t think you’re stupid,” he said, a little firmer. “I don’t.”

And Sammy said it so sad, so tired, Dean believed him. He wanted to, so bad, and when Sam shot him with those puppy dog eyes, he did. “Alright,” he said, and Sam swallowed.

“Alright.”

They were quiet for a moment, before Sam cleared his throat and said Her name.

“She thinks you have dyslexia?”

Dean grunted, glaring at the stew. Honey, Her voice echoed in his head. Was hard to focus on anything but that, so Sammy answered himself.

“That… It actually makes a lot of sense,” the kid mused, looking at Dean a little too much like he was just some fun kinda puzzle. “Wow, it- It really does. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it first, I mean- The signs are all there. I wonder…” He peered at Dean, almost clinically. “You get distracted really easily, and- You love cars so much- Have you thought about-“

“Sammy.” Dean gave him a flat look, and Sam winced.

“Right. Sorry.” 

They were silent again. This time, Dean was the one to break it. Just because he had to say it. Just because he didn’t care if Sammy was tired of hearing it, he goddamn had to.

“I miss her,” he rasped, and Sammy sighed.

“Yeah. I know.”

And Dean swallowed on the lump in his throat. He wanted to say more. He still needed to say more. He needed to sing Her praises until this gray land was covered in color and life. But Sammy already knew them by heart, and he wasn’t going to do anything but roll his eyes.

And the days passed. And Dean eyed Benny as they kept looking for that way out, and knew he was now just being cautious for the sake of keeping his walls high enough to never be broken. If Benny was gonna kill him, he would’ve done it by now. If he’d just been looking to use Dean, he would’ve given up in the first month of coming up empty handed.

And there was another one of those fights. And Dean’s eyes were heavy from taking second watch, and he’d given the last of his dinner to Sam, and his dream with Her had been cut short in that way he always fucking hated, but couldn’t control. His head was fogged with thoughts of Her, wandering around up there, doing something stupid and crazy and genius all at once. He’d gotten too comfortable, getting out of all those other fights. He slacked. He paid for it, when the yokai got her teeth into his shoulder.

And Benny cut the bitch clean in half.

They stared at each other for a moment. Dean pushed the body off of his with a grunt, and Benny offered his hand.

Dean took it, and he didn’t push away after.

And nothing shifted, but it settled. Dean didn’t look over his shoulder, when he brushed the dirt off his jeans. Benny grabbed his arm, and he didn’t pull away, just waiting with silent, questioning eyes.

“Lemme look at that,” Benny nodded to his injury, and Dean swallowed.

“I’m fine-“

“Then there ain’t no problem with me checkin’ it out.”

Benny raised his brows. Dean chuckled, and shook his head. “Yeah, alright. Whatever.”

He grit his teeth, as Benny treated the wound. It was small, but deep, and Dean could almost hear Her voice in his ear. Those things give you infections, Dean. That’s how they hunt. You’d be dead if you hadn’t let him look, and if you died-

“You’d kill me,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Benny gave him a strange look, and heat burned the tips of Dean’s ears. If it was possible to miss Her too much—and he didn’t think it was—that’s what he was doing. He was damn near losing his mind.

“I got a girl,” he said, surprising himself.

Benny raised his brows, but—for once—didn’t say a damn word. He just waited, as Dean found the words.

“She’s- Uh- She’s waitin’ for me up there,” he swallowed, looking down at his hand. At the thin, pale scar that matched Her’s, threaded through the palm of his hand. At the watch on his wrist, dirty and smudged with grease, but still—somehow, by a miracle—not cracked.

He should stash it somewhere safer. He couldn’t bring himself to take it off.

“She gave me this,” he muttered, holding up his hand. “Gift. Stole it from her family, but- She steals a lotta shit. Little fuckin’  klepto.” He smiled to himself. “She doesn’t mean to. No one ever- She came up weird. Bigger issues, that getting sticky fingers. Not like she just takes anything. Tells me she only takes from people who deserve it.”

Benny hummed, giving Dean a curious glance. “How’s she deciding that?”

Dean shrugged. Probably something with their souls, or just Her gut. “Dunno. But she’s usually right. She’s got a good eye, for good people, y’know. I mean- She can be real stupid sometimes, but-“

“You don’t mind,” Benny finished for him, and Dean nodded.

“Never have.”

Benny’s brow ticked. He gave Dean that strange look again, like there were parts of him that Benny just couldn’t figure out. “You love her,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

Dean nodded, his throat getting tight. “More than anything in the damn world.” 

“And you think she’s waitin’-“

“I know,” Dean grunted, his hand curling into a fist. “I know.”

Benny’s expression wasn’t doubtful, but it was quiet. Dean took a long breath, trying to find a way to say it that wouldn’t sound insane, but could still make him understand. This wasn’t just holding onto hope. This wasn’t a girl. Dean had the girl. His girl. The best girl. And it went a hell of a lot deeper than just waiting for one break to get out.

“We got a history,” he said, still staring at his hand. “Big one. Long- Long fuckin’ story.” He laughed to himself. “Dark and long and- Real messy and complicated. Known her since I was barely an adult, before I had a head on my shoulders.” His voice got smaller. Almost unsteady. “Loved her since I saw her. Taken me too long to say it, but-“ He shook his head, giving Benny a firm look. “She’s waited for me with lower odds I’d come back. She knows I’d be doin’ the same, if she was the one that got thrown in here. Hell,” Dean chuckled. “I’ve waited for her when she’s ran out on me, when I was so pissed at her I wanted to-“ He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Never mind. Point is, she’s waitin’.” He swallowed. “I know it.”

Benny didn’t say anything for a moment. Dean wouldn’t have either. He took the silence to say it one more time, just for the sake of saying it. Just because he needed to, as much as he wanted to.

“I love her,” he muttered. “We could get jumped by sirens, and I’d still just be thinkin’ about getting back to her.”

Benny hummed. He pulled back from Dean’s injury with a faint smile, and offered Dean a hand to get off the ground. Dean took it with a tight smile, and Benny clapped him on the back.

“You’re a loyal man, Dean Winchester,” Benny said. “A good man. It is… rare.”

Dean almost laughed. He counted himself pretty far from good, but this wasn’t a support group. So instead, he said, “You ain’t so bad yourself.”

And when Sammy was ready to move again, Dean made a call. 

“Sammy,” he said, walking into their little cave, looking over his shoulder before back to Sam. “Before you get pissed, just think about all the other times you’ve been pissed at me, and- If we’re goin’ by scale-“

“Dean,” Sam grunted, narrowing his eyes. “What the hell did you do.”

Dean sighed, and pushed the vines aside. Benny tipped his cap and grinned. Sam made a face like Dean had just pulled himself out of his pants and started pissing all over the floor.

“Dean,” he hissed, and Dean sighed.

“Yeah, so-“

“That’s a- That’s a vamp-“

“Name’s Benny,” Benny offered, and Dean shot him a glare.

“Remember what I said? About letting me do the talking?”

Benny backed up with his hands raised. Dean turned back to Sam with a grimacing smile.

“Listen,” he tried. “I know- I know. But we’ve been working together since- Well, whenever the hell you got sidelined-“

“You’ve been- And you didn’t tell me?” Sam almost shouted, and Dean grimaced.

There was no better way to do this. Sammy yelled a lot. Benny hovered in the background. Looking like he wanted to chime in with something helpful, but—thankfully—thinking better of it. Dean took the verbal beating without a flinch. He deserved it. Good practice, for when he came clean about the soulmates thing.

At least Sam got tuckered out after half and hour, and Dean got to finish his explanation. At least Sam just sat there looking doubtful and a little pissed, when Dean said they were looking for their way out. She wasn’t going to be so forgiving. If Dean got any reluctant agreements, they were going to come after a bigger fight that he really deserved.

“Dean…” Was all Sam said instead, giving Benny a cautious look. “What- What if there’s no way out on our side-“

“There’s a way,” Dean grunted. “There’s always a way.”

“Yeah, to open Purgatory from up there,” Sam nodded to the sky. “But we have no proof this is a double hinged door, dude-“

“So?” Dean’s patentice was thinning. Sammy could be pissed about Benny all he wanted, but this was where Dean started to fray. Where things started to matter. “You’re the one who said we’re gonna get pulled soon,” he hissed, taking a step forward. “You’re the one who said she wasn’t gonna give up.”

“She isn’t, Dean, that’s not- You know she isn’t-“

“And you know what it does to her,” Dean challenged. “To toss you outta hell. To use that kinda juice, even for us. Especially for us.” Dean gave Sam a firm look. “You might be good letting her rip herself apart while we sit on our asses and wait, but I’m not. I’m gonna help, and if I’m lucky, I’m gonna do the damn work for her. Because that’s family, Sam, and I know you know that well as I do.”

And Sam didn’t have a response, because he did. He knew it. He knew She’d toss herself off cliffs and stuff herself with poison, if she thought it was helping them. And he knew that she was always doing too much. So Sammy gave in, and Benny shifted on his feet behind Dean, clearing his throat.

“As sweet as this little home is,” he drawled. “I’m thinkin’ we pack up and start lookin’ for something ain’t walking distance from one damn cave.”

Dean grunted, and clapped Sammy on the shoulder. Benny was right. Dean didn’t need Sam’s map by now. He could get through this part of Purgatory blindfolded, and hell, he was dying to be anywhere else.

“Is it really just forest?” Sam asked Benny, after a few days of wandering further down the river. “I mean, that’s all Dean and I have seen, but- You’ve been here longer.”

Benny chuckled. “That I have,” he mused. “And no, it ain’t just forest. There’s mountains, desert in the south, oceans east and west- we got our own little planet, stretching around. Just… Nothing much in it but bare soil and death.”

Sam made a face. “Wow. God must-“ He shook his head. “Even Hell had flowers and… water.”

Benny raised his brows. “Hell? You’ve been to Hell?”

“We’ve been like, everywhere-“

“Not everywhere,” Dean muttered, sighing under Sam’s questioning look. “Old Heaven.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No one’s been to Old Heaven, Dean-“

Dean cut him off with a grunt of Her name. Sammy rolled his eyes again, so Dean tripped his good leg, and laughed at the squawking sound that left the kids throat. Benny chuckled, and laughed louder when Sam punched Dean in the gut. And Dean dared to think they were getting along. Sammy was asking a lot of questions, but Benny didn’t seem to mind answering them. Sam had nothing bad to say about Benny, when he went off to find his own food for the night, and they started camp.

“Nice of him to watch for us,” Sam muttered, staring at where Benny had vanished into the woods. “Dad would’ve lost it, though.”

Dean chuckled. Benny had been—after eating—coming back and keeping the entire night watch so Sam and Dean could sleep better. It wasn’t exactly good sleep, but it was better than three hours. It was almost six, and that was more than Dean had been doing on Earth for a little while.

“I mean, seriously, Dean,” Sam gave him an amused look. “Can you imagine telling Dad what were up to right now? Camping with a vampire, I’m so fucked in the head he would’ve tried to like- Reboot me, to make it right, and you- You’re dating,” Sam said Her name, shaking his head. “Dad’s pissed.”

There was enough glee in Sam’s voice that it didn’t hurt. Dad’s pissed.

“He here right now?” Dean asked cautiously, and Sam just sighed.

“He’s never not.”

And Dean didn’t doubt that was true. But with Benny, they avoided more of those breakdown injuries. And things weren’t good—Dean would never dare call anything good in a place like this, because that’s when the world liked to take things away—but they were better. Creeping steadily up with hope. Daring to look like something that might be alright.

Then Dean heard it. He was restless one night. Just couldn’t get his brain to turn off. Figured She must be not sleeping either, because he didn’t feel that tug to the right of his heart, and he heard it.

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Sam muttered, and Benny grunted.

“Encourage him?”

“About killing himself to get out.”

Benny sighed. “Listen, Sammy-“

“Sam,” Sam snapped. “And- I’m willing to try. I really am willing to try. But he’s my brother, not yours. I know him. I know he’ll- He’ll kill himself for this. He’ll kill himself to get back, he thinks he has to- to protect-“ Sam cut himself off. Dean could picture the tic of his mouth. “Just- Look. He won’t stop, alright? And if he hurts himself because of something you tell him to do, I’ll kill you.”

Sam said it in that overly casual way. The way that made others—people who didn’t know Sam so well, who thought he’d ever been able to tell a joke—laugh it off and shake their head. Benny, to his credit, didn’t. But then he said Her name, and Dean’s shoulder’s tensed.

“Got something to do with her, don’t it?” Benny murmured. “You know, you both talk about her real strange. Sounds to me like she’s capable, but she might need Dean helpin’ her get back-“

“Don’t,” Sam grunted. “Don’t- Don’t talk about her like you know her, okay? Just trust me. If Dean doesn’t get out because he dies in here,” Sam laughed, cold and hollow. “God himself wouldn’t be able to save you. And I don’t think he’d try.”

The fire crackled. Dean screwed his eyes shut, and waited for Sam to start making threats that were gonna bite them both in the ass. But instead, it was Benny who spoke first.

“What about you?”

Dean could hear Sam’s frown. “What about me?”

“You got anything to get back to? You willin’ to try?”

Sam was silent for a moment. A moment, far too long. “I’m willing to try,” he muttered, and Benny hummed.

“But not like Dean.”

“No. Not like Dean.”

“Why?” Benny asked softly, and Dean really didn’t expect Sammy to answer.

But the kid had always liked surprising him. He wished, on day, that habit.

“Because,” Sam said, heavy and tired. “This might be where I belong.”

He’d managed to keep Her out of here for so long. He should’ve known his lucky would run out eventually.

At first, Dean didn’t think it even was a dream. He was washing himself in the river, watching the bony, sharp-feathered birds flit between the branches, humming their mating calls because he remembered them better now than he cared to admit. His clothing sat over on a rock, drying after he’d washed them. Sammy and Benny were somewhere in the woods, looking for a place to camp for the night. Dean had learned to savor these rare moments of quiet—nothing trying to kill him, no one around but his thoughts—so he didn’t even think twice.

“Dean?”

He turned with wide eyes, and found Her staring at him from the shore. She was flushed and shifting on Her feet, glancing down at Dean’s bare manhood, then yanking her gaze immediately back up. It was adorable in the way only She ever managed to be. Just a few nights, She’d been pawing at him with fuck me Doe eyes. Four months ago, She’d been sitting on his cock in the car. Before that, She’d been sinking to her knees and  begging him to put himself in Her mouth. Dean had finally lost track of how many times they’d touched, how many times they’d been bare before each other. He might still feel a rush when she popped Her shoulder out a little too far, but at least he didn’t short-circuit anymore. He’d dedicated too much time to memorizing Her. It would be a performance issue, if he let himself get all nervous and hesitant when She needed him.

She was lucky those same rules didn’t apply. She got all stiff and anxious, when Dean walked out of the river. Her hands hovered when he grabbed the back of Her neck and kissed her, long and slow. Dean guided one over his heart, and her fingers curled against his chest. When he pulled away with a small, fond smile, She looked again. Flushed even more furiously than before, then looked back to Dean with a pleading panic. He chuckled, and kissed the space between Her eyes.

“Should’ve knocked, Princess,” he joked, grabbing his pants off the rock.

Her nose twitched. She would’ve laughed, Dean decided, if she wasn’t shaking like a damn dog.

“How was your day?” He asked as he dressed, and She frowned.

“It- It was.”

Dean raised his brows, and She sighed. 

“I don’t know. I- I don’t want to-“ She swallowed, staring at Dean’s abdomen, her tongue flicking over her lips.

Dean tried not to feel too smug, but he quickly gave up. He’d was also going months without sex, and he looked like mountain man shit. He tapped Her cheek, pulling his shirt down, and She gave him a guilty, panicked look. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” She breathed, and Dean nodded.

“Alright,” he kissed Her brow, guiding her to sit on the rock. “Talk to me about somethin’ else.”

She blinked at him, like She didn’t quite believe it was that easy. Dean knelt before Her, not caring if he scuffed his newly cleaned jeans. He took Her hands, dragging his thumb over her knuckles, and raised his brows. He’d talk about anything. Hell, he’d start explaining Dr. Sexy episodes, if it kept Her from looking to close at where they were.

“I- I started reading a new book,” She whispered, like she still didn’t trust it.

Dean nodded, and squeezed Her hand three times. “Tell me all about it, baby.”

And She did. And Her gaze didn’t wander to the quiet, slowly rotting world around them. And She smiled, and Dean-

In one of those rare, holy moments, he felt like he could breathe.

“You said Eve was down here, right?”

Dean looked up at Benny, watching him and Sam pour over the map with a half-bored, half-amused expression.

“Yes, I did,” Benny said, and Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

Before they’d found the river, they’d just been wandering. When they’d been wandering, Sam had sworn he could something heavy and tall in the distance, like a mountain, or a strange tower. Dean hadn’t seen a thing, but he’d half-trusted Sam’s call. Half.

Not really. He hadn’t said it, but the kid had been seeing things all year. Wasn’t crazy, that he’d be hallucinating mountains.

But they’d wandered far in that direction, sticking to the riverbank, and either Dean was going mad, or Sammy’s insanity wasn’t stretching as far as Dean thought.

Because there was a misty, thick mound of something on the horizon, when Dean when a little too far North. He’d showed it Sammy, and the kid had wrung his hands and nodded. That’s what I was talking about, Dean, he’d damn near shouted. That’s it.  

He’d sketched it out on the map, but it couldn’t be a mountain. Sam said the shape had shifted too much, since he last saw the form. But Dean had an idea. And it wasn’t exactly one he liked.

“When Eve was down here,” Dean said carefully. “Where’d she live?”

“Her palace,” Benny said simply, and it really was that damn easy. “Little north of here. Massive fuckin’ thing, it’s-“ Benny shook his head. “Truly fuckin’ something.”

Sam swallowed. Dean’s hand curled on the table, and he watched Benny carefully. “It been in use, since the jailbreak?”

Benny shook his head. “Few servants, maybe. Waitin’ for her to come back. Was infested with Leviathans, before- Well,” he tipped his head. “You know.”

Dean grunted, and exchanged another look with Sam. The kid wanted to be more careful. Dean couldn’t blame him. This kinda thing had never spelled anything but trouble, except-

“It’s empty,” he muttered, watching Sam carefully. “And it’s a roof over our heads, Sammy. Can’t get much better than that.”

Sam sighed, giving him an almost disappointed look. “I think it can, Dean,” he said. “And- What if it’s not actually empty, what if-“

“What if she comes back?” Dean challenged. “You know she won’t.”

“I don’t know-“

Dean cut Sam off with Her name. “She came runnin’ in, at the end. Wouldn’t have done that, if she hadn’t finished the job.”

It was one of the small solaces, that Dean had been taking. At least Eve wasn’t out there, looking to bash Her head in for whatever new, evil plan the bitch would’ve cooked up. And Sammy knew it, too. He gave Dean another, weary look, silently begging him to back off this one. Dean worked his jaw and gave Sammy a pointed look. Sam sighed, and—thank God—gave in.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. Just- Just to see.”

Dean grinned and clapped Sam on the back. Sam winced, but didn’t complain. Benny looked between them strangely, but didn’t say a thing.

“Show us where the castle is, Buddy,” Dean said with a grin, and Benny dipped his head, his voice his oddly tight.

“Happily, my friend.”

He didn’t look all that happy. Dean would worry about that later.

Eve’s old palace was closer than Dean had let himself think. Bigger, too. All columns and strange, overgrown gardens and sunrooms. Reminded Dean a little of watching Troy, or looking at old photos of Babylon and Mesopotamia and Jerusalem. He counted himself smart, for having only looked at the pictures. Least he had a reference point, rather than trying to work out the exactly kinda pale yellow stone like Sam.

“The hell did she need all this space for?” Dean muttered to Benny as they wandered the halls, and Benny shrugged.

“She was the damn Queen. What does any Queen need space for? My woman- She likes the smaller things. The important things. And she-“ Benny whistled. “She was a goddess.”

Dean hummed, poking his head into another room. It was all couches and instruments and carpets. He squinted for something useful, but gave up fast. Big house. They’d find something eventually.

“My girl…” He paused, marking off the room on his wrist. “Think she’d like a big house. Not crazy big, but- You know-“

“Enough room for some rugrats?” Benny prompted, and Dean grunted.

“Something like that.” He thought of Indy and the Lady and that damn Phoenix chick. And Claire. She was sorta a rat. “But- Would be nice, wouldn’t it.”

Benny hummed, watching him carefully. “Sounds like you want it, brother.”

Dean chuckled, and shook his head. “You got no idea.”

Another few rooms. Another few floors. Eve had liked plush carpeting and fancy furniture and open lighting. Dean hoped she’d hated it here, in the dark silt of Purgatory, trying to simulate whatever world she’d come from before.

“Why don’t you have it yet?” Benny asked suddenly, and Dean blinked at him in confusion.

“Sorry?”

“You love your lady,” Benny shrugged. “Love her enough I can feel it comin’ off of you. Enough to bed her…”

Benny raised his brows. Dean’s jaw locked. “Careful,” he grunted, and Benny’s mouth twitched.

“Just a question,” he said, too casually. “You’re the one who got all red and happy when I talked about havin’ a family.”

Dean scowled. “I did not-“

Benny gave him a flat look, and he cut himself off with a huff. He didn’t need to entertain this. He needed to focus on finding whatever Eve had left behind and making sure this place wasn’t hiding a damn monster army. He didn’t entertain further questions, and Benny didn’t ask them, but that was what happened last time. Benny waited, and Dean—before he knew what he was doing—came clean.

He didn’t even know how the hell to start this one, though. Can’t marry her. God already called dibs. Not that I’m respecting them, but it’d be kinda hard to throw a wedding when you know that, when the priest asks if anyone objects, God himself is gonna crash the party.  

The moment he was out of here, that was all Dean was going to do. Try and get her out of that deal she’d never signed, find a loophole, find anything.

All he had to do was get out, and he’d make sure She never worried about that shit again.

Benny split off around dinner, to go find something out on the grounds. He’d promised he’d check on Sammy and come back if he couldn’t find him, so Dean let himself keep looking through the palace. Eve had an eye for art, and Dean couldn’t blame her. If he was stuck here forever, he’d be looking to do home improvement as well. He smiled to himself, thinking about Eve offering some down on their lucky wolf a job making naked sculptures. He had to take those good kind of moments where he could find them. The rest was just dull colors and chipped wood.

It took another hour of wandering, before he found something interesting. Something worth pausing about, doubling back, and opening the door again.

Most of Eve’s palace was just bedrooms—for what guests, Dean didn’t want to imagine—and living rooms and gardens and other fancy person rooms that Dean couldn’t even begin to understand. He’d figured she’d have some kind of library, and that might be their jackpot. If she did, he’d have to keep looking.

And even though she didn’t, this was still something pretty goddamn good.

Eve had a study. A war room, more like it, with books and scrolls and a map so detailed it was gonna make Sammy cream his pants. Dean poked around the books and groaned, when most of them were in languages he didn’t understand. All just scribbles and Greek, to him. Sammy might have a shot at a few of them. She’d have a shot at more, if She was here. Dean marked the ones he was gonna try and take back, if the door out of Purgatory let him bring carry-ons.

Eve’s desk was massive and hewn and full of little grooves and compartments, enough that Dean didn’t think he was gonna find all of them in one day. He poked around with his tongue between his teeth, glancing at notes and tablets and papers and-

Letters.

Dean’s hands falters, at the wax seal and thick paper, at the scrawled words he couldn’t read, and the few that he could. Most of them were in something that looked like Arabic or… a lot of boxes. A lot of others were in a script Dean couldn’t begin to even consider words. But, near the bottom, were a handful written in something close to English. Old timey English, before even Shakespeare—annoying, Dean had at least made his way through Hamlet once, after he watched the Lion King—but English all the same.

Dean could—kind of—read English. He could squint and try not to wrinkle the paper, running his thumb under every word and sounding them out. Everything was spelled wrong. He was getting a migraine, and might not have the damn time to get his way through even one of these things.

But he didn’t come out empty handed. He got two whole names, and a phrase.

Eve. Lilith. The end of the beginning.

The paper crinked. Dean swallowed, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Eve and Lilith had been friends. They’d known that. She and Jo had gone through that whole thing with the Amazons, and She’d explained enough for Dean to understand. Lilith popped out a bunch of babies, with that death angel they’d met. Her two favorites got to go hang out with evil Auntie Eve forever, which felt more like a punishment to Dean personally, but they’d seemed happy with it. Dean frowned at the air, trying to remember anything else.

Eve had something go wrong, in her marriage with Adam. Her voice murmured in his ear. But Lilith always held that Adam loved her. And-

“Something about her son,” Dean muttered looking back to the letter. “And- Uh- God.”

It always went back to God. Vain asshole. Couldn’t let someone else be the problem for a single season.

Dean stuffed the letters in his pocket. He’d showed them to Sammy and Benny tomorrow, when Benny got back from his new, self-assigned car patrol, and Sammy got some damn rest. Dean wandered back through the palace—he should’ve tied a bell to Sam—and faltered at the top of a staircase.

He didn’t know what the hell he’d expected. He had yet to step in a creepy magic place that didn’t have at least one painting of Her.

He’d never seen a whole gallery of them, though.

It beat out the creepy hallway at the ranch, it beat out everything. Dean slipped inside with a glance over his shoulder, and wondered if this was Heaven or Hell. Felt like a mix. Felt like punishment and the most beautiful place in the world. Over a hundred bright eyes seemed to follow him around the cold room, and he wasn’t sure where to look first. This was the first room in the palace that seemed to have some damn color, as if She couldn’t help but spill it all around her, even through a painting. Dean’s hand kept twitching, to touch one of Her faces.

Faces.

Jesus, this was messed up.

There were none of the classics. Everything in this room Dean had never seen before, and really didn’t want to think about how that meant Eve had been commissioning brand new works of Her. There was one of Her in a great garden that looked all too familiar, Her hair shining in the sun and all the trees leaning around her like a shield. There was one where She sat with a man on a marble bench, smiling with strange eyes, Her face perfect and his ripped through with the canvas. Eve hadn’t been a fan of that one. She’d still hung it. Women.

And there was one that Dean recognized, from real life. Her, standing in a little lake, Her dress pooling out in the water and a hawk perching on her arm. Dean was sure if they’d turned the painting-camera around, he’d be gaping like an idiot up in the hills. That one was more creepy, than anything else. If Eve had been poking around their real life…

Dean covered his crotch with a hand, and peered up at the ceiling. He was probably safe.

Two of the art pieces made him longer than he should. The portrait that was more like looking at a photo. Dean couldn’t have pictured Her better in his mine, right down to the little divets in her cheek and glow of Her eyes. Part of his body seemed to think that, if he reach out and ran his thumb down the bridge of Her nose, he’d find soft bone and warm skin.

And the statue.

The statue almost made him fall to his knees.

The portrait had been nondescript, with no real background or jewelry or outfit. The statue was… different.

When Dean was a kid, before everything, Mom had taken him to an art museum. They’d made a whole day about it, when she was pregnant with Sammy, but not enough that Dad could talk her out of traveling. It had been just Dean and Mom, wandering around the fancy halls, looking at things that Dean hadn’t been able to understand. There had been one of those statues, then. The anchient ones, where the stone looked like it could’ve been silk. Dean had felt small, standing at it’s feet.

He didn’t feel small now. But he didn’t feel big either.

Sam said that human brain couldn’t grasp the true enormity, of how small they were in the scale of the universe.

Dean decided his brain couldn’t grasp that She was… This. Because he knew. He knew. But he closed his eyes and saw the messy, antsy girl that hung off his arm and pushed fries into his face. When She was mean she was sharper and louder than a bullet. When She was soft it was like loving a marshmallow.

The statue in front of him wasn’t either of those things. It was…

Her.   

And Dean couldn’t wrap his head around it at all.

He found Sammy in the kitchen, trying to make something with that bread in a jar shit. Dean snatched it out of his hand, and Sam didn’t complain. Dean had a feeling the kid hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, and he didn’t have the instructions to figure it out. Dean had never needed the instructions. Life don’t come with a handbook, Bobby used to say. Dean had taken the advice deeper to his heart than he cared to admit.

And he figured it out.

Sammy ate good. They found a place to crash in the palace that didn’t feel creepy or gross—the servants quarters—and got to clean up for the night. First time in a while. Dean checked the other rooms ten times, before he sat down, just in case.

“You think Earth has a magic palace?” He muttered to Sam, who gave him a flat look.

“There are like- So many palaces on Earth, dude.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Hell got one, Purgatory’s got one- Shit, I’m surprised we didn’t run into a magic castle in Heaven.”

Sam shrugged, checking his hair in a dusty mirror. Better than a river. “Maybe we just weren’t in the right place? They don’t show the people the castle in hell, either.”

That was a good point. It was so annoying, when Sammy made those. “I’m thinkin’,” Dean said slowly, changing the topic before Sam could say more smart things. “This place is big. Safer than the forest, and- You know, full of shit-“

“I’m fine with staying, Dean.”

Dean blinked, watching Sam, far too casually, cross the room. “You- You are? That easy?”

Sam shrugged, dropping on his cot. “You’re right. It’s safer, and- Who knows. Maybe there’s something in here that can help us, right?”

Dean grunted, eyeing Sam suspiciously. He could call the kid out, on not seeming to really think they were gonna get out. But it was late. And Dean didn’t really want to fight until morning.

So instead he leaned against the headboard, pulled out the letters, and got to work. Sam sighed and rolled over to face the wall. Dean kept a low light on, and himself at work. All the letters were from Lilith to Eve. He guessed Lilith had been holding onto the ones from Eve. He was a genius like that.

Eve, he worked out of one, after what felt like half the damn night. If there is a way to get you out, we will find it. My lord (Lucifer)—Lilith didn’t write like that, but Dean had to make it clean in his brain or he’d lose his damn mind—says that there is a way. That his father loved tricks and backdoors and loopholes and tests. That he never built a world without them, not when he could see what his heroes were  really made of. We will return you home, and the end of the beginning will be ours or take.

Dean read it once. Twice. An extra time, just to be sure he wasn’t messing it up.

There’s a way.  

“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispered, a smile pulling at his lips. “Son of a bitch-“

“Dean,” Sam grunted. “Shh.”

Dean couldn’t shh. They had a way out. They had a way out. “Sammy, just- listen-“

“I can listen in the morning,” Sam grumbled, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Or you can listen now-“

“Just go to bed, Dean.”

“Can’t,” Dean sat fully upright, the letters still tight in his hand. “Not the time. Look, I got these from Eve’s desk-“

“Eve’s desk?” That got Sam’s attention. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and peering at Dean in the dark. Dean beamed, holding them up to be seen.

“She says there’s gonna be a way out. We just gotta work out what.”

Sam yawned and nodded, looking from the letters to Dean with blurry eyes. “That- That’s great, dude. Really. Now can you go to bed?”

Dean shook his head, looking back to the letters. Sam narrowed his eyes.

“Dean…”

“Told you,” he grunted, something thicker crawling up his throat. “Can’t.”

“But- We don’t need to take shifts-“

“Ain’t about the shifts.”

Sam frowned, and Dean’s jaw worked. He didn’t want to talk about this. It was one of those conversations that was only going to end in him telling the truth.

“Can’t sleep yet, Sammy,” he tried. “Not the right time.”

He risked a look up, and found Sam staring at him like he was crazy. Dean swallowed. He could almost see the kid’s brain turning, trying to figure out what the hell that could mean. Dean thought of the last time he’d told him. When Sam had iced him out and ran off and gotten his brain all scrambled. Can’t afford that again.

But they stared at each other in the dark, and for a moment, Dean didn’t see the kid he had to protect, who never damn appreciated it the slightly. That Sam looked at Dean like he could never possibly have a good enough reason. This one just looked… Tired.

This one didn’t look like a boy, unless Dean blinked. This Sam didn’t seem ready to shout, when that’s all they’d ever known how to do. But Dean had thought he’d only ever know how to fail. How to have people slip off of him like rain, leaving him cold and stranded and alone.

Dean wanted it to stick. He didn’t want them to be in that long, long shadow forever, shoving each other to try and get out, both ending up exactly where they’d started.

Dean said Her name, and Sam sat up.

“What-“

“I’m waitin’,” Dean muttered. “For her to fall asleep.”

Sam didn’t say a thing. It took Dean a long breath, to keep going.

“You can’t tell her I’m tellin’ you,” Dean grunted. “You can’t, or I swear to Christ, I’ll-“ He cut himself off, rubbing his face. “You just gotta let me do it first, alright? I’m tellin’ you, ‘cause you’re here now, but I’m goin’ to her next, I swear-“

“Dean,” Sam said. “You’re kind of freaking me out-“

“I see her,” he blurted, before the words could get caught in his throat. “I see her in my dreams, and not just- Not just dreaming about her, no- I see her. Real her. She doesn’t know it’s real, but I do. I- I know,” he swallowed, staring down at his hands. “I know we’re soulmates.”

He said it. He said it and thunder didn’t rip through the world. He’d done it. He said it.

And Sam just blinked at him, and shrugged. “Okay.”

Dean frowned. “Okay?” He repeated, a little pissed. “I tell you she’s my soulmate, and all you got for me is- Is a fuckin’ okay-“

“Do you want me to be surprised, Dean?” Sam said, giving him an almost amused look. “Like- Half of your heaven was just hanging out with her. The first night you met her, you bribed me so you could sneak out and not even kiss her. I mean, I thought you were gonna start crying when Dad told you that you couldn’t see her again, and you’d only known her a day-“

“Okay- Okay,” Dean held up a hand. “I wasn’t gonna cry-“

“Yeah, you were.” Sammy grinned. “Like a little baby.”

Dean flipped him off, and Sam laughed. Dean chuckled, just from the glee on Sam’s face. Everything was fine, for a long moment. But Dean could never leave anything alone.

“Told you a year ago,” he said, low and careful. “Before Becky got her hands on you- Remember how I said we’d been in a fight? That was it. I told you, and you-“ Dean shook his head, rubbing his mouth. “You got real pissed.”

Sam sighed. The watched each other, and there it was again. Sam, bigger than Dean had ever wanted him to be.

“I’m trying to be less angry,” Sam whispered, like he wasn’t sure of the words. “I- I don’t want to be angry anymore, you know? It’s really- It’s so heavy sometimes. And I mean,” he gave Dean a pleading look, begging him to understand. “Aren’t we all just trying out best?”

And Dean… He did understand. He didn’t even have to try that hard.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess we are.”

✦chapter 75

✦End note: all princess chapter coming up next week! sorry for the erractic posting this summer shit been crazy i'll be back to normal soon <3 ! Chapter Title from Celebrity Skin by Hole

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

John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.

“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.

“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.

“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.

Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”

“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

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. Benny. 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 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 wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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Dean groaned quietly under his breath before reaching over to silence the alarm as fast as possible so it wouldn’t wake you.

Too late.

You shifted slightly beside him, still half asleep, forehead brushing lazily against his shoulder. Your wolf stirred beneath your skin at the contact before settling again.

Dean’s chest tightened so hard it almost physically hurt.

Jesus Christ. His pup.

The thought hit exactly as hard as it had every single time it surfaced over the weekend.

No less shocking. No less overwhelming. No less real.

Dean stared at the ceiling for a moment, one arm still wrapped carefully around you while his mind spiraled uselessly through the same thoughts it had been trapped in for two straight days.

There’s really a pup.You’re pregnant.There’s a tiny life in there already.

His hand moved before he consciously thought about it, settling low against your stomach beneath the blanket.

Still flat. Still unchanged.

But not empty.

Something in him went completely soft at the realization all over again.

You made a sleepy sound against his chest. “Dean.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

His mouth twitched despite himself.

You didn’t open your eyes, just smiled faintly into his shirt before mumbling, “Go to work, love-sick idiot.”

Dean snorted quietly under his breath. But he leaned down anyway, pressing a slow kiss into your hair before finally forcing himself out of bed.

The cabin felt colder without you immediately attached to him. That thought alone nearly made him crawl back under the blankets.

Instead, he dragged himself downstairs, made coffee on autopilot, and spent nearly three full minutes staring directly at the carton of eggs in the fridge without remembering why he’d opened it in the first place.

His thoughts refused to stay organized. Every single one circled back to the same place.

Pup.

It threaded through everything now.

When he poured coffee. When he grabbed his keys. When he pulled his boots on near the front door.

Pup.

By the time he stepped into the garage later that morning, Bobby only took one look at him before sighing heavily around his coffee mug.

“You look worse than when you first got mated.”

Dean frowned immediately. “I do not.”

“You’ve been starin’ at the same wrench for five minutes.”

Dean looked down.

Sure enough, he was still holding the wrong socket.

Again.

Across the garage, Garth absolutely failed to hide his grin.

“Aw, leave him alone,” he said brightly. “He’s emotionally compromised.”

Dean pointed at him. “I hate all of you.”

“Mmhm.” Bobby took another sip of coffee. “You torque that bolt yet, or you just thinkin’ about pups again?”

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then muttered, “Shut up.”

Which only made Garth laugh harder.

Dean tried to focus after that. Really tried.

But the entire day felt… off-center.

Not bad.

Just wrong in the strange way life always felt after something huge happened and the rest of the world somehow kept moving anyway.

Engines still needed fixing. Phones still rang. People still came and went through the garage.

And through all of it, Dean’s attention kept drifting.

Toward his phone. Toward the clock. Toward thoughts he couldn’t shut off, no matter how hard he tried.

Was your appointment gonna be this week?Would Dr. Voss confirm everything immediately?Would they hear a heartbeat yet?Was there even a heartbeat yet?

That last thought alone distracted him badly enough that he nearly dropped a ratchet into the engine block he was working on.

“Dean.”

He looked up instantly.

Bobby stood across the garage watching him with the kind of exhausted patience usually reserved for idiots and concussed people.

“You wanna tell me what cylinder you’re workin’ on there?”

Dean looked down again.

Long pause.

“…shit.”

It wasn’t even the right truck.

Garth made a strangled noise somewhere behind him, trying not to laugh.

Dean flipped him off blindly.

Around noon, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Everything in him sharpened instantly.

His wolf surged awake beneath his skin before Dean even realized he’d moved, already pulling the phone free fast enough Bobby snorted into his coffee again.

Your name lit up the screen. And suddenly, the entire garage disappeared around him.

‘Appointment Friday 11:30. Dr. Voss had a cancellation.’

Dean read the message once.

Then again. Then a third time slower.

Friday.

Four more days.

His chest tightened unexpectedly hard.

Not panic. Not dread. Something stranger.

Like reality had just shifted shape again. Because now there was a date attached to it.

A real one.

Not abstract anymore.

A doctor’s office. Confirmation. Answers.

His pup.

Dean exhaled slowly through his nose before typing back.

‘I’ll be there.’

The response came almost immediately.

‘I know you will.’

That hit him right in the damn chest. Dean stared at the screen for another second longer than necessary before finally looking up again.

Bobby was already watching him knowingly from across the garage.

Dean lifted the phone slightly. “Friday. Eleven-thirty.”

Bobby nodded once like he’d already expected it. “Take the day.”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Bobby waved one hand dismissively before turning back toward the truck nearest him. “Ain’t arguin’ with you about it.”

Something warm hit Dean low and sudden in his chest.

Pack.

Even here.

His throat tightened unexpectedly enough he had to clear it before muttering, “Thanks.”

Bobby grunted without looking back. “Don’t make me regret it by breakin’ your damn hand ‘cause you can’t focus on engines.”

Garth popped up immediately from the other side of the garage. “Should we get him one of those pup carriers now or wait a few months?”

Dean launched the rag at his head hard enough that Garth yelped and ducked behind a toolbox laughing.

Morning settled differently without Dean in the cabin.

Not wrong.

Just quieter in ways your body noticed now.

The mattress had cooled where he’d been hours ago, but his scent still clung to the sheets and pillows—pine, leather, coffee, motor oil that he never quite managed to wash away. It wrapped around you while you lay there staring at the ceiling long after the front door had shut behind him before dawn.

Pregnant.

The word still didn’t feel entirely real in your head, even after the full moon. Even after the test. Even after Dean’s joy had poured through the bond so fiercely it had nearly knocked the breath from you.

Because a test was one thing.

Confirmation was another.

Your hand drifted absently over your stomach beneath the blanket.

Nothing felt different physically. Not really. No obvious change. No dramatic shift. No early symptoms. Just the strange awareness that something might already be happening beneath your skin where you couldn’t see it yet.

A possibility becoming real cell by cell.

The thought made your chest tighten.

Downstairs, cabinet doors opened softly. Coffee brewed. Jess and Sam were awake already, the low murmur of their voices occasionally drifting up through the floorboards before fading again. Familiar. Grounding.

You stayed where you were another minute anyway—trying to breathe through the strange tension sitting just beneath your ribs.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

But the awareness that once Dr. Voss confirmed it—really confirmed it—everything would shift into something concrete. Timelines. Due dates. Medical information. Reality settling into place in ways neither you nor your wolf would be able to pretend were distant anymore.

Your wolf stirred softly beneath your skin at the thought.

Not distressed.

Waiting.

Eventually, you pushed yourself upright and padded downstairs in one of Dean’s shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, hair still mussed from sleep. The cabin smelled like toast, coffee, and bacon by the time you reached the kitchen.

Jess glanced up first from where she sat at the table, mug cradled between both hands. “There she is.”

Sam looked over from the stove with an easy smile. “Morning.”

“Morning,” you murmured back, voice still rough with sleep.

Your eyes immediately caught on the folded piece of paper sitting beside Jess’s mug.

A phone number.

Dr. Voss’s office.

Your stomach tightened again before you could stop it.

Jess noticed instantly. Her expression softened, not pitying—just understanding. “You don’t have to call the second you wake up,” she said gently.

“I know.”

But the thing was—you also knew if you waited too long, you’d think yourself in circles about it.

So instead of sitting down, you moved toward the coffee pot first. Habit. Comfort. Routine.

Sam snorted quietly when he caught the motion. “You better drink it before Dean somehow senses it through the bond.”

Jess barked out a laugh into her mug. “He’ll come crashing through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugged at your mouth.

“Coffee is still allowed,” you informed them flatly while pouring a cup.

“We know,” Sam said easily.

Jess grinned. “So does Dean, doesn’t stop him from fussing.”

Warmth spread through your chest at that. Affection. Exasperation. Something soft enough to ease the tightness under your ribs for half a second.

You wrapped both hands around the mug and leaned against the counter. Then your eyes slid back to the folded paper.

The number waiting there.

The reality waiting behind it.

Jess watched you quietly for a moment before speaking again, softer this time. “You want one of us to do it with you?”

You shook your head after a beat. “No.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the mug. “I think… I need to.”

Because this mattered.

Because hearing the appointment date would make it real in an entirely different way.

Because part of you was still terrified that if you looked directly at this too quickly, it would disappear.

The kitchen fell quiet around you—not awkward. Just gentle.

Sam focused back on breakfast.

Jess didn’t push.

And after another long sip of coffee, you finally crossed the kitchen, picked up the paper, and stared at the number for a few seconds before reaching for the phone mounted on the wall.

By the time Dean got home that evening, the entire cabin smelled like garlic, tomatoes, and fresh bread.

Normal.

Domestic.

Dangerously convincing in a way that almost let life feel ordinary for half a second.

Almost.

The front door had barely shut behind him before his wolf reached instinctively for you through the bond, searching with the same reflex it had been trapped in all day.

There.

Safe.

Upstairs.

The tension sitting between his shoulder blades loosened immediately. Dean exhaled hard through his nose before kicking off his boots near the door.

“You’re gettin’ worse,” Sam called from the kitchen.

Dean frowned automatically while shrugging out of his jacket. “About what?”

“The tracking thing.”

Jess snorted softly from somewhere near the stove. “He practically checked the bond before he checked if the cabin was on fire.”

Dean pointed toward both of them accusingly while already moving for the stairs. “I hate livin’ with witnesses.”

“You love us,” Sam called after him.

Dean muttered something deeply unflattering under his breath that made Jess laugh outright. But he still took the stairs two at a time.

Because his wolf had spent the entire day restless.

And now that he was home, every instinct in him needed visual confirmation that you were okay, even if the bond already said you were.

He found you upstairs, sitting cross-legged near the headboard with Mary’s pregnancy book open in your lap.

Or—more accurately—

his pregnancy book.

At least according to how often he’d apparently been reading it.

You looked up the second he stepped into the room, something soft immediately easing across your expression at the sight of him.

That alone nearly unraveled him. Dean crossed the room without hesitation, leaning down to kiss you before he even spoke. Slow. Familiar. Grounding.

“You eat?” he asked against your mouth.

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “I’m pregnant. Not fragile.”

“Didn’t answer the question.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Okay.”

Satisfied instantly.

You stared at him for a second. “You’re impossible.”

“Mmhm.”

His attention dropped immediately toward the book in your lap before he climbed onto the bed beside you.

Page one hundred thirty-two.

The common first-trimester symptom of heightened smell sensitivity, known as hyperosmia.

Again.

His gaze went back to yours, “You feeling any of those?”

The concern in his voice pulled at something in your chest, eyes falling back to the words you’d read three times already today. “No. Just… not sure I’m ready for ‘em.”

The arm he’d slipped around your shoulders tightened just a fraction more as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Well, we’ll figure it out, whatever symptoms you get. Even if that means I’m not allowed near you till I shower after work.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Dean visibly relaxed hearing it.

The shift was tiny, but there.

Like your laughter settled something restless under his skin.

Downstairs, Jess yelled up the staircase, “Dean, if you memorize that entire book before the appointment, I’m legally allowed to throw it at your head.”

Dean didn’t even move before he yelled back, “You can’t legally do anything.”

“We’ll see.”

Sam’s laughter carried up immediately afterward.

You shook your head softly, smiling despite yourself, before your fingers slipped unconsciously toward the edge of the book.

“Friday feels far away,” you admitted quietly.

That got Dean’s full attention instantly.

Not panicked.

Focused.

He shifted closer without even thinking about it, his other hand settling automatically against your thigh.

“You okay?”

You nodded after a second. “Yes.” Honest. Mostly. “It just feels strange knowing there’s a date now.”

A date. A time. A sticky note currently sitting downstairs, stuck to the fridge.

Friday.11:30.

Confirmation.

The room quieted around both of you for a moment. Dean’s thumb moved slowly once against your leg.

“You wanna know somethin’ messed up?” he murmured after a beat.

You looked over at him.

“I keep forgettin’ there’s, like…” He gestured vaguely toward your stomach. “An actual tiny thing already there.”

Warmth flickered low in your chest at the awe threaded through his voice.

Not fear.

Not uncertainty.

Wonder.

Dean huffed quietly, almost laughing at himself. “Like, logically I know how this works, but my brain keeps catchin’ up every couple hours and goin’ holy shit.”

That finally pulled a real laugh from you again.

Soft.

Breathless.

And deeply needed.

Dean smiled instantly at the sound, helplessly fond.

Downstairs, something clattered loudly in the kitchen before Jess’s voice rang out:

“Sam Winchester, if you broke my favorite spatula, I swear to God—”

“I didn’t break it!”

“It’s in two pieces!”

Dean snorted under his breath before looking back at you.

The warmth lingering in the room softened some of the tension that had been hanging beneath your skin since morning. Not gone. Just… easier to carry.

Because this was becoming real now in practical ways too.

Appointments. Schedules. Planning around days and work and time.

Life reshaping itself around something neither of you could see yet.

And somehow, sitting there beside Dean while chaos unfolded downstairs and the pregnancy book rested open between you both, it felt a little less frightening than it had that morning.

The week settled into a strange sort of rhythm after that.

Not normal.

Nothing about this felt normal anymore.

But quieter.

Contained.

Dean still had a hard time focusing at work, and the boys found plenty of ways to get him moving again. Jess spent a lot of her time with you. Not only anchoring you in the now, but also finding little ways of making sure you didn’t spiral. Sam made a trip into town at one point, bringing back two full bags of books from the bookstore and ‘casually’ leaving them around the cabin.

Wednesday evening found the cabin wrapped in rain.

Not a storm. Just a slow, steady drizzle that whispered against the roof and turned the windows silver in the fading light outside. Sam and Jess had disappeared into town an hour earlier for groceries, leaving the cabin unusually quiet.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch beneath a blanket with one of the books from Sam open in your lap, though you’d read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.

Your thoughts wouldn’t stay still long enough.

Friday.

The word had started living in the back of your mind now.

Not loud.

Just constant.

Two more days.

You could feel it sometimes—that strange suspended sensation sitting beneath your ribs. Like your entire life had paused on the edge of something irreversible.

The test had changed everything already.

But confirmation…

Confirmation would make it real in a way neither you nor your wolf could walk back from.

A soft creak pulled your attention from the page.

Dean stood in the kitchen doorway holding Mary’s pregnancy book in one hand and a beer in the other.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then his eyes flicked slowly down toward the book in his own hand like he’d only just realized he’d carried it in there with him.

“…you brought it after your shower,” you said flatly.

Dean looked mildly offended. “I was readin’.”

“You walked into the kitchen with it.”

“So?”

“So,” you repeated, trying very hard not to laugh, “you’re carrying around What to Expect When Expecting like it’s sacred text.”

Dean snorted softly under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway as he wandered toward the couch.

“You’re judgy for somebody who highlighted three sections already.”

“I highlighted important parts.”

“Uh huh.”

He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that your legs naturally tangled together beneath the blanket. Warm. Familiar. Easy.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

The cabin smelled like coffee, old paper, and cedar from the damp woods outside.

Dean set his beer down before opening the book somewhere near the middle, brow furrowing almost immediately in concentration.

You watched him for a moment over the top of your own book.

The focus on his face. The slight crease between his brows. The way his thumb rested between the pages to hold his place.

Completely absorbed.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Because this was Dean.

Dean Winchester.

Who hated research unless it involved cars, pie, or finding the fastest route to food. And now he was voluntarily reading about prenatal development on a Wednesday night.

Your wolf stirred softly beneath your skin at the sight.

Dean must’ve felt your attention lingering because he glanced over after a moment. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nah.” His eyes narrowed slightly, suspicious already. “That was a look.”

You smiled faintly into your cup of juice. “You’re reading the chapter about fetal development.”

Dean immediately looked back down at the page. “Well, yeah.”

“You’ve already read that chapter.”

“Maybe I forgot somethin’.”

“You absolutely did not.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him before the sound faded into something softer. His gaze drifted downward then.

Toward you.

Toward the blanket pooled over your lap.

Toward the place beneath it neither of you could see yet.

The room quieted around both of you after that.

Not awkward.

Not heavy.

Just full.

Dean’s expression changed slowly while he looked at you. Wonder creeping in again beneath the surface of everything else. Awe. Disbelief that still hadn’t fully settled into something manageable.

Your throat tightened slightly at the sight of it.

“Friday’s gonna come fast,” you murmured eventually.

Dean looked back up immediately. For a second, neither of you spoke. The rain filled the silence instead.

Soft. Steady. Breathing against the roof.

Then Dean reached over without a word and set his hand over yours beneath the blanket.

Warm.

Certain.

Grounding.

Not trying to fix the tension humming quietly beneath your skin. Not trying to talk you out of your thoughts.

Just there.

With you.

And somehow, sitting in the quiet glow of the cabin with rain tapping at the windows and both your books forgotten for the moment, it felt exactly like what it was:

The last calm breath before everything became real.

The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender, old books, and antiseptic beneath it all. Not harsh. Not clinical in the way hospitals always seemed to be. Softer. Warmer. Like someone had tried very hard to make the space feel less intimidating for the people who sat inside it holding fragile things close to their chests.

The overhead fluorescent lights still hummed quietly, though. That part never changed.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch-like chair, one leg tucked beneath you while the other bounced faintly despite your efforts to stop it. Across from you, a low coffee table held neatly stacked magazines no one ever actually read, a bowl of wrapped peppermint candies, and a small vase with dried wildflowers.

Dean sat beside you.

Too close to be accidental.

Not close enough for his wolf.

His knee bounced relentlessly, the movement sharp enough that the cushions shifted beneath both of you in tiny repetitive tremors. One hand gripped the edge of the pregnancy book hard enough the spine had started to bend slightly beneath his fingers. The other rested against his thigh, flexing every few seconds like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You reached over quietly, laying your hand against his bouncing knee.

It stopped instantly.

For all of three seconds.

Then started again.

Your lips twitched despite yourself.

Dean exhaled hard through his nose, scrubbing a hand down his face before glancing toward the receptionist desk for what had to be the tenth time in the last two minutes.

“They know we’re here, right?”

You stared at him. “Dean.”

“What?” His eyes flicked back to you immediately. “I’m just saying—”

“You checked me in.”

“I know I checked you in.”

“And she said Dr. Voss was finishing with another patient.”

“I know.”

His fingers tightened around the book again. “But what if—”

“Dean.”

This time it came softer.

Gentler.

Because beneath all the restless energy and twitching instincts and inability to sit still, you could feel it through the bond. The excitement. The fear. The desperate, overwhelming hope that kept crashing through him in waves so strong it almost made your own chest ache.

Your wolf pressed close beneath your skin, equally alert. Equally restless.

Not afraid.

Just… waiting.

Waiting for someone else to say it officially.

Waiting for certainty to become real.

Dean finally looked at you fully then, green eyes bright with too many emotions trying to exist in the same space at once. His gaze dropped briefly toward your stomach before snapping guiltily back up like he thought you might somehow catch him doing it.

You had.

Your throat tightened a little.

Because he’d been doing that a lot.

Little glances.

Little moments where his entire expression softened without warning before he caught himself.

Like he still couldn’t believe there might actually be a tiny life growing inside you.

His pup.

The thought alone made something twist warmly beneath your ribs.

And terrifyingly.

Your hand slipped from his knee to his wrist instead, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over the pulse there. Dean immediately turned his hand beneath yours, lacing your fingers together hard enough to ground himself.

The bond eased slightly.

Not calm.

Never calm.

But steadier.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows in uneven patterns, summer clouds rolling through in one of those brief storms that never seemed to last long. Somewhere deeper in the office, muted voices drifted down the hallway, followed by the faint squeak of shoes against polished flooring.

Dean’s knee finally stopped bouncing.

Only because he leaned forward instead, elbows braced on his thighs while your joined hands hung between you.

“I keep thinking about what if the test was wrong,” he admitted quietly.

You blinked at him.

His jaw tightened immediately after the words left him, like he regretted saying them out loud.

“Not— not wrong wrong,” he corrected quickly. “I mean…” He swallowed. “I know the test wasn’t wrong. I just…” His voice lowered further. “I think my brain’s still tryin’ to catch up.”

Your chest pulled tight with sudden understanding.

Because yours was too.

The cabin.

The test.

Jess holding you.

Dean looking at the counter and going still.

It had all happened so fast that your thoughts still hadn’t fully settled around the shape of it.

Pregnant.

The word still felt enormous.

Your wolf stirred faintly beneath your skin at the thought, pressing warm and protective through the bond toward Dean’s wolf.

His response came instantly.

Mine.

Not possessive.

Not controlling.

Just reverent. Overwhelmed. Full of so much love it nearly unraveled you where you sat.

Dean squeezed your hand once before lifting it instinctively, brushing his knuckles lightly beneath your jaw.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

The question wasn’t casual.

Not anymore.

You could feel how much weight he put behind it now every single time he asked.

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

Not certainty.

Just honesty.

Dean’s expression softened immediately like that answer mattered more to him than anything else in the room.

Then the hallway door opened.

Both of your heads snapped up at once.

And when Dr. Voss appeared around the corner with a warm smile already forming across her face, your heart kicked hard enough against your ribs that your breath caught entirely.

“Ready?” she asked gently.

The hallway felt quieter on the way back.

Not silent—never silent, not with Dean beside you—but softer somehow. Muted beneath the weight pressing against both your ribs. Dr. Voss moved at an easy pace ahead of you, clipboard tucked against her side, her dark curls swaying lightly with each step. Familiar. Grounding. She didn’t rush either of you, didn’t fill the silence just to fill it.

Dean stayed close enough that the back of his hand brushed yours every few steps, like his body couldn’t quite tolerate distance anymore.

When she reached one of the rooms near the end of the hall, she nudged the door open with her shoulder and stepped aside to let the two of you in first.

“Same room as last time,” she said warmly. “Figured familiarity might help.”

It did.

At least a little.

The room didn’t feel clinical in the way most doctors’ offices did. The overhead lights were softer here, warmer. One lamp glowed from the corner beside a bookshelf crowded with medical texts and dog-eared paperbacks. A woven blanket had been folded neatly over the back of the small loveseat beneath the window. Even the examination table looked less intimidating with the quilted cover over the paper lining.

The room smelled faintly of cedar, tea, and antiseptic beneath it all.

Dean’s hand settled against your lower back as the door clicked shut behind you. Not pushing. Just there.

Dr. Voss set the clipboard down on the counter before turning toward you both fully, her expression gentle but attentive in that way doctors perfected after years of watching people try to hold themselves together.

“Well,” she said softly, folding her arms loosely. “You two look like you haven’t taken a full breath in days.”

Dean barked out a quiet laugh under his breath before dragging a hand over his mouth. “That obvious, huh?”

“Dean,” she replied dryly, amused warmth flickering in her eyes, “your leg was bouncing hard enough in the waiting room that I thought you might launch yourself through the floor.”

You felt the corner of your mouth twitch despite yourself.

Dean muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Could happen.”

Dr. Voss smiled, then her gaze shifted back to you.

“And you?” she asked more gently.

Your throat tightened a little at the question. Not because you didn’t know the answer. Because you knew too many of them.

Nervous. Hopeful. Terrified. Excited.

You swallowed once. “I think my thoughts haven’t stopped since Friday.”

Understanding softened her features immediately.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “That sounds about right.”

Dean’s fingers flexed once against your back.

Dr. Voss gestured toward the loveseat instead of the exam table. “Sit wherever you’re comfortable first. We’ll go through everything together before we do anything official.”

That alone loosened something in your chest.

Not rushed. Not clinical. Together.

You sat first, Dean immediately dropping beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed firmly against yours. His knee bounced once before he caught himself. Then again, three seconds later.

You reached over without thinking and rested your hand on his leg. It didn’t stop the bouncing completely.

But it slowed.

Dr. Voss noticed. You could tell she noticed. But she only leaned back lightly against the counter and picked up your chart.

“So,” she said gently, flipping it open. “Tell me everything from the beginning.”

“There’s not much to tell,” you admitted quietly, fingers still resting against Dean’s knee. “I took a test a week ago, and it came up positive. My heat had only ended two weeks before that.” Your throat tightened slightly around the next words. “We just need to know for sure.”

Dr. Voss nodded once, calm and steady like none of this surprised her in the slightest.

“Alright,” she said gently.

She crossed toward one of the cabinets, opening it with practiced ease before pulling out a small plastic sample jar with a pale blue lid. Then filled out the label in neat handwriting.

“Then let’s get another test done to be certain.” She held it out toward you. “Bathroom’s just around the corner to the right.”

You took the jar carefully, fingers brushing the cool plastic.

Dean’s hand slipped reluctantly from your back when you stood. Reluctantly being the important part.

You felt his gaze on you immediately as you moved toward the door. Heavy. Focused. Like some instinctive part of him hated letting you out of arm’s reach even for thirty seconds.

The door clicked softly behind you. And the second it did, Dean exhaled hard through his nose.

Dr. Voss didn’t miss it.

She leaned lightly back against the counter again, arms folding loosely as she studied him with the kind of knowing expression only someone who’d seen this dozens of times could wear.

“The first time is always a little chaotic,” she said after a moment.

Dean looked over immediately.

Even sitting still, there was tension wound through him. Nervous energy pressing against his skin too tightly to stay contained for long.

Dr. Voss’s smile softened faintly.

“Different for alphas than it is for omegas,” she continued, “but chaotic all the same.”

That got his full attention.

Completely.

Dean leaned forward slightly, forearms braced against his knees without even realizing he’d moved. “Different how?”

A quiet huff of amusement left her.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she answered first, voice warm but pointed enough that he actually looked mildly called out. “That’s probably the best advice I can give you right now.”

Dean blinked once.

Dr. Voss continued before he could spiral too far ahead of the conversation.

“Be in the moments with her,” she said gently. “Not six months from now. Not a year from now. Right now. It’ll help lessen her stress if you stay grounded with her instead of trying to anticipate every possible thing that could happen.”

Something in Dean eased at that. Not fully. Never fully. But enough that his shoulders loosened a fraction.

Then Dr. Voss added casually, “And don’t tell her she can’t have something she’s craving.”

Dean immediately looked guilty.

Actually guilty.

His eyes flicked downward briefly before returning to her. “...is coffee really okay?”

Her smile turned openly fond at that.

“Yes, Dean,” she said patiently. “Two cups is perfectly fine. Especially if she’s been drinking coffee regularly for years. Stopping suddenly could honestly make her feel worse, which creates more stress on the body than the caffeine itself.”

Dean absorbed that with visible seriousness, like she’d just handed him critical survival information.

The door opened before he could ask anything else.

You stepped back into the room with the jar clasped carefully in your hand, the lid secured tightly. Your eyes immediately found Dean first. Instinctive.

Dr. Voss pushed away from the counter and crossed toward you, taking the sample gently from your hands.

“Perfect,” she said softly. “I’ll be back in about five minutes.”

Then she paused at the doorway, glancing once between the two of you.

“And breathe,” she added knowingly before slipping out into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence settled immediately after.

Not empty.

Dense.

Dean looked at you for half a second before standing outright, unable to stay seated anymore. Two steps carried him across the room, and then his hands were on you again—one settling carefully at your waist, the other sliding up along your arm like he needed the reassurance of contact more than air itself.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you really needed to.

Because now there was nothing left to do except wait.

The clock on the wall didn’t change.

That was the problem.

It kept ticking in steady, indifferent seconds like nothing important was happening at all, like there wasn’t something sitting in the next room that could tilt both of your lives into something completely irreversible.

Five minutes.

That’s what Dr. Voss had said.

Five minutes to process something that already felt like it had been building for days—weeks, really—if either of you were honest about the way time had started folding in on itself since your heat had ended.

Dean didn’t sit back down.

He tried.

You felt it before you saw it—the shift of his weight, the intention behind it—like he was attempting to force himself into stillness. But it lasted maybe half a second before he was up again, pacing once toward the counter, then back toward you, then stopping like he’d forgotten where his body was supposed to go.

His hand stayed on you the entire time.

Not tight.

Not restraining.

Just there.

Like if he let go, something might slip out of reach.

You stood near the edge of the exam table instead of sitting, mostly because your body couldn’t decide what it wanted either. Every so often, your fingers flexed against your own palm without meaning to, like you were checking that you were still anchored inside yourself.

Your wolf was quieter than you’d ever felt her.

Not absent.

Just… focused inward. Listening to something you couldn’t quite hear yet.

Dean exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled, then scrubbed a hand down his face.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but there was no real frustration in it—just pressure with nowhere to go.

You glanced at him.

A faint smile tried to form, didn’t quite make it. “It’s five minutes.”

“That’s not the point.”

Of course it wasn’t.

He stopped pacing again and turned toward you fully, like gravity had finally won out over whatever restless energy had been driving him.

His eyes tracked over your face first—checking, always checking—then dropped briefly to your stomach before snapping back up again like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look there for too long yet.

Your hand found his without thinking. That seemed to help him more than anything else. His fingers tightened around yours immediately, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. Not fidgeting now. Just holding on.

The quiet stretched.

It wasn’t peaceful.

Not exactly.

It was full. Pressurized. Like the room itself was holding its breath with you.

Somewhere in the hall, a distant sound—paper shifting, a chair rolling softly, footsteps that didn’t belong to either of you.

Dean’s head turned instantly.

You felt it in him before he moved: that split-second instinct to follow, to intercept, to get answers sooner than they were ready to be given.

But he didn’t.

He stayed. Because you were still here.

The footsteps faded again.

The ticking returned.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Dean squeezed your hand once, almost imperceptibly, then let out a low breath like he was trying to steady something that wasn’t entirely under his control.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

It was such a Dean question.

Not are you scared.

Not how are you feeling.

Just… are you okay, like that was the simplest way he knew how to say I don’t know how to hold this gently enough yet, but I’m trying.

You nodded.

A beat later, honesty caught up to you anyway. “I don’t know what I am.”

That earned a small huff from him—something almost like agreement. His thumb brushed your knuckles again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”

And there it was. The truth sitting between you without either of you trying to dress it up.

Another second passed.

Then another.

The kind of silence that makes you hyperaware of everything—the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint scent of antiseptic, the way your own heartbeat sounded louder than it had any right to.

Dean shifted closer again without thinking, shoulder brushing yours. Not crowding. Just… closer.

Like instinct was rewriting the rules of personal space in real time. You leaned into him slightly before you realized you were doing it. His arm came around you immediately after.

Not dramatic.

Just certain.

The hallway outside stayed quiet.

The clock kept ticking.

And somewhere beyond that door, five minutes was slowly becoming something neither of you were ready to name out loud yet.

The door opened without warning.

No knock that you registered. No build-up your nerves could brace for.

Just the soft click of the handle—and then Dr. Voss stepped back into the room, a small stack of papers in one hand, a white bottle in the other, and something steadier than either of your hearts in her expression.

Both your heads lifted at the same time. Like the air itself had changed pressure.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Even Dean.

Even your wolf.

Dr. Voss closed the door gently behind her and let the silence hold for half a heartbeat longer than necessary—long enough for the anticipation to stretch thin and bright.

Then she smiled.

Warm. Certain.

“Congratulations,” she said softly. “Looks like you two are gonna have a pup.”

The words didn’t land all at once.

They settled.

Slowly. Irreversibly.

Something in your chest broke open so fast you didn’t even have time to understand it before it spilled out of you—hot, immediate tears rising without permission, vision blurring at the edges as your breath caught on something too big to swallow.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Just… too much feeling trying to exist in one body.

Your hand flew to your mouth, but it didn’t stop anything. It just muffled the sound that came out of you—small, broken, disbelieving.

Dean moved before you did.

Always first.

Always there.

His arm was around you in an instant, pulling you into him like instinct had finally stopped asking permission. You barely registered leaving the floor before you were in his chest, your face pressed against him, his hold tight and grounding in a way that made the room feel like it stopped spinning.

His breath hitched once.

Then he buried his face into your hair.

Like he needed to make sure this was real by feeling it.

“We’re really having a pup,” he said.

Quiet.

Awe-struck.

Like the words themselves were something holy he didn’t want to break.

His hand slid up your back, firm, steadying—anchoring you while you shook with everything you couldn’t say out loud.

Dr. Voss didn’t interrupt.

She just stepped back to the counter, giving you space the way someone who understood exactly what kind of moment this was would.

A minute passed like that.

Maybe less.

Maybe more.

Time didn’t behave properly anymore.

Eventually, she cleared her throat gently. “Alright, Y/N,” she said, voice returning to professional calm without losing its warmth. “Up on the table.”

Dean didn’t let go.

Not really.

He just adjusted with you—helping you settle down carefully, like even gravity had become something he didn’t fully trust yet.

His hand stayed in yours immediately after, fingers threading through yours like a promise he wasn’t done making.

Dr. Voss began her exam with quiet efficiency, her hands warm and practiced as she checked what needed checking. You could feel Dean beside you the entire time—watching everything, barely blinking, his attention split between her hands and your face like both mattered equally.

“You’re early enough that everything looks exactly where it should be,” Dr. Voss said calmly. “We’ll have you back once a month until your sixth month, unless anything changes. Bloodwork each visit so we can track hormone levels. We’ll monitor your weight, your overall health…”

Dean’s grip tightened slightly at that.

“…and next month,” she continued, “we should be able to hear the pup’s heartbeat.”

That got him.

You felt it before you saw it—the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders locked for half a second like his body had forgotten how to process what it had just been told.

Heartbeat.

Real. Measurable. There.

Your own breath caught in response, like your body was trying to mirror his shock just to keep up.

Dr. Voss finished her exam and stepped back, jotting a few notes down before turning toward you fully again.

When she spoke next, it was gentler. “Due date is February nineteenth.”

Dean visibly stopped functioning for a second.

Not dramatically.

Just… paused.

Like every internal system had hit a wall at the same time.

You almost laughed through the tears because it was either that or collapse completely into the weight of it all.

February nineteenth.

A date.

Something real enough to mark on a calendar.

The day you’d hold your pup in your arms for the first time.

Dr. Voss set the papers on the counter, along with the bottle, beside you. “These are for you—what to expect over the first month and through the first trimester. Every pregnancy is different. You may not experience all the typical symptoms, or you may only have a few. Sometimes all of them show up. There’s no single pattern. Prenatal vitamins to get you started.”

Then her gaze shifted to Dean.

Softened just slightly in a way that made it clear she understood exactly who she was speaking to.

“And Dean,” she added, handing him a second stack, “there’s information in there for you too. Ways to keep yourself from getting ahead of things.”

That earned the faintest flicker of something like awareness from him—still overwhelmed, still reeling, but present enough to accept the papers without looking away from you for long.

Because even now, even mid-collapse of reality—

his hand didn’t let go of yours.

Chapter 70 ------- Chapter 72 - coming soon

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"So what are we going to do with such a rare day off?" Dean doesn't look at you, he's too focused on the intricate balancing act of cooking.

"Maybe speak to each other in daylight for once?"

"We see each other during the day all the time!"

You laugh, "5am doesn't count as the day- not really."

"Well if you're gonna put all these rules on it!" He finally glances at you, face breaking into a smile. You're in your underwear, sat at the kitchen table like it's casual, like you've always expected to see him here.

You're normally downstairs at this time, baking since the sun came up, about to open shop. Dean sometimes waves at you through the window when he leaves, though he doesn't come in- like crossing that boundary while other people are around might ruin the delicate nature of the whole thing.

He doesn't know if you tell people about him- doesn't know if he exists to you when he's not around. Of course Sam knows about you, but Dean doesn't tell him everything- doesn't tell him how he always considers running right back to you every time he leaves. Dean hasn't even told himself that, not really.

He butters the toast, places the eggs next to it, fresh coffee in your favorite mug. You're not sure if he knows it's your favorite, but it's nice either way.

"Didn't know you cooked- always thought you were a takeout and beer guy-" you watch him as he brings the plates over, resting them on the table.

"I don't get much chance to-" he shrugs.

"Maybe you should join me one day- help me bake some of those pies you love so much."

"I'd only ruin them-" he laughs, taking his own seat at the table, "-I don't know how to do something like that-"

You take a bite of the eggs- they're good- he's clearly spent time perfecting them. You wonder if he's ever cooked them for someone else- you don't ask.

"What's your favorite? Out of the pies, I mean."

"All of them, sweetheart- they're all good-"

"That's not a real answer-" you laugh, "-go on, your favorite-"

He thinks for a moment, "What was that one you made last year, you said it was too sour- but then you added honey and ice cream and it was fuckin' perfect-"

"The rhubarb?" You laugh, "That one was so bad!"

You'd reheated it, dressed only in your underwear, hair tousled and face flushed- you'd only just made it out of the bedroom after 2 straight hours of Dean dragging you back in. You'd complained about the taste before you'd even handed him the plate, promising you'd made it better with the addition of the ice cream, an act Dean would normally consider blasphemy.

That was the moment he realized that he loved you- no, not love, he won't let himself think like that. That was the moment he felt something more, at least- he'll allow himself that much. He doesn't know why- you were right, the pie wasn't particularly good- and he knows it was more than just your looks, though that certainly helped. Maybe it's the way you smiled when he took the first bite, maybe it's the way you laughed when his face twisted from the sour taste. Whatever it was, that was the moment he decided he'd keep coming back as long as you'd have him.

"I don't know- I liked it-" he shrugs.

You smile to yourself, looking back down at your food, "I'll give you the recipe- remind me- you can try it out before you see me next-"

You take a sip of his coffee, it's strong- you know that's how he likes it. Always needs to be alert. You're not sure how he does it, all this running around, chasing- or being chased more often. He doesn't tell you much about hunts, little snippets here and there. When it goes well sometimes he'll break it all down- what Sam said to the witness, how he set the trap near the faerie ring, why he had to spend all week hunting for bladderwrack. When it goes bad he doesn't tell you as much, half because he doesn't want to scare you, half because he can't imagine bringing something so horrific to a place with so much sweetness.

You wonder why he does it to himself, let's himself get so beat up. Maybe that's part of the charm of the job- that he can wreck himself until he's unrecognisable and act like it's just collateral damage. Maybe he enjoys getting hurt. Maybe that's why he won't stop.

You don't want to dwell on it- your pretty boy won't let you. He wouldn't want you imagining things like that.

He smiles at you, "Why don't I take you on a proper date- down to the lake- that'd make a change-"

"Who said this was a date?"

"Sorry- would staying here and fucking be less of a commitment?" He teases.

"Sex with you isn't a commitment-" you laugh, "-its a goddamn workout."

He rolls his eyes, "Shut up and eat your eggs-"

You look at him as you pick at your food- he looks good without a shirt, you should make sure he's topless more often. You can see the scars on his chest, the bullet wound next to his tattoo- you know he's not proud of them, but he always wears them like they mean something.

You haven't discussed what happened last time- the injuries, the fear. You haven't discussed how bad you want him to stop. The last few months seem to have treated him kinder, he's not got any fresh injuries, and he's clearly in a better mood than before. He slept through the night, last night, no signs of stirring, though you laid awake longer than you'd like to admit- watching him cautiously.

He reaches up to scratch the back of his head, his biceps shifting as he does.

"Fuck Dean- you're such a liar-"

He's clearly taken aback, confused, "What?"

"You so work out- don't act like you don't-"

"I don't!"

"You don't get muscles like that without trying."

He flexes his shoulders without realizing, "That's just my build-"

"You can lift me like it's nothing and you fuck with the stamina of a twenty-year-old."

"That's got nothing to do with working out- I'm just good at sex-"

"And you're oh so humble too!" You laugh.

"Am I not good at sex?" He raises his eyebrow.

"Didn't realize this was an interrogation."

"Well?"

You shrug, lying, "I've had better-"

He laughs, "You've had better?"

"You're not the only guy on earth to make a girl cum-"

He stands, "Open your legs."

You laugh, "I need to drink my coffee-"

"You can drink your coffee- just open your legs for me-"

You pick your mug back up with a deliberate movement, cocking your eyebrow as you part your thighs.

He grins at you, shaking his head, "You're a brat, you know that right?"

You smile, "That's why you keep coming back."

He sinks down, knees colliding with the floor in one move, body heavy as he looks up at you from between your legs. Sure he's a cocky motherfucker- but sometimes that ego gets pushed aside for pure need. That's how he's looking at you right now, like he's hungry for something only you can give him.

He kisses your knee, a light peck against bare skin that causes goosebumps to bloom out. Another kiss, higher, planted against your inner thigh. He keeps his eyes on you- you shrug, take a sip of your coffee.

He can't deny his smile, pressing another kiss even higher, "You're the only person who acts like this- got me on my knees fuckin' worshiping you and you wanna drink coffee?"

You laugh, "Want me to say thanks? That what all your other girls do?"

"Ain't no other girls- you expect me to fuck someone else when I've got you waiting for me at home?"

He doesn't even realize he's said it- it comes out so naturally.

No other girls. Home.

You put the mug down.

He parts your legs further, scattering kisses up your thigh as he moves closer to you. He reaches up, dragging one finger along the middle of your panties. Your breath cuts, staring down at him expectantly, shivers running up your spine.

He grins up at you, "Already so wet."

You don't have any biting response- your brain's already short-circuited, and he knows it. He rubs your clit through the fabric, smiling up at you like it's casual. He leans down slowly, eyes still on you, until his lips are pressing against the same spot- you bite your lip, not willing to give him a sound.

He hooks his fingers around the side of your underwear, dragging it across as he exposes you to the cool air. He gives you one final glance- a silent moment of consideration, then he moves- diving between your thighs. He's on you like a mess, his tongue lapping at your clit, fingers pushed inside- you gasp, reaching out to grab his hair, your head falling back as you try to keep yourself upright on the chair.

His mouth wraps around your pussy, circling your clit as he wraps his free arm around your thigh to keep you still. Your legs are already twitching- he pulls back slightly to get a better look at you, movements slowing, a flat tongue pressed over you.

"Better-" he mutters under his breath, not giving you a chance to respond before he pushes another finger into you. You tug at his hair, a moan forced out of you as you fall further into him. He pushes your thighs onto his shoulders, lifting you slightly off the seat as he leans back in.

His tongue is faster now, darting over your clit in pointed movements- a frenzy he doesn't want to control. He wants to feel you- the way your legs twitch on his shoulders, the way your stomach tenses every time he grinds his mouth over you. He knows you're being facetious- you'd never say something like that to him seriously- but he still wants to prove you wrong. If not for your sake, for his own, so that he can leave here knowing you won't kick him to the curb the second another man finds his way between your thighs.

Your heel digs into his back, pulling him closer. He's right, of course, you've never had someone treat you the way he does- like being able to taste you is his own personal sacrament. No one else has even come close, from the moment you met him you knew he'd be different- and you're still kidding yourself that it's only because of the sex. No- no Dean's different in every way- no matter how much you try to ignore that.

His fingers find a steady rhythm, your arousal soaking over his chin and hand. You're doing everything you can to keep yourself upright, though he's taken most of your weight onto his shoulders. His hair's a mess, slicked back on his head by your fingers- it looks like he's slept for 12 hours straight.

He sucks on your clit, only slightly- your whole body jolts, rocking in to him for more. He breaks away looking up at you with his fingers still moving, "Oh pretty girl- tell me what I wanna hear-"

You can barely look at him, swallowing hard, "Fu- Dean- jesus-"

He grins, sing-song like, curling his fingers, "Tell me-"

You relent, "It's you!- Okay!- You're the best fuck I've ever had!-"

His eyes glimmer but he pouts, "You're just saying that..."

"Stop being an asshole and make me cum-" you laugh, looking away from him, back up to the ceiling.

You feel him grin as he lowers his mouth back on you, not bothering to tease anymore as he goes directly back to your clit- his tongue darts over it, faster, you let out another begging moan, pulling him in with your leg.

He sucks on your clit again and you break, hips lifting up, body rutting into him, mind going clear for a moment as you let the pleasure rush you. He keeps his fingers moving, fucking you through it- still smiling up at you, taking in the sight of you coming undone around him.

He pulls back, only slightly, letting your body relax again before he pulls his fingers away. He drags your panties back over you, his thumb rubbing against your clit once again, then slumps back.

He has that dazed look that tells you he got as much out of it as you did- if not more. Honestly, he looks dopey, big eyes glossed over, biting down on his bottom lip as his gaze washes over you, a loose grin across his face.

"I could die happy- right here- right now-"

You laugh, "Please don't- it'd be so much work trying to hide your dead body."

"It's actually surprisingly easy if-"

You hold up your hand to stop him, "I really don't think you should tell me this."

He nods in agreement, remembering himself.

He stands up carefully, steadying himself before he moves back towards the table. He gives you a small glance as he picks your mug up, placing it in your hands with a small shake of his head, you take it, holding back your own laugh.

He takes your empty plate, then his, walking back towards the sink. He runs the tap as you look at him, sipping your coffee as you consider.

Dean's not fucking anyone else- or at least he's giving you the decency of pretending he's not. That's something, at least, a silent shift neither of you have mentioned. He wanted to take you on a date, a half joke- sure- but a date all the same.

He's always confused you. Pretended at the start like he was a loverboy, you figured out pretty quick he was only doing it to get in your pants. You didn't mind, you wanted to get in his. But the more time you spend with him, the more you think maybe what he showed you to begin with wasn't an act. Maybe that's who he really wants to be. Maybe this playboy persona is just that- a persona.

You cough slightly, trying to sound casual, "What is this- us?

He turns the tap off, spinning round with a laugh, "Where's this coming from, huh?"

"Can't make a girl cum like that before midday and not expect her to ask questions." You shrug.

His mouth turns into an upside down smile for a moment, nodding, "It's good, right? It's casual- easy- we're easy-"

"Sure- but what does that actually mean to you-"

This isn't the strangest conversation you've ever had, but it's certainly starting to get more serious than he's used to, "It means I visit when I'm nearby and we fuck and have a laugh and you don't think about me when I'm not here-"

"What if I do think about you?"

"You shouldn't-" he looks at you, more stern than he means to, "-whole point of this is it's not supposed to be anything more-"

"You don't think about me?" You pout.

"I'm allowed to think about you-" he laughs, "-I'm not gonna get any crazy ideas."

You give a face of mock offense, "Oh? You really think I'm gonna go crazy for you?"

"Can't fault y', sweetheart, it's just impossible to resist all this charm." He gestures to his body.

You roll your eyes. The washer finishes, a small chime telling you it's done. Dean wanders towards the sound as you look back down at your coffee. The conversation's steering away from your point, you give it one last attempt, "Well- I do. I do think about you when you're not here."

He keeps his voice up as he rifles around the wet clothes, "You gotta quit that, honey- nothing good can come of thinking about shit you can't control-"

He pulls his shirt out, holding it up to look at it.

"-let's just enjoy the time we do have together, yeah?"

It's spotless.

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

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"Tell me one of you saw where it went," he said.

"No," Sam answered.

Dean looked toward Bobby. "You dropped it."

"I noticed."

"And then it vanished."

"I noticed that too."

Dean's jaw tightened. "Great. Just checking."

You stared at the empty floor. The last whisper still seemed to cling to the room. Soon.

It had not been loud. It had barely sounded like a voice at all. More like breath moving through old walls.

You pressed a hand against your chest. The pain from the vision had faded, but something remained beneath it. A low, hollow pull. The same sensation you had felt when the coin was near, only weaker now. As though a door somewhere inside you had been left slightly open.

Sam stepped away from the bed and searched the room. He checked beneath the chairs, inside Bobby's coffee bag, under the rolling table, and even behind the cabinet containing your medical supplies. Nothing.

Bobby turned the plastic bag over. The seal had not been torn. It had simply opened.

"Demon took it back," Dean said.

"Or it was never entirely here," Sam replied.

Dean glanced at him. "You're gonna have to make that sound less insane."

Sam crossed toward the window, thinking. "The coin could've been a physical object and a conduit at the same time. Something tied to the demon's prison."

"So it can teleport evil pocket change now?"

"I don't know."

"That's comforting."

A nurse appeared in the doorway. She stopped when she saw all four of you staring at the floor.

"Is everything all right?"

Dean looked down at his hospital gown. "Define all right."

Her expression hardened. "You're supposed to be in your room."

"I got lost."

"Your room is across the hall."

"Very confusing layout."

She looked at the IV pole leaning beside him, then at the strain he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. "You need to sit down before you fall down."

"I'm fine."

You and Sam spoke at the same time. "No, you're not."

Dean looked between you. "Wow. Betrayal from all sides."

The nurse entered and reached for his good arm. Dean allowed her to guide him toward the chair, though he made a show of acting as though it had been his idea. The moment he sat, his face tightened. You noticed. So did Sam. Neither of you said anything.

The nurse checked your monitors, adjusted the IV, and inspected the bandage at your side. She asked why your heart rate had risen so sharply.

You looked toward the others. "Bad dream."

Dean's eyes shifted to you. It was not quite disapproval. More an acknowledgement of the lie.

The nurse seemed unconvinced, but after checking that your stitches remained intact, she let it go. Before leaving, she pointed directly at Dean.

"If I come back and you're standing, I'm calling security."

Dean waited until the door closed. "She likes me."

"She threatened you," Sam said.

"Passion comes in many forms."

Bobby ignored them. "We need someplace private."

"We're in a hospital room," Dean said.

"A hospital room where the lights shut off and a demon whispered through the walls."

Dean considered that. "Fair."

Sam lowered his voice. "We can't take them anywhere yet."

"I didn't say we were leaving today."

Dean glanced at him. "You said yet."

"You have a tube in your chest."

"You mentioned."

"And Emma just came out of surgery."

"I know."

The flatness of Dean's answer quieted the room. He did not look at you. His attention remained fixed on the empty plastic bag in Bobby's hand. You understood the reason for his tone. He remembered the blood.

Maybe not everything he had said in the car, but enough of the woods. Enough of the hospital. Enough to know how close both of you had come.

The concern was still there. He was simply locking it away again. You did not know whether that relieved or disappointed you.

Bobby folded the plastic bag and shoved it into his coat pocket. "We start with the journal."

"What journal?" you asked.

"The one where I saw the coin."

"You have it?"

"Not here."

"Where?"

Bobby hesitated. It was slight. But after everything that had happened, you noticed hesitation differently.

Your stomach tightened. "Bobby."

He rubbed a hand along his beard. "It's at my place."

"Then we go there when the doctors release us."

"No," Dean said.

You turned toward him. He still was not looking at you.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I mean you're not going anywhere near a demon investigation until you can stand without ripping yourself open."

"You're sitting here with a punctured lung."

"Exactly. I'm an excellent example of what not to do."

"You walked across the hall."

"Heroically."

"Stupidly," Sam corrected.

Dean pointed at him. "Still made it."

You stared at Dean. He finally looked back. His expression was calmer now, almost casual, but you knew him too well to mistake it for indifference. "You're not benching me."

"You got stabbed yesterday."

"And you got bitten, beaten, and nearly strangled."

"Yeah, well, I've got seniority."

"That is not how hunting works."

"It's how this hunt works."

A spark of irritation flared through you. "Because it's about me?"

Dean's face changed. Only a little. "That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant."

"No. What I meant is that none of us are useful if we bleed out on Bobby's carpet."

Bobby looked offended. "I just replaced that rug."

Sam closed his eyes briefly. "Can we not argue about this now?"

You leaned back against the pillow, pain pulling at your side. Dean noticed the movement. His hand twitched against the arm of the chair, but he did not reach for you.

Instead, he said, "See?"

You glared. "Don't."

His mouth closed. The silence that followed was heavier than the argument.

Bobby looked between the three of you and sighed. "Doctors release you, we go home. Until then, Sam and I start digging."

"You already know something," you said.

Bobby's attention shifted toward you. "What?"

"About the bloodline."

"I said it was a possibility."

"You recognized the coin. You recognized the kind of prison I saw. And when Sam said bloodline, neither of you looked surprised."

Sam frowned. 

"Bobby?"

Bobby stared at the floor for a moment. Dean leaned forward slightly.

It was a small movement, but the warning in his voice was clear. "What haven't you told us?"

Bobby removed his cap and ran one hand over his hair. "I didn't know enough to tell."

"That's not an answer," you said.

"It's the truth."

"Then give me the rest of it."

Bobby looked at you. There was regret in his expression. That frightened you more than any denial would have. "Years ago, I came across a story about a demon that couldn't be killed."

Dean gave a humorless laugh. "Plenty of those."

"This one was different. Older than most. Powerful enough that exorcisms didn't hold it and devil's traps barely slowed it down."

"The red-eyed demon," Sam said.

"Maybe." Bobby put his cap back on.

"The journal never gave it a name. Just called it the One Behind the Door."

The words pulled at something inside you. Cold stone. Iron chains. Red eyes behind the bars.

You gripped the blanket. "What happened to it?"

"A group of hunters and witches built a prison. Not in Hell. Not exactly on Earth either. Someplace between."

Sam's brow furrowed. "A pocket dimension?"

"Call it whatever you want. Point is, they couldn't destroy the demon, so they sealed it away."

"With blood," you whispered.

Bobby nodded. "Several bloodlines were used to hold the seal together."

The monitor beside you seemed suddenly louder. "How many?"

"Seven, according to the journal."

"And those families?"

"Most disappeared."

"What does that mean?"

Bobby's eyes remained on yours. "It means the demon spent centuries hunting them down."

The room felt too small. You looked toward the window, but the glass offered no escape. Only your reflection lying pale against the hospital bed, surrounded by people who seemed to know pieces of your life that you did not.

Sam moved closer. "Were the bloodlines supposed to pass the seal through generations?"

"That's what the journal suggested."

"And if one family died out?"

"The burden shifted to the others."

Your mouth went dry. "Until there was only one left."

No one answered. They did not need to. You closed your eyes. The demon's voice returned. Your blood did. Come home, Little Lock.

When you opened your eyes again, Bobby looked older. Tired in a way you had not noticed before.

"How long have you suspected?" you asked.

"I didn't."

"Bobby."

"I suspected there might be a connection after the demon called you Little Lock. That's all."

"When?"

He did not answer quickly enough. Your pulse rose. "When did you start suspecting?"

"Months ago."

The words landed harder than you expected.

Sam turned toward him. "You never told us."

"I didn't have proof."

"You had enough to research it."

"I did."

"And?"

Bobby's jaw worked beneath his beard. "And I found records."

Something inside you went still. "What kind of records?"

"Births. Deaths. Families that vanished. Fires that didn't make sense. Children who disappeared before their parents were killed."

You stared at him. "Did you find mine?"

Bobby looked away. That was the answer. Your throat tightened.

"You knew who I was."

"No."

"You found my family."

"I found a name that might have been connected."

"What name?"

Bobby remained silent. You shoved the blanket away.

The movement sent pain tearing through your side, but anger carried you halfway upright before Sam stepped forward. "Emma, stop."

"Tell me the name."

Bobby looked at the monitors, at the IV, anywhere except your face.

"Bobby." Dean's voice was quiet. But it carried across the room like a blade. "Tell her."

Bobby's shoulders dropped. "The Harlow family."

The name meant nothing. And somehow that made it worse. You had hoped for recognition. A flash of memory. Some instinctive pull that would tell you the truth had finally found you. There was nothing.

"Who were they?"

"Hunters, a long time ago. Later generations tried to leave the life."

"My parents?"

"I don't know."

"You just said you found them."

"I found a couple named Daniel and Rebecca Harlow. They had a daughter."

Your fingers tightened around the blanket. "What was her name?"

Bobby looked at you. "Emily."

The room tilted. Not Emma. Emily. Close enough to feel like an echo. A name blurred by smoke, blood, and years without memory. Your heart began pounding.

Sam reached toward you. You pulled away. "What happened to them?"

"Their house burned down."

"When?"

"Twenty-three years ago."

Your breathing stopped. Bobby continued carefully. "Both parents were found inside."

"And the daughter?"

"Missing."

The words hollowed out the air around you. You looked down at your hands. They seemed unfamiliar. As though they belonged to the missing child in Bobby's story rather than to you.

"How old was she?"

"An infant."

Dean frowned. "That doesn't line up. Emma's twenty—"

"Records were altered," Bobby said. "Dates changed. Names rewritten. Whoever hid that child knew how to erase a trail."

"You think it was me," you said.

"I think it could've been."

"Could have?"

"I don't have enough to swear to it."

"But you had enough to keep it from me."

Bobby flinched. It was small, but you saw it. "I was trying to protect you."

The anger inside you sharpened. "From what? My own name?"

"From believing something we couldn't prove."

"You let me believe I had nothing."

"That ain't what I did, kid, and you know it."

"You knew there might be a family. Parents. A whole life before the woods."

"And if I told you and it was wrong?"

"At least it would've been my choice to find out."

Bobby stood. His chair scraped across the floor. "You were waking up screaming every night. That demon was crawling around inside your head. You could barely make it through a hunt without losing time."

"So you decided I couldn't handle the truth."

"I decided I wasn't handing you another ghost to chase when I didn't know if it was yours."

The hurt in his voice should have softened you. It did not. Not yet.

You looked toward Sam. "Did you know?"

"No." His answer came immediately.

You believed him. Then you looked at Dean.

His face remained unreadable. "No," he said before you could ask.

You swallowed. Something in your chest loosened slightly, though the anger remained.

Dean glanced toward Bobby. "You should've told us."

Bobby's eyes hardened. "You think I don't know that now?"

"I think you had reasons."

Your gaze snapped toward Dean. He heard the change in your breathing and looked at you. "But reasons don't make it right," he finished.

The words did not completely erase the sting. But they helped. Bobby turned toward the window. For several seconds, only the machinery filled the silence.

Then Sam spoke. "If Emma is the missing Harlow child, why did she wake in the woods as an adult with no memories?"

Bobby faced him again. "Could be a protection spell."

"Twenty years of her life hidden?"

"Maybe not hidden. Removed."

You stared at him. "Removed by who?"

Bobby looked toward the floor. "Her family, possibly."

"Why would they do that?"

"To keep the demon from finding what was in her memories."

The thought made your stomach twist. "Or the demon took them," Sam said.

Bobby nodded. "Could be that too."

Dean shifted in the chair. "What matters is figuring out which."

You looked at him. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with pain and exhaustion, but his voice remained steady. Practical. Controlled. Nothing like the man in your fragmented memories who had begged you to keep your eyes open. That Dean had been stripped bare by fear.

This one had rebuilt every wall. "Does it?" you asked.

Dean frowned. "Does what?"

"Does it matter who took them? They're gone either way."

"It matters if we can get them back."

The certainty in his answer caught you off guard. "You think we can?"

"I think we've fixed weirder."

Sam nodded. "Memory spells can sometimes be reversed."

"And sometimes they fry your brain," Dean added.

Sam glared at him.

"What? She should know."

You almost smiled. Almost.

Bobby returned to his chair. "The journal might tell us more. There were pages I couldn't translate."

"Symbols like the coin?" Sam asked.

"Some of them."

"Then that's where we start."

You looked at the IV attached to your arm. "I'm coming."

Dean sighed. "Here we go."

"You don't get to decide."

"No, apparently the doctor does. And for once, I'm a huge fan of authority."

"You hate authority."

"People grow."

Sam stepped between the argument before it could begin again. "We'll bring the research here."

Dean looked at him. "All of it?"

"Scans. Photos. Whatever Bobby can send."

Bobby nodded. "I can call Rufus's old contact in Louisville. Woman specializes in dead languages and unpleasant books."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "That description doesn't narrow down hunters much."

You leaned back against the pillows. The movement exhausted you more than you wanted to admit.

Sam noticed. "We don't have to solve everything today."

"It feels like we do."

"The demon said soon," Dean said. "Not now."

You looked at him. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. It means we use the time instead of panicking."

The words were sensible. Almost annoyingly so. But beneath them, you heard what he was really saying. Stay still. Heal. Let us handle this for a minute. You did not like it. But your body had begun to betray you. The pain medication dragged heavily at your thoughts, and the argument with Bobby had left you trembling. 

Dean watched you struggle to hide it.  His expression softened for only a second. Then he reached for the plastic cup on your table and held it toward you. "Drink."

You stared at him. "Was that a request? It sounded like an order."

"Hospital air makes me bossy."

"You were bossy before."

"Then it's probably terminal."

You took the cup. Your fingers brushed his. Dean released it immediately, leaning back as though the contact had meant nothing. Maybe it had. Maybe the moments you remembered from the woods had only been fear and blood loss.

You took a sip of water. Dean looked toward Bobby. "The journal mention a way to kill this thing?"

"Seal it again, maybe."

"That's not killing."

"No."

Dean's mouth flattened. "I'm getting tired of things that don't die."

Sam crossed his arms. "If Emma carries the final bloodline, the seal may be concentrated in her."

You lowered the cup. "What does that mean?"

"It could explain why the demon is getting stronger."

Bobby nodded slowly. "Seven lines became one. More power in a single vessel, but more vulnerable too."

Dean's gaze sharpened. "Don't call her a vessel."

Bobby looked at him. "It's a term."

"Pick another one."

The room fell quiet. Dean seemed to realize how quickly he had reacted. He shifted in the chair and looked away. "Just saying. We've had bad experiences with that word."

Sam studied him for a moment but did not comment. You looked down at the water in your cup, hiding the small warmth that had risen beneath your ribs.

Bobby cleared his throat. "The seal may be tied to her soul."

That warmth vanished. "My soul?"

"Could be why the demon can't simply kill you."

"The vampires had orders to keep me alive."

Sam began pacing slowly. "If her death destroyed the seal, the demon might be released."

"Or trapped permanently," Bobby said.

Dean's attention snapped toward him. "Which one?"

"We don't know."

"Then we find out before anybody starts talking about her dying." His tone remained even. Almost casual. But the chair creaked beneath the pressure of his hand gripping the armrest.

Bobby noticed. So did you. Sam stopped pacing. "The demon needs something from her. Otherwise, it would have killed her already."

"A choice," you said.

The word came from nowhere. Or perhaps from the memory of red eyes behind iron bars. Everyone looked at you. You stared toward the blank wall beyond them.

"He's been trying to make me afraid of losing you."

Dean's expression shifted. "Us?"

"He showed me things. Made me hear your voices. The vampires hurt both of you where I could see it."

Sam's face grew thoughtful. "It wants emotional leverage."

"To make me open the door."

No one contradicted you. The truth settled slowly over the room. The demon did not want your blood alone. It wanted your permission. Your surrender. It wanted you desperate enough to believe releasing it was the only way to save the people you loved.

You looked at Bobby. "The Harlow house. Where was it?"

"Missouri."

"Near the prison?"

"I don't know."

"Find out."

Bobby nodded. The anger between you had not disappeared. But there were more important things than forgiveness now.

Sam gathered the empty evidence bag and Bobby's notes. "I'll go with him."

Dean looked toward the IV pole beside him. "And I'll—"

"Go back to bed," Sam said.

Dean stared at him. "You're enjoying this."

"A little."

"I can research."

"You can barely breathe."

"Breathing's overrated."

Sam pointed toward the hall. "Bed."

Dean looked toward you as though hoping for support. You lifted the cup. "Doctor's orders."

"Unbelievable."

Bobby and Sam started toward the door. Bobby paused before leaving.

He looked at you. "I should've told you."

You did not answer immediately. The apology sat between you, too heavy to accept and too sincere to reject.

"I know why you didn't," you said at last.

Bobby waited. 

"That doesn't mean I'm okay with it."

"I know." He nodded once and followed Sam into the hall.

Dean remained in the chair. You looked at him. "Aren't you supposed to go too?"

"Probably."

"But?"

He glanced toward the hallway. "Wheelchair's late."

"There's one directly outside."

"Could be haunted."

You smiled faintly. Dean leaned his head against the back of the chair. For the first time since entering the room, he allowed his eyes to close. Exhaustion settled across his face. Without the sarcasm and constant movement, he looked worse. Younger in some ways. More vulnerable in others.

"You can sleep," you said.

His eyes opened. "I'm not tired."

"You're falling asleep sitting up."

"Meditating."

"You don't meditate."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."

The words were teasing. But they struck somewhere tender. Maybe he saw it in your face, because his expression changed. "Bad joke."

You turned the plastic cup slowly between your hands. "Do you remember the drive here?"

Dean became very still. It lasted less than a second. Then he shrugged carefully with his uninjured shoulder.

"Bits."

"What bits?"

"Sam driving like a maniac."

"Anything else?"

His gaze dropped toward the floor. "Not really."

The answer sounded too casual. You studied him. "Sam's a bad liar."

"Yeah, he gets that from Dad."

"You're better."

"I know."

"That wasn't a compliment."

Dean lifted one corner of his mouth. "Still taking it."

You waited. He did not offer anything else. Whatever had happened in the Impala, he was not ready to speak about it. Maybe neither of you was.

You looked toward the doorway. 

"Do you believe Bobby?"

"About the family?" 

You nodded.

Dean took his time answering. "I believe he found something."

"That's not the same."

"No."

"What if Emily Harlow is me?"

"Then Bobby picked a pretty close name."

Despite yourself, you laughed softly. Pain tugged at your stitches. Dean's smile faded when you flinched. His hand moved against the chair, almost reaching toward you. He stopped it.

"What if I remember them?" you asked.

"Then you remember."

"What if I don't like what I find?"

Dean looked at you. His face was serious now. No humor. No easy dismissal. "Then it doesn't change who you are."

"How do you know?"

"Because whatever happened before the woods didn't make you stay."

You frowned. "What?"

"You could've walked away a dozen times." His eyes held yours. "You stayed."

With Bobby. With Sam. With him. He did not say the rest. He did not need to.

"You didn't know anything about yourself," Dean continued. "Still chose who you wanted to be."

A warmth spread slowly through your chest. "You make me sound noble."

"Don't worry. I've seen you eat gas station sushi."

"There goes the moment."

"Couldn't let it get weird."

He looked away. There it was. The wall sliding back into place. You let him have it. For now.

A faint metallic sound came from somewhere inside the room. Both of you froze. It was soft. A single spin of metal against tile. Dean's hand moved toward his side, reaching for a weapon that was not there. You looked beneath the bed. Nothing. The sound came again. Not below you. Inside the wall.

A coin rolling along the other side of the plaster. It traveled slowly from the far corner of the room toward the head of your bed.

Dean stood too quickly. Pain crossed his face, but he ignored it.

"Sam!"

The rolling stopped. Silence followed. Then a dark red line appeared on the wall above you. It began as a single point. A bead of liquid gathering beneath the ceiling.

It slid downward. Then another appeared beside it. And another. The blood moved across the white paint in thin streams, tracing shapes as it fell. Dean stepped between you and the wall.

The symbols formed slowly. An iron door. Seven circles around it. Six had been crossed through. Only one remained.

Beneath the drawing, letters began to appear. Not written by any visible hand. Carved through the paint from beneath.

Dean stared at them. "What does it say?"

You did not know the language. But the meaning entered your mind anyway. The pressure behind your eyes returned. The voice inside the wall whispered the translation.

You read it aloud. "When the last blood opens the door, the buried king will rise."

The room went cold. A final line cut itself beneath the first. This time, Dean understood it too. It was written in English.

COME HOME, EMILY.

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The ceiling above you was white, broken into square panels that blurred together whenever you tried to focus. Pale morning light leaked through a narrow window beside the bed, casting a cold gray line across the wall.

You tried to move. Pain answered immediately.

It tore through your side with such force that your breath caught in your throat. Every muscle in your body tightened around it. The monitor beside you began beeping faster as you sank back against the pillow, your fingers curling weakly into the hospital blanket.

Memory returned in violent flashes. Leaves beneath your back. A knife glinting above you. Dean shouting your name. The blade sinking into your side. Blood on his face. His hand against your cheek. Look at me.

Your breathing quickened. You turned your head, searching the room.

No one was there. "Dean?"

The name left you before you could stop it. Your voice barely carried past the bed. The door opened almost immediately.

Sam stepped inside.

He wore a clean gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans that looked like they had come from the bottom of an emergency duffel bag. A white bandage covered part of his forehead, and purple bruising had spread beneath his left eye. He looked as though he had not slept at all.

The relief on his face appeared so quickly that it hurt to see. "Hey."

He crossed the room in three long steps and stopped beside the bed. "You're awake."

You swallowed. Your throat felt dry and scraped raw. "Dean?"

Sam's expression softened. "He's alive."

The air rushed from your lungs. You closed your eyes for one brief second. Alive. Dean was alive.

The word settled slowly inside you, loosening something that had been clenched tightly around your chest since the moment you woke.

"Is he okay?"

Sam pulled the chair closer and sat down. "He's going to be."

That was not the same thing. You opened your eyes again. "What happened?"

"You were both in surgery most of the night."

"Both?"

Sam nodded.

"The knife caused internal bleeding. They repaired the damage, but you lost a lot of blood."

Your gaze drifted down toward your body. A thick bandage disappeared beneath the loose hospital gown at your side. Tubes ran from your arm to clear bags hanging beside the bed. Even the small movement of looking down made nausea roll through your stomach.

"And Dean?"

Sam hesitated. It was brief. Barely noticeable. But you saw it.

"Sam."

"He had several broken ribs, a damaged shoulder, and a punctured lung."

Your chest tightened. "The vampire—"

"Bite missed anything major. It looked worse than it was."

You stared at him.

Sam sighed. "Okay, it was still bad. But the punctured lung was the bigger problem. They put in a chest tube and repaired the damage. He woke up a few hours ago."

"He's awake?"

"Technically."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he woke up, complained about the hospital gown, tried to remove his IV, and insulted a nurse's taste in daytime television."

Despite the pain, a small laugh escaped you. It pulled sharply at your stitches. You winced and pressed one hand against your side. 

Sam leaned forward immediately. "Easy."

"I'm okay."

"That phrase is officially banned."

You looked at him. "Dean said it too much?"

"Constantly."

"Then I agree."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifted, but the smile faded quickly. His eyes moved over your face as though he were checking for something.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"That wasn't nothing."

Sam looked down at his hands. There were healing cuts across his knuckles. One had reopened, leaving a thin red line near his thumb.

"You scared us." The words were quiet. 

You studied him. In the woods, there had been no time to think about what Sam had endured. You remembered pieces of him fighting, carrying you, pressing his shirt against your wound. You remembered his voice, though most of the words had blurred together.

He had gotten both of you out. Dean had barely been able to walk. You had been unconscious. Sam had carried the weight of all three of you.

"You saved us."

His jaw tightened. "I almost didn't."

"But you did."

Sam looked at you then. There was something raw beneath the exhaustion in his face.

"He could barely stand."

"And he still followed you, didn't he?"

A faint breath of laughter escaped Sam. "Of course he did."

"That sounds like him."

"Yeah."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The monitor continued its steady rhythm beside the bed. Somewhere in the hallway, wheels squeaked against polished floors. A nurse laughed softly at something beyond the door. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. They felt strangely distant after the violence of the woods.

A nurse entered carrying a plastic cup and a clipboard. She looked from you to Sam and smiled.

"Good. You're awake." She checked the monitors, asked you several questions, then helped you take a small sip of water. Even that simple act exhausted you more than it should have.

"How long do I have to stay here?" you asked.

The nurse gave you the look of someone who had heard the same question a thousand times. "That depends on how you recover."

"So, today?"

"No."

"Tomorrow?"

She adjusted the IV line. "Also unlikely."

You looked toward Sam for support.

He raised both hands. "I'm with her."

"Traitor."

The nurse hid a smile. "I'll let the doctor know you're awake."

She walked toward the door, then paused. "Your other patient has been asking every half hour."

You looked at Sam.

He sighed. "Dean."

The nurse nodded. "He's been very polite."

Sam stared at her. "No, he hasn't."

Her smile widened. "No. He really hasn't."

She left. You looked back at Sam. "He's been asking about me?"

Sam leaned into the chair. "Mostly he's been asking whether you're awake."

"That counts." You smiled despite yourself.

The expression faded as another memory surfaced. Dean lying across you. Blood spraying warm against your face. His scream when the vampire's teeth tore into his shoulder. The way he had crawled through the leaves with one arm barely working.

Can't lose you. You frowned. The words were not part of the woods. They belonged somewhere darker. The backseat of the Impala. Dean's voice near your ear. Or maybe it had been a dream.

"What happened in the car?"

Sam went still. Only for a moment. Then he shifted in the chair. "You were unconscious."

"I know."

"Dean stayed in the back with you."

"I remember pieces."

Sam watched you carefully. "What pieces?"

You searched through the fragments. The vibration of the engine. The smell of leather and blood. A hand covering yours. Dean's voice. You're okay. You're gonna be okay. Then something softer. Something you could not quite reach.

"I don't know."

Sam nodded too quickly. "Probably the medication."

You narrowed your eyes. "You're bad at lying."

"Dean says I'm excellent at it."

"Dean lies professionally."

"Fair."

Before you could press him, the door opened a third time. This time, Bobby stepped inside.

His cap sat low over his forehead, and his expression was caught somewhere between relief and irritation. He carried two cups of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

"Well," he said, looking you over. "You look terrible."

You smiled. "You too."

"That's better."

He set the coffee down and walked to the bed. His hand hovered near your shoulder as if he wanted to hug you but did not know where he could touch without hurting you.

He settled for squeezing your hand. "You gave us one hell of a scare, kid."

"Sorry."

"No, you ain't."

"Not really."

"That's what I thought." He pulled the second chair closer and sat beside Sam.

For several minutes, Bobby filled you in on what had happened after surgery. The doctors had stabilized Dean shortly before dawn. Sam had received stitches, scans, and repeated lectures about resting, all of which he had ignored. Bobby had arrived sometime before sunrise. Neither man mentioned the vampires.

Not at first. You noticed the avoidance almost immediately.

"What did you find?"

Bobby and Sam exchanged a look. You sighed. "Please don't do that."

"Do what?" Sam asked.

"That thing where you both silently decide how much information I can handle."

Bobby took a drink of coffee. "You just woke up."

"And apparently everyone thinks that makes me stupid."

"No one thinks you're stupid," Sam said.

"Then tell me."

Bobby lowered the cup. "The nest wasn't acting alone."

Your stomach tightened. "The vampire said someone sent them."

Sam nodded. "We know."

"How?"

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a small plastic evidence bag. Something metallic rested inside it. Sam placed the bag on the table beside your bed.

At first, you thought it was an ordinary coin. It was dark with age, nearly black around the edges, and slightly larger than a half dollar. One side appeared almost completely smooth, its markings worn away by years of handling.

The other side bore the image of a lock. Not a simple lock. Its body was long and narrow, surrounded by an intricate circle of symbols. Tiny lines radiated outward from it like cracks spreading through glass. A dark red stain filled the grooves. You stared at it. The room seemed to grow colder.

"Where did you get that?"

"It was on the lead vampire," Sam said. "Must've gotten caught in my jacket during the fight."

Bobby leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I've seen coins like this before."

"Where?"

"In an old hunter's journal. They're markers."

"For what?"

Bobby's expression hardened. "Deals. Assignments. Debts."

You looked at the coin again. "A demon gave it to them."

"That's what we think."

"No." The answer came too quickly. Too certainly.

Sam frowned. "What?"

You could not explain how you knew. The coin lay sealed behind plastic, several feet away from you, but you could almost feel it. A faint pressure had begun behind your eyes. A pulse. Slow. Steady. Matching the monitor beside you.

"It wasn't just a demon."

Bobby's attention sharpened. "You recognize it?"

"Not exactly."

The symbols around the lock seemed to shift when you looked at them too long. The red stain darkened, then lightened, as if something beneath the metal were breathing. You turned your face away. The pressure eased.

"It belongs to him."

Neither man had to ask who you meant.

The red-eyed demon had followed you from the moment you woke in the Tennessee woods with no memory and blood in your hair. It had haunted your dreams. Used your voice. Spoken through strangers. Called you by a name that made no sense. Little Lock.

Sam looked at Bobby. "The design."

Bobby nodded slowly. "Lock engraved on the coin. Demon said she's the lock.. That ain't a coincidence."

The words settled heavily over the room. You looked toward the window.

Outside, the morning had brightened. Sunlight reflected off the glass of another hospital wing, too harsh and clean for the darkness gathering inside you.

"The vampire said I smelled different."

Sam's expression tightened. "They were trying to get into your head."

"No. He meant it."

You could still see the vampire kneeling over you. The interest in his black eyes. The way the others had been ordered not to kill you.

"They were supposed to bring me back."