FWW

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The first thought you had was, 'Oh my God, did I not chew properly?' because it felt like something warm and clumpy had paused its descent down your oesophagus and was now chilling behind your rib cage. However, your second thought—more of a realisation, really—was, 'Oh shit, it's travelling up.'

"Dean, stop the car," you choked out, seizing him by his arm.

He frowned at you and said, "What? Why?" though he was simultaneously slowing down and pulling over by the grass anyway.

You threw open the door and dashed forward just as a smoothie of breakfast, lunch and even last night's dinner shot up your throat and splattered onto the ground before you.

"Jeez, Y/N," Dean muttered, approaching carefully, "you all right?"

You waved a hand blindly behind you. "I'm okay. Don't come near."

He ignored this and reached over to touch your shoulder. You winced at the burn in your throat, tears springing. You hadn't thrown up since that one time in fifth grade when you ate a whole packet of potato chips and promptly purged them from your stomach into the bathroom sick ten minutes later. Needless to say, you were still a little iffy on eating chips to this day.

"You weren't kidding about that diner food," Dean chuckled. You groaned, partly at him, partly at the sour taste on your tongue. He rubbed your back but you shrugged him off and stumbled to full height. "Take it easy. You sure you're fine?"

"I'm sure," you snapped.

"Y/N—"

You shoved past to grab your bottle of water from the side of the door. You rinsed your mouth and popped in about a dozen capsules of mint-flavoured chewing gum. You inhaled a shaky breath, then dropped into the passenger seat, white-knuckling the leather. "Let's go."

"I don't think being in a car is—"

"Dean. Let's go."

He sighed and tried to give you his stern brow but you ignored him. During the drive back to the bunker, you made him stop twice more. The first time, you vomited once more. The second time was just a precaution. Dean stopped a third time of his own volition under the pretence that he needed to fill up the tank. He waited until you had disappeared into the bathroom to dash inside the store and buy some bottled water, Gatorade, saltine crackers, canned soup and some medicine for fevers and aches. This was not his first rodeo with food poisoning.

He dumped the bag of things in the back. You didn't notice, as you fell right asleep once the Impala was on the road again. He was just happy that he didn't have to stop at all this time; he made it back to the bunker in record time. Cutting off the engine, he sat back with a soft sigh and turned his head to study you. You were curled up against the window, shoes kicked off and feet tucked underneath you. The hair framing your face had been pushed back by the blow of the air-conditioning vent and remained that way even though everything had been turned off now.

Should he wake you up or just carry you inside? It took an unnecessarily long time to come to the decision of carrying you. Clearing his throat, he rounded the car, careful not to let you fall as he opened your door. He scooped you up against his chest and collected the impromptu care kit he had prepared, then slowly descended the stairs of the bunker.

Sam pulled his head out of a book at the sound of footsteps. He opened his mouth but was immediately shushed by Dean. He glanced down at your body and decided that, unable to see any blood or bent bones or irrational anger on his brother's face, you were most likely sleeping, not injured. "What happened?" he whispered, trailing behind as Dean headed for your room.

"Food poisoning."

There was a tense moment, filled only by your bedroom door squeaking open, before Sam snorted. "Are you serious?" It wasn't everyday that one of the three most important hunters in the world came down with the common stomach bug. "You really gotta stop taking her to those backwater bistros, Dean."

"I know, I know." Dean set you down atop your blankets and brushed his palms off on his jeans. He was about to swivel around and exit the room but a thought gave him pause. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. "Come here for a sec," he told Sam. Sam shuffled into the room. "Does she feel feverish to you?"

Sam felt your cheek and nodded slightly. "A bit, yeah. She'll probably wake up from the heat soon." Dean took that as his cue to head to the kitchen to get things prepared. "Whoa, are you planning on playing nurse?" Sam asked, following behind. "Because you know she's not gonna like that, right?"

"She's not gonna like missing a hunt because of freakin' food poisoning either."

"Good point." Sam smirked. He was worried and sympathetic of your situation, of course, but he couldn't help finding it amusing that, out of all the traumas you had received to the head, a bad batch of lunch had knocked you out cold for the longest time.

Dean was heating up some soup when he heard your characteristic footsteps: soft, dragging, slow. He looked over his shoulder as you stumbled into the kitchen. You frowned at him, though the poison was lost in the midst of your crumpled clothes and the hair in your face. "You hungry?" he asked, turning back around so you wouldn't see his smile. You looked really cute. This was the only time he'd allow himself to indulge in his fantasy of sharing a house with you and cooking you dinner, like some sort of Lifetime movie about newlyweds. Quickly, he cut off the thought.

"Ugh." You dropped into a chair at the table. "Not really."

"Well, too bad. You've gotta eat." He set a bowl of creamy soup and some crackers in front of you, then sat down in the adjacent seat.

"Dean," you complained.

"I'm serious, Y/N. You can't function on an empty stomach. Your body needs those nutrients."

"Just because you've binged twelve seasons of Dr Sexy doesn't mean you know anything about medicine."

He smirked. "Just eat. Please? I know a thing or two about food poisoning." He stood and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge. "If you can't, at least drink this."

"I really don't like being babied, Dean."

"I know."

But, because he'd said please, you decided to indulge him. You were still shaky from all the puking but you admitted that you no longer felt fizzy in the stomach, which put you somewhat at ease. You picked up a cracker, dipped it in some soup and began to nibble on it, wondering why Dean had taken such initiative to nurse you back to health—not that you were even that sick to begin with, because you weren't. You were totally fine, assuming you had thrown up all the rotten food in your stomach. You winced at the mental image.

"Y/N," Dean said carefully, "you all right?"

You nodded and forced down another bite, just to see the frown melt off his face. "I just hate being sick," you muttered. Sure, it was a little easier to stomach now that it was all over but the phantom feeling of gagging and the rush of acid—it was the worst. You loathed it. "You don't have to sit here and keep watch, you know."

He just flashed you a crooked smile. You felt your heart roll. It was crazy how handsome he was, and how nice he could be if he felt someone deserved it. This feeling in your chest had persisted ever since you first met him and, just like always, you swallowed it whole. There was no point in wishful thinking.

You finished your food and excused yourself to take a quick shower and brush your teeth. Once you had changed into a fresh set of pyjamas, you shuffled through the kitchen, finding it empty but for the bowl and plate you'd used, washed and left to dry by the sink, then floated into the viewing room. Dean was on the floor, going through some DVDs. "Where's Sam?" you asked him as you plopped onto the couch, feeling a little lightheaded from the hot shower.

"Asleep."

"Already? What time is it?"

"Uh—" he glanced down at his watch—"3:38 am."

"Seriously?" You sat up. Of course, you had slept for so long in the afternoon that you didn't feel tired at all, but Dean had been driving the whole time. "Why are you still up?"

He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Wanna watch a movie?"

"Sure." You glanced at the side table and eyed the glass of water and pills set on top.

"Oh," Dean said, noticing your gaze, "you should probably take those."

"I'm fine."

"Y/N. Seriously."

"I don't want to."

"Well, you have to."

"Dean," you complained.

"You're just gonna stay sick if you don't."

You glared at the little white pill and, reluctantly, mumbled, "I can't swallow pills."

Dean leaned forward. "What?"

"I can't swallow pills," you huffed.

"'Can't' as in you won't because of some weird Mormon thing or ..."

"Swallowing stuff whole freaks me out, okay? Just drop it." You looked away, embarrassed. You didn't want him to think you weren't strong. You'd seen his type.

Dean stared at you for a moment, feeling a little stunned at this show of vulnerability that he wasn't quite used to from you. He broke away when he noticed you fidgeting awkwardly under his gaze. "Y/N, it's fine. I'll just crush it up for you."

You glanced up at him from under your lashes. "You will?"

"Sure." He smiled at you, then reached over to sweep the pill onto his palm. "Be right back. Pick a movie, would you?"

You watched him leave before sinking to the floor in front of the DVD pile he'd been flicking through but you honestly didn't care what movie you watched. You decided to follow him into the kitchen so you didn't seem ungrateful and found him at the bench, pounding away with a pestle. He turned around, having successfully split the pill into four smaller pieces, and raised a surprised brow at your appearance. "You pick something already?"

"Nah, you can pick." You held out a hand. He dumped the crushed pill into it, the side of his palm touching yours. You pretended it didn't affect you. "Thanks, Dean."

"Don't sweat it. Or, actually, do. It might help your fever." He headed back into the viewing room and you trailed after, fiddling with the tablet in your hand. "At least pick a genre."

"Horror."

Dean reached for a DVD case, popped the disc in, and you downed your medicine with a wince, shying away from his approving smile, before you turned off all the lights and joined him on the couch. About half an hour later, Dean glanced at you, wondering what your temperature was. He was too lazy to get up in search of a thermometer but he didn't want to just reach over and feel your forehead. He didn't have the guts to do that while you were awake. He shifted a bit closer to you, stupidly wondering if he could feel your temperature from close proximity.

"What do you want?" you whispered, eyes on the TV. You could feel his gaze on you.

"Uh, how's your fever?"

"Fine, I guess." You cupped your cheeks. "It's hard to say."

Suddenly emboldened, Dean pulled your hands away by the wrists and replaced them with his own. Your eyes widened. "You feel a little flushed," he murmured.

"I'm not sure if that's the fever." You felt his fingers stiffen slightly and, ashamed that you had admitted too much, began to pull away, but his hands quickly tugged you back, even closer this time. His breath was cool over you top lip.

"Tell me if I'm reading this wrong," he whispered.

You kept quiet.

Dean moved forward incrementally and, when you didn't lean back, did so again until he could feel the ghost of your lips against his. His eyes flew shut and he just went for it. You could hardly believe he was kissing you right now. There were two thoughts occupying you: the fact that the man of your dreams seemed to like you back and how incredibly happy that made you. You grabbed his forearm, your other hand fisting the fabric over his chest. Dean tilted his head and used his tongue to open your mouth, letting out the sound of relief. You swiped your tongue against his before sucking on his bottom lip. His stubble brushed against your chin, raising goosebumps. He was such a good guy, with a warm heart and an endearing vulnerability that he only ever showed you. You loved the scent of him: aftershave and cologne and washing powder, even a little leather from driving around in the Impala so much and that doughy smell that came from being in the kitchen a lot. You loved his horrible taste in comedies and his pop culture references that flew over people's heads more often than not. You loved how he always made sure you and Sam were well fed and taken care of and were in a good place mentally even though he was the total opposite at times. You loved him so much.

Shocked, you pulled away.

Dean took a while to peel his eyes open but when he did and saw your expression, the euphoric look on his face disappeared. "Shit," he muttered, "did I read this wrong? Y/N, I'm sorry—"

"No." You shook your head, shifting your arms until they were around his neck so you could bring him back. "I just ..." But did you want to tell him? Right now? Sure, you'd known each other for ages but you weren't even together. Didn't people usually just start out with 'I like you' and then work their way up from there? And, anyway, did you want to be the first one who said it? What if you scared him off by moving too fast? What if he didn't feel the same and you ended up feeling stupid for laying your heart on the line like that?

"What is it?" he whispered, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. "You can tell me."

The horror movie was still playing in the background, lighting up half his face and making you smile. "I, um ..." You ducked your head. "I love you ..."

"What?" Dean lifted your chin. You found him grinning. "What did you say?"

You made a show of feeling burdened, rolling your eyes and huffing. "I love you."

He pounced on you, sending you back against the sofa cushions with his arms flanking your head. "Me too." He pressed a thousand quick kisses to your lips. "So much."

"Yeah?"

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"Sam, can we get some ice cream?” you asked.

From his spot outside, leaning against the Impala, Sam ducked down to peer at you through the open window. "We just had lunch," he said with a raised brow.

"Yeah but I'm really craving something sweet."

"In a minute."

"Dean's been in there for ages," you whined, pointing lethargically to the Copy Jack you were parked in front of.

Sam regarded you with amusement. You hadn't been hunting with them for very long and always seemed unopposed to doing whatever the boys wanted, sometimes because you didn't care, other times, he suspected, because you were too shy to speak up, so it was a new sight to see you expressing your opinion in such a fashion. "Okay, fine," he relented. He pushed off the car so that you could open the door, grinning when you gave a little cheer and hopped out.

There was a Baskin Robbins not very far from Copy Jack so the two of you shuffled inside, goosebumps raising from the cold air. You agonised as you stared at the glass case of ice cream cartons. "Should I get peanut butter and chocolate or strawberry cheesecake?" You moaned, then turned to Sam. "What flavour are you getting?"

He shrugged. "Hazelnut, maybe? What about you?"

"I don't know!"

"Just do eeny-meeny-miny-moe."

You tried that and landed on strawberry cheesecake but you couldn't just not get peanut butter and chocolate. But you couldn't leave without trying strawberry cheesecake!

Sam seemed to understand your mortal inner turmoil and said, "Then just get two scoops."

"Will I be able to finish it though? We just had lunch."

He rolled his eyes and brushed off the deja vu. "Fine; you get strawberry cheesecake, I'll get peanut butter and chocolate, and we'll share, all right?"

"You sure?" you asked, though your eyes lit up.

"Positive."

"You're a saint. An angel."

"I know."

Sam paid and you walked back to the Impala together, happier than ever. Dean had just finished checking out some woman when you joined him, at which you rolled your eyes; this was why you liked Sam better. "What, none for me?” asked Dean, nodding to your ice cream.

You stuck your tongue out. "That's what you get for taking so long."

"You can't rush perfection." With a proud smile, he brandished three sparkling fake IDs.

Sam snatched one to inspect it more closely. “Homeland Security?” he read. “That’s pretty illegal, even for us."

“Yeah, well, it’s something new, you know? People haven’t seen it a thousand times."

“I guess this means we need to find some suits."

“Ugh,” you groaned.

Sam shrugged. “We’ve got no choice. Besides, it’s not that bad."

“No, I mean ‘ugh, there’s something weird in this ice cream’.” You cringed at your empty cup and chucked it into the nearby trash can. “I don’t feel so good."

“That’s what you get for having some without me,” Dean shot back smugly, “but it doesn’t get you out of suit shopping; let’s go."

The closest thrift store for formal wear was a daggy place called Mort’s For Style. Being considerably more fashion conscious than the boys, you had a scowl of disgust on your face as you entered the store, which you subsequently tried to hide when the man behind the counter looked up to greet you.  

Dean picked the first suit he laid eyes on, though it was swiftly swapped for something a little fresher that Sam had found, and you shuffled uncomfortably into a curtained changing room with some options of your own, wondering if it was okay to try stuff on when your stomach was acting up. You felt bloated and you didn't want to get the wrong size because of that.

You realised immediately, though, upon pulling off your jeans, just why your abdomen felt so painful, and it had nothing to do with the ice cream. You were wearing black underwear but it glistened with blood; you quickly checked the back of your pants for stains, of which there were thankfully none.

For a moment, you just stood there, utterly clueless about what to do next. You hadn't prepared for this at all; you had no pads, no tampons, no painkillers. You hadn't been expecting your period for a few more days. Your ice cream craving kind of made sense now.

"You doing okay in there, Y/N?" came Sam's voice from the other side of the curtain.

"Yup, yup." Panicky, you held out the two suits you had brought with you and picked the one that looked newer before stuffing it, still on its hanger, through the curtain. "Could you pay for this, Sam? I'll be out in a minute."

"Um, yeah, sure."

You waited until you couldn't hear his immediate presence, then resumed your panicking. Okay. If you could somehow make it to the nearest bathroom you would at least be able to get some tissues. Or maybe you could ask Dean? But you didn't exactly want to stick your head out of the curtain nor did you want to shout blindly for him in the middle of the store.  

Tongue rolling out in discomfort, you reluctantly shimmied your jeans on again, squirming as you did so. You shuffled out of the dressing room, leaving the remaining suit behind, and slowly made your way to the register where both brothers were finishing up. "I, uh, need to go to the bathroom," you muttered under your breath.

Dean glanced at you and then scanned the street outside the window. "There's probably one in that fish and chip place."

"Great. Okay. I'll meet you at the car." Without waiting for a response, you dashed off, trying to keep your thighs as squished together as possible. You must have had some sort of guardian angel looking out for you because, as you were crossing the street towards the fish and chip shop, you spotted the local pharmacy. You said a quick, relieved prayer of thanks and stumbled inside.  

You were fine after that, except for the spikes of pain in your lower stomach. You didn't want to buy nor take any midol because it sometimes made you drowsy or lightheaded and you couldn't risk that while you were on the job. Disguised as Homeland Security, you and the Winchesters snuck into the warehouse to take a look at the plane wreckage that had survived the haunted flight.

"What's that?" asked Sam, eyeing his brother as he popped in some earbuds.

"An EMF meter," Dean said. "It reads electromagnetic frequencies."

"Yeah, I know what an EMF meter is but why does this one look like a busted up Walkman?"

Dean smiled proudly. "Because that's what I made it out of. It's homemade."

"Yeah," Sam said flatly, "I can see that."  

The way Dean's face dropped gave you a brief respite from the cramps overtaking your concentration, bringing out a chuckle from you. You then tapped your foot to give yourself something to do while the brothers got to work and took a controlled breath as Sam scraped something off the handle of the crushed plane's emergency door. Then you heard something. Footsteps. Lots of them.

"Guys," you warned.

"Think it's time for our great escape," Dean muttered, jogging out the other exit.

You followed as quick as you could, pushing through the pain.  

"Y/N, come on," Sam ushered. He held out his hand and you took it with a grunt.

The back exit opened up to an alley that was fenced off with barbed wire. Dean shrugged off his blazer and chucked it over the top of the fence. "These monkey suits do come in handy," he mused as Sam climbed over. "Okay, Y/N, your turn."

You lifted a foot onto the chain link and cringed. "No. I can't."

"Come on; you've jumped plenty of fences before."

"Not while I'm—" You swallowed the rest of the sentence.

"While what?" Dean stared expectantly but gave a wary glance over his shoulder when he remembered you were being chased.

"Isn't there another way out?" you asked instead.

"Not unless you wanna get caught by the real Homeland Security. We don't have time for this, Y/N."

"I would love to just pull out the gymnastics like some friggin' cheerleader but I physically cannot climb up the fence in the state I'm in."

Dean raised his eyebrow. "What kind of state are you in exactly?"

With a sheepish clear of your throat, you cocked your head to the side, eyes flickering down. "You know ... the state I'm in once a month ..."

"Oh," he said, like that had been anticlimactic, then his eyes widened and he said meaningfully, "oh."

"Yep."

"Okay, uh ..."

"What's taking so long?" Sam hissed.

"We've got issues!" Dean hissed back.

"Can't they wait till after you're on the safe side of the fence?"

"Not exactly!" you snapped.

"Freeze!"

You and Dean whipped around. At the mouth of the alley, there were two men who looked more like Homeland Security than you ever could, along with two of the warehouse's security guards. All four of them had their guns out. You heard footsteps retreating behind you but didn't want to draw attention to Sam’s escape by turning around.

"Great, Y/N. Just great," Dean huffed.

*

You didn't know how Sam managed it but, with his help, you and Dean were able to sneak out of the police station a few hours later. You had reason to believe the demon would be targeting another flight so you were able to book it out of town regardless of the little mishap with Homeland Security. You shifted uncomfortably on your chair as you and Dean waited for Sam to acquire plane tickets for the three of you.

"Are you sure you want to come with?" Dean asked.

"When you're here trembling in your boots?" you shot back, eyeing his white knuckles as they constricted his armrest. "You guys need me."

"Hey, I ain't arguin' that but there's a pharmacy right over there; sure you don't want me to grab you some painkillers?"  

"Ugh, no, I'd probably fall asleep on the plane." Still, you winced and rubbed your stomach.

"Doubt it," Dean muttered uneasily. He watched your face contort with pain for a few more moments before sighing and getting to his feet. "All right, I can't take this anymore; I'm getting you a hot water bottle or something."

He was gone before you could protest and, as promised, returned with a water bottle, curiously filled, and a takeaway cup of tea and a banana. "It's chamomile," he said. "The lady at the counter said it helps with the pain. So does the banana, apparently."

You hugged the hot water bottle to you before taking the proffered food with a slow, surprised blink. "Thanks, Dean. That's really sweet of you."

He just shrugged.  

"So, you don't seem as grossed out as I thought you'd be," you said, snacking on the banana as you waited for the tea to cool down a bit.

"Well, I may have grown up surrounded by guys but it's not like I've never had a girlfriend." He debated continuing speaking, then bit the bullet. "You know, next time this happens, just be straight with us. It's not a big deal and it'll save us a hell of a lot of trouble."

The corner of your mouth lifted up. He'd obviously earned some brownie points in your book.

Sam came back, flipping three air tickets. He eyed you with concern and you figured, if Dean wasn't entirely clueless about the reality of the female anatomy, Sam definitely wasn't since he had lived with his ex-girlfriend. "How you feeling, Y/N?" he asked, lowering into the other seat beside you.

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There were loud smacks coming from the door. Unable to sense any immediacy to them, however, Dean grunted and buried his face deeper into his pillow. The smacks didn’t let up. He began to recognise the rhythm as his sleepy haze dissipated so, with a sigh, he shoved the covers away, flinching at the cold, and shuffled over to the door. The hunk of wood swung open, revealing your usual toothy grin, the brightness of which rivalled only by the orange pullover you had thrown on over your blue jeans. Rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye, sandy hair scuffed up from restless tossing, dressed (or, rather, undressed) in black boxer-briefs and a grey t-shirt, he squinted at you. "What the hell are you doing, Y/N, it's..." He looked over his shoulder at the alarm clock by his bed. "Jesus."

You held up something by way of explanation: the motel notepad. On the first page, it read, ‘Gone for a run. Be back by 8. -S’. “I figured we could grab breakfast before he gets back,” you said.

“Of course you did,” muttered Dean. “Come in, I guess. Let me get changed."

“How are you wearing that to sleep when it’s almost winter time?” you asked him as he bent over and rifled through his bag.

He shrugged. “I get hot at night."

He dressed quickly, burdened by the image of you waiting for him while sprawled across his bed, tangled in the blankets he had been tucked into not a few minutes ago. You rolled away a bit as he came to sit at the edge by your feet to pull on his shoes. Always cautious, he hid his pistol behind his belt and then tilted his head in the direction of the door. “Let’s roll.”

You followed him out, door locking behind you, and bounded down the stairs and across the parking lot towards the Impala. The leather seats were cold and the windows began to fog up when Dean started the engine and the heater turned on. Before he could bark a warning, you had lifted your finger and drawn a love heart on your window. He rolled his eyes when you looked back at him with a proud smile. He knew that once the fog cleared, your fingerprints would remain smudged on the glass but he couldn't bring himself to care; he'd just have to give Baby a wipe down later. The car was finally beginning to warm up and when he reached a red light he took the time to glance over at you, finding you with your hands tucked under your thighs and your eyes trained on the scenery outside. The sky was thick with white-grey clouds and all the trees that weren't bare were covered dark green. He’d noticed pretty quick that despite how talkative you were you always fell completely silent during car rides. It was surreal at first but he had grown fond of watching you get lost in thought, lulled by the engine's deep purring.

The car behind him beeped and Dean realised the light had turned green. He pressed his foot on the accelerator as you chuckled and made some teasing comment, but he didn't quite register it; it felt like there was cotton stuffed in his ears and his brain kept playing a loop of your laughter.

You made him stop at one of those cafes where everything was rustic and made of brick and exposed piping, where the men either had homely beards or greasy pompadours and everyone wore plain white t-shirts and acoustic music was playing from the speakers. Dean tried to control his gag reflex. You ordered French toast and a short stack and the breakfast combo and he paid; then the two of you were driving back to the motel, the Impala filled with the smell of warm flour and the passenger side window tattooed with your scribble of a love heart. If you noticed that he had taken the long way home or was driving a tad slower than was his norm, you didn’t say anything.

Sam was sitting on his bed, cooling off, when you unlocked your motel room door. Dean deposited the food on the table by the window, his coat on the back of a chair. You had left the TV on. A rerun of Gilmore Girls was playing.

“I got today’s paper,” you announced, dropping onto the bed beside Sam.

“Nice,” he said. He reached back for the pen on the bedside table and handed it to you. “You can start; I’m gonna take a shower.” He gave you a kiss on the lips, which made you smile, then disappeared into the bathroom.

“Oh, Dean, before I forget …” You slipped out the page with the crossword and handed him the rest. “Just in case you want to look for a new case or something.”

“Are you kidding? We just wrapped up our current one. I think we deserve a night off.”

“Fine with me, boss,” you mused, joining him at the table. You opened your box of French toast and made a happy little noise that had Dean smiling behind his forkful of sausage. You didn't do much of the crossword, only pretended to ruminate on it until Sam was out of the shower. "Babe," you complained, tugging at his sleeve. “Forty-seven down: ready for the rubber room. What does that even mean?"

Sam frowned in thought as he sat down and poured maple syrup over his pancakes. "How many letters?"

"Six."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm surrounded by nerds," he muttered.

You kicked him gently under the table with a bare foot. His whole body erupted with pleasant tingles at the feel of your toes through his jeans.

That night, the three of you hit a bar to relieve some stress. Dean had spent his first beer at the booth with you but migrated to the pool table before ultimately ending up on a bar stool beside a pretty brunette. You would have dragged Sam up to dance but you weren't really feeling any of the songs at the moment so the two of you settled for giggling at silly horoscopes on your phone while you nursed your drinks.

"Oh, hey, what about this one?" said Sam. "The signs as childhood movies."

"Taurus: Back To The Future. You got a good one." You scrolled down to Aquarius and exploded with laughter. "Dean got The Cheetah Girls. I am so sending that to him."

A moment later, Dean looked up and, over his companion's shoulder, gave you the driest, flattest, most unamused expression you had ever seen.

Sam snickered before sliding out of the booth. "I have to go to the bathroom; will you be okay by yourself?"

"Yes, of course." You rolled your eyes. Sometimes he ignored the fact that you had hunted solo just fine before you met him. You continued scrolling.

The signs as contradictions:

Aquarius—awkward but smooth, hot but dorky.

You couldn't help finding it true but you sure as hell weren't going to send it to Dean.

The other side of the signs:

Aquarius—there can be a lot of secrets behind the pretty face of an Aquarius. The best kept can be their sadness. Although they are bright personalities who love to laugh and make jokes, Aquariuses often have experienced things that still bother them even after a long time. They won't always speak about it, they may try to cover it, but some day they will tell everyone what bothers them. It's actually hard for them to let go of their past.

You frowned. You didn’t send that one to Dean either but you kept reading over it, wondering if it was true.

Deep longings of the signs:

Aquarius—they wish for someone to see right through them. Aquariuses are known to be mysterious, but they wish that someone would understand.

You lingered but didn’t send.

The signs and their three addictions:

Aquarius—potato chips, identity theft, praise.

You found that pretty accurate and lightweight so you forwarded that to Dean.

Things people don't know about the signs:

Aquarius—lowkey wonders if people actually accept them for who they are.

Not that.

The signs as phobias:

Aquarius—philophobia, the fear of falling in love.

Definitely not that.

*

The pretty brunette could tell his mind was otherwise occupied. Dean was debating whether to pretend like he didn’t know what The Cheetah Girls was or throw some witty remark via text while she tried to reign in his attention with questions about his job.

“Uh, pests,” he said, tearing his eyes away from the screen of his phone. “I work in pest extermination.”

“Wow, what’s that like?”

“More exciting than you think.” Over her shoulder, Dean chanced a glance at your table. Sam had returned. He pocketed his phone and gave the brunette in front of him a half-smile. “Can I get you a drink?”

The night passed slowly, almost agonisingly so, and, in the end, he didn’t go home with the woman whose name he couldn’t now recall. He returned to the booth where you and his brother sat, ignoring the way you both regarded his lonesome with surprise. The three of you stayed for about another hour before deciding to call it a night. You conked out in the backseat and Sam had to carry you to the motel room you shared with him.

At around 3am, however, Dean received a text from you: ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴘ?

Promptly, he replied, ʏᴇᴀʜ, and thirty seconds later you came knocking on his door.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, letting you in. It was easy to understand your earlier disbelief of his pyjamas now that he was looking at yours. You were bundled in woollen pants, socks, and a thick oversized jumper from what appeared to be your senior year of high school. It spawned in him a brief desire to know what you had been like as a high school student.

"Yeah, that nap in the car really messed with my sleep cycle." You floated to the table on the other side of the room and laid out all your nail polishes. "What about you?"

"I'm always up," he said simply.

"To be honest, so am I; Sam snores." But you said it with a smile. The smell of acetone permeated the air as you went about removing your current nail colour, chipped from the last hunt. “Anything good on TV?”

Dean resigned himself to the edge of his mattress, a casual and seemingly arbitrary distance away from you as he flipped through the free channels. “Not unless you’re in the mood for Pretty Woman.”

You gasped. “That is my dad’s favourite movie of all time.”

A smile crept onto his face. He left it playing, idly eyeing the chemistry between Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. It ended fifteen minutes later, transitioning into a late night rerun of Friends, through which Dean migrated to the chair across from you and stared at your hands as you let the new polish dry. Painting your nails was therapeutic, you had told him once on a night much like this that had found the two of you struck by an unfortunate bout of insomnia, so you never cared that they got ruined after every hunt. You always redid them.

That night, he remembered now, had been when you opened up to him about your first boyfriend, the one you’d been with before getting into hunting. You told him that, looking back, neither of you had been nearly as in love as you both wanted to be and, if you had the chance to rewind time, you would never have agreed to be his girlfriend.

Back then, you had just put on a top coat of clear nail polish and caught sight of a fingerprint on the surface and all throughout your whining of having to redo that nail, Dean remembered staring at you, not listening to your words but enjoying your facial expressions, thinking, ‘Someone is going to be so in love with you one day.’

He didn’t know, then, that it would be Sam.

And he certainly didn’t acknowledge, then, that he probably meant himself.

*

It was date night. Dean didn’t feel like going out on his own so he made a half-hearted slight about how cheesy you and Sam were before watching you both make your way to the cinemas, all giggly and touchy-feely, and then closing the door of his motel room. He grabbed a beer he’d bought earlier and kept in the mini fridge, then kicked off his shoes and fell into bed with the TV on. Gilmore Girls was playing again.

‘God,’ he thought, recognising the similarities between Sam and the actor on the screen, ‘he just won’t leave me alone,’ and then he felt some sort of guilt and tried to pretend he’d never thought that in the first place.

You returned around midnight. Dean could hear your laugh as you walked past his door and into the room next to his. There were muffled voices, muffled water running through pipes, muffled bed creaking, then silence.

Dean reached for the beer on the bedside table. He’d lost count of what number this was for the night but judging from the way his hand managed to knock the bottle off the table, he guessed it was in the double digits. It clattered loudly to the floor. With a curse, he climbed out of bed, steadying himself until the room stopped tumbling, then crouched down to clean up his mess.

There was a knock on his door. He ignored it until he heard your voice call his name.

You frowned when he answered. “Are you all right? I heard noises.”

“I’m good,” he sighed.

You looked past him at the spill of beer. “Need help?” But you pushed yourself inside without waiting for an answer. You eyed the TV and changed the channel to a documentary on elephants, then mopped up what you could with a damp hand towel that you left hanging in the sink.

Dean stared, especially when you didn’t leave. You took a seat at the table, picking at the cracks in your nail polish before settling your gaze on the deer head above his bed. Its marble eyes made you swallow. You transferred your gaze to the window, though there wasn’t much to see but blue-blackness. He finally decided that he had been looking at you for too long, too deeply, and so moved back to sit on the bed, keeping his eyes on the elephants on TV.

“Hey, Dean?” you said, almost shocking him with the sound of your voice.

“What’s up?”

Your eyes were still trained out the window and you would have been a vision of tranquility had your hands not been wringing in your lap. “Did you know Jess at all or … ?”

“Jess …” It took longer for him to put a face to the name than it should have. “As in, Sam’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I didn’t know her. I only met her once. Briefly. Why?”

You shook your head and he only realised you had been looking at him because he now saw you turn to look back out the window.

“Y/N,” he prodded.

“It’s nothing. It’s silly.”

“Is it nothing or silly?” He sensed you rolling your eyes.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

"You're not fooling anyone," he said, keeping his eyes on the TV.

You sighed quietly, tracing the lines of wood on the table. "He still dreams about her. He sometimes says her name when he's asleep." Quickly, to abate the frown on Dean's face, you added, "I'm not angry about it or anything. I was just wondering."

But he saw right through you. "The two of you work. Okay? You and Sam are great for each other. Of course he misses her but he loves being with you." He didn't know what else to say.

You could probably see that he was uncomfortable with the depth of the conversation because you smiled and nodded and left it at that. He was silently grateful.

After a while of not saying anything, he gave in. “You should get some rest.”

“Probably.” With more effort than it should have taken, you stood from your chair and slowly made your way to the door, a crease between your brows.

“Seriously,” he said, stopping you. He couldn’t let you leave looking like that. “Sam loves you.” It was pointless, now, to clue you in on his own feelings. He decided he wouldn’t be that guy.

You gave him another a smile, this one reaching your eyes just a bit more, and then you stretched up on your toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dean. See you in the morning.”

He loitered by the door, watching until you were safe in the room you shared with Sam, his hand absentmindedly scratching at his cheek.

Your name: submit What is this? // <![CDATA[ function replaceAll(find, replace, str) { return str.replace(new RegExp(find, 'g'), replace); } function myHandler() { var input = document.getElementById("inputTxt").value; document.body.innerHTML = replaceAll('Y/N', document.getElementById("inputTxt").value, document.body.innerHTML); } // ]]>

Nite Owl was everything you had imagined a nightclub to be, which was both under- and overwhelming. It operated like any regular house party, with a bar and a dance floor and a crowd of partially unfamiliar faces, so it felt familiar even though it was your first time clubbing.   

A passing girl glanced at you and smiled. "Happy Birthday!" she shouted over the music. 

"Thank you!" You beamed back. Because Sam had called up the club to get your names down on the bouncer's list, you had been given a complimentary birthday sash to wear over your crop top and skinny jeans. It might have been dark but people, mostly girls, still caught sight of the cheap plastic and came up to wish you a happy birthday. Unfortunately, that seemed to be the only thing they approached you for. You had expected at least one guy to offer you a drink or sidle up and start dancing near you but no one had taken the bait. At first, you thought maybe you had just been misled by the movies—guys weren't actually that aggressive at clubs—but when you looked over at Jo, realising she was no longer in your circle, you found her swaying her hips against some guy's.

"What's with the face?" Ash yelled. 

You shook your head. "Nothing, nothing. Sorry." But the words sounded weak, like they were straining against the weight pulling at your chest. 

"I'm going to do some shots! Wanna come with?" 

"No, you go ahead," you said. "I'm heading back to our table; gotta rest my feet." You flashed the mullet head a smile, he returned with a thumbs-up, and you both headed in opposite directions. You squeezed past a wave of bodies until you emerged in the clearing that was your reserved table, which both your brothers had never left since stepping foot inside; clubbing was clearly not their scene and they had only sucked it up because you were turning twenty-one. 

"Hey, kiddo," Dean greeted, holding out an arm. You swept his jacket off the chair beside him and dropped down tiredly. "Having fun?" 

"Yeah." You tried not to let your smile falter but when you turned to scan the crowd, you saw even the likes of Charlie and Kevin letting loose with a couple of perfect strangers. You huffed. 

"You sure about that?" Sam asked with a raised brow from across the table. 

You looked at him and parted your lips, then thought again and shut them. This was one of those moments where you wished you had a sister; it was so embarrassing having a conversation of emotional substance with two brothers who had never lived the female experience. And you didn't want to talk about it with your college friends either. They were all beautiful and outgoing and would say nothing but the usual "Don't be silly; you're gorgeous!" They had all scattered and merged with a group of young guys and you knew you could have gone over to join them but it just felt awkward now. 

"Y/N?" Sam prodded. 

"It's nothing," you sighed. "Just...I look decent tonight, don't I?" 

"You look awesome," said Dean, a little bit of a frown on his face, probably out of confusion. "You're beautiful all the time, kid. Except maybe when you first wake up. Whew, talk about morning breath." 

You shoved him. "Shut up." 

"Why are you asking?" Sam said, letting the laughter in his eyes melt away. 

You shrugged. "I mean, I look nice, this thing's an okay conversation starter—" you lifted your sash—"I came with a group of girls...am I not, like, the perfect target for some guy to want to talk to me?"  

Sam and Dean exchanged an alarmed glance. 

"You want those guys to come up to you?" asked Dean, incredulous. 

"I'm not saying I want to have a one night stand or anything," you said quickly, balking under his gaze, though it was kind of a lie; you probably wouldn't have been opposed to the idea if the guy was hot enough. "I'm just saying: how come everyone else has scored a dancing partner and I'm stuck here talking to my big brothers?" 

"Wow, thanks," Sam said dryly. 

"You know what I mean." You rolled your eyes. 

"Y/N, I'm telling you, no guy decent enough for you is gonna hit on you in a nightclub. The guys who do ain't worth it," said Dean. 

"You hit on girls in bars all the time, Dean," you argued.

"Exactly. You wanna end up with a guy like me?" He shooed you out of your chair before you could answer. "Now go have fun!" 

Sam gave you an encouraging smile and, with a sigh, you snuck back onto the dance floor. Thankfully, you bumped into Cas on the way, saving you the trouble of looking like a loner while you found a group to dance with. "Hey, Cas," you chirped. 

"Y/N." He smiled. "I trust you're enjoying your evening?"   

"Well, I managed to drag Sam and Dean here so I can't complain. What about you? Been dancing the night away?" 

"Not exactly. Your brothers have put me on guard duty." 

You raised a brow. "Guard duty?" 

"I am to make sure, quote, no one makes a move on you the entire night, unquote," he said, complete with air quotation marks.