🤪

They’d done everything. All Her shit was in the trunk, Sam was sitting with her to make sure she didn’t fall over or get worse, and Dean was breaking every traffic law he could think of to get there faster. 

To South Dakota.

To Bobby’s.

It had taken Dean too long, in the parking lot, to actually call Bobby. He’d waited until She was settled, until they’d loaded almost everything into the car, and until Sammy was dealing with the front desk so Dean was alone.

He hadn’t been alone. He’d been sitting in the back of the Impala, Her head on his knee and his hand unable to stop tracing over her face.

It was wrong. Looking at Her like this. Features sunken and hollow, lips drained of blood, breathing shallow in a way Dean could feel. It made his own breath labored, his whole body tensed as She relaxed against him, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the trust of Her vulnerability, the way Her beautiful face was half buried in his thigh, the way She’d let out a weak, sad sound whenever he tried to pull away.

He’d hurt Her. He’d spent the entire night after their fight ripping apart the club grounds and roaring Her name, giving Sam daring looks to say a single thing. He’d beaten himself into the mud in fear that he’d lose Her twice. Once with spat words and a cold look of hatred, then again with a shredded body and dulled eyes. 

He’d wanted to strangle Her. He’d wanted to apologize, and shout that he had nothing to apologize for. She’d lied. 

Not about what Dean thought She’d been lying about, but She’d still lied.

Although, admittedly, the truth was far more confusing. 

Because Dean had stared at the small, robot-print letters on Her phone screen—pixilated and fuzzy and flipping his world upside—and not known how to process them.

Bobby Singer.

There could be other Bobby Singers that weren’t Dean’s Bobby Singer. That weren’t the guy who was practically his uncle, who he’d played catch with, who’d made him food and given Sammy run-down toys to play with.

It didn’t make sense for this to be Dean’s Bobby. Dean had half grown up in that house. He’d stayed there for weeks on end when Dad had been on a really bad hunt—hunts where he’d come back with hooded eyes and fisted hands, snapping short orders because they didn’t have time to waste on sentimentality—and Bobby had never once had a daughter. Especially not a hot, annoying, impossible one. 

Dean would’ve remembered meeting Her before. There’s no shot he would’ve ever forgotten Her. He couldn’t. He’d tried. Dean was pretty sure that, even if he’d only laid eyes on Her once in passing, he would’ve been drawn down into Her and never climbed back out.

That was simply what She did. Who She was. A walking, breathing song that Dean couldn’t figure out how to touch but still wanted to try to learn. She got stuck in his head and played there on loop, and if he’d ever seen Her before that moroi hunt, he was damn sure he would’ve remembered.

And Bobby would’ve told him. If Bobby had a kid that was around Sam and Dean’s age, they would’ve known. Dad would’ve known.

Dad should’ve known. And he obviously hadn’t. Whenever Dean had brought Her up, Dad had called Her that little girl.

Hell, Dad had told Bobby about Her. Dad had said Her name and Bobby hadn’t gone Fuckin’ Jesus, John, that’s my daughter. The hell is She doin’ huntin’ a poltergeist.

Bobby had reacted strangely, though. Dean remember him hanging up right after Dad mentioned Her.

And She had mentioned her dad was a gruff, smart hunter. Which described Bobby, and explained why She knew so much random shit about hunting, and that was Bobby’s number in Her phone, and-

She’d lied. She’d said She didn’t know a Bobby. She’d asked Dean what he thought of Bobby.

Like She was curious what he’d think.

Son of a bitch.

Because when Dean squinted, he could see Bobby on Her face. Not physically, but in small divets and shadows on Her face and body and voice.

They rolled their eyes the same way. Like they were done with everyone’s shit, and knew that they were the most competent and reliable person in the room. 

She had the same laugh Bobby had. Dean had only heard Bobby laugh—really, fully laugh with his whole chest—three or four times, but it was the exact same laugh. Loud and powerful and almost cartoonish.

They didn’t walk the same way, but they fought in similar movements. Brutal and effective, with no more or less than necessary. 

And if Dean really thought about it, there were smaller things he could draw together. How She turned a page, how She held a pencil, how She drank her coffee.

Small mannerisms She would’ve picked up from being raised by someone, the same way Dean would spin his keys and Sammy always flipped his wallet in his hands before opening it. 

Like Dad did.

Part of Dean hadn’t wanted to call the number. His thumb hovered far too long as he’d debated if he even wanted to know. If this was really what it seemed to be, and he’d have to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t known existed a fucking hour ago.

She could never know that he’d looked down at Her, and that had been what finally got him. That Her scrunched face had made his heart feel like it was being wrenched and pounded, that he’d run his thumb over Her nose, she’d relaxed, and let out a song-like sigh that had been it.

He’d pressed call, held the phone to his ear, and still not fully believed it until the line picked up after two rings.

“Hey, kiddo, I wasn’t expectin’ you to call until you had that Kelpie down. You alright?”

Dean had frozen, his voice caught in his throat, staring at Her face as static sounded in his ear. 

That was Bobby. Bobby clearing his throat, Bobby grunting Her name-

“Is everythin’-“

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice had been hushed, and he’d watched Her carefully to make sure she wasn’t disturbed. 

There had been a long moment of silence, this time from Bobby’s end, and then-

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s-“

“Where the hell did you find this phone, boy?”

Dean had said Her name, his hand tracing over Her brow, still checking she was real. “She gave it to me.”

“She fuckin’- where is she?”

“She’s right here-“

“Put her on, I need to talk to her.”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean had swallowed, and She’d shifted slightly, pressing further into his lap. “I can’t.”

“Dean Winchester, I ain’t lookin’ to kill you, but if you don’t-“

“No, I- I literally fucking can’t, Bobby.”

“Why in hells balls can’t ya’ pass a phone-“

Dean said Her name again, something like lead coating his throat. “Uh, she’s- She’s knocked out.”

There was a brief second of silence, and Dean had winced when Bobby spoke again. 

“What the hell typa’ shit have you two gotten into that she’s knocked out?!”

“A demon attacked her, and we- Bobby, we tried to fight it off but it got a knife into her gut, and Sammy patched her up but-“

“Sam’s there?”

Dean had frowned. “Yeah, uh, who else-“

“Never mind, I thought-“ Bobby had sighed through the phone, something tense growing in his voice. “She stable?”

“Yeah, but she told us to call you.”

“Alright, bring her up here and I’ll be ready. And Dean?”

Dean had nodded, staring at Her gorgeous, almost peaceful face, and there had been a long stretch of silence before he remembered Bobby couldn’t see him.

“Dean-“

“Shit, sorry, what’s-“

“I don’t want you lettin’ a single fuckin’ thing near her but you and Sam, got it?”

“Yes, sir-“

“Don’t yes, sir me, boy. Promise me you’ll keep her in your sight.”

“I will. Promise.”

It had been an easy thing to say. The thought of leaving Her alone had—even as his head spun, and his chest started to mold with the question of why the hell she’d lied—made Dean feel taut and sick.

And Bobby had hung up the phone, and Dean had kept his promise. He’d never left Her alone, not for a second. Sam had sat with Her because Dean didn’t trust himself to care for her properly—didn’t deserve to have Her half slump over his body and sigh against his skin—and Dean’d had to force his eyes to stay on the road, and not drift to check on Her

It was bad enough that his mind had been wandering. Coming up with more and more reasons this didn’t make any fucking sense, and far too many reasons why it did. 

She’d called going to Bobby’s home, and Dean felt something like bile in his throat at the thought that whenever She’d said home before, she’d been talking about Bobby. And lying. And letting Dean think She was living in a fancy gated palace, when she’d just been at Bobby’s. But now, when Dean pictured Bobby’s table, he could see Her at it. She slotted into the scene perfectly, just as She fit so well in every other part of Dean’s life.

And he still couldn’t hate Her. He had far too many questions—where the hell She’d been whenever they’d stayed with Bobby, why had She never corrected Dean, why had Bobby lied about knowing Her—and he didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he just couldn’t fucking hate Her.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam had asked a few hours ago, watching Dean carefully from the backseat. “What happened, last night? You just, you called me and said she’d stormed off, but-“

“Don’t.” Dean had muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel, and Sam had sighed.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me everything, I just want to know why she’d just fucked off, it doesn’t seem like her-“

“You don’t know her, Sam-“

“But you do-“

“Do I?” Dean had snapped, his eyes flicking back to Her in the rearview mirrors. Always close, and untouchable, and a mystery Dean could never seem to get close to solving. “I’m not sure anyone knows her, and I certainly fucking don’t.”

“Yeah, you do, Dean.” Sam had leaned forward, his tone far too careful and gentle. “Whatever fight you guys had, however pissed she got, I can’t be that bad-“

“Yeah, it can be.” Dean had scowled at the road, his voice lowering to a grunt. “Drop it, Sam. I fucking serious.”

Sam had sighed, and nodded. “Alright, what about the demon? Do you think we need to be keeping an eye out?”

“Eye out-“

“For another one.” Sam had glanced down to Her, she’d made a small noise of distress, and the sound had ached in Dean’s chest. “Dude, it- It knew who you were. And it seemed to know her-“

“There’s- How the hell would a demon know her-“

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking.” Sam had swallowed, and Dean could see the nerves written over his face in the mirror. “You think Bobby will have an idea?”

Dean didn’t know. He’d snapped at Sam that when they got to Bobby’s they’d have plenty of time to figure out what the fuck was happening, but the question was still echoing around his head.

Why would a demon have gone after Her. She was just a year older than Sammy, so she couldn’t have made that many enemies. She wasn’t some kind of target. There was nothing about her that could-

There was everything about Her. If Dean thought about it for too long—which is all he had time to do—She wasn’t just an enigma to Dean. Her family was still her family, no matter how she knew Bobby. Dad had said She’d stolen something, all those years ago. Maybe the demons would want it.

Maybe others felt that pull. Maybe there was something deeper Dean didn’t know how to see. 

Maybe there was nothing at all, and the demon had been hunting Her because of her proximity to Dean.

That thought made him feel sore and ill. Dad said that it was a demon who had gotten Mom. A demon who had gotten Jess. 

And She wasn’t Dean’s. She’d made that perfectly fucking clear.

But he couldn’t stop looking at Her. Couldn’t stop how the air didn’t feel clean in his lungs because Her breathing was shallow, how his hands kept itching on the wheel to brush over Her cheek and soothe the small wrinkle in Her brow. He could tell himself he just wanted to check for a fever, but he also wanted to move the hair from Her face. Sam was just letting is lie there, and Dean knew she hated people touching it, but she always let Dean touch her. She never slapped his hand away when he touched Her. She leaned into him, and sometimes She smile, and sometimes Dean could pretend she was his-

She wasn’t. She wouldn’t be. Dad had known Mom. Sam had known Jess.

Dean didn’t know anything. He didn’t know why the demon had been after Her, or what She been thinking just stomping off, or why Bobby was her home. 

All he really knew was that this still looked wrong. That the sight of Her in pain was making his heart shred itself in his chest, and that he wanted to reach around the seats and touch Her. Pull Her into him until nothing else could hurt Her, until he could get her somewhere safer than him.

She’d be safer anywhere but with Dean. Bobby had said to keep an eye on Her, but Dean didn’t trust his eyes. All week they’d kept seeing things that didn’t really make sense. Every moment they just made Her more beautiful, even as Dean silently cursed himself for still looking. 

He couldn’t stop looking. He fucking hated Her for lying, but every single sharp and blunted piece of wrath in Dean’s chest felt more searing when it carved on his own ribs. She was a liar, but Dean was a piece of shit. He’d bitten Her too hard. He didn’t have a damn clue about Her life, but he’d still aimed to kill and then been a whiny son of a bitch when his shot had landed.

She may bring out the most of him, but it was still Dean who was made of all those foul, uncontrolled pieces. 

Dad knew how to control himself. Dad wasn’t perfect, but at least he kept himself in line, and he’d tried to teach Dean how to do the same but Dean was just weaker. Pathetic and useless. 

He didn’t deserve to be around Her. No matter how much it pissed Dean off that She was better than he was, it didn’t change the fact. Dean wasn’t worthy of being around Her. 

And he still couldn’t stop looking. She was dangerous, and awesome, and looked so perfect in Dean’s car—fit so well with everything that was Dean, everything that belonged to him—but she also was impossible. And insufferable. And seemed to be trying to break Dean into pieces, because Her eyes fluttered, her breath hitched, and She arched her back.

All while mumbling Dean. 

Her eyes drifted open, a small frown on Her face, and the first thing she said was Dean.

She was trying to kill him.

“Dean.“ Her voice was soft, and weak, and rooted right into the cavity of Dean’s chest. Washing it in silver light with only Her voice, saying his name as Her fingers flexed and she reached mindlessly out into the air.

There’s a brief second where Dean wondered if She was looking for him. Reaching out to see if he’d take Her hand, if he’d reassure her with just his touch.

He needed to get it together.

He didn’t know how.

“I- Dean, what’s- I don’t-“ Her voice was growing distressed, Her slightly gazed as they dragged open. Her fingers seemed to be digging into Her skin as she shrank into the bench, Her breathing speeding up and becoming short and shit- 

It looked wrong. It felt wrong. Dean had no right to touch Her, no reason to tense and balk at the sight of Her in pain—small and panicked and almost feral in his backseat, ducking Her head and hugging her body as if she could shield herself—but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting hold Her until she was calm, to wrap himself around her like a barrier from everything else that could hurt Her in the world.

It was selfish as hell. Dean could hurt Her. Dean had hurt Her. He was the asshole who got them here in the first place, all by not knowing how to just control himself.

He didn’t want to control himself right now. Not as Her face twisted in pain. 

Not as She kept saying his name.

“Where are we- I- Dean-“

“I’m here,” He muttered Her name, gripping the back of his seat to stop himself from reaching for her. “We’re in the car.”

She went silent, Her body stilling completely, and cold seized over Dean’s body. Why was She just lying there. Why wasn’t She speaking, or shouting, or sneering. Asking questions or spitting venom about their fight, trying to get up or curl further into Herself, why was she so fucking still-

Dean was about to damn it, reach further back, and touch Her—just to feel the warmth of Her body, just to get something of a reaction—when She finally spoke.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Dean would’ve never bet on that being what She’d say. On Her seeming to mean it, her face twisted slightly, Her head bowed, and her voice soft. “I- I didn’t mean to.”

He frowned. “Mean to what.”

“Anything.” 

Her eyes drifted open. Bright and seeming to glow on Dean’s, looking at him like She always had. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve thought their fight had never happened. There was no possible way it could’ve when She was still looking at him. Right into him, into the deep pit in his body that felt smaller under Her attention. Felt lined or coated in warmth and light, because that was what She did to him. 

And She still looked vulnerable. Just watching him, something more nervous on her face than Dean usually saw, something almost afraid. 

He hated it. She shouldn’t fear Dean, She should trust him. She didn’t, but he needed Her to. At least enough to know that, even if Dean—for some sick, fucked reason—tried to, he couldn’t lay a hand on Her. He could hiss and mock and poison Her with his mouth or presence, but he was pretty damn certain that his body would turn itself to ash before it hurt Her.

Which didn’t make sense. It wasn’t rational, or reasonable, or understandable. But Dean’s hand flexed on the seat, and She practically fucking flinched, and Dean had never felt lower in his life. Any ideas he’d been holding about demanding answers and shouting about everything—their fight, Her lies, his brimming and spilling desire and how She needed to stop doing this to him so he could control himself—began to vanish into thin air. It was impossible to be really, truly angry at Her when she looked like that. Beautiful and fragile and critical to the blood in Dean’s body. 

He’d find that anger later, and they’d fight later. For now he just let out a long breath, and shrugged. 

“’S fine.” It wasn’t. But it was the only good thing to say here, because Dean might rather stab himself than tell Her about how fucking furious he was, and make Her fold further down. He’d wounded Her enough for a while. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m-“ She paused, hands padding over Her stomach. “Did you-“

“Sammy gave you some stitches.” Dean said, watching her carefully. “He’s not great that them, though, so don’t move.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. Dean wished he could touch it. “Where is Sam?”

“Getting gas. We got a few hours left until we hit Sioux Falls.”

“Oh.”

Dean didn’t miss the flash of something over Her face. He didn’t know what. He just knew it was wired, and taut, and brittle. That he wanted to ease it, but didn’t know how. Wasn’t really worthy of trying to learn.

But Sam was taking a while. 

And Dean couldn’t fucking stand how fearful She looked.

“If you press on the stitches, does it hurt?”

She raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to press on them, Winchester.”

“Nah, I know, I’m just trying to figure out how shit a job Sammy did.”

She didn’t look like She believed him, and Dean really wished he’d come up with a better excuse to talk to Her, because now she was lifting up her shirt. 

Her skin looked a little raw and torn around the wound, but everywhere else was soft. Smooth. He’d noticed it while patching Her up, that she barely had any pale, raised patches of skin where other hunters did.

No scars was so fucking rare. 

But so was She.

And Dean needed to pull it together.

“It’ll hold,” She looked back to Dean, and he had to blink at her. Pretend he hadn’t just been gaping at Her bare skin. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He muttered, scanning over Her features. She was awake, but there still wasn’t enough color in Her face. Too little fury behind Her eyes, nothing dancing and shining like it usually did. She looked exhausted. Weakened. The little furrow of Her brow tighter than usual. 

They had hours to go, and Dean knew how to fix that. He knew how to poke at Her until she snapped and everything bent with Her—all Her force making the world clearer, Dean’s body stronger—and how to walk right up to the invisible line, touch Her just as much as he was allowed, and make Her relax. Sam didn’t. But Dean did. 

“I’m coming back there.” He grunted, starting to shift in his seat, and She frowned.

“What?”

“Sammy’s gonna drive the rest of the way, I’ll sit with you-“

“No, you don’t-“

He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear Her say he didn’t have to, because it just reminded him that she didn’t feel this. That there was nothing that called Her to Dean’s side, because if there was she’d be fucking begging him to sit with Her. 

He knew that, because he was seconds away from dropping to a new low and begging Her. 

“We had Sammy back there all day,” he held Her gaze, trying to make his voice stern. “Only fair you get saddled with me too.”

“I’m not-“ She cut herself off with a shake of Her head. “I don’t need Sam to sit with me either, De. I’m fine.”

De. She said De, and it was maybe the only thing more powerful than Her calling him Dean. Even if She didn’t mean it, the word felt like a command over his body, and that was only another thing Dean didn’t understand. 

“You’re- you look like shit, Princess.“ He couldn’t stop the nickname from slipping out of his mouth. No matter how screwed things were, the way Her body loosened slightly at the sound of it was always a small high, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop chasing it.

She scowled. “Hey-“

“You just got stabbed, and you haven’t woken up in six hours-“

“I’m awake now-“

“And I’d like to keep it like that.” Dean snapped. “I- you just gotta-“ He ran a hand over his face, because She didn’t want him there, but every time Her eyes drooped or Her body twitched with pain it made Dean’s gut contract. “At least keep Sammy. So you’re not alone.”

She rolled Her eyes. It really did fucking look like Bobby. “I’m not alone, dummy, you’re like two feet away.”

“What if you pass out again? Am I just supposed to pull over?”

“Yeah? I mean, I’m not gonna pass out-“

“You can’t know that, sweetheart-“

“I can guess.” She glowered at him, raising Her chin slightly, and even lying down She looked like royalty.  “It’s my body, Winchester, and I feel fine.”

“For now.” Dean muttered, and She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Shut up-“ She cut herself off with a yawn, and Dean’s jaw clenched. 

She couldn’t see Her. Every single second that passed no light returned to Her eyes, and everything just grew duller. She’d just yawned. But Dean was pretty certain that—if She hissed at Sam to get in the front seat and not bother worrying about her—the giant baby would listen.

Dean needed to work around this. She needed to be okay.

“You’ll need to keep talking.” He grunted, holding her gaze. “I hear one second of silence, and we’re pulling over so I can move back there. Understood?”

She gave him a flat look. “Are you serious-“

“Deadly, Princess. Understood?”

Dean might be imagining it, but a little color returned to Her face. The flush. And the breath. And the-

“Understood.” She muttered. “You’re such a fucking dick.”

“You’ve told me.” Dean turned back to face ahead, and she let out a long breath behind him. 

This silence was short, but maybe the heaviest Dean had ever experienced. It weighed on the top of his chest, and he didn’t know how to push it off, and he wanted to look at Her again, but he couldn’t bear it if She didn’t look at him-

“Dean,” She whispered, and his whole body went alert at the sound of her voice. Softer than usual, but still calling him down. “I’m-“

Whatever She was, Dean didn’t get to know. Sam knocked on his window, waving to Her in the backseat, and Dean had to turn and roll down the window so they could hear each other.

“Dude, why are you hunching down like that, just get in the freaking car-“

Sam rolled his eyes, not moving to from the window. “I still need to get coffee, Dean. And,” He said Her name with a grin, completely ignoring Dean’s glower. “You’re up!”

“Yep.” She returned Sam’s smile, and Dean scowled. She hadn’t smiled at him. “Thanks for the stitches.”

Sam shrugged, leaning a little further through the window. “No problem. They feel okay? Because I was rushing a little to get you on the road, and-“

“They feel fine, Sam. I feel fine.”

Those last words were shot at Dean, and he rolled his eyes. “You won the argument, Princess, don’t get all bitchy with me.”

“I am not being bitchy-“

“You’re being dramatic-“

“I just got fucking stabbed, Winchester, I can be as dramatic as I want.”

Dean scoffed, twisting in his seat. “I’m the one who had to watch you get stabbed-“

“How fucking harrowing for you-“

“What the hell does harrowing mean-“

“Hey!” Sam slapped Dean’s arm, shooting both of them a stern look. “You guys can fight all you want when we’re on the road, but we actually need to get on the road. Tell me what you want from the gas station, and kill each other after.”

She let out a long breath. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam said Her name, gave Dean a pointed glare, and Dean scowled. 

“I didn’t fucking do anything-“

She scoffed, the sound a rough cough that almost made Dean leap over the bench to pick Her up and hold her to his chest. “Oh, fuck off, Winchester-“

“Wouldn’t you love that, Princess-“

“Dean!” Sam snapped. “Don’t- Just tell me what you want, please.”

Dean opened his mouth, and She cut him off with sharp, short words.

“Don’t say pie. You’re driving.”

Dean was either going to smother Her with his hands around her neck, or with his mouth slammed to Her’s. She was so fucking hot, and annoying, and Dean wouldn’t strangle her because he knew his dumb body wouldn’t allow him, but Jesus, She needed to shut the hell up before Dean made her and then lost her forever-

“Dean?” Sam was raising his brows. Waiting for a response.

“Gimme some coffee.” He muttered, gripping the wheel like it could save him from Her glare, and how it made his skin feel sore. “And jerky.”

Sam nodded, glancing over to Her, and when she spoke her voice was too quiet. He watched to jump over the bench again. 

“Coffee and candy?”

“Sure, you want anything specific-“

“Whatever’s cheap.” She said, and Dean was going to break the wheel. 

His head was churning and spiraling again. She said that like Bobby said it. The same dismissive cheaper is easier, boy, and I ain’t an idiot to fall for fancy fuckin’ packagin’ tone.

“Snickers?” Sam offered, and She must have nodded because a second later, he was gone.

It was silent. So silent that Dean had a brief, stabbing moment of worry that She was passed out again. His eyes flicked up to the mirror again, and Her eyes were open—pretty and glaring at Dean like She wanted to stab him—but they looked lidded. And the little furrow was becoming more prominent, and Her breathing was a little too shallow, and-

“You’re supposed to be talking.” Dean snapped, and She rolled Her eyes. And it was still exactly like Bobby did, but, son of a bitch it was so much hotter-

He needed to get a grip. He needed to figure out how—when they eventually did get to Sioux Falls—he was ever going to be able to look at Her and not wonder how he hadn’t seen it before. He was a little fucking worried he’d look at Bobby and start to feel that gravitational pull. That Dean would start to orbit around Bobby, and smell him all the time, and hear his voice in dreams-

If that happened, Dean would need to give himself a concussion and pray it erased his memory. He already didn’t love how he wanted nothing more than to crawl over Her and make her smile, and if he started to crave Bobby’s attention too, he’d lose his mind. Crashing into Her was usually good, when she wasn’t trying to give him a heart attack or being the most impossible person Dean had ever met. Crashing into Bobby would be gross. If Dean had to start fantasizing about Bobby under him when he fucked someone, he might just have to kill himself-

“Dean!” She was shouting, Her voice slightly strained, and he turned to frown at Her.

“What’s-“

“What am I supposed to be talking about?”

He frowned. “I don’t fucking care-“

“Alright, then I won’t-“

“No.” Dean pointed a stern finger at Her, narrowing his eyes. “You gotta talk. That was the deal.”

“I didn’t make a deal, you just ordered me to talk-“

“I did not order you, Princess, I’m trying to goddamn keep you alive after you went and got stabbed-“

“Oh, suck my fucking dick-“

The car door opened, and they both turned to see Sam leaning into the car, coffees in hand and snacks under his arms.

“Oh, good, you didn’t murder each other.” Sam passed out their coffees and snacks, his voice a dry mutter that was gonna get him punched. “Actually,” he frowned between them. “If you’re going to fight for the rest of the ride, can Dean  sit in the back so I can tune it out-“

“Neither of you are sitting in the back.” She pushed Herself upright with a small, weak sound, and Her hands were shaking. Dean was going to tackle Her.

“Maybe, uh,” Sam glanced at Dean as he said Her name, like he could see the rough tension over his heart at Her insistence to be as difficult as possible. “I mean, I really don’t mind if I do have to sit with you-“

“I’ll be alright without a babysitter-“

“Because you’re going to keep talking.” Dean muttered, drumming his hands on the wheel. “Sammy, apparently her majesty can’t come up with a topic, so that’s on you, but I don’t want a single second of silence, sweetheart, or-“

“You’ll pull over and be a massive fucking baby.” She snapped, and Dean wished She wasn’t so hot when she was pissed. “He threatened me, Sam.”

Dean scowled. “I did not threaten you-“

“Fine. It was blackmail.”

“It was- I-“ Dean whipped around to glower at her. “You’re such a fucking-“

“Bitch?” She sneered, holding his gaze. “Am I a bitch? Am I a spoiled little bitch?”

“That’s- You know I wasn’t-“

“Trying to hurt my little bratty girl feelings-“

“I never fucking said-“

She scoffed, and Dean could swear something hot and wired was fueling all his anger. Maybe it was how the air in the car seemed to be waving, or how every word was venomous and cold and making something inside of him wither, or how breathing was so fucking painful when She was furious and sneering-

“That I’m a bitch? That I’m a controlling fucking bitch-“

“Shut up! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Dean slammed his hand on the bench, and She flinched. Visibly flinched. Recoiled. 

“I- I didn’t-“ She swallowed, staring at Her cup in her hands. “Sorry.”

Dean was a piece of fucking shit. He’d done it again. He’d pushed it too far because he was an asshole.

He muttered Her name, his voice low. “I didn’t- I’m-“

“Don’t.” She mumbled, and She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll keep talking.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and all he could do was nod. She looked sick. He fucking felt sick. He kept slamming his fist between them, making everything worse, hurting Her in a way he’d never seemed to be able to hurt anyone before-

Sam cleared his throat. Dean had forgotten he was there.

“So, uh, we’re talking.”

Dean opened his mouth to say no, they needed to fucking patch whatever the hell was wrong with him with glue, so he could shove himself into her hands as a pathetic, useless apology, but She was faster. Better. Still a liar, still in pain, but also still beautiful. Still so far away from Dean.

“Yeah. Get in the car.”

Sam nodded, shooting Dean one last look, and leaned out of the car. Dean started the engine—biting his tongue not to vomit a million apologies he knew wouldn’t come out right—and they were back on the road.

Four hours until they hit Bobby’s.

Four hours of beating himself bloody in silence, and listening to Her speak.

Normally Dean would’ve thought there was no better way to spend his time than being drowned in Her voice, and hearing her say anything at all. But normally She wasn’t in this pain, where She’d gesture too broadly and hiss, or Baby would hit a bump and She’d whine. Normally he didn’t have to force himself not to look at Her—and whenever he lost control and his eyes slipped to Her in the mirror, she didn’t look so colorless and drained—and normally Dean allowed himself to speak to Her in more than grunts. 

She was acting like everything was fine. Sometimes he’d look back and She’d be smiling, and it didn’t reach Her eyes, and Dean had done that. That wasn’t the injury. 

That was just Dean. Ruining everything because She’d fallen from the sky into his hands and he’d bashed Her into the mud.

“There’s…” Sam was said Her name, his voice filled with disbelief. “You don’t actually think that, right?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it-“

“But it’s Star Wars! I mean, it’s not perfect, but you can’t seriously believe it’s bad.”

“It is bad, Sam. It’s objectively poorly written, but it has iconic imagery, music, and actors-“

“Because it’s not bad!”

It had been thirty minutes of this. Sam hadn’t needed to look that hard to find a topic, and the moment he’d said the words Uh, you like movies? Dean had known it was over. He’d had this exact conversation with Her before, and it had involved a lot more yelling and shoving than Sam was getting.

It had also involved Her giggling and smiling and leaning so close that Dean could see even the smallest features on her face—tiny bumps and scars, little divets that somehow made Her more beautiful—and smell that strange fruit until it intoxicated him, and he’d thrown his hands up in surrender. 

Her eyes had sparkled then. She still wouldn’t look at him now. Even when Sam would echo a point Dean had made before, She shot it down with ease—and a careful, detailed argument that made Dean think She’s been freaking practicing—and Sam would let out a sigh that sounded a little like a whine.

“I don’t think it’s useless, you know. I’m saying it’s not-“

“You just called it the most overhyped movie ever made!”

“And it is, but that’s why it’s not useless. It was the primary cause of science fiction being popularized-“

“Because people liked it!” Sam looked to Dean with wide eyes—as if Dean could fucking do something about this—and then back to Her with a shaking head. “I- They’re maybe the most popular movies of all time-“

“Popularity doesn’t equate quality, Sam.” She said, and Dean hoped She couldn’t see him mouthing along with her every word, knowing exactly what she’d say. “It can, but it doesn’t have to. Star Wars being popular is its greatest strength, because that mean it was able to serve as inspiration for many, better things.”

Sam scoffed. “Like what?”

That was a mistake. If Dean was allowing himself to participate in the conversation, he would’ve been able to tell Sammy that saying that—especially in a doubtful tone—was never a good idea. She’d have examples, and if She didn’t, she’d come up with some right here in the car.

Dean had fallen for that trap before. And he was too fucking tired and bitter to save Sam from it.

“I’m so glad you asked, Samuel.” Dean glanced in the mirror, and that was a wide, blinding, almost manic grin that appeared when She was about to hand Dean’s ass to him on a platter.

He almost felt bad for Sam.

“I- Samuel?”

She hummed, completely ignoring Sam’s indigence. “Almost all science-fiction movies are somewhat inspired by Star Wars, or owe Star Wars the popularity of the genre. And, Star Wars significantly popularized the use of Monomyth in film-“

Dean didn’t remember what Monomyth was. Sam didn’t seem to either, because She cut herself off with a sigh.

“The Hero’s Journey. In movies.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “Dean said you didn’t go to college.”

Dean cringed slightly, feeling Her glare through the mirror. 

“Did he.”

“Yeah, it’s just surprising, you’re smart-“

“I don’t have to go to college to be smart.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, you just- You don’t sound like you didn’t-“

“I’ve read a lot.” She said, and a vision of Bobby’s library flashed through Dean’s head.

There were a shit ton of books in there. Even Sam hadn’t read them all, and Dean was pretty sure Bobby hadn’t either, but he also remembered Bobby saying that they’d all been read.

By Her.

“And,” She was still talking. Of course She was. “I’ve watched a lot of TV, which is how I know I’m right. Star Wars is terrible-“

In the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam open his mouth, and then make his first good choice of the day and close it.

“But it’s also the only reason we have Indiana Jones-“

“You like Indiana Jones?”

Dean rolled his eyes. Another mistake from Kid Genius in shotgun-

“Shut up, Winchester.”

Dean blinked, scowling at the road. “I didn’t say anything-“

“You were going to.” She snapped, and when Dean glanced back, she was glaring at him. “So shut up.”

Sam frowned between them. “Why would Dean-“

“Her majesty loves Indiana Jones.” Dean grunted. “Good luck, Sammy.”

“Don’t wish him luck, I’m not going to try to kill him-“

“Sure, Princess.”

She kicked the back of Dean’s seat, and he didn’t even grunt. The hit was weaker than usual, and it wasn’t because She wasn’t trying.

She was just weaker. She was still coughing and taking breaths that were far too long. Her eyes were still a little hollowed, and lips in too tight a line, and brow drawn in pain. Dean couldn’t fucking stand it. He wanted to pull over, grab Her and demand that they forgive each other now—or at least try to pretend nothing had happened in the first place—because she was hurt and needed Dean’s help-

“I’m not going to kill you, Sam.” She said, and Sam didn’t look all that reassured. “And I do love Indiana Jones. I think it’s fun.”

Sam frowned. “Star Wars is fun.”

“Star Wars parodies are fun. There’s an episode of the Muppet Show with the Star Wars cast, and it’s better than all the actual Star Wars movies combined.”

She and Sam kept talking—Sam refused to believe one single episode of television could be greater than a film trilogy, and Dean didn’t think She was capable of just surrendering any sort of argument—and Dean’s head started to wander again. Back to Bobby’s house, and every single sign of Her he’d never noticed. Never had reason to notice, or dwell on, or observe, but now he couldn’t stop remembering all the grenadine in Bobby’s fridge that the man himself never seemed to touch, but always seemed to be in use. All the normal books that weren’t for hunting, and didn’t seem like things Bobby would read.

If Dean squinted in his head, he could see the VHS tapes stacked near the TV. There had been a lot of movies he’d stayed up late to watch—action movies and westerns and some fancy art films he hadn’t action movies and TV shows-really understood—but also some he’d never touched. Comedy films and chick flicks and-

“Bobby had that show.” Dean muttered, and She and Sam fell silent. “The Muppet Show. He had a freakin’ VHS tape.”

They hadn’t mentioned it since She woke up. The looming axe over all their heads, that they were heading to Bobby’s, and She’d fucking lied about knowing him. 

But Dean hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was never able to stop himself with Her. It was fucking amazing, how he kept managing to make this whole thing worse.

“Yeah.” She muttered. She’d tucked Her knees to her chest. “He does.”

Sam cleared his throat, his voice gentle. “I, uh, you don’t have to answer, but can I ask how you know Bobby? Dean said he raised you-“

“He did.”

“Oh.” Sam looked between Her and Dean with a frown. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Her voice becoming taut, and it squeezed around Dean’s throat. “I’ve told you my dad is a hunter-“

“So Bobby’s your dad?”

“No, it’s-“ She sighed. “I- It’s easier to say father than man who raised me. We’re not related.”

Sam nodded slowly, and Dean stayed perfectly fucking still in his seat. If he moved or breathed wrong, She might remember he was here and stop sharing things. 

“If you- How have we never met before?” Sam’s voice was cautious. Dean understood that. “It’s just, Dean and I have known Bobby our whole lives, we’ve spent weeks at his house-“

“I was…” She swallowed, Dean didn’t have to look back to know Her head would be bowed, and she’d be picking Her skin bloody. “Really sick. I had to be kept separated from other people.”

It wasn’t a lie. Dean could fucking hear it, could feel the sinking ache into his bones at Her tired, heavy voice. And it didn’t matter how vague and useless an answer that was—how it just left him with more questions about how sick She’d been, what type of sickness, if She was alright now when she didn’t really seem to be—because it was the truth. 

And She looked sad. She wouldn’t look up, and She was tucked into Herself, and there was hair blocking all Her features from view, and Dean wanted to move it and touch Her, trace his hands over Her face until she smiled and her body went loose-

She wouldn’t let him touch Her. If he tried, he’d probably get punched in the gut, and it would leave a gash in his intestine he didn’t know how to prevent or heal.

He was still pathetic though. Still feeling an itch on his skin the longer She looked like she was trying to hide from something invisible, the longer Her brow pressed to Her knees and the acidic silence stretched on.

He couldn’t just stop.

“Keep talking, Princess.” He grunted, and he could feel Her glare sear through his head. It was better than nothing. 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was too gentle. He didn’t get it. How She was too quiet and too bendable and it was making Dean feel sunken and empty. “Maybe we can just listen to music or something-“

“No. Talk.” 

Sam’s eyes widened, and if he kept gaping like that, Dean was going to kick and punch him. 

“Well, Deano,” She was still glaring at him from the backseat. “What the fuck should I be talking about?“

“Anything, just-“

“Anything isn’t helpful-“

“Tell Sammy what food he is.” Dean snapped, and Sam blinked. 

“Tell me what?”

“I’m pie,” Dean muttered, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Because the smartass back there is a little genius.”

“I am a genius.” Her voice was harsher than before. Stronger. “And I didn’t just say you were a pie, I said you were pecan pie, you asshole-“

“Same thing-“

“It’s not. The specification is important-“

“It’s damn pie, sweetheart. Pie is pie-“

“Why pecan?” Sam asked. “I mean, why not apple, or cherry-“

“Because I don’t pander.” She said, and Dean had to bite down a snort. “And he’s not nearly sweet enough to be cherry-“

Dean frowned. “Hey-“

“And,” She pushed on, ignoring Dean entirely. “The chewiness of pecan is very Dean.”

He didn’t know how to protest that. He didn’t know what to say to that. Not when he glanced back in the mirror and Her face was so unreadable.

She didn’t sound as pissed anymore. Dean didn’t know what to do with that.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding, looking between Her and Dean with another unreadable expression. Everyone needed to start saying what they were thinking soon, or Dean was gonna lose it. “I- Yeah. I can see that. What food am I, then?”

“Bubblegum.” 

Her answer was quick, and if Dean didn't have to drive and brood, he would've laughed at the look on Sammy's face.

"I- Why?"

“You’re sweet. And flexible but still kinda stiff.” 

Dean frowned, lowering his voice to speak under his breath. “I’m sweet.”

She hummed. “Yeah, but you’re an acquired taste, Deano. Like pecan.”

She kept talking, but the word bounced and echoed around Dean’s head. Deano. She only called him Deano when he’d said or done something stupid, but She wasn’t really that pissed about it. Deano had an underlying tone of affection to it. A higher sound on the De and a long moment on the O.

She might not hate him.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding slowly, still twisted in his seat. “I can be bubblegum. Is- Do you do that a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Uh, sort people, I guess? Like, what type of drink would you say I am?”

“She doesn’t drink, Sammy.” Dean muttered, and his seat got kicked again.

“I still know what drinks are-““Could you tell us what each one is like?” =

There was a brief pause—Dean could imagine the small, pouting frown on Her face—and then- “No.”

Dean shot Her a wink in the mirror before he could think better, and it was a mistake. She was glowering at him. She was really hot when She glowered at him—Dean could easily imagine smoke rising off Her body and small, silver spark flying over his skin when he touched Her—but her easy, high beauty wasn’t nearly enough to distract Dean from how shitty she looked. There was more gray in Her face than before, She was curled more into her own body, and, son of a bitch, Her eyes were fluttering slightly-

“What about music genres?” Dean said, just to keep Her talking, and She blinked at him. “What?”

“Music genres, Princess. You know hip-hop, pop, the blues-“

“I know what music genres are, asshole, why are you-“

“Which are we.” Dean gave a vague, one-handed wave between himself and Sammy. “Do your thing.”

“I don’t have a thing-“

“Yeah, you do. Give it a shot, sweetheart. Music genres.”

Sam gave Dean an unwelcome, amused look. “You know, it kind of feels like one of us-“

“Shut up, Sammy.” Dean looked back in the mirror, raising his brows at Her. “And you’re supposed to be talking.”

She wrinkled Her nose him, but she also started talking, so Dean didn’t really care all that much. He was rock—but She was annoying, said Latin pop first, and giggled for five straight minutes after—and Sammy was jazz. Fancy bar Jazz. 

Dean didn’t know what that meant.

But he really liked the sound of Her voice, and the way She said most everything. She could’ve probably called Sam country music and he’d agree, just because of how She’d say. With a smooth, passive authority that told something in Dean’s brain She’s right. All the freaking time, even when She’s obviously wrong, she’s still right.

Sam was starbursts, and Dean was a KitKat. Dean was dusk, and Sam was noon. Sam was a Lily of the Valley, and Dean was a rose.

Dean had no interest in being a flower. He did like Her telling him what he was. He liked the idea that She’d been looking at him. That She’d thought about him enough to think he’d be a car if he was on object—which was a cheap shot, but still made Dean feel fuzzy—or a tree if he was a plant, or a seal if he lived in the ocean.

He frowned, waiting for Her to elaborate—he still wasn’t allowing himself to speak all that much, because this felt delicate and still slightly fractured—and decided he wouldn’t kick Sam’s ass for being a butthead the whole car ride when the kid took the bullet for him. 

“Why am I an octopus?”

She yawned. It made Dean’s stomach clench. “You’re productive and floppy.”

Dean snorted, and Sam shot him a glare.

“Well then, why’s Dean a seal-“

“Cause he’s all big and toothy.”

Dean scowled. He wasn’t nearly as big and toothy as Sammy was, but fighting with Her on reasoning almost always ended up being a dead end. Just as how asking Her what she was only ever resulted in a hum and shrug. Dean’s goal was to keep Her talking, so he had to move on. 

“Whatever, Princess. What about out of the ocean animals?”

She shifted a little in Her seat—letting out a small noise that hurt Dean’s whole body—but kept talking. Sam was this, and Dean was that. Dean was that, and Sam was this.

And every time she spoke, Dean could imagine the tilt of Her head, the way she was probably rubbing Her skin at she examined them and thought of an answer with far too much sincerity. He wanted to rub Her skin. To trace his hands up Her legs, watch Her look at him with nothing but softness in her eyes, feel nothing but molten light fill him up from the inside-

He needed to figure out how the hell She always did that. How all of Dean’s fury was now smothered and coated Her, how all the way in his soft tissue he just really wanted to touch Her. To stop giving Her reasons to sneer at him, to stop pushing Her until she fell away forever, for everything to just be alright. 

For this conversation to be not edged with the knowledge that She probably didn’t want him around now. Even if She didn’t hate him, he must have snapped everything too much to fix it. 

But Dean was pathetic, so he still wanted to care for and protect and follow Her.

He wanted to fix this. To salvage it. 

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just drop this, just sit with the fact that everything was ruined and over. Why something to the right of his heart seemed to pound and roar at the idea of never touching Her again. Not ever a hand on Her back or brief high-five. 

Worse was imagining never hearing Her voice again. Only hearing it call him on the wind.

He couldn’t really hear Her voice now. 

She’d slumped forward, Her brow resting near Dean’s shoulder and her eyes turned towards the floor. 

“Dean.” She mumbled, and his whole body tensed. “Can we be done with the talking game?”

“No,” Dean grunted Her name. “It’s not a game, you gotta keep talking-“

“I’m good.” She let out a long breath. It was too ragged. “I- I think I’m just a little tired.”

“Well, I need you to keep fucking talking-“

She shook Her head, her temple pressing right into Dean’s arm. “I don’t- it hurts, Dean.” She made a high, weak noise, and Dean was going to break the wheel with only his hands. “Can I have five minutes, please?”

Fuck. She was saying please. 

“Princess, just- shit- for an hour, keep talking for an hour- Sammy-“

“Got it. Hey,” Sam said Her name, and his voice was too gentle. She needed it to be shouted, She needed to hear that she had to stay awake, that it wasn’t a damn option for Her to sleep. “Can you tell me more about, uh, movies? What’s your favorite movie?”

She didn’t have a favorite movie. She had about fifty, and they were all dumb, and She was always adorable when She told Dean about them, and why wasn’t She talking-

“Sammy.” She mumbled, grabbing Sam’s arm and turning Her head to him. Away from Dean. “Why does Dean call you that?”

“It was, uh, it was my nickname growing up.” Sam swallowed, giving Dean a desperate look as he continued. “Did you have a nickname, when you were a kid?”

“No.” She mumbled. “People don’t give smart little whores nicknames. But,” Her voice got softer, dropping like She was telling a secret. “Dean calls me Princess sometimes.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ve heard it. He said it like five seconds ago-“

“I like it.” She said, and Dean was going to grind his teeth to dust. “I like him. He’s an asshole, Sammy, but I like him.”

Sam had no right to look like he’d been punched. Dean was the one who had to keep driving and acting like he couldn’t hear.

Sam said Her name, his tone slow and careful. “I think-“

“There’s something wrong with me.” She said, and there was nothing angry in Her voice. She really just sounded sad. Sad and tired. “It really hurts.”

“I know, but Dean’s right, you need to stay awake until we get to Bobby’s-“

She groaned, and leaned further into Dean’s arm. “He’s gonna kill me-“

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll kill you-“

“He will. He’s gonna tell me I’ve been dumb and reckless, that I was supposed to-“ She paused, then sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Sam frowned, looking back to Dean. He needed to stop doing that. Dean didn’t have a clue what was going on. “Why?”

“You’ll tell Dean. Then Dean will kill me. I like him, I don’t want him to kill me.”

“I’m pretty sure Dean’s not gonna kill you-“

“He is.” She let out another sad, little sigh. “He already hates me, Sam-“

“He doesn’t-“

“I don’t…” She yawned, shifting Her head just enough for Dean to see her eyes were closed. “I don’t hate him. I think he’s…”

She yawned again. And She didn’t finish her sentence, and Dean could swear their bodies were going to be glued together. She didn’t seem to remember he was there, but She was still moving closer into him, and he was going to go fucking insane.

Because She was asleep, and they still had an hour to go.

Dean swerved over from the far-hand lane, stopped Baby on the side of the highway, and got out of the car. Sam was smart and understood what was happening—scooting into the driver’s seat without a word—and She just kept fucking sleeping. 

She barely stirred when Dean pulled Her backwards, letting Her head rest on his chest and her body slump in his arms. He wasn’t supposed to allow himself to touch Her like this. She might stab Dean if she found out he was hugging Her, holding Her like she was fragile and vital to everything around him. She would stab him again when he’d tell Her that’s because she was. 

Everything was easier when he stroked his thumb down Her nose, and She let out a soft, breathy sound before curling fully into his body. The same way She’d tuck into herself, or sink into the mattress or couch after an episode. Like She was trying to shield herself from something. 

But now, Dean was Her shield.

And he was so goddamn confused.

They had an hour until Bobby’s—more like fifty minutes now—and Dean still couldn’t wrap his head around what was becoming more and more obviously the truth. 

If it was, She wouldn’t be spoiled. And that would make sense—She’d never really seemed spoiled, mostly just smart and confident—if that didn’t really mean that She’d been raised by Bobby. That the girl who’d painted Her nails on Dean’s motel table, who always smelled like sugar and fruit and kind of looked like She was forged deep in a star, had been raised by freaking Bobby. Beer and books and cars and no need to give me extra attention Bobby. The Bobby who was practical, and sharp, and didn’t take any shit-

Son of a bitch. 

It still didn’t make sense. There was no reason for Her to lie about knowing Bobby. Dean had even told Her he liked Bobby. That Bobby was the best hunter he knew, after Dad. 

He’d probably yell at Her about it, if he could. Shout and sneer and bite—he didn’t know how to just be moderate with Her, how to hold himself the hell together—until She gave him answers. And that never seemed to work. 

But Dean also never seemed to learn. Not when it came to Her.

Because even as the confusion and anger bubbled in his chest, it wasn’t nearly as powerful as how goddamn sick he felt. Yelling at Her had gotten them here, and Dean never learned. If he hadn’t pushed and snapped Her, she never would’ve gone off alone, and the demon never would’ve seen her. It had probably realized that She was a hunter and stuck to her trail.

She wouldn’t be in all this mumbled, whined pain if it wasn’t for Dean. She wouldn’t be in danger. She’d probably just be sitting with him and Sam at a diner, laughing and talking until they parted, then found their way back to each other’s paths a few weeks later. 

This time, Dean didn’t think She’d come back. One way or another, She’d be gone. There was the way that made the pit in his chest turn into a chasm—the way he outright refused to entertain—but there was also the second, slower way. Where She didn’t hate him, and She wasn’t gone, but Dean still lost Her. She left, and he was alone.

Dean wouldn’t allow the first way to happen. Every time Her breathing was too shallow, he’d snap at Sam to hurry up and try to soothe Her until it was even again. He could give CPR, if he had to. He didn’t know how to do CPR—he should probably learn—but he’d seen Sammy do it, and it didn’t look that hard. Dean could sing Stayin’ Alive. He could press his lips to Her’s and give her his fucking lungs out of his chest to fix this. He could peel off his skin and patch it over Her wound if he needed to. 

Stab wounds aren’t supposed to be this bad. And Dean had never been stabbed by a demon, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be any different. The knife that the son of a bitch had lodged in Her gut hadn’t even been all that special. Just a smooth, iron blade that was knocking Her—Her—down for the count. 

She had to hang on. Dean would want it to be for him, but he knew better, so he’d settle for it being for Bobby. 

Because Sam finally parked the car in Bobby’s yard, and Bobby was already outside. Hunched on the step, shooting to his feet before the engine was even off. 

Dean suddenly felt like he really shouldn’t be touching Her, or holding her tight against his chest, or trying to smell Her like a creep every few minutes. She smelled good. Like wet dirt—but in a sharp, earthy way that mostly made Dean feel comfortable—chlorine, something vanilla that was cheap and strong, and there was the fucking fruit-

Bobby probably wouldn’t care that She smelled like an odd, unplaceable fruit. He also didn’t have to know why She smelled like chlorine. Dean wasn’t looking to get shot and—based on the way Bobby was glowering at him through the window—explaining what they’d been doing last night didn’t feel like it would be welcome information. 

Because Bobby had never looked at him like that. Really fucking angry, with a drawn brow and deep scowl. Dean couldn’t tell if the glare was at him, or for Her, but he knew Bobby was pissed. If his expression wasn’t a give away, the gruff, low tone of his voice was.

Dean was barely out of the car—Her body cradled carefully in his arms, an apologetic grimace already on his face—when Bobby started snapping.

“Fuckin’- balls- Bring ‘er inside Dean, and Sam, grab the stitch kit. My stitch kit, I don’t wanna be usin’ that fuckin’ weak one in the trunk of your car.”

Sam nodded, walking into the house with a tight, nervous expression at Dean over his shoulder. Dean would’ve shrugged in return, but he didn’t want to shake Her in his arms, or make Bobby think he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was. He couldn’t not, because it was Her. And Her breathing was weak, and Her features were so washed over and Her lips were pale and she kept clinging to Dean’s arm-

“Dean.” Bobby grunted, jerking his head to the door. “Inside, now.”

“Yes, si-“ Dean cut himself off, changing himself to only a nod as he moved her into the house.

It was exactly as he remembered it. Nothing ever really changed at Bobby’s house, and every piece of furniture and color was exactly in place with how it had been in Dean’s head, but there more now.

Things Dean had seen but never really given deeper thought, like a mug that was a soft pastel color in the side-table—slightly stained with coffee, and looking long-empty but never moved—and chapstick near the TV, and-

“That’s her jacket.” Dean said, a little stupidly, and Bobby shot him an odd look.

“What’re you talkin’ about-“

Dean said Her name, nodding to the leather jacket that was hooked over a chair. It was a woman’s jacket, not really Bobby’s style, and Her’s. Dean knew it was Her’s. She about ten different jackets—all in different styles and cuts and materials—but Dean also knew all of them. That was the one She’d been wearing on the onryu hunt, that had ended stained in her own blood and the spirit’s ash. She’d shoved it into her trunk before She left the next day, and told Dean she’d clean it later when he’d offered, because he was pathetic and hadn’t known how to not offer. 

He’d asked if She even knew how to clean it. She’d flipped him off, told him She did, and said that she’d do it when She got home.

A small part of Dean had gotten toxic at the idea of Her being home. That maybe She’d just pass the jacket off to a servant she didn’t know the name of—She’d probably have known the name, but it served Dean’s anger better to imagine she was worse than she was—and let them touch a piece of Her instead of Dean.

But She’d been here. Cleaned the jacket here, at Her home. 

And there really wasn’t any evidence to prove that She didn’t belong here. So Dean was fucked.

“That’s… It’s her jacket.”

Bobby sighed, rolling his eyes. “Believe it or not, Dean, I’m aware. Put ‘er down on the table.”

Dean nodded, tearing his gaze away from Her jacket and setting her flat on the dining room table. She tried to hold onto him. Dean pulled back, and She tried to hold onto him, and he was going to go insane.

Bobby didn’t wait for Dean to fully step away before he was moving. Adjusting Her on the table so She wasn’t trying to sink into the wood, scanning over her with a tight, unreadable expression.

“Knife got in her gut?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, his hands fisting at his side. “Sammy did stitches, but they were quick, and-“

“I’ll fix ‘em.” Bobby grunted, hiking Her shirt up her stomach and-

Fuck. 

The wound was worse. The stitches looked frayed in Her body, and her skin was definitely blistering, and there was something yellow and sticky that smelled horrible-

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice was tight, his eyes never leaving the wound. “This ain’t lookin’ like a stab wound-“

“It was, Bobby, I saw it-“

“You still got the weapon?”

Dean nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Alright, go get it while I deal with ‘er.”

Dean didn’t want to go get the weapon. He didn’t want to leave Her side. She was in pain, and She’d tried to hang onto Dean and he didn’t want to leave Her-

“What’re you just standin’ here for-“

“You can-“ Dean swallowed, his attention trapped on Her dulled, beautiful face. “Bobby, you can fix this, right? She’ll- She’s gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be alright. Gonna have some explain’ to do when she gets up, but she’ll live.”

“Explaining-“

“How the hell she ended up with you boys and a knife in her damn gut. Matter of fact, you and your brother better start gettin’ your story straight, cause I ain’t just gonna let you drop my kid off bleedin’ on my doorstep then drive away.”

Dean tensed, and finally managed to really look at Bobby. His expression was still flat, still neutral, but there was something in his eyes Dean hadn’t seen before. Not glazed, but not sharp, just… heavy. Bobby looked heavy. He was staring at Her body with a painfully neutral face that had slightly lines of tension on the edges. He was standing taller than usual, his whole body rigid and wound up, and Dean could really, truly see it. 

It had been the truth. If the way Bobby stood and spoke—in tight, clipped words like he didn’t have room to be anything but short—wasn’t a giveaway, it was those last words.

My kid. 

Bobby’s kid.

She was Bobby’s fucking kid. 

Dean forced himself to move away, his head ducked down and his steps quick as he passed Sam with only a grunt of acknowledgment and returned to the Impala trunk. Sam hadn’t been careful about how he’d grabbed Her things. They were smushed and scattered, pressed against each other and all looking like Her things. Those were things she owned, that they’d grabbed from Her car and motel room. Clothing that wasn’t covered in blood and dirt, a lot of notebooks Dean really had to fight himself not to read, and fewer personal possessions than he would’ve thought. 

There was that small, colorful bag that had all Her girl stuff in it, and Her knife, and a backpack that—when Dean zipped it open—was filled with more notebooks, and… plants and rocks. A lot of plants and rocks.

He didn’t have time to try and work out why the hell She was keeping plants and rocks in her bag. He didn’t have time to overstep and push it like he always did, and let himself comb through those notebooks. One did fall open, but nothing Dean saw in it made sense—he didn’t speak that language, he didn’t even recognize it, and there was a weird drawing that he didn’t even know how to start interpreting—so he had to move on. To grab the demon’s knife from when he’d tucked it in the back and close the trunk, because all of this could wait until She was better.

She’d have to get better. 

Sam and Bobby were working in silence when Dean returned. Sam holding Her arms to the side as Bobby cleaned the wound and re-did the stitches, a bottle of water at his side that he kept pouring over her skin.

Dean set the knife on the kitchen counter, walking over to stand by Her head. That little wrinkle was back, and Her lips were pressed together, and She was in pain-

He had to restrain his hands to stop them from moving to touch Her. To sooth the wrinkle and brush sweat and hair from Her face. Sammy wasn’t holding Her right. His grip was too tight, and Her arm didn’t look like it was at a good angle, and Dean could hold Her better-

She took a slow, ragged breath, eyes fluttering, and Bobby glanced up to where Dean was standing over Her.

“You get the knife?”

“On the counter,” Dean muttered. “She’s…”

He trailed off, and Bobby let out a long breath. “She’s alright. Almost done with these, and I’m gonna have to fight with her about restin’ when she gets up, but you get ‘er here quick enough. Nothin’ that can’t be patched up.”

Dean glanced down to the wound, and that seemed true. Bobby’s stitches were cleaner than Sam’s, and the pus was half-gone. He didn’t really know how that was possible. Infections didn’t usually just… vanish. But Bobby splashed more of the water over Her stomach, made another stitch, and Her breathing grew steadier. 

There were too many questions. What was with the water. Why had one stab wound managed to infect and maul Her skin like that. How the actual fuck was She Bobby’s kid, and why had Bobby never mentioned Her, and why had She lied about something so dumb, and did Bobby know about Her family? About the shit Dad had found, about Her past, about all those weird episodes and how She always hunted alone, except when She was hinting with Dean-

Dean didn’t think Bobby had known they were hunting together. Which offered another question about why. Why hadn’t She told him. Why did She think Bobby would kill her for this, when it wasn’t Her fault, it was Dean’s.

Bobby might kill him. Dean had never seen Bobby so pissed with him. Every time he grunted for Dean to pass him something, his eyes were harsh and focused. It wasn’t hateful, but it was angry.

But Dean had gotten Her hurt. He deserved it. 

If She stopped talking to him after, he’d deserve that too. If Dad snapped at him for being an idiot when Bobby told him they’d been hunting together, Dean would deserve it-

“You say a demon attacked her?” Bobby’s question was quiet, and Dean almost didn’t hear it. 

He nodded, and Bobby’s jaw clenched.

“You see the assholes eyes?”

“His eyes?” Sam frowned. “You mean the demon-blink thing? Where their eyes go all black?”

Bobby looked up, frown deepening. “They were black?”

“I- I think so?” Sam looked for Dean for help, and Dean just shrugged. He hadn’t really been looking into the demon’s eyes, more focused on beating the shit out of it, and helping Her. 

“I dunno, Sammy-“

“Did you see them?” Bobby interrupted, glaring between Sam and Dean as he cut another stitch. “See the bastard go all black?”

Sam shook his head. “I didn’t, but demons have black eyes-“

“Not all demons.” Bobby muttered, glancing up to Her still pained face. “I’ve seen black eyes, orange eyes, and red eyes. If you boys saw anythin’-“

“We didn’t.” Dean looked over Her, then back to the wound. “It attacked, stabbed her, and Sammy exorcized it. Son of a bitch got away-“

“It give you a name?”

Dean frowned. “We didn’t exactly have time to introduce ourselves and shake hands, Bobby-“

“No, ya’ idjit, if we have a name we can know what we’re lookin’ for.”

“Looking for?” Sam leaned forward, looking between Her and Bobby with a frown. “Has- Have you needed to look for a demon before? Like dad?”

“No, Sam, I ain’t-“ Bobby cut himself off, his head shooting up to glare between Sam and Dean. “Did John know you boys have been huntin’ with her?” 

“That’s uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “That’s a question for Dean, I think.”

Bobby raised his brows, and Dean scowled. Sam was back on the getting punched list.

“Never got a chance to mention it.” He muttered. “Haven’t seen Dad in months.”

Sam rolled his eyes—punched and kicked—and Bobby’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Dean wanted to ask what the hell that was about—Dad was a good man, even if Dean never really wanted Her around him—but Bobby was already moving on.

“How long you been huntin’ together?”

“A few years.” Sam said, and Dean shot him a glare.

“How’d- You weren’t even fucking there, Sammy-“

“She told me on the onryu hunt.” Sam shrugged, looking back to Bobby. “They’ve been hunting together for years.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened. “That true, Dean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dean, you call me sir again and I’m makin’ you wait outside-“

“Sorry, I-“ Dean let out a long breath, his gaze trapping back on Her. In so much fucking pain. “It’s true. And she, uh, she never mentioned she knew you, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed something that might have been a laugh. “Wish I could say I was surprised by that.”

“You aren’t?” Sam blinked. “I mean, I- I’m still not understanding-

“Questions later, Sam.” Bobby grunted, cutting the last stitch. “Right now I need your hands brinin’ her shit inside.”

Sam frowned. “Can’t Dean-“

“Dean’s stayin’ here.” Bobby shot him a glare, and Dean swallowed. “No fuckin’ funny business while I’m gone, boy-“

“She’s passed out, Bobby-“

“And if she wakes up, you’re askin’ her how she feels, callin’ me, and droppin’ it there.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “No fuckin’ interrogations. You can ask me questions when we get ‘er settled. Understood?”

Dean scowled, but nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Good. Sam-“

“Coming.” Sam threw Dean a what the fuck is happening look over his shoulder, followed Bobby out of the kitchen, and Dean was left alone with Her.

She didn’t wake up. In the long moments where it was only Her and Dean in the whole world once more, She didn’t stir for even a second. Her breathing grew more and more even with every passing moment, but She didn’t open those brilliant eyes and look at Dean.

Dean didn’t know if She would ever really look at him again. 

She didn’t hate him.

She’d been keeping secrets—so many fucking secrets—but She didn’t hate Dean, and when he allowed his hand to trace over Her cheekbone, she leaned into the touch.

Maybe She would leaned into anyone’s touch, but she wasn’t. Right now, She was leaning into Dean’s. 

He let his hand linger there as long as he could. She was warm, too warm, almost burning, but it was better than Her being cold. Color was returning to Her face, and there was a heavy flush over her pretty cheeks, but it was better than nothing. No color. No slightly uneven breaths or dried sweat on her brow.

Dean finally got to brush the hair away, and he wasn’t sure how She only got prettier. She was pretty in a way Dean never really cared for before her. She looked like a bird. Untouchable and free and delicate. Breakable, but not because She was weak. Because She wasn’t supposed to be on the earth like this, just how Dean wouldn’t be free or light enough to go where she went. 

Because even if this was Her life—even if she wasn’t spoiled and born from comfort Dean would never know—he still couldn’t have Her. If anything this just made that more certain. That She was so good and unnaturally better, that She’d been living down in the mud with Dean this whole time and he’d still been blinded. If She ever managed to crawl out of here, She might become ethereal. Glorious. Brighter than the sun and more heavenly than a paradise Dean didn’t believe in.

And if Bobby really raised Her, everything Dean tried to loathe about Her would probably vanish into the air. Bobby was smart. And good. And didn’t like pointless shit, so there was no way he’d let Her become spoiled or entitled. She wasn’t spoiled or entitled. 

She was just awesome. 

And Dean didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to live with that now. That he’d bitten Her, and the mark was festering in him.

She let out a soft breath when Dean thumb stroked down Her nose, the movement subconscious, almost automatic. 

He had to yank his hand away the floor creaked, and Bobby turned the corner only a second later.

They didn’t speak at Bobby hauled Her up and carried Her away. Dean wanted to go with Her. He needed to go with Her. He needed to have Her look at him one last time, and he needed to work out how to apologize in a way that didn’t make him sound like a little bitch, and-

“Dean.” Sam leaned into the kitchen, tilting his head back to the living room. “C’mon, dude, Bobby said we could get three questions.”

“Three?” Dean frowned, glancing past Sam to where they’d vanished up the stairs. “We only get three-“

“Between us.” Sam sighed. “And he, uh, I think he might be pissed at us.”

A door slammed upstairs, and Dean raised his brows. “You think?”

“You two.” Bobby appeared behind Sam—for a fairly big dude, he could move faster than thought he had any real right to—and pointed between them with a glower. “Sit. Now.”

Sam shot Dean a worried look and shuffled to the table, tugging Dean into a seat as Bobby stood before them, arms cross and eyes narrowed. 

“What the hell did you idjit’s say to her?”

Sam blinked. “We didn’t- I mean, I didn’t say anything-“

“Hey!” Dean shot him a glare. “Dude, what the hell-“

“I can’t speak for you, Dean! I mean, you guys are a lot closer-“

Bobby’s glare turned to Dean—the feeling of it searing through his skin—and Sam was now getting punched, kicked, and body slammed.

“Sammy.” He hissed, bracing a fist on the table. “Shut your fuckin’ face-“

“How close would you say you two are, Dean?” 

Bobby’s question didn’t need to have that silent, underlying threat for Dean to flinch. It was already a question he didn’t know the answer to. She lied and he sucked ass, but She also liked him—enough that he’d been allowed to hunt with Her at all, enough for her to slur it to Sammy in the car—and he couldn’t stop thinking about Her if he tired. 

And he had tried.

And he’d never really seen Her interact with people except for Sam and Dad. And She and Dad clashed, but She and Sam got along, and Bobby obviously cared for her so maybe her liking Dean wasn’t all that special-

“Dean.” Bobby snapped. “Answer my question.”

“I, uh, I don’t-“

“Sam?”

“They’re just friends.” Sam shrugged, saying Her name in a voice that wasn’t nearly reverent enough. “From the hunting.”

Sam was back down to being kicked and punched, because the little shit could’ve easily laughed and said that Dean had a crush on Her—he didn’t, She was just his best friend and the only person he liked to hang out with—but that would’ve probably made everything worse. Especially given Bobby didn’t seem all that happy with the just friends answer either.

“How many years you two been huntin’, exactly

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s been like two- But that,” Dean pointed up the stairs. “Hasn’t happened before, Bobby, I swear-“

“I don’t give a shit about that.” Bobby snapped, jerking his head back. “You boys did the smart thing, for once in your damn lives, and listened to her. Brought her here.”

“If you don’t-“ Sam frowned, his face returned to pure confusion. “If you don’t care that she got stabbed-“

“No, Sam, I care that she got stabbed.” Bobby let out a long, breath, shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit that it happened with you two. If she’s gotta get stabbed, I’m happy she ain’t alone to try and stitch herself up, cause that girl ain’t good at takin’ care of herself in way that matters.”

It was Dean turn to frown, sitting a little straighter in his chair. “What do you mean, she can take care of herself-“

Bobby scoffed. “She can do her hair, Dean. She ain’t gonna do stitches.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Has she never done stitches on herself?”

“Not good ones-“ Bobby cut himself off with a glare between them. “This ain’t the point. What’d you do, Dean.”

Bobby and Sam were both looking at Dean, and he groaned. 

“I didn’t do anything, Bobby, and if you’re not pissed about her getting hurt-“

“Some injuries ain’t on the surface, boy. I could give a flyin’ fuck about what danger she puts herself in, I know she can handle it better than you two dumbasses, but if you hurt that girl, I ain’t gonna stop her hurtin’ you.” Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face, and Sam cleared his throat.

“Bobby, how, um-“ He glanced to Dean, expression nervous. “You said she’s- I still don’t understand-“

“Sam, if you got somethin’ to say-“

“How do you know her?” Sam’s words were quick and frantic. “That’s- you said we get three questions, and that’s our first.”

They hadn’t actually discussed the questions, but Dean could live with that one. Shit, he’d spent the whole day trying to work that one out himself, and Bobby seemed to know it had been coming, because he dropped in a seat across the table with a long sigh. 

“It ain’t my place to tell you everythin’,” he muttered. “All I can tell you two is that I met her when she was a kid-“

Sam opened his mouth, and promptly shut it as Bobby shot him a glare.

“You ask that question, Sam, I’m countin’ it. She was eight, I found her wanderin’, I took her in. Kept her from killing herself, raised her like the daughter I didn’t get before. Which,” Bobby turned to Dean, and it wasn’t fair that he was being singled out. Sammy was here too, hell, he’d asked the question- “She may not be my blood, but she’s the closest thing I got. Understood?”

Sam mumbled an agreement, but those words weren’t for Sam.

So Dean nodded, and hoped Bobby could see all over his face that he really just wanted to go upstairs and check on her. He’d do that after, if he could get away with it. And She was probably fine—Bobby wouldn’t have left her if she wasn’t—but Dean needed to see it. With his own freakin’ eyes, making sure she was comfortable, and relaxed, and peacefully asleep-

“What’s up with those, uh- the-“ Sam swallowed. “Those weird episodes?”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Episodes?”

“When she likes, freaks out and shit. I mean, is it like a really bad panic attack?”

Sam was back to getting punched, kicked, and body slammed. That wasn’t their thing to tell Bobby about. Bobby might know more about Her past, but he obviously hadn’t known that they’d been hunting together, which meant there might be other shit She didn’t want to tell him. Other shit She’d trusted them—trusted Dean—to see, that Sam had just fucking told Bobby-

“Those aren’t panic attacks.”

Sam frowned. “Then what-“

“Not my place.” Bobby said, his tone making it clear that was final. “I know what they are, so does she, and if- It’s up to her what you know. She’ll tell you if she wants, but she’s had a rough time, Sam. So don’t go pushin’ her about it.”

Sam nodded, even as the nervous expression remained on his face, and Dean cleared his throat. He had to ask. Even if all he got from Bobby was a not my place, Dean just needed to spit it out and ask.

“Why’d you… I mean, how did we never know, Bobby?” Dean held Bobby’s gaze, every word slow and careful. “You said she was eight, Sammy would’ve been seven, so we knew you by then. Shit, we were here all the time but never even heard her name. I don’t- Why?”

Bobby let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. “It’s complicated.”

Dean scowled. He was really starting to fucking hate that word.

“But,” Bobby pushed on, giving Dean a firm, solemn look. “I wasn’t ‘cause of you boys. I said it already, I ain’t gonna tell you what’s not mine to tell, but I never liked keepin’ you apart.”

“But you did.” Dean grunted, and Bobby sighed.

“Yeah, I did. And I’m not gonna tell you I had reasons, cause that’s fuckin’ bullshit help and we know it, but I will say it was all I could do. Not for the best, but the only damn option.” 

Dean was pretty sure he was telling the truth. It wasn’t the same alarm he’d learned to set off with her, but it was close. That seemed to be the truth. 

Dean wished it wasn’t. 

“She said she was sick.” Sam muttered. “When she was a kid. And that’s why we couldn’t know each other.”

Bobby let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Course she did. Sick is one way of puttin’ it. I-“ Bobby looked between Sam and Dean, something weighted behind his eyes. “There were times when she could’ve used you two. Glad she seems to have you now. And I don’t know where your Daddy is, but-“

“He’s hunting a demon.” Sam said, and Dean was out of ways to kick his ass for saying stuff. “The one that killed our mom.”

Bobby’s eyes widened, and the conversation moved on. Bobby asked if She and Dad had crossed paths, Dean told him not for years, and Bobby and Sam started to talk demon. Bobby had books Sam could read. Sam had questions about what Bobby had run into, with his own wife. 

She’d told Dean Her dad’s wife died.

Fucking hell.

Eventually, Bobby went out. They’d stayed at the table as Sam and Bobby descended into nerd talk—mostly just Sammy being a little dweeb, Bobby was just smart—and Dean had spent the hours stealing glances up the stairs and wondering how he could get up there. How he could see Her, check on her, without Bobby getting on his ass and shouting about Dean being careful with Her, because he always was-

Except when he wasn’t. Expect when he poison and ruined and wrecked Her in a way he’d never wanted to. When he made Her sad or hollow, put Her in danger, showed her exactly why Dad had been right, that they shouldn’t be close to each other. 

Dad had just gotten the wrong reason. Dean shouldn’t be near Her. She was annoying, and stubborn, and reckless, and a know-it-all, and kinda mean, but in a hot way. She was bossy, but it was adorable. She’d snap and taunt Dean, but she never did it in a way that left a mark. Dean always left a mark. And invisible bruise or scar that Bobby must have seen somehow. It must have been why he was so automatically pissed, why he’d accused Dean of hurting Her.

And he had.

So he didn’t deserve to go up those stairs and see Her.

But he was still selfish. And he still didn’t know when to stop.

Bobby muttered that he was going off to get food. The he hadn’t been expecting Her back for a while, let alone Sam and Dean with her, so all he had was canned food that tasted like pig-shit and a half-eaten chocolate cake in the fridge. 

Sam grabbed the tiniest, most bitch-baby piece of chocolate cake with a mutter of long week, and moved to settle in library. 

Dean started to snoop.

It was so plainly obvious She belonged here. Just like with Her mannerisms—seeing Bobby all over them once Dean squinted—all it took was one quick scan of the kitchen to see more places She’d probably been before. Not just grenadine, but a box of cheesy kids snacks in the back of the pantry. Dean had always assumed Bobby had gotten them for him and Sammy, then never thrown them out. But he’d seen Her buy those exact snacks countless times, and a few of the boxes looked practically unopened. 

In the living room there were all those books and movies, and a blanket that was far too fuzzy for Bobby to like. A pair of women’s sneakers and boots near the door. A glittery toothbrush on the bathroom sink, some of that sugar-smelling shit Dean knew she used under the skin, and fancy shampoo in the cabinets.

Dean had seen some of this stuff before, but he’d always assumed Bobby just had a lady-friend. A weird, sparkly lady friend who wrote notes on the margins of some of the lore books in that same language from before. From Her notebook. In Her handwriting. 

Lady friends didn’t use a towel—carefully tucked and folded in a closet—that had a little princess stitched onto the corner. Lady friends didn’t watching animated children’s movies so much that, when Dean open the case, the tape looked well-worn and used.

And lady friends didn’t draw with crayon. 

But in Dean’s defense, he’d never seen the drawings before. That was part of the snooping. Shifting casually through Bobby’s desk for more evidence, and coming out clutching old, well-worn drawings of colors. A lot of colors. Most of the drawings seemed to be odd shapes and patterns, all in bright colors.

There were a few more, where the drawings were red and black and yellow, with sharp lines and jagged symbols that resembled Her strange writing. Those symbols were repetitive. 

Briefly, Dean had an image in his head of a smaller Her, holding a crayon and sitting on the floor of Bobby’s living room, scrawling those symbols over and over until Bobby took the paper from Her. She had braids in that vision. Oddly complex braids that Her small, swollen fingers couldn’t have done. 

But Bobby could’ve. And now Dean could see that same small version of Her on the couch, humming to herself as she read a book that looked far too big in tiny hands, while Bobby braided her hair with a scowl. 

Dean blinked, and returned the papers back to the drawer. He was about to close it when something shifted in the very back, and a last drawing caught his eye. 

It had been separated from the others, and drawn on black construction paper. Tucked into a book and folded carefully. And it was the only one where Dean could tell what the hell it was.

A stick drawing—round body and tiny arms and legs—of a man with a thick blue line on his head and scratches of brown on his face, holding the hand of a girl. Same eyes and hair as Her.

She’d drawn this one too. Of Her and Bobby. 

She’d used a light green for Bobby’s skin, though. And a metallic silver for Her own. And the grass was golden and the clouds were red and the sun was white. It was really fucking weird. 

Dean chalked it up to the creative liberties of an eight-year-old, and carefully returned the drawing to its place before sneaking up the stairs. 

He needed to see Her. 

It took him a minute to find Her room, because up until yesterday, he’d thought he knew all the rooms in Bobby’s house. Kitchen, library, living room, bathrooms, and guest rooms. The only room he’d never been in was on the third floor, because Bobby said that room was off limits, and-

Son of a bitch. 

He’d always assumed that was Bobby’s room. That Bobby just didn’t want to little boys snooping around and finding his private shit. Dean had imagined that the room would have a wooden-poster bed, dresser, chairs, and simple decorations. Not all that lived in, because Bobby was practical, and knew that in this life getting attached to a lot of personal possessions was pointless. 

This room was lived in.

By Her.

Those were books Dean had seen Her grab from public libraries, or exact copies that She’d pulled from her bag. CDs of albums he’d known She liked, plus a few he hadn’t. A few Dean liked, scattered on the dresser next to a book he’d seen Her read, sunglasses he’d seen Her use, and a shirt that he’d never seen Her wear.

It was monotone black, and not Her style or size, and looked like a men’s shirt. 

The was a bitter, hot pang in Dean’s intestine and along his heart chamber, because why would She have a men’s shirt. If the overflowing dresser was any indication, She certainly didn’t need more shirts, and it certainly wasn’t Bobby’s, so it all together meant that was the shirt of someone who had given it to her. And she’d kept it, because it looked clean, and Bobby had said he hadn’t expected her back, so it had been there for a while, and who the fuck was giving Her a shirt-

She shifted on the bed, and Dean’s head turned without his permission to look at Her. He’d been trying not to. Gun pressed to his temple, he’d swear he’d tried so fucking hard not to watch Her sleep like a pervert creep. But Her siren-like voice made a small sound, and this room was drowning in that fruit smell, and Dean couldn’t fucking help himself. 

It took him a second to find Her. She’d burrowed herself under the covers, the only parts of Her that were visible being a single hand falling over the mattress and Her gorgeous face smushed against the pillows.

Her bed was shockingly normal. This whole bedroom was shockingly normal. She had curtains and a nice carpet, a desk and chair, a large amount of blankets and a hamper and a cork board on the wall. Pinned with notes that were in English—Dean could read those, and they mostly seemed to list new monsters and reminders for hunts—and a few more in that odd language. The walls were painted a dark color, and it made the room feel smaller. Safer. Like this was the only place in the world.

It might as well be.

Dean dragged a chair to sit at the side of the bed, because that felt less creepy than standing over Her as she slept. For a long while he only watched Her sleep peacefully. Softly.

Then Her brow wrinkled, and Dean’s hand moved without thought. Petting over Her nose until she relaxed, and made a soft noise that kicked him right in the heart and reverberated over his ribs.

He let out a long breath, and started speaking in his lowest, quietest voice. Before he could think better.

“You… you got a lot of explaining to do, Princess.” He muttered. “Bobby handled some of it, but he also won’t tell Sammy and I jackshit that matters until you give the go ahead. So you gotta wake up and do that. Plus, I want to call you a fucking idiot for hiding something so freakin’ dumb from me, and I can’t do that while you’re knocked out. So… Wake up. Soon. Get better and wake up soon and I’ll be waiting, because I- I’m just gonna stay a while. ‘Least until you give me some god damn answers. And,” he let out a long breath. She couldn’t hear him. He was allowed to say it, when no one at all could hear him. “I don’t want to leave. I like you, Princess, and if you really don’t hate me, I’ll stick around.”

He had more to say.

But She hummed like she could hear him, rolled a little closer to the edge of the bed, and none of it really seemed that important anymore.

Her fingers flexed. She didn’t hate him. 

Dean took Her hand, and he fell asleep at Her side because he never learned, and really didn’t want to.

And when Sammy woke him up, saying Dad needed them for something back in Colorado. That he’d called Dean but he hadn’t picked up—his phone was in his jacket downstairs—so he’d called Sam instead. 

Sam had said they were on their way, and told Bobby they were heading out. That they’d let Bobby know how it went, and hopefully be back with good news about the son of a bitch who killed Mom rotting in whatever was lower than hell. Sam hadn’t mentioned Her.

And Dean had to go, but She was still asleep. He needed to go, because Dad wanted him there, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here, in Her small room that was he could sink down into if he tried.

But he had to go. 

He wanted to leave Her something. To promise in silent words that could be right to not hate him. That he’d really like Her to keep not hating him. But he didn’t have much. He had his car, and his jacket, and ring-

He set his ring on Her dresser. He’d come back. He didn’t know how not to come back, and hopefully when he did, She’d still like him. At the very least, She wouldn’t have started to hate him. 

Because Dean knew at this point that there was no way in hell She felt the pull. He also knew that he’d still follow Her all the way down, and up, and just here. 

Dean might just like being with Her anywhere.

And She didn’t hate him.

So he’d press a soft, dangerous kiss to Her brow because he couldn’t help himself, and look back because he had to, and come back because he wanted to. 

He’d come back. 

End Note: One of the glorious things about nearing the end of the season 1 arc is all of us knowing what happens at the end of the season 1 arc.

Also, as we hit 100k words, I'm unspeakably grateful for the support of the story!!! I can't say it enough, thank you so so much for reading!! I hope y'all continue to enjoy the story!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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Moodboard (1942)

Flashback, warm nights...

You’ve lost pieces of yourself. Sam can see it when he looks at you; the way you hesitate just a second longer when he’s near you, the way your breath hitches just lightly when he touches you, the way you have to whisper to yourself that you’re safe when he’s alone with you. It breaks his heart to know that somewhere, deep inside your brain, you’re scared of him. That you’re afraid he’ll become a monster again, become something he can’t control.

Where there used to be a thin film over your soul like the curves of a bubble, there’s now pockets of vacuum space, void of light. Before, Sam could see light in you. There were shades of orange and yellow when you were happy, a strange culmination of deep blues and greys when you were scared, and one that mimicked the colour of his eyes when you felt loved. That one hurts the most to see it dimmed. Not gone, never gone, because Sam can’t not love you and you can’t not feel loved by him. But it doesn’t shine as bright as before, covered in a layer of sulphur and demon smoke that chokes out the light.

The spaces between are the worst to see. They’re chipped, cracked, shattered edges left behind after a hand dove through and ripped them from you. Sam’s hand, commandeered by a greater power, is to blame. Those hands that used to hold you tenderly stole the light from your eyes and the smile from your lips and left a fear in your heart that Sam thinks even time can’t heal. In those voids, Sam sees himself reflected back, in all the broken pieces that twist the light and make his eyes look black and soulless.

Sam’s thankful these patches in your soul are few and far between, but they’re in your most important parts. There’s one eating away at the muscle and bone on your shooting arm, knocking all your shots off-centre and sending them flying past their targets. There’s two side by side in your brain, a cruel Castor and Pollux that take over your fear and make it lash out even when you know you’re safe. A few others are scattered over your skin, webbed lines like broken glass held together by duct tape, shaped like bruises that would kill you to prod them. But the deepest of all, the one that throws Sam’s tainted reflection back at him in crisp detail, is the one eating up your heart.

You always used to tell Sam there was a room in your heart specifically for him. It was wide, open, filled with all his favourite things, with a mug of his favourite tea kept warm for him. Sam’s always thought he might like to live in that room if he could, to crawl into your chest and live in the spaces between your ribs, to protect you from within and make sure nothing can hurt you where he can’t see it. Sam sees now what you meant by that room; there, in the center of your heart, is an opening to what should be a place of light and love and Sam. Instead, it’s dark, empty, no light or sound, just Sam’s twisted demonic reflection gazing back at him with the quiet confidence of a man who knows he’s broken what can’t be repaired.

He’s determined to help you patch these injuries, even though he knows they’ll leave nasty scars for the rest of your life. He wants to be able to look at you again and see you smile, see how free and full of happiness you look when you’re not being consumed by pain. He misses the crinkles at the corners of your eyes, the way you fall into him when you laugh, the airiness of your voice when you repeat back a joke. Sam knows he can’t fix everything, knows that this is a problem only you can really solve, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

You stumble across the first missing piece by accident while on a walk, which Sam had suggested after being cooped up inside all day in the rain. The downpour’s over now, leaving behind the kind of sunlight that seeps through his bones and feels like a hug from the inside out. He can only hope it makes you feel better too, because it would be unfair of him to take what you can never have. As soon as his feet lead you along the familiar worn path, he feels your hand slide cautiously into his. He doesn’t squeeze it like he normally would, just holds it, cradling it, rubbing a soft thumb back and forth over your knuckles.

Your steps are in tandem, Sam’s boots kicking up small rocks, the laces on one of your shoes dragging on the ground, pure white becoming tainted with mud and dust. The path is puddled, small pools of rainwater left to a fate halfway between heaven and hell halfway between salvation and damnation. You stop at the edge of one of them, tugging Sam by the hand to come closer and look at the way it ripples out when your fingers brush the surface. Nature's fractals, Sam briefly muses. Mathematical patterns in the ripples, predictable and infinite. If only the state of your healing was as predictable to him; Sam lives in facts and numbers and the cold, hard proof of reality.

“Look” you muse, dropping a stone into the puddle. “What do you see?”

Sam pauses, hovering behind your crouched form. He blinks once, squinting lightly against the sunrays reflecting from the water, focusing on what you can see that he can’t. He sees you, sitting on your heels, knees up to your chest, drowning in a sweater that’s too big and a sorrow that’s the wrong size. He sees your hair looking wild but catching the sunlight and bending it into shape, taking what’s pretty and making it beautiful.

“I see you,” he says, simply.

Your lips twitch into a faint smile. “I know you do. You know what I see?”

Sam shakes his head, lips pursed. “What do you see?”

“I see someone who’s lost, Sam. I see somebody who’s been violated and hurt and twisted in ways they wouldn’t wish upon anyone else. I see somebody who doesn’t know if they’re even alive anymore, because what they used to live for isn’t the same.”

Sam swallows. “You’re not-.”

“I wasn’t talking about me, Sammy,” you hush. “I was talking about you.”

He blinks, mouth opening and closing a few times as he searches for the words buried in his teeth. “Me? But-.”

“But what?”

“But I did all those things to you. You’re the violated one, the hurt one. I’m not- I can’t-.”

Sam’s gently pulled downward by your hand on his arm until he’s crouching beside you, fingers brushing against the edge of the cool water, pads of them dipping in and out again like he’s afraid to touch and contaminate.

“Sammy, you are. You’ve been hurt just as much as I have. What she did to you, possessing you like that? Don’t pretend that it’s not real pain you’re feeling.”

“I never said it wasn’t real.”

“Then why do you hide from me? Why do you keep yourself away like you’re afraid to make me worse? Why do you keep pretending you’re not what I need to feel better?”

Sam doesn’t really know what to say to that. The words make sense, what you’re saying. He has been hiding, because he doesn’t want the smoke that lived in his heart to still be there in trace amounts and cross over into yours. He’s worried that if he touches you too much you’ll shatter right there in his arms, and he can’t live on if you do.

“Sam?” you say, quiet voice bringing him back.

“Yeah?” he whispers, cracked and raw.

“Just promise me you’ll heal too. With me.”

He nods, trying to keep back the tears that prick at his eyes with how easily you can read him. “Okay. Okay. I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

You stick out a hand toward him, pinky finger extended and hooked. Sam stops for a moment, mentally calculating how easily you might crack if he lets you do this. When he sees the way you’ve steeled yourself, expression set like you’ve made the choice to touch him no matter how it hurts, he extends his own hand, pinky looping with yours. You push up to touch your thumb to his, muscles tensed to keep yourself from flinching, but you do it. Sam watches you exhale a heavy sigh when your thumbs meet, sees the way some kind of light flows back into your skin.

“We good now?” you ask, already getting to your feet and tugging him after you.

“Y- Yeah. I think so.”

“Good.”

You stretch to press a light kiss to his cheek, and Sam’s frozen to the spot after your lips meet his cheekbone. There it is again, the way you can touch him without hurting. You’re not dissolving or fading away or being torn to shreds just from the burn of his skin. You’re not falling victim to the hands of darkness that claw up from the ground. You’re standing, smiling, hand still holding his, the sunlight catching your flyaway hairs and forming a halo around you. You look real, alive. Not whole, not yet, but solid nonetheless.

You walk on, Sam letting you lead him down the path to where he’s certain salvation lies. You look unburdened beside him, like for the first time in a long time you’re made of light and wind, not stones and shadow. He watches you all the way to where you’re taking him, only snapping back to reality when you stop suddenly and he slams into your back. His arms go around you instinctively and Sam freezes, because what if he’s hurt you? What if he’s crossed a line he didn’t know he could cross? It’s only after you melt against him that he dares lock his arms tighter around your shoulders, pressing your back to his chest and feeling the sunlit warmth of your body on him.

Looking around, Sam finally realizes where you are. The river, the one from a million summers ago, the one where he swears he fell in love with you all over again. Sam watches you lower yourself to the edge of the bank, spreading your jacket on the ground under you so as not to get dirt and mud on your pants. He sits after you pat the ground beside you, crossing his legs and letting his knee rest lightly against yours. The touch burns in the way all touches do when they’ve gone too long without any, but neither of you pulls away. Your fingers drum a rhythm against his jean-covered thigh, and he lets himself get lost in the touch. At some point, he takes your shoe in his lap, retying the laces that are caked in mud, brushing the dirt from them as best he can until all that’s left is a faint stain that’ll fade with time. Maybe he can clean your soul too, if you'd let him. He certainly wants to.

There’s no conversation, and none needs to be had. All that happens is a polite watching of the sunset, like exhaling a breath that’s been held in for too long. When the sun’s slipping below the horizon, your head falls to Sam’s shoulder. A simple touch, one that’s been shared a hundred times before, but the weight of it is heavier than anything else, because it means you’re finally learning to trust him again.

The sun disappears below the horizon for good, and the last vestiges of light dance across the sky as Sam looks at you. Really looks at you this time, taking in all your edges and curves, the rough spots and the chipped spots and the spots he’d love to kiss better. Whatever golden light had been lighting up the sky moments earlier is gone from the heavens, but Sam can still see it. He sucks in a quiet breath when he realizes why; you’re healing.

On your shooting arm, he used to be able to see an ugly black patch of rotten, demon-tainted void that Sam’s hand caused when his body pinned you to the motel bed months ago. It crept across your skin in a steady hum, something evil under the surface itching to break free. Only now, when his eyes skim over the exposed skin from under the sleeve of your t-shirt, there’s nothing. An echo remains, left behind in the way all harmful things are, but the darkness itself has disappeared, replaced instead by the sunlight that illuminates the corners of your soul.

“Sam?” you ask, nudging him gently. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

“Nothing,” he says, only to feel a tear slip down his cheek.

Your expression crumples. “You’re crying. That’s not nothing.”

Sam brushes it away fiercely, his knuckle biting into his skin in a way that almost hurts. He wants it to, deserves it to, and when it doesn't, rage flashes low in his stomach. Another one falls in its place, and Sam figures he’s losing the battle one way or another. He doesn’t really understand why he’s the one crying. You have a right to more than he ever will, with what happened and all. He doesn’t deserve the catharsis of tears, doesn’t deserve the freedom of it all. He’s weak, weaker than you, weaker than Dean. Fragile, broken, tainted. A poor excuse for the man he’s supposed to be, the man his mother wanted him to be. If she could see him now, she’d be ashamed of him, for letting himself be weak, for letting tears fall when they’re undeserved.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

Sam tries to look away, wiping furiously at his eyes, but it doesn’t work. He can’t stop crying and he doesn’t even really know why. He shouldn’t be crying. His job is to help you through whatever you’re feeling, not the other way around. In some backwards way, he’s diminishing your pain, making himself the center of attention, turning the limelight that should be on you onto him. He feels guilty, unclean, unworthy of your care, because what kind of awful person watches you suffer and then makes it about themself?

“Oh, Sammy. Come here.”

You cup his face, leading it toward your shoulder, scooting closer on the bank until you can reach around him entirely. Sam wants to fight, tries to fight, but he can’t. It’s too much, the kindness you’re showing him, and he collapses heavy into your arms as tears roll down his cheeks.

“You’re okay. I’m okay. You’re allowed to cry, Sammy,” you soothe.

“But-.” He’s cut off by a hiccupping inhale. “It’s stupid, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not stupid. You’re hurting, I’m hurting. We’re healing. It’s okay.”

“You’re hurting. You’re hurting and I’m sitting here useless. That’s not okay, and you know it.”

You don’t say anything. You just hold him closer, and Sam can’t fight you off, even though he wants to. He lets himself go weak in your grip, lets himself hold you just as tightly as you’re holding him, because there’s something in the way you’re letting yourself touch him that gives him hope. It’s like you said before; as long as you initiate it, it’s okay. As long as you’re not forced under him on some motel bed, it’s okay.

You’re okay. He’s okay. It’s going to be okay.

More pieces of yourself start coming back over the next couple of months. It starts small, with tiny shards that fly back in to place when Sam’s hand grazes over your lower back in the kitchen, when he hands you your jacket and your fingers brush, when he sits beside you in the back seat of the Impala because he likes the smell of your soap. It’s like putting a ceramic dish back together. The small particles, the ones ordinarily forgotten by brooms and anyone attempting repair, are the ones that fall into place first. They’re unsteady without the larger pieces to hold them there, but they stay, because Sam’s hands are keeping them in place.

Slowly, bigger and bigger pieces start to slot back in. When you rest your head on Sam’s shoulder while he reads lore to you, when you hug him or peck his cheek before separating on a hunt, when he can stitch you up without his hands shaking and without your breath quickening because you’re vulnerable and alone with him. Sam can see the patterns of you come back into place; the mountainous ridges in your irises, the constellations of marks and bumps and spots on your skin, the valleys of your curves and creases. Sam can finally read the mosaic of you.

The largest pieces are few, but it’s monumental when they return themselves to your body. One comes back the first time you share a shower with Sam since the incident, finding its home on your back when Sam runs his large hands over the skin, massaging in the soap. He watches another one come back that very same night when you fall asleep on his chest on the couch, letting his fingers tangle lightly in your hair without worrying about it pulling. Another one returns when you and Sam are alone in a motel room, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, he makes out with you, without you shying away and panicking. He doesn’t cross the line into sex; not yet and maybe not ever, but the simple return of his lips on yours, your jawline, your neck, trailing your collarbones is enough to sate him for a lifetime.

Friday night comes slow, trailing after the sunset, a child unsure if it can walk without help. It crawls into Bobby’s house, wrapping around the wood like a blanket, covering the rooms in that sticky sort of tiredness that makes your eyes heavy even if you’re full of energy. The heat isn’t helping either, clinging to Sam’s skin like tape, making his fingers stick to the cover of the book he’s reading, and his jean-covered legs to the chair. Sam can see you almost falling asleep across the room from him, tucked up into an old armchair, heavy tome on your lap, head slumping lightly against the chair backing.

He wishes he could fall asleep right now; it’s certainly better than his current situation. Sam’s biggest flaw is wanting what he can never have. Wanting a life outside of hunting, wanting to be happy in a world that only knows sorrow, wanting you. He needs you now like he needs the air to breathe. He’s been needing you for a while if he’s being honest, but he’s been holding himself back because he’s not sure if having you that way will make or break you. There’s still one last piece of your soul left to find, the gaping hole in your heart that makes Sam want to crawl in and patch it up from the inside, and he’s not going to take what you can’t give until that piece is back.

He thinks it’s wildly unfair how good you look when you’re comfortable, when you feel like yourself. Striding confidently through Bobby’s hallways, standing in rooms like you’ve finally relearned how to take up space without stretching yourself thin. Sam’s been restraining himself for most of the day, keeping his eyes averted because he knows if he watches you, he’ll be wanting more than he could ever dare take. Sam figured he was in trouble from the moment you woke up in his arms that morning, sleep shirt falling off one shoulder and arms wrapped tight around him. He’s been catching little glimpses of you throughout the day; your shirt riding up when you reach for a book exposing the soft skin of your waist, the way your jeans fit snug on your hips, the absolutely sinful way your hands ghost over him in passing touches. Sam may be good at keeping himself in check, stopping himself from coming on too strongly so as not to scare you, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about how badly he wants to feel you.

Bobby and Dean are out on a trip, picking up a car for the salvage yard from a few states away. They’re not due back until tomorrow night, maybe even the day after; two vagabonds coming home with the rising sun. Sam and you have the place to yourselves, something both brothers had initially worried over until Bobby had dragged Dean out and you’d reassured them countless times you’d be okay. Sam’s proven time and time again over these months that he won’t hurt you, that his hands were built for tender care and soft touches. He doesn’t want you to ever know how badly he needs you right now, because he doesn’t trust himself, not anymore. He doesn't think he as Sam will hurt you, but he worries that there's still some residue of a monster in him, something that's not quite him still hiding beneath the surface.

Sam used to be confident. He used to know exactly what spots made you see stars, which places to kiss and suck at and tease to get you ready. He used to know your body inside and out like it was a second home, and he used to be able to touch you without worrying about pain. He still knows these spots, yes, but he's nervous to use them on you lest the force of your pleasure drown you in pain. Now, he’s afraid trailing hands up your thighs might pull at your skin, or that hot kisses to your chest might bruise you permanently. Hands surrendered to a demon, he doesn’t know that he can relearn to be gentle. Maybe when Meg left his body, she took the gentleness with him; that’s certainly fitting for the monster of a man he swears he’s become.

A thud makes him jump, and he’s halfway to his feet before he realizes where it’s come from. You’re in the armchair still, head tipped back and mouth slightly parted, one hand dangling toward the floor. The book you’ve been reading is in a heap on the ground, pages splayed open and letters melding to the floorboards. Sam can faintly hear your soft breathing getting heavier, and something in his chest cracks at how peaceful you look. He stands, taking your book from the floor and setting it on the table, a newspaper scrap marking your page. He shakes your shoulder gently, slowly waking you up so as not to spook you.

“Bedtime?” he asks when you blink your eyes open.

“Guess so,” you reply around a yawn.

“You want a shower first?”

You nod, head tipped back to look at him with an expression that melts his heart. Sam already knows what you’re about to ask before you can ask it, and something deep in his stomach twinges with the shame of how he’d been thinking about you moments ago.

“Carry me?” you ask, at the same time Sam says, “C’mere.”

Sam gathers you in his arms, holding you close to his chest without crowding. He’s slow going up the stairs, because the last thing he wants is to hit your legs on something and bruise you unnecessarily, or have your sleeves catch on a handle and tear. He deposits you in the bathroom on the closed toilet lid, leaving you to change while he searches for a towel and spare clothes for you.

“Stay?” you ask when he comes back.

“You sure?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah, I think I do. I just- tonight’s kind of rough, I guess. Can’t stop thinking. Maybe if you’re here, I’ll…”

“Think less?” he finishes for you.

“Something like that.”

He nods slow, settling down with his back against the wall and his knees tucked up to his chest. Dual purpose, he supposes; it makes him comfortable and hides the semi hard-on he’s been sporting since dinner. The coldness of the tiled wall on his back in a blessing, shocking him and keeping the heat in his heart to a minimum. Sam averts his eyes while you change and step into the shower, only opening them again when your voice muffled by the running water starts talking to him and he's sure that an accidental glimpse of your bare body won't start the heat in his stomach again.

“You feeling alright today?” your voice asks around the waterdrops.

“Yeah. Why?”

You pause, and Sam can hear you rubbing soap into your hair. “I just-. I dunno, you seemed off today. Are you sick?”

He shakes his head, then remembers you can’t see him. “Nah. I’m alright.”

There’s another silence before he can hear you washing the soap out of your hair. Something in the way your voice gets a little airier, a little breathier with the exertion makes his heart speed up. Sam can’t help but imagine you, arms up as you rinse the soap out, stretching your body on full display. Your voice comes through again, snapping Sam out of his head.

“Is there something you wanna tell me?”

The water stops, and you peek your head around the curtain, water dripping from your hair and down your chest. Sam’s eyes flicker across your bare skin then back to your face, and he hopes he was quick enough you didn’t notice.

He clears his throat harshly, stuttering out a “No, no, it’s all fine.”

You raise a brow but don’t say anything, disappearing back around the curtain again, much to Sam’s disappointment. He wants you here, needs you right now so much it hurts his heart, the heat low in his stomach doing nothing to quench his thirst. He wants nothing more than to take you in his lap right now and feel the way your thighs tense around him, but he won’t. He can’t, not when he doesn’t know what’ll hurt you or heal you. He won’t take what’s not been offered, especially not after Meg.

The shower stops, and your hand darts out to take the towel he’s offering. You squeeze the water from your hair, running the towel back and forth over the strands for a while before wrapping it around your body, pulling back the curtain and stepping out. Sam sees the goosebumps forming on your legs before he tears his eyes away, standing and following you back to the bedroom where your sleep clothes are laid out on the bed.

Sam stops behind you, resting a hand on your shoulder while you sort out your clothing situation. He doesn’t realize how close he is to you until you freeze up, hands stopping their movements and head turning slightly to look at him. Sam freezes then too, because he realizes how close his hips are to your waist, the simple fact that you can definitely feel his arousal through his jeans makes his face burn with shame.

“Sam?” you say softly.

He turns his face away, backing up a step. If he could see himself in a mirror, he has no doubt he’s blushing furiously red, red like the flowers on your bedside table from last weekend. His fingers drift to the hem of his shirt, because anything is better to think about than what you know. Now, you know his deepest secret, the thing he’s purposely kept hidden from you for months out of fear you’ll be destroyed by the simple fact of want.

“Sam it’s okay-.”

“It’s not,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “It’s-. I-. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll leave, give you space. You want water?”

“Sam, I-.”

“I’ll be back, just get changed.”

He’s halfway out the door when he feels your arm on sleeve, tugging him backward violently. He almost stumbles over his own shoes, hand shooting out to grab at air before he can right himself, turning to face you. He knows there’s shame written all over his features, knows he’s probably less than human now that his animalistic desires have been made clear. You probably think he’s a monster now, no better than the thing that possessed him.

“Sam. Look at me,” you murmur, brushing his bangs back from his eyes.

He does, slowly, shyly, afraid to look you dead on in case your expression looks like rejection. Looking up, he finds nothing but love in your eyes, and it throws him off. Why are you looking at him like he’s human, like he’s something to be loved? Why are you looking at him like you want him too? You shouldn’t, not after what happened. You shouldn’t force yourself to do this with him just because he can’t keep it down.

“I want you, Sam,” you say, treading your fingers in his hair.

He throws a look over his shoulder, finding the door to the bedroom closed again. It must have been kicked shut with his heel as you tugged him back in. His eyes dart back to you, the faint dampness to your skin from the shower, the delicate way you touch his face like you’re worried he’s the one that might break.

“I-. You shouldn’t.”

You tip your head. “Why not?”

“Because of what happened. Because I let you get hurt.”

You sigh softly. “Sam, it wasn’t your fault.”

“If it wasn’t my fault, it wouldn’t have happened. Meg wouldn’t have possessed me. I should have been stronger, you know. I should’ve found a way to stop her, to keep her out of my head, away from you. That’s my job. I failed it. Don’t do this ‘cause you feel pity for me.”

“This isn’t pity, Sam. You want me, I want you, what’s so wrong about that? It’s not like we’ve never done this before.”

Sam swallows, suddenly feeling silly for his earlier concerns. You want him. You want him just like he wants you. Somehow, that both excites and terrifies him. You have faith that he’s not going to destroy you, that he won’t contaminate you with sulphur and demon smoke, the kind that even Latin can’t put out.

“Are you sure?”

Sam’s almost ashamed of how timid his voice sounds when he asks. He catches the way you swallow around your fear, the way you school your body to relax and breathe in, breathing in the space he’s made sure is safe for you.

“We don’t-. If it’s too much-,” he stutters.

“If it’s too much, we stop. I think- I think I want this, Sammy. I think I want you. And I think I need you to remind me what it’s like to be touched without being hurt.”

Sam needs a minute to recover from that one. Your words hit him square in the chest, your confidence shooting straight to his core. He’s undeniably hard now, and he knows you can feel the way it’s pressing against your thigh with how close you’re holding him. Your fingers drift up his neck to cup the back of his head, and he’s gone the moment your lips press to his.

As soon as your lips meet, nothing else matters. The world narrows down to the warmth of your mouth on his, the faint taste of your soap on your skin, the cautious heat of your tongue swiping at the seam of his lips. He lets you in immediately, savouring the way you taste. His arms come up, locking around your shoulders and tugging you closer to his chest. Your hips buck lightly against his in the process, and he groans softly into your mouth, the feeling of your bare legs on his jeans like a drug to his brain. If he tries hard enough, he can commit it to memory, keeping it tucked away in his brain for rainy days when you’re apart, when he can’t wrap his arms around you and hold you close.

He walks you slowly backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sink down, sitting on the grey sheets. Sam watches how they pool under your knees, like ripples in a pond. If they were, you’d likely be throwing a stone into it right now, mesmerized by the patterns they make. Fractals, he vaguely recalls. Why he knows that he’s not too sure. He can’t think straight when his mouth is on yours and you’re sighing into his, and his hands are itching to move.

“Hands on me, Sam, please,” you whisper breathlessly.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, especially not when you speak to him like that. There’s a reverence to your voice that he’s sorely missed, like you’re murmuring prayers to him through your ecstasy. Sam runs his hands up your arms, cupping your chin and head as he pulls you ever deeper, stealing the air straight from your lungs with his kisses.

“You sure? I don’t wanna crowd you,” he says, low and ragged.

“You won’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sam, you’re going to be fine. You’re…you’re you. I don’t think you know how to hurt me if you even wanted to.”

He barely has time to recover from that before your hands are on his chest, pawing at the buttons on his shirt, fingers fumbling to undo them. Sam helps, large hands taking over where you’re struggling, lips still kissing across your jawline, starting to trace a faint trail down your neck. Your breath hitches once, and Sam slows his descent until your breathing is back under control.

Finally, his shirt comes off, and your eager hands slide it down his shoulders and off his arms. He pulls it over his watch, settling on taking that off too and setting it on the bedside table near your flowers that have started to lose their petals. Perhaps if he rewound the time on the watch, the flowers might grow back again pretty as they were. The ticking is lost to the sounds of the room, your breathing mixing with his in a symphony almost more intimate than the act of sex itself; the air you breathe, he breathes too. Sharing a space without crowding, without hurting, without ruining.

He’s vaguely aware of your fingers drifting back up his neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The room’s air is still a little hot and sticky on his bare skin, but he barely notices. Sam’s not concerned about the room, because your fingers have just tangled in his hair at the back of his head, pulling his head toward you as you tip back, starting to lay yourself out. He feels a tug at the top of his head that goes straight to the pit of his stomach and trickling lower as you do it again. If he wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now.

You do it a third time, and Sam groans low and heavy in his throat, fingers dipping under the hem of your towel and slowly peeling it off your body. He works carefully, only progressing when your breathing is as even as it can be for all the kissing you’re doing, making sure nothing gets revealed that you don’t want him to see. When the towel’s finally off and dropped to the floor at the foot of the bed, Sam maneuvers you until you’re lying flat, head on the pillow, his thighs bracketing yours.

His head dips to capture your lips in a kiss that tastes like forgiveness, tender and sweet. It makes his lips tingle, and when he pulls back to study your face, there’s a light in your eyes he only ever sees in the intimate moments between; the one that’s bright like the sun and full of so much love he’s not sure how it all fits in one person. He watches the light, follows it with his eyes as it consumes your body, trailing down through your veins and culminating on your chest, right over where that void remains in your heart. Where he used to only see sharp edges and cracked memories, he sees repair, promise, new pieces growing out of the old. Different, yes, but steady.

Your fingers drift to the waistband of his jeans, running your thumbs along the denim hem, pads of them tracing over the stitching. Sam’s still kissing you, trailing slow, open-mouthed presses down your neck, finding that spot that makes you moan softly, sucking lightly once, then soothing it with his tongue when he pulls away. Down your neck, into the curve of your shoulder, across your collarbones and into the dip between. He doesn’t leave marks, because this isn’t about possessiveness and belonging; it’s about trust and care and faith in each other.

Sam hisses through his teeth when your hand palms him through his jeans, the sound turning into a moan when you tease along his bulge. Nipping lightly at your neck, his mouth curves into a faint smile when you start to work the buckle of his belt. The sound of leather sliding through denim is familiar, the weight of it dropping to the floor feels like punctuation to something bigger than himself. He pops the button on his jeans, letting your hands drag them down over his hips, exposing his stomach.

Sam’s breath catches on the inhale when your fingers drop to the happy trail across his lower stomach, a cracked moan slipping free as you trace the trail down to the waistband of his boxers. He kicks off his jeans, your thumbs hooking into his boxers in the process. He gasps when you stick one hand in, taking him in your fist and giving him one slow stroke, as if checking he’s ready for you. Shedding his boxers too leaves him just as bare before you as you are under him, and he dips his head to kiss a trail down your chest, following your sternum, hands spread over your ribs like he’s holding you together in his arms.

He slips a leg between yours, gently nudging them apart. You freeze, scrambling back with a startled gasp. Sam lifts his hands off you immediately, sitting back on his legs and watching you, palms facing toward you, showing you the emptiness of them.

“What happened?” Sam asks.

“Just-.” You swallow. “When y- when she did…that. In the motel. Just don’t-. Don’t do that. Please.”

“Okay. Okay. Hands are off, alright?”

He sees you nod, but you don’t look convinced. Something cracks in his chest, and he cautiously leans toward you.

“Can I come closer?” You’re watching him warily. “Can I hold you? Or do you want hands off?”

You nod. “You can touch.”

Sam scoots up the bed, and when he gets close enough, he can hear your panicked heartbeat racing in your chest. One hand lays flat over your heart, pressing softly against your chest like he can control your breathing with just a touch; maybe he can, because he notes it’s working. Your chest rises and falls slower, the thudding of your heart dulls down to a regular pace, and some of the panic in your expression starts to fade. Sam’s mentally cursing himself for moving too fast, already thinking about next moves and how he’ll earn your forgiveness.

“You’re okay,” Sam murmurs. “You’re okay.”

“I know,” you mumble weakly against his chest.

“Do you really?”

You pick your head up and Sam’s eyes meet yours. He can see something hiding deep in there, buried under layers of pain and trauma and fear; hope. There’s hope living in your expression, begging to break free from its cage. All Sam wants to do is dive in and peel the bars back, let it fly free and remind you how safe you really are, but he can’t. He’ll have to show you come other way, because he’s nothing if not determined to make sure you can feel like you’re safe with him again.

“You wanna switch?” Sam asks.

You take a shaky inhale. “I-. Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Maybe if I have…control, I’ll feel better.”

You wince at the word choice, but Sam understands. He knows how badly you need this, how desperate you are to feel like you have some sort of autonomy over yourself. Sam wants it too, wants badly to prove he can be above you without ruining it all, but there’s plenty of time for that later.

Taking you by the hips, he shifts you, so that he takes your place lying flat on the bed, back against the sheets. They’re warm from your body heat, a few of your stray hairs on the pillow that tickle his cheeks, but it’s comfortable and it feels like you, and that’s all he cares about. Sam’s hands guide you as you crawl back over him, this time bracketing his thighs with yours, and suddenly Sam’s back on the bathroom floor thinking about this very moment all over again.

Your hand wanders down, wrapping around his length as you begin to move, slowly working him back up. With your lips trailing lazy kisses down his chest and your hand on him, he’s hard again in no time, flushed under your touch. When your hand parts from him, he gives a pathetic sounding whine high in his throat that you drink up with a kiss. Your hand splays over his side as you continue your trail of kisses down his stomach, open-mouthed ones that spark heat in his core as your lips tease over his happy trail, fingers dancing over the ridges of his muscles that tense harder the longer you tease him.

He knows you’re not doing it purposely, especially not now. It’s the stability, the knowing that you can control the situation, that he’ll respond to you however you decide you want him. Sam’s not picky, not aching for anything other than to feel you and heal you and to make you remember how gentle his hands are when they lay on your body and trace your curves.

Sam’s hand wanders for the drawer in the bedside table, eyes parting from your face for just long enough to fish out a condom from its depths. The electric touch from your fingers brushing his sends a jolt through him, watching you with mild surprise as you take the condom from his hands, unwrapping the foil with tender precision. His eyes squeeze shut and his head throws back in a muffled moan as you slide the condom over his length, the material a cold shock to his nervous system.

“Doing alright?” he asks when he can speak again, thumb caressing your face.

“Yeah,” you say with a soft smile. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes light up, looking like someone’s dipped them in watercolour and let the colours mix into something uniquely yours. Sam’s never seen anything like it, and he doesn’t think he ever will again, not as long as he lives. This is who you are at the very essence of your being, something so unique and precious to him that even if he dedicates the rest of his life to the search, he’ll only find it in you.

Cautiously, you take Sam in your hand again, running your fingers once more over him before shifting yourself forward, lining him up with your entrance. His lips are on yours as you slide down onto him, your moan mixing with his lower one as he feels every inch of himelf move through your core. He’s missed this, he realizes. Missed the heat of your body, missed the familiar way your hands roam over him, eyes fluttering closed as you get comfortable, the thud of your heart he can feel throughout you. Sam’s missed the intimacy of knowing you inside and out, and now after all the ways you’ve changed, he can rediscover you like it’s the first time all over again.

When you’re fully seated in his lap, hips flush against his, you let out a heavy sigh. Sam swears he can see the weight lift from your shoulders just from the simple fact of knowing you’re still intact, that the world hasn’t come crashing down around you for a second time. He’s here, he’s real, you’re okay. He repeats it to himself, but his thoughts get stolen by an overwhelming surge of anxiety when you start to rock your hips against him. Sam’s hands fly up to your waist to stop you, and your eyes blink wide at him in concern.

“Are-. Is everything okay?” you ask. “Too fast?”

“No, no. Just-. How are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

Sam blinks. “I just-. How do you know I won’t hurt you? How can you be so sure that I’m not gonna, you know, turn into something again?”

Your expression softens. “Sam, you’re not, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure? What if-.” Something sharp catches in his throat, like a thorn from the roses at the bedside. “What if I hurt you?”

You reach a hand up to caress his cheek, tracing your thumb from the mole near his eye, down across his cheekbone, sweeping along his lightly stubbled jaw before cradling his head in your palm.

“Sam, love, don’t worry.”

“But-.”

“I trust you.”

There it is. Those three words Sam didn’t think he’d ever hear again.

I. Trust. You.

It’s simple, really. A trivial statement that seems foolish now that the words are out into the air. But there’s a weight to them that settles deep in Sam’s chest and pricks hot tears in his eyes, like you’ve aired your biggest secret to a dusty room that has no right hearing something so personal. He blinks in surprise when he realizes he can’t make out your face through the haze of tears in his eyes, sniffling lightly when one slips free and trails sideways into his hairline.

“I trust you, Sammy. I trust you so, so much.”

You say it like a mantra, so real and heavy and true that Sam can’t help but believe it. Something about the gravity in your voice when you say those three words makes Sam feel foolish for ever having thought otherwise. Of course you trust him, because why wouldn’t you? Another tear trickles into his hairline, then a second, and a third, and for a brief moment, Sam’s not sure if he can ever stop crying.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice shaky and raw with something fragile.

Your lips graze his cheeks, kissing away the tear stains, rocking yourself forward in the process. Sam’s tip catches on a spot deep inside you that makes you moan and him inhale sharply. It doesn’t chase the tears from his eyes, but it stops them from falling, gives him the chance to blink them away before you move again. When do you, Sam can’t help the way his hips jerk up into you, meeting you halfway with a thrust that doesn’t push.

His movements seem to spur you on, your pace quickening just a touch. Each roll of your hips against his drags him partway out of you and back in again, and each buck of his hips up against you gives much-needed friction. Each time Sam hits that spot inside you, your eyes press shut and you grind down hard against him, a soft, breathy moan slipping free that Sam drinks up with a kiss. His own layer of groans rumble deep in his chest where your hands rest against him, fingers pressing against the moles on his skin like you can ground yourself in them.

He can tell you’re close by the way your thighs tighten on his, toes curling where they rest against his calves. Your hand squeezes once on the plush of his side like you’re settling yourself, learning to ride the waves as they come. Sam can feel how you’ve stopped fighting your initial discomfort, how you’ve started embracing it instead of being constantly wary. You’ve slowly melted further into Sam’s warmth, let the heat of him slowly bleed into you like he can make you clean instead of dirty. For the first time in his life, Sam thinks he might be able to help rather than hurt, to clean rather than taint.

One final roll of your hips and one strong buck of Sam’s sends you over the edge, falling straight into Sam’s arms with a heady moan of his name that softens at the edges and cracks in the middle and almost makes him lightheaded. He pumps his hips once, twice more, stomach muscles contracting tight before spilling into the condom. He groans deep and heavy in his chest as he comes, the sound echoing out into the world like it needs the birds and trees and far-away mountains to hear the news that Sam Winchester has healed a soul.

And healed you are. The gaping pit in your heart is gone, sealed over with something that looks and feels an awful lot like Sam’s love for you, fitting perfectly into the shape rotted out by the demonic touch of Meg. You’re whole again, in Sam’s eyes. Different, yes, changed, for sure, but whole, despite it all. You’ve come out the other side with all your pieces intact, albeit carrying the distinct touch of Sam.

His head drops to your shoulder as his arms wrap tight around your back, intent on holding every inch of you as close to his chest as he can. Slowly, his breathing calms with yours, chests rising and falling in tandem, heartbeats dancing a waltz to music only you can hear. Sam’s fingers trace patterns on your back as he lies there, boneless, letting the afterglow wash over him like the first sunrise after days of cloud. He loses track of time, watching you, feeling you, reveling in your warmth and love and trust.

Eventually, when you’ve regained some strength, you lift your hips up off him, both you and Sam wincing slightly at the sensitivity of it. He can tell you’re a little tender in your hips with the way your legs close slow when you lay down beside him. He’s a little sore himself, more from the emotional taxation of it all, but there’s a spot in his lower back that’s gone sensitive from the way he was arched moments ago.

“D’you want another shower?” Sam asks after a pause, voice low and warm.

“Tired,” is your only reply, which makes him huff a laugh.

“Bath?”

You squint your eyes, picking up your head to look at him. “Do I have to?”

“No. You don’t gotta do anything if you don’t want to.”

His fingers brush hair back from your face, grazing light over your skin as he purses his lips, stretching to give you a deep kiss that makes him see stars.

“Just wanna lay here,” you whisper.

“We can do that,” Sam whispers back. “Gonna clean you up, m’kay?”

You nod, sighing gently as Sam rolls himself off the bed, the shock from his bare feet on the cold floor a welcome wake-up call as he stands. Clean boxers get retrieved from the dresser and slid on his hips, and a worn t-shirt that feels like home gets tossed in your direction in case you want to cover up. Sam knows you likely won’t, because nobody else is home; something he’s thankful for as he pads toward the bathroom.

Sam closes the door behind himself when he steps in, taking a moment just to soak in the aftermath of it all. Something’s changed in him too, he thinks. He knows you’re different, that’s not surprising. What is, however, is the man he sees looking back at him in the mirror when he raises his head. This man is still Sam, the same brown hair, the same wide eyes, the same fading cut on his forehead from a week ago that stubbornly refuses to heal. But this man looks stronger, like he’s learned something about himself since the last time he checked.

You must not have been the only one with missing pieces then. Maybe what you saw in that puddle was true, maybe Sam was just as broken as you were. Something in Sam tells him he’ll never have sex more meaningful than that, because it healed you and it healed him, and it fixed something broken deep inside both your souls that he was convinced could never be healed. He’s done something good for once, he realizes with a foreign pride. He’s let himself love someone and they haven’t been stolen from him. They haven’t been tormented or destroyed or turned into something unrecognizable.

Sam winces as he slides the condom off, tying it up and tossing in in the trash, wrapped in tissue in a fruitless attempt to conceal it. He’s not ashamed, but something in him says this is a moment to be kept between you and him, never to be heard of by anyone else. Tomorrow he’ll have to take out that trash bin just to rid the evidence. He settles for wiping himself down with tissue and tucking himself away again in his boxers. Retrieving a cloth, he runs it under water, letting it warm on his hand first and testing the temperature inside his wrist to make sure it’s not too hot or cold for you.

Wringing out the excess water, he brings the cloth back to the bedroom, tapping you softly on the shoulder when he notices you’ve started to drift off. You prop your legs open for him, letting him wipe you down in soft strokes. Sam handles you with reverence, like you’re a museum piece he’s been tasked to care for. Any time you flinch from tenderness, he pulls back, lets you adjust, resumes his work. When he’s done, there’s no trace that anything ever happened, besides a tension in his muscles and a heavy film of exhaustion that’s worming into his brain.

Cloth rinsed out and hung up to dry, the t-shirt returned unused to the dresser drawer it came from, Sam finally pulls the blankets up, sliding into bed at your side and pulling you close until your head lands on his pillow. One hand of yours drifts to his chest, resting palm-down over his heart, fingers tapping in time with the beat. When you speak, your voice is barely over a whisper, like the moment might shatter if you speak too loudly.

“Sammy?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Sam blinks, taken aback. “For what?”

“For this. Tonight. For reminding me what it feels like to be loved.”

Emotion pricks at his throat, and he clears it, shuffling you closer so your head rests on his bare chest now, tugging the blankets up higher over both your bodies.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says.

“Sam, you did everything.”

“I-.”

“You cared. You loved. You made sure I was okay, and you stopped when I got scared. You showed me what it really looks like to be loved by Sam. You just-. I don’t know if you’ll ever really know how much this means to me, but it means a lot.”

Sam presses a kiss to your temple, lips brushing a faded scar from years past. “You helped me too, you know.”

You grin against his chest, lips curving. “I know.”

It’s Sam’s turn to smile. “I guess that’s what we do, huh? Help each other?”

You nod, hair tickling his chin where it gets caught in his stubble.

“We heal each other, Sammy. That’s what we do.”

He nods, pensive. Already, his mind is racing, cataloguing every touch between the motel and now, marvelling at how far you’ve come. The months between felt like an agonizing eternity where Sam wasn’t sure if he could ever be loved by you again, but now that it’s over, it feels like the blink of an eye.

“You know, I was thinking about something earlier,” Sam starts.

“Uh oh,” you say, chuckling against his chest, the vibrations going through him.

“Hush,” he says around a laugh. “I was thinking about what you said at that puddle a while ago.”

Your brows pinch together, and Sam can tell you have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Where you told me what you saw when you looked at us, and you told me I looked broken.”

“Oh. That.”

Sam’s hand rubs your shoulder now, palm curving over it protectively, tugging you tighter against his bare chest.

“You were right, you know. About me being hurt and violated. I was hurting so bad I didn’t even feel it anymore. All I could think about was how much I hurt and how much more you must have been hurting.”

You make a soft sound in sympathy.

“I think-. I think I’m gonna be alright now,” Sam finishes, the words carrying a finality to them that makes him convinced they’re true. “I really think we’re gonna be okay.”

You snuggle closer, fitting into the curve of his arm. “Yeah. Yeah, we will. We’re gonna be just fine, Sammy, love.”

Sam presses one more kiss to your lips, resting his chin on your head as he lets his eyes flutter shut, the weight of exhaustion pulling him down immediately. He’s always been this way, after sex, for reasons still unknown to him. Usually, he tries to fight it, tries to stay awake as long as he can because he needs to make sure you won’t take off on him in the middle of the night, needs to be certain nothing’s going to come after you while you sleep in his arms. It’s a battle he usually loses, often succumbing to your sleepy warmth way sooner than he’d like. Tonight, though, he doesn’t bother putting up a fight, just lets himself curl tighter around you like a cat protecting their kittens.

"I love you," he whispers into your hairline, repeating it over and over again like a prayer.

"Love you too," you mumble in reply, kissing the hinge of his jaw.

You drop into sleep before him, body relaxing against him with a pleasant sigh. Your hip twitches once, reminding Sam you’re still a little stiff. Slowly so as not to wake you, he starts working at your muscles, long fingers kneading at the skin with just enough pressure to keep you asleep yet still soothe your aches. You melt even further into his side, pressing your body as close as you can possibly manage, throwing one leg over his as you sleepily readjust. A muscle gives in your lower back, and he feels the breath of relief you exhale against his skin, smiling softly to himself at a mission accomplished.

Sam turns in your hold, hiking your leg back up over his and throwing an arm over you, resting on your shoulder blades. He tucks your head into the crook between his neck and shoulder, resting his chin on the top of your head, pressing a lingering kiss to your hair before smoothing it back again. He doesn’t ever want to let you go now that he has you this close, now that he knows he can cross the line into sex with you again. He doesn’t ever want to leave this bed, not even when the sun comes up tomorrow morning bright and insistent the way it always does when it matters. He’ll settle for taking tonight, basking in the gravity well of the mattress shaped by your bodies tangled together, resting in the space the air left for you to exist while it works to keep the outside world away for a night.

His arm holds you close, fingers brushing the dimples in your back just above your hips, thumb rubbing circles on your hipbone until he falls asleep completely. His other hand drifts to your hair, tangling in the strands at the back of your head, cupping your head and bringing it as close as he can. Sam’s long body curls around you, and you curl into him, tucking together, two souls bound from the very beginning, always fated to end up intertwined. Sam falls asleep not knowing where he ends and you begin. All he’s certain of is that you’re both going to be alright, and that you trust him.

Those fated three words. Not ‘I love you’. Not ‘I was wrong’. I. Trust. You. Heavy, absolute, weighted with the kind of dedication that comes from honesty. The knowledge that you trust him is enough to make his heart burst in his chest, filling him with a devastatingly sweet realization that you’re it for him, and he’s it for you, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than in your arms at the end of the toughest days of his life.

Three words that seems so small yet mean so much.

I trust you.

“He’s been hopping around from town to town, only takes one victim each time. Sometimes they disappear and are found dead later, others he takes them out close to the club.” Sam gulped. “He rips their throats out and makes it look like an animal attack”.

“Are you sure it’s a vamp?” Dean asked.

“I wasn’t sure at first, but all the victims were drained when they were found. Besides, he has a pattern. Once every other week, every 15 days to be exact, and it’s always five towns apart. He started in Michigan and seems to be making his way here.”

“Well, how do we know where he’s gonna be?” You asked.

“He seems to be taking the US-50, and by the looks of it, his next stop would be Hutchinson, but there’s no strip clubs there, so I’m gessing Wichita.”

“We gotta catch this son of a bitch, Sammy.” Said Dean, glaring at the screen.

You rolled your eyes at Dean’s angry mumbling. “Ok. Well, how do we know which strip club he’ll be at?” You looked down at Sam, your hand still resting on his shoulder. He was looking back at you but didn’t answer. “Well?” You insisted. 

He managed to pull out of his trance, taking a deep breath and turning back to the screen. “Thankfully, there’s not many options. He does seem to always go for the ones with the best rating. I checked. The best one is in Derby, just outside Wichita.”

“Ok, now we just need to figure out who the vamp is, and how he’s catching them.” You concluded.

“I think they go with him willingly, a few of the victims were seen leaving with a man. The profile isn’t particularly enlightening, though. Brown hair, about 6 feet tall, that’s about it.”

“Well, he’s either the hottest piece of ass ever, or he’s rich.” You and Sam looked at Dean, both of you stunned by his choice of words. “What? It’s true.” He retorted.

You blinked and shook your head, turning to face Sam again. “Well, when’s he gonna strike?”

“Six days. Gives us plenty of time to get there and devise a plan.”

“What are you talking about, Sammy? The plan is obvious.” Dean said as he got up from his seat and walked toward you. “This little miss here is gonna pose as a stripper and bait his ass so we can gank him.” He swirled his pointer finger at you as he passed, his tone teasing.

“Excuse me?!” You almost shrieked, taken aback by the suggestion. Sam’s eyes were wide open, darting between you and Dean. He grabbed the arms of the chair tight with both hands, his face red as a beet.

“D- Dean you can’t be- “He started.

“Oh, come on! It’s the best way to go about it and you both know it.” Dean interrupted. “It’s safer ‘cause we don’t have to use some random girl as bait, we have time to get in position to strike, and above all, what the fuck would she be doing at a strip club? She’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

You couldn’t tell if your rage levels were rising or subsiding, but Dean was right. You took a deep breath and rubbed your temples. “You’re right. I hate it, but you’re right. Problem is, I’d have to get a whole outfit, audition, and be good enough to actually be accepted.”

Sam’s face switched from red hot to absolutely drained of any blood, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Dean noticed but pretended not to as he took the opportunity to tease you. “Come now, don’t underestimate yourself. I’m sure you’ll do great. Besides, like Sam said, we have time to prep. Better start practicing now.” He gave you a wink. The smile on his face was downright malicious as he walked out of the library. You were never going to hear the end of this, ever. You felt nervous at the idea, you had never done anything remotely similar to this, not even for a partner. On the other hand, maybe it could be fun. The learning to act sensual part, not the men ogling you all night part.

“Are you actually gonna do this?” Sam was absolutely terrified. He had been great at hiding his feelings for you so far, at least from you, but he wasn’t sure they’d be anything less than obvious if he had to see you strip in front of him.

“Well…yeah. I guess I am. Honestly, I’m more mortified at the fact that I’ll be doing it in front of you and Dean than a bunch of drooling strangers.” This was only half true. You were terrified, but at the same time, you hoped it would make Sam see you in a different light. You were head over heels for him and certain he didn’t feel the same, hence why you pushed your feelings down as far as possible. In all this time, Sam had never shown the slightest interest in you. He was sweet and attentive, sure, but that was just who he was. It pained you to admit, but you were pretty sure that he, just like Dean, saw you as a sister.

“You don’t have to do it. Or, at least, we don’t have to go inside. We can stay outside and wait for you to come out with him.” Sam was sure you had already made up your mind, the most he could do now was hope he didn’t have to go through the torture of being in a room full of men staring at you as you stripped down, having to see you give them lap dances, and not being able to do anything about it.

“It’s fine Sam, I’m just scared it’ll be awkward for the three of us. Besides, I need you guys inside to watch out for me and spot the vamp so I can get our target.” You smiled softly at him and all he could give back was one of his pained, forced smiles. “Guess I’ll go do some shopping and start practicing.” You gave his shoulder a squeeze and headed to your room, wondering how the hell you were going to muster up the courage to play your part and look confident while doing it.

_____________________________

You got to Derby a day before your big performance. After days of practice, with the help of some liquid courage, you had a few moves down. You hoped it was enough to get you hired. You were looking down at the outfits laid out in your motel bed when you heard a knock on the door that connected your room to Sam and Dean’s. “Yes?” Dean made his way in with a spring in his step. Working a case at a strip club? He was living the dream. “Hey, sunshine, you ready for your audition?” He clapped in hands together, trying to cheer you on as if you were running a marathon or auditioning for American Idol.

“I can’t pick an outfit. I got two for the audition and I don’t know which is best. I’m kind of relying on it to get me hired.”

Dean looked down at your bed, and for the first time in his life he wasn’t excited to see lingerie. He was so focused on taunting you and Sam he forgot he was also going to have to see you strip. You were his best friend, practically his sister, so when the realization of what was going to happen dawned on him, he short circuited. He was clasping his hands together so hard his knuckles were white.

“Uh- um.” He gulped and stretched one of his hands out, making a nervous come-hither motion in the direction of his own room. “S- Sam. Sammy!” Sam made his way into your room. “We, uh, need your help.” He joined you and Dean at the foot of the bed and looked down. His cheeks went red. “Wh- Which do you think is more likely to get her hired?”

Sam’s face was so hot he could feel his ears burning. Honestly, if he saw you in any of those he was sure his soul would leave his body. In fact, he was currently fighting not to picture you in them, lest his pants betrayed him in front of both you and Dean. “I uh- They’re both good?” He tried.

“Well of course they are- I have good taste - but which one is best?” You inquired.

“Go on Sammy.” Dean encouraged, passing the entirety of the problem onto his brother. Sam was sure he was sweating as he tried to make a choice without actually picturing you wearing any of the two options. He felt the pressure of your eyes and Dean’s on him, so he simply pointed without thinking any further. “That one.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose and his lips turned down, an expression of both curiosity and acceptance at his brother's decision.

“Ok, red one it is!” You finally said as you picked it up. “Now leave so I can get dressed. I’ll call you guys when I’m ready to go.” You shooed the Winchesters away and got to work.

As Sam shut the door between the two bedrooms he whispered in an irritated tone. “Dude, I fucking hate you. What the hell were you thinking?”

“What’s wrong Sammy? I’m not exactly loving this either, but I feel like your problem isn’t the same as mine.” Dean sat on a chair by the small table of their room and gave him a sly smile.

“Oh, come on. You know what my problem is.”

Dean raised his brows in false surprise and placed the tips of his fingers on his chest. “I really don’t. Pray, do tell, little brother.” Sam hadn’t told him how he felt about you, but he was sure Dean knew; his teasing confirmed it.

“You know I like her! Why the hell would you torture me like this? She’s probably gonna think I’m some perverted creep.” Sam paced around the room and Dean decided to tone down the taunting.

“Ok, first of all, she frickin’ knows you. She knows you’re not perverted, or a creep, for that matter.” Sam stopped pacing. “Second, you’re the one who dug up the pervy vamp case!” He rolled his eyes at Dean. “And third, you should just tell her you like her, dumbass.”

“Dean, I can’t. She doesn’t feel the same, I can’t lose our friendship over a love confession. She’d just pack up and leave, and we’d never see her again.”

“Boy, if there’s something I never took you for, it was oblivious. Or dumb. Her eyes practically turn into heart shapes whenever she looks at you. Besides, even if she didn’t like you, you know she’d never do that.” Dean was almost annoyed that his brother even thought that. You had known each other for years, worked together for ages. You were family, and you were his friend too. If there was anyone he believed would never leave them, it was you.

“You’re right.” Sam scratched the back of his head, feeling slightly guilty about his dramatics. “But I’m not sure about the liking me back part. I really don’t want to ruin our friendship. I’ll just have to tough it out tomorrow and hope we get that vamp so we can get back to the bunker.”

After you were done getting ready, Sam and Dean drove you to the club for your audition. Thankfully for Sam, you were wearing a big coat over your outfit, so all he had to fight was his own imagination. The boys waited in the car, of course, and, as the minutes passed, Sam was getting more and more jittery.

“Dude, calm down. She’ll be fine.” Dean patted his shoulder reassuringly.

“I know, I just… I don’t know. I think I’ll be like this until this whole thing is over.” It was a battle inside Sam’s mind. The worry, the jealousy at the mere thought of other people seeing you like that. It wasn’t right, he knew it, but he couldn’t help his feelings. Add to that the fear of how he’d react when he saw you the following day, and the images he couldn’t help but create in his mind- the man was a mess.

After about 30 minutes you walked out of the club with a triumphant smile and made your way to the backseat of the impala. “I did it!” you said excitedly.

“I knew you had it, sunshine, never doubted for a second.” You and Dean high-fived like you had just won the big prize at a carnival. Sam was very tense, shrinking into himself, but he tried his best and congratulated you with a tight smile.

“So, what stripper name did you choose?” Dean inquired, matter-of-factly.

“Well, since you wanna be Charlie so bad… And you like angels so much-“ You winked at Sam who, for the first time in days, relaxed a bit and laughed when he saw Dean turn red at your comment. You weren’t the only ones doing a bad job at hiding a crush. “I went with Angel.” You fluttered your eyelashes ironically.

Dean cleared his throat, him being the one tensing up now. “Good. ‘s cute. Very stripper like.” He now had a stern look that made you and Sam laugh, making the journey back to the motel lighter for the both of you.

_____________________________

The following day was spent sharpening machetes and preparing syringes and bullets of dead man’s blood while watching tv in the motel bedroom. Luckily for Dean, one of his guilty pleasure films was on, The Princess Bride. You and Sam switched knowing looks, amused as he got up and lifted his machete to cite the famous line. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare do die.”

As night fell, it was time for you to go and get ready for your big night. You were, in fact, extremely nervous. You tried to think of it as a literal Oscar worthy performance, how you’d thank your family and the academy for your success. You also downed three shots of tequila, just for good measure. When you were finally ready, Sam and Dean drove you to the club again, this time dropping you off a block away. You had to arrive separately, so you walked the rest of the way and made your way backstage. The girls were all really nice, and the atmosphere in the dressing room was warm and cheery. Some of them must have noticed you weren’t just new to the club, but also to the profession, since they seemed to give you so much encouragement, reassurance, and advice. They also offered two more shots of tequila, which was very helpful indeed.

Outside in the main room, by the bar, Sam and Dean sat together at a small, round table. As the eldest enjoyed the blessings of working such a case, the youngest was fidgeting, anxiously looking at the stage.

“God damn, Sammy. You gotta find us more cases like this.” Dean said with a big smile as he watched the current dancer’s performance. Sam didn’t respond, he kept his eyes fixed forward, waiting for you to come out. “Relax, she’s gonna be fine.” Dean gave his brother a firm pat on the back that snapped him back to reality. “If you’re not gonna enjoy the many beauties available, at least scan the room to see if you spot our friend.” He was right, the least he could do was his job. As Sam looked around the room, he spotted a few potential culprits, but one stood out to him. A tall, brown-haired man in a dark suit sat alone in a sofa at the corner of the room. He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much as the other customers. In fact, he seemed to be looking for prey.

Suddenly, at least to Sam, the music stopped. The current dancer had finished her performance and the DJ was announcing the next one. “Fellas, we got some fresh blood tonight! Make sure to be extra nice to her, cause she’s goodness itself. Give it up for Angel!” A new song started and, as you walked onto the stage, Sam and Dean dropped their jaws.

“Where the fuck did she get those? I didn’t see any wings!” Dean exclaimed. He looked at his little brother and, boy, he was down bad. Sam was in trance, completely hypnotized. His eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets, his jaw was slack. For a moment, he forgot everything: the case, the people in the room, the fact he was supposed to be hiding his infatuation. You were wearing a white sheer babydoll and had a pair of tiny fluffy wings on your back. “Sam.” Dean tried to get his attention. “Sam!” He shook him awake.

“Wh- What.” His eyes darted between you and his brother for a moment, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted to stop looking.

“Look, man, if you don’t want her to notice you’re gonna have to do way better than that. Besides, I need you to spot the vamp. Did you find him yet?”

His eyes were back on you, but this time he had heard. “Yeah, I think so.” He said without turning his gaze. “Over by that corner, on the sofa.”

Dean looked at the man on the velvet cushions. The lack of discretion had him wondering how he’d been getting away with all these murders for so long. “Well, I can’t say he’s not handsome, but he definitely looks rich.” He commented. He was talking to nobody at this point, his brother was having a hard time getting a grip.

For someone who had only had a few days to practice, you sure had moves. You took off your wings first, then untied the babydoll slowly, before getting on the pole. You swung around for a bit before hanging upside down and winking at a man by the stage. This snapped Sam awake. He was now extremely aware that he was in a room with about 40 other men watching you undress. He blinked hard and tried to focus. There was no point in being jealous, you were just doing your job. In fact, you were doing it far too well. As Dean tried to avoid looking at you and focused on his drink, Sam was trying to look somewhat normal, all while still not being able to take his eyes off you. Then, it happened, you took your bra off. He felt a sting in his chest, a mix of amazement, desire, and guilt. He felt horrible for staring at you like this, even if the point of your performance was to get people to look. God, she’s fucking perfect. He thought to himself. And though you were, he still felt sad. Of course he wanted to see all of you, but he wished it were in different circumstances: just the two of you, and he was seeing you because you wanted him to see you. When the song was over, he exhaled in relief and took a big gulp of his beer. Little did he know what was about to happen.

Dean had been eyeing the potential vamp throughout your performance, and he was definitely curious, but as you walked off the stage and came back from the dressing room to the floor to be among the clients, he wasn’t quite interested enough to call you over. He had to think of a way to fix this before the vampire picked someone else, so instead of hoping, he called you over.

You weren’t aware this was part of the plan, but made your way over nonetheless, and pretended not to know them. “Hello boys. How can I help you?” You said seductively. Sam gulped, took another swig of his beer, and wondered what the hell Dean was plotting. You maintained your body language as you stood with your back turned to the target Sam had pointed out.

“Hey Angel, I’d like to get my sweet little brother a lap dance.” Dean announced loudly with a smile, patting Sam’s back as he almost choked.

“What?” Sam was panicking. “I- This wasn’t my idea!” He was almost shaking, when would this god damned night end?

You leaned closer with an incredulous look on your face as Dean tried to explain. “Look, we gotta look inconspicuous, like we’re actual clients. Besides, the frickin’ vamp’s not takin’ the bait. You gotta show him what he’s missing.” Dean gave you a stack of dollar bills. “Now, I’m gonna get myself a little lap dance, and then I’m going to get the stuff from the car and get in position.” He got up and gave you two a big smile. “You kids have fun.” He said smugly before walking away.

For the first time tonight, you were actually very nervous. What the hell was Dean thinking? You put away the bills and before a new song started you bent down in front of Sam, your face inches from his, your perfume invading his senses. “I’m sorry Sam. I didn’t know Dean was gonna do that. You can say no, just walk away. Who knows?  Maybe the vamp will take pity on me.” You gave him a comforting smile.

“No! It’s fine. Of course it’s fine!” He laughed nervously, setting his beer down on the table.

A new song was about to start. “Ok, well, make sure to look like you’re enjoying it.” That was going to be too easy.

“Of course.” He said softly as you began to torture him.

You knew customers could only touch you if they had your permission, those were the house rules, and you weren’t sure if you were just trying to sell it or if you couldn’t hold your own desire anymore. After a few seconds of dancing facing away from him (the view was killing him), you turned toward him again and sat on his lap, placing your arms on his shoulders. “You wanna take this off me, big boy?” You looked down at the babydoll and back up to Sam with a slow flutter of your eyelashes.

“Fuck, yes.” He exhaled. His reply surprised you, there was a hint of despair to it. It seemed you weren’t the only one with the acting skills. Unbeknownst to you, he meant every word of it. He couldn’t help the truth from slipping out, Sam was completely gone. Any control he had left had disappeared and he was a horny, dumb mess under you. He pulled slowly at one of the strings of the babydoll - the moment seemed to stretch in time - and now, he wasn’t the only one being tortured. He gently pulled the frilly straps off your shoulders and let the fabric fall to the floor. His fingers grazed your arms. It was taking everything in him not to pull you into him and inhaling your scent, the smell that had haunted him for god knows how long.

You both looked up at each other, and you smiled at him, a hint of mischief in your eyes. “You might want to hold on to me.” As you said it, you dipped your head all be way back to check if the vampire was looking at you. He was, so you gave him a wink before picking up your dress. Sam held on to your hips so you wouldn’t fall as you exposed your lace underwear to him, slowly making your way back up. You wrapped the fabric in your hands around the back of his neck and pulled him closer to you.

“Holy shit, you’re no angel.” He looked at you dumbfounded, his breaths shallow.

This made you giggle. It was sweet of him to joke around so you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. At least you thought he was joking. You dropped your covering again and placed your arms on his shoulders before grinding your hips slowly, barely missing the massive bulge in his pants. His fingers dug into your hips at the movement, and he had to hold back a moan, taking a deep breath. The way he held you was not only breaking your focus, but also your control. You had to regain it somehow, but the bruising grip he had on your hips made it impossible to do much else. You rocked your hips a few more times and the feeling of his hands on you had your brows furrowing.

“Sam.” You called him in a breathy sigh. He saw the expression on your face and realized he was gripping you too tight, so tight he was probably hurting you. He quickly let go of your hips and apologized.

“Sorry-“ That’s all he could let out as you took the opportunity to get off him and turn around. At least this way he wouldn’t see the effect he had on you. He thanked the stars you couldn’t see his face either. He couldn’t take much more of this, he thought, when suddenly your hand was gripping his knee to help balance you as you slowly leaned back into him, bringing your arm around the back of his neck and leaning into his chest. You kept moving sensually over him, and when the song finally ended, you both took a deep breath of relief. As you regained focus, you turned to him and gave him a sly smile, leaning in for a false tip. Sam handed you a 50-dollar bill and you thanked him. Dean better be as good a tipper as Sam, these girls deserve it. You thought to yourself as you walked away. Sam looked up at the ceiling and rubbed his face with both hands, how on earth was he going to ever get over this? He let his arms fall to his sides and tried to regain composure.

The torture you had just submitted yourself and Sam to had worked. The vampire smiled at you and moved his finger in a come-hither motion. You made your way over to him and sat on the velvet couch next to him.

“Hey pretty thing.” He gave you a seductive smile.

“Hi sweetie, need some company?” you stretched your arm out over the back of the sofa to walk your fingers over his shoulder. At least he was handsome and smelled good, this would make your job easier.

“Can I get a dance?” He pulled a few 50-dollar bills from his pocket, at least triple the cost of a lap dance. He was making sure you knew he was loaded.

“Of course, handsome. I’ll be your angel for tonight.” You put the bills away in the little purse you carried with you and laid it next to you on the sofa, before standing before him and getting to work. He leaned against the back of the sofa with both his arms spread out as you danced before him with your back turned.

You looked over at Sam to signal that you were fine and saw that he was already looking at you. What you didn’t notice were his clenched fists, you were moving too much to look at him for long. The vampire, however, did.

“Seems your previous client isn’t too happy to see you here with me.” He said with a hint of delight. You turned to sit on his lap and put your arms around him.

“Can you blame him for being a little jealous?” You gave him a small pout. “How could he not be when I’m in such better company.” This seemed to please him.

“Am I, now?” He asked.

“Of course.” You said in an innocent tone. “You’re definitely handsomer.” You lied.

“Well, then. If I’m so much better, does that mean I get to touch you too?” He tried.

“Please.” You replied breathily, pulling his hand to your waist.

Sam was watching you two with a mix of rage and worry, and the vampire was basking in the sight of his jealousy, his hands travelling up and down your torso. While Sam was trying his best not to ruin the mission, Dean came up behind him. “Hey, Sammy. Did you like your dance?” He teased.

“I never wanna talk to you again.” He replied through gritted teeth.

“How can you be mad at me for getting the girl of your dreams to sit on your lap half naked?” He joked.

“It’s not funny, Dean. I could barely keep it together. I’m pretty sure I hurt her at some point.” The sadness in Sam’s face as he kept his eyes on you made Dean regret taunting his brother so much.

“Look, I’m sorry, man. I’m sure you didn’t hurt her, though. You know she’s tough as nails. I’m gonna get the gear from the car and get in position. Make sure to keep an eye on her and follow them once they bounce.” He patted Sam on the back and walked out of the club.

In the corner of the room, you kept up your performance, grinding on your target’s lap. After what you went through with Sam, this was a piece of cake. As the dance was coming to an end, he caught you as you rose back up from the floor.

“When do you get off, Angel?” He whispered close to your face, holding your waist firmly.

“Whenever I can.” You replied suggestively.

“Well, what do you say we get out of here, then?” This time, he pulled a stack out of the pocket inside his blazer, it must have been at least three thousand dollars. So, this was how he was getting them to come with him.

“Sure thing.” You gave him a wink and smiled as you got off his lap. “Let me just get my things and I’m all yours.” As you walked toward the dressing room, you passed Sam and signaled you were about to leave.

__

After you left with the vampire, Sam waited about a minute before following you outside. He headed to the Impala to get his machete and, when he pulled on the handle, he realized Dean had locked the door. He panicked; he needed to hurry. He pulled out the lock pick kit he always had on hand and got to breaking into his own brother’s car.

Meanwhile, the vampire had pulled you to a narrow street beside the club, grabbing your waist and pushing you against the wall. You giggled to make sure he didn’t get suspicious, and pretended to like it when he leaned flush against you and pulled your coat down your shoulders. “You smell delicious.” He said, inhaling against your neck. You knew he didn’t mean your perfume. Where the hell were the Winchesters?

One of his hands grabbed your wrists, and the other gripped your neck. “A sweet thing like you. We can’t have all of you in one go. We’re gonna have to make you last, and savor every bit of you.” His fangs protruded and you started to struggle with him, trying to free your hands so you could reach for the dead man’s blood syringe in your purse, which had fallen to the ground. He was strong, but he was still a man, so you kicked him right between the legs. Though this set you free for a moment that allowed you to dive for your purse, he was quicker, and now, he was angry. “Bitch!” He pulled you up by your hair and grabbed your neck with such force he almost snapped it. You couldn’t breathe, and you felt a sharp sting on your shoulder. Black spots started to fill your vision. Suddenly, the grip on your neck vanished, and your attacker no longer had a head. The vampire had no head.

You fell forward as you gasped for air, your vision still blurred. “It’s ok, I got you. I’ve got you.” You heard Sam’s voice and held on to him as you coughed and tried to catch a breath. “I’m so sorry. Dean locked the door, and I couldn’t get to the gear.” His voice was filled with worry. “Where the hell is he?”

“Sammy!” It was Dean calling. Suddenly, he appeared from behind the club, covered in blood, a dripping machete in his hand. He ran toward you as soon as he saw you both kneeling on the floor. “Is she ok?” He lowered himself to check on you as well. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, turns out we were dealing with a vamp nest. I ganked two fangs back there.”

By now, your vision was back to normal and your breath wasn’t as ragged. Sam’s hand was holding your neck and cheek, and you looked up at him to see his face covered in blood splatters. “Dean, you left the car locked, I had to break in, she could’ve died!” He looked at his brother in a panic, but he didn’t seem to be angry at him. Dean’s face dropped as guilt over his forgetfulness settled in.

“Sam.” Your voice was a bit raspy, but your smile reassured him.

“Are you hurt?” His eyes were now on you. He pulled you away from him to check for injuries and you winced when he grabbed your shoulder; your face scrunched up in pain. He quickly removed his hands to reveal a deep, ugly looking bite that was still dripping.

“I’m fine, it’s just a little bite.” You smiled, but you were definitely paler.

“You gotta get her back to the motel. I’ll ditch the bodies and call you when I’m done.” Dean said, handing his brother the keys to the Impala. The least he could do now was clean up the mess and make sure his brother could bandage you up as quick as possible. Sam helped you get up and you two made your way to the car while Dean picked up the vampire’s head by the hair and dragged the body away by the collar of its suit.

__

Once Sam got you in the car and started making his way back to the motel, he spoke for the first time since you had left Dean to clean up the mess. “I’m so sorry. I was a dumbass, I thought Dean would be there. I should’ve just broken a window, gotten the stuff, and ran back.” He couldn’t help but feel it was his fault you got hurt.

“You wanna risk your own life?” You gave a soft chuckle. “Dean would kill you if you did that to Baby.” Your lips had now lost a bit of their color, but the pressure you were applying to your wound seemed to have stanched the bleeding.

Sam scoffed. “And I would’ve killed him if you died because he forgot to leave the god damn car unlocked.”

“Sam, it’s fine. Nothing happened. It’s just a vamp bite, we’ve all had way worse.” It was true, of course, but the sight of you choking and the purple marks that were now blooming on your neck hurt him like a punch to the gut.

When you got to the motel, Sam followed you to your room. He grabbed the first aid kit and you took your jacket and heels off before sitting on the edge of the bed. He knelt in front of you, his massive stature putting him at eye level with you. “Ok, let me see.” You peeled the random rag Sam had gotten from the trunk off your shoulder. It was drenched, but the bleeding had almost completely stopped by now. He grabbed the saline solution you now had in all the first aid kits. You had told him and Dean that there was no reason for them to be cleaning their wounds with whisky. You were right, of course.

Sam was gently cleaning the bite, and you tried to lighten the mood, now that you felt a bit better. “So, how did I do tonight? Should I pursue this new career of mine?” You joked.

Sam tittered and smiled. “Definitely not. Being a stripper is clearly more dangerous than being a hunter.”

“I guess you’re right. But hey, at least I wowed the world for one night.” You laughed.

“Yeah, that you did.” Sam’s brows rose when he remembered your performance. His cheeks flushed as images of you dancing, touching him, and grinding on him filled his mind. He cleared his throat and turned to grab some gauze and medical tape. When he leaned in to cover the wound, you opened your legs so he could get closer, making the entire process harder instead of easier.

He placed the gauze gently over the bite and secured it with the tape. “There. All done.” He said softly. “Now we have to do something about that neck.” Sam moved your chin with his index finger to get a better look at the damage. “That son of a bitch.” He muttered. It was funny, you thought, he had never sounded so much like Dean.

“Well he’s dead now, not much else you can do about it.” There were still blood splatters on Sam’s face and shirt, all of them dry now. You didn’t feel great about the fact that seeing him covered in blood always turned you on. “There’s some bruise cream in the kit, though.” You pointed, trying not to think about the warmth of his skin as he attended to your wounds, or the feeling of his hands on you earlier that night.

Sam grabbed the cream and handed it to you so you could apply it yourself. Your skin was too tender for him to do it himself without causing more pain. While you applied the cream, he checked you for any other injuries. When he looked down at your thighs, fully exposed by the rising of your small dress, he remembered the way he had grasped you so tightly. He instinctively dragged the fabric further up to check your hips, making you inhale sharply in surprise. He looked at the flesh around your hips and saw small, light bruises in the shape of his fingers. “Fuck.” He whispered.

“What?” You asked, looking down.

“I knew I’d gone too far.” He sat back on his heels, putting space between the two of you.

“What are you talking about?” You didn’t have a clue what was going on.

“When you were dancing on me. I- I grabbed you too tight. I hurt you.” The night seemed to be filled with Sam’s mistakes, all of them causing you harm.

“What? No, you didn’t!” You exclaimed. You turned your hips up to see whatever Sam had been looking at. There were a few dots of barely visible bruises. You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Sam, you do know I bruise like a peach, right? I have bruises all over that I couldn’t even tell you where I got. I really need you to stop apologizing. I’m fine! I’m not made of paper.” You didn’t understand what was going on. Sam had never treated you like this. He once put your dislocated shoulder back into place, patted your back, and handed you your shotgun so you could get back to killing werewolves.

He looked up at you, confused. “Then what was that face you made?”

“What?” Your brows knitted together before you realized it. He saw the way you reacted to his grip, but he thought it was pain he was seeing. Your face went blank, what could you possibly respond to that? “No, actually. Your hands felt so good on me I could barely keep myself from moaning.” There was no way you were ever admitting that. Thankfully, you didn’t have to. The conversation was interrupted by the ring of his phone. It was Dean.

Sam placed the phone against his ear and answered the call. “Yes?” You heard Dean speaking over the phone but couldn’t distinguish what he was saying. “Yeah, she’s fine now.” Dean kept talking on the other side of the call “Alright, I’ll be there in 15.”  He hung up. “I gotta go pick Dean up. You get some rest; I’ll be right back.” He got up, his previous question forgotten, and grabbed his jacket and the keys to the car and his motel room. “Lock the door, and don’t open it no matter who knocks.” He said as he walked out.

“Yes, mother!” You mocked. This got a smile out of him. If you already had your attitude back, you were definitely fine.

After locking the door you lay on your back in the bed, staring at the ceiling. What the hell was wrong with Sam? Did he suddenly think you were some small little thing that could break at any moment just because he saw you in wings and a tiny dress? Ok, that wasn’t fair. You knew he wasn’t like that. Maybe he was just feeling guilty about you getting hurt and it spread out to everything that had happened that night. You’d think he was catholic the way that man carried so much guilt.

You sighed. At least you didn’t have to talk about the face you made while on his lap. The truth was, if it meant he touched you like that again, you’d wish your whole body was a bruise.

_____________________________

By the time the boys got back to the motel, you were already asleep. While Dean was in the shower, Sam came into your room to check on you and saw you were already down for the night. She’s earned it. Sam thought. He came and sat next to you on the bed, admiring your features. He lay his hand on your head to stroke your hair, which you instinctively leaned into, making him smile and stay for a bit longer while he waited for Dean to be done with the shower so he could use it himself.

Sam was grateful to finally get the vampire blood off him when he got in the shower, but as soon as he found himself alone, he couldn’t hold back any longer. Every moment he got to see you, the feeling of touching you and having you all over him, it all came back to him. He knew he was probably going to feel guilty later, but he allowed himself to indulge in his memories. He remembered pulling the babydoll off you and wished he had kissed your lips, your neck, anything. The memory of you grinding on him made him wish he had pulled you closer so he could feel you where he wanted you most. His forearm rested against the tiled wall for support as he stroked himself to the thought of what that would feel like. As his mind kept wandering and brought himself closer to the relief he so badly needed, his eyes shut and his brows furrowed. His breath was winded and it was getting harder not to make noise. He recalled you sitting on his lap with your back flush against him and imagined one of his hands slowly sliding up your torso to your chest, the other making its way down and getting under your lace underwear. The thought of how warm and soaked you would feel, and the sweet sounds he would pull out of you when he brought you closer to the edge was too much. His mind was filled with the thought of you, and when he pictured you calling out his name as he tipped you over that same edge, his own release followed with a harsh bite of his lower lip to stifle the noise.

Sam was panting and he leaned his head back to let the water hit his face, feeling somewhat relieved from the tension that had built throughout the night. He hoped this was enough to get you off his mind for a while, at least enough so that he’d be able to act somewhat normal around you.

When he got out of the shower and walked into the room, Dean was already snoring in his bed, his arms and legs splayed like he had simply fallen onto it. It seemed Sam was the only one who would have trouble sleeping that night.

The rooms you had gotten at the local motel were interconnected, which was a feature you always appreciated, and they were decorated with dark woods and warm, earthy colours that told you exactly when the last refurbishment had been. The three of you settled in and put on your FBI suits, before gathering in Sam and Dean’s room to settle your game plan.

“Oh, come on, you always get to be agent Mercury! Let me have it this time.” You grumbled at Dean as you reached to try and steal the fake badge off his hand.

“Hey, my badges, my pick. You can ask Sam if he’ll let you have May.” He said standing on his tiptoes with his arm raised, making sure you couldn’t get to his chosen alias. As you both kept struggling, Sam came up behind Dean and took the badge off his hand.

“God, Dean, just let the girl be Mercury for once.” He handed you the badge and you shoved it into your back pocket before Dean could have a chance to retrieve it. You poked your tongue out at him in provocation and made sure to hide behind Sam. It was truly impressive how, sometimes, you and he acted more like siblings than he and Sam did; at least when it came to the childish bickering. Dean lunged forward to reach for you, but his brother got in his way.

“You’re lucky bigfoot here is on your side.” He pointed at you menacingly, and you laughed behind your human shield.

“Hey!” Sam glared at his brother. Crowley was clearly a bad influence, having given the older Winchester even more ways to mess with his little brother.

“Ugh, fine.” Dean gave up. “Whatever, I’ll be May then.” He stretched his hand out, waiting for him to give him the badge.

“Oh, you wish. No. This time, you’ll be Deacon.” Sam turned and put his badge in the coat pocket of his black suit. “Let’s get going.”

You opened the door and made your way to the impala, leaving Sam to try and not stare at you as you walked away. He had always felt a little warm when we saw you in your FBI suit and, as usual, Dean noticed. He bumped his shoulder against him as a warning. It wasn’t like he was against appreciating a nice view, but you were family, and he wasn’t going to let Sam ruin it just because he couldn’t keep it in his pants.

You made your way to the morgue, and, after a while, you got the coroner to leave the three of you to look at the victims by yourselves. As you put on your gloves, you looked around the cold, white tiled room. The fluorescent lights were horrible and always made the bodies look even more disconcerting.

Sam pulled the sheet off the freshest victim, revealing a curdled bloody mess of scratched out eyes and a torn ribcage. Dean grimaced, his brother looked puzzled, and you had to turn away to take a deep breath before your eyes returned to analyze the cadaver.

“You thinkin’ werewolf?” Dean asked.

“Werewolves don’t eat eyes.” You replied before Sam could answer and inserted a gloved hand into the victim’s ribcage. “Or lungs. And the heart is still here.” You removed your hand from the cold thorax and threw the gloves in the trash. “We have to check the others.”

As the boys opened the silver morgue drawers to pull out the other victims, you put on a fresh pair of surgical gloves so you could inspect the next body. After searching the chest cavities of four other victims, you and the boys were left dumbfounded.

“What the hell is this thing?” Dean asked. Whatever it was, it seemed to have a preference for eyes and lungs, but it would take the odd heart or liver.

“I have no clue.” You and Sam said in unison, at which you turned to look at each other.

“You know what that means-” You said, turning back to Dean.

“Please don’t.” He interrupted.

“We have to check the lore.” Sam concluded. Dean rolled his eyes all the way to the back of his head and made his way out of the morgue as you and Sam smiled. Research was one of the things you and Sam shared a love for, though he often took it too far. He would spend hours on end, go days with barely any sleep, just to get to the bottom of something. The fact that you shared this passion made times like those rarer, especially because you always managed to reason with him that a rested mind would be sharper. Dean, on the other hand, loathed it. The older Winchester would help, if it was necessary, but he was more than happy to “let you two, nerds, have fun with your books.”

After having lunch at a local restaurant, you and the boys made your way back to the motel and dove into your research. Sam was on web research duty, and you and Dean stuck to the books. After about five hours, you were still coming up empty. Dean felt like he was being bored to death, and worse, he was getting hungry.

As if you had read his mind, you suddenly turned your nose up from your book. “How about I go get us something to eat?” You suggested. This was more of a reminder to Sam, who often forgot to eat or sleep when he was researching. Dean didn’t worry you, though. You knew he’d make sure everyone knew when he was hungry.

“How about some pie?” Dean’s eyes twinkled at you and he had that goofy grin of his plastered all over his face. Your own eyes rolled in return, but you smirked back at him.

“I meant real food, Dean.”

“Pie is real food! It has fruit in it, therefore, it’s healthy.“ The gentle smile on your face dropped as you rolled your eyes once again.

“How about you, Sam?” He took his eyes off the screen for the first time in hours and rubbed them with the back of his hand as he stretched on the chair.

“Oh, anything.” He said with a yawn. “Just get whatever, I trust you.” His tired, hazel eyes crinkled as he beamed at you. Your cheeks felt hot and you smiled back at him.

There was a moment of silence before Dean grimaced at the two of you and snapped you from your staring contest. “So? Are you getting the pie or not? ‘Cause if you’re not, I’m more than happy to skip the reading.”

“Uh, yeah.” You turned back to look at him, fully breaking from your trance now. “I’m going, Winchester.” You grabbed the keys to the impala from Dean’s leather jacket and made your way to the convenience store, closing the door on your way out.

“I still can’t believe you’ll just let her drive without blinking twice, but when I ask, it’s the end of the world.” Sam huffed out a laugh.

Dean ignored his brother’s statement “Dude, you really gotta stop giving her those looks.” He sat up on the bed where he had been reading. “If you wanna get laid, go hit on some chick at a bar, like you’ve been doing. Hitting that? Off limits. Don’t even think about it.”

“Dean, what are you talking about?” Sam looked at his brother with a confused expression.

“Oh, don’t play dumb on me, Sammy! I’ve seen you check her out. I ignored it ‘cause it was just from time to time, but it’s been non stop lately. And now you’re giving her the flirty eyes?” He had a stern look on his face. “Look, I get it. You haven’t gotten some in a couple of weeks and she is cute, maybe hot even-“ He grimaced at that. “but you can’t just take her for a ride. It’s not like you can toss her out after. In fact, I’d kill you.” His pointer finger was aggressively directed at Sam. “Just don’t ruin things, man. She’s good to us, she’s good for us. We’re a great team, she’s practically family. Don’t go bothering the girl just for a little joyride.”

Sam was incredulous, his eyebrows couldn’t possibly go any higher. He huffed and crossed his arms against his chest. “Dude, are you serious?”

“Damn right, I’m serious. Look, you know I’m not one to stop the heat from flowin’, but you cannot do her. You just gotta solve your little problem the way you’ve been doing so far, and you’ll be good. Come on, I’ll take you to the bar tonight and be your wingman. I’ll even get another room so you can have some privacy.”

“Dean, I’m not in the mood to get with some random girl at a bar.” Sam really didn’t want to have to tell his brother about his feelings for you, but he certainly didn’t like the fact that Dean thought he saw you as nothing more than a piece of meat. He wasn’t entirely wrong, Sam definitely had a hard time keeping his eyes off you; the way your hips swished when you walked, how you looked when you wore your FBI suit, your cleavage when you leaned in close to him to look at something he was trying to show you… but it wasn’t just that. He liked you. Perhaps a little too much for his own good. He couldn’t believe his brother not only didn’t notice how much he cared about you, but actually thought he didn’t care enough to consider your feelings. It was true that he had been doing his best to ignore how he felt. He had been with more women in the past three months than the previous two years, but that strategy seemed to work less and less as time passed.

“Well, don’t then. But keep your hands off sunshine. And keep it in your pants.” The lack of protest told Dean he was right. He thought Sam had been acting weird these past few months. It wasn’t much like him to sleep around, but lately, he’d been going with his brother to bars much more, and boy, did he get lucky often. Then, there was the way he looked at you. At first, Dean thought he had a crush. You were similar, after all, and he couldn’t deny your looks. After a while, though, his little brother didn’t seem to be as nervous around you the same way he was whenever he liked someone; and when Dean started noticing the not so innocent looks, that’s when he got worried, and even a little mad. Whatever was up with Sam, it was no excuse to cross that boundary with you. Maybe he’s going through a phase. He thought. That could happen, right?

"Fine." Sam rolled his eyes and got back to his research, while Dean gave up and decided to watch some TV.

After about 20 minutes you returned to the motel with three sandwiches, a couple of apples for Sam, and Dean’s Pie. His eyes lit up as you placed it on the small table.

“Sandwich first.” You warned him. He grunted, but took his sandwich and started to unwrap it. “Any progress?” Sam was, as usual, too focused to notice his food, so you handed him the unwrapped sandwich.

“Thanks” He took the sandwich without taking his eyes off the screen “Not really, no. I’ll keep digging, though. Maybe you and Dean can go talk to the sheriff tomorrow? See if we can get more info?”

“Maybe it’s not a monster? There are crazy humans out there.” You suggested.

“Well, it’s a possibility. But I just feel like there’s something we’re not seeing.” Sam had that look to him that told you he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. “Maybe it’s not a creature? Perhaps it’s some pagan god?”

“Yeah, maybe.” You conceded. “We’ll stay a few more days, then. Just to be sure.” You squeezed his shoulder comfortingly before sitting beside Dean at the edge of his bed to watch whatever was on TV. Without even noticing it, Sam raised his hand up to the shoulder you had squeezed, almost as if to touch the hand that was no longer there. His lips tightened into a thin line when he noticed what he was doing, and he quickly pulled his hand down, before you or Dean could notice. He bit into his sandwich and closed his eyes in sheer delight. You had brought his favorite: turkey, spinach, and tomato. He knew you’d always get it right.

After your meal, you decided to help Sam and go back to your reading, leaving Dean to enjoy a rare full night’s sleep. At around one a.m., you shut the massive tome you had been reading, and looked at Sam. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Huh?” He looked up at you, puzzled. You couldn’t possibly be suggesting-

“Dean and I are interviewing the sheriff tomorrow and doing all the field work, so you’ll get to research all day. Come on Winchester, it’s sleepy time. Don’t make me take the computer and the books to my room and lock myself in there.” Of course. You were just looking out for him, as usual. Ever since hunting with them became a regular thing, Sam and Dean had been getting much more sleep. Not only were you smart and knew a ton of lore, you were also a great researcher, and you actually liked doing it. Solving cases had become way more efficient, and splitting the work into three instead of two made everything easier.

“You’re right.” He yawned and stretched. As he did, a sliver of skin was left exposed by the raising of his shirt. He’s way too hot. You thought to yourself as your cheeks flushed. You focused on putting the books you and Dean had already gone through in a neat pile, trying not to get caught staring like a schoolgirl with a crush.

After the small table was tidied, you bid Sam goodnight and made your way to your room. As you put on your pajamas and got ready for bed, you couldn’t help but think about him. Sam was sweet and smart, but the fact that he was insanely hot was starting to become too distracting. You wished you could run your fingers through his soft hair, feel his wide shoulders and his toned back as he picked you up and threw you against- There was no point. He clearly wanted nothing to do with you, not like that anyway. At some point, you had thought he did. You noticed how he looked you up and down sometimes, you even caught him looking at your chest instead of your eyes. But the amount of times you had seen Dean return from the bar without his brother lately, or the times he and you shared a room instead of him and Sam because he had gotten lucky, told you he clearly didn’t think about you like that. He wasn’t like that before, hooking up had always been Dean’s thing, but lately he had been getting it on quite frequently. Not that there was a problem with that, besides the jealousy it ignited in you.

Despite that, he was still sweet, thoughtful Sam. Sometimes the three of you would see one of his hookups around town the day after, or even when you returned somewhere, and it was honestly impressive how nice they were to him. Despite never calling them again or having any plans to even see them after their hookup, they all seemed to be fine with it and simply happy to see him again. You didn’t know exactly what he did or how he did it, but he should definitely teach Dean, because you had seen that man get slapped and have drinks thrown at him way too many times. Regardless of the negative nature of Dean’s second encounters with a previous hookup, he was still getting them. You were the only one who was getting as much action as a nun. It wasn’t like you tried, anyway, or like guys didn’t hit on you, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Sam. Your attraction and, even worse, your feelings, had you in a chokehold that made every other guy seem boring and bland.

Maybe it was time to get over it. It’s not like Sam was interested, or like you were about to go through the humiliation of trying to make him interested; you wouldn’t even know where to begin. Maybe it was time you were the one to get some; you deserved some fun too. Your mind was made up: next time Sam and Dean went to a bar, you’d be going too, and you would be looking for a good time.

The sunlight was shining through the small yellow curtains of the motel room when Sam woke up. He was usually the first to wake, so he got through his routine and let Dean sleep a little longer. After his shower, he woke his brother who, as usual, jolted awake in a startle.

“W-What!” He said, confused and wide eyed.

“It’s morning. Time to wake up.”

“Damn it Sammy, you know I hate that.” Dean sat up on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “Am I the last one to wake? Are y’all waitin’ for me?”

“I think she’s still sleeping, I didn’t hear her alarm clock or any noise coming from her room.” Sam said, looking at the door that connected your rooms.

“Alright, well, I’m gonna hit the shower, you go and wake her up.” He rose from his seated position, tapped his brother’s back, and made his way to the bathroom.

The interconnecting door was left unlocked, as usual, and Sam made his way into your room. The sunlight was hitting your face and hair, and even then, you were sound asleep. He walked slowly towards your bed and called you out, but it didn’t seem to wake you. Your soft, peaceful expression distracted him for a moment, and he sat on the bed next to you, admiring your features. You let out a deep exhale, almost as if you felt his presence, and he stretched his hand out to stroke your arm softly with his thumb. That seemed to do the trick. As you became more aware of your surroundings, your eyes opened slowly, and you were met with Sam’s face leaning over you.

“Morning, sleepyhead. Did you forget your alarm?” He smiled.

You smiled back before the need for a stretch took over you, making you scrunch your face. “I don’t know. Maybe?” That was a blatant lie. Unlike Dean, who always woke up ready to strike, you appreciated when Sam came and woke you up, so you often “forgot” to set your own alarm. He was always gentle and sweet, waking you with whispers and smiles, which was way better than some annoying alarm.

You sat up on your bed, crossing your legs, making them brush against Sam’s hip. “Dean’s already showering, we’re getting breakfast at the diner.”

“Alright.” You replied with a smile.

His hand was now on the thin, old blanket, and it was so close to your thigh he could feel it’s warmth.  He quickly got up, resisting the urge to touch you. “Get ready and meet us in our room?”

You looked up at him, taken aback by his sudden movement. Maybe you had horrible morning breath and, as usual, he was too sweet to tell you. “Um, sure. I’ll be right there.” As soon as he shut the door that connected your rooms, you ran to the bathroom to brush your teeth frantically as you waited for the water in the shower to warm up.

You arrived at the diner and sat on a red benched booth by the window, when a waitress came up to you.

“Good morning, fellas. What can I get you today?” Dean immediately started thinking of ways to try and get her number. She was pretty: wavy raven hair, green eyes, and a sunny disposition.

“Mornin’, sugar.” You rolled your eyes at his horrible flirting. “I’d like some pancakes with a side of bacon and eggs, and some coffee.” He finished with a flirty smile. Sadly for him, the waitress’ eyes were trained on her notepad, where she was taking down his order.

“I’d like some toast and two eggs, sunny side up. Oh, and some coffee for me too.” You said.

“Sure thing.” She took note of your order and then looked up at Sam. “How about you, honey?” She looked him up and down and smiled at him.

“I’d like some toast and scrambled eggs, with some tomato on the side, and I’ll take some coffee too.” He smiled politely as he handed her the menu.

“Great choice.” She said. “I’ll be right over with your orders.” Her eyes lingered on Sam before she walked away from the table. You seemed to be the only one to notice she took a liking to him. Dean was still looking at her as she gave the cook the order, and Sam was looking at you.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” You asked as you put a hand up to your cheek.

“No! No, I was just… looking at your hair. Did you get a new conditioner?” Sam quickly found an excuse for his inability to keep his eyes off you.

Dean finally took his eyes off the waitress and looked at you. “You got a new hair product and didn’t share the intel with Sammy? Tsk, tsk. You know his mane has to be the shiniest and softest in a 5 mile radius.” He mocked.

You giggled a bit, but turned to Sam and gave him an earnest answer. “Yeah, I started using the same one you do, actually.” He did know how to take good care of his hair, and he had a very specific routine.

“Oh.” He was surprised at your answer. “Well, it’s definitely working.”

When the waitress finally brought your meals, Dean kept shooting smiles her way. He was thinking of a better way to flirt with her, when he noticed she was eyeing Sam. His face instantly dropped. Unfortunately for her, his brother’s eyes were fixed on you. Damn, it’s like he’s pissed the conditioner worked so well. He thought. You hadn’t noticed Sam staring because you were too busy arranging the table to make sure everyone had cutlery and enough room to eat comfortably.

“There you go, sweetheart.” The waitress said as she carefully placed Sam’s plate in front of him. She leaned into him as she did, and when he noticed, he finally pulled his eyes away from you, trying to lean back into his seat to put some distance between them.

“Thank you.” He said with a quick, courteous smile, before looking down at his plate and grabbing the silverware. The waitress finally gave up her attempts and Dean saw her smile drop as she walked away.

“Dude, what’s wrong with you? She was totally into you!” He said in an angry whisper.

Sam looked back at the waitress and turned back to look at his brother. “What? No, she wasn’t.” He hadn’t even noticed her advances.

“Geez, Sam, I’ve never seen you be so clueless.” You blurted.

“You too?” He turned to you. “Just- Whatever. Let’s just eat so we can start the day.” He dismissed the two of you and picked up a bite of egg and toast.

Dean looked down at his plate with a gleaming expression. It had a big stack of fluffy pancakes with a nob of butter on top, a good amount of bacon slices, and a little pitcher full of syrup. He wolfed down a few bites, like he had been starving for days, when he suddenly remembered he was the first one to abandon research duty the previous night.

“So, did you guys find anything last night after I hit the hay? Dean asked between mouthfuls of syrupy pancakes.

“Well, nothing conclusive.” You replied as you dipped a piece of toast in the runny yoke on one of your eggs.

“It could be a bunch of things; we still need to narrow it down.” Sam seemed annoyed by the fact that he hadn’t figured it out yet.

“You and I will interview the sheriff today, along with any potential witnesses, and Sam is going to the library to see if he can find some local legends that help explain this.” You told Dean.

“Fine by me. As long as I don’t have to spend the day with my nose in the books, I’ll go anywhere.”

After finishing your meal, you and Dean dropped Sam at the library and made your way to the sheriff’s department. Dean was thankful you and him were going to be away from Sam for a bit, considering his brother still hadn’t managed to get his gaze under control.

Once you got to the sheriff’s department, you were greeted by a peppy young officer at the front desk. “Good morning! I’m officer Rogers, how can I be of service to you today?” He had a giddy smile, as if it was his first day on the job.

 “Good morning,” you replied with a blank expression and a serious tone while you and Dean pulled out your badges. “Agents Mercury and Deacon, FBI. Any chance we could talk to the sheriff?”

“Good morning, agents.” A voice greeted from behind you, and you turned around. “Sheriff Collins.” She extended a hand for you to shake and did the same for Dean. “How can I help you?”

“Morning, sheriff. We’re here about the victims who have been showing up… mauled. Would you mind if we ask you a few questions?” You took over the lead agent role as Dean seemed to be distracted by sheriff Collins’ looks. Sure, she was beautiful, but the fact that he hadn’t had a hookup in a while seemed to be affecting his focus. He had a goofy smile on his face, which the sheriff thankfully ignored as she guided you to her office. As you followed her, you bumped his shoulder harshly and mouthed at him. “Focus!”

“So, agents, what do you need to know?” She asked as she sat at her desk and gestured at the chairs in front of it for you to sit. “Honestly, I’m surprised the FBI showed up here over some animal killings.”

“Are you sure this was done by animals?” You asked.

“What else could have mauled those men like that? Besides, they were all found near wooded areas. I’d say we have a vicious mountain lion on our hands. I’ve already called wildlife services, so they’d keep an eye out.”

“We just have a few questions we need to ask, to make sure. We’ve got to be thorough, it’s standard procedure.” Dean said with a polite smile as you pulled out a notepad.

“Well, in that case, fire away.” She extended her hand toward you, signaling you to ask your questions.

“You said the victims were all found in wooded areas. Were they around the same place?” You inquired.

“No, not really.”

“Did these places have anything in common, besides being wooded?” Dean asked.

“Well, now that I think of it, most of them were around the lake area, one of them by a stream, and another on the riverbank.” Her arms were crossed and she looked up as she recalled.

“We noticed all the victims were male. Couldn’t that possibly indicate a pattern?” You questioned.

“I don’t think so agent.” She leaned closer to you. “Between you and me, only men are dumb enough to go into the woods unarmed by themselves knowing the kind of wildlife we have around these parts.” The sheriff smiled as she gave you a knowing look, at which you huffed out a laugh. Dean seemed a bit offended at first, but he tilted his head in recognition once he thought about it further.

“You’re right sheriff. Well, besides being men, did the victims have anything else in common?” You continued.

“Nothing we could find. None of them knew each other, and they all had different jobs. One of them was a researcher, a microbiologist. Another one was a doctor, and there was also an English teacher, an anthropology professor from the local college…” She tried to remember all the victims as she counted with her fingers. “Oh, and a personal trainer. He was famous around town; he won a few weightlifting competitions and even did some modelling.” She concluded.

You signaled to Dean with your foot, indicating you had thought of something, before asking your last question. “Just one more question, sheriff. What were the victims’ marital status?” She was surprised at the question, but she answered it anyway.

“Most were single, but Dr. Lewis and the English teacher, Mr. Carroway, were married.” That took away your hope. It seemed this case was going to be hell unless Sam found something at the library. You and Dean thanked the sheriff and said your goodbyes before heading to the car.

Once you got into Baby and Dean turned on the engine, you huffed in desperation and bumped your head on the dashboard. “What the fuck are we dealing with, here, Dean?”

“I haven’t got a clue. I know it seems a bit fishy, but maybe it really was an animal? Maybe it just thinks eyes are delicious.” He grimaced. “Besides being men, I don’t see what else they have in common.”

“Well, I noticed they all had careers that required degrees so… maybe they were all intellectuals, or at least had a higher education?” You were just throwing theories at the wall and seeing if anything stuck at this point.

“What about the personal trainer/weightlifter/male model?” Dean scoffed.

“I don’t know… he could have a degree. Maybe he was a scholar of nutrition. You never know.” You suggested with raised brows.

“A scholar of nutrition?” He sneered. You had no response for that, so you just let silence take its place between you.

Finally, Dean sighed. “I’m gonna call Sammy to see if he found something. Then we’ll go and interview the wives.”

Much to your frustration, Sam hadn’t found anything at the library yet. However, he had only been there for a few hours, so you and Dean let him keep up his search as you went and interviewed the wives.

After you left the second wife’s house, Mrs. Carroway, you had truly lost all hope. It wasn’t usual for Sam’s instinct to be wrong when it came to cases. In fact, in all the time you knew him, he had never gotten it wrong. You knew he was already frustrated by the case, but having to tell him he mistook a bunch of animal attacks for something supernatural? It would destroy the man. In his defense, you really thought it was something too, so he wasn’t alone in his mistake, but you felt he would take it more to heart than you.

“You want to call him, let him know we’re coming?” Dean asked as he drove away from the house.

“Sure.” You picked up your phone and called Sam. “Hey, it’s me. Yeah, we have nothing. How about you, find anything?” You turned to Dean and shook your head to indicate his brother’s response. “Alright. Well, we’re heading over now, we’ll take about 20 minutes. In the meantime, can you check if victim number five had a degree? Thanks. Bye, Sam.” You hung up and took a deep breath, leaning your forehead over your phone.

“Nothing, huh.” Dean didn’t seem particularly unhappy at the news.

“Nope.” Your lips tightened into a thin line.

“Geez, don’t be so down about it. One less monster out in the world; and we can have a day off.” He smiled at that.

“You know how Sam is gonna feel about this.” You looked toward the older Winchester with an annoyed expression.

“Oh, come on, he’ll get over it. Let’s just take the win and enjoy some free time.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” You raised a brow at him.

“I was thinking of heading to a bar tonight.” He gave you a sly smile. Of course, what other way would Dean Winchester love to spend his free time if not drinking and hitting on someone. Then it dawned on you. Sam wouldn’t oppose the idea either. Your face dropped.

“Yeah… I’m sure that would cheer Sam up.” Dean noticed the change in your expression. He was trying his best to keep things as they had always been, but he was starting to worry you felt something for Sam that he didn’t reciprocate.

“Hey, come on. You could have some fun too.” He nudged your shoulder and winked. “I know it’s been a while. Maybe that’s exactly what you need to relax.” His suggestion reminded you of the promise you had made to yourself. Next time Sam and Dean go to a bar, I’m going too, and I’ll be looking for a good time. He was right, it was time to get over your attraction to Sam and have some fun.

“You’re right.” You asserted. “I do need to have a good time.”

“That’s the spirit!” He replied with a strong pat on your shoulder.

After picking Sam up at the library and he reported that the personal trainer didn’t, in fact, have a degree, you headed to the motel in silence. He was definitely feeling down about what he considered to be a failure. You and Dean let him have a sulk during the car ride, but as soon as you went into the Winchesters’ room, Dean resolved it was time to cheer up.

“So, how about we go to a bar tonight?” He clasped his hands together with a big smile as his eyes darted between you and his brother. “We could all go and have some fun, maybe get laid.” His eyebrows wiggled.

Sam rolled his eyes and scoffed at the suggestion. “Dean, I told you yesterday, I’m not in the mood to go to a bar and pick up some random girl.” That was surprising to you. Maybe he really was taking it hard, and, as much as his response pleased you, that wasn’t acceptable.

“Well, I want to go…” You turned to him, and he raised his brows. That wasn’t very usual either. Sure, you went to the bar with them sometimes, but you preferred drinking and celebrating among friends only. Besides, Sam didn’t know, but after the third girl he picked up, you weren’t interested in going out and having to see him flirt with someone else. “What? Can’t I have some fun? Come on, Sam, let’s go and have a few drinks. So what, we got it wrong. It’s like Dean said: one less monster out in the world.”

 “Alright.” He reluctantly accepted with a sigh. He didn’t want to ruin your and his brother’s fun.

“Good. Well, then, I’m going to go all out with the girly stuff, so it’s going to take me some time to get ready. One of you can go pick us up some food.” With that, you turned on your heels and made your way to your room.

Sam turned to Dean with a sigh. “I’ll get it. I know you want to get dolled up, too.” His brother didn’t even take notice of the mockery; he simply pulled his tie off and ran to the shower.

Since it was supposed to be a night of celebration, even though he didn’t know what exactly was being celebrated, Sam decided to order some pizza. By the time it had arrived, Dean was ready, Sam was fresh off the shower and putting on another outfit, and you had just finished doing your hair and makeup.

“Food’s here!” Sam announced with a knock on the door between your rooms. When you walked out, Dean shot you a look of confusion.

“I’m loving the hair and makeup, sunshine, but don’t you think you’re a little underdressed?” He asked, pointing at the loose t-shirt and sweatpants you were sporting.

“You’re so funny, Dean.” The sarcasm in your reply was palpable. “I didn’t want to mess up the clothes while I did my makeup or during dinner, so I’m only getting dressed after.” You explained as you sat at the small table with them and grabbed a slice of pizza.

As you ate your last slice, a piece of peperoni fell on your shirt. You looked down at it and picked it up. “See?” You quipped at Dean before eating it.

“Fine, you were right.” He conceded with a scowl.

Once you were done with your meal, you went back to your room to change, leaving the boys to finish grooming themselves. Sam styled his hair meticulously while Dean checked himself out in the mirror, before putting on some perfume and sitting at the edge of his bed, watching TV while he waited for the two of you to be ready.

You walked back out after about 5 minutes to see Dean was the only one in the room. He turned to you and whistled. “Damn, don’t you clean up nice.” He said before turning back to look at the TV. “We gotta wait for princess Sammy, she’s still doing her hair.” He pointed toward the bathroom with his thumb.

Almost as if he had heard, Sam walked out of the bathroom, spraying himself with his perfume. He stopped in his tracks when he saw you. He knew he had never seen that outfit in his life, because he wouldn’t ever be able to forget it. You were wearing a beautiful olive toned velvet dress with a deep neckline and thin straps. He looked down as he took it in. The fabric hugged your waist perfectly, and the skirt, which had a slit that began near the top of your thigh, went all the way to the middle of your calves. He was speechless, and you were blushing.

“Like it?” You asked.

“Uh- I- you- yeah.” He stuttered, looking completely befuddled.

“Thanks. Can you believe I thrifted it in the last town we worked a case in?” You twirled slowly as you showed off you amazing find, revealing the plunge in the dress that went all the way down to the middle of your back.

“Holy shit.” He whispered, but his brother heard him and turned to see him practically drooling. Dean quickly got up and stood next to Sam before patting him in the back aggressively.

“Doesn’t she look nice?” He smiled and grabbed the back of his neck. “She’s definitely getting some tonight.” Between the heavy pat and his brother’s statement, Sam nearly choked.

“Assuming I see someone I find cute and interesting enough to get me to bed.” You replied with a titter. So, this was why you wanted to go out. Sam felt a twist in his gut, but tried to push it down. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been doing the exact same thing for the past few months. Dean was right, he should do his best to stay away from you, and by the looks of it, that was exactly what you wanted, too.

“Everyone ready to go?” You asked. They both nodded, and you all walked out to the car and made your way to the bar.