𝕸𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙

the ventilation system breathes through the concrete, filling the library with a low mechanical hum. somewhere deeper in the bunker, an old pipe groans, the sound vibrating through the floor before fading into the soft turn of a page and the rhythmic clicking of sam’s keyboard.

you sit across from him with an open book resting beneath your hands. ancient burial rites, according to the cracked leather cover.

you’ve been staring at the same paragraph for so long that the words have lost their meaning. black ink blurs against yellowing paper, every line sliding through your mind without leaving a trace.

another click.

the light from sam’s laptop washes his face in alternating flashes of white and pale blue. his shoulders curve slightly toward the screen, hair falling across his forehead while he reads. an untouched cup of coffee sits beside his elbow, the surface gone still and cloudy with cold.

he looks tired. he always looks tired lately.

you try not to watch him, but you fail.

sam’s mouth barely moves. just the smallest pull at one corner, softening his face into a private smile. something inside your chest twists before you can stop it.

"good news?"

sam glances up. the smile disappears so fast that you could almost convince yourself it had never been there.

"what?"

you gesture toward the laptop with the end of your pen.

"you smiled."

"oh." his gaze drops back to the screen. "yeah. i guess."

you wait for him to explain. he doesn’t.

the cursor blinks inside a white message box. sam’s fingers hover over the keys before beginning to move again.

"case lead?" you ask.

"no." the answer comes too quickly.

sam clears his throat. one hand closes around the edge of the laptop, angling the screen away from you with a movement that is probably supposed to look absentminded.

it doesn’t.

sam guards his computer like it contains the launch codes to every nuclear weapon in the country, but he has never hidden research from you before. he complains when dean touches it. threatens him when he eats over it. he once spent half an hour checking the hard drive because dean used it to search for a burger place without asking.

you have never been included in that distrust until now.

"right," you say quietly.

you return to the book, though the paragraph has become even more impossible to read. a few seconds pass before the typing stops.

"it’s just someone i’ve been talking to," sam says.

your fingers still against the page.

"someone?"

"online."

the word settles like lead beneath your ribs. you keep your expression neutral—at least, you hope you do.

"oh."

sam nods, even though you aren’t looking at him anymore.

"we met a few weeks ago."

"that’s nice." the words sound thin and strange in the enormous room.

you turn the page without reading it. the paper scrapes against your thumb, a sharp physical sting that’s easier to focus on than the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.

sam watches you. you can feel it even without looking—the weight of his gaze lingering across the table, waiting for something you don’t know how to give him.

then his laptop chimes, and his attention returns to the screen.

the clicking resumes.

you last another three minutes before closing the book. the sound echoes more loudly than it should.

"i’m going to bed."

sam looks up again.

"already?"

"it’s almost one."

"you usually stay up later."

you push your chair away from the table. its wooden legs drag against the floor with a low scrape.

"i’m tired." another lie.

sam’s eyebrows pull together, concern appearing with such frustrating ease it almost makes you angry.

he notices when you skip lunch. when you favor one side after a hunt. when the bunker feels too quiet and you need someone to sit beside you without asking questions.

but not this.

apparently, he can notice everything except the way you look at him.

"okay," he says after a moment. "goodnight."

"night."

you leave without looking back.

the hallway feels colder than the library, the concrete leaching warmth through your socks as you make your way toward your room.

behind you, muffled by distance, sam’s laptop chimes again.

—

the next morning smells like coffee, butter, and something beginning to burn.

you find dean standing in front of the stove wearing an apron emblazoned with kiss the cook in large red letters beside a lipstick mark.

you stop in the doorway.

"where did that come from?"

dean glances down at himself as though he has forgotten he’s wearing it.

"a gift."

"from who?"

"myself."

"you bought yourself an apron?"

"self-care." dean shrugs as though this is the most ordinary thing in the world.

you move toward the coffee pot.

"that isn’t what self-care means."

"maybe not to you."

"when did you even buy it?"

"none of your business."

you pour coffee into your mug. steam curls against your face, warm and bitter, and you close your eyes for half a second as you breathe it in.

dean slides a plate of scrambled eggs across the counter before you ask.

"eat."

you look down at them.

"good morning to you too."

"you look like crap."

"thank you."

"you’re welcome."

you carry the plate to the table. dean turns back to the stove, prodding a strip of bacon that has curled almost completely in on itself.

footsteps approach from the hallway. you know they belong to sam before he enters.

you hate that you know.

he appears a moment later, already dressed in jeans and a dark flannel, his laptop tucked securely beneath one arm.

your gaze catches on it.

then on his hands.

then anywhere else.

"morning," sam says.

"morning," dean answers.

you lift your coffee in silent acknowledgment.

sam’s eyes settle on you.

"sleep okay?"

"fine."

"you were up early."

you nearly choke on your coffee and look at him over the rim of your mug.

"how do you know?"

"i heard you walking around."

"you were awake?"

his fingers adjust against the laptop.

"couldn’t sleep."

dean looks between the two of you while slowly chewing a piece of bacon.

"riveting."

sam gives him a tired look.

"what?"

"nothing." dean takes another bite. "please continue discussing each other’s sleep schedules. it’s not weird at all."

you roll your eyes, and a faint flush creeps across the tops of sam’s ears.

he sets his laptop on the table.

the screen wakes before he can close it. a notification appears in the upper corner.

new message from elena.

the name burns itself into your mind before you can look away.

sam notices. his hand moves across the trackpad, closing the notification.

dean notices too. of course he does. teasing sam is an opportunity he never misses.

"elena," he says, dragging out the syllables.

sam’s jaw tightens.

"dean."

"who’s elena?"

"a friend."

"doesn’t look like just a friend."

"you saw one notification."

"one very friendly notification."

"you didn’t even read it."

dean points his fork at him. "it had a heart."

your stomach drops. sam shoots him a look.

"it was just an emoji."

"a heart-shaped emoji."

"most hearts are heart-shaped."

dean looks at you as though sam has just proven his point. you focus very hard on your eggs.

"online friend?" he asks.

sam’s expression darkens.

"why do you care?"

"i don’t." dean grins. "i’m happy for you, sammy."

"don’t."

"your new internet girlfriend."

"she isn’t my girlfriend."

"yet."

sam closes the laptop harder than necessary and stands.

"i’m going to the library."

"tell elena i said hi."

sam mutters something under his breath as he leaves, carrying the laptop against his chest. dean watches him disappear through the doorway, then he looks at you.

"don’t." you take a drink of coffee and ignore his gaze.

"i didn’t say anything."

"but you’re about to."

dean just shrugs.

you push the eggs around your plate. the smell that had seemed comforting a few minutes ago now turns your stomach.

dean leans one hip against the counter and says your name, pulling your attention from the now-unappetizing eggs.

"you okay?"

you scoff. "why wouldn’t i be?"

"your face did that thing." dean waves his fork in your general direction.

you frown. "what thing?"

"the thing it does when you’re pretending you’re not upset."

"i’m not upset."

"there it is again."

you stab a piece of egg harder than necessary.

"sam can talk to whoever he wants."

"never said he couldn’t."

"good."

after a beat, dean says, "you’re jealous."

your gaze snaps up in response, and dean’s mouth curls into a knowing smile.

"i am not jealous."

"sure," he says, dragging out the word.

"i’m not."

"you’re currently trying to murder breakfast."

you release the fork. it clatters against the plate.

"i lost my appetite."

"because of the eggs or elena?"

you glare at him. dean raises both hands, still holding his fork in one.

"just asking."

you take your coffee and stand.

"for the record," he calls as you leave, "the eggs didn’t deserve that."

—

after that, elena seems to exist everywhere. not physically. that might have been easier. instead, she lives inside every soft chime that carries through the bunker and every private smile you catch from across the room.

she is there every time sam looks down at his phone during breakfast or closes a window when you enter the library. every night he stays awake after you leave, the light beneath his bedroom door cutting a thin blue line across the hallway floor.

you know almost nothing about her, but that does not stop your mind from creating her.

she is probably beautiful. the effortless kind, with shiny hair that never tangles and a smile that looks natural in photographs. she probably has a real job she can talk about without inventing a new lie every few seconds. she probably owns clothing that has never been soaked in monster blood.

maybe she likes books. sam would like that.

maybe she listens when he talks about the things no one else understands. maybe she asks about his day and receives the kind of truth he usually keeps locked away.

you hate her a little.

then you feel guilty, because she has done nothing except speak to someone you have no right to claim.

that is the worst part.

sam isn’t yours. he has never been yours.

you have only collected fragments of him over the years, mistaking familiarity for belonging.

the way he takes his coffee dark but forgets to drink it while researching. the scars he never talks about. the crease between his eyebrows when he is worried.

the way his hand finds the small of your back whenever danger gets too close, guiding you behind him as though his body could stop every terrible thing in the world from reaching yours.

none of it belongs to you.

elena only makes that impossible to ignore.

so you begin spending more time with dean.

not intentionally. at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

dean is easy. he’s safe. there is no careful distance to measure with him, no fear that touching his hand will expose everything you have spent years hiding.

he lets you choose the movie even while complaining about it. he passes you a beer without asking. he fills the silence before it has a chance to become painful.

tonight, you are sitting beside him on the couch while an action movie plays across the television. rain drums steadily against the bunker’s exterior door, too distant to hear clearly but loud enough to soften the silence between explosions.

on-screen, a car sails over the edge of a bridge.

"that should’ve exploded," dean says.

the car hits the ravine and erupts into flames.

"it did explode."

"not fast enough."

"you’re criticizing the realism?"

"there are standards."

you laugh, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

the bunker door opens behind you.

cool air follows sam down the stairs, carrying the smell of rain and wet pavement. grocery bags hang from both hands, their sides speckled with water.

"hey," you say, looking over your shoulder.

sam stops near the bottom step. his eyes move from you to dean. more specifically, to dean’s arm stretched across the back of the couch behind you.

something flickers across his face, though it is gone before you can name it.

"hey."

dean pauses the movie. "you get pie?"

sam carries the bags toward the kitchen table.

"no."

dean looks personally offended.

"but you went to the store."

"we needed actual food."

"pie is actual food."

sam starts unpacking the bags. a box of pasta lands on the table harder than necessary.

you glance at dean. dean glances at you.

"i’ll help." you leave the couch and approach the table.

sam keeps his attention on the groceries.

"you don’t have to," he says, not looking at you.

"i know."

you reach into the nearest bag at the same time he does. your fingers brush, a brief shock of warmth against chilled skin. sam pulls his hand away almost immediately. the movement is small, but it still hurts.

you take out a jar of pasta sauce and study the label as though it contains something worth reading.

"how’s elena?"

sam’s shoulders tense. "fine."

"you two still talking?"

"yeah."

"that’s good."

"is it?"

you glance up.

sam is watching you now. rain has darkened the ends of his hair, and one drop trails slowly from his temple toward his jaw.

there is something sharp beneath his expression. something almost accusing.

"why wouldn’t it be?" you ask.

"no reason." he turns back to the groceries.

"okay."

dean clears his throat from the couch. neither of you looks at him.

sam takes a carton of eggs from the bag.

"you and dean having fun?"

"we were watching a movie."

"looked fun."

you blink. "it was."

"good."

you pause before asking, "why are you acting weird?"

sam laughs once, but there is no humor in the sound.

"i’m not."

"you are."

“i’m putting groceries away."

"yeah, angrily."

"i didn’t know there was an angry way to put away eggs."

"you’re about to crack them."

sam looks down. his fingers are pressing dents into the cardboard.

his grip loosens.

"i’m just tired."

"right." you step away from the table.

sam exhales through his nose. "i didn’t mean—"

the laptop chimes from inside the bag hanging across his shoulder.

both of you freeze.

another message.

your eyes move toward the sound before you can stop them. sam notices. again.

"you should get that," you say.

"it can wait."

"she might need something."

"she doesn’t."

"how do you know?"

"because i know her."

the answer cuts more deeply than it should.

you fold your arms across your chest. "then why are you always hiding her?"

sam’s eyebrows knit together. "what?"

"the screen. the messages. every time i walk into a room, you close something or turn the computer away."

"that isn’t—"

"then why are you always talking to her?"

the question leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

the room goes silent. even dean doesn’t say anything.

sam stares at you. heat spreads across your face as the meaning of your own words settles between you.

"forget it." you turn.

sam catches your wrist. not tightly, just enough to stop you. his palm is warm against your skin. his thumb rests over your pulse, and you wonder whether he can feel how violently it jumps beneath his touch.

"why do you care?" he asks.

you look down at his hand. "i don’t."

sam’s expression hardens. "you’re a terrible liar."

the lie catches in your throat.

"so are you."

his fingers loosen, and you pull away before he can feel your hand begin to tremble.

"enjoy your conversation."

you leave the room without waiting for an answer.

—

dean finds you in the laundry room an hour later, folding one of sam’s shirts.

you do not realize it belongs to him until you recognize the faded grey fabric and the tiny tear near the hem. you have seen him wear it beneath flannel shirts a hundred times. once, after a hunt outside cheyenne, you fell asleep against his shoulder while he was wearing it.

you remember waking with your cheek pressed to soft cotton and sam’s jacket tucked across your lap. the memory makes your hands tighten.

"he thinks you’re dating me," dean says from the doorway.

you nearly drop the shirt.

"what?"

"sam."

"sam thinks—" you turn toward him. "why would he think that?"

dean gestures vaguely at you and himself.

"because we hang out."

"we all hang out."

"you wear my jackets."

"because you leave them everywhere."

"you steal my food."

"you steal mine."

"you sit beside me during movies."

"because sam’s always on his laptop talking to elena."

dean points at you. "and there it is."

you fold the shirt again even though it is already folded.

"there what is?"

"jealousy."

you scoff. "i’m not jealous."

"you’re folding that shirt like it owes you money."

you look down. deep creases run through the fabric beneath your fingers.

you smooth them out.

"he likes her."

"he’s never met her."

"that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like her."

"he likes you."

a quiet laugh escapes you. dean doesn’t join in, and your smile fades.

"no, he doesn’t."

"yes, he does."

"he barely talks to me anymore."

"because he thinks you want me."

"that’s ridiculous."

"yeah, well." dean crosses his arms. "welcome to my life."

you look down at sam’s shirt again.

"he made a dating profile."

"because he thought you weren’t interested."

your fingers stop moving.

"he told you that?"

"not exactly."

"then you don’t know."

dean sighs. "you two are exhausting."

he pushes away from the doorway.

"where are you going?"

"out."

"it’s almost midnight."

"pie waits for no man."

you stare at him.

"you bought pie yesterday."

"then i’m buying more. sam didn’t buy me any."

"dean—"

he turns back, the humor slipping from his face. "talk to him."

"there’s nothing to talk about."

"then go tell him that."

you clutch sam’s shirt against your stomach.

"what if you’re wrong?"

dean studies you for a moment. when he answers, his voice is quieter.

"then i’m wrong." the honesty hurts more than any reassurance would have. he glances toward the shirt in your hands. "but i know my brother."

"so do i."

"apparently not as well as you think."

he leaves before you can answer. a minute later, the bunker door closes.

you remain in the laundry room with sam’s shirt pressed against you and the unsteady hope dean left behind pressing painfully against your ribs.

—

sam is in the library when you find him. of course he is.

his laptop sits open in front of him, but the screen has gone dark. his hands are folded beneath his chin, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the table. he looks up when your footsteps reach the edge of the room.

"hey."

"hey." you stop on the opposite side of the table.

the distance between you is only a few feet, but it feels enormous.

"you can sit." sam gestures toward the chair across from him.

"i know."

his hand falls back to the table.

you hate this—the careful voices, the space neither of you knows how to cross, the feeling that every conversation has become something you have to survive. it is becoming too much.

"dean left," you say.

"i heard."

"he said he was getting pie."

sam huffs a quiet laugh. "sounds right."

the sound aches somewhere inside you. you sit. sam watches your hands as you fold them in your lap.

"can i ask you something?"

his expression becomes guarded. "sure."

you glance at the laptop. "is she your girlfriend?"

sam follows your gaze. "elena?"

you nod.

"no."

a breath leaves you before you can hide it. sam notices.

"do you want her to be?" you ask.

his eyes return to yours.

"why are you asking?"

"because i want to know."

"you didn’t seem interested before."

"i was trying not to be."

the words settle between you. sam’s expression softens, but only slightly.

"why?"

you laugh under your breath. "you really need me to explain that?"

"yeah," he says quietly. "i think i do."

you look down at your hands.

"because you smile when she messages you."

sam doesn’t speak.

"because you hide the screen whenever i walk past. because you stay up talking to her, and i don’t even know who she is, but she knows you."

"she doesn’t."

you look up, and sam’s gaze remains anchored on yours.

"not really," he continues. "she doesn’t know anything real."

"you’ve been talking for weeks."

"that doesn’t mean she knows me."

"then why talk to her?"

sam leans back. the chair creaks beneath his weight. his eyes close for a moment.

"because it was easier."

"easier than what?"

he opens them. "this."

your breath catches. "this?"

"wanting someone who doesn’t want me."

the bunker seems to go perfectly still. the ventilation system fades. the distant pipes. the faint electrical hum of the lamp. all you hear is your own heartbeat.

"sam—"

"i thought you and dean…" he shakes his head. "it doesn’t matter."

"yes, it does."

"you’re always together."

"because you’re always avoiding me."

"i wasn’t avoiding you."

"you pull your laptop away every time i get near you."

"because i didn’t want you to see it."

"exactly."

"because i was embarrassed."

you stare at him. sam looks down at the table.

"dean sent me the site as a joke," he says. "months ago. i ignored it at first."

"but you changed your mind."

his mouth twists. "i kept watching you with him."

"dean?"

"yeah."

"sam, dean is like my brother."

his gaze lifts. "he told me."

"then why didn’t you say anything?"

"what was i supposed to say?"

"anything."

"you could’ve said something too."

"you had a girlfriend."

"she isn’t my girlfriend."

"i didn’t know that."

"you could’ve asked."

"i did."

sam falls silent, and you look away before your expression can break.

"you never gave me a real answer," you say, tracing a scratch in the tabletop to avoid his gaze.

"because i thought you didn’t care."

"i care too much."

the confession comes out softer than you intend.

sam’s expression changes. the frustration drains from his face, leaving something open and vulnerable behind.

"what?"

your throat tightens again.

you have imagined telling him before.

after hunts, when adrenaline strips away good judgment and makes honesty feel possible. late at night, when you lie awake and hear him moving in the room beside yours. in the impala, watching his reflection in the window while dean drives and music fills every place words might go.

it always sounds easier in your head.

"i care," you repeat. "about you. about who you talk to. about why you smile at your laptop more than you smile at me lately."

"i don’t."

"you do."

"not because of her."

"then why?"

sam’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. "because i’m usually talking about you."

you blink. "what?"

he reaches for the laptop. the screen wakes, bathing the table in pale light. a conversation fills the page. sam hesitates before turning it toward you.

you know you should not read it. you do anyway.

most of the messages are ordinary. books, work, complaints about insomnia, and sam’s careful, incomplete answers about his life.

then you see yourself. not your name, but pieces of you.

‘my roommate steals my sweaters and pretends she doesn’t.’

‘she makes coffee strong enough to remove paint.’

‘she falls asleep during research, but she always wakes up when i try to put a blanket over her.’

‘she’s probably watching a movie with my brother tonight.’

beneath the last message, elena’s response waits.

‘you talk about her a lot.’

then another.

‘have you ever considered that you joined this site because asking out the woman you actually like scares you?’

your eyes move toward sam.

"you told her about me?"

"not who you are," he says quickly.

"but you talked about me."

"apparently a lot."

despite everything, a small laugh catches in your throat.

sam smiles. it is the same smile you saw that first night, soft and private.

never meant for elena at all.

your chest tightens again, but the pain has changed. it is warmer now. almost hopeful.

"what happens now?" you ask.

sam looks at the screen, then at you.

"i already told her."

"told her what?"

he scrolls to the final messages.

‘i think you’re right.’

‘i’m sorry. there’s someone i should’ve been honest with.’

elena’s answer sits beneath it.

‘then go be honest.’

you read it twice.

"she seems nice," you admit.

"she is."

a small, ugly thread of jealousy pulls tight inside you.

sam notices that too.

"but she isn’t you."

the thread snaps.

"i wasn’t looking for her."

your breathing turns uneven.

"who were you looking for?"

you know the answer, but you still need to hear him say it.

sam stands. the table remains between you. his expression softens into something that looks almost afraid.

"you."

you stare at him.

"you already had me."

"did i?"

you push your chair back. the sound scrapes through the library as you stand and walk around the table.

sam turns toward you. the distance disappears slowly. one step, then another.

"you could’ve," you whisper.

sam’s hand lifts, but he stops before touching you. his fingers hover beside your face, close enough that you feel their warmth against your skin.

"can i?"

you nod.

his palm settles against your cheek, warm and calloused. his thumb rests beneath your eye as though you are something vital and fragile, and you realize then that sam is trembling too.

you lean into his touch. a breath leaves him. his forehead lowers against yours.

for a moment, neither of you moves.

you breathe him in—coffee, rain, laundry detergent, the faintest trace of the cheap soap he keeps in his bathroom.

familiar things.

sam.

"i’ve been jealous of dean for weeks," he admits.

you smile despite yourself.

"i’ve been jealous of a laptop."

a quiet laugh leaves him, warm against your lips. "you win."

"i hated her a little."

"you don’t even know her."

"exactly."

his thumb brushes slowly across your cheek.

"for what it’s worth, she figured it out before either of us did."

"figured what out?"

sam’s gaze meets yours, and all the humor fades.

"that i’m in love with you."

your heart stops.

sam seems to realize what he said at the same moment you do. something uncertain flickers across his face, and his hand begins to slip from your cheek.

"i didn’t mean to say it like—"

you catch the front of his shirt and kiss him.

the rest of the sentence disappears between you.

sam freezes only for a heartbeat. then his hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you closer.

the kiss is softer than you imagined. you’ve spent too many nights imagining it.

sometimes desperate, after a hunt that nearly kills one of you. sometimes hesitant, shared in the dark when neither of you has enough courage to turn on a light.

you never imagined this. sam kissing you like there is nowhere else he needs to be. like he has spent years holding something back and is still afraid that wanting it too much might break it.

his mouth moves slowly against yours. his other hand settles at your waist, fingers curling gently into your shirt.

when you pull away, you stay close enough that your noses brush. sam’s eyes remain closed.

"say it again," you whisper.

his eyes open. "what?"

"the part about loving me."

his expression softens.

"i love you."

the words are quiet, steady. your fingers tighten in his shirt.

"good."

the corner of his mouth lifts. "good?"

"because i love you too."

sam smiles—a real one this time. wide and unguarded, bright enough to transform his entire face. you barely get a chance to see it before he kisses you again.

the bunker door opens.

"all right, i got—"

dean stops halfway down the stairs. you and sam pull apart just enough to look toward him.

dean stands near the bottom step with a pie box balanced in one hand. his eyes move from sam’s hand around your waist to your fingers still tangled in the front of sam’s shirt.

his expression settles into deep, exhausted vindication.

"finally," dean groans.

sam lets out a slow breath. "dean."

"no. don’t dean me. do you know what i’ve been through?"

you raise an eyebrow.

"you went to buy pie. how awful," you say dryly.

"exactly." he continues toward the kitchen. "this better mean i never have to hear about elena again."

sam looks at you. you glance toward the closed laptop.

"you won’t," he says.

"good." dean stops in the doorway. "also, for the record, i expect credit."

"for what?" you ask.

"all of this." dean gestures between you and sam.

sam shakes his head.

"you caused most of it."

"details, schmetails," dean says, waving you both off before he disappears into the kitchen, muttering something about emotional incompetence and wasted gas.

you turn back to sam. his laptop remains on the table behind him, closed.

for once, he doesn’t glance toward it. his attention stays on you.

"so," you whisper. "what now?"

sam’s hand finds yours. his fingers slip between them naturally, filling the empty spaces as though they have done this a thousand times before.

"now," he says, drawing you closer, "i stop being an idiot."

dean’s voice carries from the kitchen.

"let’s not make promises we can’t keep."

sam closes his eyes. you laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. beneath your cheek, his heart beats quickly.

"ignore him," sam murmurs.

you lift your head.

"gladly."

rows of colorful glass jars line every wall. lollipops, chocolates, taffy, licorice—just about every kind of candy imaginable fills the shelves from floor to ceiling. old music plays quietly through unseen speakers.

"well," dean says, looking around. "this definitely beats the abandoned warehouse i was expecting."

sam smiles to himself as he shuts the door behind you. "it's a candy store, dean."

"exactly."

you laugh quietly.

the hunt had started two days ago after six people across three counties had mysteriously died. each victim had suffered the same symptoms—hallucinations, coughing blood, and strange pink flowers blooming beneath their skin shortly before they died.

every single one had visited the same candy shop, sweet surrender.

dean flashes a fake badge as an older woman emerges from a doorway behind the register. "fbi."

"agents. how can i help you?" the woman smiles politely.

while dean begins asking about the recent customers, sam nods toward the aisles.

"let's look around."

you follow him deeper into the store, your boots clicking softly against the polished wood floor. your fingertips brush along old shelves out of habit. sometimes touching objects brought nothing.

sometimes they brought everything.

today… nothing. which somehow feels worse.

"anything?" sam asks quietly.

you shake your head. "too many people have handled everything."

he nods in understanding.

you've hunted together long enough that he knows how your abilities work. older objects usually carry stronger impressions, but somewhere like this... dozens of hands touched everything every day.

a teenage boy behind the register barely glances up from a comic book. "free samples are over there," he says lazily, pointing toward a crystal bowl. wrapped pieces of bright pink bubble gum fill it almost to the top.

sam immediately shakes his head. "i'm good."

you shrug. "free's free." you grab one and slip it into your jacket pocket. 

"hungry?" sam notices.

"a little."

he reaches into his own pocket. "i've got a granola bar."

you wrinkle your nose. who knows how long that's been in there. "i said hungry, not desperate."

sam laughs under his breath. "fair."

his laugh is quiet. it always is, but every time you hear it, you have to remind yourself to keep walking instead of looking at him.

you'd been hunting together for over a year. somewhere along the way, feelings had stopped being hypothetical. they'd become something you carried around every day. this was something you refused to tell him because sam deserved normal, and nothing about you had ever been normal.

you stop in front of an antique music box displayed on a shelf behind glass. it looks decades older than everything else in the store. your stomach tightens.

"sam." he immediately walks over.

"what?"

"that." he notices your expression before looking at the music box.

"want me to open it?"

you hesitate. "...yeah."

he unlocks the small display case with a key hanging beside it and carefully lifts the music box into your waiting hands.

the vision hits instantly. 

a little girl crying. sticky fingers. pink wrappers scattered across a hardwood floor. someone laughing. 

petals. pink flowers pushing beneath ghostly pale skin.

you suck in a sharp breath and the music box slips. sam catches it before it reaches the floor, and his other hand steadies your elbow.

"hey." his voice sounds distant. "what'd you see?"

you blink several times before the shop comes back into focus. your breathing steadies.

"...flowers."

"like the victims?"

you nod. "and..." you hesitate. there had been something else.

someone else's hand, warm fingers intertwined with yours. 

a flannel sleeve, hazel eyes. sam.

your cheeks warm. "...that's all." you lie.

sam studies your face for another second. he knows, but he doesn't push. he never does. 

instead, he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"come on."

still trying to shake the lingering feeling of the vision, you absentmindedly reach into your pocket. you unwrap the piece of bubble gum and pop it into your mouth, barely registering the sweet strawberry flavor as you chew.

your mind is still stuck on the image of sam. his hand.

the impossible feeling of his lips against yours.

it hadn't happened. it was only a vision.

wasn't it?

"guys!" dean's voice suddenly echoes through the aisle.

you jump, your teeth clamp down instinctively, and you inhale sharply.

the bubble gum slips to the back of your throat. your eyes widen.

before you can stop it, you swallow. you cough immediately, bringing a hand to your chest.

sam is beside you in an instant, rubbing your back.

"hey, easy."

you manage a few more coughs before catching your breath.

"...i swallowed it."

dean stops dead. "please tell me you're kidding."

you look between the brothers, still trying to clear your throat.

"it was an accident."

"of course it was." dean lets out a slow breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

you frown. "...what's going on?"

"that woman?" dean says. "i barely got two questions in before she realized we were hunters. she smiled at me, offered me something sweet, then threw a handful of fun dip in my face."

sam's eyebrows knit together.

"fun dip?"

dean reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled blue packet.

"left this behind."

sam looks between the packet and you.

"...she attacked you with candy?"

"yeah," dean says flatly. "welcome to the weirdest hunt we've had all month."

despite the knot forming in your stomach, a small laugh escapes you.

"that's... kind of funny."

"it would've been if you hadn't just swallowed the witch's bubble gum."

the smile falls from your face. 

"...right."

before anyone can say another word, the bell above the front door rings. all three of you turn.

the owner stands just inside the entrance, one hand resting on the brass doorknob. she smiles as pleasantly as she had when you first walked in, like dean hadn't just accused her of murder minutes earlier.

“such serious faces," she says. “you're frightening away my customers."

dean takes a step forward.

“you're not going anywhere."

“am i not?" she tilts her head. there's something unsettling about the movement. almost birdlike.

sam subtly moves in front of you. it isn't enough to completely block your view of her, but enough that his shoulder brushes yours. his hand hangs loosely by his side, close enough that he could reach for you if something happened.

you aren't sure if he realizes he's doing it.

the woman glances between the three of you before her eyes settle on yours. they immediately drift downward to your throat. her smile grows.

“…oh." her tone makes your stomach drop. “you already ate it."

sam stiffens. dean's hand slowly moves toward the knife hidden beneath his jacket.

“what did you do to her?"

the woman only laughs.

“i didn't do anything." her eyes never leave yours. “she did."

without breaking eye contact, she reaches beneath the counter and pulls out another packet of fun dip.

dean notices first.

“sam."

sam follows his gaze.

“don't—"

she tears the packet open. instead of dumping the sugar into the air, she blows across her palm.

the colorful powder scatters toward you like glitter caught in a breeze.

sam grabs your wrist. 

“move."

he pulls you sideways just as dean ducks behind a display of chocolate bars. the sugar passes through the space you'd occupied only a second earlier. where it lands, bright pink flowers erupt through the hardwood floor. tiny blossoms spread across the planks before withering into grey dust.

“…holy shit."

“language," dean mutters automatically before pulling his knife free.

“seriously?"

“habit."

the enchantress sighs. “hunters." she shakes her head as though disappointed. “always making a mess."

dean lunges first. she smiles.

he's only halfway across the room when she grabs a handful of colorful jawbreakers from a nearby display and throws them across the floor. they bounce like marbles, and dean's boots slide out from under him.

“whoa—" he crashes shoulder-first into a shelf. glass jars rattle violently before several tumble onto the floor, exploding into showers of hard candy.

“dean!"

sam rushes toward him. the enchantress only chuckles.

“so clumsy."

sam helps dean back to his feet.

“you okay?"

“my dignity isn't." he rubs his shoulder. “she threw jawbreakers at me."

a laugh slips out of you like a reflex. you can't help it.

dean points at you.

“don't encourage her."

the enchantress laughs too. the sound echoes strangely through the tiny shop.

“you'll be laughing for another few hours." her gaze settles on you again. “then…" her smile softens in an eerily motherly manner. “…you'll start crying."

your chest tightens.

“what does that mean?"

she ignores the question. instead, she studies you like she's admiring a finished painting.

“you've been keeping such a lovely secret."

sam looks at you. “what secret?"

before you can answer, she reaches for another packet. 

dean swears. “she's got an endless supply."

“i do own a candy store."

she tears open a bright green package this time. a pixy stix. the colored powder explodes into the air.

sam reacts instantly.

“down!"

his hand finds the small of your back, hurriedly guiding you behind a display of caramel apples as dean dives in the opposite direction. the powder bursts against the wall.

for a heartbeat, nothing happens. 

then the wallpaper begins dissolving. the pink floral pattern melts away like paper dropped into acid, exposing blackened wood beneath.

“that's… new," dean says from somewhere behind the shelves.

“she's using different candies for different spells," sam says.

you peek over the display.

the enchantress is gone. again.

the bell above the door swings gently. its soft chime echoes through the now silent shop.

dean slowly stands.

“i officially hate candy."

sam exhales before looking over at you.

“are you okay?"

you nod automatically.

“…yeah." it isn't entirely a lie. physically, you feel fine. 

however, there's something different. your tongue still tastes like strawberries. sweeter than before, almost sickeningly so.

you swallow, but the taste doesn't go away.

your gaze drifts toward the nearest mirror hanging beside a shelf of chocolate. for just a second, you swear pink veins crawl beneath the skin of your neck.

you blink and they're gone.

sam says your name, his voice pulling you back. he's looking at you with the same concern he'd worn since you'd swallowed the gum. you force a smile.

“i'm okay." another lie.

somewhere, though you can't tell where, a woman laughs.

dean stuffs the knife back into his jacket.

"let's get out of here before she decides to weaponize gummy bears."

sam huffs a quiet laugh. "don't give her ideas."

dean looks around the destroyed shop one last time.

"i'm serious. we've got what we came for."

"which is?" you ask.

he gestures broadly.

"confirmation."

you raise an eyebrow.

"confirmation that she's insane?"

"confirmation that she's the witch."

sam carefully steps over the broken glass, stopping beside the display case you'd touched earlier. he studies the antique music box for another moment before closing the glass door.

"she wanted us to know she'd cursed you."

"yeah," dean says. "which means she's confident."

"or she's trying to scare us."

"it worked." dean shrugs.

you quietly trail behind them toward the exit. your fingertips brush against the edge of a shelf as you pass.

another vision flashes.

the enchantress laughing. a pink lollipop spins between her fingers.

"...secrets are the sweetest."

your breath catches and the vision disappears as quickly as it came.

sam says your name he has already noticed you'd stopped walking. he always notices.

"i'm okay."

dean gives you a look over his shoulder. 

"that's the third time you've said that."

"because i am."

sam doesn't look convinced.

"what did you see?"

you hesitate, "...her."

both brothers stop.

"what about her?" dean asks.

"she..." you frown, trying to remember every detail. visions always slipped away the harder you tried to hold onto them. "she was holding a lollipop."

dean waits, "...that's it?"

"no." you close your eyes. "she said..." the words come back clearly. "'secrets are the sweetest.'"

the three of you fall silent. dean is the first to speak.

"well, that's cryptic."

sam's expression is more thoughtful.

sam looks at dean. "the victims. they were all hiding something."

dean nods slowly. "the husband was having an affair."

"the college student stole money," sam continues. "the waitress was planning on leaving town without telling her family." sam's gaze drifts to you. "all secrets."

a knot forms in your stomach. "you think that's why she cursed them?"

"maybe."

dean opens the impala's trunk and tosses a duffel bag inside.

"or maybe it's how she chooses them," dean adds.

sam leans against the open trunk.

"either way, every victim was keeping something to themselves." his eyes find yours again. "if she's telling the truth..." he looks away from you. "you've been keeping a secret."

your heartbeat stutters for a second. you force yourself to keep your expression neutral.

"haven't we all?"

dean snorts. "i mean, i've got, like, seventeen fake credit cards."

"i don't think that's what she meant." sam pushes off the trunk.

"worth a shot." dean shrugs and enters the impala.

sam watches you for another moment before climbing into the passenger seat. he doesn't ask again.

you almost wish he would.

—

the motel room is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner. dean flips through their dad's journal while sam opens his laptop across the table.

you sit cross-legged on one of the beds with your own journal resting in your lap.

you flip page after page. hex bags, love spells, curses, but nothing about enchanted candy.

"found something," sam says. you and dean immediately look over. he turns the laptop so both of you can see.

an old newspaper article from the nineteen-eighties describes three children from the same town entered the same candy shop. all three were dead within a week.

your stomach sinks.

"i thought the first victims were two years ago."

"so did i." sam scrolls farther. "looks like the deaths were ruled accidental."

"how do three kids accidentally die at the same candy store?" dean asks.

sam shakes his head. "they didn't." he points to one sentence buried near the bottom. "'each child complained of a persistent sweet taste before developing an unexplained illness.'"

your mouth goes dry. without thinking, your tongue brushes against your teeth. the sickly sweet taste of strawberries is still there.

sam notices the change in your expression. "you still taste it." it isn't a question.

you nod once.

dean quietly closes the journal. "then we've got less time than i hoped."

silence settles heavily over the room. for the first time since leaving the candy shop no one has a joke.

dean is the first to break it. "i'm getting coffee."

sam glances up from the laptop. "it's almost ten."

"your point?"

"you're not gonna sleep tonight, are you?"

dean grabs the impala keys from the table. his eyes flicker to yours for a second.

"not a chance."

he points between the two of you.

"don't do anything stupid while i'm gone."

"that usually applies to you," sam says.

"exactly."

dean flashes a grin before heading out the door.

the motel door clicks shut behind him, and the room falls quiet again. sam turns back to the laptop, clicking through another article.

you stare blankly at the page in your journal. the words blur together.

"anything?" you ask.

sam sighs. "nothing useful." he closes another tab. "same symptoms. same timeline."

you nod.

"how long?"

he knows what you're asking, and he hesitates.

"the longest any of them lived was seven days."

you look down at your hands. "today's day one."

"yeah."

another silence. 

sam rubs a hand over his face before standing from the chair.

"you hungry?"

you almost laugh. 

"after everything that's happened today?"

"you still have to eat." he gives a small shrug.

"i don't think i could."

he walks over to the small kitchenette anyway, opening one of the cabinets.

"there's crackers."

"those have probably been here longer than dean's fake credit cards."

sam smiles. "probably." he pulls the sleeve out anyway, checking the expiration date. "they expired six months ago."

"see?"

he quietly tosses them into the trash. you watch him move around the room. opening cabinets, checking drawers, finding absolutely nothing.

"guess dean was right."

"about what?"

"we should've stopped for food."

another smile tugs at your lips.

"he'll never let us live that down."

sam leans against the counter.

"probably not."

you study him for a moment. his hair is still slightly messy from the fight in the candy store. there's a streak of colored sugar across the shoulder of his flannel.

without thinking, you stand.

"hold still."

"what?" he looks confused. you step closer.

"you've got..." you gesture vaguely toward his shoulder. "fun dip."

"oh."

he twists awkwardly, trying to look.

"where?"

"here." you reach up and brush the colorful sugar from the fabric. your fingers linger for only a second.

still, you freeze.

the vision comes without warning. sam sitting on the edge of a motel bed, his face buried in his hands. your journal lying open beside him. a pressed pink flower falls from between the pages.

"i should've told her." his voice breaks.

the image disappears, and you stumble back.

sam catches your elbow before you lose your balance.

"hey." his voice sounds distant. "what'd you see?"

you blink several times before the motel room comes back into focus.

"...nothing."

he doesn't let go of your arm, squeezing gently before saying your name

"it was just a flash."

"about what?"

you hesitate.

if visions were difficult to explain before, how were you supposed to explain one where sam was grieving you? if it meant anything at all.

"i couldn't make it out." another lie.

sam studies your face. he always knows, but after a long moment, he nods.

"okay."

he lets go of your arm.

you immediately miss the warmth of his hand.

before either of you can say anything else, the motel door opens.

dean walks in carrying a cardboard drink tray and a brown paper bag.

"good news." he sets everything on the table. "i found coffee."

he lifts the paper bag and grins. "better news. i found pie."

dean sets a coffee in front of sam before sliding the brown paper bag across the table toward you.

"eat."

you look up from your journal. "...what?"

"pie."

"i can see that."

"then eat it."

you glance over at sam, silently asking for help. he only gives you a small shrug.

"he's not gonna stop until you do," sam says.

"damn right," dean adds, taking a sip of his coffee. "you haven't eaten since breakfast."

you sigh dramatically before opening the bag. the smell of warm apple pie fills the motel room.

"you drove across town for pie?"

"there was a diner next to the coffee shop," dean says with another shrug. "figured you should eat something."

you pull off a small piece of the crust.

"thanks."

"don't make it weird."

despite yourself, you smile. dean settles into the chair across from sam, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"alright," he says. "what'd i miss?"

sam closes the laptop partway.

"she had another vision."

dean immediately looks at you.

"what'd you see?"

you stare down at the pie in your hands.

"the enchantress."

"again?"

you nod. "she was holding a lollipop." dean waits for you to continue. "...and she said, 'secrets are the sweetest.'"

he leans back in the chair, thinking for a moment.

"that's twice now she's brought up secrets."

"the victims were all hiding something," sam says, opening the laptop again. "the adulterous husband, the thieving college student, the waitress pulling an irish goodbye—everybody."

"yeah, but everybody's hiding something," dean says. he gestures toward sam. "stanford." sam rolls his eyes. dean gestures toward himself. "i've got fake credit cards in, like, seventeen different names." his hand moves toward you before stopping. "...you get my point."

you quietly nod. sam's fingers pause over the keyboard.

"either the secret is how she chooses her victims..."

"...or it's part of the curse," you finish.

"exactly." dean flips open their dad's journal again. "witches love symbolism."

"if that's true," sam says, scanning another article, "then figuring out what the secret does might tell us how to break the curse."

you finally take a bite of the pie.

the crust flakes apart perfectly. the filling is warm, and weirdly sweet.

you stop chewing. 

dean notices first.

"what?"

you swallow.

"it tastes like strawberries."

sam looks up from the laptop.

"the pie?"

you nod once. "that's all i can taste."

without saying anything, dean reaches over and tears off a piece of the crust. he chews thoughtfully before swallowing.

"apple."

sam reaches for your fork.

"you mind?"

you shake your head and slide the plate toward him. he takes a bite before setting the fork back down.

"that's definitely apple." his eyes meet yours. "you can't taste anything else?"

you shake your head.

sam slowly pushes the plate back toward you.

"that's not good," dean says, leaning back in his chair.

sam is already typing again, clicking through article after article as the taste of artificial strawberries refuses to leave your mouth.

sam clicks through another newspaper archive while dean flips absentmindedly through his dad's journal. the room is quiet except for the tapping of computer keys.

you try another bite of the pie. still strawberries. you set the fork down and huff.

sam notices.

"still?"

"...yeah."

he nods once before returning to the laptop.

"found another one."

dean looks up. "another victim?"

"sort of." sam scrolls farther down the page. "same shop. different decade."

he turns the laptop toward both of you. a faded newspaper clipping fills the screen.

local woman dies after weeklong illness.

dean leans closer. "cause of death?"

"'unknown,'" sam reads. "'family reported sudden changes in mood and behavior in the days leading up to her death.'"

you look at the grainy black-and-white photograph beneath the headline.

the woman couldn't be older than thirty, and something about her smile feels familiar.

sam scrolls farther. "'according to her husband, she repeatedly complained that every meal tasted like cherry candy.'"

dean points toward you. "okay. i officially don't like that."

sam keeps reading. "'neighbors reported hearing prolonged laughter followed by inconsolable crying in the hours before her death.'"

the motel room falls silent and dean slowly closes his journal.

"that's exactly what the witch said."

you nod absentmindedly, still looking at the picture.

"can you zoom in?"

sam does without asking why.

the photograph grows larger. you stare at the woman's face, then her neck.

"...sam."

he looks over. "what?"

you point at the screen.

"there."

both brothers lean closer.

at first, you think it's just damage from the old newspaper.

then sam's expression changes.

beneath the woman's jaw, thin veins snake beneath her skin.

not blue or pronounced like normal veins, but bright pepto-bismol pink.

dean exhales quietly.

"those weren't on the other victims."

"their bodies were examined after they died," sam says. "this picture was taken while she was still alive."

your fingers tighten around the edge of the motel blanket.

"...they're getting worse."

sam looks at you.

"what?"

you don't answer. instead, you stand and walk over to the bathroom.

the light flickers as you switch it on. you stare at your reflection.

for a moment, nothing.

then, just beneath your jaw, a faint pink vein.

you blink and it disappears. 

your hand instinctively rises to your neck. the motel bathroom suddenly feels much too small.

"you alright?" dean calls from the other room.

you keep staring at the mirror.

"...yeah."

the lie comes easier this time.

when you return, sam is already watching you. he doesn't ask. he just quietly slides a cup of coffee across the table toward you.

"careful," he says. "it's hot."

you wrap both hands around the paper cup. the warmth settles into your palms.

for the first time since leaving the candy shop, the taste of strawberries fades if only for a second.

you take another sip of the coffee. the bitterness cuts through the sweetness for only a moment before strawberries settle over your tongue again.

"did it help?" sam asks.

"a little."

"for how long?"

you think about it. "a second."

sam quietly hums before typing something into the search bar.

dean glances between the two of you. "what?"

"heat," sam says.

"what about it?"

"the coffee." he points toward the cup in your hands. "it's the first thing that's changed the taste."

dean leans forward.

"you thinking magic?"

"i'm thinking patterns."

another article loads, and sam scrolls silently for nearly a minute.

then he stops.

"dean."

"what?"

"get this." he clears his throat before reading aloud. "'family members reported the victim became increasingly withdrawn, refusing to discuss a recurring dream she experienced each night.'"

dean frowns. "dream?"

sam nods. "'the victim insisted she couldn't remember the details upon waking but claimed it always involved flowers.'"

your grip tightens around the coffee cup.

flowers.

"what?" sam notices.

"nothing."

he gives you a look.

you sigh. "...i dreamed about flowers last night."

both brothers stare at you.

dean is the first to speak. "last night?"

you nod. "before we even found the shop."

sam slowly closes the laptop.

"...why didn't you say anything?"

you shrug.

"i didn't remember it until now."

that much is true.

the dream had vanished the second you woke up. all you'd remembered was the lingering feeling that someone had been calling your name.

sam looks away, thinking.

dean breaks the silence. "well, that's definitely not creepy."

"dean."

"what? i'm coping."

sam shakes his head before reopening the article.

"the dreams started before the physical symptoms."

"...which means the curse might've begun before she swallowed the gum," dean says.

you blink.

"that's impossible."

sam doesn't answer immediately. instead, he rereads the article.

"...unless swallowing it wasn't the beginning."

you look between them. "what do you mean?"

sam keeps his eyes on the article. "every victim reported the dreams before they ever ate the candy."

dean frowns. "or before they admitted eating it."

sam shakes his head. "the little girl." he scrolls back to the article from the eighties. "her parents packed her lunch every day. according to this, she started having nightmares almost a week before she ever went into the candy shop."

dean leans over his shoulder. "...so the candy isn't the curse."

"no." sam rubs the back of his neck. "i think it's just how she finishes it."

the room falls quiet. you glance down at the coffee in your hands.

the strawberries are back.

"...then why me?"

sam looks up. "what?"

"why would she pick me?"

dean answers before sam can.

"wrong place. wrong time."

you nod, but something about that answer doesn't sit right. the enchantress hadn't looked surprised when she'd seen you.

she'd smiled. she didn't say you swallowed it. she said you already ate it.

as though she'd been expecting you.

your fingers tighten around the paper cup.

another flash. pink. your own hands sticky with melted candy. a little girl's laugh.

"...don't tell."

the vision disappears as quickly as it came, and the coffee cup slips in your grip.

sam catches it before it spills.

"hey." his hand brushes yours as he steadies the cup. "you alright?"

you blink a few times.

"...yeah."

he doesn't move his hand right away.

"another vision?"

you nod. "just a flash."

"of what?"

you hesitate. "a kid."

sam waits.

"...that's all i got."

he studies your face for a second before nodding.

"okay."

dean tosses the journal on the table with a quiet thud.

"then tomorrow morning we go back."

sam looks at him. "to the shop?"

"no." dean points at the newspaper clipping still open on the laptop. "to the first victim's house." he leans back further in his chair. "if this thing starts before the candy..." his eyes drift to you. "...then we're looking in the wrong place."

—

the drive the next morning is quieter than usual.

dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel while classic rock hums softly through the speakers. sam sits beside him with the printed newspaper article folded across his lap, reading over the same paragraph for what has to be the tenth time.

you stare out the window.

every passing billboard advertises candy.

or maybe it doesn't.

you blink.

the billboard becomes an ad for a mattress store.

"you okay?"

you look over at sam. he's already folded the newspaper shut.

"yeah."

he doesn't look convinced.

"you've been silently staring out the window for twenty minutes."

"have i?"

dean glances at you in the rearview mirror.

"this is getting creepy. you haven't commented on my driving once."

"thanks."

"you're welcome."

the impala slows as dean turns into an older neighborhood.

small houses line both sides of the street, each with neatly trimmed hedges and fading paint.

dean parks along the curb.

"this is it."

sam unfolds the newspaper again. "miss madeline parker."

"the first recorded victim," dean says.

"that we know of," you add.

he nods. "that we know of."

the three of you climb out of the impala. the house looks lived in despite its age. wind chimes sway gently on the front porch. flower boxes sit beneath every window.

pink flowers.

your steps falter and sam notices immediately.

"what?" you point toward the porch. he follows your gaze. "they're just flowers."

"i know."

but they aren't, not really. they're the same ones from your visions.

the same ones blooming beneath skin. the same ones scattered across the floor of the candy shop.

you don't know how you know, you just do.

dean walks up the porch steps and knocks twice.

a few seconds later, the door opens. an elderly woman peers out through the screen door.

she studies each of you carefully before her eyes settle on sam's badge.

"fbi?"

dean offers an easy smile.

"ma'am. we're hoping to ask you a few questions about your sister."

the woman's expression changes into something wistful. "...madeline."

sam nods.

"yes."

she looks past the three of you toward the street then back again.

"you'd better come inside."

dean and sam exchange a quick glance before following her into the house.

you linger on the porch for just a second longer. the flower box sits inches from your hand. without thinking, your fingertips brush one of the petals.

everything disappears. a little girl laughs. sticky fingers wrap around yours. a pink piece of bubble gum is pressed into your palm.

"don't tell," she whispers. "it's our secret."

the front door slams somewhere in the distance and the vision shatters.

"hey." sam's voice cuts through the ringing in your ears. he's standing in the doorway now, watching you. "you coming?"

you look down at your hand. it's empty.

"yeah," you mutter, forcing your feet to move.

inside, the house smells faintly of lavender. underneath it—strawberries.

the older woman shuts the front door behind you, the latch clicking softly in the quiet house.

it's a small place, but kept tidy. rows of framed family photos cover the walls, and hand-knitted blankets are draped over the backs of sagging armchairs. the scent of lavender lingers in the air, though underneath it, you can still catch that same cloying smell of strawberries.

"please," she says, gesturing toward the living room with a trembling hand. "have a seat."

dean gives her a small, reassuring smile. "thank you, ma'am."

sam waits for her to settle into a worn recliner before he pulls out a notebook.

"you mentioned that madeline was your sister?"

she nods slowly. "older by six years."

"we're sorry for your loss," sam says, his voice softening.

she offers a sad, distant smile. "it's been a very long time."

dean glances around the room, taking in the old figurines and floral wallpaper. "mind if we ask you a few questions about what happened back then?"

"i suppose that's why you're here."

sam opens his notebook to a fresh page. "the old newspaper articles said she became ill very suddenly."

the woman lets out a heavy sigh, her fingers picking at the fabric of her chair. "that's what the doctors believed."

you stay near the doorway, your gaze drifting over the porcelain figurines and an old grandfather clock that ticks steadily in the corner. you brush your fingers against the doorframe, searching for a flash, an impression. nothing.

"it wasn't sudden," she continues, her voice dropping an octave. "not really."

sam looks up, pen poised. "what do you mean?"

"she changed."

dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "how so?"

the woman folds her hands in her lap, her knuckles white. "it was little things at first."

"like what?" sam asks quietly.

"she stopped liking her coffee."

your head snaps toward her. "coffee?"

she nods, looking at you for the first time. "she said it tasted too sweet. like sugar and fruit."

sam and dean exchange a quick, sharp glance.

"was there anything else?" sam prompts.

"she stopped sleeping." she smiles faintly, but the expression doesn't reach her eyes. "i'd hear her walking through the house at all hours. creaking floorboards, whispers in the dark."

"did she ever explain why?" dean asks.

"she said if she fell asleep..." her voice hitches, a small tremor in her throat. "...the little girl would come back."

the room falls into a heavy silence. even the grandfather clock seems to slow down.

sam's pen remains still on the paper. "...what little girl?"

the woman shakes her head slowly. "she never knew her name."

your stomach does a slow roll. "what did she look like?"

dean and sam both turn to look at you, but the woman just studies your face with a piercing, hollow gaze.

"why would you ask that?"

you hesitate, the strawberry taste turning bitter on your tongue. "...i've seen her."

sam stands up halfway, saying your name. "what?"

"it's just flashes," you say, looking back at the woman. "sticky fingers. the smell of sugar."

the woman's face goes ghostly pale.

"a piece of pink bubble gum," you continue, your voice barely a whisper. "pressed into a palm."

she grips the armrests of her chair so hard her hands shake.

"...and she told me that we had to keep it a secret."

the woman stares at you, her eyes wide and terrified. for a long heartbeat, the only sound is the grandfather clock. then she whispers, her voice cracking, "that's exactly what madeline told me."

the clock chimes in the hallway.

one.

two.

three.

the old woman leans forward, her eyes locked onto yours, searching. "tell me," she says, her voice low and haunting. "have you started tasting the strawberries yet?"

the silence in the room stretches thin.

the older woman doesn't break eye contact, her gaze anchored on yours with an intensity that makes your pulse jump. she lets out a ragged, trembling breath before her strength seems to fail, and she collapses back into the worn fabric of her chair.

"...then it's already started."

dean leans in, his expression sharpening.

"started?"

she nods vaguely, her eyes still tracing the lines of your face as if looking for something she recognizes.

"that's exactly how it began with madeline."

sam quietly flips to a clean page in his notebook, pen ready.

"can you tell us everything?"

she gives a small, weary nod.

"i've tried to push it all away." her eyes wander toward a faded photograph resting on the mantle. "but i don't think you ever truly lose the memory of something like that."

the grandfather clock continues its steady, rhythmic ticking behind you.

"it began with the dreams," she says softly. "she'd wake up in tears, but the reasons always slipped away. she could only ever tell me about a little girl."

"the same one?" sam asks, his voice low.

"i believe so." she twists her hands together in her lap. "every morning she'd say she was on the verge of remembering her face."

you swallow hard against the sweet dryness in your throat. 

"and then?"

"then the sleep stopped altogether."

dean cuts a glance toward sam before focusing back on the woman.

"because she was afraid to dream?"

"she was terrified of them." the old woman lets out a short, hollow laugh. "she was convinced that if she just stayed awake..." her voice trails off into the quiet of the room. "...the little girl wouldn't be able to find her."

sam's pen stops moving. "did it work?"

"...no."

a heavy, suffocating silence settles over the living room.

"after that," she continues, her voice growing distant, "everything she ate or drank tasted wrong."

your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the coffee table.

"she claimed her coffee tasted like candy. dinner tasted like candy. even a glass of water..." the woman shakes her head slowly. "...she said it was sickeningly sweet."

dean leans back, his shoulders tense. "just like—"

"yeah." the woman cuts him off.

his thought hangs unfinished in the air. sam notices the way you've suddenly gone rigid.

without a word, he reaches out and slides a glass of water toward you, the base clicking softly against the wood.

you hadn't even realized you were staring at it with such focus.

"...thanks."

he gives a single, serious nod. "give it a try."

you lift the glass, the condensation chilling your palm. the water is biting and cold.

you take a hesitant sip.

strawberries.

you swallow hard, the sweetness lingering like a physical weight. 

you can only bring yourself to shake your head.

sam's jaw sets, a flicker of something dark crossing his eyes before he turns back to the woman.

"what happened next?"

she doesn't answer immediately.

instead, her gaze returns to the photograph on the mantle.

it shows two sisters. one tall and protective, the other small and smiling. they're standing together in front of a candy shop.

your stomach drops, a cold knot forming deep inside.

"is that..."

she follows the direction of your stare. "that was taken the day before."

sam looks up, alert.

"the day before what?"

"...the day before the sickness took her."

dean stands, crossing the room to get a better look at the frame.

"that's sweet surrender."

"it went by a different name back then."

the room goes perfectly still.

sam slowly lowers his notebook, his brow furrowed.

"...what?"

"it wasn't called sweet surrender." she offers a sad, paper-thin smile. "not in those days."

dean looks between her and the grainy image.

"well, what was it called?"

the old woman's eyes drift toward the window, looking at something far away.

"...bubble gum."

the words seem to echo in the small space.

for a long heartbeat, no one says a word.

you don't know why your heart begins to hammer against your ribs. only that it does, loud and frantic.

sam is the one to finally break the quiet.

"...that's impossible."

"why do you say that?" dean asks.

sam stands up, reaching for the framed photo with careful hands.

"because the county records are clear..." he studies the image as he lifts it. "...sweet surrender has used that same name for nearly seventy years."

the old woman just shakes her head slowly.

"...then the records have it wrong."

dean returns the photograph to its place on the mantle with practiced care.

"how do records just end up wrong?"

the woman studies him, her gaze lingering in the heavy quiet.

"because someone made sure they were."

sam's pen stops its movement across the page.

"who?"

she merely shakes her head, a tired movement.

"i couldn't tell you."

"did madeline ever mention who ran the shop?" dean asks.

"once. only once."

sam shifts closer, leaning into the conversation.

"what did she tell you about them?"

the woman pauses, as if weighing the cost of bringing the memory back into the light.

"she spoke of a woman."

dean cuts a glance toward sam.

"just a woman."

"she was there, behind the counter."

"what did she look like?" sam prompts.

the woman lets her eyes drift shut.

"she was pretty." a soft, breathless laugh escapes her. "it's a peculiar thing to hold onto after all this time, isn't it?"

"not at all," dean says. "faces tend to stick with you."

"not hers." her eyes open, looking at nothing in particular. "that's the trouble."

"what does that mean?" sam's brow knits together.

"i can recall thinking she was lovely." she brushes a thumb over the wedding band on her finger. "i remember her smile. the sound of her voice."

she stares down at her own hands.

"...but if you asked me the color of her hair, i couldn't give you an answer."

the room falls into a sudden, deep silence.

sam lowers his notebook slowly.

"you can't actually see her."

"no."

"any idea how old she was?" dean asks.

"she was young."

"roughly how young?"

"...older than i was."

"and how old were you then?"

"ten years old."

dean and sam trade another significant look.

the woman notices the unspoken exchange.

"why do you look at each other like that?"

sam is the first to respond.

"the woman we met yesterday, she appeared..."

he lets the sentence hang, thinking. her appearance is foggy in your memories too, even with your abilities.

"forty, maybe?" dean finishes for him.

sam nods in agreement.

the woman offers a faint, melancholy smile.

"then she remains unchanged."

your eyes drift back toward the photograph on the mantle.

two sisters posing in front of a sweet shop background. the sign hanging above the entrance.

you move in closer.

"sam."

he steps up beside you in an instant.

"what do you see?"

you gesture toward the corner of the image.

"right there."

he narrows his eyes, focusing.

"i'm not sure what i'm looking for."

"look behind them."

the photograph is washed out and worn thin, bleached by decades of sun. but in the lower corner, nearly lost to the film grain, a small girl hovers.

she isn't watching the photographer. her gaze is fixed entirely on the sisters. one of her hands is raised. she's offering something tiny and bright pink.

your heart begins to race.

"...can you take it out of the frame?"

sam looks from you to the picture and back again.

"you think it'll..?" his sentence trails off, leaving the woman unaware of what might happen when you touch the photo.

"...it's possible."

he works carefully to remove the backing, easing the photograph out.

"you don't have to do this," he reminds you quietly.

you give a small nod.

"...i know."

you reach for it.

your fingers brush the surface of the aged paper and the world dissolves.

sounds of laughter, children at play. jars of glass brimming with sugar. a bell chiming softly above.

the little girl is smiling. she looks no more than eight, with her hair in pigtails and a white-and-pink dress.

she extends her hand. a square of bubble gum, vibrant pink, sits in her palm.

"you can have some," she whispers. her smile broadens, like she's revealing a secret. "...if you promise not to tell."

the vision ends so sharply your legs nearly give out.

before you can fall, sam is there to catch you. one arm hooks around your waist while his other hand finds your shoulder.

"hey." his voice feels like it's coming from miles away. "look at me."

you blink, trying to clear the haze.

the room gradually returns to focus. the woman has already started to weep.

dean looks from your face to the photo, his eyes searching.

sam doesn't pull away.

"what'd you see?"

you look down at the picture still in your grasp. the girl has vanished.

there are only the two sisters left.

sam keeps his hands on you, steadying your weight until he's certain you won't collapse again. only then does he let go, though the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin.

dean takes a slow, cautious step toward you. "...what'd you see?"

your eyes remain fixed on the aged photograph, the image burned into your mind. 

"there was a girl. a little girl."

the older woman sucks in a jagged breath, her eyes widening.

"what did she look like?"

you squeeze your eyes shut, desperately grasping at the flickering fragments of the vision. 

"she was young. maybe seven or eight."

sam reaches for his notebook, clicking his pen with a quiet sound. 

"anything else?"

"brown hair," you murmur, shaking your head to clear the static. "tied back in pigtails."

the woman's hand flies to her mouth, her fingers trembling against her lips.

"she was wearing a white dress."

"...covered in pink flowers," you finish, the memory of those petals making your stomach churn.

tears begin to spill down the woman's weathered cheeks.

"yes."

dean looks between your pale face and the weeping woman.

"you recognize her. you know who she's describing."

she gives a slow, heartbreaking nod.

“we all knew her."

sam's pen hovers over the paper, his expression sharpening.

"who was she?"

the silence that follows is heavy and suffocating.

instead of answering, the old woman reaches out for the photograph. her fingertips brush the surface of the bleached paper with a ghost of a touch.

the living room is perfectly quiet.

sam remains silent, his expression unreadable. he only watches the woman, waiting for the pieces to fit together.

"i can't recall her name," she murmurs, her voice trailing off into the stillness. "a strange thing to lose, isn't it?"

dean's brow furrows. "but you said you played together."

"...i did."

"you can still see her face."

she gives a slow nod. "and the bubble gum." another nod, more hesitant this time. 

"the white dress."

"...yes," she answers with her eyes screwed shut, trying to remember.

"but the name is just... gone?"

her face collapses into a mask of grief.

"i've searched for it." she presses her shaking fingers against her temple as if to force the memory out. "for so many years."

sam quietly shuts his notebook.

"did madeline ever speak of her?"

the woman lets out a jagged breath.

"she knew it once."

"once?"

"after her death..." her voice hitches, sounding paper-thin. "i tried to explain about the girl." she swallows hard. "but every time i opened my mouth..." she trails off.

"what then?" sam prompts softly.

she looks directly at him, her eyes wide. "...it was gone. i couldn't remember what i wanted to say."

the words hang heavy and cold in the air. 

dean is the first one to find his voice. "that definitely isn't natural."

"no."

the woman lets out a short, hollow laugh.

"it was terrifying."

she stares down at her lap, her knuckles white.

"so i began to collect what i could."

sam straightens his posture instantly.

"you kept a record?"

"...as best i could."

"is it still here?"

she doesn't give an answer. instead, she slowly pushes herself up from the recliner. her movements are careful and fragile, one hand steadying herself against the chair arm.

"don't go anywhere."

she disappears down the dark hallway without looking back. 

the grandfather clock fills the void with its steady rhythm.

tick.

tick.

tick.

dean waits until her footsteps fade before glancing at sam.

"tell me we're thinking the same thing."

sam gives a grim nod.

"if the victims are being erased from memory..."

"...there are probably others we don't know about."

"maybe a lot more."

you look toward the hallway where she went, a knot forming in your gut.

"she managed to hold onto something."

sam nods thoughtfully.

"something in her was fighting the erasure."

dean crosses his arms over his chest.

"or someone else was."

a floorboard groans somewhere in the back of the house.

the woman returns, a small wooden box clutched tightly against her cardigan.

a layer of dust coats the lid.

she brushes it off with her sleeve before placing it gently onto the coffee table.

"it's been a long time since i looked at this."

she pauses, her hand trembling.

"every time i tried..." her fingers hover over the latch. "...i felt a deep wrongness."

sam remains patient.

"it's okay. take your time."

she nods once and clicks the brass latch open.

inside are yellowed photographs, weathered birthday cards, scraps of newspaper, envelopes bound by a piece of frayed pink ribbon, and a small leather journal.

your breath hitches in your chest.

the cover is etched with tiny pink flowers.

the woman goes perfectly still.

"...i have no memory of putting that here."

sam's eyes find yours, questioning.

"what is it?"

she reaches for the journal with a shaking hand. her fingers stop inches from the leather.

"...i can't do it."

dean notices her reaction. "can't?"

she shakes her head slowly. "every time i get close." her face drains of color. "it feels like eyes are on me."

the room falls into a heavy silence. sam looks at the journal for a beat before turning to you. he doesn't need to ask the question. he knows.

you already know, too.

you take a step toward the table. the air grows thicker, sweeter with every inch.

strawberries, bubble gum, pure sugar.

sam moves with you, shadowing your steps. he's close enough that his flannel sleeve brushes your shoulder.

"you don't have to do this," he says quietly.

you look up at him for a second.

"i know." your focus shifts back to the leather cover. "but i think it needs to be me."

you reach out for the book. your fingers linger in the air for a heartbeat. 

then, you make contact.

the leather feels warm against your fingertips.

the living room vanishes instantly.

—

warm sunlight streams through the front windows of the sweet shop.

children weave between old shelves crowded with glass jars while parents laugh somewhere near the front counter.

the air feels lighter here. the shop is decades older, but vibrant.

the little girl sits cross-legged on the polished wood floor. she smiles the moment she notices you.

"you're back."

you drop to a kneel beside her.

"do i know you?"

"not yet," she giggles softly.

she turns a piece of pink bubble gum over between her sticky fingers. the wrapper is long gone.

your stomach does a slow twist.

"where'd you get that?"

she gives a small shrug. "it's only gum."

"don't eat it." the warning leaves your mouth before you can even think to stop it.

she laughs. "too late."

she sticks her tongue out. the bright pink color has already begun to fade. your heart drops into your stomach. the bubble gum that was in her hand is gone.

"mama says no candy before dinner." she grins mischievously. "don't tell her."

the candy shop seems to tilt on its axis.

"listen to me." you reach out and grab her shoulders. "you need to spit it out."

she looks at you with wide, confused eyes. "i swallowed it."

the world stops moving. not because of her words, but because you know exactly what comes next. you've lived through it before.

you stare at her, your breathing shallow. "when?"

"a little bit ago." she smiles at you again. she has no idea. "i forgot to chew it."

your chest tightens painfully. you're much too late.

she was cursed long before your fingers touched the journal, before the music box was ever opened, before the flowers on the porch, before all of it.

this isn't something you can change. you can't save her.

the little girl reaches out for your hand. "can i tell you a secret?"

you give a small nod because your voice is gone. she leans in closer.

"my mama's magic," she whispers, as though she's sharing the greatest mystery in the world. "she says people get scared if they find out."

your stomach sinks further.

"so i made a promise." her smile softens in the sunlight. "i'm very good at keeping secrets."

hot tears sting your eyes.

"i know."

she tilts her head, studying you.

"why are you crying?"

before you can find an answer, the front door of the shop swings open.

the little girl turns toward the sound instantly.

"mama!"

the enchantress rushes inside the store. her hair is windblown and messy, and her breathing is uneven and fast. she sees her daughter sitting on the floor and smiles in relief.

then her eyes find the empty pink wrapper lying on the wood planks.

everything in the room changes.

"...where'd you get that?"

“i got it from the bowl." the little girl points toward a crystal bowl on the front counter—the same one that you took yours from.

the enchantress drops to her knees in front of the girl, taking her daughter's face in both of her hands.

"did you eat it?"

the little girl nods slowly. "...i swallowed it."

the enchantress goes perfectly still.

"when?"

"a little while ago."

her hands begin to shake violently.

"...no."

the word is barely a whisper in the quiet store.

"no, no, no..."

she pulls her daughter against her so hard the girl lets out a tiny squeak.

"mama?"

the enchantress buries her face in her daughter's hair, her shoulders trembling.

"...i'm so sorry."

you don't understand what's happening.

not until she finally looks up, not at the girl in her arms, but directly at you.

it's as if she can actually see you standing there in the vision.

tears stream down her face, making her eyes look bright and wild.

"...i couldn't save her."

—

the vision shatters into a thousand pieces.

the world returns with a violent rush, and your legs give out instantly.

sam is there before you can fall, his arm hooking around your waist while his other hand steadies your elbow.

"hey." his voice feels like it's coming from miles away. "look at me."

your breath comes in shallow, ragged hitches.

the living room gradually bleeds back into focus—the steady tick of the clock, the faded photos, the journal still clutched in your trembling fingers.

dean is beside you both in a heartbeat.

"what'd you see?"

you blink hard, trying to clear the static.

"she—" the words catch in your throat.

sam doesn't push. "it's okay. just breathe."

you look between the brothers, searching for the strength to describe it.

"the little girl," you swallow against the sweet dryness. "she'd already..."

a cold knot twists violently in your stomach. you go rigid.

sam notices the change instantly, whispering your name.

another wave of nausea crashes through you. your mouth floods with a cloying, sugary taste, and you clap a hand over your lips.

the old woman is already moving, pointing with her round-knuckled finger.

"down the hall," she says, her voice low and urgent. "the second door on the right."

you don't wait for a second invitation. you bolt from the room.the bathroom door slams shut  just as you collapse onto the tiled floor.

your stomach heaves with a sickening intensity. nothing happens for a long heartbeat.

then, the first petals appear.

it isn't sickness. it isn't anything human. bright pink blossoms spill into the bowl, soaking into the water until it looks like ink. they're the exact shade of the bubble gum from the shop. a sickeningly pepto-bismol pink.

you stare at them, your heart hammering.

"...no."

your stomach convulses again, harder this time. more flowers. whole, perfect blooms tumble out of you.

your breathing is jagged and loud. your fingers ache from how tightly you're gripping the porcelain.

"...no... please..."

you force yourself to stand, using the sink to steady your shaking frame, and look in the mirror.

the vision hadn't been a warning. pink veins crawl across the skin of your neck, tracing a map toward your jaw. they pulse faintly under the flickering light before sinking back into the shadows of your skin.

you stumble back until your shoulders hit the cold wall.

tears begin to sting your eyes.

it's really happening. the curse has taken root. your chest tightens painfully. not from the flowers, but from the memory of that little girl's laughter.

she'd smiled at you. she'd been so proud of her secret. she had no idea she was already gone.

a sob catches in your throat, sharp and bitter.

a whisper echoes through the small bathroom. it's soft, almost melodic, like a secret being shared in the dark.

"you have a secret."

you spin around, your heart in your throat.

nothing.

the room is empty. only your own terrified reflection stares back.

"you have a secret."

the voice comes again, closer this time.

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out.

don't.

not right now.

but the truth remains, heavy and sweet. you know exactly what it's referring to. it's a weight you've carried for over a year.

it had started with the quiet moments between hunts.

the way a few cases turned into a life on the road, the months bleeding together into a blur of neon signs and highway lines.

late nights in motel rooms, sharing cold fries and bad jokes over a map.

spending hours researching until the sun started to rise.

the way he'd slide a coffee your way without you ever having to ask.

the way sam always positioned himself between you and the things that go bump in the night.

how he always knew when you were trying to be brave.

the small furrow in his brow when he was thinking too hard.

that rare, quiet laugh that only ever seemed to come out when it was just the two of you.

the fiercely protective look he gave dean.

the look he gave you that you couldn't quite name.

you loved every piece of him.

you loved him, and it was going to kill you.

another violent convulsion wracks your body. pink petals swirl in the water, mocking you. your hands pulse with bright pink veins again. unlike the visions, however, they don't disappear when you touch them. they are feverishly warm and real.

there is a soft, hesitant knock on the door.

it is gentle. behind it, a whisper of your name.

sam.

his voice is a low murmur, meant only for you.

"...can i come in?"

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

You pretend you don’t know, but he’s not that good at hiding it. Your underwear doesn’t just grow legs and walk off by itself. Before you were dating, Dean used to steal it used, clenching your panties in one fist and beating his cock with the other. He’d smell that little wet spot and moan your name against the fabric, the arousal and need in his chest just managing to outweigh the shame. Once you’re together, you start just passing them into his hands without a word. The day you let him eat you out through your panties, then keep them after? One of the best of his life.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Dean’s the first to call himself a whore, as if it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. And it didn’t used to. Sex was for fun, to feel good, to forget about the pain and—for once in his damn life—do something useful for someone else. But after you, it’s different. The experience was just practice, just building up to this. To knowing exactly what women like, exactly what makes them feel good, and using his mastery to turn you into a pretty little puddle beneath him. He’s a champion, and you’re quickly the only game he wants to play.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

There isn’t really a position Dean doesn’t like—he can make anything feel good, and he takes pride in it—but his favorite position soars above the rest of the already high standard. When he’s got you in his lap, brows pressed together, mouth slack and easy to kiss, it’s close to heaven. Your boobs bounce and push against his chest, your ass wiggles in his massive palms, and your cunt hugs his cock just right at the angle. You can ride him until you get whiny, and he can pin you down and fuck up like an animal, watching your face go slack with pleasure, your eyes glazing over and tiny moans of his name falling from swollen lips. You cling to him, and he holds on back, keeping you just as close as you’ll allow.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Dean lets you set the tone, every time. He’s just happy to be there, and he can make anything work. If you need to be treated like lace, he’s serious and gentle, murmuring low praise and worshiping every inch of your body. If you fall into bed after a date or climb on top of him in the middle of a movie, he’ll tease and joke until you’re whining and glaring at him under lidded, glossy eyes. His shit eating grin won’t fall until you’re screaming his name, and it turns smug and proud. He knows you love it, when it’s easy. He loves it too.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He tries to stay groomed, but life on the road makes it hard. Even when he gets to settle in the bunker for a week or two, shaving isn’t very high on the list of priorities. He does his face because a beard is hard to maintain, and basic maintenance around his cock to keep it clean, but not much else. The look of the tool doesn’t matter much. He knows how to use it right either way.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

When it was just hookups, he sometimes wouldn’t even bother to learn the right name to moan. It wasn’t about being vulnerable or romantic, it was about being a fleeting, passing ship that lent another some warmth. A shadow of intimacy, to stead over the gap in his chest from sinking too deep. But then he had you, and even when you’re play fighting before sex or giggling while he fingers you stupid, there’s a thin layer of adoration under every single kiss and touch. It’s rawer and sharper in the dead of night, when he cradles you in his lap and presses his face against your neck, or folds himself over your body and drives in with slow, torturous thrusts. He’ll never say it allowed, but that’s how he loves you. With a real good show and undying attention, whether the sex is rough or slow or quick in the bathroom, it’s all just to be close to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Sam used to joke about him taking long showers, but he had no idea. Dean tries to ignore his cock when it gets demanding—when you’d bend over in a skirt or brush past him in the hall—but he started feeling like a teenager with no damn control, and he’d storm into the bathroom to care of himself, quickly and brutally. It gets better after you start dating, but sometimes you have to be apart. Then old habits return, and he finds himself kicking Sammy out of the motel room just so he can pull out a picture of you and jerk himself off.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

There are more of them than he cares to count, but three stand out above the rest. There the only three that can still make Dean, of all men, blush. 

Cockwarming until the sun comes up. Holding you around him until you’re dripping and wiggling and whining his name, until he’s so hard it hurts and ends up just rutting into you like a dog. It’s not the filthiness of the act that gets him, but the intimacy of it. You’re so close he can’t tell where he stops and you end, and it makes him so dizzy he almost loses control. He’d trade a life to keep you like that all the time. Soft and completely, totally his.

The first time you call him sir, he almost feels something in him shift. He’d always said he didn’t get that kind of shit—sex was supposed to be give and take, not just a girl doing everything for him—but then he had you below him, babbling the word by sheer accident, and his cock twitched like it had been jumpstarted. He liked it. He liked it too much. He’d follow you like a dog to the end of the earth, but right here, when he was making you feel good, he was the one in charge. He had a handle over the situation, you trusted him to be in charge of you like this, and that tiny whimper of sir made him lose his goddamn mind.

And the breeding kink he tries to hide. He’s not trying to baby trap you, or reduce you to just a body for him to knock up, but the idea of it makes his mouth water. Fucking you so good a little bit of him sticks. Forcing his cum into you until you’re stuffed up, your eyes rolling back in your head from the pleasure. Making you round and glowing with his baby, letting the whole world know just how well he treated you. You notice it, because you always do, and son of a bitch, you encourage him. You let him press his hand flat on your stomach so he can feel his cum spurting into your heat, you cling to his shoulders and moan when he asks if you like it, and he can’t help it. He wants you good and bred. He wants you to be his.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He wouldn’t call himself an exhibitionist, but there aren’t many places he won’t do it. As long as it’s not a crime and you’re comfortable, the bathroom in a police station is as good to go as the kitchen in the bunker. However, there’s nothing he loves more than his bed. A good mattress, the sheets sticking to your skin, the smell of you all around him, it’s almost enough to get him hard all on it’s own.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The list is so long, he stopped trying to understand it a long time ago. There are the simple things—your mouth around a banana, the curve of your ass, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, when you get mouthy and bratty and he wants to drag you over his knee or pin your to the wall—but then there’s… other stuff. The time you shoved him and spat in his face after a fight, and he was seconds from splaying you out on the table, squeezing your jaw with one hand and fingering you with the other, all while rutting against your leg like an animal, kissing away the drool when dribbled down your chin. The other time you drove baby for five seconds, and he made you pull over so he could eat you out in the backseat. He’s starting to think it might just be you. He doesn’t really care, either way.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

When he was younger, Dean would try anything once. The benefit of that is that now he knows what he really doesn’t love. He doesn’t get piss stuff or age play, but he doesn’t count himself one to judge. The one time he let a girl tie him up, he ripped his hands out of the bonds and had a knot in the top of his chest for a week after. Life is hard enough as it is, and as fun as a lot of that kind of stuff looks, there can be too many deep, serrated scars in him for it to feel good.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

While he’ll never say no to getting some head, the only sight better than you on your knees with his cock in your mouth is you flat on your back, grabbing at anything you can reach as he tongue fucks you into oblivion. He thinks he could live and die between your legs, your pussy gushing on his face and his name falling from your lips. And he’s good at it. He knows he’s good at it. He’ll shoot you a wink before he kisses his way down your body, because he knows you’re never even try to resist him. Once he convinced you to sit on his face, and he’d never known anything closer to heaven.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He can read and match the tone well,  depending on what you want. When he’s rough, he bullies his cock into your like a drill, making the bed creak and tears spring into your eyes from the almost overwhelming pleasure of being fucked over and over and over like some sweet little doll. When he’s slow, he’s slow, taking his time to make your feel every thrust, every kiss, every brush of his fingers over your clit. But even when he’s slow, he drives into you with the force of a man falling into a black hole. He can’t help himself. The way your gummy walls squeeze him just feels too good, to not make them clench and flutter around him.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If you’d let him, Dean would just fill the whole day with quickies. Wake up and fuck you between the sheets, get breakfast then have a second meal between your thighs, interview a few vics and cradle your head while he drive, pulling off to the side when you suck his cock a little too well, and his vision starts to go blurry. Sometimes he’ll spend a whole day teasing you, just to try and get you to start it. It’s a great victory, if you drag him into a supply closet to bang one out. It’s all he’s ever wanted in the world.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Anything once really did teach him to know what he liked, so at this point it’s more indulging any risks you’d want to take. He knows his lines, and he’s more than willing to help you find yours. If you shyly ask him to tie you up or wrap a hand around your throat or fist you, he’d have to be a madman to tell you no.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Even at his age, Dean counts himself impressive. He might not be pulling the day long marathons he did in his twenties, but he can go the whole night if he keeps the focus on your pleasure, which he finds easy to do. If you make him cum in your mouth or hands, he’ll dedicate as long as he needs to teaching you a few lessons and opening you up, before he’s hard and ready to go again. Once he’s in you, though, he’s no chump. He can hold himself off for over an hour on the best of nights. Sure, there were the few cases when you were just too soft and pretty and he couldn’t stop himself, but you found it hot anyway. The loss of control, just from looking at you, you’d never felt more beautiful. And it wasn’t like he didn’t make it worth your time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s tried a few toys on himself, but they’re all complicated, and he lives with his damn brother. Knowing each other’s porn habits is bad enough, the idea of sex toys getting exposed makes him feel a little sex. He’s got a perfectly good hand, and a hot girlfriend, and that’s all he’s never going to need. If you want him to pull out that vibrator you keep in your nightstand, though, he’s never going to protest. Watching you come apart—your thighs rolling against the head of the toy and your mouth hanging open—is always too good an opportunity to pass up. The toy might be the one giving you the pleasure, but Dean’s the one holding it. He’s the person you’re crying for when you cum, and he usually gets to fuck your already swollen pussy after. Doesn’t get much better than that.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Some might call him a monster. And the some is you. You didn’t know how much you could get worked up, until Dean came around and showed you. Through the day he’ll make you flush with little comments, then trace his fingers over your inner thigh in the car, making you flush and pant before he just kisses your cheek and walks away. And you thought that was bad, until he actually got his hands on you, and you learned how much the asshole loves edging. Getting you so wet and flustered your almost sobbing for him, whispering dirty praise until your face is burning, somehow keeping you on the edge with teasing touches, even as his cock drives right into that gummy spot inside of you. He says you’re too adorable not to tease. You roll your eyes, but never ask him to stop. It’s always, just a little, too good.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

The mouth on him should be worthy of a lawsuit. Between the moaning and grunting, the strangled, rumbling sound he makes when he pushes himself inside of you, and the deep, filthy dirty talk, you think you might just be able to cum from his voice. It’s not fair, but Dean doesn’t play fair, and you don’t want him to. One day, when you’re brave, you’ll ask him to test the theory. He’ll oblige, and you’ll certainly end up right.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Dean’s never in it for himself. If his partner wants him to hand over control, he’ll do it, but it’s never going to be what he prefers. He spends every day of his life begging for the people he loves to listen to him, for once in their damn lives. He’s got a grip over his own world, even if his hands shake on the worst of nights. It’s not liberating for him to be degraded in sex when all he’s known is bruises and spit from the people who were supposed to love him. He wants to be trusted more than he’s ever going to be able to say, to be the only person you turn to for pleasure, to take his hands and mouth and body and have them feel safe for just one, one fucking person. He might be in control during sex, but it’s still all about you, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He doesn’t get his confidence from nowhere. For a while—before you—it was sort of the only kind of confidence he had. Dean didn’t count himself for much, but no one could deny their own eyes. The size of him is one thing—long enough to hit spots you didn’t know you had, veiny and uncut and almost pretty—but the girth- It makes your mouth fall open, the first time you see it. You’re not sure you can stretch that wide, and when Dean tells you that you will, sweetheart, you almost roll your eyes. But, damn him, he’s right. You mold around that thick, big cock like a glove, and feel him in every inch of your body.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

If anything, he only gets worse with age. In his younger days, fucking was something he could work himself up to almost any day of the week, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to an hour ago. A pretty girl and a good drink, the engine could get itself going. Then you came along and made him feel things, and then he let you get close and start making him eat well and drink water and go for stupid walks, and suddenly there isn’t a second that’s enough. If life didn’t get in the way, he’d never let you leave the bed.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He’ll push through the exhaustion for some proper aftercare, but the moment he’s sure you’re good, Dean’s out like a stone. He doesn’t sleep well under any other circumstance, but you work him hard, then let him use you like a human body pillow, and he finds the closest thing he knows to peace, right there, with you in his arms.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: i think about him. all the time <3✦