Wayward Ginger

Sam didn’t even make it to his room before Dean was pulling you into his. The door hadn’t even fully clicked shut behind you before Dean’s hands were on you again, desperate and unyielding. He backed you straight up against the wood of the motel door, his body pressing flush against yours as his mouth found yours in a hard, breathless collision.

There was no hesitation this time, no walls, and no lingering fog. The familiar, comforting scent of leather, gunpowder, and cheap motel soap filled your senses, grounding you completely in the present. You wrapped your arms tightly around him, burying your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single breath of space left between you.

Dean let out a low, ragged growl against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, lifting you slightly so you were completely trapped beneath his weight. The sheer, overwhelming relief of having you back—real, whole, and remembering every single piece of your history—was vibrating through his entire body.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” Dean rasped, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his green eyes dark and intensely focused as they searched your face. His breath hit your lips, warm and hurried. “Tell me you’re really here.”

“I’m here, Dean,” you whispered against his lips, your heart hammering against your ribs. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath your palms. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

A devastatingly handsome, emotional smile broke across his face before he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. His arms wrapped around your waist, squeezing so tightly it almost hurt, but it was exactly what you needed.

“Two years,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough against your skin. “Two goddamn years of looking for you. I thought... I didn’t know if I’d ever get to do this again.”

“You found me,” you said softly, tilting your head to give him better access as his lips began to trace a slow, burning path down your jawline. “You always find me.”

Dean lifted his head, his hands sliding back up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs gently wiping away the stray tears of relief that had started to pool in the corners of your eyes. The fierce, lethal hunter who had just stood down an angel was completely gone, replaced entirely by the man who loved you with everything he had.

“Damn right I do,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, affectionate tone that always made your knees go weak, as he ran his thumb along your lower lip. “Now, let’s get you out of these clothes and remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Clothing was quickly shed and strewn about the room in a frantic path to the bed. You crawled up onto the bed and laid down on your back, spreading your legs for him, staring up at him like he was the best fucking thing you’d ever seen. Because he was. His hard muscles shifted in the dim light of the room as he climbed onto the bed. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. That’s quite the view,” he said in awe as he stared down at your bare body spread out before him, lingering on the curves of your breasts, your hips and finally your pussy which was already so wet for him that your thighs shined with your slick. “God, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You turned your head into your arm, blushing. “Deaaan,” you whined. 

“I know, baby. I know.”

Dean didn’t hesitate, he dropped between your thighs and began to lick your clit with tiny little movements, a moan flowing from your lips. He looped his arms under your thighs wrapping them around to grip the tops with his hands, spreading you wider and holding you still as he began to eat you like a man starved. Even with him holding you firmly, your back arched off the bed, as he tore another moan from your throat. 

He kissed his way down to your drenched entrance and slid his tongue inside you. He heard his name even though your thighs were hugging his head like earmuffs, squeezing as his tongue licked its way back up to your sensitive bundle of nerves. He sucked your clit into his mouth, getting it nice and wet with his tongue as you writhed on the bed under his attention. He pulled back just enough to blow a cool breeze against it, smirking at the small sound you made, his eyes never leaving your face. He dove back in and his tongue began to swirl around it like a tornado. You lost control and an orgasm slammed into you. Dean didn’t stop; he worked you through it. 

He pulled back slowly, releasing his hold on your legs, as he wiped your juices from his mouth and stubble with his hand. Dean’s eyes were locked on yours as he licked your juices from his fingers with a groan of pleasure. Your mouth fell slightly open, watching him, breaths coming in in short bursts as you came back down. 

Dean settled between your thighs as his hand came up to grasp your breast gently, his thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple back and forth as he leaned down and captured your lips. The kiss was passionate and messy, all teeth and tongues clashing and fighting for dominance. 

You pulled back and placed both hands on his chest, using your strength and pushing him off of you. The surprised and slightly confused look on his face didn’t last once you shoved him down against the pillows and lowered down to take him into your mouth. You didn’t start slow and teasing like normal. You took him straight in and sank as far as you could go, his thick head hitting the back of your throat. Dean let out a surprised, choked sound that turned into a low groan. 

He let his head fall back further against the pillows as he closed his eyes. “Fuuuck,” he rumbled, followed by your name, barely a whisper. 

You increased your pace, cupping the underside of his dick with your tongue and using your hand to stroke, in perfect rhythm with your mouth, what you couldn’t fit inside your mouth. You pulled back up to the top and swirled your tongue around his leaking head, flicking it against the tip. 

Dean let out a sound that was more animal than human and his eyes snapped open. He grabbed you by your upper arms and pulled you off of him with a pop. He flipped you underneath him and didn’t give you time to take a full breath before he was pushing into you, bottoming out with one rough push, as you gasped. 

He didn’t give you time to adjust; he hadn’t opened you up with his fingers like he normally did and it had been a long time since you had had him. Dean was fucking huge. You cried out and dug your nails into his biceps. 

That seemed to urge him on. Dean had lost all semblance of control and was thrusting into you with feral movements and animalistic growls tearing out of his chest as he drove into you over and over again. 

“Dean!” you gasped out as his mouth found the crook of your neck and bit down. He didn’t break the skin but the shock of it sent an electric current through your whole body. 

“Shit,” he grunted out, picking up the pace even further as if that were possible. “God, I fuckin’ missed you, baby,” he said, voice wrecked.

His punishing pace and feralness sent you flying over the edge into another orgasm, stronger than the first. Your muscles clamped down around his thick cock in rapid, pulsing spasms. Your nails were digging into his shoulders but he didn’t seem to notice or mind. He didn’t even flinch as he kept up the pace. 

His hand dropped to your oversensitized clit, fingers working it just right, extending your orgasm. Your thighs were trembling so hard that the bed was shaking from both your movements and his. You screamed his name as the waves tore through your body, vision going white. You thought you might have started a third climax before the second was even over. You couldn’t be sure. You were dizzy and your mind was a blur of pleasure and Dean.

Dean let out a growl and buried himself as deep as he could and spilled his hot, creamy cum deep inside you. The growl turned into a roar as his dick released the last wave of cum into your warm, wet, tight pussy. 

Without warning he turned you over, staying connected. You were now laying on top of him, both of you fighting for air, chests heaving, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. Neither of you spoke for a moment. You couldn’t. 

Dean leaned up and pressed a quick peck to your lips in between heavy breaths. 

He didn’t let go of you. His arms remained locked around your waist, his hands resting on the small of your back as the frantic, chest-heaving breaths slowly began to even out. The silence in the motel room felt heavy, but for the first time in two nightmare-filled years, it was a good kind of heavy.

Dean shifted beneath you, his thighs moving so he could wrap his legs loosely around yours, anchoring you to him. Slowly, his hand slid up your spine, his thumb tracing the dip of your lower back before his fingers tangled gently into your hair, pressing your face back down into the hollow of his neck.

“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice shot to hell, rough and gravelly against your ear. “Don’t you dare move an inch, sweetheart.”

A soft, breathless laugh bubbled up from your throat, vibrating against his skin. “I can’t move even if I wanted to, Dean. My legs feel like jelly.”

“Good,” he grunted, a genuine, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained closed as he took in another deep, shuddering breath of your scent. “That’s the goal.”

For a long while, neither of you said a word. The only sounds in the room were the hum of the old motel air conditioner and the steady, rhythmic thrum of Dean’s heart beating beneath your cheek. It was a familiar beat—one you’d listened to countless times in the Impala, in motel beds across the country, and in your shared bedroom of the bunker.

Eventually, Dean’s hand began to make slow, gentle strokes up and down your back, his touch absurdly soft compared to the wild, feral intensity of just minutes before.

“We’re going home tomorrow,” Dean whispered into the quiet room, his voice dropping into a tender, steady vow. “First thing in the morning. We’re packing up Baby, grabbing Sam, and heading straight back to Kansas. No angels, no fake lives, no bullshit. Just us.”

You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his chest so you could look into those bright green eyes. “The bunker?”

“The bunker,” he confirmed, a warm, soft look washing over his features as his thumb gently smoothed across your cheekbone. “We’ll drag the mattress into the library. We’ll get cheap beer and those stupid classy strawberries. Whatever you want, baby. It’s all waiting for you.”

You smiled, the last lingering shadows of the past two years finally dissolving in the warmth of his embrace. You leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw before resting your head back down over his heart.

“Sounds perfect, Dean,” you murmured, closing your eyes as his arms tightened around you once more, holding you safe in the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

One week later.

The last week had been perfect. It didn’t even feel like you’d ever been apart. There was no adjustment period, you both fell right back into your relationship like the last two years had never happened. Although, Dean was a little more clingy and extra-attentive given that he had lived without you for those two years. You didn’t know what you were missing. He did. 

Your sex life was always strong but now neither of you could keep your hands off each other. More than once, Sam had shaken his head and left the bunker for a few hours, just to get away from you two “fucking like teenagers”. There was no real irritation behind it though. He was happy to have you back too and he was even happier that his brother was finally smiling and living his life again. 

You had just gotten out of the shower and you saw that Dean had indeed pulled your mattress into the library, as promised back in the motel in Mississippi. You stood there, wrapped in a towel and smiled at him from the doorway. 

“Go get dressed, sweetheart. We have a movie to start,” he said as he set a bowl of popcorn on the floor next to the mattress. You smiled and turned to hurry down the hallway. 

As you stepped back into the library, you saw that he had pulled about five blankets and a thousand pillows in there, creating a soft sanctuary. Then your eyes landed on the bowl of chocolate covered strawberries at the foot of the mattress. “Dean!” you squealed, a bright smile spreading across your face. “You really got them!” 

“Yeah, told ya I would,” he grinned back at you. 

You hurried over and plopped down on the bed next to him. You immediately grabbed one and held it up to his mouth. He took a bite and then you popped the rest into your mouth. “Mmm. So good.”

“And classy,” he teased. You nudged him with your shoulder. 

“They are!”

Around the half hour mark of the movie, you were laying back against his chest, your legs tangled together under the blanket and he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. You turned your head and gave him a long slow kiss. You turned back to the movie as his hand came up from beside you. He was holding a ring in front of you. 

Your breath caught, followed by a gasp. “Dean,” you whispered, voice shaky. 

You stared at the ring for a moment before you turned to look at him. 

His green eyes were soft, devoid of any cockiness or tease, filled only with that quiet, overwhelming devotion that made your pulse race.

“I bought this two years ago,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that trembled just a fraction. “A couple weeks before everything went sideways. I was gonna ask you the weekend after that last case. I carried it in my pocket for six months after you vanished until Sam made me put it in my duffel so I wouldn’t wear the velvet off the box.”

He took your hand, his broad, warm fingers gently sliding over yours, and brought the back of your hand to his lips for a quick, lingering kiss.

“I know we just got you back,” he murmured, his gaze holding yours in the warm glow of the television screen. “And I know you’ve spent two years trapped in a fake relationship and then engaged to some other guy. But this? Us? This ain’t fake, baby. It never was. I don’t want another day in this bunker, or in the Impala, or anywhere else on this planet where you’re not mine for real.”

He held the ring up between your faces, a simple, stunning diamond set in a classic white gold band that caught the light.

“So, what do you say, sweetheart?” Dean asked, a small, hopeful smile breaking through the emotion on his face. “You wanna make it official and marry me?”

You didn’t answer with words at first. Instead, you launched yourself upward, cupping his jaw with both hands and pulling his mouth down to yours in a fierce, breathless kiss. Dean let out a soft, surprised grunt before his free arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you completely flush against him. The ring box clutched in his other hand pressed gently against your hip as his lips moved against yours with a tender but desperate hunger.

When you finally pulled back just an inch, resting your forehead against his, your breathing was shallow and uneven.

“Yes,” you whispered against his lips, a soft laugh bubbling up from your chest. “Yes, Dean. A thousand times, yes.”

The tension that Dean had been holding in his shoulders—a leftover weight he’d been carrying for two full years—seemed to vanish entirely. A breathtaking, genuine smile lit up his face, turning his green eyes brilliant in the dim light of the library.

“Damn right,” he growled affectionately, his voice thick with emotion.

He didn’t waste a single second. With surprisingly steady hands for a man who looked like he might burst with relief, Dean pulled the ring from the velvet lining. He took your left hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles once before sliding the brilliant stone onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for your hand all along.

You raised your hand, watching the diamond catch the flickers of light from the television screen. It looked right. It felt right. There were no weird lingering doubts, no artificial confusion—just the solid, grounding reality of Dean Winchester holding you tight. You had a love that nothing could tear apart, not even the heavens.

Dean leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly over the ring on your finger, his stubble brushing your skin, before looking back up into your eyes.

“Look at that,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand. “Looks way better on you than it ever did sitting in my duffel bag.”

“You carried it in your duffel?” you asked softly, feeling another wave of warmth bloom in your chest.

“Every damn day,” Dean admitted, a tiny, self-deprecating smirk tugging at his lips. “Sam kept telling me to lock it in the bunker safe, but I couldn't do it. I needed to know I had it on me for when I found you.” He shifted, wrapping both arms around you to pull you flush against his chest once more, tucking your head right under his chin. “And now I'm never letting you out of my sight again.”

You settled against his broad chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart. You reached down, grabbing a chocolate-covered strawberry from the bowl and held it up to his mouth.

Dean chuckled, taking a big bite, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he chewed.

“So,” you teased, tracing circles on his chest with your left hand, letting the new ring catch the light. “Are we actually going to finish the movie this time?”

Dean let out a low rumble of laughter, his hands sliding down your waist, his fingers making a slow, deliberate path under the hem of your shirt. “Sweetheart, you know us. We never make it past the half-hour mark.”

“Hello, Dean,” he said, with a voice that sounded like an aftertaste. The sound shook you and you immediately crawled across the bed to move closer to Dean, grasping at the back of his flannel. 

“Dean!” you cried out, terror in your voice. He instantly turned and wrapped one arm around you, still keeping his frame between you and the angel. 

Dean’s eyes never left the angel. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

“His voice,” you stammered, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of Dean’s shirt so tightly your knuckles ached. “It’s… it’s the voice from the car. The day I woke up in the hospital. I remember the sound of it echoing inside my head before everything went black.”

Dean’s arm tightened around you, pulling you flush against his side. The protective warmth of his body was a sharp contrast to the ice-cold dread flooding the room. His green eyes were locked onto the angel, a terrifying, lethal promise burning behind them.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean growled, his voice dropping into a deep, dangerous tone that made the air feel heavy. “You’re the one who did this to her.”

The angel didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head, his sharp, bright blue eyes watching the way you clung to Dean with a look of cold, analytical detachment.

“I am Sariel,” the angel said, and that strange, echoing aftertaste in his voice made a sharp spike of pain throb behind your eyes again. “And I did not harm her, Dean. I saved her. Left to your devices, she would have ended up dead in a ditch, or worse, corrupted by the life you force upon everyone around you.”

“You brainwashed her!” Brian yelled from the other side of the bed, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and absolute fury. He was shaking, his eyes wide as he stared at the celestial being standing in his bedroom. “You messed with my head too! You made me believe a whole lie of a life!”

Sariel slowly turned his gaze to Brian. The sheer weight of the angel’s attention made Brian choke on his next breath and slide back against the headboard. “You were a suitable anchor, Brian. Good looking, stable, easy enough for us to control without rocking the boat too hard. We gave you a miracle; a beautiful life. A quiet life. We chose you to keep her safe from the misery the Winchesters bring.”

“We didn’t ask for your damn miracle!” Dean snapped, stepping forward just a couple inches to completely shield you from Sariel’s view with his body. He didn’t have an angel blade on him, but his posture was pure, tightly coiled violence. “You took her memories. You took her life. Our life. His life.”

“And I gave her a sanctuary,” Sariel replied calmly, his posture immaculate, completely unbothered by the hostility in the room. He took a single, slow step toward the bed. “But the edges are broken and cracked. The human mind is remarkably stubborn when infected by the Winchester curse. It is time to put the walls back up.”

Sam, who had been quietly tracking Sariel’s movements from the edge of the room that he had slipped to unnoticed, subtly shifted his weight. His hand was still on Dean’s gun, but he knew conventional bullets wouldn’t do a damn thing to an angel. He caught Dean’s eye for a split second, a silent, frantic question passing between the brothers: How do we play this without an angel blade?

Sariel raised his hand, his fingers starting to glow with a faint, rhythmic pulse of white celestial light as his eyes locked onto you. “Come here,” he commanded softly.

“You’re not fucking touching her, you son of a bitch!” Dean roared, his arm pulling you tighter against his back. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he muttered to you. 

You clung to him for dear life, starting to tremble slightly. “Dean,” you pleaded in a whisper. “Don’t let him do this to me again.”

“I won’t,” Dean vowed, his voice a low, fierce promise right against your ear. “I swear to God, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Sariel’s glowing fingers twitched, his expression hardening into something cold and entirely unyielding. “You cannot fight the will of Heaven, Dean. Your attachments are your weakness. They always have been.”

Before the angel could take another step toward the bed, a sharp, metallic scraping sound sliced through the room.

Sam had lunged forward from the shadows, using the distraction to dive toward the master bedroom’s vanity mirror. With a brutal swing of his heavy boot, he shattered the glass, sending shards raining onto the floor. In one fluid, practiced motion, Sam grabbed a long, jagged wedge of the silvered glass, cut deep into his own thumb, and slammed his bloody hand against the closet door, rapidly drawing an angel banishing sigil.

Sariel’s bright blue eyes snapped toward Sam. “Samuel, do not try to outsmart me.” With a flick of his wrist he slammed Sam back against the wall, the shard of glass falling from his hand on impact.  Both of his hands were pinned against the wall so that he couldn’t move them and his feet were about six inches off the ground. 

Another swoosh of air and flutter of wings interrupted the altercation. “Sariel, stop!” Castiel commanded, voice serious and dark blue eyes trained on the other angel. 

“Cas, finally, man,” Dean grunted, relief flooding his voice. 

“Brother, what have you done?” Castiel said, ignoring Dean completely. 

“What I had to do. This is the will of Heaven, Castiel,” said Sariel with a solemn expression. 

“The humans may believe that but I know better. This is not Heaven’s will. This is your own vendetta,” Cas said, brow pulled tight as he stepped closer to Sariel. “Put Sam down, right now,” he demanded. 

“Maybe in a minute,” Sariel replied. 

Sariel gave a microscopic tilt of his chin, and Sam let out a choked gasp as the invisible force pinning him against the wall tightened, his boots dangling uselessly above the hardwood.

“Sam!” Dean called out, anger flaring higher.

“You have always had a weakness for them, Castiel,” Sariel said, his tone dripping with a quiet, dangerous disappointment. “You fell for them. I am merely trying to correct the anomaly before the damage spreads further.”

“She is not an anomaly,” Castiel countered, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate the floorboards. “She is a human being who has earned her place beside them. What you have done to her—and to this innocent man—is a violation of the highest order. You know we are not to interfere with free will.”

Dean’s grip on your waist turned to steel. He couldn’t get to Sam, and he couldn’t fight Sariel, but having Cas in the room meant they finally had a weapon. “Cas, slice this son of a bitch open!” Dean barked, his eyes flashing with a lethal impatience.

But Sariel was faster. With a sudden, blinding burst of motion, he lunged toward Castiel, his hand slicing through the air. A blade of pure, shimmering celestial light materialized in his palm.

Cas anticipated the move, drawing his own silver angel blade from his sleeve with a sharp, metallic ring just in time to block the strike. The collision of their weapons sent a shower of blinding, white-hot celestial sparks flying across the bedroom, illuminating the dark corners in violent flashes.

“Brian, get down!” you screamed, your old survival instincts roaring to life through the fog in your brain. You threw yourself across the mattress, grabbing Brian by the arm and dragging him down toward the floor on the far side of the bed, using the heavy wooden frame as a shield. Brian didn't even fight you; he scrambled down, his hands over his head, completely paralyzed by the supernatural war breaking out in his own bedroom.

Dean screamed your name but held his position, still between you and the angel. 

The sound of blades clashing echoed like thunder in the enclosed space. Cas was holding his ground, his face set in grim determination, but Sariel was fueled by a fanatical, righteous fury.

“You cannot save her from her fate, brother!” Sariel roared, sustaining a vicious swipe from Cas that forced him back toward the doorway.

With Sariel’s focus entirely locked onto Castiel, the invisible grip holding Sam vanished. Sam dropped heavily to the floor, gasping for air as his boots slammed into the rug. He didn't waste a single second. He scrambled across the floor, his eyes scanning the debris until his fingers wrapped around the jagged shard of vanity glass he’d dropped earlier.

“Dean!” Sam choked out, coughing as he pushed himself up. “The sigil! I need a surface!”

Dean’s eyes snapped from the fighting angels to his brother, then to the blank expanse of the wooden headboard right above your pillows. “Right here! Do it now!”

“No, wait!” Castiel yelled. “Not yet.”

He moved swiftly and as their blades clashed again, Cas disarmed Sariel, his blade skittering across the floor toward the bathroom. Castiel’s blade was now under his chin pushing Sariel’s head up. “Now, brother, you will fix what you broke,” he demanded, voice firm and steady. 

Sariel huffed out a hysterical sounding laugh. “I will not.”

Cas pushed the blade up just slightly puncturing a small hole in the angel’s chin, a bright blue and white light leaked out. “Yes, you will.”

Sariel raised his hands to his sides, surrendering. “Very well. I’ll fix them but know I will never stop. I will reverse this in due time and this time I will kill Dean. Your pet will be no more and then things will be as they should,” Sariel vowed as he stared down at Castiel.

Sariel closed his eyes, and a low, melodic hum began to vibrate through the walls of the room.

Suddenly, your head felt like it was splitting entirely in two. The white-hot pain returned with a vengeance, so intense that you collapsed against the side of the bed, your fingers clawing at the carpet as a muffled scream tore from your throat. Beside you, Brian let out a loud, agonized cry, his hands flying back to his head as he curled into a tight ball on the floor.

It felt like a dam breaking inside your mind. The last two years of your life—the quiet mornings, the cozy library, the wedding planning, the gentle, domestic love you had shared with Brian—didn't vanish, but they suddenly shifted, pushed aside by a massive, roaring tidal wave of years of your real identity.

Memories flooded back in a dizzying, chaotic rush. Hunting monsters. The smell of cheap motels and old diner coffee. Late-night drives in the Impala. The heavy weight of a shotgun in your hands. Fighting alongside Sam. And Dean. Dean. A year and a half of fighting beside him, laughing with him, loving him, and the agonizing memory of the exact moment Sariel had ambushed your car in Kansas and dropped you in Georgia, ripping you away from the only family you had left.

As the hum abruptly snapped off, the pain vanished as quickly as it had come.

You gasped, your chest heaving as you opened your eyes. The fog was completely gone. The room was sharp, clear, and terrifyingly real. You looked up, your gaze instantly cutting past the broken glass and the chaos straight to the man standing by the bed.

“Dean,” you breathed, your voice no longer carrying the timid, pained confusion of the last few days. It was steady, grounded, and entirely yours.

Dean’s green eyes locked onto yours, and the sheer, agonizing weight of the last two years seemed to drop from his shoulders in an instant. “Sweetheart?” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, searching your face for the confirmation he was desperate for.

Before he could step toward you, Sariel’s eyes snapped open, his striking blue gaze flashing with a bitter malice. “It is done, Castiel. I have restored their pathetic little minds. Now, remove the blade.”

Cas didn't lower the weapon an inch. His expression remained grim, his deep blue eyes locked onto his brother. “You promised you would never stop, Sariel. You threatened Dean’s life. Heaven may not care about your personal vendetta, but I do. I cannot allow you to remain a threat to them.”

Sariel’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what Cas was implying. “Castiel, you wouldn't—”

“You left me no choice,” Cas said, thrusting the blade up through his jaw. A blinding white light burst through the angel, coming out of his eyes and mouth that was open in a silent scream. Black charred wings spread across the doorway and along the walls. 

Cas slowly lowered his angel blade, sliding it effortlessly back into his sleeve as he let out a heavy, solemn breath. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered, mostly to himself. 

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. On the floor beside you, Brian was slowly uncurling, his breathing shallow and ragged as he stared at his hands. The look in his eyes was entirely different now—the glassy, brainwashed devotion was gone, replaced by the staggering, heavy realization of his own real past. He remembered Charlotte. He remembered Chrissy. He remembered his actual life.

Dean didn't care about the angel’s death. The second the light faded, he dropped to his knees right in front of you on the floor. His hands came up to cup your face, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin, his jade eyes burning into yours with a raw, fierce intensity.

“Hey,” Dean murmured, his voice rough and thick with emotion, his thumbs gently brushing across your cheekbones. “Hey. Talk to me. Tell me it’s you.”

“Dean,” you murmured as you threw your arms around him, raising up onto your own knees. You slammed your mouth into his, kissing him with every piece of your soul that had been locked away for two years. Dean’s fingers slid into your hair and pushed your head harder against his lips, his tongue exploring your mouth as if it were the first time. He kissed you deeply and a small sound escaped your throat and he swallowed it. As your lips moved against his you pressed your body tighter against him. 

After a moment you pulled back, both of you breathless, staring into each other’s eyes like neither of you could trust that this was truly real. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he rasped, leaning his forehead against yours as his hands cupped the sides of your face. 

“I missed you too. I love you, Dean,” you said, eyes watery. 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Neither Sam nor Brian interrupted the reunion. Both fully understood the levity of it. Now that Brian was sorting through his own memories and emotions, he stood up and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled out his phone and dialed Chrissy’s number, silently praying it was still the same. 

“Hello,” her voice answered. 

“Chrissy…” Brian said. 

There was a long pause. “Brian?” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 

“Yeah, it’s me, honey,” he said, a tear falling down his cheek. 

“But… No, it can’t be. Brian disappeared two years ago. This isn’t funny. Who is this?” she said, emotions threatening to overwhelm her and he could hear it in her voice. 

“It’s really me, honey. I was… well I was taken. I can explain everything. Are you still in Charlotte? Are you… are you still single?”

“Yes. And as of a month ago, yeah I am single again,” she said slowly. “Brian, is it really you?”

“Yes, babe. It’s really me. Finally,” he blurted out. 

“Finally?” she asked, confused.

“Don’t worry. I’m in Mississippi but I’m going to pack my car and drive straight through to Charlotte. To you.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you. I’ve been so worried. I still think about you every day. I was so afraid that you–” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. 

“I’m coming home. I’ll explain it all when I get there,” he promised again. “Let me pack some things and I’ll call you from the car.”

“Okay,” she said, tears in her voice. “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” he said and then hung up. He turned to find the three of you looking at him but Sam and Dean quickly looked away. 

You pulled out of Dean’s arms after giving him a quick peck to the lips. Slowly, you walked over to Brian and held out your arms. He gave you a hug and you both sank into each other. It was a long hug filled with all your past memories and the relief that you finally had your real identities back.  When he pulled back you slipped off your engagement ring and tucked it into his hand, closing his fingers over it. You both gave each other a small smile of understanding. 

“Thank you for being so good to me, Brian,” you said before you let go of his hands. 

“You were good to me too,” he replied. “I’m glad you have your real boyfriend and I hope that Chrissy and I can get past this too. She won’t understand like your boyfriend does. Hell, I don’t even understand it fully. It’s a good thing I have a long drive to try and figure out how I’m going to explain it to her,” he said nervously. 

“You will. If you need help, maybe Cas can come and explain it to her. Show her,” you said, looking back over your shoulder at Cas who gave you a simple nod of agreement.

Brian nodded too and looked at you one more time. “Take care of yourself,” he said, almost calling you honey but catching himself. 

“You too,” you said and you watched him turn towards the closet to grab a suitcase. 

You walked up to Sam and gave him a big hug. “I missed you too, you know,” you said with a smirk. 

“Me too,” he said with a smile as he rubbed his hand over your back. 

You turned and Dean was right behind you. Ready to pull you back into his arms again. “Babe, can you give me like ten minutes to pack some things and change and then we can get out of here?”

He pouted but nodded. “Yeah,” he said, letting his hands fall back to his sides. As you pulled some personal things out and set them on the bed, Dean began packing them into a bag from the walk-in. He wanted to get you back to the motel as fast as humanly possible. Sam was already downstairs in the car. 

A few minutes later, you were ready to go. You gave Brian one more hug and hugged and thanked Cas for giving you your life back and told him you’d see him soon. Then you followed Dean out into the dark night. The crisp air hit your skin as you pulled the Impala door open and slid in beside Dean.

Part 7

In a fraction of a second, Dean’s hunter instincts took over. He stepped out of the closet, entirely shielding your body with his own solid frame. His gun was up, pointed straight at Brian’s chest, his stance rock-solid and lethal.

“Step back,” Dean growled, his voice low, vibrating with a protective rage. “Back, right now.”

“Are you out of your damn mind?” Brian yelled, raising his hands but refusing to back down. “Honey, get away from him! He’s got a gun!”

But behind Dean, you let out another weak, ragged whimper, your knees buckling completely as the pain in your head flared again, threatening to pull you under. You slid down the wall, your hand slipping from the back of Dean’s shirt.

The sound of your pain shattered Dean’s focus instantly.

The gun didn’t matter. Brian didn’t matter. In a heartbeat, Dean spun around and dropped to his knees, catching you before you could hit the floor. He let his gun clatter to the hardwood, to catch you, as he gathered you in his arms.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Dean murmured, his voice thick with sudden, mounting panic. He cupped your face with his hands, his green eyes scanning your pale features. “Look at me, sweetheart. Just breathe. Sammy!”

You murmured something incoherent and then the only part that Dean could make out, “...they said they were doing this to save us. To save you from me. Or me from you.”

Brian’s anger instantly faltered, replaced by a sudden, nervous panic as he looked down at you shivering in Dean’s arms. “What...what’s wrong with her? What did you do to her?!” he stammered, taking a step closer, though he looked terrified to touch either of you.

“Get back!” Dean roared at him, not even looking up as he pressed his forehead gently against yours. “I swear to God, if you touch her, I’ll kill you.”

Your eyes were closed. You had passed out again. Dean lifted you into his arms and carried you to the bed, glaring at your fiance—a silent warning to get out of his way—and laid you down gently. 

You weren’t out as long this time. It was only about ten minutes but it was a tense, silent stand-off in the bedroom. Neither man spoke but each was glaring at the other. Dean was contemplating killing Brian for whatever he’d done to you and Brian was thinking about going for the gun on the floor or calling the cops. 

Just then Sam walked in. “Dean–” he trailed off as he took in the absolute severity of the scene. You were unconscious on the bed and both men were on either side of the bed looking completely murderous. 

Before he could try and de-escalate things a soft groan left your lips and your eyes began to flutter. Both men’s attention snapped back to you. Slowly, you opened your eyes and squinted, trying to adjust to the light in the room after your blackout. You brought your hand up to shield your eyes. 

“Sweetheart, talk to me,” Dean said, his jade eyes locked on you. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Brian said, crawling further into the bed beside you, his eyes warily shifting between you, Dean and the tall stranger now standing near the door. He was starting to feel trapped in his own bedroom and he still wasn’t sure exactly what he had walked in on with you and Dean. 

Sam noticed Dean’s gun on the floor and immediately retrieved it. That took out one of Brian’s options but he tried to keep his face steady and not show as much fear as he felt. 

“Dean,” you murmured.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he said, reaching out to cup your cheek. “Where’s Brian?” you asked, voice still pained. 

“I’m here, honey,” he said, puffing out his chest just a bit while he reached for your hand slowly and carefully, remembering Dean’s threat.

You squeezed Brian’s hand but turned your head back towards Dean. “I saw something,” you said weakly, still trying to regain your bearings. 

“What did you see?” Dean asked softly, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

“Us. We were someplace big and we were watching a movie with beer and food and chocolate covered strawberries and we…” you trailed off, your gaze flicking to Brian. 

“Chocolate covered strawberries. I remember. That was our anniversary…” Dean said, his eyes getting slightly moist but he blinked it away quickly. “We were on the floor of the bunker,” Dean continued, his voice barely more than a rough whisper. “We dragged the mattress from our room into the library. You said the couch was too lumpy. We drank cheap beer out of the bottle and you insisted we had to eat those strawberries because they were classy.” 

Your eyes found Dean’s again. “We didn’t finish the movie… I remember us… being… intimate,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. You closed your eyes for just a second and saw Dean’s head between your trembling thighs, your hands gripping his hair tightly, back arched, flashing behind your eyelids. You let out a soft breath as you opened your eyes again, a shiver running up your spine. 

Dean let out a raw, shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. For the first time since he saw you again, the fierce, defensive guard he kept up completely crumbled. His hand remained on your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear before it could fall. He looked at you with an expression of such profound relief and devotion that it made your chest ache all over again.

“We made it to the half-hour mark of the movie,” Dean said, his voice thick with emotion, a tiny, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “Before I kicked the bowl of strawberries off the mattress because I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”

“Bullshit! You’re lying! You’re messing with her head, twisting her thoughts!” Brian yelled, squeezing your hand tighter. “Honey, this isn’t real! We are real. Our life together is real!” 

“Brian, cut the shit, we know her accident never happened. So why don’t you start telling her the truth,” Sam said, his voice low and dangerous, the gun still in his hand at his side like a silent warning. 

“I am!” Brian insisted, his voice cracking with a desperate, frantic sincerity that actually made Sam pause. Brian looked down at you, his eyes wide and completely terrified, swimming with genuine tears. “Honey, I swear to you, I’m not lying. I know you had an accident. I was there! The police called me from the hospital. They said you’d been run off the road, that your car was a total loss, and you didn’t have any ID on you but they found my number in your pocket. I rushed to Georgia. I took care of you. I—I built our home. I love you!”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he watched Brian’s breakdown. He was a master at reading liars, but looking at Brian right now... the guy didn’t look like a con artist or a monster trying to cover his tracks. He looked like a man whose entire reality was suddenly being ripped apart at the seams.

Sam slowly lowered the gun, his brow furrowing as he watched the utter panic on the fiance’s face. He stepped closer to the bed, his analytical eyes scanning Brian’s body language.

“Brian,” Sam said, his voice dropping the hard edge, replaced by a cautious, calculating tone. “When you got that call... what was the name of the officer who called you?”

“I... I don’t know,” Brian stammered, shaking his head rapidly as he clutched your hand like a lifeline. “Officer... Officer Smith? Or maybe Miller? It was two years ago, I don’t remember! I just remember the panic. I remember driving all night from North Carolina to get to you.”

“North Carolina?” Sam repeated, his eyes widening slightly. “But you live here. You’ve lived here your whole life, right?”

“No, I—yes. Yes, I’ve always lived here,” Brian said, then he blinked, a sudden, glassy look washing over his eyes. He shook his head, looking momentarily dazed. “Wait. No, I was in Charlotte. I had an apartment. No... no, I’ve lived in this house for five years. I...” He trailed off, his breath catching in his throat as he gripped his own head with his free hand, his face twisting in sudden, painful confusion. “Why did I just say North Carolina? I’ve never even been there.”

Dean’s hand stilled on your cheek. He slowly looked up, meeting Sam’s eyes across the bed.

“Sam,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a low, heavy realization. “It’s not just her.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured, his expression turning grim. “Someone didn’t just wipe her memory and dump her here. They built a whole damn cage around her. They found a guy who was already alone, rewrote his mind, gave him a fake history, fake memories of an accident, and slotted him right in as the perfect, devoted boyfriend."

“Dammit, they’ve both been magically roofied,” Dean muttered. He wanted to continue to hate Brian but this changed everything. Brian wasn’t the threat, just another victim.

You looked from Brian—who was now trembling, staring at his own hands in absolute horror as his brain tried to process the gaping logical loopholes in his own life—to Dean, whose green eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and deep, aching pity.

“Alone?” Brian muttered, still looking down at his hands. He lifted his head, his eyes darting between the three of them. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t alone. Chrissy. I had a girlfriend, Chrissy. We lived together in–” He cut himself off, his hands flying to his own head, eyes screwed shut in pain as he let out a low groan. 

“Brian!” you said, sitting up and reaching for him. Your hand came down on his thigh and you moved closer to wrap your arms around him. “Babe, are you okay?”

Dean’s fist tightened by his side but he remained still on the other side of the bed. This wasn’t his fault or yours. You were both victims. He couldn’t fault either of you for the feelings you’d built over the last two years. 

After a moment, Brian opened his eyes again. They were glossy but he didn’t let the tears fall. He said your name and hugged you back. “But Chrissy. What happened to her? What the hell is going on?!” he said, voice panicked and desperate. 

Sam let out a sigh and walked to the foot of the bed. “Something did this to both of you. It ripped you out of your lives and forced you into a fake life. We don’t know what yet or why but we will figure it out,” he promised. 

“Something?” Brian asked, looking between Sam and Dean. “What does that even mean??” he said, throwing his hands in the air in frustration and confusion.

Dean looked at him and his eyes were slightly less cold but no less intense. He didn’t sugar coat it. “There are things out there that people think are just fantasy. They’re not. Vampires, werewolves, demons, and many, many more monsters. They’re all real. We hunt them. She did too before she was zapped into Pleasantville.”

Brian stared at Dean, his face completely pale, his chest heaving as he tried to process the absolute insanity of what he had just heard. He let out a breathless, borderline hysterical laugh. “Monsters? Vampires? Are you out of your damn mind? Honey, tell me these guys are escaped mental patients, please.”

You looked at Brian, your heart aching at the pure terror in his eyes, but as you opened your mouth to comfort him, a bizarre, heavy weight settled into your chest. The word monsters didn’t sound like a fairy tale. It sounded like an old, familiar textbook.

“He’s telling the truth, Brian,” you heard yourself say, your voice remarkably steady despite the circumstances. You looked over at Sam, then back to Dean. “I don’t know how I know... but he is.”

Brian’s mouth opened and closed, his gaze flickering down to your hand on his chest. He looked completely unraveled, a man watching the walls of his entire existence crumble into dust. “Chrissy...” he whispered, his thoughts looping back to the fracturing pieces of his own mind. “If she was real... what did they do to her? What did they do to me?”

“Hey,” Dean said, his voice surprisingly quiet as he addressed Brian directly for the first time without a murderous edge. He didn’t move closer—respecting the fact that you still had your arms around the guy—but his green eyes were deadly serious. “Listen to me. Whoever did this to you, they didn’t do it because they hated you. They used you. You were a prop to keep her hidden. If your girlfriend Chrissy is out there, we’ll help you find her. But right now, we need to figure out who pulled the strings.”

Sam nodded, tucking the gun into his waistband. “Brian, think. Two years ago, right before you got that phone call about the accident. Did anything weird happen? Did you see a flash of light? Hear a weird noise? Did a stranger come to your door?”

Brian clutched his head again, his eyes squeezed shut tightly as he forced his mind back into the fog. “I don’t... I can’t...” He groaned, the pain clearly flaring up the harder he tried to fight the mental block. “There was... a man. At my apartment in Charlotte. He had a coat. No, that’s not right. He was wearing a suit. He had these... these eyes. They weren’t normal. They were glowing. Like a blue fire.”

A violent shiver ran down your spine, and you instantly looked up at Dean.

Dean’s entire demeanor shifted. The pity vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid tension that made his shoulders lock. He didn’t look at Sam; he kept his eyes locked on you, his jaw working as a dangerous, familiar anger began to simmer beneath his skin.

“Blue fire,” Dean repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerously low register. He knew that description. He knew exactly what kind of power it took to rewrite two lives so flawlessly and construct a perfect, localized prison.

“An angel,” Sam breathed from the foot of the bed, his face falling into a grim, exhausted expression. “Dean... it was an angel.”

Dean didn’t answer his brother. Instead, he looked at you, his thumb tentatively reaching out to brush a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly tender despite the fury radiating off him. “They told you they were saving us from each other, huh?” he murmured, recalling what you’d muttered before you passed out. A bitter, heartbreaking smile touched his lips. “They always think they know what’s best for us.”

Brian looked between you and Dean, noticing the unspoken, profound connection passing between you even in the middle of a literal nightmare. He slowly let his hands drop from his head, looking entirely defeated. “If my whole life is a lie...” he whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at you, tears finally spilling over his eyelids. “Was... was this a lie too? Did you ever actually love me?”

The question pierced right through you, throwing you into a tailspin of guilt and confusion. You looked at the man you had planned to marry, the man who had been sweet and gentle to you for two whole years, and then your gaze drifted to Dean, whose green eyes were watching you with a heavy, agonizing breath held in his chest, waiting for your answer.

You looked at Brian, your heart fracturing at the raw, vulnerable pain in his voice. This was a man who had held you when you cried, who had built a quiet, safe life with you, and who—until five minutes ago—truly believed you were his entire future.

“Brian,” you whispered, your fingers tightening into the fabric of his shirt as you held him. “I… I don’t know what’s real in my head right now. But the way I cared about you? The way you cared about me? That wasn’t fake. We didn’t know. You were good to me, Brian. That was real.”

Brian let out a ragged, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he leaned his forehead against your shoulder for just a second. It felt less like a romantic embrace and more like two survivors clinging to each other in the middle of a shipwreck.

On the other side of the bed, Dean didn’t move. His jaw tightened, and he looked down at the floor, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. It was a jagged pill to swallow—watching you comfort another man, hearing you say you cared about him—but Dean forced his own jealousy down. He could see the truth. Brian wasn’t the monster who had stolen you; he was just another piece of collateral damage left in a dick angel’s wake.

“Look,” Sam stepped in, his voice gentle but firm as he tried to keep them all grounded. “The angel who did this… they didn’t just want to hide you. They wanted to make sure that if Dean ever did find you, the truth would tear all of you apart. It was a trap designed to keep you from going back to your real lives.”

“So what do we do?” Brian asked, slowly pulling back from you. He wiped a hand across his wet eyes, looking completely exhausted, his gaze shifting from you to Sam, and finally to Dean. “If my memories are a lie… how do I get my real life back? How do we get our lives back?”

Dean lifted his head, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp determination. The heartbroken lover vanished, replaced entirely by the hardened, fierce hunter who was done being a pawn in some cosmic game.

“We find the son of a bitch who did this,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a lethal, gravelly rumble. He reached out, his hand resting flat on the mattress right next to your hip, bringing his presence close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Angels leave a signature when they do mojo this heavy. Grace leaves a trail. We’re gonna find out which choir-boy stepped out of line, and I’m gonna personally rip his wings off.”

You looked at Dean, and for the first time, the sheer intensity of his anger didn't scare you. Inside your chest, a strange, dormant spark of fire finally flared to life. You recognized that anger. You had shared it once.

“How do we find him?” you asked quietly, your voice losing its timid, librarian softness and taking on a steady, focused edge that made both Winchester brothers instantly look at you.

Sam let out a small, encouraging breath. “First, we need to check the local area for any weird celestial activity over the last two years. Localized lightning storms, sudden clusters of cured illnesses—anything an angel leaves behind when they drop in to check on their handiwork. Because if they went to this much trouble to build a cage for you…”

“They’re probably still watching it,” Dean finished for him, his jade eyes locking onto yours with a fierce, protective promise. “And the second they realize the hinges are broken, they’re gonna come back to fix it.”

“Cas, get your ass down here or so help me God,” Dean growled. 

You let go of Brian and leaned back on the headboard, turning to stare at Dean like he’d lost his mind. “Who are you yelling at?”

“An angel. One that’s BEING A DICK,” Dean said, yelling the last words at the ceiling. 

Suddenly, a swoosh of air swept through the room and the soft sound of wings flapping echoed briefly. Dean was on his feet now and he spun around, immediately putting himself between you and the sound. An angel came when Dean called alright—he had been watching his project fail in real-time—but it wasn’t Castiel.

Part 6

“Hi,” the brothers said in unison. Dean started to scoot over but you looked at Sam. “Can I sit here?”

Sam shot Dean a look but scooted over in the booth to make space. When your eyes met Dean’s again, he couldn’t help but look a little wounded. You hated that you've seen that look so many times since you met him but you felt a little more comfortable sitting next to the brother who didn’t stare at you with the heaviness and longing that Dean did.

“I-I’m only here because you said you know something about the hospital. I thought maybe you might know something about my accident.”

Sam quickly closed a couple of open tabs on his screen, leaving a clean official document visible before turning the screen slightly toward you. “Right. Of course. Well, first off, we dug into the records from that hospital in Georgia where you woke up two years ago.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He just watched you from across the table, his arms folded over his chest, his forgotten burger sitting in the basket. The wounded look was gone, replaced by that familiar, fierce intensity, but he was intentionally keeping his mouth shut so he wouldn’t scare you off again.

“Here’s the thing,” Sam continued, his deep voice calm and professional as he pointed to the screen. “The hospital records say you were admitted under Jane Doe after being found on the side of Route 16. The intake report lists your injuries as a concussion and dehydration. But there is absolutely no mention of an automobile accident. No lacerations, no broken bones, no bruising consistent with a crash. Nothing.”

You squinted at the digital document, your chest tightening as you read the words No physical trauma noted. “But… Brian told me the police said it was a hit-and-run. He said my car was totaled.”

“We checked the DMV and police databases for this entire region,” Sam said gently, his eyes filled with sympathy. “There is no record of a car registered to you ever being towed, impounded, or involved in an accident around that date. And your medical chart? The neurologist who examined you noted that your amnesia didn’t look like it was caused by a head injury. He actually wrote down that the cognitive block was ‘atypical’ and recommended a psychiatric transfer before you were suddenly discharged against medical advice.”

You sat back against the vinyl booth, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. The room suddenly felt very loud, the clinking of silverware and the murmur of other diner patrons buzzing in your ears. Your whole life for the past two years was built on the foundation of that accident. Brian had been the one to explain it to you, to hold you while you cried over your missing pieces, to help you start fresh.

“Why would he lie to me?” you whispered, your hands starting to tremble in your lap. “Why would Brian make all of that up?”

“Because he’s keeping you in a box,” Dean’s voice cut through the fog, low and rough. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, bringing himself closer to you. “Sweetheart, think about it. If you don’t have a past, if you don’t have a car, if you don’t have any family checking in on you, who do you have to rely on? Just him.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, your voice rising slightly in panic. “No, Brian loves me. He’s sweet, he’s—he wouldn’t do something like this. He’s just a normal guy.”

“He might be a normal guy,” Sam interjected, trying to keep his tone soothing before Dean could push too hard. “He might just be a guy who found a vulnerable woman and saw a chance to build a perfect life. Or… he might be a part of whatever actually put you there. We don’t know yet. But the paperwork doesn’t lie. There was no accident.”

You looked from Sam’s steady gaze back across the table to Dean. His green eyes were completely locked on yours, practically begging you to see the truth. The ache in your chest flared up again, hotter this time, a chaotic storm of confusion, betrayal, and that terrifyingly deep familiarity swirling inside you.

“I have to go,” you stammered suddenly, sliding out of the booth before Sam could even move his legs. “I—I have to get back to the library. Brian is supposed to bring me lunch in twenty minutes.”

“Hey, wait,” Dean said, standing up immediately as you backed away from the table. He didn’t chase you, but his voice anchored you to the spot for a fraction of a second. “Take a breath. You don’t have to face him alone.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though the words felt hollow even to you. You turned and practically sprinted out the glass front doors of the diner, the bell jingling merrily above you as you burst back out into the bright morning air, your head spinning out of control.

Dean looked at Sam. “Well, she knows. That’s a start.”

“Do you think she’ll accept it though? Uproot the perfect life she thought she’d built here? With him,” Sam asked, raising a brow and tilting his head slightly for just a fraction of a second.

“I don’t know. But we can’t give up. She still has my phone number on her wrist. That has to count for something,” Dean said, voice low and rough. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brian came and brought a pizza with him. You both were sitting in the breakroom eating together when you noticed he was eyeing you a little. 

“What?” you asked, around a mouthful of pizza. 

“Nothing. You’re just… quiet,” he said, eyes still studying your face. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, quickly taking another bite to keep from answering another question. 

“Okay,” he relented but his eyes still had that look in them. 

You didn’t want to have a conversation with him yet. Not now. And definitely not here. You needed time to wrap your mind around everything, well as much as you could, before you asked him about the hospital. About the accident that apparently never really happened. 

After lunch you walked him out to his car. He pulled you into his arms and gave you a long deep kiss. Somehow, you managed to kiss him back like nothing was wrong. His embrace was warm and his kiss was steady. Nothing gave away that he might be hiding anything. That sent a shiver down your spine but you gave him a smile and started to pull away to go back inside. He kept his hold on your waist. 

“Honey,” he said, studying your face again. “Are you sure you’re okay after everything that happened last night with the weirdo?”

“Weirdo?” you said softly. “You mean Dean?”

“Yeah, him. He was weird and the whole thing really freaked me out so I can only imagine how you feel.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Really, babe,” you lied. 

He looked at you for another moment before finally letting go of your waist and giving you a quick peck to your lips. “Okay then. I’ll see you tonight before my poker game.”

You nodded and gave him a small smile before turning and walking back into the library. 

You walked back into the breakroom to hang up your jacket. Immediately, your gaze dropped to your wrist. You pulled out your phone and saved Dean’s number in it. As a small sigh left your lips, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. As you opened your eyes, Mary walked in and you stepped back out to get back to work.

The rest of the afternoon shift dragged by in an agonizingly slow crawl. Every time the library’s front doors opened, your heart leaped into your throat, half-expecting to see those familiar green eyes or Sam’s tall silhouette walking through the door again.

But they didn’t come back inside.

Instead, you spent hours shelving books in a complete daze, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind spun in exhausting circles. Every memory you had of your life here—every sweet thing Brian had ever done, every comforting word he’d spoken when you woke up terrified and blank in that hospital room—now felt tainted. It was like looking at a beautiful painting and suddenly noticing a massive, ugly crack running right down the center.

No physical trauma noted. No car registered to me. Why would he lie?

By the time 5:00 p.m. finally rolled around, you were completely spent. You said a quiet goodbye to Mary, gathered your things, and walked out into the cool evening air. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement. You headed straight for your small white sedan. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Dean was sitting on the edge of the motel bed, looking at Sam who was digging up info on Brian over at the desk. Dean glanced at the hole in the wall above Sam’s head then looked into the main part of the room, not focusing on anything in particular. 

“Cas, get your feathery ass down here,” he said, as his eyes scanned the room for signs of movement. After a moment, he sighed. “C’mmon, Cas! This is the fourth time I’ve called you. I need you, man,” he gruffed, getting more annoyed by the second. 

Sam turned and looked at Dean. “Still nothing, huh? That’s rough.”

“Fuckin’ angels,” Dean grunted.

Sam shrugged and turned back to his laptop, fingers flying across the keys. 

Dean’s phone buzzed and he saw your number, your current number, pop up on the screen. He answered quickly, saying your name. 

“Dean,” you said in a whisper. 

“What’s wrong? Why are you whispering?” he asked, panic flooding his green eyes as he jumped to his feet. Sam spun to look at him, a questioning look on his face, but he remained silent. 

“Dean, someone is in the house. Brian is gone at his poker game. I’m alone in here and I heard a crash downstairs,” you said quietly but fear penetrated every word and Dean heard it. 

“Text me the address. We’re on our way,” he said, his voice deep and certain. 

His phone buzzed again just as he slid behind Baby’s wheel. 

Dean entered through the front door while Sam went around the back. He didn’t see anyone downstairs so he headed for the second floor, his boots silent on the hardwoods. He peeked in the first room. Empty. He swung his body around to point his gun through the open door of the second room. Empty. In the third room, he saw a flickering light. As he entered the master bedroom he walked by the door to the master bathroom. The tub was full of water and there was some water on the floor. A big candle sitting on the vanity bathed the room in a warm flickering light but it was empty too. 

Dean turned and looked around the room. His eyes landed on the movement behind the curtains. He walked over to pull them back but didn’t have a chance. 

You lunged out from behind the fabric with raw, explosive speed, your body moving on a pure, instinctual autopilot that your conscious mind didn’t even have time to register.

Before Dean could even react, you slammed your body weight into his chest, throwing him entirely off balance. Your hands gripped his collar, and with a swift, practiced twist of your hips, you swept his legs right out from under him. He went down hard, the back of his head barely missing the edge of the nightstand as he hit the fluffy shag rug with a heavy, breath-robbing thud.

In a fraction of a second, you straddled his waist, your knee pinning his arm to the floor while your hand flew to his throat, squeezing just enough to keep him pinned.

Your chest heaved, your breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as you stared down at him, ready to strike.

Dean didn’t fight you. He didn’t even try to throw you off, though he easily had the size advantage. He just lay there on the floor, his free hand held up in a placating gesture, his green eyes locked onto yours. Even with your fingers pressed hard against his windpipe, there was no anger in his face—only a sudden, staggering wave of awe.

“See?” Dean choked out, a rough, proud little laugh escaping his lips despite the grip you had on his throat. “Told you... hunter, sweetheart.”

You blinked, the fog in your brain briefly clashing with the absolute lethality of the position you had just taken. You looked down at your hands, then at the way your knees were perfectly locked to pin his hips, realization slowly dawning on you. You didn’t know how to do this. You were a librarian. You spent your days shelving biographies, not dropping grown men to the floor like a SWAT officer.

“I...” your voice trembled, your grip loosening on his neck, though you didn’t get off him yet. “How…? How did I do that?”

“Muscle memory,” Dean whispered, his eyes scanning your face, drinking in the sight of you. “Your head might not remember the training, but your body does. You’ve taken me down just like that multiple times but usually it’s for the enemies.”

“Dean!” Sam’s voice roared from the hallway as he came rushing up the stairs, his gun drawn. He rounded the doorway of the bedroom and froze, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of you, in a tiny little tank top and shorts pajama set with your hair pulled up into a messy bun, straddling and completely pinning his older brother to the floor.

Sam slowly lowered his gun, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, guess she’s still got it.”

“Shut up, Sammy, and help me up,” Dean grumbled, though he didn’t look the least bit upset about being held down. Dean watched, his eyes still holding the awe, as you released him and slowly stood up. You were now wrapping your arms around your middle shyly. “I…” you started. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry,” you murmured. 

Sam grinned at you both. “I’m just going to be,” he paused. “Yeah, anywhere else,” he said, turning and walking out of the room as he shook his head. A moment later, you both heard the front door close behind him.

Dean’s eyes never left you. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to apologize.”

You nodded slowly. “Was there anyone downstairs?” 

“I didn’t fully clear it but Sam probably did. No sign of a broken window or anything though,” Dean said, climbing to his feet and smoothing down his clothes. 

Just then Dean saw a shadow moving in the hallway. He grabbed you and pulled you into the closet, his hand sliding over your mouth. The closet next to the master bathroom was small, not like the huge walk-in across the room. Your back was pressed to his chest, in order for you both to fit. 

His heart was slamming against his ribs. First you were straddling him and now you were pressed against him and he could feel the curve of your ass pushing against his dick, your slightly damp hair at the nape of your neck from where you’d been laying in the tub was against his neck, the smell of soap and your own personal scent overwhelming his senses. He whispered in your ear, without having to move at all, “Someone is out there. I’m going to lower my hand. Can you stay quiet?” 

You nodded. Dean lowered his hand and it landed on your hip instinctively. He didn’t notice—his focus was split between the threat and your body pressing so tightly to his that he was starting to get hard.

Shit. Not now. I’m really going to fucking scare her off now. 

Your breathing was ragged although you were trying to keep it quiet. As he spoke to you, you could feel his lips brushing against your ear, his breath warm and intimate against your neck. You could feel his muscular chest pressed against your back. Then you felt it. Your breath caught and you couldn’t help but let out a tiny rasp of his name, “Dean.”

Dean tensed immediately. Your voice. The way you said his name. It was practically a fucking moan. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, trying to hold it together. 

“I know, sweetheart,” Dean breathed against your temple, his voice a low, raspy rumble that sent a physical shiver straight down your spine. “I know. Just try to breathe.”

He forced his mind to lock onto the hallway, blocking out the torturous reality of how perfectly your body curved into his. His thumb brushed a slow, unconscious circle against your hip, his grip firm but gentle against the smooth, silky pajama shorts, keeping you anchored to him in the dark.

Every single one of your senses was on fire. Your heart was drumming a frantic rhythm in your ears, but it wasn't just from the fear of an intruder anymore. It was him. The solid, heavy heat of his chest pressing into your half bare back, the raw masculinity radiating off him, the possessive way he held you—it didn’t feel terrifying. It felt safe. It felt like home.

Outside the closet door, the heavy oak floorboards of the bedroom creaked.

Dean’s grip on your hip tightened instantly, his entire body going rigid as steel. He reached down with his free hand, his fingers quietly finding the grip of his gun. His chest stopped moving against your back as he held his breath, listening.

Slow, deliberate footsteps paced across the rug. They stopped right in the middle of the bedroom.

“Honey?”

The voice echoed through the quiet room, sounding completely normal, yet making your entire body go ice-cold.

It was Brian.

“Are you up here?” Brian’s voice called out again, closer to the closet this time. “The front door was unlocked. I came home early because I was worried about you. Honey?”

You felt Dean’s breathing change behind you, a dangerous, protective heat rolling off him as his fingers tightened on the weapon in his hand. If Brian opened this door and saw the two of you like this, Dean wouldn't hesitate. But you could also feel the intense conflict in the way he held you—he didn't want to blow this apart for you if you weren't ready.

Dean leaned his head down just a fraction of an inch, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Your call, sweetheart,” he whispered, so quietly it was barely a vibration. “Do we go out there, or do I make him go away?”

You tried to hold your breath, to keep as still as possible, but the sheer sensory overload of Dean’s body heat, his scent, the absolute intimacy of the way his hand rested on your hip, and his lips brushing against your ear was too much. It made your heart hammer against your ribcage like a trapped bird. 

Suddenly, a blinding, white-hot spike of pain shot directly behind your eyes. It was so intense it made your vision go black for a split second. A sharp gasp cut through your throat, followed by a low, pained groan that you couldn’t hold back. You slumped backward, your forehead resting heavily against the side of Dean’s neck as you clutched at your temples.

Outside, the footsteps stopped instantly.

Part 5

Dean walked out and swung the door open, turning and walking back to the bed. “It’s really her, Sammy,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. 

Sam walked in and surveyed the room, craning his neck to peek into the bathroom. “Uh, well, where is she?” he said, turning to face Dean who was now sitting on the edge of the mattress, shoulders hunched, elbows resting on his knees. 

“Gone. Again.”

Sam looked alarmed. Either his brother was hallucinating the whole thing or something was very wrong that would make Dean let you out of his sight after everything that had happened. Neither option was a good one. 

“Where, Dean?”

“With her fiance. To their home. Together,” Dean said, sounding completely defeated. 

Sam stood frozen by the small wooden table, his jaw slightly slack as he tried to process what Dean was saying. “Dean... what do you mean, gone? You told me on the phone she had a fiance, yeah, but you didn’t say you were just gonna let her walk out the door with the guy.”

“I didn’t have a choice, Sammy,” Dean muttered, keeping his eyes glued to the faded carpet between his boots that he was tugging on.

“What do you mean you didn’t have a choice?” Sam stepped closer, his brow furrowed in deep concern. “Dean, she’s been missing for two years. We’ve been tearing the country apart looking for her. You find her in a random diner, bring her back to a motel, and then just let some guy drive off with her? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Dean finally looked up, his green eyes bloodshot and filled with a dangerous, simmering mixture of grief and fury. “She didn’t know who I was, Sam.”

Sam blinked, the words clearly not registering. “What?”

“She didn’t know me,” Dean repeated, his voice cracking on the admission. “She looked right at me, terrified out of her mind, and treated me like a dangerous stranger. Brian—the guy—said she woke up in a hospital two years ago with a chunk of her memory missing. The exact amount of time she knew us, Sammy. Someone did a surgical strike on her brain. Wiped out just me. Just us.”

Sam’s expression shifted instantly from utter bewilderment to intense, analytical shock. “A total block? Dean... are you sure?”

“No, that’s the thing,” Dean said, standing up aggressively and pacing the small distance between the bed and the window. “It’s not total. Right before she passed out cold in the diner, she looked right at me and said my name. Her head didn’t know it, but her soul did. And then in this room, she woke up, looked at me, and said it again. But she was totally blank. She couldn’t tie the name to a single face or memory.”

“If she’s saying your name, the block is cracking,” Sam said, his hunter brain automatically kicking into gear. “But Dean... why let her leave?”

“Because pushing her was hurting her!” Dean snapped, his voice suddenly sharp with the raw emotion he’d been trying to choke down since last night. He stopped by the window, his knuckles white as he gripped the cheap plastic frame. “She was having a damn panic attack or a seizure or something just trying to remember a flash of a feeling. She looked at me and begged him to take her home. What was I supposed to do, tie her to the bed? Force her until her brain turned to mush?”

Turning quickly, he put his fist through the drywall above the little desk and let out a roar. His knuckles were starting to bleed a little but he didn’t care. Dean let out a ragged breath, turning back to the window and looking out at the sunny gravel lot. “I had to let her go. For now.”

Sam flinched slightly at the sudden crack of the fist meeting drywall, but he didn’t move away. He just watched his brother breathe through the pain, the silence in the room stretching out until the only sound was the hum of the old motel mini-fridge.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, taking a step toward the window. “Dean. Look at me.”

Dean didn’t turn around. He just kept staring out at the gravel, his chest heaving, his bleeding knuckles resting against the sill.

“You made the right call,” Sam insisted, his voice steady and grounding. “If a witch or a demon locked those memories down with a heavy hex, forcing the barrier to break all at once can cause permanent psychological damage. It could literally bleed her brain out. You protected her, Dean. Just like you always do.”

Dean let out a hollow, bitter laugh, finally turning his head just enough to glance at Sam over his shoulder. “Yeah? Well, protecting her feels an awful lot like losing her all over again. You didn’t see the way she looked at him, Sammy. She called him babe. She wanted to go home with him.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

Sam grimaced, the sympathy clear on his face, but he didn’t let Dean spiral. “We’re going to get her back. The fact that she said your name—twice—means whatever magic they used on her isn’t perfect. The human soul doesn’t just forget that easily. It’s trying to fight its way out.” Sam walked over to the desk, pulling his laptop out of his duffel bag and setting it down right beneath the newly minted hole in the wall. “Now, what did the fiance say about where she works?”

“A library,” Dean said, the hunter in him finally forcing the grief down into a cold, dark corner of his chest. He walked over to the bathroom door, grabbing a rough white hand towel to wrap around his bloody hand. “Said she’s been here almost two years. Works at the library. Didn’t give a town name, but this one is pretty small so if they have a library there’s only one.”

“Okay,” Sam muttered, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. “A small-town library within a fifty-mile radius of this diner just to be safe. That narrows it down. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll have a list of every local library employee matching her description.”

Dean leaned against the wall, watching the screen light up Sam’s face. “Find her, Sammy. Because the second she wakes up today, she’s gonna be looking at that guy, wondering why the hell a stranger’s name is stuck in her head. And I want to be there when she realizes the truth.”

Sam’s fingers didn’t stop moving, the rapid click-clack of the keys filling the tense quiet of the room. “Alright, I’m pulling up employment records for the county libraries first. If she’s using her real name, this shouldn’t take long. If they gave her a fake identity when they dropped her at that hospital, it’s going to take a little more digging into recent hires from two years ago.”

Dean stood by the bed, slowly unwrapping the towel from his knuckles. The bleeding had stopped, leaving a raw, angry scrape that matched the burning sensation in his chest. “She was using her real name,” he said, his voice completely certain.

Sam looked up from the screen, raising an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Brian said her name in the diner, Sam. He called her by it. Whoever did this to her didn’t care about hiding her from the world. They just cared about hiding us from her.” Dean tossed the stained towel onto the nightstand. “They wanted her living a normal, white-picket-fence life, completely blank to the fact that she used to bleed and fight by our sides.”

“Which means whoever did this wanted you to suffer,” Sam murmured, his eyes dropping back to the laptop. “They didn't kill her. They just took the one thing that kept you grounded.”

A sudden, sharp chime echoed from the computer. Sam paused, squinting at a PDF file that had just loaded on the screen. A slow, triumphant nod came from him. “Got it.”

Dean was at his brother’s shoulder in a split second, leaning over the back of the chair. “Where?”

“Oakwood,” Sam said, pointing to a scanned employee profile on the screen. There was a tiny, low-resolution digital photo attached to the file. Even though it was grainy, there was no mistaking your hair or the familiar curve of your smile. “Oakwood Public Library. It’s a small town about thirty minutes north of here, right off the main highway. According to the database, she’s scheduled for the opening shift at nine o’clock this morning.”

Dean glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 7:42 a.m.

“That gives us just enough time to grab a coffee and breakfast and get to that library right as the doors unlock,” Dean said, his defeat instantly melting away into a cold, determined focus. He snatched his keys off the table, the metallic jingle sounding like a promise. “Let’s go get our girl.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mary had just unlocked the doors and you were in the back of one of the stacks, reshelving books when a tall man walked around the corner and said your name. Your head popped up. You didn’t recognize him. He was really tall, dressed in jeans, a black and blue flannel and t-shirt. 

“Good morning. Can I help you find something?” you asked brightly. You didn’t feel nearly as perky as you let on but you enjoyed your job and were going to try very hard to shake off the lingering, swirling emotions from the early morning craziness. That’s something you could think about later tonight, in the tub while Brian was at his poker night. 

He just stared at you. You placed a book on the shelf and then turned fully toward him, waiting. 

“You really don’t remember, do you?” Sam said. 

Your whole body tensed up. “Excuse me?” you said, voice smaller now. 

Just then Dean came around the corner. Your eyes immediately shifted from the tall man to Dean and back. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–” Sam trailed off with a sigh. “I’m Sam, Dean’s brother.”

You looked between them again as Dean stepped up next to Sam. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” you stammered, gripping a book tight in your hand. 

Dean, eyes locked on you, gave you a small smile. “I just wanted to check on you. Last night was… a lot,” he said. 

You turned and shelved the book just to give yourself a second to take a deep breath. Finally, you turned back to face him. You swallowed hard, your knuckles turning white against the spine of another book. The familiar, terrifying ache threatened to flare up behind your eyes again, but you fought it down, desperately clinging to the quiet safety of the library stacks and the smell of old books.

“I’m… I’m fine,” you lied, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts. You looked at Sam, trying to map his long face and kind, concerned eyes, but there was absolutely nothing there. Just a blank wall. Then your gaze drifted back to Dean, and that strange, phantom heat flooded your chest all over again. Your body remembered him, even if your mind was screaming that he was a stranger. “You shouldn’t be here. Brian is… he’s going to be dropping off my lunch in a couple of hours. If he sees you—”

“We don’t care about Brian,” Dean cut in softly, taking a single, tentative step forward. He kept his hands open and visible, completely non-threatening, but the sheer presence of him seemed to fill the narrow aisle. “We care about you. Look at him, sweetheart.” He gestured faintly to Sam. “Look at Sammy. Just try to think. Two years ago, the three of us were in Lebanon, Kansas. We were sharing a crappy takeout pizza on the hood of my car. You laughed so hard you choked because Sam tried to explain the plot of some nerdy sci-fi movie.”

A sudden, sharp static buzzed in your ears. Your eyes widened, and the book in your hand slipped, thudding loudly against the carpeted floor.

A memory—or the ghost of one—slammed into your brain. It wasn’t a clear picture, just a chaotic rush of sensory details: the taste of cold pepperoni, the deep rumble of Dean’s laugh right next to your ear, and the towering silhouette of a very tall man sitting across from you in the dark.

“Stop,” you whispered, pressing the palms of your hands against your temples as your breath picked up. “Stop doing that. Please. It hurts.”

Sam instantly looked at Dean, a heavy warning in his eyes, but Dean’s focus never wavered from your face. His heart was breaking watching you fracture right in front of him, but seeing the way you reacted proved what he’d told Sam in the motel room.

The block was cracking. And they were running out of time before whatever locked your mind away realized someone was picking at the cracks.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean murmured, his voice dropping into that incredibly gentle, protective tone that made your knees feel weak. He didn’t push any closer, respecting your space, but his green eyes were fiercely holding yours. “We’re not gonna hurt you. I promise. But you need to know the truth. Brian isn’t your fiance. This town isn’t your home. You’re a hunter, just like us. And someone stole you from me.”

“A hunter? I’ve never gone hunting in my life. I don’t even like camping,” you murmured, still pressing your hands to your head. 

“Dean, they wiped a little more than just two years if she doesn’t remember hunting. She was a hunter long before she met us.”

Dean nodded to Sam and then turned his gaze back to you. “Sweetheart, I know this all seems impossible but it’s true. And you weren’t that kind of hunter.”

“Stop. Please,” you pleaded, eyes begging as your hands dropped to your sides. 

Sam laid a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean closed his eyes and nodded.

You felt the panic that had started to rise in your chest ease just slightly at his acknowledgement. You took in a couple of deep breaths and finally said, “I’m not a hunter, Brian is my fiance, and I’d like you to leave, please.”

Dean looked like he had been punched in the gut. That caused a heat and an ache to flood your chest although you still couldn’t pinpoint why he affected you so much. 

Dean nodded again, and then his gaze fell to your wrist. His phone number was still written there. You hadn’t washed it off. You saw something unreadable shift in his eyes. Then he lifted his hands as if to surrender. You tugged your sleeve down over it.  “Okay, sweetheart. We’ll leave. I know you’re working. But I’m not giving up on you,” he said soft but firm. 

You didn’t reply. Sam didn’t say a word but he had a sympathetic look scrawled across his features and he waved a quiet goodbye. 

You let out a heavy breath as they walked away. 

You left your cart of books and walked back up to the front desk where Mary was sitting, just in time to see them walk out the glass front doors. 

“They must be new to town. So handsome!” she whispered to you excitedly. “The short one is just my type. Maybe I should ask him out if I run into him again.”

Suddenly, a wave of nausea and what felt like jealousy surged through you. 

Well, that was weird. I don’t even know him! Who cares if Mary likes him? I have Brian, who is sweet and loving and cares about me. …  Dean seems to care about me too, though. 

You shook your head trying to clear those thoughts away. 

Mary looked up at you from her chair. “You don’t think he’s handsome?” she asked, catching you shake your head.

“Ohh. Um, yeah I guess he is,” you said quietly. You couldn’t really deny that he was truly attractive, almost beautiful, really. 

Mary gave a soft, knowing chuckle, adjusting her reading glasses. “You guess? Honey, if I were twenty years younger and didn’t think your Brian was such a catch, I’d be dragging that man into the fiction section myself.”

You forced a small, polite laugh, but it felt hollow in your throat. Your stomach was still tightly knotted, the phantom jealousy refusing to fully simmer down. Mary’s words were meant to be lighthearted, but they only magnified the bizarre, magnetic pull you felt toward a man you supposedly met for the first time last night.

A hunter. The word echoed in your mind, sounding entirely foreign yet dangerously loud. You hated camping. You loved the quiet, predictable safety of rows of books and the scent of aged paper. You loved your cozy routine. Yet, when Dean had described the cold pepperoni pizza and the rumbled laugh on the hood of a car, your soul had literally ached with the memory of it.

“Are you alright?” Mary asked, her tone shifting from playful to genuinely concerned as she studied your face. “You look a little pale. Did that headache from last night come back?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, seizing the excuse gratefully. You rubbed a hand over your forehead, where a dull throb was still lingering like an unwelcome guest. “Yeah, I think the lights in the stacks are just making it a little worse today.”

“Oh, sweetie, go sit in the breakroom for a bit,” Mary urged, shooing you with her hand. “I can handle the front desk and finish up that cart. Go get some water. Brian will be here with your lunch soon anyway, right?”

“Right,” you said. Brian. Just the thought of his name usually brought a sense of absolute calm, a grounding reality. But right now, looking down at your wrist, your focus zeroed in on the dark ink of Dean’s phone number.

The handwriting was bold, slightly messy, and entirely authoritative. You’d had a shower this morning. You’d used soap. But subconsciously, you realized you hadn’t scrubbed that specific spot on your skin. You had protected it.

Stepping into the small, quiet breakroom, you closed the door behind you and leaned your back against it, letting out a long, ragged breath. Your hands were shaking again. Slowly, you walked over to the little sink, turning on the cold water and splashing it over your face, desperately trying to wash away the fog, the confusion, and the terrifying warmth that Dean’s green eyes had left behind.

You grabbed a paper towel, drying your skin, and then looked at your reflection in the small mirror above the sink. You looked like yourself. The same hair, the same eyes. But beneath the surface, it felt like a mirror fracturing, tiny hairline cracks spreading through everything you thought you knew about your life.

Almost two hours later, you were back in the breakroom again refreshing your coffee when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, expecting a text from Brian saying he was on his way with your favorite sandwich. Instead, it was a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Sammy found something about the hospital you woke up in. We’re at the diner across the street from the library. I’m not gonna push you, sweetheart, I swear. But when you’re ready to hear it, I’ll be waiting.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You looked toward the small breakroom window that faced the main street. Directly across the asphalt, the neon sign of the local diner flickered in the morning light, beckoning to you.

Part 4

“Hun, you okay?” the waitress asked. 

“Forget the pie. Can you, uh, give me a minute?” he said quickly. 

Her brow pulled in a little but she shoved her little book back in her apron. “Sure thing.” She walked off towards the back. 

It can’t be. Here? Now? In the middle of nowhere at 2 a.m.?

Dean didn’t turn around yet, he kept listening. It was your voice. He was sure of it. Finally, he turned around, his arm slung over the back of the booth. There you were. You were sitting three booths down with your back to Dean, talking to a man. 

I can’t see her face. Maybe it’s not her. I’m just imagining things. Lack of sleep. Rough day. Shit.

Then he heard your laugh and he was sure. It was really you. He was staring at the back of your head. He hadn’t seen you in two years. You were his girlfriend. His everything. He had even bought a ring. And then you had just simply disappeared. He and Sam looked for you for over a year. He still sometimes caught himself looking for your old car or staring at someone from behind who had similar hair. It haunted him every day. And here you are just sitting there chatting and laughing at a small-town diner in the middle of the night like you hadn’t completely destroyed his heart and his life. 

Dean slid out of the booth and walked up to yours. He completely ignored the man, staring down at you in disbelief. He still thought he might be getting ready to wake up from a dream or that a djinn had put him under, when he said your name. 

You looked up at him with a startled and confused look on your face. You quickly looked at the man before returning your gaze to Dean. “Uh, hi,” you said slowly. 

The man looked at you with a slightly furrowed brow. “Babe, do you know him?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly as if you were deep in thought, trying to solve a puzzle. “I…I don’t think so,” you said. Your eyes flicked to the man and then back to Dean again. “I’m sorry but have we met?”

Babe? Have we met?!? 

His eyes dropped to your hand which was sitting on the table over the fork you’d just set down. Your left hand. It had a shiny diamond ring on a very specific finger. 

Dean’s face went pale. He felt like he was going to be sick. 

He searched your expression—looking for a flicker of recognition, a silent plea for help, or even the telltale ocular flash of a shapeshifter or a demon. But there was nothing. Your gaze was just polite and mildly uncomfortable. You were looking at him the exact way you’d look at a stranger who was making a scene.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The hum of the flickering neon sign outside suddenly sounded deafening, roaring in Dean’s ears like a freight train. He braced a hand against the laminate edge of the booth just to keep his knees from buckling.

Two years. 

Two years of sleepless nights, of tearing up every pavement from Lawrence to Lebanon, of praying to a God he didn't even believe in just to find a lead or at one point even a body so he could finally stop wondering.

And here you were. Wearing a ring that wasn’t the one currently tucked away in the bottom of his duffel bag under a stack of flannel shirts.

“Hey, Pal. I’m talking to you.”

The man’s voice cut through the fog in Dean’s brain. He finally looked up from your hand to face the guy. He was clean-cut with short brown hair and dark eyes, wearing a soft fleece jacket—the kind of guy who probably had a 401k and had never held a sawed-off shotgun in his life. He was standing up now, putting himself halfway between Dean and you, his posture defensive but mostly just bewildered.

Dean didn’t even blink. He couldn’t. If he blinked, the illusion might shatter, or worse, it wouldn’t.

 “You don’t know me?” Dean’s voice was a rough, broken gravelly whisper. He didn’t look at the man; his green eyes crashed right back down to yours, searching your face for anything. A smirk, a hidden signal, a flicker of fear that meant you were being coerced. 

But there was nothing. Just genuine, uncomfortable confusion. You shrank back into the vinyl cushion just a fraction, your hand instinctively reaching out to touch the man’s arm. “Look, I... I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong person.” 

That gesture—the way you leaned into him for safety, the way you looked at Dean like he was a dangerous stranger—hit Dean right in the chest harder than any supernatural creature ever could. It left him completely breathless. 

His hunter brain, the one that usually kept him alive, finally kicked into overdrive through the shock. Shapeshifter? Siren? Djinn dream? No, he’d just come from a hunt, he was awake. Was it a hex? Did a demon wipe your slate clean just to screw with him? 

“Is this guy bothering you, honey?” The waitress was back, holding a coffee pot, her eyes darting between Dean’s pale face and the tense standoff at the booth.

“No, it’s fine, Martha,” the man said, keeping his eyes locked on Dean, trying to play the protector. “Buddy, I think you need to turn around and walk out of here. Before there’s a problem.” 

Dean barely heard him. He was completely locked onto you. “Your name is,” he started, his voice cracking on your name, the sound of it heavy with two years of unspent grief. “You... we lived in Kansas. You like your coffee with too much sugar. You sleep on the left side of the bed because you say the right side gets too cold.” 

You froze. The polite, confused smile dropped from your face entirely. Your eyes widened, a sudden, sharp flash of something panic-adjacent crossing your features as you stared up at him. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. 

“Hey! That’s enough!” The man stepped fully into Dean’s line of sight, placing a hand on Dean’s chest to push him back. Usually, anyone putting a hand on Dean Winchester ended up on the floor in three seconds flat. But right now? Dean just stumbled backward a step, completely hollowed out, his eyes still trying to burn a hole through the space where you were sitting. 

The man’s hand against his chest was the only thing anchoring Dean to the reality of the diner, but it felt like a static shock. He stared at the guy’s hand, then slowly looked up into his face.

“Get your hand off me,” Dean said. The rough, broken whisper from a second ago was gone, replaced by a low, vibrating warning that made the waitress, Martha, take a sharp step back with the coffee pot, bumping into an empty table.

The man didn’t back down, fueled by the panic he’d just seen on your face. “Or what? You’re harassing my fiancé, buddy. I don’t care what kind of mental break you’re having, you step away from her right now or I’m calling the cops.”

“Brian, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Dean’s eyes shot past the guy—Brian, apparently—straight back to you. You were pale now, your hands gripped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles were white. You looked terrified, but it wasn’t just the fear of a strange man causing a scene. It was the look of someone whose mind was suddenly fracturing, trying to process a puzzle with missing pieces. Those details—the sugar, the left side of the bed—they had hit a nerve. The memory was in there, locked away deep behind a wall.

“You remember,” Dean said, ignoring Brian entirely, taking a half-step forward. “Don’t look at him, look at me. You know who I am.”

“I said back off!” Brian snapped. Emboldened by Dean’s previous stumble, he shoved Dean’s chest harder this time, trying to physically force him away from the booth.

That was a mistake.

Dean didn’t even blink. His hand shot out like a vise, clamping onto Brian’s wrist with crushing force. With a single, brutal twist, he forced Brian’s arm down and stepped directly into his space, their faces inches apart. Dean’s eyes were dead, terrifyingly cold.

“I told you,” Dean growled, his voice dropping into that dark, lethal tone, “to keep your hands off me.”

“Dean, stop!”

The name tore from your throat before you could even think about it.

The entire diner went dead silent. Brian froze, his face twisting in a mix of pain and sudden, horrible realization. Dean’s grip tightened on the guy’s wrist, but his eyes swung slowly back to you, his heart hammering against his ribs.

You had stood up, your hands resting on the edge of the table to steady yourself. Your eyes were wide, staring at him in utter horror—not because he was a monster, but because you had just said his name, and you had absolutely no idea how you knew it.

Dean said your name, slowly. “You do remember.”

You shook your head violently. “No! I-I… I don’t know why I said that!” you gasped, your voice climbing an octave as panic flooded your chest. 

Dean still had a hold of Brian but his focus was entirely on you. “But you’re right. That’s my name. And I didn’t say it. Not here. Not tonight.”

You grasped the table even harder as your legs started to tremble. “No… I don’t know you,” you murmured. Suddenly, a sharp pain split through your skull, so intense that you started to wobble, your legs unsteady. Dean immediately let go of Brian and turned just in time to catch you as you passed out. 

He scooped you up in his arms, like he had a million times before, in good and bad times. As he stared down at your beautiful face which was no longer strained with panic, he felt his heart squeeze hard enough to hurt. 

He didn’t look back at Brian, and he didn’t look at Martha, who was frozen by the counter with her mouth half-open. Dean just turned, keeping his arms locked tight around you, and marched straight out into the freezing night air.

“Hey! Bring her back! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Brian’s voice echoed out of the diner doorway, frantic and furious, followed quickly by the heavy thud of his boots on the pavement.

Dean reached the Impala in record time, using his hip to shove the passenger door wide open. He carefully laid you across the bench seat, tucking your legs in and making sure your head was supported before he slammed the door shut and spun around to face Brian.

Brian had stopped about ten feet away, his chest heaving, his phone already pulled out and unlocked in his hand. “I’m calling the police. You’re crazy, man, you just kidnapped my—”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Dean cut him off, his voice dead and carrying a weight that made Brian genuinely falter. Dean stepped into the street in front of the Impala, his leather jacket cutting a lethal silhouette in the dark. “She just collapsed because her head is forcing a memory that someone locked away. I’m taking her to the motel down the street. You can call the cops, you can follow me, you can do whatever the hell you want. But if you try to stop me from getting her somewhere safe right now, I will put you on the ground, and I won’t be nice about it.”

Brian’s jaw worked, his eyes darting from Dean’s unblinking stare to you slumped on the front seat of the Chevy. He was terrified, but he clearly cared enough about you not to just run away. “The... the Whispering Pines Motel?” Brian stammered, his knuckles white around his phone. “The one past the interstate?”

“Yeah,” Dean growled, turning on his heel. “That’s the one.”

He slid behind the wheel of the Impala, the engine roaring to life with a familiar, comforting rumble that usually settled his nerves. Tonight, it did nothing to quiet the storm in his chest. He pulled away from the curb and tore down the main strip, his right hand reaching across the seat to wrap gently around your wrist, checking your pulse.

It was steady, but your skin felt entirely too cold.

As he pulled into the gravel lot of the rundown motel, Dean killed the engine and just stared down at you in the dim dashboard light. The ring on your finger caught a glint of the yellow neon overhead. His mind was racing through everything Sam had ever dug up on memory wipes—curses, witch hexes, angel touch. Something was keeping you from him, and it was hurting you to fight it.

He scooped you up again, carrying you to the door of Room 4, his mind completely made up. He was going to lay you down, he was going to wait for you to wake up, and then he was going to figure out exactly who he had to kill to get his girl back.