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Summary: John knows that something is wrong, even if you're pretending it isn't.
Companion piece to:
Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he’s with someone else.
Little John - You try to keep John’s mind off the task at hand.
The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.
Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.
Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.
Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.
Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend’s stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.
Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.
Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.
Diamonds - John’s friend and rival makes you an offer you can’t refuse.
The Stethoscope - John’s world is turned upside down when he finds your stethoscope in his locker.
Elderberry Wine - You come home to find John waiting for you.
Sex, Lies and Cocaine Dreams - John takes his revenge on the man that shattered your dreams.
By The Grace of God - An unexpected ally goes to bat for you during your beard hearing.
Choices - You and John discuss your options moving forward.
The Benefits of Being Selfish (NSFW) - John teaches you the benefits of being selfish.
The Sexual Revolution (NSFW) - You decide to give John a private show before the event.
A Love Story - Your performance sparks an unexpected conversation with Gamma.
The Problem With Winning The War - The problem with winning the war is that you don’t expect the second attack.
Mack The Knife - You come face to face with a nightmare in John’s apartment.
The Merry Go Round - Reality starts to crash down on you in the wake of your recent trauma.
Rounds - John’s his first thoughts are of you upon waking up from surgery.
Love & Duty - John’s recovery at Gamma’s leads to friction in your relationship due to a laundry disagreement.
The Wishing Fountain - John reflects on his life before you.
Physical (NSFW) - John gets an erection for the first time since the attack.
Reconnecting - You and John reconnect for the first time after the stabbing.
Scar Tissue - John doesn’t realise you can tell when he’s mishaving.
Life Support - John realises he’s missed a couple of things during his recovery…
The Mulder To My Scully - The circumstances surrounding John’s patient lead him to think about the future.
The North Star (NSFW) - There’s a whole lot of history connected to your engagement ring.
Ms Carter - After a small hiccup you and John finally tie the knot.
The Envelope - John’s father turns up at the apartment to discuss a legal issue.
One Year (NSFW) - On the one year anniversary of the stabbing John knows exactly what you need.
The Portrait - You come home to discover a new addition to your decor.
When Harry Met Sally - There’s a rumour going around about the identity of the Deb’s baby daddy.
Diminished Capacity - You discover the real motivations behind the annulment.
100 Lifetimes Of Us - John thinks the two of you were always meant to be.
The Invitation (NSFW) - John finally gets the invitation he’s been waiting his whole life for…
Something is wrong.
John can sense it under the surface as he watches you move around the E.D like a dancer, dodging obstacles, reading from a clipboard as you scribble notes. It’s a skill the way you work, purposeful, focused but it’s also a method of hiding, of burying your head in the sand when something unbalances you.
It’s a subtle shift but he can see it in the rigidness of your shoulders, the slight furrow between your eyebrows as you chew your lower lip.
He runs through all the important dates in his head.
Birthday, wedding anniversary, the night you first had sex.
He’s not forgotten anything important so it must be exterior, something someone else has done. He pushes up from his stool, his back protesting as he surges to his feet. It’s one of his bad days, he always has them in the winter. He’s taken a couple of ibuprofen to chase away the pain but still it’s there, a dull ache at the base of his spine reminding him of one of the worst events of his life.
He flicks through his rolodex of dates again.
Maybe that’s it, maybe…
No, he realises, that day has come and gone. He must have been so caught up helping with his grandfather’s affairs that it had completely passed him by. He thinks it was the same for you, you’ve been helping him sort through John Carter I’s things as he figures his way through the complications that come with having power of attorney.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” He murmurs as he captures your elbow and draws you into the store room that Malucci was sneaking out of earlier. He’s got a girl, John thinks, someone at the hospital he’s keeping quiet about, which is rare for Malucci.
He turns the light on, and the bulb swings above the two of you in the cramped space as you hug the clipboard to your chest, leaning back against the shelves.
“Did I do something, did I not do something?” He asks, his forearm resting on the shelf above you, caging you in and you raise your eyes to the sky as if you’re trying to fend off tears.
“Your mom came by after you left for your shift this morning.” You tell him, swallowing hard against the ache in your throat. “She had some things she wanted to get off her chest.”
“What kind of things?” His voice is soft, gentle but underneath it there’s an element of steel, a harshness that he feels in the depth of his soul at the mention of that woman.
“John.” You plead but he shakes his head, because that… that doesn’t fly with him, and you know it.
The fact you don’t want to tell him means she said something awful, something so heinous that you’d rather stew in it then let it poison him too. He can make a few guesses as to what that might be.
“Crys.” He says, capturing your face between his hands. His thumbs chase over the apples of your cheeks, tender and reassuring as he looks into your eyes. “If she hurts you, she hurts me too. I want to know what’s making you so upset. Will you tell me?”
You sigh and he knows he’s won. You don’t keep secrets from one another, your relationship is forged in honesty, no matter how hard the truth might be to hear.
“She said it was my fault that you were stabbed…that I’d played you and him off against each other and that’s why he…” Your voice breaks, a choked sob you try to hide behind the back of your hand. “I know it’s not true but it just…”
It hurts, he knows it does. It’s like a knife stabbing into your kidney, twisting until there’s nothing left but damaged meat.
“Crys, he was entitled piece of shit, he tried to hurt you, he tried to…” John can’t bring himself to say the words, he can just taste the bitterness on his tongue as he remembers lying there in the rain, bleeding out onto the concrete. “What was she hoping to gain by saying those things to you, why would she…”
You give him a look, and he already knows the answer to that question, in fact he can take a bet it’s sitting on the kitchen table in a brown envelope, handcrafted by this mother’s lawyer. His mother, she has this way of finding a weak point, of exploiting it do that you’ll do her bidding.
“You aren’t divorcing me.” It’s not a question, it’s a fact because he knows despite those horrific things she said to you, you would never do that to him. You would never leave him to navigate this world alone, never let him feel that he was unwanted or unloved.
That’s the promise you made when you married him, the one you’ll keep for all eternity.
“Never.” You whisper, your lips brushing over the base of his palm, reassuring him this time. “But we need to get your mom and dad under control. Between the annulment last year and this… I’m not sure how much more of their bullshit I can take.”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!
The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f! reader
Description: A Djinn gives Dean everything he’s ever wanted, but at what cost?
Warnings: Cannon violence, angst, fluff, more angst, dirty talk and thoughts, suggestive content that fades to black, more angst, mentions of suicide and attempt, Dean is completely and pathetically in love.
Note: D/N = Daughter's name. And h/t= hair type/ texture. Ex: curly, straight, etc.
Word Count: 17.5k
What Is and What Should Never Be
(Masterlist, Prev Chapter, Outfit)
He wakes with a startle, sweat clinging to his chest and dripping down his temple. The room feels both too small and too big, too stuffy, too sticky. But this isn’t his room…it isn’t even a motel room. It’s big, cozy, lived in, and the sheets beneath his clenched fists are too soft.
His eyes shift around the space, landing on the form next to him—his one familiar. The moonlight dances on your bare back, glowing around you as if you were a star yourself. You stir, turning to face him. The blanket slips as you lean up, the breath taken from his lungs.
“Dean?” You whisper, eyes still heavy with sleepiness. Still, your eyes hold him with such care, trying to figure out his worry.
“You're here?” he whispers back, eyes jumping around your face. You shouldn’t be here. Wherever “here” is.
“Where else would I be?” You answer, sitting up fully to match him, pressing the blanket to your nude form. “Did you have a nightmare?”
God, your voice is so soft and lovely, it almost makes him forget he should be scared. He doesn’t know where he is, but you’re here, which must mean someplace good. But is it really you? It looks like you, sounds like you, but you weren’t with him, so how could it really be you?
“I-I…I was chasing after a Djinn, it attacked me,” he admits, wide eyes searching yours for truth. “You weren’t there, you were back at the motel with Sam, ‘told me not to go but I did it any—“
“Hey, hey, hey,” you whisper, cradling his face in your hands, holding him like he was fragile. “What Djinn? What are you talking about, baby?”
“The Djinn, th-the wishes,” he utters, melting into your palms.
“Oh,” you murmur, thumb brushing over his cheeks, hands soft. “You must’ve been having a nightmare.”
“No, it wasn’t a—“ he laughs, breathless and fake, pulling your hands away from his face even though it kills him to do so. He’d never reject your touch, or your affection ever, not when it’s all he craves every minute of every day, but right now, he can’t figure out what’s real and what’s not, so he can’t accept the reward that is your love.
But then the moonlight breaking through the curtains catches on the ring on your finger, breaking into a thousand more little moonlights. His breath stutters, loud and all too noticeable. Something churns in his heart, eyes zeroing in on the engagement ring and matching wedding band on your ring finger. His gut twists, something rising in his throat. There’s a ring on his finger too, he realizes, and it’s not the one he usually wears. It’s different. It's on the right finger. It’s…
“We’re married…?” he exhales, choking on the words. His hands shake as they hold your wrists tight, worried you’d slip right through. His heart slams against his rib cage, his chest rising and falling too fast with a breath he can’t catch or keep.
This couldn’t be his world. You weren’t engaged, let alone married, in his world. He knows that, he would remember that because he’s only ever pictured it so many times. He couldn’t ever allow himself that; he shouldn’t have even allowed himself to love you freely—it puts you in so much danger, but that night he had to tell you. And, God, he hasn’t regretted it since. But this? No, this didn’t make sense.
“Yeah…that must’ve been some dream,” you laugh softly, eyebrows furrowed just so.
Your laugh is the same melodic tune, your eyes are the same color, and have the same sparkle. Your skin is the right color, and all your beauty marks are in place. You are fundamentally you. So, maybe it was all a dream. No, a nightmare. A horrible nightmare.
He surges forward, crashing his lips against yours, hands tangling in your hair, trying to prove to himself this is real. You taste the same.
It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.
You giggle into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him in closer. He nudges you onto your back, following you always. None of this makes sense, but you’re his constant, his truth, his touchstone. You wouldn’t lie to him or hurt him. You’d never deceive him, let alone like this.
So he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, trying to believe this truth—this reality. This has to be the right one.
He pulls away slowly, lips barely leaving yours. But something stirs in the corner of his eye, his head snapping towards the sight of the little device on the nightstand. On the little screen, televised in black and white, is a baby fussing about in a crib.
He freezes, almost collapsing the full weight of his body into you. All the air gets sucked out of the room, his ears ringing. He jolts up, staggering back, eyes burning and chest twisting. This didn’t make sense. You weren’t pregnant. He would know. He would remember you being pregnant, and he’d remember nine months and the birth of a whole being.
“Oh, I got it,” you say, shifting up.
“No, no,” he waves you off, his own voice sounding so far away in his ears. “I got it.”
He stumbles into the boxers he finds on the floor, staggering out of the room and down the hall, feet knowing where to go despite his mind struggling to catch up. Each step is unstable, unsteady, like the hall that seems to turn in a fun-house. One too many times, he nearly slams into the walls, photographs rattling.
His vision blurs, ears still ringing loudly when he opens the door three rooms down. He steps forward, slowly approaching the crib, knees threatening to give in. Inside, the baby wiggles, kicking her little arms and legs, a little smile appearing on her slobbery lips. A smile for him.
His lips part in a silent sob, eyes zeroing in on the little girl, tears already streaking down his cheeks. She looks so much like the two of you, with the same eye shape as you, but his color. She has his dirty blonde hair but your texture, his nose, but she undeniably has your smile.
His knees go weak again, forcing him to cling to the side of the crib. It’s like a stab to the heart because dreams aren’t so detailed—they're never this perfect.
Yet, he leans in, ever so gently picking up the little girl like she’ll break or disappear if his touch is too firm. Maybe she will.
But she’s light in his hands, and real, so goddamn real because she’s warm, and solid as he holds her carefully to his chest.
Even though his legs feel like stone, he forces himself into the comfortable chair in the corner of the room in case his legs give up altogether.
A good breath never comes as he sits there, rubbing the baby's back, her chubby cheek resting against his shoulder. He can’t wrap his brain around this. How did he have a kid? How could he deserve that? How could she be so small?
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, tears rolling down his face. His lips press against her head, eyes shutting. “God, you’re so perfect. But this can’t be re—“
He swallows down the sob, chest rumbling with the choke. He’s been shot, stabbed, thrown around, imprisoned, beaten up, been on death's door twice, but none of that—not an ounce of it- can compare to the feeling of knowing this may not be real. He can’t have this. It’s not for him to have. And yet this little girl is in his arms, breathing softly, clinging to him, so how can that not be real?
Let this be real.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he exhales, looking down at the little girl. His little girl. It doesn’t matter how many times he repeats it in his head; he can’t grasp the idea of having something so good. “I hope this version of me is everything you’ll need.”
Gently, he brushes her cheek; in turn, she squeals, her little hand latching onto his finger. All at once, his heart shatters in his chest, overcome with a fullness he’s never felt before.
“‘M not quite sure where I am,” he admits to her softly. “‘M not meant to be here. But I’ll…um, I promise I’ll take care of you. ‘Promise.”
“Look at my two favorite people,” you say softly, appearing in the doorway.
You’re glowing, he thinks, standing there in a baby blue nightgown you must’ve thrown on before coming to find them, and wearing a softened expression, looking at him and the baby with so much love he can feel it from here.
“‘Guessing she didn’t need a diaper change or a bottle?” you ask, stepping into the room.
He shakes his head, unable to take his eyes off of you. You look so…peaceful. He wants you to be at peace.
“‘Maybe she was just lonely, or had a bad dream too,” you decide, standing next to the couch. Immediately, his arm wraps around your waist, crowding you into him until you’re sitting in his lap. His two girls.
You cradle his face in your hands, gently wiping away his tears and kissing where they’ve fallen.
“What’s wrong, Dean?”
He shakes his head again, turning his head to kiss your palm. “‘S nothing, she’s just…I can’t believe she’s real,” he admits, choking on his words.
“After nine months of crazy hormones and pain, I hope she is,” you smile, laughing a little.
And you’re so sweet he can’t help but laugh too, breathless and in disbelief. Then you turn your sweet gaze to the baby resting on his shoulder, her big eyes watching the two of you like maybe she secretly understands what’s going on.
“You hear that?” you coo at her, saying her name. Immediately, the syllable(s) play over in his head, chanting and forming the word. “Your daddy really loves you.”
“I do,” he nods easily, the words needing no thought. “I love both my girls.”
He means it. With every nerve in his body, he means it. He wasn’t sure it was possible to love someone so quickly—within moments, but you can, and he has. And it scares the crap out of him because this isn’t his world, and this isn’t his life. He doesn’t get to have this, or even want it, but it’s so easy to fall into it. To really mean every single goddamn word, even if he only met this baby a couple of minutes ago.
“I love you too,” you tell him, smiling so sweetly and giving him that look you always do that makes him feel like he’s worthy of you—of this.
“And if she knew how to talk, she’d also be saying it,” you add just as quickly.
“Yeah?” he laughs. But he can hear the sincerity in your voice. You’re convinced he’s loved.
“Mhm,” you hum. “I mean, look at her. She’s so content.”
His eyes drop down to her, and already her eyes are shut. Whatever had woken her up hadn’t mattered now. She fell right back to sleep. In his arms. She was comfortable enough with him to fall asleep in his arms. God, he can’t think or function; it’s like someone is squeezing at his heart.
“Mm, yeah, she is,” he murmurs.
“You can put her back in the crib if you want. You should probably head back to sleep too, gonna be tired for work,” you offer, fingers gently scratching the back of his scalp.
“Work?” he echoes, melting into your touch and the soft cushions of the couch.
“Mhm, you know, fixing cars and other things that happen at a mechanic.”
“Right,” he chuckles, you even speak the same way. In this life, he has a job like a normal person. A mechanic. Normal. “I’m gonna call off tomorrow, rather spend the day with you two.”
“You sure?” you ask.
“‘Course I am.”
“Maybe that’s a good idea ‘cause we have to be over at your mom's place for dinn—“
His face drops, pales, his heart dropping out of its cage. He’s stopped listening to what you’re saying—can’t even hear it over the sound of the ringing and the beat of his heart.
“My mom's a…”
“Oh, Dean, don’t tell me you forgot your mom's birthday.”
She's alive here. His mom is alive. He gets to have you, a baby, a house, a normal job, and his mom is alive.
There’s a spike of energy in his veins, every nerve screaming at him to get up and go. He needs to know if this is true. He needs to see it for himself. He can feel the tapping like anxiety in the back of his head, the speed of his heart hammering against his chest, and even the need to bounce his leg. He has to get up, has to do something with this energy before it kills him. And he does… almost.
If this were any other time, he’d shoot up from the sofa, run right out the door, and speed his way through the streets until he was at his childhood home. But things are different, because now he has his sweet wife in his lap and his little daughter in his arms. He has something good and irreplaceable. He can’t mess this up, can’t let you down, won’t scare you.
“Why don’t you go back to bed, sweetheart. I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, shaking his head, words forming even though his mind is elsewhere—in the memory of a fire eating up his house and his future.
“Okay,” you answer softly, but he knows you’re not convinced. He knows that you think something is off because you’re giving him that look, and he knows every one of your looks; he has them catalogued in his mind. But you’ll give him this, give him space because it’s what he wants, even if he’s acting weird, because you’re so goddamn good to him in a way he can’t deserve, and yet you do anyway.
You lean over to place a light kiss on your daughter's head, and then you kiss his forehead, his cheeks, and then his lips, your lips soft and everything he dreams about. Then you get up from his lap, giving his bicep a little squeeze as you go, wisps of blue tule and satin following you as you leave him in that room.
For a moment, all he can do is sit there in silence, staring blankly ahead, one hand resting on his daughter's back and the other hanging limply on the arm of the couch.
His mom is alive.
He’s dreamed about the idea more than he’d ever like to admit, but for it to be real? To have grown up with a mom? To have gotten everything he wanted? No, that can’t be.
So, carefully, he gets up, smothering his need to leave. Then, just as gently, he places D/N back into her crib, hand resting against her chest just to feel the way she breathes steadily. She’s real. Somehow.
Eventually, he steps away, fists clenching at his side because to walk away, even just to the hallway, feels like leaving her forever. But he puts one foot in front of the other, carefully shutting the door behind him, because the alternative is running as fast as he can.
This time, he looks at the pictures on the walls that he had ignored the first time around as he moves down the hallway. There’s a photo from your prom night, you're wearing the same dress, looking just as gorgeous as you did that night, but this is a photo taken in front of the stairs, which he recognizes as your childhood home in Kansas. That never happened. He surprised you at the place, and the only pictures you got from that night were from the photo booth.
His eyes move to the next photo, his breath is punched right from his lungs because it’s a photo of you and him on your wedding day. You’re breathtaking, practically glowing and beaming in your white dress, the pick something uniquely you. And you’re given him that look, standing in front of him beneath an arch, except he’s giving you the same look. He’s never seen that look captured before, but he looks…happy, really fucking happy.
Something churns in his heart, overtaken by something like greed to consume every aspect of this life.
You’re pregnant in the next photo, cradling your stomach. And if he thought you were glowing before, you’re something entirely different here. You’re perfect, and you’re smiling so goddamn brightly.
There’s a couple that are just you two, one that’s candid, you sitting on his lap, laughing at something he said. Then another photo that’s him and Sam in tuxedos, arm around his shoulder—it looks like the same suit from the wedding photo.
He has to pull himself away from the wall of photos, or else he’ll spend hours here trying to memorize them—memorialize them. So, he looks around some more, moving downstairs until he finds his phone lying around. Quickly, he scrolls through his contacts, staring at “Mom” for too long before he finally gets the courage to call.
The ringing feels like it goes on forever; he’s never been more aware of the sound—of the waiting. But then it ends, and there’s shuffling on the other line, a voice he long forgot saying:
“Dean? It’s late, is everything alright? Are Y/N and the baby alright?”
He collapses against the couch, trying to conceptualize this. His mom is alive. His mom.
“Th-they’re fine,” he says, choking on another sob, tears streaming down his cheeks again like they never left. This is more than he’s cried in a lifetime, and yet he can’t bring himself to care or be ashamed.
“Dean, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Mary continues to spill. His mom.
He swallows down his tears, trying to steady his voice. “I just needed to hear from you,” he explains. “Everything’s alright.”
“You’re still coming tomorrow, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, mom, yeah, we’ll be there,” he nods, knuckles white around the phone. “I, uh, sorry if I woke you I—
“It’s alright,” she cuts him off. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He presses his hand to his mouth, trying to keep himself together.
“I’m okay. I’m…I’ll see you tomorrow,” he manages to get out. “I-I love you.”
“I love you too, Dean. Now get some sleep, okay?”
He nods even though she can’t see it.
“Okay,” he sighs. “Goodnight.”
Then he’s hanging up before the tears start again. How long has he gone without hearing her voice? Too long, long enough to have forgotten it. It was the first thing to go; no one ever tells you that when you lose someone. And it’s been forever since he heard her say she loved him. She’s been gone for a long time.
Phone falling to the carpeted floor, his head hangs in his hands, fingers digging into his head until it hurts. But the pain makes this real. It’s real. He isn’t dreaming.
There's screaming in his head and his heart. He wants to punch something or break it. Why isn’t he allowed this? Because this can’t be real, it’s too perfect, it’s too much of everything he’s ever wanted. It’s not fair, and so some inanimate object has to pay the price. But if he broke something, you’d look at him with a smidge of disappointment and far too much understanding than he deserves. He’d rather you yell. He can handle anger.
He shakes there on the couch, emotions imploding across his every nerve ending and neuron. And because he can’t handle this weight, because he’s tired, angry, and drowning in resentment, he drags himself to his feet, upstairs, and into the bedroom where you’re waiting. He doesn’t have to say a word as he crawls into bed; you don’t need or expect that from him, you just accept him into your arms. He holds onto you tightly, fistfuls of your nightgown clenched in his hands. He buries his head into your neck, and, knowing he doesn’t want to talk, you let him stay, gently running your nails along his scalp, your other hand stroking his back. You don't push or press him; you just accept him as he is.
So as he falls asleep in your embrace, he wonders how long he can stay here for—how long can he have this?
Sunshine explodes across the bedroom, shining warm rays onto his back. The sounds of birds chirping hum just below the blaring of an alarm clock. He reaches out with a groan, slapping the thing off. But when he peeks his aching eyes open, you aren’t there, which is weird because you very rarely wake up before an alarm, and you never escape his embrace without waking him up in the process.
He sits up, wiping the sleep from his eyes, his head buzzing and aching too. D/N isn’t in her crib, he sees on the little device, which means she probably woke you up. Damn it, he should’ve woken with you, too.
Ruffling his hair, he gets up, picking sweatpants and a shirt from his dresser to put on quickly before going looking for you two. The floor is chill beneath his feet as he wanders down the stairs, following the scent of something sweet and savory to the kitchen.
A million things are going on at once with you standing in the center of it, your back is to him, but it’s clear you’re holding the baby in one arm while the other messes with the coffee machine. Meanwhile, there are floating objects around the room: one station working on mixing something in a big bowl on the counter, the other holding a spatula to flip the bacon, and the last one lifting the lid of a waffle maker. You’re still a witch in this world—you’re still you. And you look completely in your zone, but it’s all overwhelming and clearly not something you should have to do by yourself.
“‘Mornin’, sweetheart. What’s all this?” he asks, trying to warn you about his presence before he sneaks up on you and wraps his arms around your waist.
“Tryna make breakfast,” you answer.
“Shoulda woken me,” he says, placing kisses on your neck. “Wanna help you. Let me help you, baby.”
You melt into him like he knew you would, all the chaos around you settling down, everything still.
He cradles your face the moment you turn in his hold, lips lingering at your forehead before he turns his attention to your baby. His heart softens again, gently brushing the strands of hair on her head. D/N wiggles in your arms, reacting and reaching for him.
“Want me to take her?” he offers. All you have to do is tell him what you need, and he’ll do it. Simple as that.
“Well, she needs to eat, but I haven’t gotten a chance to pump yet, and there isn’t a bottle ready, and—“
“Hey, hey,” he cuts you off, cradling your face again, getting you to look at him. “Breathe, angel.”
You are overwhelmed, and for some reason, you didn’t wake him up to help, though that is so you to try and do everything yourself, like you gotta prove something to him.
“You sit your pretty ass down, do what you gotta do, and I’ll finish up breakfast,” he directs, sternly.
“But I was tryna surprise you with—“
“And you did,” he reassures, heart melting in his chest. You’re so goddamn sweet. “‘Don’t mind taking over, wanna help you, baby. You have something more important to handle.”
He can see your brain working, eyes flickering over his face as you try to come up with another good excuse. But you can’t find one, or you give in to his help, either way, you nod and press a simple kiss to his lips. Except he doesn’t let you walk away just yet, he holds you there, stealing one long, lingering kiss, feeling your warm skin beneath his palms. He’d go on forever if he could, but a little hit to his stomach says otherwise. He pulls away slowly, looking down at the source, his daughter's foot.
“‘That on purpose?” he asks her, holding back a laugh. “‘You impatient?”
“‘Takes her food as seriously as you do,” you tease, smiling at him. “You gotta watch your back now, she’s gonna beat you up.”
“Bet she will,” he laughs. “Better feed her before I become a casualty.”
Now, that makes you laugh, hard, sweet, and contagious. He lives for that laugh.
You move out of his hold, throwing a little look over your shoulder at him when you feel his eyes lingering. But you don’t go far, you just move to sit at the dining table, adjusting your nightgown and the baby to begin feeding her. He can’t help but stare for a moment too long. The sun is coming through the curtain, spreading rays of light across your face, making your eyes sparkle a certain way. Every time he thinks you can’t get any more beautiful than you already are, you prove him wrong. And you look rather calm too, your shoulders at ease, and your spine relaxed.
You catch him staring, warmth creeping up your cheeks, smiling a little bashful for the mere reason of not understanding why he’s giving you that look when he’s seen you like this several times. But what he doesn’t realize is that his face and posture are all soft too, eyes a little wide, and lips parted just so. He’s in awe. That’s all.
“Dean, the bacon is gonna burn,” you warn him through soft laughter. Even now, you’re not mad or irritated with him, you’re just…happy. See? That’s just one reason you’re too good for him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he nods, brain catching up to speed. Hesitatingly, he pulls his eyes away from you, trying instead to fall into the rhythm of finishing breakfast.
Surprisingly, he finds himself rather good at it, though maybe it’s because it’s for you. He manages between flipping the bacon, getting the coffee pot on, and changing out the waffles with the kind of focus and accuracy he usually puts into cleaning his guns or fighting with them. He knows you’re watching him, and he basks in it, throwing you a wink and a smirk. This feels natural, he thinks, like it was always meant to be this way. Maybe it could be.
By the time he’s finished preparing everything, his daughter is done feeding, milk dribbling down her chin, and her eyes a little droopy. He’s like a hawk with the way he’s watching you two, and how immediately he sweeps in to take her from you, throwing a dishrag over his shoulder to begin burping the baby. He’s good at this, too, remembers how he used to do it with Sam all those years ago. But it’s a little different now because he’s taller, older, and this is his kid. And as much as this was a way to help you, it was also a painfully obvious excuse to have D/N in his arms again. He felt greedy with the need to have her close, this proof of what he could have—that he can be good enough for this…for her.
The floorboard creeks beneath your soft footfall, making him turn in time to watch you pour some coffee into a mug, then bring it to him. Your fingers brush as you hand it off to him, and you’re giving him that look again. He’s starting to think that’s just your constant state of being when you don’t have to worry over monsters and death. You’re safe. He’d like to keep you safe forever.
“What’s that look for?” he gives in, raising the mug to his lips, eyes dancing with mischief behind it.
“Nothin’,” you smile softly. “You’re just really cute, and sweet…and perfect.”
He scoffs a laugh, placing the mug down on the counter behind him, but his cheeks are dusted with the faintest pink.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that ‘n talkin’ like that, we’re gonna have another one of these on the way,” Dean teases, easily, giving the baby in his arm a little bounce for emphasis.
He basks in the way different emotions flicker over your face in the matter of a single second. He smiles as you laugh nervously, muttering his name, and hitting his chest with about as much strength as a pillow. He grabs onto your wrist, pinning your hand to his chest, pulling you in, and forcing you to stay close. But he meets you halfway, nose bumping yours before he peppers kisses along the bridge of your nose. It makes you laugh again, and God, it really is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. Your free hand snakes around his shoulder, finding the nape of his neck to guide him to your lips. Immediately, he gives in, angling his body so that you’re all his without disturbing your daughter. You melt into him, his tongue tracing your mouth like it’s the only taste he’s certain of. And it is.
********
“Well, I don’t think I’ve seen you in my class before,” the Professor says, lounging back in his leather chair.
After breakfast, Dean had come straight here to see him. He told you he wanted to check up on the guys at the garage, make sure they would be good without him for the day. He hated lying to your face, especially about something like this, and it hurt even more to know that you trusted him enough to accept his lie as fact. But he needed to be 100% certain this wasn’t a dream.
“You kiddin’ me?” he scoffs, lying coming easily. “I love your lectures. You-you make learning fun.”
The professor laughs, taking the bait.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asks.
“What can you tell me about Djinns?” Dean asks, leaning forward.
“Well, a lot of Muslims believed the Djinn are very real,” he explains, standing from his chair to pull a thick book off one of his shelves. “And they’re mentioned in the Koran—“
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean cuts him off. “Get to the wish part.”
“What about it?” the professor gives in, the book dropping to the table with a loud thud.
“Do you think they could really do it?”
“Um…uh, no. No, I don't think they can ‘really do it.’” He says, looking at Dean like he’s grown another head or two. “You understand these are mythic creatures, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I-I know. I know. But, uh…I mean, in the stories,” Dean stammers. “You know, say you had a wish. But you never even said it out loud. Like that, uh…that a loved one never died. Or that, uh, something awful never happened.”
“Supposedly, yes,” he gives in with a sigh. “I mean, they have godlike power. They can alter reality however they want. Past. Present. Future.”
Dean nods slowly, eyes a little wide, the cogs in his head turning. This isn't a dream, but a second chance. It’s an alternate timeline, like you would say, where his Mom didn’t die, which means he grew up normally. He didn’t live out of motel rooms, didn’t raise Sammy by himself, he didn’t starve, he wasn’t scared, and he never learned to shoot a gun. Your Dad was still friends with his, you still moved into town, he still met you, and fell in love with you. And because he wasn’t afraid, he married you, and you had a kid together some months ago.
“Why would the Djinn do it?” he asks, shaking his head. Why give him what he wants? “What, self-defense? Or maybe it’s not really evil.”
“…Son?” the professor says carefully.
“Hm?”
“‘You been drinking?” he asks slowly.
“No,” he answers, standing up. “Not at all.”
********
There’s a newfound pep in his step as he leaves campus grounds. Hell, he nearly skips his way to the Impala, which he had been glad to see he still has here, too. Baby is different, though; there’s no weapon box in the trunk, just a spare tire, a car jack, a rag, and a half-drunk water bottle. But there’s also a car seat in the back seat, which is all the more proof to him that he cannot mess up his second chance.
“Hell of a responsibility now, Baby,” he says to the car, running his hand along the sleek exterior as he fetches his keys from his pocket.
But something makes him pause, the hair at the back of his neck standing up. So he turns back towards the school building, catching the gaze of a sickly pale girl in a long white skirt, shirt, and shoes. He smiles awkwardly, waving at her. But she doesn’t wave back or react in any way; she just stares, almost like she’s seeing through him. And even though he has to act like a normal person this time around, it’s impossible to ignore the alarm going off in his head. Maybe the girl needed help, or maybe she was just lost.
So, without much thought, he steps forward, walking into traffic as if she were pulling him forward. The screeching of a car too close to his body stops him in his tracks. He looks at the car that almost hit him, holding up his hand, ignoring the honking and the angry person behind the wheel. But when he turns his attention across the street again, the sick girl is gone.
He shakes his head, turning on his heels to return to his car. The girl left, or he was seeing things, it doesn’t matter, not anymore, because he had something important waiting for him at home.
********
There’s a smell of cinnamon in the air when he gets home, pleasant, welcoming, and reminding him of when he’d visit you up in Maine. Though this time around you probably don’t have that house, he figures as he drops his keys on the little table at the door and kicks off his boots.
He follows the scent and the little hum of music further into the house, shouting:
“I’m home, sweetheart!”
“We’re in here!” you yell back, your voice not caring nearly a fraction of his volume. It’s endearing.
He finds you in the living room, a record player spinning in the corner, sitting on the rug with D/N in front of you on a blanket. She’s on her stomach, elevated by a pillow, little head lifted, and little hand clenched around toy keys.
“Hi,” you greet him with a bright smile. You’ve changed out of your pajamas and into a pretty shirt and jeans. You even changed the baby into the smallest overalls he’s ever seen in his life and a little yellow shirt. “How’d everything go?”
“Great,” he smiles back, rounding the couch to come join you on the floor, sitting next to you on the other side of D/N. His gaze shifts to his kid, laughing at the way she almost violently rattles the plastic keys around in time to the Beatles vinyl you have on.
“What’s mama got you doin’?” he asks her. She babbles in turn, smiling at him, drool dribbling down her chin. She’s perfect.
“Oh, she’s having fun,” you shake your head.
“Mhm,” he hums, satisfied, stretching his arm out against the edge of the couch so he can toy with your hair, finger wrapping around a strand like a coil.
“Oh! Your mom called when you were gone,” you say suddenly, turning to face him with a sparkle in your eye.
“She did?” he asks, perking up, hand shifting so his palm brushes your cheek.
“Mhm. She asked if we wanted to come over for an early lunch today, ‘wants to spend some time with D/N before Sam and Jess come ‘round for dinner…”
Jess is alive too. God, he really can’t mess this up, especially for Sam.
“…I said yes, but that I’d double check with you in case somethin’ came up at the garage,” you continue. “That okay?”
“‘Course ‘s okay,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your soft skin, feeling the way you melt into his touch. You’re so pretty, he can’t wrap his head around it, in fact if you told him your eyes were made from stolen constellations, he’d believe you—can see the proof right in front of him.
“Awesome sauce,” you smile, making him chuckle. He loves every little thing that comes out of your mouth, especially when you say something stupid, dorky, and odd like that. “‘Can leave whenever you want, half-hour, hour, ‘more, ‘less, doesn’t matter.”
That was your way of saying you didn’t want to be the one to make the decision; he knows you too well not to catch that. And he wants to see his mom really damn badly, so the choice is easy.
“‘Can head out now, hm?” he answers. “You grab what you need, I’ll stay with her.”
You nod. “Just gotta load some stuff into the car.”
“Uh-uh, I got that,” he corrects, brows furrowing. He didn’t want you to lift a finger if you didn’t have to. “Tell me what you need, I've got it.”
You laugh, shaking your head like you do when he’s being stubborn. “Can I at least bring them downstairs?” you tease, leaning forward to tap his nose.
“If that’s what you wanna do,” he smirks, eyes dipping to your lips. You nod. “You can do whatever you want, baby. Always.”
You kiss his palm quickly before jumping to your feet. You step over him, he squeezes your ass as you go, you throw him a look, he shrugs, and you laugh, going on your way. This is good, it’s so fucking good that he’ll make himself worthy of it.
He gets up too, turning the record player off and putting your vinyl away, tucking it away in the shelves like the others. All the while, he glances over his shoulder at D/N every couple of seconds to make sure she hasn’t disappeared in the time his back has been turned. She doesn't, of course, because nothing is out to get him here.
Carefully, he picks her up, holding her in the air above him, watching her gurgle and smile. She’s a smiley baby, must get that from you.
“You’re gonna see your grandma today,” he tells her, cradling her so they can talk, bouncing her gently. “That’s weird to say…nice to say, but weird. ‘Don’t know if you’ve met her before, but it’ll be like seein’ her for the first time for me too. Don’t gotta be scared though, you’ll like her. You’ll like your Uncle Sammy too, ‘less you’re ’fraid of heights.”
He knows she probably doesn’t understand a word he’s saying, but he’d like to think she can, and if she has even a fraction of your intelligence, then maybe she does.
His ears perk up at the sound of your familiar footsteps descending the stairs, so he shifts D/N, holding her to his shoulder. He meets you at the bottom of the steps, noting the baby bag on the floor, the dress shoes and heels in the crooks of your fingers, and the nice clothes folded over your arm.
“For later,” you explain unnecessarily, shrugging to emphasize the clothing. He knows how your brain works, so of course, you have things like this already picked out and planned.
“You’re so damn cute,” he mutters, eyes all soft and fond for you.
“I didn’t do anything!” you laugh, heat creeping up your neck.
“C’mere,” he says, gesturing you over with two fingers. Except he meets you more than half way, leaning in to kiss you, arm wrapping around your waist. It lasts shorter than he would’ve liked it to, though he’d kiss and touch you forever if you allowed him to.
Dean takes both pairs of shoes from you, stepping back to let you off the staircase and to slip his boots back on. Then he’s doubling back to grab the baby bag, balancing it all in one hand so he can hold his daughter safely in the other. You open the door for him, eyes dropping to the muscles straining beneath his shirt. You’re not very slick with it, but he doesn’t mind. He trudges out the door with his chest puffed out, enjoying this challenge of opening the car door with limited hands.
He’s working on buckling the little one in with hands far gentler than they have to be, when you come out of the house, opening the car door opposite him to hang up the garments in your arm. You close the door when you’re done, rounding the car, hand unnecessarily touching his back before you get into the passenger seat. He smiles to himself, eyes trailing after you as he finishes up and gets into the driver's seat.
The car starts with its familiar rumble, and you’re already putting a tape into the deck like you’ve done a hundred times before. He rolls the windows down, hand finding yours, fingers interlacing as he pulls off.
********
He can hear his heart in his ears, palms sweating regardless of how many times he wipes them on his jeans. He’s been staring at the house, his childhood house, for the last 75 seconds. Yes, he accidentally started counting when he told himself that he had 30 seconds to get himself together. And there you are, waiting for him patiently, even though you have no idea why he’s acting all weird.
“You okay?” you ask softly, head tilted just so in an attempt to catch his eyes.
He makes the mistake of meeting your gaze, because when you’re looking at him like that, it makes it really damn hard to lie to you. He already knew you were his weak spot, but the hours preceding last night have only made it more evident to him.
“Yeah, I’m—I-It’s…,” he stammers. What lie could he possibly come up with that’d be convincing enough? What if he told you the truth, that this isn’t the timeline he was used to, that in the original one, his mom died when he was a kid in the most horrific way conceivable, that he hadn’t seen her in about 20 years? Would you look at him like he’s crazy? Send him away? Or, would you see through the madness and know he’s telling the truth?
“‘Feels like I haven’t been ‘round here in years,” he admits, falling into your e/c eyes.
“Oh,” you exhale thoughtfully, a little crease forming between your eyebrows. You find his hand, fingers brushing over his knuckles. “I guess time has been going by pretty quickly. But, maybe…now is better than never…?”
You’re right, and he told himself he wouldn’t mess this chance up, which includes seeing his mom.
“Yeah,” he nods, jaw flexing. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” you murmur. You're waiting for him to make the first move, you’re trying to go at his pace, trying to make sure he’s comfortable. He sees all the little things you do for him, and it makes him love you more, if that’s even possible. So he lifts your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, right over your wedding band.
He won’t screw this up. He won’t.
He gets out of the car first, busying himself with detaching the car seat so he can take the whole carrier inside, especially since D/N is completely unconscious. You’re by his side again in seconds, baby bag at your arm, hand lightly touching his arm to silently check up on him.
With the thump of the car door still in his ears, he forces himself to put one foot in front of the other, getting closer and closer to the front door. His vision spins, heart pounding in his chest, something crawls and scratches at his skin, pleading something he can’t understand.
He’s not sure who knocked or rang the bell; he doesn’t even remember putting the carrier down because the door is pulling open, and his vision is zeroing in like his soul just got shot back into his body. Something cracks in his chest at the sight of his mother, his so-very-alive mother. His eyes jump around her face, restoring the memory of her, tracing in the spaces, filling in the gaps. It all breaks in his throat, choking on a sound he’s okay with admitting is a cry for his mom. She stumbles back as he launches at her, holding her so tightly that she laughs a little awkwardly, but holds him just the same.
“Hello to you, too,” Mary jokes. “What’s gotten into you, Dean?”
That thing is clawing at his chest again, and it hurts just as much as he feels happy.
“‘M just happy to see you,” he admits, swallowing roughly, and jaw clenching tightly as he pulls away. He has to look down at her. She’s shorter than him; it’s never been that way before. But she’s real, and alive, and looking at him a little strangely, but he can deal with that. “You’re beautiful.”
“What?” Mary smiles, shaking her head.
Dean clears his throat, sniffing as he stands a little taller. “Thanks for having us over early,” he says.
“Of course!” she laughs, stepping aside. “Come in, come in. I wanna see my grandbaby.”
Right. He picks the carrier back up, bringing it inside, but not before he catches the way you and Mary hug, sharing compliments and smiles. That’s new, too, because you never got to meet her; she died before you moved. But not here. Here she’s alive. He always thought you’d like her, and it seems he was right.
He puts the carrier down on the dining room table, noting the way D/N slowly blinks. She must’ve woken up from all the commotion, or the lack of movement from no longer being in the car. Regardless, she’s awake now, though barely, and it’s adorable.
“Hey there, darlin’,” he murmurs, fingers carefully working at the buckles of the car seat.
“Look how big she’s gotten!” Mary exclaims somewhere over his shoulder. “What, is she three months old now?”
“Yeah, actually, right on the money,” you answer, tone doused in surprised amusement.
She nudges Dean out of the way, and he goes willingly. She smiles brightly as she coos at the baby, then carefully gathers her in her arms. He can’t help but smile proudly, arms crossed against his chest, trying to take a mental picture of this scene. His mom is getting to hold his daughter. Never in his life did he ever conceive that sentence to be remotely possible; he never even bothered to think about it.
You come to his side, rubbing soothing circles into his back. He relaxes his arms, draping one across your shoulders, head tilting to catch your expression as you had done for him.
“Hey,” he whispers. You’re smiling too, but it’s not quite meeting your eyes in its usual intensity, and your eyes look a little far away.
“Hi,” you whisper back, meeting his eyes.
“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head?”
“I’m happy D/N has your mom,” you admit, but again, he can see something beneath it. He always can.
“You thinkin’ of your mom?” he asks softly, brushing your hair out of ur face. You nod, a little frown pulling at your pretty lips. Now he can’t help but frown with you, because in this life, things haven’t changed for you. Your mom still died, and your dad was still an asshole. He got to have his wish, but you didn’t get a chance at yours.
“Hey,” you whisper, brow furrowed, pinching his chin between your fingers. “Don’t start feeling sad for me, it’s okay, really. I’m okay.”
“‘S not okay,” he grumbles, shaking his head.
“Be happy,” you tell him, failing miserably at being serious. But it gets him to crack a smile and roll his eyes.
“Look at what I found,” Mary announces, coming back into the room (though he didn’t know she had left it) with the baby in one arm and a very small pile of clothes in the other.
“I was going through some old stuff, and I found a couple of Dean’s baby clothes,” she continues.
“Mary, you know it’s your birthday, right?” you ask, joining her at the table.
“Yeah,” she answers the same way someone would say ‘so?’ “And I know they’re technically ‘boy’ clothes, but I think some of them can pass anyway.”
“No, these are so cute, don’t worry,” you gush, gasping at the sight of a shirt with a cartoonish monkey on it. “I’m tryna imagine a baby Dean wearing these.”
“I will look for photos,” Mary declares, effortlessly balancing holding a conversation and bouncing D/N on her lap.
Then she’s glancing over at him, saying, “Dean, come sit down.”
He snaps to attention. He hadn’t even realized he was just standing silently, too focused on the sight in front of him. But he listens anyway, collapsing into the seat next to you.
“Alright, you two settle in, I’ll make you some sandwiches,” she announces suddenly.
“No, no, it’s okay, Mom, I can do it, you keep talking,” he tries to interrupt. But she stands her ground, shaking her head like it’s not even a question.
“You’ve been taking care of a baby, okay? You both need to relax,” she reasons, handing said kid over to him.
He nods, giving up on the argument quickly. It was okay to lose this one.
“But it’s your birthday,” you try to remind her again.
“And it’s already lovely,” she smiles, whisking herself away from the room before anyone can argue anything else.
********
Cutlery clashes and clinks together, with the soft mumble of chatter in the background. Everyone is dressed up, even Sam, who sits across from him. It’s the first time he’s seen him since he got his wish, and he looks happy, really damn happy. He’s wearing a nice button-up, and his hair is gelled back like he does when they’re trying to look professional for a hunt. Except this isn’t a hunt, they’re at a nice restaurant, and Sam is smiling his boyish, almost shy, smile, and Jess is beside him, wearing a beaming smile of her own, blonde curls cascading down her shoulders. This is good. It’s everything.
You’re sitting next to Dean, his hand on your bare thigh, thumb tucked beneath the hem of your dress. If you hadn’t gotten changed at his Mom’s, you probably wouldn’t have made it to this dinner, because the moment you stepped out of the bathroom in that pretty dark brown halter dress, he was practically drooling. You looked extra good tonight, that was for certain. You had even worn some blue jewelry to match his shirt, which you had picked out for him along with his tie.
Then, at your side is D/N, who is also dressed up, wearing a brown dress with little pink polka dots. Though she’s hidden in her carrier, visor down to help her sleep, on the chair next to you. He doesn’t know how she’s sleeping through this, other than that the milk she had just before leaving for dinner really must’ve hit her.
Again, this is perfect. It’s so perfect that he can barely care that he was just served a plate of asparagus tied together so that it can stand up straight. That’s it. That’s all that’s on the plate to eat besides some other vegetable circling the asparagus.
“Wow, that…looks awesome,” he remarks anyway, because how can he not when it’s just a plate of vegetables? Still, he gets away with it because it makes the table—his family laugh.
“Alright. To mom,” Sam cheers, holding up a glass of wine, and everyone else follows in raising their glasses. “Happy birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” you and Jessica say in sync, then laugh over the jinx.
“Thank you,” Mary smiles, glasses clinking together.
“To mom,” he echoes softly, taking a drink.
“We can get you something on the way home,” you whisper to him, taking his attention away from the couple kissing in front of him.
His eyes drag down your frame and then back up, smirking lazily. He can’t get over how good you look. If this weren’t a fancy restaurant, and this weren’t a family dinner, he would’ve had you spread out on this table ten minutes ago.
“Oh God, yes,” he nods, eyes dipping to your lips. “You read my mind.”
“Call me Houdini,” you joke. “‘Long as a milkshake is involved.”
“‘Course it is,” he chuckles. “But I ain’t callin’ you that.”
The hand on your thigh moves to cup your jaw, his lips meeting yours in a deep kiss he wishes could go on for much longer. But you pull away with a teasing smile, thumb pressing to the corner of his lips to wipe away what he imagines is lip gloss, or whatever pretty thing you have on your lips.
“Alright, Jess and I actually have another surprise for Mom’s birthday,” Sam announces, making your hand fall from Dean’s mouth and his own to return to your thigh. “Ah…you wanna tell ‘em?”
“They’re your family,” Jessica says, shaking her head, smiling big.
“Alright.”
“What? Tell me, what?” Mary asks, looking between the couple.
Sam holds up Jessica’s left hand, the light catching the diamond on her finger. An engagement ring.
“Oh, my God! That’s so wonderful!” Mary beams, standing to hug Jessica.
You get up too, rounding the table to hug Sam in a squeal of “congratulations,” and a joke about “they grow up so fast.” Then Mary and you switch who you hug and congratulate, smiles and laughter shared.
“I just wish your Dad was here,” Mary remarks, hugging Sam.
“Yeah, me too,” he responds as they pull away.
“Jessica, let me see that ring!” Mary exclaims, moving back to her side.
“Oh my gosh, yes!” You exclaim. The three of you gush over the ring, Jessica playfully modeling it.
“Congratulations, Sammy,” Dean says softly
“Thanks.”
“I’m really glad you’re happy,” he adds. He is. God, he is. This is all he’s ever wanted for his brother: to be happy and to have the life he deserves.
But Sam is looking at him with pure confusion, almost as if he hadn’t expected his brother to be happy for him, which is weird. But he doesn’t have time to question the look because just over Sam’s shoulder, standing at the outskirts of all the tables, is that girl from before. Except this time her pristine white clothes are tarnished by a thin layer of dirt and weird black spots. He couldn’t be seeing things. One time could be seeing things, but twice? That can’t be a coincidence. So he barrels forward, accidentally hitting into Sam in the process, but he continues forward, weaving through the tables and dodging waiters. But when he makes it to the end, she’s gone. Again.
His fists tighten at his sides, a frustrated sigh trapped in his chest. He shakes his head, turning back to his family, all of them sharing the same confused look, staring at him like he’s messed up—because he has messed up. He’s falling into old patterns when his shining new chance is right there. He has to let go of it. There’s no other choice; he cannot mess this up.
********
Laughter spills into the foreway, the door closing softly behind them. There’s a lot of laughter around, it’s nearly a constant sound, and that’s new too because it’s comfortable laughter. He feels almost high on it, that is, until Sam says something.
“So, Dean, what was, uh…what was all that back at the restaurant?” Sam asks. It’s an innocent question, one born from worry and curiosity. He’d ask the same question if roles were reversed. But it means lying again, it means acknowledging that something is wrong in a world where everything is right.
“I-I thought I saw someone,” he explains, truthfully. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Well, I had a lovely birthday, thank you,” Mary smiles, holding her shawl closer to her body. “Good night.”
“Good night,” you and Jessica say one after the other. But you use D/N’s little hand to wave goodbye, too. You hadn’t bothered with the carrier this time, instead holding the sleepy baby in your arms.
“Night, Mom,” Sam adds as she retreats, then he turns to the rest of them, hands in his pockets. “Yeah, well, I’m beat. Ready to turn in?”
“Sure,” Jessica nods.
“Alright. Good night, guys,” Sam nods.
“Wait a second. Wait a second,” Dean stammers. “Come on, it’s not even nine o’clock yet. Let’s uh…let’s have a drink or something.”
“Yeah, maybe another time,” Sam answers, lips pulled into a tight-lipped smile.
“Come on, man. Look at us, huh? We both have beautiful women on our arms. You’re engaged. Let’s celebrate,” he bargains.
Sam stares at him, just stares.
“Uh…sorry, could you guys excuse us?” he asks, looking at Jessica and you. “I just want to talk to my brother for a sec.”
“Yeah, sure,” you answer, letting Jessica pull you away.
“Come here,” Sam says the moment the two of you leave. He walks to the other side of the living room, creating more space as if he’s afraid someone will somehow overhear.
“What?” Dean responds, following him anyway.
“What’s gotten into you?” Sam asks, looking between his eyes like it will help him see into his soul.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this whole warm, fuzzy, ecstasy-trip thing,” Sam explains, hands waving around.
“I’m just happy for you, Sammy,” Dean answers softly, truthfully. Why was that so weird? So different?
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “That’s another thing. Since when do you call me Sammy?”
When hasn’t he called him Sammy? Why is he looking at him like he insulted him and his future bloodline?
“Dean, come on,” he continues in the following silence. “We don’t talk outside of holidays.”
“We don’t?” he utters, eyes wide. “Well, we should. I mean, you’re my brother.”
“‘You’re my brother’?” he echoes, looking at him like he grew another head.
“…Yeah,” Dean laughs nervously.
“You know, that’s what you said when you snaked my ATM card, or when you bailed on my graduation,” he spits.
“Well, hey man, I’m sorry about all that,” he says, taking a step closer to him. But he backs up, hands raised in surrender.
“No, that—look, that’s alright, man. I-I just…You know I’m not asking you to change,” Sam stammers. “I-I just, uh…I don’t know, I…guess we just don’t have anything in common, you know?”
That hits him like a bucket of ice water. Or getting punched in the gut. Or getting stabbed between the ribs. And to make it worse, Sam shakes his head and begins to walk away, done with this disaster of a conversation.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Yes, we do,” Dean says, stepping in his way. “Yes, we do.”
“What?”
“Hunting.”
“Hunting? I’ve never been hunting in my life, Dean.”
Shit. That life didn’t exist here, at least not for him.
“Yeah, well, then we should go sometime,” he reasons weakly, scrambling for anything to make this right. “I…I think you’d be great at it.”
Sam shakes his head with a sigh, moving around him to leave again. But this time, he stops in the archway, sighing deeply before he turns back.
“Get some rest,” Sam says softly. “Get your wife and your kid home.”
Then, he’s gone.
********
The conversation plays in his head the whole way home, and no matter how he puts it, he can’t make sense of it. He worked over it while waiting for his burger and your milkshake, on the drive home, then again while the two of you fed, changed, and put D/N to bed.
And, of course, now as he sits slumped on the couch, his head hanging in his hands like the night before, eyebrows furrowed.
What went wrong with Sam? Why weren’t they close? Who cares if they didn’t have a ton in common? They’re brothers! They have blood in common! And why the fuck would he miss his graduation? Why did this version of him do that?
He’s an idiot and an asshole, that’s why. Of course it is. In every lifetime, he’s a screw-up; he’s just got to accept that. Still, he glances at you, watching you take off your heels beside him.
“Was I an asshole growin’ up?” he asks outright.
“Whoa. What?” you laugh, eyes jumping to his, heels hitting the floor in a thump.
“‘M serious,” he hums, searching your eyes for truth.
“You were never an asshole to me if that’s what you mean…sorry, I’m confused, where is this coming from?”
Of course, he wasn’t an asshole to you; there’s no universe or timeline he’d be capable of it. In fact, that one time he hurt your feelings when you were twelve still haunts the fuck out of him. He’s probably going to hell just for that moment alone—deserves it too.
“I mean with Sammy…we don’t talk,” he clarifies.
You turn to him fully, legs curled beneath you.
“Oh…yeah. Um…I think you just had very different goals and ambitions growing up, which didn’t really allow you to spend time together,” you answer softly as if to lessen the blow. “And…being the youngest sibling can be lonely, I think that’s easy to overlook.”
“Hm,” he hums in thought. Sure, he was a screw-up, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make things right. That’s what this whole opportunity is, isn’t it?
“I can fix things with Sam,” he declares, eyes hardening with determination. “I can make it up to him.”
“Yeah,” you smile proudly, cupping his cheek. “There’s always time.”
“You know, I don’t know what the hell you see in me, but I’m glad you do,” he admits.
“What?” you laugh. But he’s tugging at your wrist so that your arm drapes around his neck, and he’s pulling you in closer with a hand at your waist. Your laugh dying off into a little exhale, your breaths mixing, noses brushing.
“Don’t think I tell you ‘nough how much I love you,” he murmurs, squeezing and kneading your side. “How much I appreciate you…need you…want you.”
“Don’t have to say it, I know you do,” you whisper, eyes stuck on his lips.
He hums, giving in to the need to taste you. Your mouth is still cold from your milkshake, the chill somehow only making him more needy. He kisses you like he’s got something to prove, sucking on your bottom lip, then exploring the cavern of your mouth with his tongue.
His hand skims down your body, landing on your thigh, his fingertips pressing into the fat. Your skin ignites everywhere he touches, your breath hitching as he pulls you onto his lap, knees pressed into the sofa. His hands wander up, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, to the globes of your ass. His chest vibrates with the hum, almost growl, sound he makes, finding the lack of coverage your panties are giving your smooth skin. He squeezes appreciatively, using the leverage to rock your hips forward.
You gasp a pathetic little whine into his mouth, making him smile like the devil.
“Dean,” you exhale, fingers curling into his button-up.
“Love when you say m’ name like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Don’t gotta beg for me now, hm? Gonna give you what you want. Gonn’ treat my wife good.”
You nod, pupils blown wide, hips pressing into his all on your own. You kiss him hard, teeth just knocking into his, but he doesn’t mind, in fact, it makes his hips rise off the couch, and his hold to tighten. He groans into your mouth, one hand dropping back down to your thigh to support you when he suddenly stands.
He’s a man on a mission, beelining it to the stairs, lips at your neck, teeth grazing the delicate skin. It isn’t hard to carry you up the stairs; he can carry you just fine, but it is hard when you’re pressed against him, your perfume right in his nose, and those soft little sounds in his ears. Still, he forces himself up the stairs because the alternative is taking you on the stairs.
Soon, he walks into your shared bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He places you on the soft bed, dragging your dress up, his hand skimming down your left leg. His head follows, kissing up your leg, ankle to thigh, as he places it on his shoulder. He pushes your other leg further apart, making room for his broad shoulders. Your head lolls back as his teeth sink gently into your inner thigh, his tongue immediately moving to soothe the buzz.
“Ain’t got no business callin’ these panties,” he drawls, eyeing the material. The one thing in his way. His face pushes in closer, teasing you with kisses close by. There’s already a wet patch there, clinging to the material, the sight making him harder if that’s possible.
You pat at his shoulders until you get his attention, eyes flicking up to yours beneath the fan of his pretty eyelashes.
“Please, ‘just wanna feel you,” you beg.
“Impatient,” he teases, green eyes gleaming.
Somehow, you’ve grabbed hold of his tie, giving it a tug that makes his breath hitch as he’s brought up to you, arms bracketing either side of you. He chuckles at your desperation, at your dirty trick.
“Didn’t I say I was gonn’ treat you good?” he asks, cupping your jaw in one hand, making sure you’re looking him in the eyes as you nod.
“Just wanna fuck my wife,” he mutters, pressing his leg between yours, thigh pressed in close to your core. “Want you to cum on my fingers ‘n my tongue first, then you can have my dick as much as you want. ‘Make you cum until that pretty mind of yours turns to mush, hm? ‘That sound good, baby? Or ‘you still wanna be impatient?”
The rush of water fills his ears, hitting the glass cup with a loud swish. His mind is elsewhere, back upstairs with you, and not here filling up a glass of water. He might’ve been a little too good on his word, because he’s pretty sure you’re going to be knocked out for the next sixteen hours.
Once he had his fill, making you cum five times, you had almost immediately fallen asleep. Your eyelids were heavy, and your bones made of soup as he cleaned you up and made you drink a glass of water. With your head on his chest, he would’ve fallen asleep too if he hadn’t been so damn thirsty. So, reluctantly, he pulled away from you, kissing your forehead and murmuring he’d be right back even though he was certain you were already asleep.
Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, he chugs the water, head tilted back. Then, something shifts quickly in the corner of his eyes. He straightens up, nearly choking on the water as he slams the glass down, turning around swiftly. A white blur moves towards the stairs, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.
His legs move faster than his brain, heart slamming against his chest at the mere idea that whatever is haunting him will hurt you or D/N. He takes the stairs two at a time, launching himself up the wooden steps, the blur of white settling into view of that girl he keeps seeing.
And she’s faster than him.
He makes it to the second-floor landing only to see the spirit walk through the door of his daughter's room. His heart drops out of his body, face paling. He runs, slamming open the door with enough force to make it rattle on its hinges.
His chest rises and falls quickly, eyes scanning the room. But there’s nothing there, not even a chill in the air. He steps further into the room, eyes lingering on D/N, still asleep, watching her chest rise and fall softly. Alive. She’s alive.
Still, he won’t risk it. Not if it means his daughter being in danger. He promised he would protect her, and he will. He’ll spend every last breath protecting her if that’s what he needs to do.
Heart pounding in his ears, muffling the sound of his heavy breaths, he creeps to the closet door, hand finding the small knob. He swallows roughly, every neuron in his brain telling him this is a bad idea, but still, he pulls the door aside swiftly.
He stumbles back at the sight, ghostly dead women hanging from the closet rod, tight ropes around their wrists.
Floorboards creak behind him. He whips around, coming face to face with a woman with a bullet wound in the center of her forehead. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out; she flickers there, saying nothing, and yet D/N wakes, wailing loudly. The spirit disappears.
Wide-eyed, her cry loud in his ears, he turns back to the closet, finding nothing. He shuts the door with more force than he means to, the sound only making D/N cry harder.
Sweat clinging to his skin, he moves to the crib, shushing the kid as he picks her up. He holds her to his chest, bouncing slightly, hand rubbing at her back.
“Nothin’ gonn’ hurt you,” he whispers. “I got you.”
Still, she continues to cry, and he can’t blame her. So, he takes her with him, heading back downstairs to not wake you, and to get far away from that room. It claws at his chest, eating at him, the knowledge that he caused this.
“Won’t let anythin’ happen to you. ‘Promise,” he continues to whisper until her cries fizzle out. His shoulder wet from her little tears, though he couldn’t complain one bit, but he could feel guilty. And he does.
He keeps her with him, sitting her on his lap as he pulls up his laptop, securing her with one big hand as the other types through several search tabs, each with a different article pulled up, headlines reading:
“Indianapolis. Sun, December 5th 2005- ‘FLIGHT 424 CRASHES, 108 DEAD,” Tragedy shocks the nation as emergency crews continue to search rubble.
‘Nine Children Comatose,” Mystery illness baffles doctors at Dane County Hospital.
‘Parents mutilated in bed,’ Brutal double homicide in quiet residential area causes shock.
‘GIRL DROWNS IN HOTEL POOL,’ Mother devastated after discovering daughter drowned.”
He leans back in the chair, hand rubbing down his jaw as he shakes his head. He stopped these. He stopped all of these, you all did: Sam, Dean, you. None of these should’ve happened. Those people should be alive. But they aren’t, and it did, because in this life, he isn’t a hunter. He never took those cases; you never saved those people. And he’s paying the price. His daughter is paying the price.
He shuts the laptop, picks D/N up, going back upstairs. He brings her back to her room, cradled in his arms, safe and sound.
“‘M gonna make this right,” he tells her, looking into her soft green eyes. “I’ll figure this out, I promise.”
“Gotta go away for a little bit to make this right,” he continues, voice breaking. “‘Promise I’ll be safe, gonna come back home. But you’re gonna have to be good for your Mom while I’m gone, okay?”
Her simple innocence, her eyes filled with trust and perhaps love, breaks him further, because he’s lying right to her sweet face. He won’t be coming back.
“‘M sorry,” he whispers, a stray tear slipping down his cheek. “‘M sorry I can’t be what you need, sweet girl. I…I really wanted to be. I—“
He swallows down the knot in his throat. He never imagined it ending like this. He never imagined having to say goodbye, even though he should’ve, because just this once, he really believed he could have it all.
Unable to form the right words when none of them could ever make this right, he rocks her slowly, humming Zeppelin's ‘Rain Song' until she drifts off to sleep.
He was a fool to think he deserved this life.
He stares at the words carved into stone until they begin to lose sense:
“John E. Winchester (1954-2006)
Loving Husband & Father
Remembered Forever”
His tears dried sometime on the drive over, solidifying under his hardened expression. Numb. That’s what it really is.
“All of them,” he says at his father's grave, the moon shining above him. “Everyone that you saved, everyone Sammy, Y/N, and I saved. They’re all dead. And there’s this woman who’s haunting me. I don’t know why. I don’t know what the connection is, not yet anyway. But it’s like my old life is…is coming after me or something like it—like it doesn’t want me to be happy.”
He shakes his head. “‘Course I know what you’d say. Well, not the you that played softball but… ‘So go hunt the Djinn. He put you here, it can put you back. Your happiness for all those people’s lives, no contest. Right?’ But why? Why is it my job to save these people? Why do I have to be some kind of hero?”
His facade cracks.
“What about us, huh? What, Mom’s not supposed to live her life? Sammy’s not supposed to get married? I don’t get to raise my kid—my daughter? Why do we have to sacrifice everything, Dad? It’s…”
Finally, tears spill over, his lips quivering in the silence. The sky cracks above him, rumbling like it feels his pain too. Like it knows sacrifice.
“Yeah…” he finishes, sighing, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
Unfair? Wrong? It’s all those things. But if he lets himself sit with that truth, then he’ll get selfish and stay. He wishes he could be selfish.
Unfair is right, but this is his life, and nothing has ever been fair or easy. That’s his burden.
********
It’s dark and quiet in the house, a storm raging on outside, rain pelting the windows. The glass doors of the china cabinet open, and a box is on the floor. Stealing from his Mom. He knows it's wrong, feels it too.
Still, he stays crouched on the floor, quietly rummaging through the box when he feels someone behind him. This time, he knows it’s not a ghost; it’s solid, tall, and familiar. He just knows.
He stands up and turns as a baseball bat comes swinging down on him. He catches it with one hand, using the momentum to push back, his leg sweeping the figure off its feet. They go barreling down, his arm pressed down into the man’s chest.
“That was so easy, I’m embarrassed for you,” Dean breathes, smiling down at his brother.
“Dean? What the hell are you doing here?” Sam exclaims.
Dean gets up, holding out a hand to help Sam up. Surprisingly, he takes it, helping him to his feet, the night sky just outside the window illuminating his face in dim lighting.
“I was looking for a beer,” he answers.
“In the china cabinet?” Sam counters, moving to switch on the living room light. It exposes the truth, though his lie didn’t help either.
“That’s Mom’s silver,” Sam gestures towards the box on the floor.
“Sam.”
“What, you…you broke into the house to steal Mom’s silver?”
“It’s not what it looks like,” he defends weakly. “Okay, I didn’t have a choice.”
“Oh, really? Why? What’s so damn important you gotta steal from your own mother?” Sam retorts.
“You want the truth?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do.”
Dean shrugs. “I owe somebody money.”
“Who?”
“A bookie. I lost big on a game, I gotta bring him the cash tonight,” he lies. Let Sam keep thinking he’s a screw-up, it’s closer to the truth anyway.
“I can’t believe we’re even related,” he murmurs. “You know you can’t be doing stupid things like this anymore, you have a wife and baby to take care of.”
“I know,” Dean answers solemnly. “Sam, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
“I’m sorry that we don’t get along. And I wish to hell I could stay and fix it,” he admits. “But I gotta do this. People’s lives depend on it.”
He turns around, taking a knife from the box. A silver knife. It’s what he came for. He could’ve gone home and found one, but he was sure that if he went back, he wouldn’t be able to leave again. And if you caught him, he wouldn’t be able to lie or say goodbye.
“What are you talking about, Dean?”
“Nothing. Forget it,” he says. “Just uh…hey, tell Mom I love her.”
Dean keeps his eyes forward, purposely trying to avoid seeing his brother frown. He needs to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, make it to the door, leave, and do what needs to be done. That’s what he keeps telling himself.
“Dean,” Sam calls out.
He pauses less than a foot in front of the door, head hanging low.
“I’ll see you, Sammy,” he says, risking looking over his shoulder.
He walks out the door, that thing clawing at his chest again. Keep moving.
The rain trickles down, cold and unforgiving. He crosses the street to the Impala, taking one last look at the house, trying to hold it in his memory. Remember it like this, like today, when it was filled with laughter, love, family, and hope. It hadn’t been that way since he was a kid. He shakes his head, getting into the car.
The engine starts with its familiar rumble, and yet he sits there, staring at the steering wheel. He can still back out. He can make it up to Sam. He can go home and crawl into bed as if nothing happened. There’s still time. That’s what you said.
The passenger door opens suddenly, Sam getting in, making him snap to attention.
“Get out of the car,” he orders.
“I’m going with you,” Sam declares.
“You’re just gonna slow me down.”
“Tough.”
“This is dangerous, and you could get hurt,” he counters.
“Yeah, and so could you, Dean.”
“Sam—“
“Look, whatever stupid thing you’re about to do, you’re not doing it alone. And that’s that,” Sam says firmly.
“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Because you’re still my brother.”
“Bitch,” Dean smiles.
“W-What are you calling me a bitch for?”
“You’re supposed to say ‘jerk,’” he corrects.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
********
“What’s in the bag?” Sam sighs, looking at the brown paper bag sitting between them on the car bench.
“Nothin’,” he shrugs.
“‘Nothin’?” Sam echoes.
“Yeah, nothin’.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, snatching the bag.
“You don’t wanna do that,” Dean warns.
“Oh, really?” He reaches into the bag, pulling out a large container of…blood. “What the hell is this?”
“Blood,” Dean answers.
“Yeah, I can see that it’s blood, Dean!” he exclaims. “What the hell is it doing in here?”
“You don’t really wanna know,” he warns again.
“No, I-I do really wanna know. I really, really, do,” Sam stammers.
“Yeah, well, you’re gonna find out sooner or later,” he murmurs. “I needed a silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood.”
“You needed a silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood?” Sam repeats, slowing down each word like it’ll help make sense of it. “Why?!”
“Because there’s this creature. A Djinn. And I have to hunt it,” he explains.
“Okay, um…stop the car,” Sam says, shaking his head.
“I know how it sounds.”
“Great. Just…stop the car,” he orders.
“It’s the truth, Sam,” Dean exclaims. “Alright, there are things out there in the dark. There—there are bad things. There are nightmare things. And people have to be saved, and if we don’t save them, then nobody will.”
“Look, I wanna help you, alright. I-I really, really do,” Sam answers as calmly as he can manage. “But you’re having some kind of psychotic breakdown, so I just—“
“I wish,” he grumbles.
Sam picks up his phone, clicking the buttons rapidly when Dean rolls down the window, snatching the device and tossing it right out into the night, rolling his window up again.
“What the hell was that, Dean?!” Sam yells. “That was my phone!”
“I’m not going to a rubber room, Sammy. And we got work to do,” he answers.
“What?” he exclaims. “I was just trying to help you out, Dean. I don’t—I don’t want you to get yourself hurt.”
“What? You protect me?” Dean scoffs.
“Yeah!”
“That’s hilarious,” Dean laughs.
“No, it isn’t!” Sam claims. “Most of all, Y/N is going to murder me if anything happens to you! Actually, she’ll kill you too!”
That makes him smirk. You always look adorable when you worry over him.
“Why don’t you just sit tight and try not to get us both killed?” Dean shakes his head, straightening his shoulders. He hits the radio, turning the volume all the way up.
********
Grimy, abandoned factories tower over the Impala. This is where it all started; it’s where he got his wish.
Dean shines his flashlight over Sam, who had fallen asleep some time back. He wakes with a start, getting up quickly.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“Well, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Dean laughs, the sound ultimately dying out when it’s apparent Sam doesn’t find it amusing. “Illinois.”
“And you think something’s in there?” Sam asks, looking out the windshield.
“I know it is.”
********
It’s dark and musty in the factory; in fact, he’s sure there’s gotta be mold growing somewhere. Still, they creep around as silently as they can, flashlights leading the way.
“See? There’s nothing here, Dean,” Sam whispers, following after him.
Dean ignores him, continuing down the hallway. He didn’t get further than this last time. This is where he got attacked.
“Look, Y/N’s gotta be worried sick about you, Dean,” Sam pleads. “Come on, let-let’s just go.”
Then, there’s a grumbling sound from somewhere deep inside.
“Shh!” Dean hushes, throwing a hand back in some sort of signal.
They listen carefully, picking up on a creak, another groan, and metal scraping against metal.
“What the hell is that?” Sam whispers.
“Stay behind me and keep your mouth shut,” Dean orders.
They continue down the hallway, entering a large room. But people are hanging from the ceiling, wrists bound, treated like butcher meat. It’s the people he saw in the closet. They’re all dead, bodies pale and lifeless, their forearms covered in black and blues. Hanging beside one of the bodies is an empty blood bag, the kind you’d see to donate blood.
“What the hell?” Sam exclaims.
Dean looks further down the mass of corpses, finding a white figure hanging much lower than the others. It’s her. They get closer, her head is hanging low, her blue eyes barely open, her wrists tied above her head. There’s a needle in her arm, pulling blood straight out of her and into a blood bag already filled more than halfway.
“It’s her,” Dean realizes. The woman who had been haunting him. Following him? This whole time, she had been asking for help.
“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam asks.
“Shh!” he warns, grabbing his arm. He pulls him away quickly, ducking behind a bunch of crates as a tall bald man with sigil-like tattoos all over his head, the rest of his body covered by a thick brown coat, comes out from behind some wall in the far back of the room.
It approaches the woman from behind, eyeing her like prey.
“Where’s my dad?” she starts sobbing, voice raw. “I won’t tell…” She sees the Djinn, eyes widening, feet scurrying for purchase on the ground. “Don’t. Where’s my dad?”
“Sleep,” the Djinn says, stroking her cheek, a blue light flowing from its hand. “Sleep…Sleep.”
Her head lolls forward, body relaxing, but her eyes stay open, looking dull and far away. The Djinn presses its face against her arm just above the needle, breathing in deeply. Its fingers scurry up the tube connecting the needle and the blood bag. It pulls a straw out of its coat pocket, carefully puncturing the top of the bag like a juice box, drinking the blood bag up.
Sam gags at the sight. Dean turns to him, eyes wide, grabbing and dragging him away again before the Djinn could find them. Carefully, he moves to the back of the room, creating distance between where the creature looks and lurks for them. Finally, they duck into the space beneath some old stairs.
Only moments later does the Djinn come their way, walking up the very steps they hide beneath, each step creaking.
“This is real? You’re not crazy?” Sam exclaims in a whisper-shout the moment they hear a door close upstairs.
“She didn’t know where she was,” Dean thinks aloud, ignoring his brother. “She thought she was with her father.”
He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t acknowledge Sam’s wide-eyed look, nor does he give a warning. Instead, he goes back to the woman, eyes set forward, Sam following behind.
They stand in front of her again, her body motionless.
“What if that’s what the Djinn does? It doesn’t grant you a wish, it just makes you think it has,” Dean realizes slowly.
“Look, man, that thing could come back, alright?” Sam warns, stepping in front of him.
He shakes his head, ignoring him again, moving past him.
It had been too good to be true. Of course, he wouldn’t just be gifted a second chance; he’s not that lucky.
“Dean, please,” Sam begs.
Something closes around his throat, his vision twirling as he chokes on a breath he cannot catch.
“What if I’m like her?” he asks, breathing hard. “What if I’m tied up in here somewhere? What if all of this is in my head?”
What if he never did get to marry you? What if his daughter wasn’t real?
“I mean, it could, you know, maybe it gives us some kind of supernatural acid, and then just feeds on us slowly,” he continues.
“No. Dean, that doesn’t make sense, okay?” Sam reasons, eyes wide.
“What if that’s why she keeps appearing to me? She’s not a spirit. It’s—it’s like more and more I’m catching flashes of reality. You know, like I’m in here somewhere, and I’m—I’m catatonic, and I’m taking all this stuff in, but I—but I can’t snap out of it,” he rambles.
“Yeah, okay. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re right. I was wrong. You’re not crazy, but we—we need to get out of here. Fast,” Sam urges, grabbing his arm to pull him along.
He pulls back, stumbling, shaking his head.
“I don’t think you’re real,” he whispers. None of this was real. It felt real, so very real. But it couldn’t be. His mind made it all up. He was living a fantasy he dreamed of often, but that’s all it’s ever been—a dream.
“Dude, you feel that?” Sam asks, grabbing his arms. “You feel this? It’s real. This is not an acid trip. I’m real, and that thing is gonna come down here and kill us for real. Now, please—“
“There’s one way to be sure,” Dean nods, pulling out the silver knife from his waistband.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sam stammers, backing off with his hands raised in surrender. “What are you doing?”
“It’s an old wives’ tale,” he explains, looking down at the knife. “If you’re about to die in a dream, you wake up.”
“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Sam exclaims. “That’s crazy, alright?”
He swallows roughly, looking at Sam. “Maybe.”
Sam starts towards him carefully. “You’re gonna kill yourself—“ Dean holds out the knife in warning, his hand raised to tell him to stop. “Okay.”
“Or I’m gonna wake up. One or the other,” Dean figures, knuckles turning white around the handle.
“Okay. This isn’t a dream, alright? I’m here with you, now,” Sam says firmly. “And you’re about to kill yourself, Dean.”
“No, I’m pretty sure. Like 90% sure,” he reasons. “I’m sure enough.”
And if he’s somehow very wrong, he’ll never see you again, never get the chance to even say goodbye. But if he doesn’t and he isn’t wrong…well, he’ll never get to say goodbye to the real you. The thought of you crying over him hurts more than any blade could. So, he turns the knife on himself, both hands on the handle, the sharp tip mere inches from his heart. He exhales, silently counting down in his head.
3…
2–
“Wait!” Sam shouts.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mom, wearing the white nightgown she wore on the night she died. And appearing behind Sam is you, cradling D/N in your arms. His knees almost give out.
“Why’d you have to keep digging?” Sam asks.
He tears his gaze away from you, looking back at his mother.
“Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?” Sam continues, Jessica, appearing on the other side of him. “You were happy.”
Mary steps in front of him, wearing the kindest smile as she says, "Put the knife down, honey.”
“You’re not real,” Dean whispers, tears welling up in his eyes. “None of it is.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mary answers. “It’s still better than anything you had.”
“What?”
“It’s everything you want. We’re a family again,” Mary reasons. “Let’s go home.”
“I’ll die,” he shakes his head, voice breaking. “The Djinn ‘ll…drain the life out of me in a couple of days.”
“But in here, with us, it’ll feel like years. Like a lifetime,” she promises.
His eyes snap to Sam because he can’t look at you, and he nods, smiling encouragement. He could live off dreams.
“No more pain, or fear,” she continues, cradling his cheek, thumb running back and forth in soothing circles. “Just love and comfort. And safety. Dean, stay with us.” She cups his other cheek, his body giving in, leaning into her touch like a dog looking for warmth. “Get some rest.”
“You don’t have to worry about Sam anymore,” Jessica adds, her arm around Sam’s waist. “You get to watch him live a full life.”
Mary steps away, letting you come up to him. Again, his knees nearly give up. You’re wearing that blue nightgown from last night, and D/N is awake in your arms, hands stretching up towards him.
“We can have a real future together,” you say, cupping his cheek with your free hand. “We can watch her grow up, safe. Maybe even have another one.”
He wants to collapse into you, tuck his face into your neck, and apologize for everything. All he's ever wanted is right in front of him. He could have it. He looks at D/N, her little hands still reaching as if her hold alone could keep him there. Maybe it could. She isn’t real, he has to remind himself. So he looks back at you, your eyes filled with endearment.
But you? The real you? You’d never ask this of him. You'd never risk his life for happiness. You’d take the pain yourself before ever giving him this ultimatum. That’s why this isn’t real. That’s how he’s sure. And even more sure that he can’t stay, because the real you is out there, and you love him more than any fantasy he can conjure.
He steps away, your hand falling from his cheek. He holds this image in his mind, his family together. For about two days, it had been real, and maybe that’s all he deserved.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers one last time.
He plunges the knife deep into his heart, the pain scattering into a numbing burn, blood pouring from his lips.
“Dean! Dean!” Sam shouts.
Dean hangs there, wrists bound high above him, head hanging low, his eyes open but far, far away. He’s motionless, and that scares you just about as much as the amount of blood in the bag connected to him.
You go to his side, stretching up to take the needle out of his arm, pressing down immediately, hand glowing purple with the effort to heal him.
“I-It’s not working!” you cry. “Sam!”
“Oh God, come on,” Sam mutters, shaking his brother. “Hey. Wake up. Wake up, damn it!”
Dean grunts softly, your eyes snapping up to his face. His eyes begin to focus, shaping the blurbs of color into Sam.
“Hey,” Sam exhales. “Hey.”
Dean grunts. “Auntie Em, there’s no place like home.”
“You’re not funny,” you accuse.
He lulls his head to the side to see you. You’re still stretching yourself to try to help him. He smirks faintly, despite the sight of tears rolling down your cheeks.
“I thought you were…” You can’t say it.
“Thought we lost you for a second,” Sam finishes for you both.
“You almost did,” he admits.
“Sam, get him down, please,” you order the youngest Winchester quickly. And despite the pain…everywhere, he chuckles softly, because you’re adorable like this; frazzled and worried for him. You care for him, and although he doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to have someone like you worry over someone like him, he’s just glad you do.
Sam listens to you without any sassy remarks, reaching up to begin cutting through the rope. Dean winces, and you adjust your hands immediately, bringing them down to hover around his waist.
“Hey, hey,” Dean says suddenly, looking over Sam’s shoulder to the shadows where blue eyes glow.
He doesn’t even get his full warning out before you’re aware. The change in you is immediate; he can see it in the way your head snaps in the direction of the Djinn, your fear hardening into something vicious. But most of all, he can feel it, the air charged and crackling with invisible energy, much like that night you tried to fight the yellow-eyed demon possessing his father.
You don’t even move or throw your hand out, but the Djinn goes flying back before it can reach Sam anyway. You move away from them, stepping towards the creature with a scary kind of calmness. You’re angry. More than that. You’re furious, and you very rarely get like that. Never like this.
Tendrils of purple smoke curl away from you, a silver knife dripping blood appearing in your hand. You don’t flinch when the Djinn gets up, nor when it raises its glowing hand at you. But you freeze, stuck in its hold, and yet, even from here, you look anything but scared.
“Hurry up!” Dean urges his brother anyway.
The ground begins to rumble, and little pebbles and debris on the floor are rattling and jumping. The Djinn steps closer to you, raising a hand to your forehead. But you vanish, appearing behind him in the same breath, knife plunging through its chest. Its glowing eyes fade out, head rolling forward. You rip the knife out, letting its body collapse to the floor.
All at once, the air loses its charge, the ground quieting, as you run back over to him, tossing the knife off to the side. You help Sam lower Dean to his feet, holding half his weight. He looks worse somehow, far too pale and weak.
“You need to get to a hospital,” you say.
“No, no, there’s a—there’s a girl over there, she might still be alive,” he warns, wincing as he gestures off to his left. You share a look with Sam, nodding. You accept all of Dean’s weight, letting Sam go to find this girl. You rest your hand on his chest, eyes jumping across his features, trying to gauge his pain and how you can help.
“She’s still alive!” Sam calls out from the other side of the room. Dean sighs, shoulders slumping. He saved her. It was all worth it.
Warmth spreads along his chest, making him look up to find your worried eyes. You stop healing him like you got caught red-handed, your eyes reverting to e/c. He stares at you, silently, and in you he can see the daughter you could’ve had—the daughter he held in his arms. She had been real in some way, and maybe it was best that it was somewhere in his mind because she was safest there, far away from an unfair life.
Dean sits on the edge of his hotel bed, flipping through a magazine he isn’t really reading, because he’s taking glances at you. You’ve been silent since he briefly told you and Sam about his Djinn fantasy, lost somewhere in your mind like he is. Sam is on the phone, but you’re just sitting there at the small table, reading your spell book. Except you’ve been stuck on the same page for the last couple of minutes, so he’s sure you’re not actually reading it. His eyes drop down to your left hand, staring a hole into your ring finger where your wedding ring had been.
“That was the hospital,” Sam says suddenly, pulling him away from his thoughts. “‘Girls been stabilized. Good chance she’s gonna pull through.”
“That’s good,” Dean answers. You and Sam had tried to get him to go and stay at the hospital, too, but he refused. So, he didn’t have the heart to complain when you made him something to drink and mumbled something about it helping, or when you insisted on healing him as much as you could to ease his pain.
“Yeah…how ‘bout you?” Sam asks carefully. “You alright?”
He clears his throat, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, I’m alright…You should have seen it. Sam. Our lives. You were such a wussy.”
And really fucking happy.
Sam laughs, “So we didn’t get along then, huh?”
“Nah.”
“Yeah…I thought it was supposed to be this perfect fantasy,” Sam says, sitting at the edge of his bed.
“It wasn’t. It was just a wish,” Dean clarifies. “I wished for Mom to live. That Mom never died, so we never went hunting, and you and me just never uh…you know.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad we do,” Sam admits. “And I’m glad you dug yourself out, Dean. Most people wouldn’t’ve had the strength, ‘would have just stayed.”
He almost did. He could’ve had everything.
“Yeah…lucky me,” he replies. “I gotta tell you though, man. You know, you had Jess. Mom had a grandkid, I had a—“
“Yeah, but…Dean…it wasn’t real,” Sam reminds him with a furrow between his brow.
“I know…But I wanted to stay,” he admits, that thing clawing at his chest and churning within. “I wanted to stay so bad. I mean, ever since Dad…all I can think about is how much this job’s cost us.” He swallows roughly, feeling your gaze on him despite your silence. “We’ve lost so much. We’ve…sacrificed so much.”
“But people are alive because of you,” Sam reasons, earning a scoff. “It's worth it, Dean. It is. It's not fair, and…you know, it hurts like hell, but…it’s worth it.”
‘Worth it,’ his ass. But he keeps that to himself, looking down at the carpet.
A beat goes by in silence, eventually broken by you. You get up without a word, going right out the door before anyone can say a thing. Still, he stares after you. For once, he couldn’t read you, couldn’t guess what you were thinking.
Sam looks at him, looks at the door, and then back at him as if waiting for a reaction.
“She’s probably still scared,” Sam reasons. “She really thought you were gone. I thought she might rip a hole in the universe trying to find you.”
His heart churns, eyes unable to look away from the door. He doesn’t say anything either as he gets up and follows after you.
It isn’t hard to find you, he knew where you would go. You’re sitting on the curb just outside the room, arms around your legs. So, he sits right beside you, comfortable to sit in silence, just so you know you weren’t alone.
You watch dusk break on the horizon, a bird chirping somewhere in the distance.
“…I’m sorry that you went through that,” you finally say.
He’s quick to look at you, staring at the side of your head, almost surprised (though glad) that you talked.
“Occupational hazard,” he shrugs, looking forward again.
This time, you look at him, seeing right through his tough guy facade like you always do.
“It's more than that,” you say. “That was psychological torture, among other things.”
He doesn’t say anything. He has no quip or joke to hide behind. Out here, sitting beside you, he doesn’t feel like he can hide. And maybe for the first time ever, he doesn’t want to.
“It felt…so real,” he admits quietly, after some time. “I mean, I was—I was holding her. She was real.”
“Mm,” you hum, looking at the ground. Your nails dig into your palm, something already tightening around your throat. “So we were…?”
Married? Parents? It's a loaded question, because beneath it all, you’re asking him if that’s what he’s been secretly wanting.
“Yeah…” he says slowly, the weight hanging over you both.
You look up from the ground, turning to him fully. “Tell me about her,” you say suddenly.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a—“
“Why?” you ask. “Maybe it’ll make you feel a little better…take some weight off of your mind.”
He looks at you then, turning to match your position.
“You’ll get sad.”
“Yeah…probably, yeah,” you admit.
But he knows you, and that “probably” is a “definitely.”
“But I…” you continue, softly, failing to hold his gaze. “I want to mourn her with you, if that’s…okay…”
Neither of you will say there’s nothing to mourn because it wasn’t real. You won’t even acknowledge that point, even though Sam had brought it up before. Neither of you has the guts. Neither of you wants to.
“She was…perfect,” he sighs, giving in. “She had these, uh, green eyes, well…green for a baby, you know? And this h/t dirty blonde hair. She had the chubbiest damn cheeks I ever saw, ‘she smiled a lot too. Like you, ‘had your smile actually.”
He can see the softness in your eyes, giving way to tears, your lips pulled into a trembling frown. You’re picturing her, picturing what could be. And maybe it means there’s some part of you that wants it too.
“She liked the Beatles and Zepplin,” he continues.
“‘Course she did,” you laugh, wiping away any tears that crept down your cheeks.
He laughs too, trying and failing to fight his own burning tears. You were right, it is mourning. Sam doesn’t get it, doesn’t have to.
“I know she was only a couple months old, but I swear she was gonna grow up to be a good kid,” he continues to ramble, watching the fondness in your eyes grow. “She was always just so…happy. And I don't know who came up with the name ‘D/N,’ but it fit her.”
“She sounds…”
“Lovely.”
“Perfect.”
You say at the same time.
“I was gonna say perfect, but I didn’t want to copy you,” you laugh, wiping away what seems to be never-ending tears. Your cheeks feel sticky and a little sore from all the wiping.
He wraps an arm around your shoulder, bringing you into his side. “She was perfect, baby.”
You're silent for a second, staring out into the parking lot again. If you think hard enough, you can almost see her, or at least a version of her.
Then, softly, he says:
“Well…maybe in another life.”
He’s trying to be strong. You see that. You look down at your lap, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt.
“Maybe in this life,” you say softly, glancing back at him. “If you’d like that some day.”
He freezes, back stiffening, eyes widening. Is this another dream? Is he still stuck in that warehouse?
“I…I know it’ll never be as perfect, and it’ll be hard, but… I don’t want to live this life forever, Dean. Someday I want to…I want a life with you.”
The air is stolen from his lungs, punched out, floating away.
“You mean that?” he mumbles. You nod.
Time. There’s always time. He knows it wasn’t the real you that said it, but it sure as hell is something you’d say. Although, you’d probably quote some song to him too, say something like: "It's never over.” Or quote some book he’s never heard of. Or say something sweet like you just did. Regardless, it makes him feel brave.
“Good, cause no matter what’s in the cards, I’m going to marry you someday,” he declares, finding your hand. Your breath hitches. “You’re it for me, baby, you’ve always been it. Nothin’ else matters.”
Your lips tremble, teary eyes looking at him like he offered you the moon and the stars. You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him into you. He holds you just as tightly, hands shaking. You’ll have time.
(Next Chapter)
A/N: So...how are we feeling? Did you cry? Cause I've read this too many times to know what feelings it arises, even though I cried like six times writing this.
synopsis: john couldn't seem to get the newest rn out of his head. actively searching out those beautiful eyes, especially when reader was known to somehow disappear after any surgery.
warnings: workplace romance, age gap [john is 32, reader 22], reader is mentioned to have hair that can go into to plaits and a low ponytail, power imbalance [john is the Chief Resident, reader is newly qualified nurse], some swearing, kissing
wc: ~1200
John knew he shouldn’t be thinking this way. He knew workplace romances don’t work; he experienced those that ended in tense and awkward eye contact in busy hallways and still hands when passing over surgical tools. But there was something about the new registered nurse, passing by with your form-fitting scrubs and long-sleeved undershirt; character pens hooked onto your scrub pocket, along with your badge, decorated with the odd sticker that was peeling off from constant movement.
John knew he shouldn’t be thinking about a newly registered nurse, at 32 and a chief resident, blossoming feelings for a 22-year-old who definitely wouldn’t take another look at him. But he couldn’t help it, you were kind, helpful, and extremely good at your job, almost reading his mind during surgeries. Not only did the age gap put him off, but so did your avoidance, mainly of him, yet not in a way he would have to report to HR and start a file, but outside of surgeries, outside of traumas, the moment you take off your gloves, you're gone.
John hates that you’ve become this elusive being, almost a myth in his mind before he sees you next shift, or next operation. Every shift, almost subconsciously seeking you out, stopping by the nurses' station, where you're nose-deep into a chart, or gossiping lowly with another nurse; or even 'accidentally' picking up an extra coffee from an expensive place he stops by on the way to work, as well as sliding across a snack bar, one of those sweet rice crispy ones that hurt his teeth, yet make you smile. Others have noticed, making small comments to John, never to you, as if he were conscious of his own actions, yet every time he heard them, he’d shake his head, refuse, and go about his job. Yet those comments linger; when he’s sat at home, with the TV as background noise, John delves into those thoughts, imagining you coming home with him, possibly ordering takeaway and watching shitty shows while you make out, because even though John definitely doesn’t see you that way, he knows if there was a small possibility of you dating, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you.
The start of shifts he used to hate, until you started. You somehow made his mornings a little better, as good as they can be before a 12-hour shift. Yet your calm energy was almost narcotic, a fleet of serenity before a drilling work day; sometimes you’d come in with your hair in plaits, other times a low ponytail, but every time there was a guarantee that John found you absolutely gorgeous. He just couldn’t ignore his feelings anymore; he felt like a teenage boy, thinking of you in every waking moment, actively searching for you in a sea of doctors, patients and nurses, wanting to catch the slightest glimpse of your sparkling eyes. John still felt that iffy feeling when he dwelled too long on the 10-year age gap, but he knew he wasn’t a quitter and would rather state his feelings than wallow like a child. So after a month brooding over whether or not he was actually going to go through with his confession, he finally manned up and pulled you into a free room. Not the most romantic, but he felt like he couldn’t psychically hold his feelings in without exploding.
“I’m not like in trouble, right? I know I'm a little behind on my charting, but we are absolutely stacked at the moment." Was the first full sentence you had spoken to him all shift, and it was about your own work progress. With a quick shake of his head, John was smooth to ease your worries
"No, no, you're not in trouble at all; besides, I wouldn’t be the one to tell you that; it would be your charge nurse.” He’s quick to correct subconsciously. “Anyway, no, this is about something else…and I'm not too sure how to go about this, so I'm going to just rip the plaster off and tell you if that’s okay?” As he was speaking, he could practically see the confusion growing on your face.
“I have feelings for you…ones I definitely shouldn’t have as both a chief resident and, um, 10 years your senior, but I do. And I wanted to tell you, as an adult, that these feelings have been growing for a while," John finally spews out, eyes scanning your face as you take in his confession. *
"Holy shit…wait, really? You're not like messing with me, right?” Your response shocked John slightly, a short laugh escaping him. With wide eyes and flushed cheeks, you look up at him. John quickly nodded, hesitantly taking your hand.
“I’m not messing with you; genuinely, I’ve been trying to keep these feelings to myself, but I felt them eating at me, and I was going stir-crazy, and those eyes…shit every shift I see them those feelings grow and I just want to kiss you so bad." He quietly confesses, lowering his gaze to follow your that were looking away, his other hand gently resting on your jaw, silently asking with his eyes he if can lean in.
With a small nod from you, he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a hesitant yet slow kiss. John felt as if his heart had exploded, gently grasping their hands together, his movements becoming more sure, kissing you with more certainty. You sigh against his lips, your hand resting on his shoulder, as you kiss back slowly.
As they break apart, a grin splits across John’s face, his lips blushy and plump, as he continues to hold your jaw. He pecks your cheek before pulling back.
“I don’t want you to be pressured into this, okay? You’ve got to tell me if you want this?” He mutters softly, gently stroking your cheekbone. You look up at him through your eyelashes and nod gently, with a shy bite of your lip.
“I need words, honey; I don’t want to take advantage of our positions, okay? You've got to tell me in words." He drawls out, making sure to keep eye contact.
“Yes… I’m sure John… I want to be with you. " Was your quiet admission. Smiling softly, with a concise nod, John pecks your cheek again before slowly walking over to the door.
“Well, I’ll drop you off after work if that’s okay? We can properly start this, maybe order some food, my treat?” He offers with a soft smirk whilst opening the door.
“I’d love that; see you around Doctor Carter." You leave with a grin and a little wave. In that moment, John had never felt so complete and fractured in his life; all he wanted to do was grab your waist and pull you back into the patient room, to taste your lips again. But he knew that both he and you have a job to do, a very important job at that, so shaking his head to rid himself of his fantasies, he slowly assimilates back into his role as Chief Resident. Yet now he has a new role, your partner, one in which he is excited to fulfil his duties.
fluffy blurb/drabble/one shot while I work on my larger carter fic
It was like any other day. Then tragedy struck.
Like any other day, you woke up by John's side, gave each other a few slow morning kisses before he has to drag himself out of bed. He gets ready quickly, comes back for one more kiss- which always ends up being more than one- then he leaves for work.
You don't have to be at work for another couple hours, so you sleep in. Your alarm goes off, you get ready, you head to work. It's all the same as normal, you work, you chat with your coworkers, you eat lunch- bought with John's card because he gets very cranky when you buy anything yourself- you finish up your day, you head home. Simple.
At home, you tidy up a bit from yesterday, look through the kitchen to see what you could do for dinner, put a load of laundry in the washing machine.
When John calls you saying he should be home on time, you start something simple for dinner. It's only in the oven for a few minutes when you hear the sound of keys rattling in the door.
John walks in like any other day. At first, you don't notice anything. He's just John, the boy you've known for years who's just really starting to grow into a man. He looks a little down though, so you pull him into a hug, then give him a kiss.
That's when something feels a little... off. It feels like something's missing.
"Your beard!" You gasp, your hands flying to his cheeks. "What happened?"
John sighs.
"Glue accident."
"Glue!?"
He nods, looking very disappointed.
His beard. His precious beard that took him so long to grow out, that he was so proud of, that made him feel so grown up. That drove you crazy in the best way, if you're being totally honest.
You pet his cheeks, feeling the distinct lack of hair. John looks down at you with sad eyes.
"I'm sorry. I know how much you loved it," he says despondently.
Cooing, your wrap your arms around him again and kiss his cheek.
"No, baby, I'm sorry. You loved it, too. Are you gonna grow it back out?"
You feel him shake his head over your shoulder.
"It's takes so long... and it's so awkward in the middle stage. Maybe I'll just wait. Hopefully it'll grow a little faster when I'm older."
You squeeze him, trying to be comforting despite the fit of cuteness aggression rising inside of you. This is a serious moment, come on.
"I'm sure it will, baby. And you still look just as good without it."
John gives you those sad eyes again, but now he's looking for reassurance, which is even worse.
"You promise?"
Oh, your heart is breaking.
"I promise, Johnny." You gently pull him down into a soft, lingering kiss. "There, promise sealed, yeah?"
He finally smiles, just a little, at the inside joke.
"Yeah," he responds, then trails off as he perks up, looking past you to the kitchen. "Smells good..."
His stomach rumbles at that moment and you laugh at his embarrassed blush. You take his hand and lead him to the kitchen, letting him snack on leftover cheese from the block you cut while dinner cooks.
"Have trouble finding time to eat between 'glue accidents'?" You tease lightly.
John shakes his head fondly. "Something like that."
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Chapter Summary: You think you've tricked the two hunters on your heels, but Dean's already on your tail and catches you in the worst possible moment – with a gun, bad assumptions, and zero goddamn patience.
Warnings: 18+ language, language, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of death and DV, angst
Word Count: 13.9k
A/N: Still dealing with sickness around here, but I'll be fully back soon 💜 Meanwhile, are you ready to finally find out what happens next? Intense bickering ahead. Thank God for Sam being the mediator we all need 🙏
That stupid hunter bought your cover hook, line, and sinker. And you? You danced on the edge of a blade and stepped back without a single goddamn scratch.
You’re still riding the high, sharp and sweet, as you stroll out of the bar and into the cool night air, meeting up with Paige in the alley by your car.
“Holy shit,” she says as she catches up with you. “You demolished that guy.”
“Please,” you snort, fishing your keys out of your bag. There’s a satisfaction in your eyes you don’t even bother hiding. “He practically did it to himself. He was laying it on a little thick in there.”
“A little?” Paige laughs, arching an eyebrow. “He was two seconds away from offering to carry you home.”
You unlock your Bimini-blue Aveo and climb into the driver’s seat, Paige dropping into the passenger side at the same time, still buzzing with adrenaline. She always gets a little too excited whenever you involve her in your magical extracurricular activities ever since the day you told her you were a witch.
You were twelve, and back then, you didn’t do it with the intention of involving her in anything, especially in anything dangerous. You did it like a middle-schooler sharing secrets with her best friend – in a treehouse while playing pretend, completely innocent. You definitely never imagined the two of you would trick a hunter one day and build an entire underground network that helps victims of abuse.
“He was cute, though,” she adds as an afterthought, slumping back in the seat.
You start the engine and hum. “Mm.”
“Don’t ‘mm’ me. He was.”
You shrug your shoulders, pulling away from the curb. “If you say so.”
Paige narrows her eyes at you. “That is not an answer.”
“It is an answer.”
“It’s a dodge.” Paige raises a brow. “It’s the least committal answer I’ve ever heard in my life. I saw you flirting back.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” you say, although the corner of your mouth betrays you. “I was gathering information.”
Paige lets out a short laugh. “Oh, right. Very professional. Very subtle, too. I especially liked the part where you leaned in to–, what was it… ‘hear him better’?”
“He was mumbling,” you shoot back, shifting gears smoothly as you merge onto the road, Clancy’s disappearing in your rearview. “Not my fault.”
“Mhm.” She watches you with that look she gets whenever she thinks she’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. “And the giggling and pushing your boobs out? Also part of the investigation?”
You shrug again, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift as you hide a smirk. “It worked, didn’t it?”
It did.
You replay the whole encounter without really meaning to – the ease and rhythm of it. The way he held eye contact just a smidge longer than necessary, measuring, weighing, and deciding where to push next. The way he wielded the deepness and rough edges of his voice as if he knew exactly what it did to people. And the way he’d leaned in, confident in that effortless and charming way of his, like he’d done this a hundred times before and never once been wrong about the outcome.
Till now, till you, that is.
And you? You let him.
Let him think he was in control when he really wasn’t. Let him steer the conversation just enough that it felt natural when you nudged it somewhere else. A question here, a detail there. Soft enough to pass as curiosity, but harmless enough to ignore. You carefully crafted the version of yourself he wanted to see and neatly stepped into it.
Your high school drama teacher surely would’ve been proud of you for bringing so much authenticity to the role.
Paige then nudges your arm lightly, hauling you from your thoughts. “Okay, but seriously. He was cute.”
You roll your eyes and exhale through your nose. “I have a boyfriend. Remember Cam? You like him.”
Paige, however, doesn’t even miss a beat. “You can have a boyfriend and still have eyes, dude.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You shake your head, laughing a little. “Oh, Cam would love this conversation right now.”
“Oh please. It’s just me you’re talking to,” Paige counters, waving it off. “Our sweet Cameron’s halfway across the world right now, not sitting in your passenger seat.”
For a second, your grip tightens just slightly on the wheel, your thoughts wandering to somewhere far beyond Salem – to dry heat and desert dust, to your boyfriend stuck somewhere in the middle of it.
You miss him. God, you do. But the two of you knew what you signed up for with each other when you met three years ago in college.
“I’m just saying. You didn’t exactly look like someone suffering through that conversation tonight,” Paige teases you.
You huff another laugh. “Because I wasn’t. I was handling it.”
“Handling it,” she parrots, lips twitching in amusement. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Tall, green eyes, voice like he drinks whiskey for breakfast and smokes a pack a day, but not flirting. Handling.”
You toss her a grin. “Now you’re catching on.”
Paige grins as well, clearly unconvinced, but lets it go. For now, at least. You know her well enough to anticipate her throwing it back like a boomerang at some point in the near future and hitting you in the face with it at probably the most inappropriate moment possible.
You focus on the road then and on the glow of streetlights stretching ahead. “He tried too hard for my taste.”
Paige shoots you a raised look at that. “Or,” she counters, “you’re just allergic to fun.”
“I’m not allergic to fun,” you defend, chuckling. “I just don’t like being read.”
Paige snorts. “Ironic coming from you.”
“Fine,” you scoff, rolling your eyes back. “Maybe I just don’t like being hunted, then.”
Your mind drifts back to the bar, the slight sting in your gut seeping through the triumph in your veins. You played it perfectly tonight – calm, sweet, a little vulnerable. You gave him just enough truths to make the lies stick. No tells. No slips. Nothing he could latch onto. You watched him carefully the entire time. Every shift, every glance, every subtle change in posture. You waited for the moment something didn’t line up, but the other shoe never dropped.
Still.
“You think he bought it?”
Paige doesn’t hesitate with her answer. “Oh, 100%,” she assures you. “The sad backstory? The whole ‘I’m just a normal girl with a stressful job’ thing? He was eating out of your hand. Complete goner. You could’ve probably told him the moon was made of cheese, and he would’ve believed you.”
Your mouth curves, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I don’t know,” you muse, biting the inside of your cheek. “At the end there, something felt… off.”
Paige furrows her brow. “Off how?”
You hesitate a beat, trying to pin it down, but it stays on the tip of your tongue. “I don’t know. His aura just–” You frown slightly. “It didn’t match. Not completely.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he was all smooth and relaxed on the surface, sure,” you say slowly, replaying it in your head, “but underneath there was this… sharpness. A little anger, maybe.”
Paige considers your hunch for a second before brushing it off. “Yeah, well, he was probably just annoyed you didn’t go home with him. Poor guy put a lot of effort in. I mean, dude spends all night flirting his ass off, thinks he’s closing the sweetest deal of his lifetime, and then you just leave? I’d be a little off, too.”
A soft laugh escapes you at her unhinged theory. “What a devastating loss.”
“Yeah, I’d say,” Paige snorts and shoots you a grin. “Tragic, really. My thoughts and prayers go out to him. Rest in peace, G-Man.”
You shake your head at her, but the smile lingers as you turn into the small parking lot beside your apartment building, headlights sweeping over the second car parked next to your spot. It’s exactly what you expected. Old, beige, and forgettable. Mia never does anything halfway.
You pull in beside it and cut the engine, the lightness and banter from the drive slowly fading and being replaced by focus and professionalism.
Paige leans forward, peering through the windshield. “Wow. Where the hell does Mia always find these cars?”
“No clue. I think she gets them from the junkyard across town,” you reply, reaching for the door. “What matters is that nobody’s gonna miss it.”
The cracked asphalt scuffs softly under your sneakers as you spot Amy already waiting underneath one of the streetlights at the edge of the courtyard, her young son tucked against her side like he might vanish if she lets go of him. She looks like she’s holding their whole world together with sheer willpower. But even in the dim glow of the lamp, the fading purple and blue bruise along her cheekbone is impossible to ignore. It’s the ugly reminder of why she’s here in the first place.
“Hey,” you greet them with a warm smile as you approach. “You made it.”
She nods quickly, relief flickering across her face the moment she sees you. “Yeah, uh, I’m sorry for calling you tonight. I just–… We didn’t wanna wait any longer. I couldn’t stay another night. Not after today.”
“It’s okay. I told you to call me whenever you’re ready,” you reassure her gently and gesture toward the beige car. “Everything’s already in there. Papers, IDs, and enough money to get you started somewhere else. Don’t worry. Mia made sure it all checks out.”
“I even packed you guys some snacks for the road,” Paige adds with a smile.
Amy just stares at you like you’ve handed her something impossible. “I don’t understand how you–”
“You don’t have to,” you cut in, smiling. “That’s kind of the whole point.”
Her son Ethan, seven, then peeks out at you behind his mother’s legs, clutching the same worn stuffed fox you saw him with at the hospital earlier. You soften instinctively and drop to one knee in front of him.
“Hey, champ,” you say warmly. “Your fox looks ready for an adventure. Got a name?”
“Rusty,” the boy mumbles shyly, the limbs of his stuffy flopping over his fists like he’s trying to hide behind it.
“Rusty,” you repeat, smiling. “Solid name, buddy. Rusty’s gonna keep you company the whole drive, okay? And when you get to the new place, he gets first pick of the bed.”
A tiny smile flickers across Ethan’s face at that before you rise to your feet again.
“Thank you,” Amy says, looking at you and Paige. “Both of you.”
“You don’t have to thank us. We’re happy to help. Just take care of yourself, okay?” you tell her. “The next part’s easy. Trust me.”
Amy’s grip tightens slightly on her son. “How does it work exactly?”
“It’s like a glamour. It means the wrong people will look right at you but not really see you,” you explain, tilting your head as you search for the right words. “Like their brain just… skips over you. You won’t stand out. You won’t stick. Anyone trying to find you will just… slide right past. You understand?”
“I call it ‘weaponized invisibility,’” Paige chimes in with a grin.
“Basically,” you agree, a small smile tugging at your mouth before you glance back at Amy. “You’re still there. You’re just not interesting enough to anyone that’s actively looking for you to ever remember.”
Amy exhales a small breath of relief, some of the tension falling from her shoulders, though it doesn’t disappear completely. “And is it… safe?”
You nod without hesitation. “Yeah, it’s completely safe. I promise. It’ll hold as long as you need it to. The only one who can lift it is me. If, at some point, you decide you don’t need it any longer, you can give me a call, and I can break the spell again. Until then, it keeps you both off the radar.”
There’s a pause as she takes in all the information you’ve given her today, weighing and measuring it against everything she’s trying to leave behind – a home, a husband, a life.
And then, Amy gives you one decisive nod. “Do it.”
“Dude, we gotta talk,” Dean says as soon as he barrels into the motel room, shoving the door open so hard it slams into the wall and chips the paint.
Sam, however, doesn’t look up at first or even seem mildly rattled by the entrance. He’s comfortably spread out on the cheap bed, one knee propped up, a bunch of research papers scattered across the mattress beside him.
“You strike out already?” he asks, distracted, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “What happened to not coming back tonight?”
“Yeah,” Dean scoffs humorlessly and doesn’t slow down as he crosses the room. There’s a restless type of energy surging through his blood that he’s been holding onto the entire drive back from the bar. “That was before I found out she’s a freaking witch.”
Sam’s attention finally piques, straightening on the bed, brow already knitted when his head snaps up. “What?”
Dean lets out a breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, still pacing the stained motel carpet.
“Yeah, you were right, man,” he admits. “Hot CSI? Definitely not Little Miss Innocent. I can tell you that much.” He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Her bag fell open at the bar, and I got a nice, clear look at the full witch starter pack inside. Tarot cards, herbs, spell book… Even had the rune thing on the cover.”
Sam’s expression morphs from confusion to something more focused and analytical as he rises from the bed. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, man,” Dean confirms. “The whole thing smelled like a New Age gift shop exploded in there.”
“Huh. Witch,” Sam mumbles to himself, moving over to the small table where more of his research litters the surface. “That actually makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” Dean slows on the carpet, frowning. Why can that kid never finish a damn thought?
Sam drops into the rickety chair, shuffling scattered notes around and flipping pages till he finds what he’s looking for. “I dug more into her background while you were, uh… busy,” he says, clearing his throat subtly of judgment as Dean shoots him a little glare. “She was born on spring equinox 1984, which just so happened to coincide with a full lunar eclipse, also called a blood moon.”
Dean crosses his arms, shooting his little brother a flat look. “…So?”
Sam huffs a chuckle, clearly expecting that reaction. “It’s not just any date, Dean. See, to witches, pagans, and a bunch of old traditions from Europe, the spring equinox is a big deal,” he explains. “It’s basically their New Year. A balance point. Day and night are equal, light and dark are even… That day’s practically all about transitions – winter to spring, death to life, dark to light. It’s a threshold.”
The creases on Dean’s brow deepen slightly. “A threshold for what?”
“It means nothing’s fully one thing or the other,” Sam replies rather unhelpfully, because it certainly doesn’t make things clearer for Dean. “Point is, it’s tied to change. Renewal. Cycles resetting. In a lot of folklore, it’s when the wheel turns – old things end, new things start.”
“Okay,” Dean says, lips pursed, nodding along. “Still not seeing why I should care.”
“Well,” Sam continues, leaning forward slightly, “add a lunar eclipse on top of that, according to the lore, a blood moon causes boundaries between things to get even thinner. Normal rules don’t apply the same way anymore. Things get unstable. Stuff that’s supposed to stay separate doesn’t – at least not completely.”
Dean’s brow twitches slightly, but he stays silent, listening. He can already guess where Sam is leading with this and doesn’t like it one bit.
“And get this,” Sam adds, even more eager now. “There’s this idea out there that eclipses don’t just mark change, but they force it. They break patterns. Interrupt cycles that are supposed to keep repeating.”
Dean huffs a breath, unimpressed. “Yeah? And?”
Sam glances back up at him. “Well, if you stack those two things together, you get a rare alignment. I mean, it’s practically impossible. Only occurs maybe every couple millennia. And some folks believe that a child born under these circumstances isn’t tied to the same rules as everyone else.”
Dean’s expression hardens a smidge. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning they don’t fit cleanly on one side,” Sam explains. “Not fully light, not fully dark. More like… in between. Boundary-walkers. People who can move across lines that most of us can’t.”
Dean exhales through his nose, still rather skeptical. “So you’re telling me this chick hit the supernatural jackpot.”
“I’m telling you that in a lot of these same stories, these people are tied to breaking things. Not as in destroying everything, but more like ending something that’s been going on too long. Breaking a cycle that shouldn’t keep going.”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but his mind automatically fills in the blanks – the things Sam doesn’t state outright. Yellow Eyes. Psychic kids. Their father’s notes.
Anomaly. Asset. Key.
“So what?” Dean prompts, leaning against the dresser, arms still crossed. “She’s some kind of cosmic loophole? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s supposed to explain why it amplifies things. Power, potential… whatever you wanna call it.”
“So you’re saying she’s a powerful witch?” Dean checks, then smirks and shrugs it off before Sam can answer. “I mean, guess that’s helpful when we gank her. Better pack the whole arsenal.”
He pushes off the dresser and moves to the duffel on his bed, beginning to sort through weapons – iron cuffs, guns, knives, maybe even a machete if everything else fails. But Sam grows suspiciously silent behind his back, which can only mean one thing: he doesn’t agree with Dean’s assessment.
“Dean, I don’t think we should kill her.”
Dean snorts a chuckle, although he doesn’t feel like laughing. “Knew this was coming…”
“Just listen, alright?” Sam pleads.
Dean spins around to face him and sighs loud enough for his little brother to hear the annoyance in it. Sam exhales a frustrated breath, too.
“Look, if she’s really a witch, I don’t think she got her magic from some demon or even a grimoire,” Sam muses. “And Dad didn’t think so either. In his notes, he talked about tracing her family’s lineage and mentioned a historical cooperation. I think her mother and grandmother were witches too, which would mean she’s a natural. She might not even know how to use her powers fully yet.”
“Oh, and you want her to?” Dean cocks a brow. “‘Cause from what I’ve seen so far, she knows how to use ‘em enough, Sam. Pretty sure she’s involved in all those missing women cases. She was the CSI on scene for most of them. Pretty easy access.”
“Yeah, but from what you’ve been telling me, she never actually killed someone, right? I mean, it even looks like she’s helping these women,” Sam points out.
“We don’t know that yet,” Dean huffs.
“We also don’t know yet if it’s not true, which is why we should talk to her first before you pull out the gun,” Sam states all too cleverly. “You know witches are human, right? And some of them are good and only use white magic, Dean. Not to mention, she’s also the only person we’ve come across in weeks who might have any kind of connection to what we’re actually looking for. You really wanna take her out before finding out why Dad kept her around in the first place?”
Dean rolls his eyes back, letting out another sigh. He absolutely hates when his little brother is being reasonable.
One thing both Sam and their father have in common is judging people by their usefulness. It’s not like Sam actually sees you as some innocent girl or even human. He sees a potential weapon. And Dean’s sure their dad once saw the same damn thing.
But Dean? He sees a weapon, too – one neither of them knows how to handle.
“Look, if she’s really hurting innocent people out there, we take care of it. We always do. No questions asked,” Sam adds. “I’m just saying. Maybe hold off till we have some answers.”
“Fine, alright,” Dean caves at last, practically forcing the words out. The bile already rises in his mouth. “We talk to her first. But if this thing goes sideways, I’m putting a bullet in her.”
“Sure. Understood.” Sam nods a little too keenly. “You know where she went after the bar?”
Dean snorts a chuckle. “Told me there was a lab emergency. But unless someone mislabeled evidence or spilled a vial of blood, I doubt there’s a reason for a CSI to run to work after midnight.”
The corners of Sam’s mouth quirk in amusement. “So you’re saying you did strike out.”
Dean fixes his little brother with a glare, then scoffs, somewhat defensive. “I wasn’t seriously pursuing her, alright? Was just doing my due diligence, man. Working the case. Making sure she’s really clean before we head out, you know? And turns out she wasn’t.”
“Sure, yeah,” Sam says, but his wry tone of voice already suggests he doesn’t mean it one bit. There’s also the annoying smile that gives it away.
“Shut up,” Dean huffs and shakes it off, but his mind doesn’t stay on Sam for long and drifts back to the bar.
Back to you.
You carried yourself like you weren’t hiding anything, although you clearly were. Your smile came so easy, but your eyes never quite followed as if there was always a second layer running underneath the surface. You watched him just as much as he watched you, even when you were pretending not to. The way you held his gaze made it seem like you weren’t afraid of anything.
You didn’t look like a weapon. Didn’t feel like one either. But maybe that just makes you all the more dangerous.
“You got her home address?” he prompts then, looking at Sam.
“Yup, right here.”
Dean nods, grabs his keys and jacket, and slings the duffel full of weapons over his shoulder. “Alright, let’s roll.”
Dean knows something’s off the second the Impala rolls to a stop and the engine dies a block away from your home. His hunter instincts are already tingling as Sam and him sneak through backyards and side alleys till they land at your apartment building.
It’s one of those old New England brick jobs – a deep red façade that reaches over four stories, adorned with black-framed windows and a white stone trim, cracked and patched in certain places and slightly weathered over the centuries. The entrance is modest, slightly recessed, with a simple arch and a set of worn steps leading up from the cobblestone sidewalk lined with trees, their branches stretching out and partially obscuring the upper floors, leaves eerily brushing the windows as the wind picks up.
Tucked just behind the building is a small parking lot then, the asphalt cracked from weeds breaking through. It only holds a handful of cars, a narrow and quiet courtyard adjoining it that offers a little pocket of green among bricks. The low iron fence along one side of it is almost hidden by overgrown shrubs.
The whole scene looks ordinary, but as Dean’s learned a long time ago, ordinary is usually where the worst things hide best. It’s perfect for conversations no one’s supposed to overhear.
That’s probably what you thought as well because, as the brothers round the corner, Dean spots you under a streetlamp in the courtyard chatting with a woman and small boy, probably no older than ten. To his surprise, your friend Paige is with you too, which wasn’t exactly the plan.
There were only two options when the brothers left the motel: either you’re home and they would’ve forced themselves inside, or if you weren’t home, they would’ve broken in and ambushed you once you arrived. Finding you outside and in the wide open wasn’t exactly on Dean’s bingo card, but he’s luckily excellent at improvising.
Your posture is steady and focused, one hand lifted slightly between you and the woman and kid, fingers poised in a way that doesn’t belong to anything normal.
And Dean? He doesn’t wait for it to make a lick of sense.
He charges forth in quick, decisive strides, gun already in his hand before he even registers reaching for it. It’s muscle memory, the same senses kicking in that have kept him alive for at least this long.
“Don’t move.” His deep voice carries across the courtyard like a blade, the barrel of his gun smoothly trained on your back.
The familiar click that follows is loud in the quiet night, clean and unmistakable. You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch, eyes going wide the second you see the weapon in his hands.
“It’s not what it looks like!”
Dean huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in a different situation and steps closer. “Yeah? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you found your next victim.”
“Dean–” Sam already hisses behind him, but Dean skillfully ignores the protest.
“I got it,” he mutters under his breath and doesn’t lower the gun even for a second, dark green eyes fixed on you. “Step away from them. Now.”
But instead of following his order, you do the opposite and step right in front of them, shielding both mother and son behind your back. The woman lets out a startled sound, pulling her son with her as they tuck tighter behind you. The boy whimpers once, muffled against his mother’s thigh as he clutches a stuffed fox to his body. His eyes are wide and fixed on Dean, but he’s not curious or confused. He’s scared.
Scared of him.
For a moment, that throws Dean off his game because that’s not usually how it goes. Usually, fear is pointed in the right direction. Usually, it tells him exactly who the monster is.
Not in this case, though.
That same fear also gleams in your eyes, but it doesn’t make you fall apart. Instead, you lift your chin bravely despite of what’s flickering underneath the surface, and Dean can tell you’re already trying to think your way out of this situation.
“They’re not in danger, alright? I’m not hurting them,” you offer quickly, hands slightly raised in defense. “I’m helping them leave. That’s all.”
His eyes briefly drift back to the woman and child behind you, and Dean recognizes her face from a photo in a police report he read earlier. Amy Reznik, the latest victim from the crime scene the brothers just visited this morning. He’s here to save her, to stop whatever dark crap you’re doing to her and the kid, but the fear in her eyes still isn’t aimed at you.
It’s aimed at him.
His grip tightens on the gun, knuckles whitening, but the barrel instinctively dips half an inch at the realization.
“Helping,” he repeats, cocking a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m calling it, dickhead,” you snap back and then catch yourself, shoulders pulling in just slightly.
Dickhead?
Granted, he hasn’t exactly expected that pushback. You seemed so sweet and innocent back at the bar he wasn’t even sure you knew a single curse word. He knows because he kept thinking about how he’d draw them out of you later in the night. But whatever fire is roaring inside of you now, you definitely kept those fierce flames burning low at Clancy’s.
You really have been playing him the entire time, haven’t you?
“Then explain it to me,” Dean prompts, closing the distance, the gun in his hand not wavering. “‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like the same crap you’ve been pulling all over this town for a year now.”
“I promise I’m not hurting them,” you insist once more, eyes locked on him, pleading.
“Dean, just look at them,” Sam chimes in then. “I think she’s telling the truth. She’s not hurting anyone. They’re scared of us… of you.”
“See? Listen to your partner. He seems to have his head screwed on right,” you say and raise a brow. “Can you lower the gun now? Please? This is a family-friendly neighborhood.”
But Dean only shakes his head, gaze stern. “Not gonna happen, sweetheart. Sorry.”
Your mouth presses into a thin line at that, irritation threading through the fear. “I told you I don’t hurt people. I swear I would never–”
“Oh yeah?” Dean cuts in, brows lifting. “Then what about the husbands, huh? If you’re so harmless, how come they all end up in the ER?”
You freeze for a heartbeat, enough for Dean to notice, and shift on your weight. Then you guiltily purse your lips, and Dean knows he’s got you.
“‘Cause it’s… funny?”
As soon as those words leave your lips, silence drops like an anvil. Dean’s gaze slowly drifts to Sam, head tilting with a silent You hearing this? I told you so when he meets his little brother’s eyes. Sam, on the other hand, is trying very hard not to react and presses his lips together, which somehow makes it all the more worse. To his credit, though, at least he doesn’t outwardly smile.
Dean then looks back at you, arching a brow. “You think this is funny?”
You wince slightly and bite your lips, but against all better judgment, you give him a small shrug of your shoulders. “…Kinda?”
Upon Dean’s intensifying glare, however, you immediately backtrack, hands lifting in surrender again.
“Okay, look, it’s not like they didn’t deserve it, alright? You ever heard of karma?”
“You broke their dicks,” Dean grits bluntly, jaw flexing.
“Oh my God,” you groan and roll your eyes, exasperation finally snapping fully through your fear. “Get off that high horse, alright? They’re not dead. I didn’t kill anyone. They just had an itchy cast for a few weeks. They’re fine.”
“Fine?” Dean echoes incredulously. “One guy thinks he’s got permanent damage.”
“Only because he didn’t go to the ER,” you shoot back, throwing your hands up. “Not my fault men notoriously avoid doctors, apparently even when their dicks turn purple,” you mutter before meeting his stare. “C’mon, man, it’s not like it turned black and fell off now, did it?”
Sam makes a quiet choking sound behind him, stifling a snort. Dean frowns but otherwise ignores it.
“Besides,” you add, chin lifting defiantly despite the gun still pointed at you, “you really wanna pick the side of some drunk, abusive loser in a wife-beater? Think about it.”
Son of a bitch.
Something inside of Dean drops at that, his guard crumbling the slightest bit. He rolls his shoulders when he feels them slumping, trying not to let it show that you got to him there.
And no, obviously, he doesn’t want to defend some asshole who takes his anger out on his family. He’s seen enough of that to know exactly what kind of men you’re talking about. Hell, when he spoke to some of them this morning, even he wanted to dent a few teeth in after the bullshit they were spewing. Admittedly, he thought they deserved what happened to them a little.
A little.
Still, he can’t just let some witch run around town doing vigilante shit. It’s not about right or wrong, fair or unfair, karma or justice. It’s about fucking principle.
“That’s not the point,” Dean snaps.
“Then what is the point? Enlighten me,” you challenge. Dean’s at a loss for words, not really able to come up with a good enough argument, and when he doesn’t respond, you continue, “Look, I don’t force anyone. I just give the wives the option. They make the decision, not me. It’s hardly my fault their husbands were such big dicks, every single woman I’ve helped so far has made that choice.”
“I did,” Amy suddenly pipes up behind you and positions herself slightly beside you, braver now than before.
Dean’s bewildered momentarily but reins it in quickly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lower the gun, and doesn’t give you the satisfaction of shifting his focus. Even Sam shuffles behind him, his presence a reminder of the conversation they had back at the motel. Talk first. But Dean’s not ready to budge quite yet. To be fair, though, he is talking to you and hasn’t pulled the trigger so far.
“Look, I don’t care about your twisted little moral code,” Dean huffs, raising his gun an inch higher again, aiming straight for your heart. “All this crap stops now, or I’m putting a bullet in your head. Understand?”
Honestly, it’s the best he can offer. He’s giving you a clear out, a fair warning shot, and that’s way more than he usually grants people.
“No, please, you can’t do this,” Amy throws in, her voice breaking as she steps forward, pulling her son with her.
Up close, the bruising on her cheek looks worse than from a distance. It’s too fresh, too angry, and a little too real for Dean’s taste. Her eyes are pleading as she looks at him.
“You have to let her do the spell,” she continues, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “You don’t know what my husband’s like, okay? We can’t go back there. If we stay, he’s going to–… he’s going to kill me. Or him.” She swallows harshly, her hand tightening around her son’s shoulder. “This is our only chance.”
The kid glances at Dean again, and the fear’s still palpable in his eyes. Not of you but still of him, though. Nothing lines up the way it’s supposed to. You don’t look like a monster. They don’t look like victims. And he’s standing here with a gun pointed at the only person they trust, which makes this entire situation a little more complicated than he likes.
Dean finds himself in a moral deadlock, unable to give the woman a satisfying answer, and that’s when Sam steps forward and provides one, hazel eyes locking on you.
“How exactly does it work?”
You seem to be grateful for the attempt to understand, exhaling a small breath of relief. “It’s like a glamour,” you reply. “It doesn’t make them invisible or change their appearance. It just makes them harder to notice. Harder to find.”
Dean glances back at Amy and her son, thinks back to the seemingly innocent home he visited this morning and the bad feeling he got when he walked through it that manifested in a prickle down his spine. She looks at him now like he’s the guy that stands between her freedom and her prison. And she looks at you like you’re her savior.
Whatever happened to things being fucking black and white, huh? Amy and her son certainly aren’t siding with him. Your friend obviously doesn’t either. And even Sam seems to crumble and fall for your little act. Is Dean the only one who still sees things clearly here?
He knows when things are good. Knows when they’re evil. There’s no in-between. But you seem to be one giant ass gray zone.
Then he remembers what Sam told him back at the motel – boundary-walker.
Dean thinks that surely fits you. If nothing’s really one thing or the other, then you certainly don’t fall cleanly on either side. Most importantly, you break cycles that shouldn’t keep going.
So far, the lore seems to check out. But Dean’s getting the feeling you wouldn’t even know what that means yet.
He tilts his head at you, studies you a little closer. His brow is creased so hard he feels the migraine coming on. The entire time that he’s been pointing a gun at you, you haven’t even tried to defend yourself once with something other than words. No spells. No hex bags thrown his way. No lift of a finger that would fling him into the next car.
Dean takes that into account.
“Alright, fine,” he relents and lets out small sigh. “Go ahead. Do it.”
“For real?” Your brow pinches – surprised, confused, maybe even shocked. “You… sure? This isn’t some trick where I turn around and you shoot me in the back, is it?”
Dean stares at you without blinking, sighs once more internally, and then removes the magazine from his gun. He holds it up for proof (or as a sign of good faith or whatever) and then pockets it in his leather jacket.
“Happy now?”
You hesitate a moment, then toss him a glare of all things before turning to your friend, clearly unconvinced.
Well, he tried.
“Paige, watch him.”
She nods, crosses her arms, and then stares daggers at him, too. Even Amy still looks at him disapprovingly.
What the hell do these women want from him? He’s given them everything they wanted, and they still ask for fucking more.
You turn to Amy and her son, shooting him one last little glare over your shoulder before crouching down to the kid’s level. The boy actually smiles at you, which irks Dean slightly. Where was his smile when he came to save everyone?
“You and Rusty ready?” you ask the boy.
He nods, then bites his lip, looking at you with big eyes. “Does it hurt?”
You shake your head softly. “Not even a little. Pinky swear,” you assure him and offer him your little finger. He takes you up on the offer with a shy smile.
“Is it like the Cloak of Invisibility?”
You smile at that. “Already reading Harry Potter, huh?”
The boy nods eagerly.
You laugh softly. “Well, it’s kinda like that. But you’re always gonna be visible to your mom, so no playing pranks on her like Fred and George, okay? But bad people won’t be able to see you.”
The boy looks up from his stuffy at that. “Like my dad?”
You exhale a small breath. “Yeah, like your dad.”
“Good.” The boy gives another decisive nod. “He hurts my mommy.”
“I know,” you say quietly as Amy’s grip tightens the tiniest bit on her son’s shoulder. Dean can see it. “But he won’t be able to anymore from now on, okay?” You then hold out both your palms. “Just gotta take my hand. Your mom, too,” you explain and glance up at Amy.
Both of them then place a hand in yours. Dean watches carefully, ready to reach for any weapon at his disposal if things turn sour. But you only close your eyes, take a deep inhale, and then mumble something incoherent under your breath.
A few seconds later, you let go of them again and rise to your feet. “Alright, you guys are good to go.”
“That’s it?” Dean cocks an eyebrow.
You glance back over your shoulder at him, amused. “Did you expect fireworks?”
Honestly, he doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe showmanship. Maybe theatrics. Maybe even a blinding light like an alien abduction. But this felt calmer than any of that. Not like a spell but like a blessing. Protection. Maternal, even.
That’s what the rune said too, isn’t it?
“You’re like Hermione,” the little boy tells you with a big smile.
You match his expression. “I guess I am,” you say with enough pride to make your chest swell and then toss Dean a smug grin. “You heard that?”
“I have no idea what the hell that even means,” he retorts, which earns him not only a frown from you but from Sam as well. Dean can see the bitchface in his periphery.
And just for the record, he knows exactly what that meant. Still doesn’t care all that much, however.
“No more breaking things of husbands, though. We clear on that?” he adds sternly and feels like a father scolding a child. He sounds a million years old. What the fuck is happening to him?
You roll your eyes back like a teenager and sigh loudly. “Fine.”
Paige then timidly raises her hand.
Dean snaps his attention to her. “Yeah?”
“Can I still slash his tires?”
He scowls, exhaling a deep sigh. “Is there magic involved?”
She shakes her head vividly.
“Then fine.”
“What?!” you gasp in disbelief. “Oh, so that’s allowed? What if I break a guy’s dick manually? Still gonna shoot me then?”
He scratches the back of his neck, then gives a shrug. “Don’t see a problem with that.”
“Unbelievable,” you scoff. “So this is just about you not liking magic.”
He smirks slightly. “Guilty as charged.”
That earns him another glare from you.
“Go for the car,” Amy tells you then with a newfound casualness. “God knows he always loved that stupid thing more than us.”
“Ugh,” Paige groans and rolls her eyes. “Guys who are obsessed with their cars are always a red flag.”
You and Amy hum in agreement.
“What? That’s not–” Dean starts to argue, but as the first words tumble out of his mouth, the three women are already staring at him with judgmental looks.
Sam snorts audibly behind him while Paige and Amy only look slightly amused. You, on the other hand, are enjoying this a little too much, judging by your knowing grin, and Dean tries to think hard how you could even possibly know that about him before he remembers that he told you about Baby back at the bar.
Dammit.
You then bid your goodbyes to Amy and her son, watching them drive off into the literal sunset, and Dean’s chest oddly fills with warmth as he watches them take off into a hopefully better life. A mother and her son are finally safe. This is a good thing, right?
But it’s not over yet.
While you’re still busy, Dean busies himself as well, mostly with putting the magazine back where it belongs. And as soon as Amy is out of sight and you turn back around, the familiar click of his gun echoes through the nightly silence once more.
“Seriously?” You gape incredulously as you stare down the barrel again.
“Sorry, but we ain’t done yet,” he tells you without meaning the apology in it. “Let’s take this inside. Have a chat.” He slightly waves the gun in the direction of your apartment building and then looks at Paige still standing there. “You too, sweetheart.”
But as soon as his weapon only remotely aims at your friend, you bristle and charge forward.
“Do not point that gun at her,” you growl warningly. “If you so much as hurt a single hair on her head, I swear to God I will break your dick next. Permanently.”
Dean snorts a chuckle, his gun coming up a fraction higher, aim sharpening at you. “Oh, you’re dead before you can even pull out the hex bag, bitch.”
You grimace, face twisting with immediate disgust. “Ew, I don’t do hex bags,” you scoff. “It’s a spell, idiot. And I don’t even have to say it out loud. I can do it in my head.”
Dean huffs a laugh. “You’re bluffing.”
But you don’t budge, crossing your arms. “Try me.”
His eyes narrow at you, weighing the threat. Admittedly, even if you are bluffing, you’ve got a damn good pokerface.
“Just let her go, please,” you add, more sincere and pleading to the goodness in him this time. “It’s not a coven thing or whatever you’re thinking. She’s not a witch. Your beef’s with me, alright?”
Dean scratches his temple with the handle of his gun, hoping the stupid headache will pass soon, and then shares a look with Sam, who only shrugs his broad shoulders in response.
Awesome.
He licks his lips, contemplates for another second, and then gives a nod. “Alright, go. Don’t make me regret it,” he caves, jerking his head toward Paige.
She doesn’t wait for a second invitation. “Okay, yep, great, love that for me–” she babbles, already backing toward your car.
You toss her the keys and give her a nod that signals you’re okay. She returns it, swallows hard, and then starts the car, peeling out of the parking lot.
Dean then steps forward slowly, closing the distance between you, the gun never wavering. Whatever this is, whatever you are, he’s far from done yet.
“Alright, fun’s over, sweetheart,” he announces and doesn’t leave room for argument. “Inside. Now. We’re gonna have a nice, long talk.”
The key in your hand jitters as you try to fumble it into the small hole of your front door, the click of the lock ringing too loudly in the silent death of night.
That’s the first thing you’ve learned ever since you’ve been confronted with the wrong end of a gun about an hour ago – everything just feels awfully louder when there’s a bullet carved with your name in it involved.
You can feel him behind you without turning. He’s close enough that the heat of his presence bleeds through your shirt, close enough that if you moved back even an inch, you’d probably bump right into him. The awareness of it sits under your skin. It’s a constant, buzzing feeling that’s impossible to ignore.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the gun. Don’t think about how fast this could go wrong.
Don’t think about how you almost died ten minutes ago on your own doorstep like some kind of cosmic joke.
The weight of the gun feels almost physical even when you’re not looking at it. Your body just knows where it is, where it’s pointed, and what it can do. It presses between your shoulder blades as you push the door open. It’s a phantom touch that makes your breath come just a little too shallow and your pulse just a little too loud in your ears.
Your apartment then greets you in familiar chaos, and for one stupid, disorienting second, it feels like stepping into a different life entirely. All of it – the gun at your back, the two strange men in your home – fades away for a second, and it grounds you enough to catch your breath momentarily.
For a heartbeat, it’s just warm light and hanging plants swaying gently from the ceiling. The smell of rosemary, sage, and lavender drifts in from the kitchen windowsill where your little herb garden thrives in mismatched pots. The crystals and trinkets scattered across your shelves are decorative clutter and not anything meaningful or even dangerous.
It’s all carefully curated in a way that makes Paige roll her eyes every time and label it witchcore as if it’s solely an aesthetic and not your entire personality.
It looks like a twenty-two-year-old girl lives here. It looks like you.
Not a witch. Not a threat. Not a weapon. Not whatever the hell he thinks you are.
“Inside. Move,” Metallica orders behind you, the sharpness of his baritone voice cutting cleanly through the air.
You tentatively step forward because survival instinct overrides pride. After all, you’re pretty sure the alternative would be a bullet.
You barely make it three steps in before you feel him push past you. He’s all sharp edges and efficiency as he sweeps your place with a precision that makes your stomach twist. His boots are heavy against your wooden floorboards as he checks corners, sightlines, and shadows as if he expects something to jump out at him. It’s clear he’s done this exact same thing probably a million times before in his life.
Bon Jovi, on the other hand, stays near the door. He’s quieter, watching everything and everyone at once, his presence softer but no less aware. His aura flickers in your periphery when you dare to steal a sideways glimpse at him – blue and yellow and that unmistakable thread of violet woven through it like a secret he doesn’t fully understand himself.
You hover near the entryway for half a second before–
“Sit,” Metallica orders, gesturing his chin toward your old couch without ever taking his eyes off the metaphorical dragon in the room.
God, you wish there was a spell for turning yourself into an actual dragon. That’d be kind of neat right now.
His aura is spewing fire as well and feels almost overwhelming, swallowing everything in the room in a ball of flames. It’s coiled tightly like a spring ready to snap, which doesn’t really soothe your worries in the slightest.
Yeah, he’s definitely the knight with a sword.
You slowly and carefully lower yourself into the soft cushions, the plush underground only bringing you little comfort for once. Every step and every breath you take feels like you’re walking a tightrope strung between cooperating and getting shot. Every sudden movement might get you killed.
Which, truthfully, doesn’t feel that far off from reality. It’s a pretty solid assumption at this point.
You keep your hands instinctively visible, gripping the edge of the couch just enough to ground you, but you want to stay as non-threatening and harmless as possible.
Very harmless. So harmless. The most harmless.
Metallica, however, still doesn’t lower the gun. Doesn’t even seem to consider it. Of course he doesn’t.
Stupid knight.
Your bag barely leaves your shoulder before Metallica snatches it from you, fingers brushing yours for half a heartbeat. The touch is so brief and accidental it barely registers or even counts as contact, but it still sends a strange little jolt up your arm, something electric and unwelcome that you shove down immediately.
Focus.
He tosses the bag to Bon Jovi. “Check it. She’s had it at the bar. Got her little spell book in there.”
So that was your downfall, the reason he caught your scent and hunted you down – he peeked inside your bag back at Clancy’s.
Shit.
You knew he was off at the end there before you left. You should’ve caught onto it. You should’ve trusted your gut and made a run for it as soon as you were in the clear. You could already be at the damn border to Canada if you’d done that instead of being held at gunpoint in your own home now.
His partner catches your bag, but there’s more hesitation and less aggression gleaming in his hazel eyes. He drops it on the coffee table instead of dumping it out, fingers lingering on the zipper for a second like he’s aware this is still… you.
Your stuff. Your home. Your life.
You can tell he’s trying to preserve some illusion of normalcy for your sake, even though that’s already long gone. But you admittedly like him. He feels like someone who thinks before he acts.
Metallica, on the other hand, feels like someone who acts and deals with the thinking later.
If at all.
Which, granted, is super unfortunate for you, considering he’s the one holding the gun.
As Bon Jovi then reaches into your bag and pulls out your notebook, your stomach dips the slightest bit. Not because it’s dangerous or cursed or whatever other nonsense they might think. God, no. But because it’s soft-edged and worn and cute. There’s a literal pressed daisy peeking out from the back pages like you’re about to write poetry in it instead of spells that occasionally ruin men’s lives.
Speaking of, you’re also pretty sure there’s still the I <3 Jared & Heath inscription on the back cover you scribbled in tenth grade. Leto and Ledger, that is.
But as Metallica steps closer and takes a look at it, it’s the symbol on the cover that catches both their attention.
ᛒ
You catch the look that passes between them – recognition. It’s your family rune, really only meaningful to you, so you wonder what it is to them. How the hell do they know about it? And most importantly, why are they interested in it?
Your heart hammers a little faster when Bon Jovi flips the notebook open. Then he pauses before a full frown forms.
“Uh… Dean?”
Metallica doesn’t even look up at first, eyes sternly locked on you the entire time, except for when they still occasionally scan the room like he expects to find a damn demon hiding behind your Swiss cheese plant.
“What?” he snaps, agitation rolling off him in feet-high tidal waves.
Bon Jovi tilts the notebook slightly, like maybe the angle will change what he’s seeing. He glances down at the pages again, brows knitting together. “This is written in, uh… glitter gel pens.”
There’s a beat of silence. Metallica’s head lifts.
And then, he turns and marches over, yanking the notebook out of his partner’s hands like he doesn’t quite believe Bon Jovi. He begins to flip through it himself with all the subtlety of a goddamn hurricane. Fast. Rough. The deeper he gets, the more his expression shifts from certainty to… confusion. His brows crease more and more with every page – color-coded sections, little stars and stickers in the margins, and the occasional doodle you did while bored.
Your heart pounds harder with every second that passes, your mind racing through possibilities, escape routes, spells you could cast if you had to, but you don’t move a single muscle. Because for now, you’re still alive – and you’d like to keep it that way.
“What the hell is this?” Metallica demands to know at last, holding up your spell book like it’s a personal betrayal in his rigid belief system.
“I like to color-code my spells.” You shrug, because honestly, what else are you supposed to say?
It doesn’t feel like he’s still judging you based on witchcraft anymore. Now you suddenly have to justify your choices in stationary. Of all the ways you thought this night could go, that certainly wasn’t high on the list.
And who is he to judge your pen choices anyway? You started that book when you were seven. What were you supposed to do? Change to normal pens midway through? Who does that? You’re not a psycho.
Bon Jovi blinks at you, curiosity bleeding through the tension for a second. “You wrote these yourself?”
“My grandma gave me that book. I write all of my spells myself,” you confirm. There’s a flicker of pride there despite the gun pointed at your face. You fucking worked for those. Trial and error – with emphasis on lots of error.
Metallica narrows his eyes at you – unamused, unimpressed, and completely unfazed. “Oh, so if I have a look around here, I won’t find any ancient spell books, grimoires, maybe a cat skull or two…?” he asks, the rasp in his voice dripping skepticism.
You gesture loosely around the apartment. “Go on and look, but you won’t find anything here,” you tell him. He might find a lot of embarrassing stuff, especially under your bed, but if that means you get to live, you don’t really care. “Look, yes, occasionally I use my magic to teach someone a lesson. I once made my high school bully puke for twenty-four hours straight,” you admit, because honesty seems like the safer route when there’s a gun involved. “But I mostly just try to help people, okay? I never seriously harmed someone. I wouldn’t do that.”
“No, we don’t!” Metallica snaps immediately, the betrayal in his green eyes landing on his partner now.
“Yes, we do,” Bon Jovi counters, firmer this time, and then turns back to you with a newfound softness in his eyes. “We just need some answers, alright?”
But Metallica cuts in again with the bluntness of a hammer before you can respond. “You get your powers from demons?”
“What? No!” Your brow furrows wildly, affronted. “I don’t use dark magic or hoodoo or voodoo or any other crap you come across. Hell, I’m not even Wiccan. My grandma always said these bitches stole from us.”
Bon Jovi huffs a chuckle under his breath. He’s clearly trying to redirect before his hothead partner escalates again. “You’re a natural witch, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve had my powers since I was seven. That’s usually when they unlock in my family.”
Metallica’s gaze only sharpens. “So your mom and grandma were witches, too?”
“Every woman in my family was as far as I know. Probably going back centuries,” you reply. “But my grandma always taught me to help people. Hunters specifically.”
That causes Metallica to pause his nervous pacing for a moment.
His head tilts slightly. “What d’you mean?”
You huff softly, running a hand through your hair. “Honestly? I don’t really know myself.” Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Look, I can tell you what you want to know, but I didn’t lie back at the lab. I was eleven when they died. I really don’t remember all that much. I remember the house and the fire, and I remember some of the stuff they taught me, bedtime stories… But that’s it. I’ve never gone back there since then.”
Metallica studies you intensely. “So you do remember the fire? Wasn’t really faulty wiring, was it?”
“No,” you say quietly. “It was a demon.”
“A demon?” he repeats, putting emphasis on the singularity.
“What color were his eyes?” his partner asks immediately.
“Black?” Metallica throws in.
“No.” You shake your head and look at them. “Yellow.”
The word drops like you just threw a grenade into the room and then ran away.
You don’t need to read auras to feel the shift in them. Bon Jovi’s yellow is flaring, the blue tightening, and the mulberry purple pulses harder. In contrast, Metallica’s red spikes, the hunter green goes razor-sharp, and the gray thickens like storm clouds rolling in.
Yeah, that most definitely meant something to them.
“And you said you had your powers since you were seven?” Bon Jovi continues carefully. “It didn’t start in the last year or so?”
“No, I’m pretty sure,” you huff a small laugh, not following his line of questioning. “Magic’s always been a part of me.”
There’s another look between them.
“Means she’s not one of them,” Bon Jovi murmurs under his breath, leaning closer to his partner.
“Doesn’t fit the pattern,” the other mutters back.
You frown, leaning forward, eyes flicking between them. “What pattern?”
The tall one hesitates. You can even see it in his aura as it pulls in two directions – logic versus instinct.
“Look, uhm–”
“Sam, don’t tell her anything,” Metallica warns.
“Dean, she might be able to help.”
“You heard her. She doesn’t know anything.”
“She might know enough.”
“Help with what?” you press. At this point, you are deeply fucking invested in not being the only confused person in this room. You’re either getting answers, or you’ll die trying.
Bon Jovi exhales a long breath and then seems to come to a decision. He drops into the armchair opposite you. “I–, uh, I have–”
“Sam!”
“–I have abilities, too,” he finishes, undeterred by his partner’s protests.
“What kinda abilities?” you ask, genuinely curious now.
“I get these, uh… premonitions,” he explains. “I can see how people die. At least most times.”
You grimace slightly. “That sucks.”
“Yeah,” he huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, it does.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “Explains the purple.”
“Purple?” Metallica’s head snaps up, unfortunately giving you his undivided attention again.
“His aura,” you explain. “Yellow, blue, and purple. Violet shades usually point to psychic abilities – or at least strong intuition. Mine’s purple, too. Lupine, actually.”
But your little grin is only met with more of Metallica’s stoicism.
“What?”
“You know, like the flower?” you clarify, but he just keeps staring at you till you sigh in defeat. “Never mind.”
“You can read auras?” Bon Jovi asks then.
You nod softly.
Metallica crosses his arms at that, observing you like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve and it’s starting to annoy him. “What else can you do?”
You decide not to answer with words. Seeing is believing after all, right?
So, you don’t move. You don’t speak. You just let them see.
The candles on your shelves then ignite one by one, filling the room with soft flames and a warm glow. The fireplace then follows and catches next, a low and soothing crackle filling the space. And then, every one of your plants begin to bloom and blossom all around them.
“My abilities are mostly tied to the natural elements – fire, water, earth…” you say. “I read tarot and auras. My grandma taught me when I was a kid. Otherwise, I guess I’m just… winging it.” You shrug lightly. “After they died, I never had anyone to teach me any of this stuff. And Mia didn’t want me to use my abilities for a long time.”
Bon Jovi turns to his partner. “Dean, we should just tell her. Maybe she knows what Dad did there that night.”
“No, we’re not gonna share all our secrets with some witch, Sam,” Metallica shoots back. “We can’t trust her, man. You know that.”
Bon Jovi lets out a frustrated sigh, his gaze flicking between you and his partner. He stares at you for a second longer and then decides to take a chance and go for it, ignoring Metallica’s warnings. “Look, our names are Sam and Dean Winchester, alright?”
“Dude.” Metallica throws his arms up and starts to pace again.
But you can’t really focus on him. Your attention stays with Bon Jovi – Sam.
Brothers. Sons.
“Winchester?” you repeat slowly. “As in… John Winchester?”
Dean spins around at that, brow raised. “Oh, so you do know him. Guess that was another lie, huh?”
“He’s our dad… was our dad,” Sam adds.
“He was your dad?” You swallow lightly. “And he died?”
“Demon killed him,” Dean says without an ounce of emotion in his voice. He presents it as a simple fact, but his aura is on the fritz, so you know he’s got tons of ugly stuff buried deep down there.
“The same one?” you ask quietly.
“Yeah, couple weeks ago. That’s why we’re here,” Sam explains. “He had some notes on your family. On you, specifically. We’re just trying to find answers so we can finally kill this thing.”
You swallow, gaze drifting back and forth between them. “What kinda answers?”
Dean takes a step closer, shoulders squared. The weapon is lowered in his hand, but it’s by far forgotten. “What was he doing there that night?”
“He was there for a visit,” you reply. “I think the demon surprised them.”
“Visit?” The word seems to rub him the wrong way.
“This wasn’t the first time he was there?” Sam asks then.
“No.” You shake your head. “He’s been to Sugar Hill a few times. Earliest I remember was before I even had my powers.”
They share another look.
“What was he doing there?” Dean asks.
“Seeing my mom and grandma.”
“For what?”
“He wanted their help with the demon.”
“Do you know what they maybe talked about?” Sam asks this time.
“I really don’t know.” You shrug helplessly. “I was just a kid. They would send me to my room or outside to play. I only ever overheard bits and pieces.”
“Anything specific you can remember?”
“No, sorry. All I remember is that he said he needed help with a demon, and then they would whisper a lot and go up to the attic.”
“The attic?” Dean echoes, cocking a brow.
“That’s where my grandma kept all her spell books and would perform rituals,” you share. You can still remember that place, how the sunlight slanted through the stained-glass windows across the creaking floorboards.
Dean glances at his brother. “Maybe we’ll find something there?” Then his pine green eyes swerve back to you. “What else is up there?”
“Like I said, I don’t know,” you reiterate, gritting your teeth slightly. “I’ve never been back there since, and I don’t plan on going back ever again,” you state firmly. “Look, I like my life and I’ve been trying to stay away from all this crap for as long as possible. No demons, no ghosts, no monsters. All it’s ever done is kill everyone in my family. I’m not gonna be next on that list.”
“Don’t you wanna find out what happened to them?” Sam asks softly.
“Not really, no,” you reply bluntly. “I’ve made peace with what I know. I don’t need the nitty-gritty details.”
“Hate to break it to you, but this thing might still be after you,” Dean throws in.
“There’s a reason our dad hid you and faked your death. That was him, right?” Sam adds.
You give them a nod. “He told Mia to get me out and make sure I stay hidden. Never saw him again after that. But I remember he was nice.”
“Nice?” Dean scoffs. “We talking about the same guy?”
“I remember once sitting in the backseat of that car you drive,” you state and smile weakly, which seems to catch him by surprise. You finally realized where you’d seen it before. You should’ve recognized it sooner, but you’d shoved all those memories down deep a long time ago. “It was on the night of the fire, actually. But that’s it. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Did you know you were born during a blood moon?” Sam asks then, stumping you this time for a second.
“Uhm… no?” You blink a few times, tilting your head. “Didn’t exactly check the sky when I was born. But I do find it creepy you know that.”
Dean snorts. “She’s got you there, man.”
Sam looks up at his brother. “She still might be a target if they find out she’s alive.”
“So? How’s that our problem?” Dean shoots back.
You quirk a brow at that. “You wanna share that with the class maybe?”
Somehow, you’re getting the feeling your life might be in danger, and it’s not just because of the maniac with a loaded gun in your living room.
“Look,” Dean snaps, weapon aiming for you again, “maybe my brother here buys your little act of innocence, but I don’t, alright? There’s no way our dad would’ve worked with freaking witches. You’re clearly lying to save your ass, and I’ve had enough of it.”
The click of the gun is deafening.
But his aura? The brick-red is becoming unstable and exploding, ready to burn down everything in its way. You’ve never witnessed someone going nuclear before, but your body reacts instantly. You push off the couch, backing up step by step until your spine hits the cold wall behind you. There’s nowhere else to go. Nowhere to run.
“I’m not lying,” you say, forcing the words out past the fear clawing up your throat.
“Dean–”
“No, I’m done, alright?” he cuts Sam off, but his eyes stay fixed on you. “She doesn’t know anything, and even if she does, we can’t trust her, man. Safer to kill her now than wait for her to strike a deal with a demon and sell us out down the road.”
“You wanna kill me so badly? Fine. Go ahead, big guy,” you grit and straighten your shoulders. Your voice feels unsteady, but it doesn’t waver, which surprises even you, considering how hard your heart is pounding, feeling each beat in your ears. “But it won’t change anything. And it for sure as hell won’t make you feel better about yourself.”
You push off the wall and take a step forward. Then another. He doesn’t back up, but he doesn’t lower the weapon either.
“You really think I’m the monster here?” you scoff and lock eyes with him. “Because I’m not the one pointing a gun at someone. You are.”
The barrel presses to your forehead, cold, unforgiving, and final. But you don’t even see the gun anymore. All you see is him, and all he sees is you.
That’s the breaking point.
His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the weapon. His breath hitches. There’s a tick in his tense jaw that feels like a countdown. Every emotion he keeps chained up inside of him collides right then and there.
You can see the cracks clearly now in his armor. All you have to do right now is get in there and rip them wide open till the wounds are bleeding.
“The sad part is you’re so broken you can’t even see it,” you say. “But I can. You barge in here all righteous and wave a gun around, but you never look in the mirror, do you? So, go on. Do it. Kill me if you think it makes you feel any better. Prove you’re just like the things you claim to hunt. But I promise you it won’t work. You’re just gonna feel like a bigger monster after.”
For a moment, everything stills. But his aura is flickering, the red dimming just enough for something human to break through the cracks.
He exhales sharply, breaths ragged and uneven. The hand with the gun drops to his side, shaking slightly. And then, he just storms off.
The door slams behind him with a force that causes the walls to thunder.
In his wake, there’s only silence. You don’t move. You don’t even breathe. Every nerve in your body is trembling.
“I’m sorry,” Sam’s voice rips you out of your daze.
You flinch, having forgotten for a second that he was still there. As you dare to glance at him, he looks at you with apology written all over his face.
“He’s–, uhm… he’s going through some stuff,” he offers as an excuse – or maybe it’s just an explanation.
Either way, you don’t really give a shit.
“Get out,” you snap, the terror in your veins finally spilling over into anger.
“I just–…” His mouth opens and closes a few times, hesitating. “Look, if you ever remember anything, or change your mind–” He scribbles something down on a note and places it carefully on the coffee table in front of you, mindful of keeping his distance. “Call me, alright?”
“Out.”
“Yeah, okay, alright.” He nods quickly, palms raised in surrender as he backs away. “I’m really sorry. Again.”
And then he’s finally gone, too.
The door clicks shut softly this time, but the silence that follows is anything but.
Then, your legs give out.
You slide down the wall, hands shaking, breath coming in sharp, labored bursts as the adrenaline finally crashes fully and rushes out of your blood.
You’re alive. Somehow. Barely.
And as you sit there on your floor, staring at nothing, all the things they said and unloaded on you tonight still swirling through your mind, you only hold onto one thing:
If you never have to see those two again in your life, you surely know it will be a good one.
Dean doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t want to. Because if he does, he might see your face again. Might hear your voice again. Might start thinking.
And that’s the last thing he fucking needs right now.
The cold night air burns his lungs on the way in and does nothing to cool the heat simmering under his skin. His boots carry him forward on instinct alone, gravel crunching too loudly beneath each step, and it feels like the world’s turned the volume up solely to piss him off.
By the time he reaches Baby, his pulse is still hammering, breath coming fast and uneven as if he just ran a mile instead of a couple dozen yards. His hands feel unsteady as he yanks the door open, the metal groaning in protest. He drops into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, the sound reverberating down the quiet street.
For a long moment, he just sits there. Hands on the wheel. Jaw clenched. Chest rising and falling too damn fast.
The familiar smell of leather and gun oil wraps around him and grounds him a little in a way nothing else ever can.
This – this he understands. This makes sense. The car, the hunt, the rules. Monsters are bad. He kills them. End of story.
Simple.
Except nothing’s fucking simple anymore, is it?
Dean exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face as he leans back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut for half a second.
Prove you’re just like the things you claim to hunt.
His jaw tightens. He shakes his head as if he can physically dislodge the echo of your voice.
But this ain’t how it works – not how any of it fucking works. You don’t get to flip it on him just like that. You don’t get to stand there with your soft voice and your shaking hands and look like you belong anywhere but in the middle of this goddamn mess, acting like he’s the fucking problem all of a sudden.
You’re a witch. That should be enough. It’s always been enough.
Except–
Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles whitening as he tries to push the thought down. But the memory replays whether he wants it to or not.
You, standing in front of that woman and her kid like a damn shield. The boy looking at him like he’s the thing to be afraid of.
But it doesn’t mean anything, right? Doesn’t prove jack. Because he’s seen monsters play nice before. Seen them smile, talk, pretend. That’s how they fucking get you.
That’s how they win.
And you? You’re just better at it than most. He gives you that. But that’s all there is to it.
Dean exhales again, slower this time, forcing the oxygen out of his lungs like he’s trying to push every doubt out with it. His head’s pounding at this point. It started back at the apartment. It’s a dull but persistent ache, sitting right behind his eyes and building with every thought he doesn’t want to think.
Witches.
His dad worked with freaking witches. The idea alone sits wrong in his gut and tastes sour on his tongue. John Winchester surely didn’t work with things like that. Didn’t make deals, didn’t play nice, didn’t fucking trust anything that wasn’t human. And even then, that was pushing it most times.
Except, apparently, that’s not the whole damn story now, is it? It never seems to be these days. Because, apparently, there’s a whole list of things John Winchester did that Dean never fucking knew about.
His grip tightens again.
First, it was the hospital, the last conversation they shared seared into his goddamn brain like his father personally carved it there with his hunting knife.
Then came Ellen – a whole damn network of hunters. Family once, according to her. And somehow, the brothers still never heard a damn word about any of them growing up.
And now this – you. Another secret.
New Hampshire. Witches. Visits Dean doesn’t remember. Conversations he was never part of.
Secrets on top of secrets on top of more fucking secrets, stacking higher the longer he goddamn sits here. They’re threatening to bury him under the weight of all the things his father never said.
When the hell does it ever goddamn end?
He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the floorboard like it might have answers written into the worn metal.
He tries to think back, really think, and dig deep.
Motels. Highways. Cheap diners and long drives and nights spent waiting for his dad to come back from a hunt.
New Hampshire – it still doesn’t ring a single bell.
But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There were a ton of places and a lot of nights where their dad would drop them somewhere “safe” and disappear for days at a time, coming back with blood on his knuckles and a stupid story that never quite added up.
Dean always figured that was just the job. But now? He’s not so damn sure anymore.
A sharp sting then suddenly cuts through the dull ache in his head, quick and sudden enough to make him hiss under his breath. His hand comes up instinctively, pressing against his temple as the pain spikes before it subsides again.
Dean blinks, frowning slightly as he straightens in his seat. He leans back, brow creased, and that’s when he remembers it.
The symbol. Your family rune.
He suddenly knows where he’s seen it before. He shifts in his seat and pulls out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. There’s a faint indentation in the worn leather. His thumb brushes over it till he feels the shape beneath it – small, round, and familiar in a way he can’t quite place.
Dean frowns deeper and flips it open, fingers sliding into the slot and pulling out a small bronze charm about the size of a coin. It catches the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the windshield, the dulled metal still glinting as he turns it between his fingers. And then, he sees the symbol etched into it.
ᛒ
For a second, everything just… clicks. He’s seen this before. Not just tonight, not just on that torn page from his dad’s journal, and not just on the cover of your little glitter-pen notebook.
Before that – way before that.
A vague memory resurfaces, hazy and blurry around the edges. He can barely hang onto it and shape it into focus. He might have been nine, maybe ten, and he was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. His dad then handed him something small and cold, telling him to keep it close.
“For protection,” his father had said.
And Dean? He never questioned it. He just shoved it into his wallet and moved on – like he always did. And then, he just… forgot about it. For more than a decade, that thing sat in his back pocket like it didn’t mean a damn thing.
But now it does, doesn’t it?
Dean turns the charm over in his fingers again, staring at the rune like it might explain itself if he looks hard enough.
What if you were telling the truth? What if his dad really did work with your family? What if this, this little piece of harmless metal sitting in his palm, came from them?
Dean lets out a frustrated breath, shaking his head as if that alone can knock the stupid idea loose.
God, he fucking hates that it makes sense.
The sound of the passenger door creaking open then snaps him out of his convoluted thoughts.
Dean’s head jerks up, and in one smooth motion, the charm disappears into his jacket pocket, fingers curling around it for half a second before he lets it go again.
Sam slides into the seat beside him, the door shutting with a quieter, more controlled thud than Dean’s earlier, but the peace doesn’t last for too long.
“Dean, what the hell was that?”
Dean doesn’t look at his little brother. He just stares straight ahead out the windshield, expression hardening back into solid walls of steel.
“What did it look like, Sam? I handled it,” he scoffs flatly.
Sam lets out a disbelieving huff at that. “Handled it? You call that handling it?” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration lacing his voice. “Dean, you almost shot her.”
“Yeah, well, she gave me a reason.”
“No, she didn’t!” Sam shoots back, turning toward him fully now. “She was helping those people. You saw that.”
Dean’s jaw locks. “I saw a witch messing with people’s lives, Sammy.”
“She was saving them.”
“She was lying to us the whole time, man. Open your eyes,” Dean insists, sharper this time. If he says it enough, it’ll stick, right?
Sam stares at him for another second, trying to figure out if Dean actually believes that or if he’s just being stubborn for the hell of it.
“She could’ve helped us,” Sam says finally, quieter but no less firm. “You heard her. She knew Dad. Her family knew Dad. That’s not nothing.”
Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens again. “We don’t need her help.”
“Dean–”
“I said we don’t need it,” he snaps, cutting him off. His voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes it clear this conversation’s already halfway to being over.
Sam exhales an irritated breath, leaning back in his seat, shaking his head. “You’re being an idiot.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’m serious,” Sam says, glancing out the windshield before looking back at him. “She’s not what you think she is.”
Dean scoffs a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? So what? You got that from the whole five minutes you spent playing nice upstairs?”
“I got that from actually paying attention,” Sam fires back. “From watching her. From listening. She’s not hurting anyone, Dean. She might be the key Dad talked about.”
“She can light candles and let flowers bloom,” Dean counters. “Wouldn’t exactly classify those as demon-slaying powers, Sam.”
“Yeah, but you heard her. She might not even know what she’s capable of. No one ever taught her,” Sam argues.
“I don’t care,” Dean barks, fixing Sam with a deadly look. “We’re done with her.”
“Dean–”
“I mean it, Sam,” he warns. “We don’t call her. We don’t come back here. Am I making myself clear?”
Before Sam can argue again – because Dean can already see that his little brother wants to – he reaches over and cranks up the music, the sound blasting through the car, filling every inch of space until there’s no room left for words. He turns the key, and the engine roars to life, familiar and steady and thankfully loud enough to fucking drown out everything else.
Sam slumps back in his seat with a frustrated sigh, but he doesn’t try again. He knows better than that, just as Dean knows he bought himself a few hours of silence now.
He keeps his eyes on the road as he pulls away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his jacket pocket where the small metal charm sits hidden.
He doesn’t take it out again. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t even think about what it might mean. Nevertheless, he feels its presence there with a heaviness he can’t quite shake.
Sam believes Dean wants nothing to do with you because you singlehandedly stand for everything he’s ever hated in his life. Because he can’t understand you. Because he can’t trust you.
But that’s not entirely true.
Sure, there’s all of that crap, but Dean’s also heard you loud and crystal fucking clear upstairs:
You don’t want to be a part of this.
And Dean? He actually gets that. Hell, he’s not sure he’d give up a sweet life like that either.
It’s not that you’re too witchy. You’re too goddamn normal. That’s the real problem.
You don’t belong in this world full of monsters, demons, and blood. You’re not like the rest of it. Your place smelled like warmth and home instead of death and rot.
You looked at him like he was the bad guy. And hell, for a second there, he didn’t even have a good argument against it.
You have a life here. A stupidly normal one – as normal as it damn well gets for a witch, anyways. And this thing with demons and death and his dad’s secrets?
It always ruins everything it fucking touches.
▶️ Chapter 3: All of Those Best Laid Plans – June 12
Phew, looks like we survived our first not-so-friendly meeting with the Winchesters, especially Dean 😮💨😅 Something tells me she won't get over Dean pulling a gun on her anytime soon lol. Where will all three of them go from here, and will reader dig deeper into her own family before Sam does? 👀
I'm so curious to read all your guesses, especially concerning Dean's little memory blurbs and strange feelings. There might be a little more to it than meets the eye 😉
🔮 Series Masterlist
Coming Up:
You need answers.
Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number.
Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”
“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole.
“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”
“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort.
Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself.
“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?”
“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again.
Series Summary: Despite the blood in your veins painting a glaring-red target on your back, John Winchester once left you alive and kept you hidden for a reason. But when his two grown sons drag their muddy boots onto your crime scene one day, the first meeting is anything but cute.
You have a regular job and a carefully constructed, somewhat normal life built on just enough lies to keep the supernatural at bay, cleaning up messes no one else wants to see. And you definitely never advertise the fact that your magic comes from a bloodline ancient enough to make demons jitter.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. He sees a witch and reaches for a weapon – no questions asked. You lie to survive. Dean judges to cope. The rules of this world dictate the two of you are supposed to hate each other for eternity, but somewhere along the road, something glitches in the cosmic machinery of fate.
That glitch is you.
Warnings: 18+ language, crime scene, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of death and emotional trauma, drinking
Word Count: 13.4k
A/N: Let's dive fully into this one, shall we? Dean might be already in over his head, though. Some deceit and shameless flirting going on in this one... 😝
The smoldering summer heat of noon beats down like a relentless spotlight, the spare parts and damaged vehicles littering Bobby’s junkyard shimmering in the haze. Soft gusts of wind, which feel more like the hottest setting of a blow dryer, carry the smells of rust, oil, and pines through the thick and suffocating air.
Dean wipes his dirtied face with a grease-caked palm, sweat trickling from his forehead down to his neck as he wields a wrench under the Impala, fleeing into the cooler shadows, although the black metal seems to attract the blistering sun even more. His jeans, shirt, and skin are stained with grime. His back is already sore from working for hours – days even – on Baby. But he wears his aches like a badge of honor. All that matters to him these days is restoring her to her former glory.
And maybe fixing her fixes him, too. At least, that is the hope.
Sam has left him alone for the most part after their last case a week ago, hauling himself up in the coolness of Bobby’s house with boxes of their dad’s stuff – John’s research, old burner phones, and even family photos. The only sore reminder of the brothers’ heated discussion last week is the smashed trunk of the Impala.
Dean winces when he thinks about it again. He’s been cursing himself for the past three days for taking out his frustrations with a crowbar. Baby deserves better.
“Dammit!” Dean huffs as the wrench slips from his hand and clatters to the gravel. “Son of a bitch…”
The heat of the pavement burns through his shirt, but he doesn’t care. All his mind is willing to focus on is the car. Whenever he stops, his thoughts wander, and he can’t let that happen, so he never stops.
It’s simple.
He doesn’t want to think about his father’s death, the weirdness of it all, the strange and hollow feeling in his gut like a black pit, Sam’s sudden drive for revenge, the mystery box full of family secrets, or the burden John’s laid on his shoulders with his dying breath.
Dean’s been doing the same dance for close to three weeks now, but it’s been working so far – although Sam would probably disagree with that assessment. Who’s asking him, though? God knows the kid’s head hasn’t been screwed on right either since their dad’s passing.
Granted, they both have said some regretful things over the last few weeks. But why does Sam have to be so goddamn pushy all the time?
Avoiding Sam is the best option for now. Luckily, his little brother has received the message, too.
However, Dean’s stomach is growling as he slowly pushes out from under the car. His green eyes narrow when the blinding sun hits them, already feeling more drops of sweat bead along his hairline as he wipes the oil on his hands into his worn jeans. His gaze then flickers to the empty cooler. He’s out of beer, too. His stomach roars once more.
Great.
Dean sighs. He supposes he has to face the music now, doesn’t he?
But approaching the house causes his stomach to twist with more than hunger. What surprise would await him in there on this beautiful, sunny day? Has Sam found even more fun souvenirs in their father’s pandora box?
As Dean finally drags his feet into the house, Sam is sitting by Bobby’s small dining table, still deeply lost in the contents of one of said boxes. Dean almost sighs out loud when he steals a glance at his little brother, strolling straight to the fridge to retrieve a beer and some ingredients for a sandwich.
Dean still doesn’t know how to ever repay Bobby for his kindness and hospitality over the last few weeks – feeding the boys, lending them working cars, and ensuring Dean’s alcohol level never drops entirely to zero. As soon as the Impala is fixed, Dean plans to finally get out of the old man’s hair. They’ve been staying long enough – some might even say overstaying their welcome – but Bobby never says a thing to them about it.
He doesn’t dare to glimpse at Sam while he’s fixing his meal on the counter, but he certainly can feel his little brother’s hazel eyes burning a hole into the back of his head.
“What?” Dean sighs exhaustively and finally spins around to face Sam, stuffing the first bite of his sandwich into his mouth. He has to occupy it with something before losing his temper again. He masks his discomfort with a sarcastic smile. “Found more burner phones?”
One would think Sam stopped his quest after the last one led the brothers to a killer clown – a rakshasa. But Dean doesn’t seem to be so lucky, judging by the twinkling determination in his little brother’s eyes.
“Uh, no.” Sam shakes his head, a gleam of confusion in his gaze. But it’s not geared toward Dean, a stack of papers in front of his scrunched nose. “Just going through some more of Dad’s research.”
The way Sam says it, Dean knows his little brother surely found something worth discussing. Dean also knows he can’t avoid it forever. Sam will push eventually, so he prefers to get ahead of the problem.
“Anything interesting?” Dean asks, washing the sour nature of the question down with a gulp of beer.
“Maybe,” Sam replies, but Dean knows there’s more. There always is. Sam’s just ramping up for the big guns. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week – how we can’t kill the demon without the Colt, even if we do find it.”
“So?” Dean gives a shrug of his shoulders and keeps nursing his beer. He’s going to need a second one soon if this conversation goes on any longer.
Sam exhales a small sigh of frustration. Dean’s careless attitude has been annoying him as much as Dean’s annoyed by Sam’s relentless agenda to find the demon who killed their entire family and one college girlfriend. What’s so hard to understand about that?
“So,” Sam parrots with strained patience and continues, “I’ve been looking through Dad’s stuff to see if there’s something else. He wouldn’t have given up the Colt if he didn’t have a plan B, right?”
“We don’t know if he gave up the Colt,” Dean mutters, even though he knows it’s all bullshit. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how the gun suddenly went missing after his miraculous recovery in the hospital. Not to mention, their father died practically five minutes later.
Sam quirks a brow. “Don’t we, though?”
Dean only shakes his head and takes a seat next to Sam. He doesn’t want to have this conversation all over again, so he relents. “Alright, what did you find, huh?” he entertains his little brother’s idea, hoping it’s enough to pacify any revenge plans for the moment.
It’s not like Dean doesn’t want the demon dead. It killed his mother. It killed Jess. And it killed his father and a bunch of other innocent people too. But what if it kills Sam next? What’s he supposed to do then? His dad and brother were the most important people in his life, the only family he had left, and now there’s only Sammy.
Dean’s not scared of a lot of things, but he’s scared of being alone in this world.
Lately, it feels like no matter what he does, the demon’s winning. If they go after it and it kills Sam, the thing wins. And if Dean does nothing and lets the bastard keep breathing, it’s still winning. Either way, Dean’s losing, and he doesn’t like those odds.
Sam doesn’t answer right away. It’s not the thoughtful kind of silence, however. It’s the kind that means Sam is deciding how much truth to unload at once. He gathers a few loose papers and straightens the stack like he needs the extra second to decide how hard he wants to push. That alone puts Dean on edge. He already regrets sitting down.
“Dad kept circling back to the same handful of things,” Sam says finally. “Symbols. Locations. Names.”
Dean takes another sip, eyes skimming briefly over the papers before looking away again. “Hunters write stuff down. Shocking.”
“I’m serious, Dean.” Sam slides one of the notebooks closer, flipping it open. Their dad’s handwriting fills the pages. Dean can recognize it in his sleep at this point – tight, angular, relentless. It still stings a little to see it, another reminder that he’s gone and not coming back this time. “There are patterns here. He wasn’t just cataloging. He was narrowing something down.”
Dean leans back in his chair, stretching his sore shoulders. “And this is where you tell me you’ve cracked the code and we ride off into the sunset together like Thelma and Louise?”
Sam ignores that skillfully. “Dad kept his research on the demon all together in the same box. He even demon-proofed the thing. It’s all in there. Weather patterns, crop failures…”
“Yeah, we already handed all that stuff over to Ash,” Dean points out.
“I know,” Sam grits, patience wearing thinner, and slides over a ripped and crumpled piece of yellowing paper. “But I found something else in there, too.”
“Looks like he ripped a page out of the journal.” Dean frowns as he takes the piece of flimsy paper into his hands and stares at the few words on the page.
Left key in Salem – MO. Not time. Contingency only.
“That’s it?” Dean looks up from the page and stares at Sam, brow raised. “This is what got you all worked up?”
There aren’t many notes, and that’s what bothers him. John Winchester never shut up on paper. When he wrote less, it meant their dad was being careful.
“You see that symbol in the margin?” Sam asks, moving his finger on the page to a small, angular letter in the right corner.
ᛒ
Dean squints his eyes at it. The symbol looks familiar, even though he has no idea what it means. It almost feels like he’s seen it before, a vague memory coming to mind of his father explaining it to him when he was just a kid. But Dean can’t remember for sure, which is odd. He usually never forgets the things his dad taught him, so maybe it’s just one of those false memories – his own personal Mandela effect. Most times, all those weird symbols he comes across this job blur together eventually and tend to look pretty much the same.
“It’s a rune,” Sam adds. “From the Elder Futhark.”
“Fu–what?”
“The Elder Futhark,” Sam repeats with a sigh. “It’s an old-school writing system.”
“What’s it mean?”
“I think it literally translates to ‘birch,’” Sam replies, crinkling his nose slightly.
Dean cocks a brow. “Like the tree?”
“Yeah, like the tree.” Sam nods, flipping through loose pages. “In older traditions, it’s tied to growth, birth, uh… lineage. Maternal stuff.”
Dean grimaces. “Maternal?”
Sam chuckles a little. “Yeah, but not soft, exactly. See, birch was seen as kind of protective. It’s the first tree to grow back after a fire,” he explains. “It’s about renewal, shelter, quiet protection.”
“Huh. Fire,” Dean breathes and then looks at Sam. “You think it’s got something to do with us?”
Sam considers this for a moment before answering. “Maybe. I think Dad thought so, or he wouldn’t have written it down and put it into that box.”
Dean peeks at his father’s notes again, a few words standing out that definitely (and unfortunately) sound like a plan B according to John Winchester.
Protective alignment. Asset. Not time. Contingency only.
“What does MO mean?” Dean asks then. “Missouri again? Should we call her?”
But Sam shakes his head, frowning at the page. “I don’t think so. Maybe he meant ‘modus operandi.’ There’s also a Salem in Missouri.”
“You think he put the key thingy there?” Dean looks at his brother and hates that he feels himself getting invested in this nonsense. Leave it to Sam to drag him into even more shit. “What d’you think it is? A weapon like the Colt?”
Sam stares blankly at the pages in front of him, clearly trying to make sense of his father’s research. “I don’t know.”
At that, Dean smiles a little to himself and rises from his seat, patting Sam on the back. “Well, you go have fun figuring it out. I’m going back to work on the car.”
Sam exhales a frustrated sigh but doesn’t bother arguing, returning to the stack of paperwork in front of him.
Crisis averted, Dean thinks, satisfied.
For now, at least.
It takes Sam less than two days to figure out part of the mystery before he plants himself in front of Dean and announces they’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, adding the usual “I’ll fill you in on the way,” which is Sam-code for you’re not backing out of this, so buckle up.
Luckily, that was just enough time for Dean to get the Impala running right again. God knows he wasn’t borrowing another soccer-mom minivan from Bobby. He still has nightmares about the damn cup holders.
And for a while then, the two of them just drive, and Dean’s happy about the silence, the only sounds coming from classic rock tunes through the stereo and Baby’s steady hum under his boots. Sam keeps his nose buried in a stack of papers while Dean keeps his eyes on the road. It gives him something to focus on – lines, distance, direction. But as they pass Chicago, Dean feels himself getting antsy, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a rhythm that doesn’t match the music anymore.
“Alright,” he caves finally, shooting a glance at Sam in the passenger seat. “What did you find? Enlighten me.”
Sam draws an amused smile and arches a brow, but he keeps his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly interested.”
“Just spit it out, alright? Least you can do after dragging me all the way out here,” Dean grumbles, although driving is still better than sitting still at Bobby’s, twiddling his thumbs.
“Alright,” Sam chuckles, but Dean doesn’t miss that little hint of triumph in his brother’s voice. “I started with Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. Small town. Nothing out of the ordinary. But there was a house fire in 1995.”
Dean cocks an eyebrow. “A fire?”
“It was ruled accidental, but there were three fatalities,” Sam says. “A grandmother, a mother, and an eleven-year-old girl.”
Dean scrunches his brow slightly. “Not exactly the usual play…”
The one and only case so far that they’ve tracked connected to the yellow-eyed demon started the same way their nightmare did – a baby in a crib, six months old, and a mother burning on the ceiling. All of it happened in 1983. That’s the pattern.
“I know,” Sam replies. “That’s actually what caught my attention.”
Dean throws him a sideways look. “You sure this isn’t just some random fire?”
“I don’t know,” Sam admits and flips a page. “But I’m pretty sure Dad was there because the responding officer on scene was a deputy called Mia Owens.”
“MO,” Dean repeats quietly.
“Yeah, and get this,” Sam continues, “Mia Owens moved to Salem a few days after the accident and adopted an eleven-year-old girl.”
Dean blinks at that. Alright, that certainly doesn’t sound like a coincidence anymore. He can admit as much.
“You think it’s the same girl that supposedly died in the fire?”
“Yeah.” Sam nods. “I don’t think she died, Dean. I think Dad was there, faked her death, and gave her to Mia Owens to hide. There’s a birth certificate for the girl she adopted, but it’s under a different name. But I couldn’t find any school transcripts, medical records, or anything before the age of eleven. Nothing.”
Dean thinks it through carefully. A house fire in 1995. An eleven-year-old girl that may or may not have survived. Shady adoption records and name changes. His father’s notes.
Asset.
Dean hates to admit that it does fit his father’s style. John wouldn’t go through the trouble of hiding a girl if he didn’t think she was important.
“You think Dad meant a little girl with the key?” Dean asks, raising a brow. “A key to what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I wanna find out,” Sam says pensively, his hazel eyes drifting out the window. “Maybe she’s like me.”
“You think so?” Dean questions skeptically, although he might be biased here. He just really doesn’t want to deal with more freak kids and Sam’s ESP. “I mean, if she was eleven in ’95, she’d be even a year younger than you. Did you have one of your premonition things about her?”
“No.” Sam shakes his head, and Dean feels the relief flooding his body almost immediately. “But maybe she wasn’t part of the original group.”
“You think there were more kids?”
Sam gives a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Dad did.”
“That’s a lot of maybes, Sam,” Dean mutters. “Please tell me we’re not about to harass that poor girl. We don’t even know if she’s the real deal. Maybe that deputy adopting and moving away after the fire was just a coincidence. I mean, seeing a dead kid probably does something to normal people.”
Sam shoots him a raised look at that. “Dean, there are no coincidences in our line of work. And if there were, this would be a pretty big one.”
“Alright, fine. We’ll talk to her,” Dean caves with a sigh. “But if this girl turns out to be completely normal, promise me you’re gonna leave her alone and not drag her into our mess.”
Sam purses his lips and shrugs. “Sure, promise.”
Dean hears the words, but he’s not entirely convinced Sam actually means them.
“I couldn’t find anything on the girl or where she is now, but Mia Owens works at Salem PD,” Sam says. “I figure we start there.”
Dean only gives him a nod at that and focuses his eyes back on the gray stretch of highway ahead.
Salem, Massachusetts
This town might be Dean’s worst nightmare. It’s when his everyday life of horror suddenly turns to an amusing tourist attraction. Witch-themed shop windows, plastic broomsticks, and neon pentagrams litter the cobblestone streets. There’s even someone selling “authentic cursed candles” next to a goddamn coffee shop.
It’s history turned into fucking merch. The town’s darkness is apparently just part of the decor.
“Oh, look, they’re offering ghost tours. Maybe we should take one,” Dean says with a wry grin and kills the engine a block away from the police station.
“Yeah, maybe another time.” Sam chuckles, shaking his head, and smooths out the wrinkles in his suit before grabbing his FBI badge from the glove compartment. Then he glances at Dean. “You coming?”
“Nah, you go ahead. I’ll wait here. Maybe take a nap,” Dean says casually, already leaning back in his seat. After all, he did just drive for close to twenty-four hours straight with barely a break between. He deserves some shuteye, considering Sam dragged him out of bed before sunrise.
Sam gives him a look but heads inside without arguing. Dean’s sleeping plans, however, don’t last for too long before his eyes catch on a flyer stuck to a lamppost, gently fluttering in the ocean breeze. It’s a missing person poster of a young woman, late twenties, last seen three months ago.
As Dean’s gaze then drifts further down the sidewalk, he spots another one on a bulletin board outside a convenience store. Different face but similar age. And then his eyes land on a third one, partially covered by an ad for a harbor cruise. This one’s also female, early thirties, and was last seen a year ago.
Three missing women are cause enough to step out of the car and take a closer look. The air smells like salt and rusted metal as tourists and shoppers pass him on the sidewalk. Dean then studies the nearest flyer – no signs of struggle, no suspects, and no vehicles found. As he looks at the other two then as well, he notices the same pattern there. All disappeared without a trace within one year. If he didn’t know any better, he would think all these women vanished into thin air.
But Dean does know better. His gut is already screaming that there’s more than just answers about lost family secrets in this town.
There’s a case here.
When Sam finally strolls out of the police station, Dean’s leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed. His little brother looks thoughtful, which Dean learned a long time ago means complicated.
“Well?” Dean asks as Sam reaches the car.
“Mia Owens checks out. Moved here eleven years ago with her daughter,” Sam informs him and then flashes a smile. “And get this – the daughter also works for Salem PD. Apparently, she’s a CSI.”
“CSI, huh?” Dean’s brows shoot up with interest. “She working today?”
“Yeah, but the detective inside said they’re at a crime scene right now.”
“You know where?”
“Yup.”
“Alright, let’s go,” Dean says and already opens the driver’s door before stopping. “Hey, uh, you noticed these?” He gestures with his chin toward the missing person posters.
Sam follows his gaze to the closest flyer. “Missing persons?”
“Yeah, plural,” Dean notes. “At least three within a year. All women. Similar age range.”
Sam frowns slightly. “It’s a tourist town, Dean. People pass through. Stuff happens.”
“Not like this.”
“I think you’re getting influenced by the merch here,” Sam retorts, laughing it off. “We’re not here for a case. We’re here to get answers.”
“Oh, and since when are we in the business of ignoring cases, huh? You just wanna let more women die?” Dean argues.
“You don’t know they’re dead,” Sam points out. “You barely even have a case here.”
“We barely ever do, man.”
“Alright,” Sam plays along, leveling with him, which honestly feels really patronizing. Dean knows he’s right about this. His gut is never wrong. It’s the one instinct he can always rely on. “And what do you think killed them, huh?”
Dean gives a defiant shrug. “I don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out.”
The house sits too far back from the road to feel even remotely welcoming. The white siding looks harmless enough from a distance, neat windows and trimmed hedges included. It’s one of those places that probably has matching towels in the bathroom as well. However, there’s a stillness to it that feels strange and anything but peaceful.
Dean slows the Impala as the gravel path turns to mud beneath the tires, the big oaks crowding in on either side like they’re trying to pass judgment. As he cuts the engine, all he hears is the ticking of metal cooling under Baby’s hood and the faint buzz of insects in the woods. For a moment, he just studies the place through the windshield and can’t help the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach of being watched.
“Found her,” Sam says from the passenger seat, snapping him from his stupor, and turns the laptop toward him. “She’s been with Salem PD for about a year now. She graduated early from Boston University with a master’s in biomedical forensic sciences.”
“So she’s smart?”
Dean doesn’t know why he asked that. Of course the girl must be smart if she graduated college early. He couldn’t even swing high school, so he imagines someone who can use the word “biomedical” correctly in a sentence must be genius-level smart. At least, they’d be definitely smarter than him, but even Sam seems to be impressed, and he’s smart, too.
Sam huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’d say.”
Dean sort of admires that. Maybe it’s even jealousy. Because if it’s the girl they’re looking for and not some random coincidence, then it means this girl lost everything, survived unimaginable and unbearable trauma, and still made something of herself. What happened to her didn’t define her, so that’s pretty admirable in Dean’s book.
“That her?” Dean squints at the personnel photo on the screen.
He halfway expects the usual washed-out ID photo – bad lighting, stiff posture, grainy DMV quality, maybe even mid-blink. But instead, the picture makes him pause, not just his breath but his heart, too.
Because even flattened by fluorescent lighting and a bland gray background, the girl on the photo shines and illuminates the whole scene without the need for good angles or straining effort. There’s a natural curve to her mouth that makes even the most neutral facial expression seem like a secret smile. It causes him to wonder what it looks like when she actually smiles.
Her eyes are somehow soft and sharp at the same time, a steadiness gleaming in them that challenges to hold contact for longer than necessary just to see who breaks it first. He gets the sense that, despite the way she looks – innocent, warm, pretty – this girl doesn’t spook easily.
“Huh.” Dean shuts the laptop slower than usual and licks his lips. He tells himself it’s just that she’s hot. That’s all. He’s allowed to notice when someone’s hot. But something about the photo persists in his head a heartbeat longer than it should, and he can’t help that now he kind of wants to see her in person – or the smile.
He wants to see the smile.
“What?” Sam’s already scowling like he knows what’s coming. He probably does.
“Well,” Dean says and pushes the car door open, stepping out onto the gravel as a smirk begins to form on his lips, “here’s hoping your theory’s wrong.”
Sam halts mid-exit before he slams the passenger door shut. “Excuse me?”
Dean closes his door and adjusts the lapel of his suit jacket. “‘Cause if this is just a paperwork mix-up and not demon-adjacent, I might actually get a decent night out of it.”
He smirks broad and full then, even though he can tell Sam wants to either smack or throttle him right now.
Sam stops in his tracks halfway of rounding the hood. “Dude. Are you serious right now?”
He shrugs his shoulders, grin widening. “What? Just saying. She’s cute.”
“Dean, she might be connected to a house fire tied to the same thing that killed Mom,” Sam points out all righteously.
Dean’s smirk softens, but it doesn’t disappear. “Yeah,” he says. “And if she’s not, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”
“Unbelievable.” Sam exhales sharply through his nose, already turning toward the house with a shake of his head.
Dean chuckles and follows, hands slipping into his pockets. The two of them then stroll past uniforms and patrol cars, ducking under yellow tape, badges already out as Dean approaches an officer stationed by the door.
“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”
The cop, however, doesn’t even get a chance to answer before an older woman steps up. She’s somewhere in her forties, maybe a little past it, and definitely looks like she doesn’t startle easily. There are crinkles around her eyes that aren’t from laughing but probably from squinting at bad situations way too often. Years of experience have settled into her posture, knowing exactly how much force to use without wasting it. She also probably knows when to talk and when to let silence do the work.
She gives seasoned cop energy, and Dean sighs internally. This won’t be easy as pie.
“Right here. Sergeant Owens.” She doesn’t extend a hand but already squares her shoulders instead.
“FBI, ma’am.” Dean swallows subtly and quickly flashes his badge before she can notice they’re super fucking fake. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”
Sergeant Owens cocks an eyebrow and places her hands challengingly on her hips. “And what exactly does the FBI want with me?”
God, Dean feels a slight buckle in his knees at the firm tone of her voice. It feels like she’s scolding him for something he hasn’t even thought about doing yet.
“We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction,” Sam jumps in, more fearless than Dean, but that’s probably because Sam’s still driven by his need for answers. Dean doesn’t really want answers. He just wants peace and maybe a burger. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.”
“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Dean gets straight to the point, not wasting another minute tiptoeing around the subject. He knows jumping into it will probably shake something loose, even if it’s just a defense mechanism. That would already tell him a lot, and that’s all he really needs.
“My adoptive daughter, yes,” the sergeant confirms and crosses her arms. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”
Apparently, Sergeant Owens likes getting straight to the point as well. Dean interprets this as a good sign because he’s certainly intimidated by her glare.
“We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire,” Sam says carefully. “You were the first responder on scene?”
“I was,” Owens confirms, but her eyes never loose their sternness. “It was ruled an accident.”
“Three dead. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Dean adds.
She nods once. “That’s right.”
Dean tilts his head slightly at that. “Except here’s the thing,” he continues calmly, wetting his lips. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”
Her gaze expectedly darkens. “What are you implying, agent?”
“I think you know,” is all Dean says, not backing down till Sam cuts in to dissolve the tension.
“We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”
But the sergeant steps forward, bristling. “Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”
“Mia, it’s okay,” a soft and sweet voice pipes up suddenly, and there’s movement behind Owens.
Dean notices because the air changes in an instant, like someone opened a window and let a gentle breeze in. And before he can blink, you step up beside the sergeant.
You’re different from the photo. Somehow, in a worse way, which really means better, and that automatically means worse for him. Because in person, there’s even more warmth. It’s almost heat, like the hottest day in July, causing him to sweat in his suit by just looking at you. There’s a barely detectable trace of something electric crackling underneath the surface, under your skin, that the dull picture didn’t capture. A stream of light seeps through the windows and catches in your eyes as if even the sun herself is seeking you out.
For a heartbeat, Dean forgets what he wanted to say till Sam elbows him in the ribs.
Right. Words. FBI. Fire. Focus.
“You don’t have to–” Sergeant Owens turns toward you instantly, protective instinct written all over her face, and Dean recognizes that one from his own father. Maybe even from himself when he looks in the mirror whenever Sam’s concerned. But if the story is true, Dean thinks he understands why their dad picked Mia Owens to keep a secret.
“It’s fine,” you assure her with a small nod, completely calm in a way that makes Dean nervous.
His eyes move before his brain catches up, tracing the line of your shoulders beneath the CSI jacket, the shape of your waist, and the quiet confidence in the way you stand. He can tell you’re not reckless or naïve. You know exactly what’s happening here. You’re not scared or confused. You’re measuring, careful, calculated.
His stomach tightens imperceptibly.
“You wanted to speak to me?” Your gaze drifts back and forth between him and Sam, assessing. A swallow gets stuck in Dean’s throat, lump thickening.
“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. Smooth, Winchester. Smooth. He then nods and pulls out his badge with a smidge more confidence. “Special Agent Hetfield. This is Special Agent Sambora.”
You step closer to look – really look – and Dean feels the sweat begin to gather in the back of his neck again, probably soon flushing like a waterfall down his spine. You examine his credentials with far more attention than most people ever do. There’s no rush as your eyes scan over the name, the seal, and even the goddamn laminate.
Please don’t be a Metallica fan. Please don’t be a Metallica fan…
In his periphery, he can see even Sam shift his weight, sees the tension creeping into his shoulders. Dean resists the urge to yank the ID back like a guilty teenager in a liquor store. He wonders if you’ve already figured it out. You’re smart, he reminds himself and watches your expression for recognition. For amusement. For the moment you call him out.
But instead, you smile. And shit, it’s so much more striking than the photo hinted at. It’s even warmer and brighter, like staring directly into the goddamn sun.
“Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”
Dean licks his lips, studying you for a moment longer, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s long enough that it causes you to straighten your posture just the slightest bit, bracing for whatever comes next. He can already tell you’re not expecting it to be good news.
“Are you the girl from the fire?” Dean asks you bluntly, but you don’t stump or jolt back like he expected you would. Like most people would.
Instead, your eyes flicker from him to Sam and then back to him again, seemingly weighing both danger and options. “Am I in trouble?”
It’s not a clear yes, but it’s definitely not a no either. An innocent person would never ask that question. A guilty one would. You are the eleven-year-old girl who survived a fire. Who lost her entire family and is now being forced to talk to two strangers about it. Dean suddenly feels incredibly repentant about that, enough to seek out a church. He won’t, but the urge is there. God, he should’ve never let Sam convince him to come here, poke around, and disrupt a life that’s not theirs to disturb.
“No,” Sam assures you quickly, shaking his head and giving you that soft smile he always reserves for calming victims. “You’re not in any trouble, I promise. We just want to ask you a few questions about that fire. What you remember…”
You grind your jaw, glancing at Dean again as if you know he’s the weak link here, suspicion clear as day in your eyes. “Why does the FBI care? It was ruled an accident.”
Dean lifts a brow at that, smiling cleverly. Gotcha. “Then why were you declared dead and adopted under a different name?”
You narrow your eyes to a little glare at him, which he finds more adorable than threatening. Then you exhale a sigh of defeat, and Dean almost wants to grin at that but bites it back.
“Fine,” you huff, your eyes darting around the house that’s currently bustling with cops before you lower your voice. “But not here,” you say. “Besides, I don’t have time right now. I’m still on the clock, and I have a ton of evidence to process. You can come by my lab later. My shift ends at six.”
You pull out a business card and hold it out to him. As Dean takes it, his fingers briefly brush yours, and he swears a jolt of electricity travels straight up his arm and slithers down his spine to places it shouldn’t go.
“We’ll be there,” Dean promises and can’t really control the slight upward twitch of his lips.
Without another word, you then turn back toward the rest of the crime scene, already slipping your gloves on, the conversation dismissed without being rude. Dean watches you walk away, gaze unapologetically following the curve of your hips down to your ass before dragging back up again.
When he whistles lowly, Sam kicks his leg pretty damn hard, forcing Dean’s eyes away from you.
“Dean.” Sam glowers and scolds him like a dog who peed on the new carpet. Sometimes, Dean wonders if his little brother ever wishes to bring a spray bottle of water to these things. “Can you not?”
Sure, Dean could try. But the unnameable restlessness that buzzes in his blood when he thinks about you probably won’t let him. There’s something about you that can’t be stuffed neatly into any labeled box he has, but for the sake of finding something to put you in, he chalks it off to simple attraction. Lust. Chemistry.
Yeah, that’s probably it. Nothing more to it.
As Dean swings the motel room door open, the smell of old carpet and bleach hits him instantly. The TV is on mute, some local news anchor gesturing dramatically about weekend tourism, but Sam’s attention is nowhere near it.
His little brother is hunched over the small table by the window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie abandoned, the yellow legal pad beside him filled edge to edge with tight handwriting. There’s also a stack of photocopies scattered in front of him, ranging from birth certificates and property records to archived newspaper clippings and police reports.
“You’re back early.” Sam doesn’t even look up when Dean enters, shutting the door behind him.
“Dude, I’ve been gone six hours. It’s almost five,” he notes. Good thing his own investigation didn’t get him kidnapped or shot this time. Otherwise, he’d probably be dead till Sam noticed he was even gone that long.
Sam lifts his head, brows pinched, and checks his watch like he just surfaced from underwater. “Huh.”
“So, you find anything?” Dean asks and tosses the keys onto the dresser.
Sam exhaustively leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. “Define anything.”
“Anything weird. Anything cult-y. Any reason a dead kid suddenly isn’t dead anymore.”
“Nope.” Sam exhales hard. “The adoption paperwork is messy but not illegal. Name change’s clean, too. I found the death certificates for her mother and grandmother but not for her.”
Dean’s brow furrows slightly. “So she’s… not officially dead.”
Sam shakes his head slowly with a frustrated look gleaming in his brown eyes. “No, uh, it’s not even in the official police report. I mean, hell, there’s not even a mention of her. Like she never existed. The only thing that mentions three deaths during the fire is a local newspaper, but that’s it.”
“That’s it?” Dean’s brow lifts.
“That’s it.”
“That’s… weird,” Dean says for lack of better words.
“Tell me about it,” Sam huffs.
“And Dad?”
“Well, if we assume Dad was involved that night, I think he probably is the ‘civilian’ who ‘assisted in the rescue.’ He disappeared before he could give a full account,” Sam states with a tight smile, reading off the report. “If there’s something supernatural in her background, it’s definitely not on paper.”
That’s not necessarily unusual, especially if their father was part of the coverup. The brothers learned early how to erase their tracks properly.
“I did look into the property records of the house, though,” Sam adds. “It’s got a lot of history. Been in her family for practically centuries. It’s still in her name – her real name. It’s never been sold to anyone else.”
Dean bobs his head, then smacks his lips. “Alright, so let’s say your theory is right and the fire wasn’t an accident and Dad was really there that night, the worst case scenario is that he saved a little girl and then hid her from the evil thing that was probably still after her to finish the job. Is that what you’re saying?”
Sam sighs. “Yes.”
“Huh.” Dean purses his lips, nodding. “So basically, you’ve got nothing.”
Sam lets out a breath through his nose, drawing his lips into a tight line. “Yup,” he admits somewhat bitterly. “But she’s still gotta be connected to the demon somehow. Why else would Dad have gone through all that trouble to hide a small piece of paper in a demon-proof lockbox?”
“Look, I hear ya, alright? But not everything the old man did always made a whole lotta sense,” Dean reasons.
Sam’s brow scrunches significantly at that. “Since when are you saying that? You worshipped the man.”
“Since now,” Dean replies without missing a beat, although he really wants to say since Dad idiotically sacrificed his soul for poor little me. “Maybe a demon was involved. Maybe there wasn’t. Hell, doesn’t even mean the fire ties back to the yellow-eyed demon. There’s other demons around, you know? You forgot Meg? Maybe Dad just tracked it out of habit, and it’s your fault for reading too much into three lines on an old note.”
Sam stares at him for a long moment then, hazel eyes completely stern, and Dean knows his little brother pretty much wants to strangle him right now – because he’s right. For once, Dean’s right and Sam’s wrong. Dean can almost feel the universe losing its balance over it.
He smirks annoyingly wide at that. “Guess that means the CSI hottie is fair game.”
“I think she already has enough trauma in her life without needing your help, Dean,” Sam mutters, amused.
“No better cure than Vitamin D for that.”
“Dude!”
Yeah, Dean almost wants to slap himself, but he’s too busy grinning shamelessly.
“Maybe wait till we’ve talked to her and make sure she’s not connected somehow before you hit on her again,” Sam scolds and then checks his watch once more. “Speaking of, we need to leave soon or we’re gonna be late.”
“Yeah, hang on. Got something, too,” Dean says, victory already curving his lips. “Drove around town and looked into the missing women cases. Dug a little deeper.”
A corner of Sam’s mouth lifts wryly. “Oh, good. This should be interesting.”
Dean shoots him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Sam shrugs lightly, then leans forward on the table. “Just curious what kind of deep investigative journalism you conducted today. Talk to any conspiracy bloggers? Interrogate a barista?”
Dean rolls his eyes and grabs the room’s only other chair, dragging it across the carpet so it faces Sam directly. “You’re hilarious. Really. You should take that on the road.”
“Dean–”
“Eight,” Dean cuts in.
His little brother’s brow furrows. “Eight what?”
“Eight missing women. Not three,” Dean states and watches Sam at least straighten at that. “Five more in the last twelve months. All married. All reported missing by their husbands. And all had domestic disturbance calls logged at some point before they disappeared. You know, neighbors calling in yelling, one shattered window, one ‘accidental fall’ down the porch steps that didn’t quite line up with the bruises. And then all of them just vanished without a trace.”
Sam frowns then, shoulders slumping. “Dean, they probably just left their husbands. Doesn’t mean there’s anything weird going on.”
“Sure.” Dean nods, feeling quite clever. “See, that’s what I thought too at first. But then I talked to a few of the husbands.”
Sam arches a brow. “And?”
“And,” Dean continues, “all of them had accidents after their wives’ disappearances.”
“What kinda accidents?”
Dean exhales slowly through his nose. Boy, that one’s a loaded question. He’s heard some weird shit over the years in this job. Seen worse. But this one surely took the cake. He’s never sat across a red-faced contractor in a living room before, who muttered something about a “freak bedroom thing.” The guy turned purple by the time Dean finally got him to say the words “fracture” and “penis” together in the same sentence.
That was new territory.
Salem – witch capital of America. He almost laughs at that. If there were ever a town for something old and vindictive to take root, it’d be this one. God, he hates witches. Of course some bitch hauled up here of all places and sprinkles hex bags around like it’s fucking confetti.
“You know, shower slips, stair falls, gym injuries,” Dean replies, coughing up the lump in his throat.
“That’s vague. Could still be unrelated.”
“Could be.” Dean bobs his head, lips pursed, then looks dryly at his brother. “They all broke their dick, Sam.”
“What?” Sam’s brows pinch together. Hard.
“Yeah, that got your attention, huh?” Dean slumps back in his chair and lets out a sigh.
Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times before finding the right words. “Did any of them die?”
“No, Sam, they all just had an itchy cast for a few weeks,” Dean deadpans. “I mean, one guy thinks he might have permanent damage, but that’s only ‘cause he was too freaked out and embarrassed to go to the ER.”
Dean doesn’t mention that the last victim’s husband was still wearing a cast, which he kept repeatedly scratching right in front of him. For an entirety of thirty minutes, Dean didn’t know where to look and kept staring at the ceiling fan.
Sam muses, head nodding. “So let me get this straight – the women are all probably alive and just left, and the husbands are alive too and got away with minor injuries.”
“Minor?”
“You know what I mean. We’ve seen a lot worse,” Sam clarifies, which Dean can hardly deny. This is basically bush league – no pun intended. “What are you thinking? Witch?”
Dean shrugs. “Probably. Fits the M.O.”
“Look, it still might be a coincidence,” Sam argues, which frustrates Dean greatly.
He knew Sam was going to call it a stretch, even with all the evidence laid out in front of him. He knew Sam would say correlation isn’t causation. And he knew Sam would point out that injured men don’t automatically equal hex bags and covens.
And Dean knows that, too. But he also knows eight women just don’t evaporate into thin air and husbands don’t shatter things like that by accident. At least not eight fucking times.
“Dude, c’mon,” Dean counters. “Eight guys having those kinds of injuries is not nothing. I mean, they’re dicks to their wives and then they get injured in the most ironic way possible? When’s the last time you’ve ever heard of something like that, especially in a town this size?”
Sam doesn’t respond, which Dean takes as admission.
“Exactly.”
Sam studies him for a long moment. “Alright, let’s say you’re right–”
“I am.”
“Even if it’s witchcraft,” Sam continues, “it sounds like a vigilante and not something purely evil.”
“So? What, you wanna give that bitch a free pass just ‘cause she’s got some weird moral compass?” Dean questions.
“So do we,” Sam points out.
“It’s different.”
“How so?”
“‘Cause it just is. ‘Cause I said so, alright?” Dean snaps. “Witches are evil. We kill evil things. End of story. I mean, hell, you love all those serial killer docs. You’ve never heard of escalation before? Whoever’s doing this maybe isn’t killing people right now, which is why we have to stop them before they do.”
Sam exhales a long breath at that, caving slightly. “You find any weird symbols? Hex bags?”
“Nope, not yet. But I’ll find something,” Dean assures his little brother. “I’m telling you, man. There’s something weird going on in this town.”
Your lab is a sanctuary of steel counters and fluorescent lights, humming with the quiet efficiency you’ve come to rely on. The evidence board glows behind you in blue, crime scene photos pinned in neat rows, your notes scrawled in the margin. The faint tang of chemicals keeps everything clinical and contained, and the chaos of magic stays locked away here – no tarot deck in sight, no spell books on the shelves, no runes scratched under the desk. It’s just science doing the heavy lifting while you sort fibers and catalog blood spatter.
A knock on the doorframe a few minutes past six then snaps you out of your peaceful routine, announcing Metallica and Bon Jovi right on schedule.
Metallica leans one broad shoulder against the frame with a smirk in place, suit jacket already unbuttoned, golden freckles and evergreen eyes sparkling under the bright lights. Bon Jovi stands a half-step behind, posture more careful but no less intense.
Their auras roll into the room ahead of their bodies, brushing against your senses like a breeze through leaves.
A while ago, you made your own science out of describing auras. Bland names like yellow usually don’t say a whole lot about a person, do they now? Has anyone ever looked at a color wheel properly? There’s more options than just six. Is it a warm yellow? Or does it have more of a blue-ish tint to it? Brighter? Darker? That already says a lot about someone. So, you grabbed a Pantone color catalog from the hardware store not too long ago and got more creative.
After all, who doesn’t like a little more sparkle and fun in their life?
Well, judging by Metallica’s aura, he might not. His aura is dense and close to his skin like armor. There’s a deep brick red at the core, steady and restrained. It’s the color of adrenaline held on a leash. Of survival mode that never quite switches off. But hunter green (ironic, yes) glimmers through the red. Big caretaker energy a guy like him probably even denies having. There’s also gunmetal gray that spiderwebs around the red and green, locking them up like chainmail. It speaks of grief he clearly hasn’t let himself feel yet. Maybe even survivor’s guilt chewing at the corners.
That one’s definitely your knight, but not in the sense that you’re the princess he needs to rescue. You’re the dragon he’s convinced himself to slay. He just doesn’t know it yet.
Bon Jovi’s aura, on the other hand, is larger, more diffuse, and a lot harder to pin down. His primary color is a bright buttercup yellow, which pulses unevenly. He’s intelligent, anxious, and probably has a mind that overthinks practically everything. A deep Moroccan blue pools heavily around his center, however, telling of grief, emotional depth, and moral restraint. But the most interesting part about this guy? It’s the flickers of mulberry purple striking through the others like lightning. Uninvited and unpredictable. It feels like something is watching back. Psychic potential, maybe? Or maybe it’s just good intuition.
Their colors aren’t what give you pause, though. It’s how their auras interact with each other, which is certainly a rarity. They’re symbiotic. Not many people have that.
Metallica’s red steadies Bon Jovi’s erratic yellow when their gazes meet. In turn, Bon Jovi’s blue cools the heat in Metallica’s red just enough to keep it from boiling over. Metallica’s gray also thins in the other’s presence, like shadows retreating from light, while the purple in Bon Jovi calms as if Metallica’s grounding him.
Which tells you one thing: they’re more than just hunting partners. Brothers is your best guess. Either that, or they’re super gay for each other with a soulmate-deep bond. You probably shouldn’t ask them to clarify. That never works out well for you.
What’s important for you, though, is that they’re clearly stronger together. Dangerous even. But they’re also more vulnerable when separated.
You strip off your gloves and rise from your swivel chair with a deceptively bright smile. “Agents, right on time. I was just finishing up. Come on in.”
They do. The door clicks shut behind them, which feels threatening enough, considering you’re pretty sure they want to kill you or do God knows what else with you. Did they already bring the matches and lighter fluid?
But even with the pressure on your shoulders, you gesture to the chairs across your workstation. “Have a seat. Thirsty? I’ve got some water I can offer you.”
You spin to the mini-fridge and pull out two chilled bottles of water – holy water, to be exact. Quietly blessed last week by the local Catholic priest. If they’re demons, it’ll sizzle on contact. If not, well, hydration is key.
“Thanks,” Bon Jovi says, accepting one bottle with a polite nod. He twists the cap, takes a sip.
Nothing.
Metallica does the same, gulping half of it down without so much as a blink. Still nothing.
Clean. Human. Hunters. Still dangerous. Still lethal. Especially to someone like you. But they’re not the obvious kind of monster that hides under beds and in closets.
Slightly more relieved, you settle back in your chair, folding your hands on the desk. Warm enough to disarm but cool enough to maintain distance. The goal is to seem professional, helpful, harmless, which is easy because you are.
“So, the fire. What do you want to know, agents?”
Bon Jovi leans forward first, the buttercup yellow flaring with that anxious intelligence. “We’re looking into some old cases that might connect to similar incidents. The Sugar Hill fire – was there anything unusual about it? Anything you remember that maybe didn’t make the official report?”
You let your expression soften just enough, playing the role of the cooperative survivor. You’ve rehearsed this story a thousand times by now – ever since Mia took you in. You’ve kept it simple, tragic, human.
“I was only eleven. I don’t remember a whole lot,” you start, swallowing, a hint of old pain creeping into your voice. It’s not an act for their benefit, though. The loss of that night still aches like a root pulled from soil. “I woke up to smoke and flames. My mom and grandma… They didn’t make it out.”
“How did you survive?” Metallica asks, but it doesn’t sound accusing. It sounds like he’s angling for something specific.
Are they curious about the demon? Is that why they’re here and sought you out?
“A man pulled me out of the house, carried me to safety, and handed me over to Mia. She adopted me a few days later,” you explain.
“Did–, uh, did this stranger say what his name was?” Bon Jovi asks.
You give them a shrug of your shoulders, then shake your head slightly, brow creased. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Maybe Jim? Jonathan? It was a long time ago. I’m sorry,” you say – or lie. “The cops ruled it an accident back then. Blamed it on faulty wiring.”
Metallica’s brick red holds steady as he watches you the whole time, juniper eyes calm but attentive. “This guy, uhm… did he say why he was there? Anything about your family? Why he was in the right place at the right time?”
You shake your head, offering a sad smile. “Not that I remember. He just… helped. Kind stranger, you know? I mean, I was a traumatized kid. Mia handled the paperwork. I had nothing to do with that. She just changed my name and moved with me here to give me a fresh start. Sugar Hill is a small community. She didn’t want me to live with this my whole life. That’s really all there is to it.”
Bon Jovi’s blue deepens significantly, disappointment glimmering through his yellow. He was hoping for more – something about patterns, maybe, or why your family might have been targeted. But you can’t give him anything to grab onto. Even if they’re here for the demon, trust is earned and not simply given. The cards warned you for a reason.
Metallica, on the other hand, visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop, and the red aura settles as if he internally exhaled. Then a sly, almost triumphant glint crosses his face. He’s clearly decided you’re normal, which brings you relief for the moment. The knight’s armor has been dismantled. Tragic backstory, smart girl who turned pain into a forensics career, no red flags, case closed, you can practically hear him think.
Your own expression stays neutral, but on the inside, you’re smirking wide. Gotcha. Now, you just have to get rid of them and hope they leave town soon without poking around too much. But another knock on the door foils your plans.
Shit, Paige, you realize as you look up, past the two fake FBI agents in your lab, and see your best friend strolling through the door with her usual cheerful smile.
As Paige pokes her head in, her curls bounce and her grin widens. “Yo, evidence queen, you better not still be buried in blood. Drinks wait for no woman. I will personally drag you out of here if I have to–”
She stops dead in her tracks when she spots the two men in suits in front of you, her brow knitting more and more with each second that passes by. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions.
“Shit.” Her eyes widen and her teeth clench before she grimaces fully. “Am I interrupting something?”
Before you can reply, Metallica already twists around with a smirk in place. The guy really goes for anything with boobs and two legs, huh? Makes a girl feel real special. Not that you blame him. Paige has always been pretty and bubbly enough to wrap guys around her little finger. But she’s also been your biggest confidante – the Willow to your Buffy, so to speak.
“No, not all,” Metallica says with a charm that could be easily mistaken for gentleness if you didn’t see the gun poking out under his suit jacket. “Me and my partner were just finishing up here.”
Paige frowns a little more at that and tilts her head. You already know what she’s thinking. “Partner? As in…”
Do not say gay, you warn her with a sharp look because you can already see Metallica latching onto the implication, shoulders tensing and drawing back, eyes crinkling in bewilderment, like his ego is a physical thing that just got wounded. He’s gotten that accusation before. You can tell and try your hardest not to laugh out loud.
“FBI,” you provide quickly, shooting her another look. You hope it’s enough to alleviate the sting in Metallica’s ego and keep him from proving his virility by overcompensating in the stupidest way possible as boys often tend to do. You then glance back at Paige. “I’m almost done, alright? Just wait at Clancy’s. I’ll be out in five.”
Paige nods slowly but tosses you a worried look as if she can feel the tension in your muscles. You don’t want her to get hurt. If hunters are poking around in your life and even remotely suspect you’re a witch, they will look at any woman close to you and automatically assume it’s a coven.
To clarify, it’s not.
Sure, you’ve taught her a spell or two, mostly for self-defense. Like a father teaching his daughter how to knee a douche in his crown jewels. Not that you have any first-hand experience with that since you don’t know your dad, but you imagine that’s probably a pretty similar reason. However, you’ve never ever sat around a cauldron before and cackled like a maniac.
God, you hate most witch movies. They really give your kind a bad rep. Melissa Joan Hart gets a pass, though. Whoever made Hocus Pocus, on the other hand, should be burned at the stake, especially the person responsible for casting Sarah Jessica Parker. Carrie was fucking annoying in Sex and the City, too.
“You know, me and my partner could use a drink,” Metallica suddenly chimes in, charismatic grin shaping into form. Fucking hell. He still needs to mend his ego and lick his wounds in front you, it seems. You steel your expression as you meet his expectant eyes. “Mind if we crash girls’ night? Tag along? Off duty, promise.”
Yes, I’d mind, dickhead, you think bitterly. Read the fucking room.
Even Bon Jovi shoots him a look of clear disapproval, blue cooling the flare in Metallica’s red. But his partner skillfully ignores it, undeterred, gaze locked on you. The interest is obvious now that he’s apparently decided you’re safe. You wonder how a guy with those instincts is still alive, considering tricking him only required a smile, a sad story, and a little cleavage from you. You guess Bon Jovi’s intelligence is mostly keeping him out of greater trouble.
You keep the smile trained on your face, but your frustration spikes. You want them fucking gone, out of this town, and not embedding themselves in your normal life. But refusing outright might ping suspicion.
Play along. Survive. Make sure no one else gets hurt.
“Sure,” you say and clear your throat slightly. “The more the merrier. The bar’s called Clancy’s. It’s on Church Street. Meet you there at seven?”
“Great.” Metallica gives you a nod, satisfied. In his head, the gears are shifting, already planning the night. “See you, ladies.”
You watch them go, exhaling slowly once the door shuts. Harmless? Hardly. But they’ve bought the act. For now, you’re just the normal girl with the sad story and the cute friend, and Metallica thinks he’s got a shot at taking you back to whatever roach-infested motel they’re crashing in.
You almost laugh out loud at the irony. Keep dreaming, hunter.
“Hey, what’s going on? Why was the FBI here?” Paige whisper-asks as she hurries over to you, even though the door is firmly shut again and the men in black are long gone.
“They’re not really FBI,” you explain. “I think they’re hunters.”
“Shit,” it slips out of her, brow scrunching. “Really? Do they know you’re, like, you know…”
“No, obviously not, or I would be dead by now,” you hiss and start to pace your desk to free yourself of some of the nervous energy buzzing in your veins.
“Why would you invite them to drinks, then?”
“Dude! What was I supposed to say? I didn’t wanna raise suspicion by trying too hard to get rid of them.”
“Right. Smart.” Paige nods, purses her lips, and then looks back at you. “So, what now? What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, feeling somewhat helpless. “Act normal? Hope they leave again? Get ‘em drunk enough to miss their aim?”
“Good plan.”
When the door suddenly swings back open, you already brace yourself for a bullet flying your way before recognizing Mia and exhaling another breath of relief. She shuts the door quickly and quietly and then instantly finds your eyes.
“Just saw those two agents leave the precinct. Are they hunters?” she asks, her voice sterner than usual, but you’ve learned over the years that just means she’s concerned.
You nod. “I think so, yeah. They asked about the fire. And they wanted to know about John Winchester.”
“Did you tell them anything?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“Good. Keep it that way,” she tells you, and you know it’s more than just a command. “Are they leaving town again?”
Another head shake from you. “No, they invited themselves to Clancy’s with me and Paige tonight.”
Mia takes that in with a pensive bob of her head, then lets out a sigh. “Alright, go, but be careful. Don’t say too much. We don’t need them poking their noses into our business,” she says. “I spoke to Amy at the hospital again. She says she already wants to leave tonight if possible. Try to get rid of them by then, yeah?”
You nod quickly and share another look with Paige. You’ve played normal all your life. You can do it again tonight.
As Dean slides behind Baby’s wheel, the familiar creak of the door and the distinct scent of old leather and gun oil instantly envelope him like a second skin. The engine rumbles to life with that low, satisfying growl he never gets damn tired of hearing as he lets his head tip back against the seat for half a second and grins like he just won a bet against Sam he never actually made out loud.
“See?” he says, throwing the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. “Hate to say I told you so. Normal girl. Sad story, smart as hell, works with gross stuff dead people leave behind for a living. No demon deals, no witchy vibes, no nothing. Just a hot CSI with a tragic backstory and killer legs.”
Sam slumps in the passenger seat and crosses his long arms, staring straight ahead with a sour look. “She gave us holy water, Dean.”
Dean snorts loudly at that, one hand drumming the steering wheel to the tail end of Zeppelin. “Dude, she gave us water. Cold water. From a fridge. In July. In a lab and a building full of cops. You’re reaching, Sammy.”
“She watched us drink it. Didn’t take her eyes off us once. That’s not casual hospitality. She was testing us,” Sam counters.
Dean rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out the window. “Or she’s polite and didn’t want us dying of dehydration while she answered our invasive questions about her dead family. Either way, you’re projecting. You want her to be part of Dad’s puzzle so bad you’re inventing clues.”
Sam’s jaw flexes. “I think she was playing us. Don’t you think she answered every question too perfectly? She was too calm. She gave us exactly what we wanted to hear and nothing more. No slip-ups, no emotions, nothing. People who’ve been through that kind of trauma usually crack a little when you bring it up. She didn’t.”
Dean’s grin fades a fraction, grip tightening imperceptibly on the wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, though, but the image of you flickers behind his lids. You’ve learned early to lock your pain down tightly, carrying it without letting it spill. Dean remembers being four. He remembers the smell of smoke, the heat, his mother’s scream cut off like someone snuffed a candle. Sam was only a baby. He got the blank slate version. Dean got the full-color replay that still shows up in nightmares, the taste of ash on his tongue when he wakes up gasping.
An eleven-year-old girl watching her whole world burn? Pulling herself out of that hell – or being pulled – only to have strangers poke at the scars years later?
Yeah, he gets why you’ve built walls. Hell, he respects it.
“She’s allowed to be guarded,” he mutters, quieter than the usual bravado he serves Sam in these instances. “Doesn’t make her a monster. Makes her smart. You’d do the same.”
Sam shoots him a sideways look, surprised. “You’re defending her now?”
“I’m saying she’s human, Sam,” Dean snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it. “And humans who’ve been through hell learn how to smile through the questions. Doesn’t mean she’s hiding a cauldron in her basement. Although, in this town, she just might. But probably only for Halloween decorations.”
He flicks the turn signal, changes lanes, and tries to shake the weird tug in his gut when he thinks about you standing there in that white lab coat, all competence and quiet steel. It felt familiar – like déjà vu he can’t place. Not in a creepy way, though. It’s more like recognizing a song one hasn’t heard since their childhood. But he shoves the feeling aside. After all, what’s the point in chasing something when the facts are clear?
You’re clean. Case closed. And maybe legs open?
Dean knows better than to say that last thought out loud, however. Sam would only smack him again. Nevertheless, there’s something really satisfying about the possibility of ending the night with company that isn’t his little brother or a poltergeist for once.
“You should go for the friend,” he suggests then, smirk molding back in place. “Paige. She’s got that bubbly energy. Balances out your brooding. You two could talk about feelings or whatever while I handle the grown-up stuff with the Crime Scene Siren. Maybe offer up my body for some scientific research.”
Dean wiggles his brows. Sam snorts, finally cracking a genuine smile.
“I’m not looking to ‘go for’ anything tonight,” Sam states as expected, however. “I’m going back to the motel. There’s still Dad’s notes, the rune, the adoption records. Something’s off, Dean. I can feel it.”
Dean sighs – internally at first, then out loud for effect. “Yeah, yeah, you and your feelings. Suit yourself. Means more drinks and girls for me. And hey, if things go well, maybe I won’t even come back tonight.”
The mental image already flashes shamelessly behind his eyes – you laughing at all his jokes across the table, maybe leaning in close enough that he catches whatever shampoo or perfume you use, maybe letting him walk you to your car, maybe–
He cuts the thought off before it gets too detailed (or his jeans become too tight).
But the grin creeps right back a second later. Sam can sulk in a motel room with yellowed journal pages all he wants. But Dean? He’s got plans. And for the first time since his father died, those plans don’t involve a shovel or a shotgun.
He turns up the volume of the stereo as Ramble On kicks in, letting the guitar fill the silence. Even if Sam’s right – and Dean’s pretty damn sure he isn’t – tonight’s not about answers for once. Tonight’s all about forgetting the damn questions for a couple of hours.
Dean’s elbows lean casually on the scarred wood of a high-top table at a cozy little dive bar called Clancy’s, a beer bottle dangling loosely between his fingers while his grin is shamelessly wide as you lean close and hold his gaze in such an easy way that the whole damn room feels a size smaller.
The bar’s got that lived-in feel as classic rock fills the air in the mid-evening buzz, people chatting and clinking glasses. It’s got just enough grit to keep things lively. Your friend Paige went for a refill a while ago but never made her way back, which Dean doesn’t mind even a little. He’s got you right where he wants you – smiling, leaning in, batting your lashes, and some time ago, you even touched his forearm for several seconds, which is the universal signal for getting laid tonight. He’s three beers in already while you’re only on your second one, so he’s got to watch it a little.
“By the way, apologies for my partner earlier. Sambora's got that whole, you know, brooding-genius thing locked down. Thinks every loose end’s hiding a conspiracy,” Dean says, takes a sip of beer, and leans an inch closer. “Me? I’m the approachable one. The fun one. The guy who closes cases and still has time for a drink with a sharp forensics expert like you.”
You quirk a brow, lips curving in amusement. “Approachable, huh? Is that what we’re calling ‘the fed who shows up unannounced and asks personal questions’ these days?”
He chuckles, leaning forward a fraction more. “Guilty. But in my defense, it’s hard not to be curious when the CSI on scene is this smart. And easy on the eyes. And funny. Triple threat.”
Your laugh softly, teeth rolling over your bottom lip. “Careful with the flattery, or I might just think you’re after more than just case details here,” you quip and take a sip of beer without breaking eye contact. “So is that your pitch? You’re the cool agent who doesn't let the job eat him alive?”
“Something like that.” Dean shrugs casually, chuckling. “Gotta balance out the gloom. Life’s too short for all work, no play, right? Otherwise, it’s all stakeouts and bad coffee. Though I’d take bad coffee any day if it came with company like this.”
Your eyes narrow, but there’s a spark in them that sharpens your smile. “C’mon, Agent Hetfield–”
“Dean,” he offers.
“Dean,” you repeat, and he shivers a little when you do because it feels like your voice learned its own melody just to say his name. “What’s really on your mind, huh? I’m sure you didn’t tag along just to charm me out of my crime scene stories.”
He licks his lips, chuckling softly. “Uh, not entirely, no,” he admits and nurses his beer, knuckles lightly tapping the wooden table. “You know, uhm, actually, can I ask you about some other cases?”
You purse your lips, brow pinching slightly. “Uhm, sure.”
“You, uhm, ever seen the missing women posters outside the station?”
“Yeah, sure, I have,” you reply. “Hard to just walk by something like that.”
“Right, uhm, well, I looked into it a little and saw they had all domestic disturbance calls prior to their disappearances,” he says and watches you nod along. “You were the CSI on some of those scenes when things went south, right?”
“Yeah, it’s really sad what happened to them. I hope they’re okay,” you note sympathetically. “Are you suspecting any of the husbands? Because I didn’t find any relations or other things connecting each victim.”
“Uh, no,” he says at first but then quickly shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “When you were at those scenes, you ever notice anything off? You know, weird vibes, anything that screamed ‘not just a runaway’?”
You pause mid-sip and lower your beer again, brow furrowing slightly as it often does with people whenever he asks those kinds of questions. He may have just ruined his chances for sex, but a case always comes first. Well, most times it does.
“Vibes?” You arch a brow, amusement sneaking back into your smile. “Didn’t know the FBI was regarding crime scene vibes as cold, hard proof.”
Dean just smirks. “Humor me a little. You’ve seen any symbols? Felt anything off? You know, small things that don’t make the report but stick with you.”
“Off? Symbols? In Salem? Half the town’s built on weird vibes,” you quip, laughing.
“Right, yeah,” he chuckles. Stupid witch capital of America.
“Listen, those women mostly came from broken homes, you know? To be quite honest with you, I think they just finally snapped and left without a forwarding address,” you say. “There never was any blood or fingerprints that didn’t match. No ransom notes. If there’s a pattern, it’s probably human nature and not some X-Files twist. In my lab, it’s DNA and fibers only. Sorry to disappoint.”
Dean nods, taking it in. “Human nature, huh? Guess you’re probably right. Still, eight in a year. No trace. Makes a guy wonder.”
“Oh, wonder all you want, agent,” you say with a sly smile. “But if it was a monster under the bed, I’d have found the claw marks by now. Promise.”
Dean barks a laugh at that because he’d love to tell you how wrong you are, but he only ever steals people’s innocence and shatters their illusions about the real world when he absolutely has to – when their lives depend on it. But for a moment, the FBI mask and bravado still slip. His eyes study you for a beat – not just skimming the surface, but how you’ve constructed your life. You’ve got friends who drag you out, a job that keeps you grounded, and routines that surely don’t involve salt rounds or devil’s traps.
He envies it more than he wants to admit. Wonders what it would’ve felt like to grow up without the road and without the weight of revenge. If he hadn’t been dragged from one monster to the next. If he’d stayed in one place long enough to finish school, date someone normal – maybe even have a girl like you laugh at his dumb jokes over cheap beer on a Wednesday night without having to lie about his entire existence.
He understands your quiet armor. Admires it even. You’ve turned fire into focus, loss into logic. He carries his own version of it every day.
“Why?” you ask then, a hint of concern lacing your tone. “You think there’s something more to these cases?”
“Nah.” Dean shakes his head, gulping his beer. “Just covering bases. Town like this – tourists, history, all the ghost-tour crap. Can make someone wonder if the stories ever bleed into real life sometimes.”
“Only on the brochures,” you tease, grinning.
He smirks, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “To keeping it boring, then.”
You clink your bottle with his, the conversation then drifting to bar stories, bad cases, and the sort of small talk that feels bigger because neither of you is pretending to be someone else. Well, at least, not entirely.
Admittedly, Dean likes how you match him – quick, dry, and never flinching. He likes how you don’t shrink when he leans in or when the flirting edges closer to reality. It feels… natural.
“Paige is a force of nature. Keeps me from turning into a hermit,” you tell him after drink number three, while he switched the beer for a whiskey on the rocks. You’re a little warmer and looser now, but there’s still that silent steel underneath around your heart he clocked back at the lab. “Someone has to drag me out when I start talking to evidence bags like they’re people, you know?”
“I hear ya,” he says, nodding. “And hey, no judgement. I talk to my car.”
“Well, it’s a nice car,” you note and smirk, sharp eyes seeing right past the FBI suit and charm. “Although, you do strike me as the type who’d name it something ridiculous like… I don’t know – Betsy.”
“First of all, it’s a she,” he starts, only halfway serious. Well, seventy-five percent serious. “And her name’s Baby. She’s a ’67 Chevy Impala. Show some respect, alright?”
A laugh bubbles out of you at that, and Dean has to laugh, too. For a second, the tension between him and you sharpens and transforms into electricity. It’s the kind that makes him want to lean across the table and see how far that smile of yours goes. And fuck, he almost does. It’s so fucking easy how you fit – like you’ve done this before, even though Dean knows damn well you haven’t.
He takes another swig from his beer, lets the cold bite chase away the softer thought. He’s not here for feelings. He’s here for a night that doesn’t end with blood or sulfur or another stained motel ceiling staring back at him.
One night – that’s the deal he makes with himself every damn time.
Your phone then suddenly vibrates on the table. You glance at the screen for a second before your face shifts into professional calm. “Uh, sorry, it’s work. One sec,” you excuse yourself and turn toward a quieter corner of the bar.
Dean stays put, but as you move, your bag on the table falls open. He doesn’t mean to snoop. He really, really doesn’t. But it’s almost impossible to keep his eyes away from its contents.
He spies a small velvet pouch inside, a bundle of herbs that smell too sharply of sage, a notebook with that same angular B-rune on it, and a deck of tarot cards fanning out just enough for him to catch the intricate backs and one visible face – something with swords and a charging knight.
Dean’s gut twists.
Tarot. Herbs. A spell book. Holy water. The flawless deflections. Eight women vanishing clean after scenes you processed.
Goddammit. Was Sam fucking right? He’s never going to let Dean live that down.
But you’re a witch, aren’t you? And not just any witch – you’re the one he’s been hunting.
When you finish the call, you hurry back to the table and scoop up your bag without noticing his stare. You then spin to him with a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Lab emergency. Gotta run. Rain check?”
He forces the charm back into place. “Sure. No worries. Duty calls. Work never sleeps, right?”
“Yeah, something like that.” You flash a quick smile, nod, and sling the bag over your shoulder, heading for the door.
You’re gone a moment later, Dean’s eyes following you until the door swings shut behind you. Then the flirtatious warmth in his chest sours into hunter focus.
He downs the rest of his whiskey in one go, sets the glass down hard, tosses some cash on the table, and heads for the door as well.
Game on, witch.
▶️ Chapter 2: Every Bait and Switch – June 5
Oh my, we might've pushed Dean a little too far here lol. You guys think he's more salty that she's a witch or that she got one over on him? 😂 Don't be fooled by the feelings and flirting in this first one, though. That boy's gonna switch quite fast now 🙈
What did you think of this rather rough start? Leave your thoughts and theories below, friends!
🔮 Series Masterlist
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“Don’t move.” His deep voice carries across the courtyard like a blade, the barrel of his gun smoothly trained on your back.
The familiar click that follows is loud in the quiet night, clean and unmistakable. You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch, eyes going wide the second you see the weapon in his hands.
“It’s not what it looks like!”
Dean huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in a different situation and steps closer. “Yeah? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you found your next victim.”
“Dean–” Sam already hisses behind him, but Dean skillfully ignores the protest.
“I got it,” he mutters under his breath and doesn’t lower the gun even for a second, dark green eyes fixed on you. “Step away from them. Now.”
But instead of following his order, you do the opposite and step right in front of them, shielding both mother and son behind your back. The woman lets out a startled sound, pulling her son with her as they tuck tighter behind you. The boy whimpers once, muffled against his mother’s thigh as he clutches a stuffed fox to his body. His eyes are wide and fixed on Dean, but he’s not curious or confused. He’s scared.
Scared of him.
For a moment, that throws Dean off his game because that’s not usually how it goes. Usually, fear is pointed in the right direction. Usually, it tells him exactly who the monster is.
It had been a long, punishing shift at the hospital, one of those days where every muscle in his back felt like it had been tightened with a wrench. His shoulders were slumped, tie loosened, and the faint scent of antiseptic still clung to him.
But the moment he stepped inside, the apartment felt warm. Soft light. Your favorite playlist humming faintly from the bedroom.
And your voice gentle, humming something off-key and sweet.
Michael followed it like instinct.
When he reached the doorway, he froze.
You were standing in front of the dresser mirror, hair pushed back with a fluffy headband, patting something onto your cheeks with the concentration of a scientist handling radioactive material. Your skin glowed. Your oversized shirt dipped off one shoulder and your face was relaxed, peaceful.
After the day he’d had… you were the best thing he could have found.
You caught his reflection in the mirror.
“Oh, hey, honey.” You smiled softly. “Rough shift?”
His tired expression crumbled a little.
“You could say that.”
You crossed the room, cupping his face with gentle, cool hands. “Go shower first. Then come here.”
He raised a brow. “Why? Planning something for me?”
Your grin turned mischievous. “Maybe.”
Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and looking much less like death, Michael padded back into the room wearing sweatpants and damp hair. You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, a small army of skincare products lined up like soldiers.
He stopped dead.
“…Sweetheart,” he said cautiously. “What is all that?”
“Your salvation,” you replied matter-of-factly. “Sit.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not putting glitter on my face.”
“No glitter,” you promised. “Just… a little skincare. You were curious earlier, right?”
He opened his mouth to argue, but stopped.
You were looking at him with that soft, warm expression he could never resist.
So he sighed, climbed onto the bed, and sat in front of you.
“Fine. Educate me.”
You squeezed some product onto your hand and leaned in.
“Okay. This is toner. It preps the skin.”
He blinked. “Feels like cold water.”
“High-quality cold water,” you teased.
Next was serum. “This hydrates.”
Then moisturizer. “This locks everything in.”
Michael endured all of it with a resigned patience that made you laugh. Every time your fingers brushed his cheekbones, he felt himself melt another inch. He didn’t realize how much he needed the tenderness until he had it.
When you were done, his skin was dewy, glowing, and he looked… oddly refreshed.
“There,” you said proudly. “See? Skincare boyfriend unlocked.”
He rubbed his cheek. “…I feel slippery.”
“That’s the point.”
You reached for one last item.
The sleep mask.
Michael stared. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
You leaned closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“I will show you the before-and-after difference tomorrow.”
He groaned, but didn’t stop you as you smoothed the cool gel mask onto his face and secured the strap behind his head. The moment it settled, he let out a long, defeated sigh.
It felt… good.
You crawled under the blankets beside him, curling against his side.
“See? You’re already relaxing.”
He tilted his head toward you, mask and all.
“Only because you’re here.”
You kissed his shoulder. “Sleep, Doctor. Tomorrow I’ll teach you about exfoliating.”
He stiffened. “Exfoliating? That sounds violent.”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
You hadn’t even settled fully under the covers yet when Michael shifted beside you with a grunt.
“…I’m hungry.”
You blinked. “You want food? Now?”
He nodded solemnly, the sleep mask squishing slightly every time he moved. “I haven’t eaten since noon.”
Your heart softened. “Okay, okay. What do you want? I’ll get it.”
But he sat up stubbornly.
“No. I’m a grown man. I can get my own fruit.”
You watched him march out of the bedroom like a man on a mission except the mask made his footsteps weirdly stiff, like he was afraid it would fall off if he walked too fast.
You followed him because honestly… you didn’t trust him not to trip.
Michael opened the fridge, rummaged around, and came back with a bowl of cut fruit you’d prepped earlier. Strawberries, melon, grapes..
He sat at the table, picked up a strawberry, and tried to take a bite.
The mask shifted.
He glared.
He tried again, lowering his jaw carefully, too carefully. It looked like he was attempting surgery on the fruit rather than eating it.
“Why,” he said slowly, “is this… so difficult?”
You were already laughing, but you tried to hide it.
“It’s literally just a mask, Michael.”
He lifted his chin, indignant. “It keeps sliding. I can’t open my mouth properly. I feel like a hostage.”
You nearly choked. “A skincare hostage?”
“Yes,” he said gravely. “Held captive by hydration.”
He attempted a grape next. It popped out from between his fingers and bounced off the mask, landing in his lap.
He froze.
You were wheezing.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “How do you eat like this?”
“I-don’t?” Your voice came out strangled. “I usually… take the mask off first.”
He stared at you, betrayed.
“You let me struggle?”
“I wanted to see what you’d do!”
He scoffed, picking up another strawberry. “This is cruelty.”
But he kept eating very slowly, very awkwardly, making tiny little annoyed noises every time the mask shifted even a millimeter.
By the time he finished, he looked exhausted.
He set the bowl down with the dramatic air of a man who had survived something harrowing.
“I’m never eating with this thing on again.”
You patted his cheek (careful not to dislodge the mask). “You did amazing, sweetheart.”
He huffed. “I suffered.”
“And you looked cute doing it.”
“…I’m going back to bed.”
You followed him, still laughing as he climbed in beside you, grumbling into your shoulder, but secretly leaning closer because the silliness, the comfort, the domestic softness… it all made the long day feel far away.
And even with his dignity slightly wounded, he fell asleep holding you tightly.
Warning: This fic contains a highly determined child, zero survival instinct when it comes to rules, and a dangerous amount of Robinavitch genetics. Includes hospital chaos, a school field trip gone slightly feral, a dad who forgets he’s a doctor the second his daughter yells “Papa!”, and one very tired mama running on love, adrenaline, and patience. 😂
Another note: This fic is part of the Mini-Me mini series! Huge thanks to our lovely reader for giving me this idea, love you! 🤍 I hope you guys enjoy reading this.
part one, two, three, four, five,
The morning starts with you double-checking everything like you’re preparing for a small military operation. Permission slip? Signed. Lunch? Packed. Jacket? In the backpack even though Aria insists she “does not get cold.” You kneel in front of her by the door, fixing the straps of her backpack and smoothing down her hair, forcing her to look at you.
“Aria,” you say carefully, slowly, in the same tone you use with her father when you need him to actually listen. “Today is a school field trip. You stay with your teacher. You do not run. You do not wander. You do not disappear.”
She nods with exaggerated seriousness, hands at her sides like she’s being sworn in. “Yes, Mama. I will stay.”
From the kitchen, Michael lifts his coffee mug and mutters, “That face means she’s lying.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Do not encourage the chaos before 8 a.m.”
Aria grins, kisses your cheek, then runs outside toward the bus like she hasn’t just promised you her loyalty. You watch her go with a strange tight feeling in your chest; half pride, half dread.
You volunteer as a chaperone partly because you want to help, partly because the trip is to PTMC, and partly because your instincts tell you this child should not be trusted in a building her father practically lives in.
The hospital staff does everything right. The tour is designed to be gentle and exciting for kids; stickers, friendly nurses, residents and attendings crouching to explain things, an ambulance parked outside for photos. The children are buzzing, holding hands, listening… mostly.
Aria is quiet.
Too quiet.
She walks beside you into the lobby, fingers curled into your sleeve, eyes scanning everything around her. When she spots the large directory sign mounted on the wall, departments listed neatly with arrows and you feel her grip loosen.
You’re answering a question from another parent when it happens. That subtle shift. That sudden absence of weight next to you.
Your stomach drops.
“Aria?” you say, already turning.
She’s gone.
“ARIA-!” you shout just as you catch sight of her small figure darting across the polished floor, backpack bouncing, ponytail flying.
Teachers gasp. A parent yells her name. You don’t wait. You break into a run, heart slamming against your ribs, fear and frustration tangling together as she ducks past a rope divider and heads straight for the hallway marked EMERGENCY.
Automatic doors whoosh open as she barrels inside like she’s been called there.
Langdon looks up sharply. “Hey, Aria sweetie, no running!”
“I’M LOOKING FOR MY PAPA,” Aria announces at full volume, completely unapologetic.
Heads turn. Monitors beep. Someone laughs under their breath.
You burst through the doors seconds later, breathless, panic sharp in your chest. “I’m so sorry, she’s, you know her, Langdon-I-Aria, stop!”
But she doesn’t stop. She weaves confidently through the hallway, cutting corners like she’s memorized the layout, because she has. After-school visits. Long shifts. Waiting rooms. She knows exactly where to go.
Michael is standing at the charting station when he hears it.
That voice.
“PAPAAAA!”
He jerks so hard his pen drags across the paper. His head snaps up just in time to see a very familiar small body launching itself toward him.
“Oof-!” he grunts as Aria crashes into his legs and wraps her arms around him like she’s afraid he might vanish.
“I FOUND YOU!” she declares triumphantly.
Doctor Robinavitch disappears instantly. He drops to his knees, hands steadying her shoulders, eyes wide with shock and relief. “Aria? Baby- what are you doing here?”
She beams up at him. “Field trip. I navigated.”
Behind her, you finally reach them, hands braced on your knees, lungs burning. “MICHAEL,” you gasp, “YOUR DAUGHTER JUST ESCAPED A SCHOOL FIELD TRIP AND RAN INTO THE ER.”
He looks up at you, stunned. “…Oh.”
Aria turns to you, offended by your tone. “Mama, I knew where Papa was.”
“You are not allowed to know where Papa is without permission,” you snap, pointing at her.
She thinks about it, then nods. “Okay.”
The teacher arrives moments later, pale and apologizing over and over. “She just took off- I’m so sorry-”
“It’s alright,” Michael says quickly, instinctively pulling Aria closer. “She… does that.”
Dana nearby chuckles. “She took the fastest route.”
You press your lips together. “Of course she did.”
The class eventually gathers at the ER entrance, eyes wide as they stare at Michael in his PTMC hoodie and stethoscope hanging around his neck. Aria stands proudly at his side, hand tucked into his like it belongs there.
“That’s my papa,” she announces to the room. “He fixes people.”
Michael clears his throat, ears turning faintly pink. “I help people.”
She looks up at him with pure admiration. “The best help.”
You watch them; your husband, usually so controlled and serious, softening entirely around this tiny version of himself, and your chest tightens. She didn’t run because she was reckless. She ran because she missed him. Because in her mind, if Papa is in the building, then Papa should be found.
When it’s finally time to go, Aria hugs him tightly, face pressed into his chest. “You’ll come home later?”
“I promise,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead. “Mama’s got you.”
She releases him reluctantly, then immediately grabs your hand, fingers curling tight like she’s anchoring herself. As you lead her back to the group, she looks over her shoulder and waves.
Michael waves back.
You squeeze his arm as you pass him. “You owe me coffee. And possibly therapy.”
He leans down and murmurs, “Worth it.”
You glance down at Aria; calm now, satisfied, mission accomplished, and shake your head.
She didn’t just find her father.
She proved, once again, that being Michael Robinavitch’s daughter means knowing exactly where you belong, and how to get there, no matter who tries to stop you.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Another note: who missed this chaotic family?!?! I’ve seen so many requests coming in, and every single one of them is a challenge! Not complaining at all, thank you for all the excitement and love for my blog. 🤍 I’ll try my best to work on them one by one. And yes, requests are still open for short pieces! <3
There is exactly one thing you have learned, without fail, about Michael Robinavitch over the years.
He sneaks.
Not in a suspicious way, no, worse. In the “I’m a grown man with a prestigious hospital job and I still act like a menace” kind of way.
He sneaks out for bike rides before sunrise, leaving only the faint hum of the garage door and your half-awake annoyance behind. He sneaks into his workshop on his day off, claiming he’s “just fixing one thing,” only for hours to disappear into overworked silence. And most offensively of all, he sneaks up behind you the quiet footsteps, controlled breathing and just to scare the soul clean out of your body.
“Michael!” you’d gasp, clutching your chest.
Every time, he’d grin. “You’re too easy.”
You should have known it was genetic.
Aria, and you guys know who is she, Michael’s unmistakable mini-me and has his hair, his eyes, and apparently… his complete lack of self-preservation.
It starts small.
You catch her standing way too still behind the couch while Michael pretends not to notice. He suddenly turns, scoops her up, and she shrieks with laughter.
“Papa! You weren’t supposed to see me!”
Michael just laughs. “Gotta be quieter than that, peanut.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Do not encourage her.”
He kisses your cheek, completely unrepentant. “She’s talented.”
By the time she figures out how to reach the kitchen counter with a chair, you’re doomed.
One night, long past bedtime, the house is quiet... too quiet.
You wake up to a sound. A faint crinkle.
Candy wrapper.
Your heart drops straight into your stomach.
You slip out of bed and head toward the kitchen, already rehearsing the gentle-but-firm parenting speech in your head.
That’s when you see her.
Aria, standing on tiptoes, cheeks puffed slightly, her favorite candy clutched in her tiny hand like contraband.
She freezes when she sees you.
“…Hi, Mama.”
You sigh. “Aria. What are you doing?”
She hesitates, then points decisively down the hallway. “Papa does it.”
You cross your arms. “Papa sneaks candy at midnight?”
“No,” she corrects. “Papa sneaks everything.”
You can’t even argue with that.
Michael appears moments later, hair messy, shirt wrinkled, looking suspiciously guilty for someone who hasn’t spoken yet.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
Aria immediately lights up. “Papa! I did it like you!”
Your glare slides to him. “Explain. Now.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, in my defense-”
“No.”
“ I- I didn’t teach her the candy part.”
You raise a brow. “Just the sneaking?”
“…Maybe.”
Fast forward two days later, and karma comes swiftly.
Aria wakes up crying at 3 a.m., clutching her cheek.
Toothache.
You’re holding her while Michael kneels in front of her, concern written all over his face. She sniffles, then suddenly points at him.
“It’s Papa’s fault.”
Michael blinks. “What?”
“He sneaks,” she says seriously. “So I sneak. And now my tooth hurts.”
You bite your lip to stop laughing.
Michael exhales, guilt washing over him. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. That one’s on me.”
He presses a gentle kiss to Aria’s forehead. “I’m sorry, peanut. Papa should’ve been a better example.”
She considers this, then nods. “You can still sneak. Just not candy.”
You smile softly, watching them and your brilliant, ridiculous husband and the little girl who inherited far too much of him.
Michael looks up at you, sheepish. “I really didn’t think it’d pass down.”
You lean down and kiss his temple. “Michael. She’s your daughter. Of course it did.”
He smiles, arms wrapping around both of you, warmth filling the quiet room.
Still, later that week, when he sneaks up behind you again just to scare you?
You swear you hear a tiny giggle echoing from the hallway.
And somehow, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
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Warning: This fic features one (1) tiny menace who has learned her father’s government name and intends to use it at FULL VOLUME, a mother who absolutely started this chaos and refuses to feel bad, and a father who realizes too late that karma is real and lives in his own house.
Another note: Everyone! Happy New Year! 🎆 I’m so sorry I haven’t been very active recently. there’s been a lot going on, plus I’ve had a terrible toothache and even needed a small procedure on my tooth. Not fun at all! 😭I hope you’re all having a wonderful start to the year, and may this New Year bring you lots of blessings, health, and happiness. 💛
You’re sitting on the couch with Aria in your lap, her curls a little messy, cheeks squishy, and Michael somewhere in the kitchen pretending he’s not eavesdropping even though his ears are literally LOCKED IN like a satellite dish.
You get this brilliant idea.
The kind of idea that should probably come with a warning label, but too late- you’re already smiling.
You boop Aria’s nose.
“Okay, baby. What’s Mama’s name?”
She blinks. Thinks real hard. You swear you can hear the elevator music playing in her brain.
Then she beams.
“MAMA!”
You gasp dramatically.
“Yes! Mama! Very good!”
Michael peeks from the kitchen like, that’s my smart kid.
And then you go in for the kill.
“And what’s Papa’s name?”
Instant chaos is born.
Aria straightens up like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. She inhales DEEPLY. You can see Michael slowly realizing something terrible is about to happen.
You have already folded in HALF laughing. There are tears. You cannot breathe.
Aria, delighted with herself, keeps going.
“MICHAEL! MICHAEL! MICHAAAAAEEELLL! PAPAAAA IS MICHAEL!”
She is so proud. This is her moment.
Michael is just standing there like he has witnessed his own downfall.
“Hey-HEY. I am Papa. Papa. Not- not Michael. Where did you even-”
But he knows where she got it.
He looks at you.
You look away because you are about to explode again.
So he kneels in front of her, trying to be serious, but his mouth keeps twitching.
“What’s my name, kiddo?”
Aria pats his face lovingly. So gentle. So sweet.
Then whispers aggressively:
“MiCHAEL.”
You are gone. Spirit exiting body. Laughing into the void.
Michael presses his forehead to the floor like he’s been defeated in battle.
“I have lost control of this household.”
And the worst part?
For the rest of the day she keeps testing it out like a new feature.
Michael walks by?
“Hi Michael!”
He sneezes?
“Bless you, Michael!”
He says “eat your veggies”?
“Okay, Michael.”
You? You’re absolutely not helping, because every time she says it, you laugh again, and she thinks it’s the BEST GAME EVER.
Michael squints at you.
“This is your fault.”
And honestly? Yeah. It is.
And you’d do it again.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Warning: Brief mention of mommy issues / parental trauma, emotional confrontation, and sensitive family dynamics. Please read with care if topics related to complicated parent-child relationships are difficult for you. This scene includes a moment where the term is used during a tense situation and may feel uncomfortable for some readers.
Author Note: This is so funny because Michael literally got a lot of hate from people in my country... well, from those who watched The Pitt here, especially because of that scene with Mohan. 😭 I can’t deal with it. I seriously can’t deal with it. The comments are absolutely hilarious because everyone is just dragging him for it. Like, people were not holding back at all. The way they were calling him out and roasting him in the replies had me laughing so hard. Honestly, the reaction from viewers here is almost as entertaining as the scene itself. 🤣😂👌
The call came in the middle of the afternoon while you were in the kitchen, rinsing strawberries for Aria’s snack.
You almost ignored it at first, thinking it was just another unknown number or some automated reminder. But when you glanced at the screen and saw Dana’s name, you answered immediately.
“Hey, Dana.”
Her voice came through a little hesitant, which was unusual for her.
“Hey… um. Quick question.”
You frowned slightly, leaning your hip against the counter.
“Okay?”
There was a small pause.
“Did you and Michael have a fight recently?”
Your brows knit together instantly.
“No,” you answered without hesitation. “Why?”
Another pause.
Then Dana sighed quietly.
“That’s what I thought.”
Now the uneasiness crept into your chest.
“What happened?”
Dana sounded careful now, like she was choosing her words.
“There was… a situation at the hospital earlier.”
You turned the water off, fully paying attention.
“What kind of situation?”
“Well,” Dana started, “Dr. Mohan had a patient crash unexpectedly during a procedure earlier. It got a little chaotic and she panicked for a second.”
You listened closely.
“Michael stepped in and helped stabilize the situation,” Dana continued. “But afterward… things got tense.”
Your stomach sank a little.
“Tense how?”
Dana exhaled slowly.
“He snapped at her.”
You blinked.
Michael do snapped at people at work, but never make Dana called you in the middle of their work hours. Never.
“What did he say?”
Another short pause.
Dana sounded slightly uncomfortable when she finally answered.
“He told her she needed to get a grip and stop projecting her… ‘mommy issues’ onto every stressful moment.”
Your entire body went still.
“…He said what?”
“I know,” Dana said quickly. “I know. That’s why I called.”
You set the phone down on the counter speaker so you could press your fingers to your temple.
“He actually said that to her?”
“Yes.”
You closed your eyes for a second.
Because that wasn’t just harsh.
That was cruel.
And the worst part was… Michael knew exactly what those words meant.
You swallowed slowly.
“Was Samira okay?”
“She held it together,” Dana replied. “But you could tell it hit a nerve.”
Of course it did.
Dana hesitated again before adding quietly, “It wasn’t like him.”
You rubbed your forehead.
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Anyway,” Dana continued gently, “I just wanted to check if something was going on at home.”
You sighed.
“No. We’re good. We didn’t fight or anything.”
“Okay.”
You stayed quiet for a moment before saying, “Thanks for telling me.”
“Someone needed to,” Dana replied softly.
After you hung up, you stood there in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the counter.
Aria was in the living room watching cartoons, humming to herself.
And suddenly Dana’s words replayed in your head.
Mommy issues.
The anger came slowly.
Because Michael wasn’t just some random doctor throwing out careless words.
He was a father.
A father to a little girl who adored her mother more than anything.
A father who knew exactly how sensitive those kinds of wounds could be.
And yet he still said it.
That night, the house settled into its usual quiet rhythm.
Aria went to bed after her usual bedtime story and a dramatic negotiation about needing “just one more hug.”
You finished cleaning the kitchen while Michael showered upstairs.
Neither of you had talked much during dinner. He seemed tired, a little distant, but you didn’t bring it up yet.
Not in front of Aria.
But once the house went quiet and the two of you were finally in your bedroom, you closed the door behind you and turned toward him.
Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on a clean shirt.
“Dana called me today.”
He looked up immediately.
“Dana?”
Your arms crossed instinctively.
“She told me what happened at the hospital.”
Michael froze slightly.
You watched the exact moment he realized what you meant.
His shoulders sank a little.
“…She told you.”
“Yes.”
Silence filled the room for a few seconds.
Then you stepped closer.
“You told Dr. Mohan she had mommy issues.”
It wasn’t a question.
Michael rubbed the back of his neck.
“I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“No,” you replied sharply. “You shouldn’t have said it at all.”
He didn’t argue.
Which somehow made it worse.
“You have a daughter, Michael,” you continued, your voice tightening. “A daughter who worships the ground I walk on.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“And you know exactly what it means when someone throws around something like that,” you added.
Michael sighed heavily, looking down at his hands.
“I know.”
“Then why would you say it?”
He stayed quiet for a moment.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower.
“It was a bad moment.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
You watched him carefully, waiting.
Finally he admitted quietly, “It was a stressful case. She froze up and the patient almost coded.”
Your jaw tightened.
“So you humiliated her.”
Michael closed his eyes briefly.
“I shouldn’t have.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
The anger in your chest softened slightly when you saw the guilt written clearly across his face.
You exhaled slowly.
“You need to apologize,” you said firmly.
“I will.”
“Not one of your quick professional apologies,” you added. “A real one.”
Michael nodded immediately.
“I will.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
You studied him for another moment before your shoulders finally relaxed a little.
“You’re better than that,” you said quietly.
Michael looked at you again.
“I know.”
The room went quiet.
Then he stood up slowly and stepped closer.
“You’re mad at me,” he said gently.
“Yes.”
He nodded like he deserved it.
Then, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. You didn’t resist. Your forehead rested against his chest while his arms held you close.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Finally he murmured softly, “Thanks for calling me out.”
You huffed quietly.
“Someone has to.”
His hand rubbed slowly up and down your back.
“I’ll fix it tomorrow,” he promised.
You leaned into the hug a little more.
“Good.”
And after a moment, the tension slowly faded as the two of you stood there together in the quiet bedroom, holding each other until the anger softened into something calmer.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
Warning: This post contains one (1) unfairly charming doctor husband on his lunch break, one (1) wife who thought she was just dropping off food but ended up getting kissed in public, and one (1) poor, unsuspecting resident who accidentally confessed her admiration to said wife. Expect awkward silence, internal screaming, a very smug husband, and one (1) reality check delivered with a casual “meet my wife.” Proceed with caution. 😆😆😆
The sun sits high, warming the concrete outside PTMC, where the usual row of chairs lines the wall near the entrance.
You sit there comfortably, a paper bag of lunch resting beside you and two iced coffees sweating gently in your hands the exact order you and Michael always share. It’s quiet, calm… a rare slow moment in your day.
Aria is off at her friend’s house, happily choosing playtime over tagging along with you. You smiled when she left, but now… you kind of miss her.
Still, this... seeing Michael during his lunch break like this is your your favorite break time for lunch and from Aria little chaos.
You take a small sip of your drink, glancing toward the doors.
Then-
“Hi!”
You turn slightly.
A young woman in scrubs drops into the seat beside you, a little breathless, a little too energetic for someone clearly mid-shift. She smiles politely.
“Sorry, do you mind if I sit here?”
You shake your head softly. “Not at all.”
“Thanks,” she exhales, relaxing. “It’s chaos inside today.”
You chuckle lightly. “Busy?”
“Always,” she says, rolling her eyes, but there’s excitement there. “I’m new, so it’s like… ten times more intense.”
Ah.
That explains it.
She starts talking and she really doesn’t stop. About the patients, the pace, the pressure, the way PTMC works, the hierarchy, the cases, the late nights…
You nod along, humming here and there.
Because… well.
You already know all of it.
Your husband practically lives in that building.
“And the doctors here?” she continues, leaning a little closer like she’s about to share a secret. “Some of them are terrifying. Like, actually terrifying.”
You smile faintly. “I can imagine.”
“But...” she brightens instantly, “there’s one that’s not.”
Oh?
You already know where this is going.
“Dr. Robinavitch,” she says, and there it is that soft shift in her tone. Slightly shy. Slightly flustered. “He’s… really amazing.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too much.
“Is he?” you ask casually.
She nods quickly. “Yeah! He’s kinda calm, even when things get really bad he can managed it. And he explains things without making you feel stupid, well sometimes.... depends with who he talked with... you know? Like, he actually teaches.”
You hum, pretending to consider. “That’s rare.”
“Right?” she laughs, then lowers her voice again. “And he’s really cool under pressure. There was this one time a patient crashed, and everything just went...” she gestures dramatically, “so crazy. I almost got hit trying to move around, and he just pulled me back so fast.”
Her cheeks flush a little.
“He basically saved me,” she adds, softer now.
You glance down at your coffee, hiding your smile.
“Oh,” you murmur. “Sounds like a good doctor.”
“He really is,” she says, then after a tiny pause “And, um… yeah. He’s kind of…”
She trails off, clearly embarrassed.
You decide to be nice.
“…kind of?” you prompt gently.
She groans, covering her face briefly. “Okay, fine. Maybe I have a tiny crush. But don’t tell anyone, oh my
God.”
You laugh softly. “Your secret’s safe.”
This is… entertaining, you have to admit.
Before you can say anything else,
The doors open.
You don’t even need to look immediately.
You feel it.
But the resident does.
Her entire posture straightens. “Oh my God! He’s here.”
You glance up just as she leans closer, whispering quickly, “He probably noticed I wasn’t inside. Maybe he came looking for me...”
You almost choke on your drink.
Because there he is.
Michael steps out, eyes scanning briefly until they land on you.
And just like that…
Everything else disappears.
His expression softens instantly, a quiet warmth replacing the clinical focus he carries inside. He walks straight toward you, not even glancing at the girl beside you.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, familiar.
Before you can even respond, he leans down and kisses you.
Soft. Natural. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Hi, baby.”
Silence.
You can feel the shock radiating from beside you.
You smile up at him. “Hi. I brought lunch.”
“I figured,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the bag, then back to you.
Only then does he seem to register the presence next to you.
He turns slightly.
The resident looks like she’s just seen her entire reality collapse.
“Oh,” Michael says easily, one hand settling at your shoulder. “You’ve met my wife?”
The girl’s mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
“…your-your wife?”
You finally let yourself smile properly now, offering her a small, friendly nod.
“Hi.”
Her face goes completely red.
“I- oh my God- I didn’t... I mean... I was just-”
Michael raises a brow slightly, clearly amused now, but says nothing.
You gently rescue her.
“She was just telling me how great you are,” you say sweetly.
Michael hums. “Smart.”
You nudge him lightly. “Don’t start.”
The resident looks like she wants the ground to swallow her whole.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurts out. “I didn’t know-”
“It’s okay,” you reassure her. “Really.”
She nods rapidly, already halfway standing. “I should- I have to go back inside... ”
“Yeah,” Michael says casually. “Probably a good idea.”
She practically flees.
The moment she’s gone
You turn to him, raising a brow.
“Really popular, huh?”
He smirks faintly. “I don’t pay attention.”
“Mhm,” you hum. “She said you saved her.”
“I did my job.”
You tilt your head. “She also said you’re really cool.”
He leans closer, voice dropping. “You think so?”
You smile, just a little.
“I married you, didn’t I?”
You watch her go, then look back at Michael.
“…You’re someone’s workplace crush.”
He sighs, already opening the food container. “Tragic.”
You laugh. “She said you saved her.”
He shrugs. “Part of the job.”
You nudge him lightly. “Hero.”
He glances at you, something softer in his eyes now.
“Only for you.”
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
A/N: I've had this in my drafts like forever and it only needed a couple more sentences to finish so! I feel like there are soooo many like rejoicing pregnancy fics out there with robby (and we love that I love love I love fluff) but I have to imagine for a couple with a very significant age gap who are both busy ass doctors it wouldn’t always be a positive thing and y’know just a friendly reminder that im pro-choice despite my horny ass reproductive coercion fics
Word Count: 1.6k
You’d done everything right. For years you’ve had a religious alarm for your birth control, never missed a single pill, and always used condoms. Robby’s a good man. He’s never once complained about using them with the girl he’s been dating for years when most of your other boyfriends started complaining as soon as you were exclusive. He’s never pressured you to switch to a more infallible birth control method like an implant or IUD so he could stop with the condoms. No, he’s a perfect boyfriend.
And then he takes you on a two-week trip to Bali for your fifth anniversary. Scuba diving, private cabanas, a room with ocean breezes and a California king all to yourselves. Something about the timezones or the jetlag or the constant beautiful, wonderful activities he’s planned makes you forget to take your birth control three days in a row without even noticing. Then he proposes. It’s perfect – sunset on the beach, white linen buttondown, diamond bigger than the rising moon. The last couple nights of the trip, you’re both so horny and so drunk and so in love that you fuck raw, not even questioning it, over and over. Neither of you think anything of it because, well, you’re on birth control.
So you’re here.
Eight weeks later.
Sitting on the bathroom floor, crying, three positive pregnancy tests thrown down around you in a fit of rage. This is your worst fear. About to finish your fellowship, having just accepted an attending position, wearing a gorgeous engagement ring. Pregnant. You’ve never wanted kids. You don’t even like kids, never babysitting or spending more than a couple hours with your niece and nephew.
The idea of being pregnant at all – before even thinking about the horrors of birth and newborns and toddlers – makes you feel genuinely sick. Ironically, that’s what made you get the pregnancy test in the first place. Four days vomiting in a row with no other flu or food poisoning symptoms. After Robby had gone to work this morning, promising to come home and check on you over lunch, the puzzle pieces started clicking together like the climax of a horror movie, dread creeping into your field of vision. Vomiting, sore breasts, fatigue. You’re a doctor. You know the signs.
You DoorDashed the pregnancy tests. Three different brands. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave the apartment because you felt so nauseous on so many levels. It took a few hours to get up the courage to pee in a cup. Something about actually taking the tests felt final. Like an admission of guilt in the principal’s office. They’re all dark. Definitive.
The sobbing is violent. Throat strangling, gut twisting, muscle spasming. Loud. Your head’s pounding so much and your ears are ringing and all you can hear is your own wretched crying, uncontrollable, blubbering, exhausting.
Then a soft voice crashes into you at eighty miles an hour and you snap your head up. “You’re pregnant?”
You look up and there’s Robby. Worry lines fully engaged, backpack dropped on the floor next to him, hands on the sides of his neck. Your sobbing only gets worse when you see him, envisioning all of the ways this is going to ruin your relationship and your life.
“Fuck. Fuck, okay.” Robby eases to the floor next to you, leaning against the bathtub, and gently draws you into his arms like a wounded animal. He wipes your tears from your cheeks and lets you tuck in against his scrub top, the smell of disinfectant and sweat weirdly comforting in the moment. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it as he soothes into your hair, “Hey, it’s alright. I’ve got you. I’m here, angel. Just breathe for me. Let’s breathe together, okay?”
For a minute, you suck in and hiss out shuddering, hitching, hiccuping breaths with your fiance, each one a little slower and steadier than the last.
Robby leans away from you slightly to grab his backpack, fishing out his half-full water bottle and handing it over. “Here, drink this for me, sweetheart. Good. That’s good.”
You lean your head back. Your face burns and your head pounds. Rambly and half-coherent, you try not to cry more as you babble out, “Oh, god. I’m so fucked. What the fuck? This is so- I’m about to start as an attending, my fucking dream job that I’ve been working toward for a decade, for Christ’s sake. My whole goddamn career ahead of me and now this stupid complication is going to derail everything and-”
“Woah, honey, hold on,” Robby interrupts. He cups your face in his big hand and searches your eyes with his, which you’re surprised to find calm and confident. “I know this is scary right now, but you can’t be more than, what, eight weeks? A couple of pills and some cramping and this’ll all be over. It’s going to be okay. Let’s just…take a hot shower, clear those sinuses, and we’ll call OB together right after, alright? I’m here with you every step of the way.”
The world slows back to normal all of a sudden. Your heart rate begins to stabilize instead of slamming. Robby’s eyes are amber and steady, grounding, and his other hand goes to yours. After a minute of breathing and quiet, you whisper, “You’re okay with me getting an abortion?”
Robby wraps you up in his arms again and kisses the top of your head until your tears turn back to sniffles. He laughs, then. Laughs. You grip his tee as he stammers out, “Sorry, I know it’s not funny, but, hon, we’ve been pretty clear on this from the beginning, right? I mean, fuck, at my age, if I wanted kids, I would’ve had them by now. And I definitely wouldn’t be in this line of work.”
You look up at him with watery eyes that reveal a thousand different fears and insecurities: Not being good enough, being too much. “Really? You’re not gonna resent me?”
“I love you. I love our life together,” Robby assures you seriously. Unwavering. “It’s all perfect to me – and it’s not incomplete just because we don’t have kids of our own. I promise.” Then he sighs, shakes his head, and adds, “I was a really ugly baby, too. We don’t need a monster like that in our place. We’d have nightmares.”
You roll your eyes and let out a small laugh. “I’ve seen your baby pictures, Michael, and you were absolutely adorable.”
“Regardless,” he replies, finally tilting your chin up for a kiss, “there’s nothing to worry about on my end. We’ll get the prescription called in, take a couple days off while your body does its thing, and eat a pint of ice cream in front of the TV.”
Eyeing him carefully, you confirm, “Moose tracks and Secret Lives of Mormon Wives?”
“Not my first rodeo, kid.” He creaks to his feet and offers you his hands. “C’mon now, you’re covered in snot and you got it all over my neck and I stink like hospital. I think a shower’s in order.”
“One abortion for the lady,” Robby says, handing over the brown paper baggy with a flourish that makes you laugh. Then he grabs an ice pack from the freezer, flops down on the couch next to you, and groans slightly, “Plus one completed vasectomy for the gentleman.”
You place your hand only half sarcastically over your heart and swoon. “You got a vasectomy for me?”
“Urology had a last-minute opening. Should’ve done it a long time ago.” He shrugs and lifts his arm for you to cuddle against him, which you do right away. He kisses the side of your head and teases, “I think we can both admit that having sex without a condom those nights was-”
“Mindblowing? Delicious?”
“Took the words right out of my mouth.” After nipping you with one more kiss, he hands you a glass of water and tears open the bag, popping out the first pill for you. Unceremoniously, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, he goes on, “I want you to feel completely, totally confident and safe. I never want to come home to you crying like that again. Takes two to make an embryo the last time I checked; I ought to be doing my fair share.”
“You’ve been using condoms for half a decade; give yourself some credit.” You take one deep breath and pop the pill into your mouth, swallowing it with a few mouthfuls of water. “For a lot of guys, that would’ve been a deal breaker after about two weeks.”
“I’m not even going to dignify their stupidity with a comment.” Robby settles deeper into the comfy couch, grabbing the remote and navigating over to the latest season of your favorite trashy reality show. “Now, do we think Demi is going to get it together this season? Or is it going to be a repeat of the ‘take accountability’ situation?”
You gaze up at him from under his arm and feel your heart growing a few more sizes. You stretch upward and kiss him, slow and deep, until he gives you a happy little hum. Playing with the slightly overgrown hair at the back of his neck, you sigh contentedly, “I really can’t wait to be Mrs. Robinavitch. You’re already the perfect husband.”“Doctor Mrs. Robinavitch,” he corrects with a goofy grin. “You’ll always be my girl, but you’re a whole person first.”
Good Job, Aria! And... Surprise? Michael Robinavitch.
Warning: This fic contains one overworked mama who mistakes pregnancy symptoms for stress, one ER doctor who goes from medical professional to terrified husband in approximately three seconds, and one five-year-old who successfully handles an emergency better than most adults. Expect kitchen-floor panic, tiny shaking hands dialing 911, ambulance rides powered entirely by love and fear, proud declarations of “I called the ambulance like Papa taught me!”, hospital staff witnessing family chaos in real time, surprise pregnancy reveals, emotional whiplash, Michael forgetting how words work after hearing “you’re pregnant,” and one very proud future big sister convinced she personally saved both Mama and the baby. Read with tissues, a warm blanket, and emotional support snacks because the feelings arrive before the ambulance does.
It happens on an otherwise ordinary afternoon, the kind that starts with dishes in the sink, laundry waiting in a basket, and you telling yourself you will sit down in “just a minute” after you finish one more thing. You’re in the kitchen, moving on autopilot the way you always do, because the house never really stops needing something from you, and you’ve gotten so used to carrying all of it that the warning signs barely register anymore.
The room tilts once, very slightly, like your body is trying to tell you to slow down, but you brush it off. Stress, you think. Exhaustion. Maybe your period is late because you have been running yourself too hard again, juggling Aria, Michael, the house, the endless little tasks that never seem to end. You reach for the counter...
And the next thing that happens is the sound of your own body hitting the floor.
It is not dramatic in the way people imagine it. No warning, no graceful collapse, just a heavy, frightening thud and then nothing. The kitchen goes blurred at the edges, then dark, then all you can hear is a small, panicked voice that sounds far away at first and then suddenly very close.
“Mama?”
Aria.
Her little footsteps come rushing into the kitchen, fast and uneven, and when she sees you on the floor, her voice breaks immediately. “Mama!” She runs to you, tiny hands hovering over your face like she is afraid to touch you wrong, afraid you might disappear if she does. Your vision flickers in and out, and you can barely keep your eyes open long enough to see her frightened face above you. She sounds so small, so terrified, that something in your chest aches even through the fog.
“Baby…” you manage, though even that feels weak.
She starts crying at once, but there is no hesitation in her, no freezing in panic. You and Michael taught her what to do for emergencies, because Michael insisted on it more than once what to say, what numbers to dial, how to stay calm enough to ask for help. And now, with tears streaking down her cheeks, she does exactly what he taught her.
Her tiny fingers fumble with the phone on the counter, but she gets it, and when the dispatcher answers, Aria’s voice trembles hard but stays determined.
“Help… help my mama,” she sobs, sucking in a breath. “Please. She fell down.”
The dispatcher speaks gently on the other end, and Aria listens the best she can, repeating your address in a tiny shaky voice, exactly as instructed. “PTMC,” she says when asked where to bring you, because that is where Papa works. Because in her little mind, that is where safety lives. When the ambulance arrives, the flashing lights fill the driveway in a way that makes the whole house feel too bright and too unreal. By then you are awake enough to register movement, voices, the weight of being lifted carefully onto a stretcher, but everything still feels floaty and strange around the edges.
And then Aria is there again, holding onto the side of the gurney with both hands, crying quietly while the paramedics work around her. One of them asks if she is okay, and she nods even while tears are still falling. “I called 911,” she says, as if this is both her proof and her apology.
“You and papa taught me.” There is so much pride in that last part, even through the fear, that your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. She looks so small beside the stretcher, so brave and terrified all at once, and when she tells you again in a trembling voice, “I called the ambulance like Papa said,” you want nothing more than to scoop her up and tell her she did everything right.
At PTMC, the moment the ambulance doors open, Michael is already moving. He sees the stretcher before anything else, sees your face and Aria’s tears and the way the whole world seems to go still around them. His expression changes so fast it is almost startling—professional reflex first, fear underneath it, and then something sharper when Aria looks up and spots him.
“Papa!” she cries, rushing toward him before anyone can stop her, still clutching the edge of her stuffed bunny that one of the paramedics tucked into her arms. Michael drops down instantly, one hand on her shoulder and the other already reaching for you as they wheel you into the ER. “What happened?” he asks, and there is no doctor voice now, only father and husband, strained thin with worry.
Aria answers for you because you can’t yet explain it properly. “Mama fell,” she says, still crying. Then, as if remembering something very important, her little face straightens with effort and she adds, “I called the ambulance. Just like you said, Papa.” Michael looks up at her sharply then, his eyes widening for a split second as the words hit him not because he doubts her, but because there is something so heartbreaking and beautiful in the fact that she did exactly what he taught her to do, even while she was scared out of her mind. He cups the back of her head immediately and kisses her temple, whispering, “You did good, baby. You did perfect.”
The medical side moves quickly after that. Dana is there first, all focused calm and familiar reassurance, while Samira steps in to help with your vitals. Michael stays close enough to see everything but far enough to not get in the way, which might be the hardest thing for him to do. He keeps one hand on Aria and one on you whenever he can, his jaw tight with worry.
At first everyone thinks the fainting spell was just stress and exhaustion, maybe overwork from too much cleaning and not enough rest. You think it too. You are embarrassed, even a little annoyed with your own body, because it feels stupid to need an ambulance over something that probably should have been obvious.
Then Samira orders a routine test because your blood pressure is lower than they like and your symptoms do not quite fit only stress, and the room shifts in that quiet, almost invisible way hospital rooms do when the answer is not what anyone expected. Michael notices first, of course, because he is watching everything—your color, the staff’s tone, the tiny glance Samira gives Dana, the way the test panel is carried in with more care than before.
You are still half out of it when Dana returns, but she is smiling in a very particular way, the kind that says something has just been uncovered that will change the shape of the whole day.
“Michael,” she says lightly, and then looks at you. “Congratulations.”
You blink at her. “For what?”
For a second, nobody answers. Michael’s face goes blank in that stunned way of his, his eyes moving from Dana to Samira to you as if the room has just rearranged itself around a truth he hasn’t reached yet. Then Samira gives you the kindest, gentlest smile and says, “You’re pregnant.”
The words barely land at first. Your brain catches on them and then drops them again, because they do not fit inside your current understanding of the day. Pregnant. That is not possible, or rather, it is possible, but not something you had been thinking about because you were too busy being tired, too busy chasing schedules and chores and Aria’s needs and Michael’s long hours and the constant noise of life. The lateness of your period suddenly makes horrible, bright sense in a way that makes your face heat all at once. Stress. Exhaustion. The symptoms you had blamed on everything except this.
Michael makes a sound somewhere between disbelief and shock and a laugh that never fully becomes a laugh. “Pregnant?” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make the room confirm it more clearly. His eyes flash to yours instantly, and the emotion there is so raw and surprised that for a second even you cannot look away. “You’re pregnant?”
And because the universe apparently enjoys watching him process things one after another, Aria gasps too, loud and delighted through her still-sniffling tears. “A baby?” she whispers, then looks between you and Michael like this is the most important discovery ever made. “Mama, is there a baby?”
The whole room falls briefly into stunned silence before Michael’s face changes again and this time into something softer, more careful, more stunned than anything. He steps to your side immediately, one hand moving to your shoulder while the other hovers near your stomach like he is suddenly aware of how to touch you all over again. “You didn’t know?” he asks, and the answer is so obvious in your expression that he exhales slowly, almost laughing in disbelief. “You really didn’t know.”
“No,” you say, still trying to process it yourself. “I thought it was stress.”
Michael looks at you for a long second, then gives that tiny helpless shake of his head that says of course you did. Because you always carry too much. Because you always assume your body will keep up with your life. Because none of you imagined this would be the reason you passed out in the kitchen while your daughter called for help like a tiny emergency operator.
And then Aria, still holding onto the side of your bed with her stuffed bunny tucked under one arm, looks at your stomach with absolute wonder and says, “I saved Mama and the baby?”
That does it. Something in Michael’s face breaks open completely. He laughs once under his breath—not because anything is funny, but because it is overwhelming and ridiculous and terrifying and beautiful all at once. He leans down, kisses Aria’s forehead, then bends to kiss yours too, his hand warm against your cheek.
“You did,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. “You absolutely did.”
Aria beams, still teary but proud in the way only a child can be when she knows she did something big. She hugs your arm carefully, then looks at Michael with all the seriousness in the world and says, “I called the ambulance like you taught me, Papa. I was very brave.”
Michael swallows hard, eyes shining as he wraps one arm around her and the other around you, drawing the two of you into him as gently as he can in a hospital room that has suddenly become the place where your family’s life changes all over again. “You were,” he whispers. “You were perfect.” And standing there between the beeping monitors and the quiet hum of the ER, with Aria tucked close and your hand in his and a brand-new tiny life already beginning to exist, he looks at you like he cannot decide whether to laugh or cry first.
Maybe both.
Probably both.
Please do not copy my work. If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate your support by liking and reblogging instead of reposting or copying. Thank you for respecting my writing and giving proper credit. 🤍 xoxo, offthepitt.
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By the time you gave in, the afternoon light was already fading.
Your head throbbed, your throat ached, and every joint felt like it was held together by static. You’d told yourself all morning it was just fatigue, that you’d shake it off and make the next shift.
Then you sneezed so hard you startled your own cat, and the argument was over.
You called Dana, croaked out that you were taking a sick day, and hung up before she could turn it into an investigation.
That had been twenty minutes ago.
Your phone had not stopped vibrating since.
THE PITT POWER TRIO 💅
Dana:
u sound like death. did u tell him
Princess:
robby’s looking 4 u. said something abt u “resting poorly”
Perlah:
which is doctor speak for he’s already in his car
You groaned into the pillow. “I hate all of them.”
You:
it’s fine. it’s just a cold.
Dana:
denial. classic stage one.
Princess:
take a picture so we can show him later.
Perlah:
i hear footsteps. he’s prob at ur door.
You smiled weakly. They’re joking. Robby wouldn’t abandon an entire shift because his girlfriend caught the flu. He was a grown man. Rational. Composed.
Knock. Knock.
Your smile vanished.
“…no way.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Baby?” came that familiar, unhurried voice through the door. “Either you’re ignoring me, or you’re unconscious. Which is it?”
You dragged the blanket over your head. “Neither! Go away!”
A pause. “Dana said you were dying.”
“I’m mildly inconvenienced!”
“Good,” he said. “Then you can open the door before I use my key.”
You groaned, stumbling toward the entryway with the grace of a haunted burrito. When you cracked it open, the hallway light cut across his face—rain-damp hair, tired eyes, coat still beaded with water, a grocery bag in one hand and a pharmacy bag in the other.
He looked you up and down: oversized hoodie, mismatched socks, blanket still clutched around your shoulders. His mouth twitched. “Honey, you look terrible.”
You sniffled. “You’re romantic as ever.”
“Accurate as ever,” he said, stepping inside like he’d lived there for years. The smell of rain and hospital soap followed him in. He kicked the door shut gently with his heel.
“Robby,” you started, “you really didn’t have to—”
“Stop talking,” he said mildly, already unloading supplies onto your counter. “You sound like sandpaper.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure,” he murmured, pulling out tissues, tea, honey, and a small pharmacy’s worth of cold medicine.
You squinted at the pile. “Did you rob a CVS?”
“I planned ahead.”
You crossed your arms. “You planned my cold?”
He looked up, deadpan. “Statistically inevitable.”
You tried to glare, but another sneeze derailed the attempt. When you looked up again, he was standing in front of you with a thermometer.
“Open,” he said.
“Bossy.”
“Effective.”
You sighed and let him press it under your tongue. He hovered while it beeped, studying you like a particularly stubborn chart. When it chirped, he glanced at the number and frowned.
“Hundred and one point eight.”
“See? Barely counts.”
He gave you a look that could have sterilized an instrument tray. “Sit down, baby.”
“Robby—”
“Sit. Doctor’s orders. Boyfriend’s preference.”
You shuffled to the couch, muttering. “You’re ridiculous.”
He poured water into the kettle, moving around your kitchen with practiced ease. “Probably.”
“Overprotective.”
“Definitely.”
You sniffled, watching him. “You love bossing me around.”
He turned, meeting your eyes over his shoulder. “I love you alive, which requires basic hydration and rest.”
The words landed warmer than the tea kettle starting to hiss. You tried not to smile. “Flattering.”
He smirked faintly. “The bar’s low. Drink this when it’s ready.”
You sank deeper into the couch, blanket pulled to your chin. He moved through the small space with quiet confidence—coat off, sleeves rolled up, focused like you were his only patient in the world.
For the first time all day, the ache behind your eyes eased a little.
The kettle clicked off with a soft pop, and the apartment filled with the scent of honey and steam. Robby moved around your kitchen like he belonged there—bare feet on tile, sleeves rolled past his elbows, quiet competence in every movement.
He poured tea into your favorite mug, stirred in a little honey, and set it on the coffee table beside you. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, voice low, almost tender.
You wrapped both hands around the cup, the warmth seeping into your chilled fingers. “You really didn’t have to come over,” you murmured. “I was fine.”
He sat down beside you, close enough that your blanket brushed his knee. “You always say that.”
“That’s because I always am.”
He gave you a look that said you both knew better. “You had a fever of a hundred and one point eight.”
You sipped the tea, refusing to answer. The honey coated your throat, easing the raw ache, and you sighed. “You sound smug.”
“I sound accurate.” He picked up the thermometer again, tilting his head toward you. “Open.”
“Again? You checked like ten minutes ago.”
“Humor me, baby.”
You made a show of groaning but opened your mouth anyway. The beep came too quickly for your liking. He studied the screen, then nodded, satisfied. “Down a little. That’s good.”
You gave him a flat look. “You’re talking to me like I’m a toddler.”
He brushed a thumb over your temple, pushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. “That’s because you’re acting like one.”
You sniffled and tried to glare, but it dissolved into a cough. Robby reached for the tissues and handed you one before you even asked.
“See?” he said softly. “Still a terrible patient.”
You dabbed your nose and mumbled, “And yet you love me anyway.”
He leaned back, smile softening. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Something fluttered behind your ribs. He shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders until you looked like a very warm burrito. “There,” he murmured. “All tucked in.”
You blinked up at him through heavy eyes. “You fuss more than Dana.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s not a competition.”
He gave a small laugh. “It is now.”
You smiled despite yourself and reached for his hand, fingers curling around his. His palm was warm, steady—anchoring. “You should go home, Robby. You’ve been on your feet for two days.”
“I’ll go when you’re better,” he said simply.
“Which could take a while.”
“Then I’ll pace myself.”
You rolled your eyes, but the sound of his voice—calm, certain—made your chest loosen. He was sitting back now, one arm stretched along the couch behind you, thumb tracing light circles over your shoulder. The motion was hypnotic.
“You should try to sleep for a bit,” he murmured. “You need it.”
You yawned. “If you keep petting me like a cat, maybe I will.”
He chuckled, a low, quiet sound that vibrated through your back. “Whatever works, honey.”
You shifted until your head found his shoulder, the solid weight of him a comfort you didn’t want to admit you’d missed all week. The tea went lukewarm on the table. His breathing evened out beside you, slow and rhythmic.
You must have drifted for a while, because the next thing you knew your head was in his lap, the blanket pulled up to your chin. The television played quietly with the volume low; he was scrolling through something on his tablet, other hand resting over your hair.
When you stirred, he glanced down, brushing a thumb across your temple. “Hey,” he whispered. “How’s the fever?”
“Better,” you croaked.
He smiled. “Good. Go back to sleep, baby.”
“You’re still here.”
“Of course I am.”
You managed a sleepy smile. “You know you’re a softie, right?”
He smirked. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
You closed your eyes again, the warmth of his hand and the quiet hum of the apartment folding around you until everything faded into the soft rhythm of his breathing.
When you woke again, the world felt different.
The fever had broken into a light sheen of sweat at your temples, and the apartment was bathed in the quiet amber glow of the lamp over the kitchen counter. Rain whispered against the windows — soft, steady, the kind that made the whole city seem half-asleep.
And there he was.
Robby sat at the end of the couch, one leg stretched out, his glasses sliding a little down the bridge of his nose, tablet balanced in his lap. The blue light reflected faintly against his scruff. He looked so at ease, so him, that for a moment you didn’t move — you just watched.
His focus broke when you shifted, tugging the blanket higher.
“Hey,” he said softly, closing the tablet. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
You smiled, voice rough. “You never went home.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t feel right leaving you.”
“You could’ve at least gone to bed.”
He smirked. “I did. The couch counts.”
You groaned. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm. Maybe.” He leaned forward, brushing the back of his fingers across your forehead. “Temperature’s down.”
“See?” you murmured, voice teasing. “Told you I was fine.”
He gave a quiet laugh. “You said that twelve hours ago, right before you fell asleep mid-sentence.”
You blinked. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
You tried to hide your face in the blanket, but his hand found your hair and brushed it back gently. “Stop being cute,” you mumbled.
“Can’t. Genetic defect.”
You snorted, instantly regretting it when it turned into a cough. Robby’s tone shifted immediately — the same gentle, practical calm he used in the ER. He reached for the glass of water on the coffee table, guiding it toward you. “Slow down, baby. Small sips.”
You obeyed without argument, leaning into him while you drank. His palm stayed firm and warm against your back until your breathing evened out again.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, exhausted. “You really don’t have to do this, you know.”
He tilted his head. “Do what?”
“Hover.”
He smiled faintly, that soft crinkle forming at the corner of his eyes. “I’m not hovering. I’m observing.”
You raised a brow. “Uh-huh.”
He leaned back, still smiling. “Fine. Maybe a little hovering.”
“Overprotective,” you teased.
“Definitely.”
You nestled closer, your temple finding his shoulder. His body was solid, warm even through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. The steady rhythm of his breathing filled the quiet.
After a while, the conversation faded into small, sleepy fragments — half-thoughts and murmured jokes. He told you about the resident who’d spilled coffee on the attending’s notes that morning, about Dana’s ongoing war with the vending machine, about how empty the hospital felt without you there.
At some point, his fingers found yours beneath the blanket, tracing lazy circles over your knuckles.
“Robby,” you murmured, eyes half-shut.
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna spoil me.”
“Good.”
You smiled, eyelids heavy. “Then I’ll never get better.”
“That’s not how medicine works, baby.”
You hummed sleepily. “You sure? Because your bedside manner’s working wonders.”
He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm. But cute.”
“Always,” he said, voice dropping to a low murmur.
You could feel his gaze on you, not heavy but gentle — that look he had when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You forced your eyes open just long enough to meet it, catching the warmth there, the affection that lived in the small spaces between his words.
“Hey,” you whispered.
He hummed, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Hmm?”
“Thanks for staying.”
He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Always.”
The sound of the rain grew softer. His hand slid from your cheek into your hair, fingers threading slowly through it in the same even rhythm he used when calming a nervous patient. The motion lulled you back under, the fever haze slipping into something warm and dreamlike.
The last thing you felt before sleep took you was the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek — and the faint brush of his lips against your temple, a quiet promise you didn’t have to hear to believe.
You woke to sunlight streaming through the blinds — soft, golden, and far too bright. For a second, you didn’t recognize where you were. The air didn’t smell like disinfectant or burnt coffee. There was no beeping monitor, no overhead page, no chaos. Just… quiet.
And the smell of toast.
You turned your head, squinting toward the kitchen. Robby was there, barefoot, hair sticking up in that perfectly tousled way that only ever happened after sleep. His scrubs shirt was gone, replaced by one of your old T-shirts that hung loose on him. He was humming under his breath, something low and tuneless, as he poured coffee into two mismatched mugs.
For a moment, you just watched.
The way the light hit the side of his face. The lazy slouch in his shoulders. The steam rising from the mugs. It all felt painfully, impossibly normal.
Then you coughed.
He turned instantly. “Morning,” he said, voice warm, breaking into a grin when he saw you half-buried under the blanket. “How’s my favorite patient?”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable before caffeine.”
“Good thing I brought caffeine,” he said, crossing to you and crouching beside the couch. He held out a mug. “Black, two sugars, just how you like it.”
You accepted it, inhaling the steam. “You made breakfast.”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Very specific orders.”
“Vital caffeine replacement. Stat.” He grinned and brushed his thumb across your cheek. “You look a little less like death. I’m taking that as progress.”
You laughed weakly. “Flattery from a professional.”
He gave you a look, half amusement, half affection. “You really scared me last night, you know.”
You blinked, taken aback by the quiet sincerity in his tone. “Robby, it was just the flu.”
He shrugged, eyes still on you. “Yeah, well. You still managed to look worse than half my trauma patients.”
You smiled, hiding your face behind your mug. “You’re terrible.”
“But effective,” he said, smug.
The kettle whistled softly behind him. He got up, poured more hot water into a pot on the stove, and came back with a plate of slightly burned toast.
“Ta-da.”
You tilted your head. “Chef of the Year.”
“Hey, it’s edible,” he protested. “Mostly.”
You took a small bite and made a face. “Barely.”
He leaned against the counter, sipping his own coffee, watching you with that faintly exasperated affection that had become his trademark. “You should’ve called me when you started feeling sick,” he said.
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
He sighed. “You’re not a bother.”
You smiled down at your mug. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “But I also know you’d have shown up with half a pharmacy and a lecture, and I wasn’t emotionally prepared for either.”
He smirked. “Fair.”
Before you could add anything, your phone buzzed violently on the coffee table.
You groaned. “They’re already awake.”
He raised a brow. “The Holy Trinity?”
You nodded, unlocking the screen. THE PITT POWER TRIO 💅 was flashing bright at the top of your notifications.
You hesitated. “Do I want to know?”
“Absolutely not,” Robby said.
You opened it anyway.
Dana:
heard u survived. robby’s miracle care strikes again 💅
Princess:
pls tell me he made soup.
Perlah:
1 to 10 how disgustingly cute r u two rn.
You groaned. “They’ve been awake for fifteen minutes and already found a way to ruin my peace.”
Robby was laughing before you finished reading. “They just need proof of life.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You told them I was alive, didn’t you?”
“I might’ve mentioned you were stable,” he said, far too innocent.
The phone buzzed again.
Dana:
pic or it didn’t happen.
Robby grinned, holding out his hand. “Give it here.”
You clutched the phone to your chest. “Don’t you dare.”
“Come on, baby, one for the team.”
“Robby—”
He leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, and snapped a selfie before you could stop him. You gawked as he sent it to the group chat with a single caption:
Stable vitals. Good prognosis.
The response was immediate.
Princess:
AWWWWWWWWW 😭💖
Dana:
stop. that’s gross. also adorable.
Perlah:
im crying at work rn send help.
You groaned, throwing a pillow at him. “You’re impossible.”
He caught it easily, laughing. “But photogenic.”
“You’re lucky I can’t run after you right now.”
He leaned forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “You’d never catch me anyway.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrected.
The phone buzzed again, but you ignored it this time, leaning back against the couch. He set the coffee aside and sank down next to you, pulling you gently against him.
“You’ve got the whole weekend off,” he murmured. “No alarms, no patients, no ER chaos. Just you, me, bad toast, and way too much tea.”
You smiled into his shoulder. “You make it sound nice.”
“It is nice,” he said softly.
You were quiet for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the city outside, the low pitter of rain fading away.
“Hey, Robby?” you murmured.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Thanks for taking care of me.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple, thumb tracing slow circles against your arm. “Always.”
Your phone buzzed again. You didn’t need to check to know who it was.
“Think they’ll ever stop meddling?” you asked.
“Never,” he said. “But at least they’re rooting for us.”
“Rooting or betting?”
He grinned. “Little of both.”
You laughed, nestling closer. The warmth of his arm around you, the smell of coffee, the sunlight creeping across the floor — it all felt easy, right, ordinary in the best possible way.
“Okay,” you said finally, smiling up at him. “Maybe being sick isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened.”
He chuckled, brushing his nose against your hair. “That’s my girl.”
Summary - When a young patient arrives at the Pitt, Briar is forced to confront a part of her past she thought she’d made peace with. With Robby quietly at her side, a single day becomes about choice, love, and the kind of sacrifice that never stops meaning something — even years later.
The Pitt was loud in the way it always was — monitors chiming, stretchers rolling, voices overlapping — but beneath the noise, the shift had a rhythm. A familiar one. The kind Briar trusted.
She stood at the counter outside triage, flipping through a chart with practiced ease, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail that was already loosening at the nape of her neck. A paper cup of coffee steamed beside her elbow, untouched for too long.
Robby hovered at her side, close but not distracting. Close in the way that felt natural now.
“You know,” she said absently, eyes still on the screen, “if you steal my pen one more time, I’m filing a formal complaint.”
He glanced down at his hand, then back up at her with innocent sincerity. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She looked up then, one brow arching. “That’s the fourth one this month.”
“I like the way it writes.”
“You like that it’s mine.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Also true.”
Frank drifted past, slowed just enough to glance between them. “You two always this domestic before 9 a.m.?”
Briar didn’t miss a beat. “We’re arguing about office supplies.”
Frank snorted. “Yeah. That tracks,” he muttered, continuing on.
Heather appeared with a tablet tucked against her chest. “Room four’s labs are back. Hemoglobin’s still low.”
Briar nodded, then finally took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. “Cold.”
Robby reached over without thinking and took the cup from her, setting it aside. “You’re impossible when you don’t eat or drink.”
She smiled at him, softer now. “And you’re hovering.”
“Someone’s gotta keep you alive,” he said gently.
Her gaze lingered on his face for half a second longer than necessary. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The crease between his brows that never fully went away anymore. Loving him had become easy — slipping into the quiet spaces between shifts, late-night takeout on his couch, shared toothbrushes without admitting what that meant.
“You know,” he added casually, “you could just leave a mug at my place. That way I don’t have to rescue your coffee every morning.”
She blinked at him. “Is this your subtle attempt at domestic cohabitation?”
He shrugged. “I prefer to call it logistical efficiency.”
She laughed quietly, shaking her head. “You’re persistent.”
“I’m patient,” he said, eyes warm. “Big difference.”
Before she could respond, Dana’s voice cut through the hall. “Peds consult incoming.”
Briar straightened immediately, professional mode sliding into place like armor. “Age?”
“Ten. Chronic condition. Hematology flagged her.”
Something in Briar’s chest tightened — not fear, not yet. Just awareness. She adjusted her badge, rolled her shoulders once, and nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Robby fell into step beside her as they walked down the corridor, close enough that their arms brushed occasionally. They moved like this often — a unit, balanced, steady. She trusted him completely. He trusted her back.
As they approached the exam room, Briar glanced at the name on the board without really processing it — just another patient, another case.
She had no way of knowing that the girl behind the curtain was about to unravel a secret she’d carried alone since she was sixteen.
For now, the world was steady.
For now, she was fine.
And then she reached for the curtain.
Briar forced herself to stay.
She didn’t trust her legs, didn’t trust her voice — but she stayed.
She took a slow breath, schooling her expression back into something clinical as she stepped farther into the room, even as every instinct screamed at her to flee.
“Hi, Sarah,” she said softly, testing the name like it might shatter.
“I’m Dr. Green.”
Sarah looked at her again — really looked this time — head tilting slightly, curiosity flickering across her face.
“You have green eyes too,” Sarah said matter-of-factly.
The words landed like a physical blow.
Briar’s lips curved into a smile that trembled at the edges. “I do,” she managed. “Good observation.”
Mark and Susan stood near the foot of the bed. They were the kind of parents you could clock instantly — close together, hands brushing, bodies angled protectively toward their child. Susan’s hand rested on Sarah’s shoulder, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles. Mark’s jaw was tight, eyes sharp with worry.
“I’m Mark,” he said. “And this is my wife, Susan.”
Briar nodded. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
Her gaze flicked back to Sarah almost involuntarily. “How long have you been feeling tired, sweetheart?”
Sarah shrugged again, the movement small. “A while. I sleep a lot. Mom says I’m not lazy,” she added quickly, glancing at Susan.
Susan smiled warmly. “Definitely not lazy.”
Briar let out a soft, breathy laugh — the kind that slipped out before she could stop it. It sounded painfully familiar.
She stepped closer, careful not to crowd her. “Mind if I take a look at your hands?”
Sarah held them out without hesitation.
Briar’s fingers hovered for half a second before she touched her — the first contact in ten years she hadn’t been allowed to imagine. Sarah’s skin was warm. Real.
She checked capillary refill, pulse — all automatic motions, muscle memory carrying her through while her heart shattered quietly inside her chest.
“You’re very brave,” Briar said. “Did you know that?”
Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I don’t feel brave.”
“That’s usually how it works,” Briar replied gently.
Robby watched from the doorway, his chest tight. He saw the way Briar’s shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly every time Sarah smiled. Saw how she lingered just a second too long, like she was afraid the moment would vanish.
Susan cleared her throat softly. “We were told there might be a procedure needed,” she said. “Something about… a donor?”
Briar’s hands stilled.
“Yes,” she said carefully. “There are a few options we’re looking into. Nothing we’ll rush into, and nothing without walking you through everything first.”
Mark nodded. “We appreciate that. We just—” He swallowed. “We want to do whatever’s best for her.”
Briar met his eyes, and for a split second something unspoken passed between them — gratitude, respect, a quiet understanding that this man had raised the child she’d loved enough to let go.
“You already are,” Briar said quietly.
Sarah yawned, leaning into Susan’s side.
Briar straightened, heart pounding. “Why don’t I step out and review your labs?” she said, voice steady despite everything. “I’ll be back soon.”
Sarah hesitated, then said, “Okay.”
As Briar turned, Sarah added, “Dr. Green?”
She looked back.
“You’re nice,” Sarah said. “You remind me of someone… I don’t know who.”
Briar’s breath caught.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said softly.
She left the room before the tears could fall — barely making it down the hall before her composure finally cracked.
Briar barely made it inside before the sound broke free.
The door slammed shut behind her and she locked it with shaking hands, back pressing against the cool metal as if it might hold her upright. Her chest hitched once — twice — and then she was crying in earnest, sobs tearing out of her like something feral and uncontained.
She hadn’t expected it to hurt like this.
She hadn’t expected the sight of that little girl — her hair, her eyes, the familiar tilt of her smile — to rip open a wound she’d spent a decade convincing herself had scarred cleanly.
Briar staggered to the sink, gripping porcelain until her knuckles went white.
“She’s real,” she whispered to her reflection, tears streaking down her face.
“She’s here.”
Her knees gave out.
She slid down the wall, curling into herself on the tile floor, arms wrapped tight around her middle like she could keep her heart from breaking apart. Every memory she’d buried came rushing back — the hospital room when she was sixteen, the sound of her daughter’s first cry, the way she hadn’t been able to hold her for more than a moment before handing her to someone else.
She’d told herself it was love.
She’d told herself it was strength.
Right now it just felt like loss.
The door rattled softly.
“Briar?”
Robby’s voice.
She squeezed her eyes shut, another sob ripping through her chest.
“Briar, hey — it’s Robby. You ran out and I—” His voice dropped, instinctively gentle. “Frank and Heather are with the patient. You’re okay. Just… open the door for me?”
Her hand trembled as she reached up and unlocked it.
Robby slipped inside and immediately knelt in front of her, his concern sharp and unmistakable. The moment he saw her face, his own crumpled.
“Hey,” he murmured. “Oh, hey…”
He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t rush her.
He just gathered her into his arms and held her — firm, steady, grounding — as she cried against his chest like the world had tilted too far off its axis to stand on her own.
“I couldn’t—” she gasped. “I didn’t think—”
“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into her hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
She clutched his scrub top, fingers twisting into the fabric as if letting go might undo her completely.
“I thought I was past this,” she said hoarsely. “I thought I’d made peace with it.”
Robby leaned back slightly, one hand warm at her cheek, thumb brushing gently under her eye. “Past what?”
She hesitated.
Her throat worked around something thick and painful.
“That little girl,” she whispered. “Sarah.”
His brow furrowed. “What about her?”
Briar sucked in a breath that shook all the way down to her bones.
“She’s mine.”
The words came out barely louder than a breath — fragile, terrified, irreversible.
Robby froze.
“…What?” he whispered.
She nodded, tears spilling again.
“She’s my daughter,” Briar said. “I was sixteen. I didn’t have anything — no money, no stability, no way to give her the life she deserved. So I gave her up for adoption.”
Her voice cracked, but she kept going, needing the truth out in the open.
“I never told anyone. I didn’t think I ever would. And then she walked into my ER and I saw her smile and—” She let out a broken sound. “She has my eyes, Robby.”
The room went very quiet.
Robby’s chest felt tight, breath shallow as the weight of it settled over him.
“Oh, Briar,” he said softly.
He pulled her back against him, arms wrapping around her like a shield, one hand cradling the back of her head as if protecting something sacred.
“You were a kid,” he murmured. “And you made the hardest, bravest decision you could.”
She shook her head against his shoulder. “I didn’t get to love her,” she whispered. “Not the way I wanted to.”
“Yes, you did,” he said firmly. “You loved her enough to let her go. That doesn’t disappear just because you weren’t there every day.”
Her breath hitched.
“She’s happy,” Briar said. “Her parents — they adore her. She’s safe. She’s loved. And that’s all I ever wanted.”
Robby pressed his lips to her hair, lingering there.
“Then you did right by her,” he said quietly. “And by yourself.”
She pulled back, eyes red and shining as she searched his face.
“You’re not angry?” she asked. “That I never told you?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“No,” he said. “I’m honored you trusted me with this.”
Her shoulders sagged, something inside her finally loosening.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to stand in the same room as her and not fall apart.”
“You don’t have to figure out everything today,” Robby said gently. “One minute at a time. One breath at a time. And I’ll be right here for all of it.”
She nodded, swallowing hard.
“I need to stay busy,” she said. “If I stop moving, I think I’ll lose it.”
“Okay,” he replied immediately. “I’ll give you simple cases. Nothing heavy. You focus on being Dr. Green. I’ll handle everything else.”
She leaned into him once more, letting herself rest against his chest for just a second longer.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Always,” he said, kissing her forehead.
When they stepped back into the hallway, Briar wiped her face, squared her shoulders, and drew on every ounce of control she had left.
She wasn’t ready to be a mother.
But she was ready to keep going.
And Robby stayed at her side — unwavering.
Robby kept his word.
Within minutes, Briar had a stack of charts tucked under her arm — low-acuity cases, quick consults, things that required just enough focus to keep her mind from drifting back to a ten-year-old girl with green eyes and a familiar smile.
“Room twelve needs sutures checked,” Robby said calmly as he handed her the first chart. “Room nineteen’s labs just came back — nothing urgent.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Her voice was steady. Her hands were not.
She turned away before he could see the slight tremor and headed down the hall, posture straight, steps measured. Dr. Green. Competent. Composed.
The first patient barely noticed anything was wrong.
Briar smiled when she needed to. Asked the right questions. Her movements were precise, practiced — a comfort both to her patients and to herself. Every time her thoughts threatened to wander, she anchored them to vitals, to lab values, to the familiar rhythm of medicine.
It worked.
Mostly.
Between rooms, she washed her hands and stared at the sink for a second too long, the image of Sarah’s small fingers wrapped around a stuffed animal flashing unbidden in her mind.
Focus.
She dried her hands and moved on.
Across the department, Robby watched her carefully without hovering. He intercepted nurses before they could ask why she’d run out earlier. He rerouted cases when he saw the tension creep back into her shoulders.
When Briar returned to the desk, he slid another chart toward her.
“You’re doing great,” he said quietly, for her ears only.
She gave a tight smile. “Just keeping busy.”
He nodded, understanding exactly what she meant.
Hours passed like that — controlled, contained. Briar stayed in motion, and as long as she did, she could breathe.
Then she heard the laugh.
High, soft, unmistakably Sarah’s.
It drifted down the hall, light and innocent, and Briar froze mid-step.
Her fingers tightened around the chart in her hands.
Robby noticed immediately.
“Briar,” he said gently, stepping closer. “You okay?”
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t think—” Her voice faltered. “I didn’t think I’d hear her.”
He placed a hand at the small of her back — grounding, supportive, not drawing attention.
“You don’t have to go near that room,” he said. “I can cover it.”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I can’t… avoid her forever.”
She straightened, drawing in a breath that burned.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Just… give me something else. Please.”
She took the chart and walked away before he could say anything else.
As she passed the nurses’ station, she caught her reflection in the glass — pale, eyes too bright, but standing.
Still standing.
Behind her, Robby exhaled slowly, jaw tightening as he watched her go.
She was being brave.
He just wished she didn’t have to be.
Briar felt them before she fully saw them.
That quiet shift in the air — the kind that came when someone was standing nearby, unsure whether to interrupt. She looked up from the chart in her hands and found Mark and Susan a few steps away, close together, their shoulders nearly touching.
Susan offered a gentle smile, tentative but warm.
“Dr. Green?” she asked softly.
Briar straightened immediately. “Yes?”
“We were wondering if you might have a moment,” Mark said. “If you’re busy, we understand.”
Briar glanced at the monitor beside her, then back at them. Her heart thudded painfully, but she nodded.
“I have time,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere private.”
They moved into a small family room. Briar closed the door behind them, the sound settling the space into something intimate and serious.
Susan clasped her hands together. “We didn’t want to go through anyone else,” she said. “This felt like something we needed to say to you ourselves.”
Briar nodded. “I appreciate that.”
Mark took a breath. “We realized who you were earlier today. From the records… and from Sarah.”
Briar swallowed. “What did she say?”
Susan smiled softly. “That you were kind. And that you have the same eyes she does.”
Emotion tightened Briar’s chest. “She’s always had good instincts.”
“She really does,” Susan said.
There was a pause, then Mark continued.
“We want you to know something first — before anything else,” he said. “Sarah is happy. She’s safe. She’s deeply loved.”
Briar’s eyes filled. “That’s all I ever wanted for her.”
“And that’s because of you,” Susan said gently. “You made a choice that put her needs first.”
Briar shook her head slightly. “I loved her. I still do. I just— I was sixteen. I couldn’t give her stability. I didn’t have money, or a safe place, or a way to make sure she wouldn’t struggle because of me.”
Her voice trembled but stayed steady.
“It wouldn’t have been fair to drag her through that with me.”
Mark nodded slowly, understanding clear in his expression. “You chose certainty over chaos. That takes strength.”
Susan stepped closer. “You chose her.”
Tears slid down Briar’s cheeks. “I hoped she’d have the kind of life where she didn’t have to worry about whether the lights would stay on. Where she could just… be a kid.”
“She does,” Susan said softly. “Every day.”
Silence filled the room — not heavy, but reverent.
Then Mark spoke again, careful and respectful.
“When the doctors explained what Sarah needs,” he said, “we realized there was a chance you could help. We didn’t want to assume, and we didn’t want to pressure you.”
Susan nodded. “We would understand completely if you said no.”
Briar’s answer came immediately.
“Yes.”
Susan’s breath caught. “Are you sure?”
“I’m certain,” Briar said. “If my body can help her now, then that’s what it’s for.”
Susan reached out, squeezing Briar’s hand. “Thank you. For everything.”
The door opened softly.
All three of them turned at once.
Robby stepped inside, stopping just short of the threshold as if he was unsure whether he was intruding. His eyes went straight to Briar — red-rimmed, exhausted, still holding herself together by sheer will.
“Hey,” he said gently. “I just wanted to check in.”
Mark and Susan exchanged a brief, uncertain glance.
“Oh—” Susan said politely. “We didn’t realize—”
“I was just outside,” Robby added quickly, instinctively respectful. “I can step back out if—”
“No,” Briar said, the word coming out faster than she expected.
She turned toward him, eyes softening in a way Mark and Susan couldn’t miss.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You can stay.”
Robby moved closer, stopping at her side but not touching her yet — letting her decide. The silence stretched, curiosity flickering across Mark’s face.
Susan tilted her head slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said kindly, “are you—?”
Briar took a breath.
“This is Robby,” she said. “He’s… my boyfriend.”
The word felt grounding. Real.
Robby’s hand found hers then, fingers threading together naturally, like they’d done it a thousand times before. He squeezed gently, a silent I’m here.
Mark’s expression softened immediately. “I see.”
Susan smiled — warm, relieved. “I’m glad you have someone with you.”
Briar let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “I couldn’t do this alone.”
“You don’t have to,” Robby said quietly, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Not now. Not ever.”
Susan dabbed at her eyes. “Sarah is lucky,” she said. “To have so many people who love her.”
Mark nodded. “All of us are.”
Briar swallowed, emotion swelling in her chest.
Robby gave her hand another gentle squeeze. “Whatever comes next,” he said softly, “we’ll handle it together.”
Briar leaned just slightly into his side — a small movement, but one filled with trust.
Outside the family room, the sound of Sarah laughing drifted down the hallway again.
And for the first time since she’d recognized her daughter’s eyes across the ER, Briar felt something settle deep in her bones:
She wasn’t facing this moment as the scared sixteen-year-old she once was.
She was facing it as a woman who had love, support — and someone steady at her side.
The pre-op room was quieter than Briar expected.
No rushing. No chaos. Just soft beeping monitors and pale blue curtains pulled halfway around the bed. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something clean, almost comforting.
Briar sat on the edge of the bed in a thin hospital gown, hands folded tightly in her lap.
This was the easy part, she told herself.
She’d faced harder things.
Still—her knee bounced, nerves buzzing under her skin.
Robby stood in front of her, crouched slightly so they were eye level. He’d traded his white coat for scrubs, sleeves pushed up, his ID clipped crookedly like it always was when he was distracted.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
She nodded. Then shook her head. Then let out a breath that wobbled halfway through.
“I will be,” she said. “I just… need a second.”
He reached for her hands without asking, thumbs brushing slow, grounding circles over her knuckles.
“You don’t have to be brave for me,” he said softly. “You already made the hardest decision.”
Her throat tightened.
“I keep thinking about her,” Briar admitted. “She was smiling earlier. She showed me her bracelet—the one Susan made her. Purple beads, because it’s her favorite color.”
Robby smiled faintly. “That sounds like her.”
Briar looked at him. “You sound like you know her.”
“I do,” he said simply. “I know the kid who lights up when she talks about art. And the parents who adore her. And the woman sitting in front of me who gave her everything she could—even when it hurt.”
Her eyes burned.
Robby leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering there.
“I’m so proud of you,” he murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
A nurse appeared then, soft-voiced and calm. “Ready, Briar?”
Briar took one last steadying breath and nodded.
Robby squeezed her hands once more before stepping back, but he didn’t leave. He stayed by the wall as they helped her lie back, stayed until her eyes fluttered heavy and unfocused.
Just before the medication pulled her under, Briar reached out blindly.
Robby caught her hand immediately.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Tell her… tell Sarah I hope she keeps drawing.”
His voice was thick when he answered. “I will.”
She smiled—small, peaceful.
And then she slept.
When Briar woke, the first thing she registered was warmth.
A hand around hers.
Familiar. Steady.
Robby was sitting beside the bed, one foot tucked under the chair, head tipped slightly toward her like he’d been fighting sleep and losing.
“Hey,” he said instantly when her eyes opened. “Welcome back.”
She blinked. “Did it…?”
“It went perfectly,” he said. “Textbook. She’s already doing great.”
Her chest loosened, relief washing through her so strong it almost hurt.
“Good,” she whispered.
Robby brushed a curl off her forehead. “You did something incredible today.”
She looked at him, eyes glassy. “I didn’t give her up because I didn’t love her.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “You gave her a life. And today, you gave her more time in it.”
Briar swallowed, emotion cresting.
Robby leaned closer, forehead resting gently against hers.
“You’re not sixteen anymore,” he said softly. “You’re not alone. And every version of you—past, present—did the best she could.”
Her fingers tightened around his.
Outside the curtain, voices drifted—Mark’s low and grateful, Susan’s choked with emotion, a child’s laugh bright and unmistakable.
Sarah.
Briar closed her eyes, listening.
Robby stayed with her the entire time.
They stood at the end of the hallway, just out of sight.
Briar leaned lightly against the wall, arms folded—not closed off, just holding herself together. Robby stood beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth, his presence steady and familiar.
Down the hall, through the glass of a partially open door, Sarah sat upright on the bed.
She was laughing.
Mark was helping her adjust a pillow while Susan brushed her hair back gently, her thumb lingering at Sarah’s temple the way only a parent’s does—habitual, loving, instinctive.
Briar watched silently.
Her chest ached—not sharp, not overwhelming. Just… full.
“She looks happy,” Briar murmured.
Robby nodded. “She is.”
Briar swallowed. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Robby turned slightly, watching her instead of the room. “Do you want to go closer?”
She shook her head. “No. This is enough.”
They stood there a moment longer, sharing the quiet.
“I used to imagine her,” Briar said softly. “When I was younger. Wonder what she’d look like. If she was safe. If she was loved.”
Robby reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “She is.”
Briar’s eyes shimmered. “I know.”
Her grip tightened around his hand—not desperate, just grounding.
“She doesn’t need to know me,” Briar continued. “Not right now. Maybe not ever. And that’s okay.”
Robby squeezed her hand. “You’re allowed to hold both truths. Loving her… and letting her live her life.”
Briar leaned into his shoulder then, resting her head there. He shifted slightly to make it easier for her, pressing a kiss into her hair.
“I’m glad I saw her,” she whispered. “Even like this.”
“I’m glad you didn’t have to see her alone,” Robby replied.
They stayed until Mark dimmed the lights and Susan tucked the blanket around Sarah’s shoulders. Until the room settled into something peaceful. Until the moment passed on its own, without needing to be touched.
Briar finally exhaled, long and slow.
“Okay,” she said.
Robby glanced down at her. “Okay?”
She nodded, fingers tightening gently around his hand.
“I’m ready to go home.”
He turned fully toward her. “Your place, or—”
She shook her head before he could finish, looking up at him with tired eyes and something quietly certain underneath.
“No,” she said softly. “Yours.”
The word settled between them—gentle, decisive.
Robby’s breath caught for just a second. Then his expression softened into something warm and steady and very real.
“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Then we’ll go home.”
He kissed the top of her head, unhurried, like there was nowhere else either of them needed to be.
As they turned down the hallway together, Briar didn’t look back.
She didn’t need to.
Some loves are loud.
This one didn’t have to be.
A few days later…
The Pitt was quieter than usual when Briar heard her name.
“Dr. Green?”
She turned just in time to see Susan standing near the desk, Sarah tucked close to her side in an oversized hoodie that nearly swallowed her hands. Mark hovered behind them, juggling paperwork and a backpack that looked far too big for a ten-year-old.
Sarah looked… brighter. Still tired, but smiling in that careful way kids do when they’re feeling better but not ready to admit it yet.
“Oh—hi,” Briar said, startled, then smiled properly. “Hey, Sarah. Looks like you’re getting out of here.”
Sarah nodded. “They said I get to go home today.”
“That’s the best kind of day,” Briar said, kneeling slightly so they were closer to eye level. Her chest tightened anyway.
Sarah hesitated, then held something out.
It was a folded piece of paper, edges worn soft like it had been opened and closed a dozen times.
“I made you something,” Sarah said. “I made a bunch.”
Briar took it carefully, like it might break.
When she opened it, she had to swallow.
It was a drawing — crayon and marker, bright and earnest. A hospital room. A bed. A stick-figure girl with a huge smile. Two adults standing beside her, one with messy hair and a stethoscope, the other with long hair and a badge.
Above them, in uneven letters:
THANK YOU FOR HELPING ME
Robby had drifted closer without her noticing. He leaned in, eyes softening instantly.
“That’s us,” he said gently.
Sarah nodded. “I drew you and Dr. Robby because you were there a lot.”
Sarah brightened at that. “I made drawings for other people too,” she added quickly, like she didn’t want Briar to think she was special. “Dana got one. And the nurse with the purple shoes. And the doctor who tells bad jokes.”
Robby snorted quietly. “Whitaker.”
Sarah grinned, proud of herself.
Susan smiled at Briar. “She’s been working on them all morning.”
“Well,” Briar said, carefully folding the drawing and pressing it to her chest for just a second before slipping it into her bag, “I’m really honored.”
Sarah beamed.
Then, just as easily as she’d offered it, she turned back to her parents, already chattering about going home and what she wanted for dinner.
No weight. No questions.
Just a kid who had been helped — and remembered it.
As they walked toward the exit, Briar stood there for a long moment, hand curled around the strap of her bag.
Robby touched her elbow. “You okay?”
She nodded, voice quiet but steady. “Yeah.”
And she was.
Robby’s apartment was dim and warm when they stepped inside, the kind of quiet that only came after long days.
Briar kicked off her shoes by the door without thinking.
That alone said everything.
Robby noticed — he didn’t comment, just smiled softly and locked the door behind them.
They moved around each other easily, familiarity settling in like it had always been there. Briar set her bag down, paused, then reached inside and pulled out the folded piece of paper.
She smoothed it carefully on the kitchen counter.
Robby leaned over her shoulder as she opened it.
Sarah’s drawing stared back up at them — bright, uneven, full of heart. The stick-figure versions of themselves looked a little ridiculous. A little heroic.
Robby huffed a quiet laugh. “I look taller there.”
“You do not,” Briar said, but her voice was fond.
She picked it up and glanced around, eyes landing on the fridge. Without hesitation, she grabbed a magnet shaped like a dumb little penguin — one Robby swore he didn’t remember buying — and pinned the drawing up at eye level.
There.
Permanent.
Robby watched her for a long moment before saying, “You sure?”
Briar nodded. “I want to see it every day.”
He stepped closer, resting his chin lightly against the top of her head.
“She’s okay,” he said quietly. Not asking. Just stating it.
