Callsign: Starfire💫☄️✨

  I blink at my surroundings, squinting through the bright sun shining on me. Grass tickles my palms, warm, spiky, and all around me. I shake my head, trying to make sense of the sight.

  I must be dreaming. 

  I look up, finally noticing the great big weeping willow I lie beneath, the sun breaking through the canopy of drooping branches. I press my hand to my head as if doing so would right my vision. But nothing changes. 

  Wait. 

  I look down at my arms, at the sleeves that are so significantly different from what I was just wearing. Long white, cotton, and lace sleeves drape down my arms in dramatic heaps, like the sleeves of a medieval princess. Bell sleeves, to be exact. It makes me jump to my feet quickly. I look down at myself, at the strange full white dress I now wear. It’s gorgeous, long and dragging. Seemingly made to fit me perfectly. How curious. 

  I turn slowly. There’s a field of grass and flowers all around me, going on infinitely. There are no other trees, no insects, not even the chirping of birds. 

 I wander forward, bare feet treading carefully along the flowers, my dress held in great handfuls at my side. I look up at the sky, perfectly blue, clouds fluffy, and the sun in perfect view. It’s all so…perfect. 

  I pause, looking away from the sky; only something’s changed. Less than twenty feet away is a woman sitting amongst the flowers, looking out into the continuous field. She wears a lilac dress, the style similar to mine from what I can see. 

  “Hello!” I call out, gathering my dress again so I can trek forward. 

  She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even flinch. I move quicker, flowers dragging against the train of my dress. 

  “Hello?” I try as I get closer, just two feet away. 

  She turns in time, looking over her shoulder. 

  I freeze, eyes widening.

  “…Mom?”

  Adeline slams her fists against the countertop, swiping her arms clean across, knocking the salt canister to the floor, spilling it in a sweep of white. 

  “Fuck!” she roars, hitting the counter again, her fists aching. 

  She had one job. One job. And she couldn’t do it. You’re gone.

  You were stumbling, collapsing to the floor, and before she could try and catch you, before you could even hit the floor, you were gone. Vanished.

  Her chest twists in ugly knots, a snarl etched onto her lips. This was supposed to be a happy moment. An amazing feat, because you did the impossible. Sam Winchester is alive because of you—whatever you did. She doesn’t understand it. By all means, you shouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing. But of course, you’d find a way, with all your optimism and all the love you carry because to you there is no other way. 

  So, yes, this should be a happy moment even though she didn’t know the youngest Winchester well; it’s hard not to be relieved, especially when his brother is holding him in a bear hug in just the other room. But instead of happiness, her heart churns in ugly hatred, pumping her veins with the black sticky stuff. 

  She should leave them behind, hop on her bike and search the Earth until she finds you. But you’d give her a disappointed, knowing look. You’d want her to make sure they didn’t do anything stupid; she could practically see the order in your eyes before you performed whatever messed-up spell you did. 

  “Where is she?” Dean asks from somewhere behind her, voice rough and raw.

  She turns quickly, that hatred boiling over onto her face, glaring at him. 

“Oh, now you’re worried,” she spits. 

  Looking at him, she can only see the man that stood there and watched you come apart to save his brother. The man who crowded around Sam, hands on his shoulder, checking if he was okay even as you were nowhere to be seen. And through him, she sees herself. She didn’t do anything either. 

  Her jab lands the way she wanted it to. He physically flinches, face pinched into a grimace. He steps forward, boots thumping against the wood, his green eyes wild, his jaw set in controlled anger. 

  “Where is she?” he repeats, harsher this time. 

  “I DON’T KNOW!” she screams, throat rubbed raw in pain she can understand. 

  Her chest heaves rapidly, grey eyes filled with panic. She’s cracking at the seams.

  “We’ll find her,” he decides, nodding once as if it were that simple. As if you couldn’t be anywhere in the goddamn world.

  “She did this for you!” she yells, getting closer to him with an accusatory finger. She should hit him, make him feel even a fraction of the pain she does. But if you found out, which you would somehow, you’d be mad at her, and that’s worse than anything she feels now. 

  “I KNOW!” he screams, loud voice booming against the walls. “You don’t think I know that?”

  “No, I don’t think you do,” she challenges, cruelly. She knows he loves you; it’s always been painfully obvious. But it doesn’t seem to matter now. “You let this happen. You begged her!”

  She knew Sam was one of your best friends, but all it took was one look from Dean to get you to attempt the impossible.

  “Hey!” Bobby yells from behind them, standing in the doorway. Her eyes snap to him, this old man she only met today, his face pinched in a permanent, sour look. “Would you two quit your hollerin’, somethin’ weird ‘s goin’ on outside.”

  She breaks away from Dean’s personal space, storming to the front door. She slams it open, the old wood cracking against the wall, the hinges whining pathetically. She freezes in the doorway, eyes widening at the sight. For as far as she can see, everything is dead. The grass is dried and yellow, even in the rain. The trees have lost all their leaves, the trunks grey, the branches curled inward. Overhead, the clouds are still dark grey and angry; the occasional lightning lights up the sky, thunder rumbling loudly. 

  “Did she—“

  “We have to go,” Adeline cuts Dean off, pushing past him. “Get your things, we have to leave right now.”

  “What’s happening?” Bobby asks.

  “We’ll have hunters on us within the hour, and that’s only if we’re lucky,” she spews, shoving their discarded guns into their arms. “We need to get as far away from here as possible.”

  She leaves them standing there dumbfounded, peeking her head into the room where the ritual happened to yell: “C’mon, Sam, we’re going!”

  She doesn’t wait to see if he moves into action, already heading for the front door again. She storms out into the night, cold rain pouring down, soaking her to the bone almost immediately. She makes it five feet before turning back, arms wide out as she shouts: “I’m not kidding, come on!”

  Only then do they snap into gear, following after her into the storm, mud clinging to their boots as they trek back to the vehicles. They manage to lift her bike onto the back of Bobby’s truck so that she doesn’t have to ride in the pouring rain. Instead, she makes the horrible decision of riding with the Winchesters, glaring at the back of Dean’s head as they ride off. 

  “Look outside,” Sam says, forcing her gaze out the window.

  The damage continues the further away they get, the land completely devastated. The lush green forest they had passed on the way in is history now; you wouldn’t even think it was the same place. But she knows they didn’t take a wrong turn. You’re responsible for the destruction of acres of land. Maybe it’s best you aren’t around to see this, she thinks, because the acre of land earlier in the day had brought you to tears multiple times, but this? This makes that acre look like a joke. It’s miles and miles of land, seemingly never-ending as the car drones forward. If one made you cry, the knowledge of this might actually break you. So, when they find you, she won’t mention a thing.

  “Where’re we headed?” Dean asks after a while, his thoughts on all this devastation lost on her. 

  “I don’t know,” she answers.

  “Where would she go?” Sam asks, attempting to be helpful. 

  “I don’t think she made the choice,” she says through gritted teeth. “And we have to find her before some hunter does. They’ll be looking for her too.”

  “Well, what about her brothers’?” Sam suggests.

  “If you want to call him and break the news that we lost his little sister, then be my fucking guest,” Adeline spits. 

  “We’ll need to tell him eventually,” he reasons. “Maybe we can ask him to check her house? He’ll get there quicker than we will.”

  Her teeth grind together in concentrated thought. It was unfortunately a good idea. But she knows how he’ll react, can see his face clearly in his head, and she’s sure the disappointed, frightened, and saddened expression will immobilize her. It was both their jobs to protect her. It might as well be their only job. At least the only one that mattered. 

  “How long would it take for us to get to Maine?” she asks, nails biting into her palms. 

  “A day if we drive straight through,” Dean answers, fingers flexing against the steering wheel, his knuckles white. 

  “Okay, okay,” she nods. “I’ll call him.”

********

  The hours drone on in complete silence. There’s nothing to talk about, nothing that won’t erupt into an argument. Bobby went his own way, taking Adeline’s motorcycle with him—she’d get it back some other time. She wasn’t worried about it either. 

  The only “conversation” that did arise was Sam suggesting Dean take a nap while he takes over driving. Of course, that started an argument. Sam should rest; he went through a lot (including dying), but no, Dean should rest because he’s been driving all day. It went on for about four minutes. At some point they even looped Adeline into it. In the end, Dean stayed exactly where he was; after all, this involved you. 

  His silence was perhaps the worst, especially because he hadn’t dared to put any music on. She never did learn to read him, not unless it came to identifying when he was flirting with you, back when you weren’t together yet. She liked to rub that fact in often. 

  Before today, and other than the occasional text, the last time she talked to you, heard your voice, was when you called to give her the news about Dean and you. You sounded timid and yet excited as you told her, though of course she knew it was only a matter of time. And, yes, she rubbed being right in, too. 

  She wishes you were here now. 

  The call came in when they were stopped at a gas station, her back pressed against the wet and cold exterior of the Impala. For a long moment, she stared at her blaring phone, because in those stretched-out seconds you get to exist in a liminal space between safety and tragedy. What she doesn’t yet know keeps you there, where she could assume the answer herself. It’s safe. Plus, the initial call hadn’t been great. His frightened voice had simply gaped: “What?” then transformed into immediate action. She heard his quick movement, the scraping of his keys off of a surface, and his barking of orders to who she assumed to be your sister-in-law. All in all, it was no surprise he got to your place quicker than expected. Six hours shaved down to four and a half.

  Finally, she gives in, silencing her Rob Zombie ringtone. She doesn’t get to say “hello.” She doesn’t get to say anything. He’s panting on the other side of the line as if he ran a marathon—unable to catch his breath.

  “She won’t wake up,” he pants. “She won’t wake up!”

  Her phone slips from her hand, crashing to the damp asphalt. Still, her hand stays positioned by her ear as if she were still clinging to the device. Her eyes wide, staring off into the distance, face paler than the moon. 

  Dean whips around, shouting something she can’t hear, his voice muddled and distorted. He picks her phone off the floor, throwing a look at Sam over the roof of the car, wiping the grime onto his shirt before pressing the phone to his ear. 

  “She isn’t responding,” B/N says, continuing as if the conversation hadn’t been abruptly disturbed. “She won’t wake up! She won’t—“

  “Hey!” Dean yells, trying to snap him out of it even though it feels like someone is choking his heart, squeezing until the red muscle loses color. “Hey. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “Dean,” he mutters, swallowing roughly, sounding younger than he is. For a moment he’s a kid again, not nearly thirty. “She—She’s breathing, her heart's still beating, but she isn’t responding to anything. I blared her alarm, sprayed her with water…nothing, it’s like she’s not really there. ‘Like she’s in a coma.”

  Dean exhales slowly, all the air in his lungs pushed out. You were alive. That’s all that mattered; they could figure the rest out. You were probably just in a deep sleep. You excreted yourself, of course you did, so it’s only natural that you’d be sleeping hard. Plus, you weren’t always easy to wake up anyway. This is fine. It’s manageable.

  “Look, I-I’m gonna bring her to the hospital. You can meet me there,” B/N continues. 

  “No, no,” Dean answers. “Just keep her there, alright? We’re comin’.”

  “Dean—“

  “Trust me,” he cuts him off, hanging up on him before he could argue. He had to believe your brother would listen. He had to believe you were only in a deep sleep. 

  He clutches the phone tightly in his hand, knuckles white. He ignores the burning gaze of his brother, looking instead at Adeline, who has never looked more lost. She always appeared tough and unbothered, but now, here, she is stripped of that armor. 

  “She’s alright,” he grunts, trying to believe in his own words. Adeline sighs, head dropping forward. “She’s just…we’ll figure it out, okay?”

  “Mommy?” I sigh, feeling like a child again. Tears well up in my eyes, blurring her into a lilac and h/c mess. 

  “There you are,” she smiles. Her voice is barely like I remembered; the memories had become distorted over the years, but now her voice echoes through each one, restoring the missing pieces.

  But she’s as beautiful as I remembered, just like the photos of her too. She hasn’t aged a minute since the day she died, though she looks like herself—not sick, tired, and weak like she was in her last week on Earth. 

  A sob bubbles up from my chest, spilling hideously from my lips, raw and loud. I collapse to my knees beside her, arms thrown around her shoulders. She’s real and warm beneath my hands, not a ghost or a distant memory. She smells like a fresh breeze and the thick floral perfume she always wore. I hold her tightly, fingers curled into the sheer of her dress, tears soaking the crook of her neck, my shoulders racking uncontrollably with shaky sobs. 

  “Oh, my sweet girl,” she coos, one hand rubbing my back in soothing circles while the other pets my hair. “C’mon, let me see you.”

  Reluctantly, I pull away from her embrace, though I still cling to the crook of her elbow as if the absence of touch will make her disappear. She smiles at me softly, the corner of her eyes crinkling, her e/c eyes filling with pure warmth. 

  “Look at you, you’re so beautiful,” she whispers, hands cradling my face, thumb wiping away my falling tears. I cling to her wrists, only crying harder. I never thought I’d get to see her again; I always assumed I would lose the memories of her to time no matter how hard I tried to keep them intact. And, yet, here she is. 

  “You’ve grown so much,” she continues, tears welling up in her own eyes. “And look how wonderful you already are. I always knew you were bound to be incredible.”

  “How is this possible?!” I gape, sniffling and choking over ugly tears. 

  “Don’t ever question the limitations of the impossible, my dear,” she murmurs, nose scrunching as she ‘boops’ my own. 

  I laugh weakly, brushing away the tears from my damp cheeks. 

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I admit. “B/N too.”

  “I know,” she nods sympathetically. “And I’m so sorry this is how it’s all turned out.”

  “Nothing's been the same without you, I—“

  “Oh, that’s not true,” she cuts me off softly. “Look at how you and your brother turned out. I’m so proud of you both. You’ve done so well without me.”

  I shake my head rapidly, trying to swallow back a new wave of tears, my throat burning and tightening. 

  “We’ve done so well because of you,” I correct.

  She laughs, and it’s as nice as windchimes singing in the wind.

  “My sweet girl, it’s always been you,” she smiles, finding and squeezing my hands. “You know, even as a little girl you never seemed to understand the reflections of your heart. You aren’t good or kind because of me. It’s always just been who you are.”

  She directs my hand to press over my heart, the muscle thumping steadily beneath my palm. The soothing wind brushes against us, sliding her hair off her shoulder, letting it hang gently in the breeze. There are sparkles in her eyes, holding me gently.

  For a long moment, there is only the silence of the wind and our breathing, and for a moment I see myself in her as if looking into a mirror that has nothing to do with exterior presentation but everything underneath. My entire life I’ve been trying to be good, like her—like she wanted. I’d spent so long perfecting the way I held myself, the flow of my words, the tone in which each syllable had to be said to appear like a normal girl—to appear kind–that I had forgotten it was always there. I ignored its natural existence in an attempt to prove I could be merely capable of being good, like if I could just reflect what people wanted, then it would be enough to convince them. 

  I have no response, no words as pretty and poetic as she deserves, so, instead, I go into her embrace, wanting to be held by her again.

  Gravel crunches beneath the tires of the Impala following the road up to your secluded house. The car rolls up the small hill just like it’s done countless times before, slotting smoothly into your driveway. 

  The Victorian house stands tall at the center of your property, the grass around it perfectly green, and the flowers in the bed in front of the windows in perfect bloom despite how long you’ve been away. Through the windows, they can see only one light on, warm light visible through one of the front windows, which she knows to be your living room.

  It’s still decorated for Halloween, string lights strung around your porch, jack-o-lanterns on either side of the stairs, fake bats hanging from the ceiling, and that’s only the exterior. It’s as if your house has been frozen in time, paused the moment you went away, keeping perfectly still until you’d return. Though she’s certain you’d find immense joy in the decorations still being up, even though it’s early May. 

  You had been able to buy this house and this land quite young thanks to the money inherited from your parents' death, especially your mother, who had come from a very long lineage. After coming of age to collect the shared inheritance, you bought your dream house while your brother got his dream farm. It all worked out.

  And being who you are, you insisted on making a guest room specifically for Adeline. You made sure she decorated it the way she liked so she’d feel at home whenever she’d stay, which you both liked to happen quite often. Then not very long after, you had a room set up for Dean, though you did it more discreetly. He just happened to keep picking the same guest room when he was around, so, naturally, you started to keep things he liked in it. She plays this memory in her mind as they get out of the car. It’s just how you are; you open your home and yourself to others without blinking, wanting to make everyone happy and comfortable. 

    Grass crunches beneath their shoes, Dean not so discreetly rushing, his long legs carrying him. But the door swings open, B/N standing there, eyes wide and breathing heavy. He storms down the steps of the porch, jaw set tightly. 

  “You did this!” he booms, eyes locked on Dean, vision narrowing solely on him. “This is your fault.”

  Dean stands there, frozen, even as his friend barrels towards him with a clenched fist. He sees the punch coming long before it happens; he’s been a soldier too long not to notice when he’s going to be attacked—not that B/N is exactly being discreet about it either. Still, he stands there, feet rooted in the grass, almost welcoming the hit. 

  His fist collides with Dean’s nose, pain erupting across his face. He stumbles back, hands coming up to cup his nose rather than fight back, though he was very capable of that too. Shouts erupt from Sam and Adeline, grabbing onto your brother, shoving and holding him back, telling him to “calm down.”

  Dean chuckles quietly to himself through gritted teeth as he straightens, hands falling from his nose, warmth beginning to trickle down his nostril. The pain is good. It makes his eyes sting harshly, a tingly feeling scattering across his nose, which could be broken for all he knew. But he didn’t care. This pain was palpable, traceable, easy to detect and explain. Much easier, in fact, than the storm raging behind his skull as violently as the furor buried in his chest cavity.

  And he can feel that pull in his chest, trying to tug him up those stairs and closer to you. To find you. His brain won’t stop screaming it, pleading and begging every cell in his body to push forward, to just get to you. He’s been restless, especially now that he’s so close. His hands clench into fists at his side; this would be the part where he’d throw a punch back, but, for once, he has no interest in making things even. 

  “‘S alright, it’s alright,” Dean says, sounding faintly nasal as he waves the others off. “‘Can hit me ‘much as you want later, just let me see her.”

  Sam and Adeline back off your brother, letting him go and stare daggers into Dean. Meanwhile, the two stare at Dean, eyes wide with shock, eyebrows shot straight up. This wasn’t like him. Normally, he’d say something clever and mean because he could be so good at being cruel, but how could he manage anything of the sort when you're a couple hundred feet from him, hurting, and he’s not allowed to see you? Plus, you’d be upset with him if he hurt your brother regardless of who started it, though you’d certainly lecture your brother too. Worst of all, you wouldn’t even truly be mad, at least not down to your soul or so that your bones would turn brittle. You’d forgive him in minutes, maybe an hour or two if he’d really messed up (longer if he royally screwed up), so he’d have to wonder for the hundredth time how you could love someone as cruel as him. 

  Maybe the unexpected reaction throws your brother off too, because the fight is pushed right out of him, deflating his shoulders like a balloon. He tries to keep his furious expression, but even that flickers too, because he knows Dean, and right now, they’re just people who love you so much they’d rather gnaw off their own limbs than ever lose you. For a moment, they are the same: scared to lose the one person they never quite fathomed could be gone forever. So, B/N moves off to the side, standing down, head hanging heavily. 

  Dean’s legs move quicker than his brain can register, but it catches up quickly. He shoves past your brother, shooting up the porch steps, barrelling into your house. Immediately he is hit with the scent of sage, cinnamon, and something sweet like vanilla, it makes his brain lag back to the last time he was here: standing on your doorstep, noting your hair had looked different from the last time he had seen you (which was way longer than he had wanted), you hugged him like it had been years and not a month or two. Then, he asked you to come with him, find his missing father like you’d drop the life you had created just to help him. Selflessly, you did. He had been selfish to ask of you something so big, and, now, he can track the exact moment that got you into this situation. 

  He storms up your stairs, taking them two at a time, the banister rattling beneath his hand. He takes the corner too quickly, nearly clipping his shoulder into the wall. He stumbles down the hallway, knowing the way to your bedroom without thinking. He’d been here countless times; he knows your house in and out; he knows every secret; he knows where you keep the extra towels, or that snack he liked, and he knows which floorboards creak. 

  He pushes your half-closed door open, eyes zeroing in on your sleeping form. The remaining air in his lungs gets sucked right out. You're lying in your bed, wearing a strange long white dress he’s never seen before, your hair splayed out on the pillow beneath you, your hands folded over each other resting on your waist like you're in a fairytale rather than here with him, and yet your chest rises and falls like normal. 

  His knees wobble as he strides to your bedside, your name on his tongue like him saying it will make a difference when your brother has already tried everything. 

  Of course, you don’t answer; you don’t even stir. His knees give up for good, forcing him to sit at the edge of your bed, feeling out of place in your colorful sanctuary.

  “C’mon, sweetheart, you gotta wake up now,” he says softly, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek. His eyes flicker across your face, catching on the white streak of hair framing the left side of your face. It stands out against the rest of your hair even though it’s just a singular thick piece. It’s further proof of what you’ve done, of what this means. It makes this all real—seeing you makes this real. On the drive over, he could pretend you were just exhausted and stubborn, but now? Now a big, ugly part of him knows you won’t be waking up, no matter how long he sits here and pleads with you. 

  “Hey, you gotta wake up,” he tries again, words firmer.

  He doesn’t have to listen to that ugly part of his brain; he can convince himself you’ll open your eyes, confused and grumpy but alive and awake. 

  “Y/N. C’mon,” he repeats, growing desperate with each word. But again and again you don’t react. It’s like you aren’t there. 

  “No, no, c’mon,” he pleads, gently nudging your shoulders. Yet, his chest churns and aches, panic clawing its way right to the surface as his heart and brain try to understand the truth. “Please. Y/N.”

  “Please, not you too. You gotta wake up, alright? ‘Need to hear your voice again. You…you gotta tell me one of those ridiculous fun facts of yours, or—or lecture me about somethin’, anythin’, baby, please.”

  “Dean!” Someone snaps.

  His head whips to the door, Sam filling up the doorway, looking at him with his puppy dog eyes, silently asking him what they already know. But he doesn’t see his little brother; he sees the choice he made, the lives he traded—him over you. 

  Adeline shoves right past Sam, pushing the tall man into the doorframe.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” she spews, tears already rolling down her cheeks. She falls to her knees beside your bed, hands hovering by your face like she wasn’t sure if touching you was a good idea. “Please, please! You can’t leave me,” she begs, voice breaking terribly. Her face is stricken with horror as if her heart had been ripped right from her chest by someone she trusted dearly. That probably would hurt less than this. You were the reason for her existence. You were a sad, scared kid that needed someone—needed her. She was supposed to protect you. 

  Anger bubbles in her veins, grief turning sour. Her nails dig into her palms. She wants to scream, wants to blame Dean again because it’d be so easy. But that waning anger ebbs back into that void of sadness, leaving as quickly as it came. 

  “You know what’s worse?” She asks quietly, not looking away from you. “The fact that she’d be happy with this. She’d want it to be Sam over her; she’d make this choice over and over again even knowing the outcome.”

  “Am I…?” I ask hesitantly as I pull away from her embrace. I know she said to not question the impossible, but that’s hard when none of this makes sense. 

  “No,” she says, shaking her head like I asked a ridiculous question. And perhaps it is stupid, because over the last year I’ve come back from death twice, a phenomenon I couldn’t begin to explain. Though I can’t explain this either.

  “So what is this place?” I ask, looking around at the endless flower field. It’s nice, sure, but it also doesn’t reveal anything useful. 

  “I don’t know,” she answers. 

  “Is this a dream?” I ask just above a whisper and squint a little, like it’s some sort of secret and if I say it too loud then the whole charade will come crashing down. 

  “The best things usually are,” she muses with a little lopsided smile.

  “You're cryptic,” I laugh, almost enjoying the infuriating mystery.

  “You’re not dreaming,” she finally reveals. “Nor hallucinating. It’s something else entirely.”

  There’s another question hanging on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back, hold it in and swallow it down, because there’s a corner of my mind kicking myself for all the questioning, begging me to just accept whatever this is, asking me to bask in this gift—asking for just a moment with my mother. This is all I’ve ever wanted. She’s been gone for twelve years, and I’ve spent each one missing her like I was losing her all over again. So can’t I have this, whatever this is? Can’t I make up the minutes?

  I think after all this time, after everything I’ve been through, I deserve this peace. So, yes, I let myself have it, even if it means ignoring natural curiosity. 

  “This would be a very pretty dream, if it were one,” I say softly.

  “Yes, it would be.”

  Crickets chirp outside, sitting in the grass, the moon high in the sky. He can hear them from your window. It’s the only other sound besides your combined breaths. 

  He hasn’t left your side since they got here the day before. The others tried to pull him away, get him to eat, or shower, or sleep, anything but wallow at your bedside in the chair he pulled closer. But how could he? What if you wake up? What’s more important than you? ‘Cause it’s certainly not sleep or food. 

  Except, the last time he saw you when you were awake had only been for a handful of minutes, and in that time, he could only focus on his brother. You had become an afterthought. The knowledge sits in his throat like a lodged stone. You’re one of the most important people in his life; you’re his everything, you’re his first thought in the morning and the last before bed, and yet, he handled your life—your comfort and safety like it never mattered. Adeline was right too; you would want it to be this way, you’d say something like “at least Sam is alive.” Which is worse. Because you shouldn’t have to be an afterthought, ever. You aren’t meant to be. You don’t deserve it.

  Now, you lie asleep with no end in sight.

  He never should’ve involved you in finding his Dad. Or, he should’ve made you leave when he said he would, instead of letting you stay because he liked having you around, and because you looked so hurt when he brought it up. He would take you hating him any day over whatever this was. 

  God, he misses you even as he sits in the same room as you. He misses your smile, your voice, the way your eyes light up, your laughter, your touch. Every time he allows himself to stare at you, his heart sinks and churns, a new wave of guilt dragging him beneath the tide of darkness as his mind tortures him with sweet memories of you.

  “You remember that time back in high school when I smoked cigarettes?” he asks you despite the inevitable silence that follows. “I thought they made me look cool, ‘made me tougher. I barely smoked for a month before you found out and told me to stop. Sam had told me to quit, teachers did, principals, whatever…But you asked—told me to, and I did because it was you askin’.”

  He leans forward, elbows propped up on his knees.

  “You had that look on your face like your whole world was shatterin’ just ‘cause you were worried ‘bout me. Me,” he laughs, humorless. “I never smoked again, never picked up another damn cigarette, never even looked at one again.”

  He sighs, wetting his lips, head dropping low. The silence is too loud, the gap missing your sweet voice or your contagious laughter. 

  “I need you, sweetheart,” he admits. “I can’t do this without you, ‘don’t want to.”

  He looks up from the rug, finding your peaceful expression in sleep. The silence is like hands wrapped around his throat. He wanted to shake you until you woke up. You always came back; why did this have to be different? It didn’t make sense. None of this did.

  To think a couple of days ago he was saying he was going to marry you someday, and now you’re…gone. You had looked at him like he was offering to lasso the moon, all the constellations, and the sun, eyes wide, teary, and filled with longing. If he wasn’t sure before, he was at that moment. Maybe he shouldn’t have told you that, because it allowed him to see a future he liked; it gave him hope–the one thing he should’ve learned by now he didn’t get to have. Maybe the universe saw his hope, his love, and had to remind him that his life wasn’t his own. 

  “You know, she’d want you to take care of yourself,” Sam says from the doorway, somehow always there to interrupt him at his lowest. Yet, for once, he doesn’t try to pretend he wasn’t on the verge of tears, or that he had been laying out his heart for you. It’d be pointless. 

  “You don’t get to say that,” he grumbles, jaw flexing.

  “No?” Sam challenges, stepping further into the room. “Cause she’s my friend too. And this is my fault more than it is yours. I’m the reason she’s like that.”

  Dean shakes his head, forming fists so tight his palms and knuckles hurt. “I asked her to.”

  “She would’ve tried regardless, you know how she is,” he counters. 

  “Yeah…” Dean mumbles, looking over you again. Sometimes he thinks your selflessness can make up for his selfishness, though; this time he almost wishes it hadn’t. But if he thinks about it too long, his chest starts to feel all tight until it twists around his lungs and he can’t breathe. If he had to do it again, he doesn’t know what he would do. Sam or you. An impossible choice. And yet, he knows deep down in all the ugly parts of him, he’d choose this—Sam alive and you in this stupid fucking coma. He knows it’s wrong. He hates himself for thinking it—for knowing it. It’s an endless loop in the trenches of guilt and darkness, and ultimately, forever knowing you’d want him to make the same choice. Maybe this would’ve all been easier if you were more selfish, and yet you wouldn’t be you if you were. 

  “Dean,” Sam repeats softly.

  He pulls his gaze away from you, jaw clenched tightly. 

  “Go eat,” Sam orders. “Clean up your nose, you still got dried blood stuck to it.”

  “‘M not leaving her,” he murmurs, wiping at his nose, sparking pain to vibrate up towards his eyes until they sting.

  “She isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Don’t.”

  Sam sighs. “I’ll watch over her.”

  “No.”

  “Dean,” he warns. 

  “What am I supposed to do without her, huh?” Dean snaps, standing quickly. “I don’t give a crap about eating or sleepin’. She's not here! None of it matters!”

  “You have every right to be upset. I get it, but you can’t kill yourself over this!” Sam argues calmly.

  “No, you don’t get it,” Dean shakes his head, something akin to disgust curling on his lips.

  “I lost Jess!” Sam yells. “But forever. Y/N is still here. She’s alive. We’ll figure this out, she’ll wake up soon, and when she does she’s—“

  “Figure this out how?” Dean roars, doubling down despite the twinge of guilt twisting in his gut. But he can sink his claws into the familiarity of anger, can burrow himself deep in it, let it drag him out of that wave of darkness to make it his home. “We don’t know a damn thing about her magic! She barely understood it!”

  “Yeah, well, while you’ve been wallowing up here, the rest of us have been going through her books for an explanation and a solution,” Sam reveals, swallowing his own frustrations. 

  “What?” Dean asks, the anger suddenly whipped right out of him, his emotions stuttering. His eyes flicker across his brother's face, trying to look for a silent answer. “‘You find something?”

  “Not yet,” Sam answers, crossing his arms against his chest. “But Adeline thinks it might be worth checking out her grandparents' house. ‘Got B/N looking for the address in the will.”

  “She thinks there’s somethin’ there?” he asks.

  “No idea. None of us know anything, but we’re trying. They might have an explanation that her books don’t.” Sam says softly. “You know, you aren’t the only person who cares about her, right?”

  “I know…” he mumbles. Your heart is too big and filled with too much love for other people not to be attracted to the light you emit. 

  “So, go shower and eat something,” Sam tries again. “In case we have to hit the road in the morning.”

  The fight is snuffed right out. He knows Sam is right; you would want him to take care of himself. And he’ll need the energy to fight for you. He’ll get you back if it’s the last thing he does. 

  “Alright, alright,” he gives in. “But you stay with her and yell for me if she so much as twitches.”

  “Deal,” Sam answers. 

  Dean takes one last long look at you before leaving the room, trying to ignore the way his heart attempts to tug him back towards you. Sam shakes his head, occupying the empty seat his brother left. 

  For a moment he surveys you silently. It’s weird being in your room like this without your permission. It’s weird watching you sleep. Still, he stays, if only for his brother's sake. 

  His hands are folded loosely in his lap, making a good steady point to stare at. 

  “You know, I don’t think you should’ve brought me back, however you did it,” he admits. “You don’t know it—Dean doesn’t know it yet either, but things are going to get worse. I’m…worse than we thought.”

  There’s demon blood in him, all to make him some soldier in some war he wants no part in. Andy. Ava. Jake. Lily. Max. And a handful of other people he may never learn the name of. All of them are forced to be pawns, forced to bear blood and powers they shouldn’t have, and ultimately forced to kill each other. 

  “You’re my favorite,” the Yellow Eyed Demon told him. His skin crawls at the memory. 

  Your predicament isn’t the only thing that’s his fault, and maybe that’s worse of all. His Mom died merely because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then Jess, just to ensure he’d have no one to “hold him back.”

  His fault. 

  And for what? How many more people will he lose or hurt because of this? Apparently, you had to be the next addition. 

  “I wish you were around to talk about it. I think you’re the only one who’d understand,” he continues. “Even then…it’s not…good.”

  You’d convince him it wasn’t his fault. That destiny isn’t real, or that it doesn’t matter. Maybe that’s true; maybe he’d believe you, but he’ll never get to know because you're gone, and that’s one thing he’s sure is his fault. He tried blaming Jake, the man who stabbed him—killed him. But he could only manage the hatred for so long, because in a twisted way he understood, it was Jake or him. Just like it was Andy, or Lily, or Ava. Yeah, he thought they could’ve made it out together, but how long would that have lasted? That Demon wouldn’t allow it. 

  “Whatever you're dreaming. Wherever you are…you gotta come back to us,” he adds slowly. “Dean's a wreck. Actually, everyone is. ‘Never seen Adeline or B/N like this before. So…wherever you are, come home.”

********

  Dean slept by your bedside the whole night, whenever sleep came to him, that is. In the morning, sun breaking through your curtains, reflecting off your hair, he didn’t complain about the ache in his bones or the stiffness in his neck. None of it mattered or was worth complaining about with you in the same state as the previous two days. 

  Your brother brought him a cup of coffee, a peace offering for punching him, which he also muttered an apology for and admitted that, no, this wasn’t quite his fault. Though, he didn’t believe or accept that last part. Still, your brother broke the news that in an hour or two Dean and the others would be hitting the road, searching for a solution. Your brother would stay and watch over you, make sure no hunters would come near if it came to it.

  He didn’t want to leave you like he hadn’t last night, and that had been for a mere ten minutes. This would be longer. He’d be gone a day, maybe two. The only thing that kept him pushing forward was the hope that they’d find something there that would allow them to wake you. So, he kissed your forehead, lips lingering before reluctantly leaving. 

  Now, (too many) hours later, they pull into Pownal, Vermont, the left corner of the state, sitting between New York and Massachusetts. Apparently, this is where your grandparents lived and where your mom spent most of her life, that is, until she met your father. He’s not sure how much you know about this place, though he’d figure not much, especially because your brother had to go digging for information. You didn’t talk much about your grandparents; he knows you didn’t know much either—only what your mom had told you. 

  So, none of them expected to roll up to a gated house, tucked into the forest. Adeline had gotten out of the car to unlock and push open the black gate, vines and shrubbery overgrowing on and around it. She volunteered “just in case.” If he had to guess, he figured this land was protected like yours.

  When you first got your house almost three years ago, you covered the place in sigils, and then you spent a whole day lining the entire perimeter of your land with every protective measure you could think of and find. Nothing bad would ever get in. No one would find you or that place unless you wanted them to, including hunters, which you worried the most about. It’s why he offered to help you with it all…among other reasons, which included staring at you. He had no idea what you were doing or what any of it actually did or how it worked; he just liked hearing you explain every little detail, looking up every other minute to make sure he was listening. He’d hum and nod, hoping he didn’t look like an idiot. You’d laugh, looking away bashfully, softly apologizing for talking so much. He’d shake his head, ask you to continue, say he was listening, though in truth he wasn’t retaining a thing. Maybe you knew, but he didn’t care because you never called him out on it, so he’d just sit there listening to you, watching you, and handing you something if you asked. He really enjoyed that day. He enjoyed every day he’s ever spent with you, even the really bad ones, simply because you were there. 

  The back door slamming shut after Adeline hops back in pulls him from that memory. Sam clears his throat, giving him a questioning look. So, he shakes his head, pressing forward. 

  The Impala rolls slowly up the paved path, a large, dark mansion imposing on the land. 

  “Don’t look like anyone’s ever left,” he remarks, staring up at the place through the windshield. Other than some vines and moss growing across the grey stones, it didn’t look abandoned. Somehow, after all these years, there wasn’t any visible decay, no tree breaking through a window or collapsing through the steep roof, though he’s sure several storms had to have passed through the area in the last three or so decades.

  “Well, everyone’s dead, so…” Adeline answers simply. 

  Yeah, he knew that. He knew the story well. Which only makes it more odd that the mansion looks perfectly kept.

  Whatever.

  He kills the engine, getting out of the car and pocketing his keys.

  There are a couple of leaves on the porch, a large spiderweb occupying the space between each column, and another in the empty lanterns hanging from the beams.

  The brass door knocker stands out against the black painted door. There’s a strange allure to the simple feature, the iodized green tint calling to him like an insistent whisper, pulling him forward. His hand nearly rises to knock as if there’d be anyone home, but Adeline pushes right past him, twisting the doorknob open with certainty. 

  “Be careful not to touch anything,” she warns, leading them in. 

  A stale scent of old books and sage hangs in the air, absorbed into the dark red velvet runner going down the hall and the dark green painted walls. There’s a painting on the wall, a portrait of a woman veiled in white lace, her features obscured by the cover. It hangs above a table with a candelabra and an empty purple glass plate. A chill runs down his spine. Whereas your home is cozy and welcoming, even with all its witchy elements, this place is just creepy. 

  “Let’s split up,” Adeline announces, turning to face the two men. “Shout if you find the workroom or a library.”

  “Alright,” Dean answers simply. He moves past her, ignoring their burning gaze. He goes up the grand stairs, staring at the photographs on the wall. There are some older ones in black and white of women alone, and some of what looks like a family gathering, then newer ones in vibrant color. He stops halfway up the stairs, taken aback by one colored photo in particular. It’s a woman looking off to the side, eyes sparkling with mischief; there’s a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a long necklace hanging down her neck, and a teasing smile on her lips. She looks a lot like you. And of course she does because it’s a photograph of your mother looking younger than the first time he met her. He remembers you two looked alike, but this is different; it’s almost uncanny. Still, the glimpse of you shakes him from his thoughts, reminding him exactly why he’s here. 

  He trudges up the rest of the stairs, floorboards creaking beneath the dark rug. He passes by large windows, plants hanging in the space, somehow very much alive despite all the years no one’s lived here to water them. It’s as if this house was paused in time, growing not a second older from the last time someone stepped foot inside. 

  He opens one door, finding a heavily decorated bathroom, and then another door to find a bedroom. He wanders in, barely taking in the space as he runs his fingers along each shelf and book, looking to find a hidden compartment. Your workroom was hidden, so he figured your family must’ve had the same idea. But when he finds nothing, he leaves, going on to the next room. 

  Neatly painted in yellow on the next dark wooden door is your mother's name, written in pretty script. He didn’t think the room would be hidden here, but curiosity gets the better of him, especially because he knows you would love the opportunity to know more about your mom. So, he wanders in, immediately being hit with a burst of bright colors that contradict the rest of the dark, gloomy house.

  The bed is draped in pinks and yellows, while darker oranges and purple curtains hang by the windows. Candles cover just about every surface, trinkets and lace tacked to the walls and the dresser. He steps in deeper, surveying some photos taped to the wall, particularly a close-up of two smiling girls with the side of their heads pressed together, one of them he recognizes as a much younger version of your mother and the other person he has no clue. Maybe it’s your aunt? Or a friend? Regardless, he carefully peels the photo from the wall, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket to show you when you wake up. Maybe you’ll know who the other girl is.

  He wants to take more for you, to give you this insight into a family you know nothing about. You probably would’ve really liked the opportunity to come here. So, he looks around the room more, pulling open a nightstand drawer. Inside is a book covered in swirly doodles. He flips through the yellowed pages quickly, catching the dates on the top. It’s a journal, your mother's journal to be exact. You have her spell book, and a journal from her life after this house, but not one during. So, he tucks this too into the inside of his jacket, grateful for the deep and large pockets. 

  “Hey! I think I found something!” he hears Sam shout from downstairs. His mind switches back into gear, focusing on the most important task at hand: getting you back. So, he leaves the room behind, softly shutting the door behind him before beelining for the stairs, swiftly descending them, the dark green walls nothing but a blur.  

  “In here!” Sam shouts again, directing him into a large sitting room. 

  There are velvet sofas and curtains in matching shades of deep purple. Like the rest of the house, everything is heavily decorated, from the oval coffee table with another candelabra to the mirror on the wall with paintings on either side of it. Then there’s Sam standing over by the left wall. 

  “Check this out,” he says, simply pressing the wall. With a subtle click, the wall pulls open, taking the shape of a door. 

  “Huh,” Dean hums, mildly impressed. 

  Sam pushes the door open more, revealing a stone passageway with steps leading downward. This is where Dean would normally say something snarky, but with your life on the line, he couldn’t be bothered to crack a joke. So, with no other option, he snatches the candelabra from the coffee table, flicking open his lighter to put the damn thing to use.  

  Silently, he takes the lead, boots thumping softly against the stone stairs. He ignores the abundance of cobwebs and the moist, mossy smell of the tunnel. But it seems to go on forever, the rough and jagged stone walls stretching on, so when they reach the end he’s already irritated, especially at the sight of a large opposing door with a little keyhole. Your work room was far more convenient than this. He’s about to grumble and kick down the door when Sam simply tries the doorknob, finding it unlocked. Sam gives him a knowing look before taking the lead inside.

  There’s a large workbench in the center of the room, empty glass bottles littering the surface. The far wall hollows out as a sort of fireplace, a cauldron hanging just above where the fire would be. Just above the fireplace hang upside-down herbs and plants dried out in different bundles. The walls are covered with tall shelves, jars filled with strange liquids, eyeballs, and crushed dried things he couldn’t begin to name. There are skulls of various animals beside them, books, little statues, a crystal ball, and various half-burnt candles of different colors. 

Now he understood what Adeline meant by not touching anything. 

  “Carry up any books you see!” Adeline shouts down the stairs and long corridor. Speak of the devil. 

  He shares a look with Sam before doing exactly what was demanded. They pull books from the countless shelves, including the ones on the bookshelf behind the door. It takes them both three trips to bring everything up to the sitting room, and when they do, they find Adeline sitting on one of the velvet couches with books already scattered around her.

  “Where’d you find those?” Dean asks, placing his last pile onto the floor. The coffee table was already occupied with the others. 

  “Basement,” she answers. “Whole fucking archive down there.”

  “Great,” he remarks, sitting across from her on a different couch, which he has to admit was pretty comfortable. 

  “It is great,” Sam adds. “It means we have a better chance at finding something.”

  Alright, he had to give him that. It is a good point.

  “Better find something, ‘think they have diaries, spell books, and other crap from every ancestor in the family line,” Adeline responds. “So, if you find any in Latin, hand them over.”

  “You know Latin too?” Sam asks.

  “Barely,” she answers. “But that’s why we have the internet.”

  “No one’s lived here since ‘77, there’s not gonna be any internet,” Dean says.

  “Fuck.”

  “Do you remember what happened before you woke up here?” My mom asks suddenly. So much for ignoring the weirdness of this situation.

  “Yeah…I was, um, Sam. He…Do you remember Sammy? He’s John Winchester’s youngest son.”

  “I remember the Winchesters, silly,” she smiles, laughing softly.

  “Right,” I mumble, cheeks warming up. “Well…he died. I-I couldn’t—I had to do something. I didn’t think it’d even work. I just—I mean, it’s Sam.” 

  “I know,” she coos softly. “You did good, you did so good…It’s just…things will be different from now on, you have to understand that.”

  I laugh softly. “Mom, things are always different. You couldn’t even imagine the things we’ve been learning. It always changes everything.”

  “This is different from that,” she sighs, eyes drooping with unspoken emotion. 

  “I’ve died twice, you know,” I say. “That’s pretty different and crazy. 

  She doesn’t say anything; instead, her gaze falls back to the horizon.

  “Why am I able to do that?” I ask, scooting closer in an attempt to catch her eyes. “Why weren’t you?”

  I watch her throat bob, eyebrows pinched together.

  She knows something. 

  “It’s because you're different,” she reveals, finally looking at me.

  I laugh nervously. “You’re saying ‘different’ a lot.”

  “I know you’ve felt it before,” she continues anyway.

  My face drops, something churning deep in my chest, my fingers fidgeting together. Sure, I know I’m different—I’m a witch, which is the exact opposite of being a normal person. But, with the way she’s looking at me, like this whole thing has been a weight on her shoulders, the secret kept tight behind her lips, I know she means something else. 

  “What are you talking about?” I mumble. “How am I different?”

  “You’re capable of such greatness,” she explains, meeting my eyes with wide hope and adoration. “If only you’d let yourself. It’s why you’ve done the impossible time and time again.”

  I shift uncomfortably; suddenly the dress is itchy, the sun too warm, and the grass too spiky. But most of all, I hear his words play in my mind. 

  “The most powerful Witch in history…” the Yellow-Eyed Demon had told me. I knew he was lying the moment he said it. He had to be. And yet, the memory comes to me now. 

  “That—that doesn’t really explain anything,” I stammer, panic rising and wrapping itself around my throat. “How am I different? Why am I different?” 

  “I don't know why,” she answers calmly. “Maybe it’s fate. Or a prophecy. Or just random luck.”

  “No, no,” I shake my head. “I don’t want to be any different than I already am.”

  “It isn’t a bad thing!” She reasons quickly, finding my hands, putting my fidgeting to an end. “It’s just who you are.”

  “How?” I snap, cruelly, guilt chewing up my intestines. “Is…am I that powerful? A-am I the—“

  “More than you could ever imagine,” she whispers.

  If this were any other situation, any other hunt or case, Dean would’ve made up an excuse to not do research. Or, he’d get distracted five minutes in. But this isn’t any other case; it’s for you. So, he sat through hours of reading boring journal entries he couldn’t care less about. Only occasionally did he get wrapped up in an entry filled with drama. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he did enjoy some good gossip, but who didn’t? 

  The rest of the day blurred by like that, only paused by the need to eat or use the bathroom. Still, gossip aside, it irritated the hell out of him (to be fair, in the three days you’ve been gone, everything’s been pissing him off). As much as he knew there could be something useful here, all he could think about was being away from you, and more so being unaware of your state. What if something happened? What if you got worse? For all he knew, this could be a waste of time which he could be spending at your bedside. 

  Then night passed by too, the heavy smell of coffee in the air as they all tried to push through exhaustion. So, by ten the next morning, he was beyond a live wire, ready to snap. His eyes ached from staring at small words, his back hurt, and he couldn’t stop thinking about you. Not once. 

  “If I read one more goddamn entry ‘bout gardenin’, I swear to God, I’ll start punching things,” he threatens, leg bouncing up and down restlessly, tossing the leather-bound journal to the side with all the other useless books. 

  “Holy shit, I think I got something!” Adeline exclaims, suddenly, sitting straight up from where she was lying on the rug. 

  “What? What?”

  “Shut up! Shut up!” She yells. “It’s from someone named Margaret. It’s her last entry. Listen:

  “November 1744,

  My boy is gone. My sweet, Theodore. 

  He was still in my arms. He hadn’t cried. 

 They tried to take him from me, my darling sisters. They wanted to protect me from such a sight. But I knew. I know.

  My boy, born on the 10th of November and set to return to the Earth the same day.

  I’ve been calling out for retribution. 

 Do not take my boy. Take me instead! Not my boy. I cradle his cold body as I write. 

  Finally, in the sixth hour, I know what I must do. I have not told the others. I mustn’t, in fear they will try to stop me, for they do not know pain like this. I cannot catch my breath knowing he never got to breathe at all. 

  I’m sorry, Theodore. You will not understand this, not until you’ve lost someone dear to you. I wish you never do. You will grow up loved by your family. You must treat them well, and know that I loved you. 

  My sweet boy, if only there was time.”

  “That’s it?!” Dean exclaims when she’s finished reading. 

  “No, look, it’s similar!” Adeline tries to explain. “Look for Agatha’s journal, 1744. That’s her sister, so maybe she picked up where Margaret left off.”

  Desperation and loss. That’s the similarity between you and your ancestor. But through the wave of time, a thin line connects even them to her, for what is love if not an act of desperation?

  Books thump to the floor one by one, the crisp sound of pages turning loudly as they scramble for the next piece of this puzzle. 

  “I got it!” Sam announces. “Agatha, November 15th, 1744:

  My sweet Margaret,

  Theodore is doing well. He sleeps through the night, and takes milk well—“

  “I thought Theodore was stillborn,” Dean cuts him off abruptly. 

  “Exactly,” Sam says, sitting straighter. “But somewhere between the tenth and the fifteenth, he came back. He lived because of her–sound familiar?”

  “Keep reading!” Adeline demands, tossing a pillow at Sam’s leg. 

  “Okay, okay,” Sam nods. 

  “…And he takes milk well. He misses you. I can tell, for he has the same look in his brown eyes as I, James, and everyone else. Mother is so distraught, she keeps running out in the night, screaming at the moon. The moon! Never in my days did I think she’d betray her belief like that! 

  I’m thinking of joining her. 

  What am I supposed to do without you? What of Theodore? What of your husband, James? I have no one to turn to to complain about the girl down the road, though she’s been kinder to me lately. I think she senses the loss amongst us. Oh, how she doesn’t know!

  I write to you though I know you are unable to answer. I know not what to do. You haven’t waken in five days. Mother won’t explain it to me. She says you’ll be like this forever. But how does she know? Did the moon finally yell back? I think not. You’ll wake one day, I know.”

  His reading hangs in the air, confirming this has happened once before. Silently, he flips through the pages.

  “October 1749,” Sam continues reading.

  “Mother has died today. We felt it coming, all of us, since the day you left us, Margaret. Is she with you now? I hope so. She has missed you so!

  On her deathbed, she finally told me the truth she has kept all this time. She heard you that night Theodore was still in your arms. She waited outside your door when you pushed us all out, listening to you cry. She felt hopeless. She said she heard you moving around, saw the light from beneath the door, and the words you murmured. She said you made it up, that spell. She memorized the words, found nothing like it, and was too afraid to write them down when she saw you asleep at the desk, Theodore wailing in your lap.

  I thought she was joking. How would you be capable of that? She said love is a powerful thing. I know this, of course, but this is different!

  How foolish I had been to underestimate you, Margaret. 

 Mother says we are strongest when we feel the most. I think I understand now. 

  You gave your future to him. You gave more than that. Theodore misses you. We let him see you, but he does not understand. Perhaps, one day he will. Sometimes, even I do not understand. We do not know when you will wake. Mother suggested a lifetime. No matter how long, we will write for you and about you. You will not be forgotten…”

  The air is heavy, pressing them to their seats.

  “Margaret made it up,” Dean repeats, staring ahead at the dark green wall, his gaze even further away. “How the hell did Y/N learn it then?”

  “She didn’t,” Adeline corrects. “Didn’t you see how her eyes rolled back? That was something else…like it came to her.”

  “So what, Margaret possessed her to lend a helpin’ hand?” he snaps, unconvinced.

  “No, idiot,” Adeline grumbles right back. “M-maybe it was some sort of ancestral connection. Look, Margaret created a whole spell solely from grief, love, and want—Y/N did the same thing, both in an act of desperation. She tried to do the same for you, Dean, but she got cut off by a nurse.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he exclaims, gaze snapping to her.

  “That stupid car crash, you don’t remember your time as a fucking ghost thing?” She presses.

  “No,” he bites. “Now, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “She wanted to help you so bad, she couldn’t let you die,” she explains. “Her eyes rolled back, she started mumbling that thing—same thing she said the other day, the flowers at your bedside wilted just like the field around the house. And she passed out at the end; nurses had to carry her back to her room.”

  “She woke up from that,” Dean says, something itching at the back of his brain. Sam had told him you kept trying to heal him when he was in his coma, but he hadn’t told him that. 

  “She also got interrupted,” She points out.

  “So…so she’s able to bring people back from the dead, or close to death, just because she wills it?” Sam asks, trying to connect the dots. At least Dean wasn’t the only one lost. “She just knew it because she did?”

  “I don’t know!” Adeline exclaims. “Maybe! Look, I know just as much as you guys do!”

  “No, we’ve seen someone brought back from the dead, and that didn’t turn out pretty,” Dean shakes his head, running his hand down his jaw. “Now, Sammy’s no zombie, and it didn’t sound like Theodore was one either.”

  “No one said anything about zombies!” Adeline says, looking between the boys with a confused snarl.

  “He means, reanimation is possible, sure, but not without the consequence of losing your soul,” Sam explains.

  “Like the Lazarus pit,” Dean adds.

  “What? Like from Batman?” Adeline asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck are you two on?” She exclaims. “Maybe it’s different cause it was so soon after they died? I don’t know. It’s just different. Why does the logistics matter?”

  “Because ‘different’ doesn’t wake her up!” Dean shouts, his voice rattling off the walls. “It doesn’t bring her home. It’s not a real answer!”

  “Look, Agatha said they’d keep writing, so let’s keep looking through the journals for Margaret’s name,” Sam cuts in, trying to soothe the tension. 

  Now, hope is hard to hold onto. Agatha knew, and now so do they. 

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Dean grumbles, standing from the couch. 

 He paces the width of the room, fists balled at his side. Maybe he should’ve expected this answer: you loved so hard and so big you changed the fabric of time just because you needed to. You and your big heart. You try to save everyone before yourself, not out of obligation, but because you want to. You tried to save him from his coma, and if you were successful, you would’ve been in your own, just like now.

  He hates that he hadn’t known. He hates that you're so careless with yourself. It burns in his mind, all those times he let you heal him, let you give a piece of yourself to him. You’ve never seen it that way. He knows you don’t; he knows you genuinely want to help, especially knowing you can. But now all he can think about is any one of those moments pushing you to where you are now. 

  “200 years,” Sam announces softly from behind him.

  Dean freezes.

  “What?” 

  No, no, he had to have heard that wrong. 

  “She woke up in 1944. 200 years later,”  Sam continues. “The entry is from Mariam. She said she heard about the tale loosely, that no one was supposed to go in her room. Then one day she just walked out, not looking a day older.”

  His vision spins, ears buzzing with a loud droning.

  “…She killed herself the next day,” Sam adds solemnly. “She couldn’t live without Theodore. In saving him, she missed his whole life.”

  He would be dead by the time you woke up. They all would be.

  “T-that can’t be it,” Dean mutters. “There has to be something we can do.”

  Frantically, he looks between the two, silently begging them to agree with him. But he only finds frowns and downturned eyes.

  Acceptance.

  He shakes his head rapidly. How could they just accept this? Why was he the only one fighting?

  “I’m so sorry, Dean,” Sam murmurs.

  “No, no, no, no, no, no—“

    The floors are covered in eggshells, everyone tip-toeing around the inevitable crunch. One wrong word and either Dean or Adeline would be set off, their anger nearly matching each other's ferocity, Sam stuck in the crossfire. He’s grown sick of it, really sick of it, so today is the day he’s decided to put an end to it.

  He finds Dean outside working on your car, the Beetle that’s been unused for two years while you’ve been on the road with them. That should’ve been his first sign not to try this today, especially because it’s the first time Dean’s left your side. He spent three weeks and four days at your bedside when they returned from Vermont. He looked like a ghost, unable to meet your brother's eyes for an explanation as he trailed up those stairs to reach you, his gaze a thousand miles away.

  “Hey,” Sam greets.

  He barely grumbles a response, let alone spares him a glance up from beneath the hood of your car. The stubble on his face has grown into a beard. He hasn’t shaved all this time, couldn’t be bothered to pick up a razor. He couldn’t be bothered to do a lot of things.

  “I called Bobby before…” Sam continues anyway. “He, um…We think it’s time to get back to work. Whatever the Yellow Eyed Demon is up to, we have to stop.”

  Dean laughs, humorously, as he tosses his tool to the side, standing tall. 

  “You givin’ up on her too?” He accuses, glaring at him.

  “No one’s given up on her, Dean.”

  “No? Well, tell that to her brother,” he spits, bitterly getting back to work before he can do something he’d regret.

  “He had to go back to the farm. He couldn't leave his wife to do the work all alone,” Sam reasons. Your brother stuck around as long as he could, and even then he didn’t want to leave when he did. 

  “Don’t matter,” Dean grumbles. “‘M not leaving. I don’t care what that demon does anymore.”

  “Dean, come on, this isn’t like you at all,” Sam scoffs. 

  Metal slaps against metal, the tool forgotten for good as he fully turns to his brother, taking a step closer. 

  “I don’t got anything more to give,” he says. “She’s gone. ‘N we keep fightin’ this I’ll lose you and Bobby, too. I’m done.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, I am,” Sam answers, hand pressed to his chest in sympathy. “But there’s nothing we can do. We went through every damn book, we tried everything. There’s no way to wake her up. You can’t just sit here waiting till she does; you’ll die before that happens.”

  “Fine,” Dean shrugs. 

  Sam scoffs, studying him with worried eyes. “Look at you, Dean! You think she’d want this? She’d want us to keep going.”

  “You don’t know a damn thing ‘bout her!” Dean spits, stepping close enough to get up in Sam’s personal space, challenging him. You wanted out of this life; you saw a future past this disaster.

  “I know she wouldn’t want you to waste your life away like this!” Sam yells right back. 

  “‘S not a life,” he agrees, shaking his head. “‘Cause she’s not here. None of this is worth it.”

  “Dean!” Sam snaps, grabbing him by his shirt, shaking him like it’ll bring back the person he knew. “Do you even hear yourself?”

  “What you want me to say, Sammy?” he asks, weakly, not bothering to fight back. 

  Sam studies him then, the closest he’s been to him all month. He has dark bags under his eyes, and his green eyes are hollow, any spark that was there gone. He’s a shell of himself. 

  “You’ve had a month to grieve b—“

  “‘ts not enough,” Dean cuts him off weakly. 

  “I know this is hard, so I’ll give you three more days, but after that we’re leaving. I won’t let you rot here. We have to keep going,” Sam orders. 

********

  That night, Dean watches the way your chest rises and falls in rhythmic beats like he’s done every day before this.

  Your brother may have given up, Sam may have given up, but he wouldn’t. It seems like just Adeline and him care, though she’s pulling back in her own way. She spends most days looking for a solution, and the other days in cat form, sleeping at the end of the bed by your feet. They never say anything to each other when she’s like that, a silent agreement. But tonight she isn’t here; she’s in her bedroom down the hall, her boss yelling at her over the phone. 

  200 years.

  He’s turned it over in his mind over a thousand times, twisting and working through it until it made sense. It hasn’t. 

  That’s four lifetimes, assuming he’d make it to 50 in each. Would he be able to find you then? Would he have remembered you enough to beat the perils of time as you’ve done so easily? Would you accept him then, in his new form? 

  Funny, isn’t it, how hopelessly in love he is with you to start dreaming foolish dreams? For one, he’d never make it to 50, and secondly, reincarnation probably isn’t real. He only has this lifetime; it’s all he’s ever had, and he’s messed it up time and time again. 

  You told him there was always time. It had been a different version of you that said it, but he hears the echo of those words nonetheless. And he remembers telling you “maybe in another life,” because even then he wanted to believe something so good could exist far away from all the messed up parts of this life. Then you said something better to him than “there’s always time”; you said you’d wanted it all in this life. You believed in time, you believed in hope. He’d laugh now if his chest didn’t hurt so much, if it felt like he wasn’t being crushed beneath an invisible current. You’d never get it in this lifetime, not really, unless you count 200 years from now with someone else. The very idea pushes him beneath that dark current, water filling up his lungs until he chokes on a sob.

  If only things were different. If only he told you he loved you sooner, you’d have more time. If only his mom didn’t die, or his father never dragged him on hunts, or he kept a better watch of Sam so he’d never have gotten taken in the first place. If only his dad didn’t go missing, or he never asked you for help. And worse of all, if only he’d never met you at all, then he wouldn’t have this suffocating tightness swallowing him whole, and you’d be safe, though he’d never know it. But he doesn’t want that—wouldn’t want that even in a hypothetical. Maybe he should’ve kept pushing you away all these years, kept pushing down the feeling that would float to the surface and scatter through his body at the mere sight of you; he’d love you from afar, and you’d be safe. 

  He stands abruptly from the chair at your bedside, pacing around your room. 200 years. Two hundred. 

He rubs his hands roughly down his face, agony burning in his veins. This is a different pain from losing his Mom, or when his Dad died, or even for the minutes he thought he lost Sam for good; this feels like half his heart—half of his very being has been ripped away. 

  He raises his arm in a great big arch, about to swing it across every knick-knack on your dresser, push it all to the floor, hear it all crash down in a sound he’d understand, but before his hand can come close to making contact, he freezes, eyes locked on a framed photograph of you and him.

  He’s wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt, acoustic guitar in his hands, mid-strum, smiling faintly. You're sitting right next to him, knees pressed to his, hands crossed together in your lap nervously, leaning towards him, smiling wildly. In the photo, he’s too focused on where his fingers are on the frets to notice the way you’re looking at him, eyes soft and filled with a longing he now recognizes.

  It was the first night you moved into your dorm. He was there that day to help you move your stuff in; he volunteered even though he knew your brother would be there to help. He didn’t mind it, especially not when he got confused as your boyfriend twice. But that day passed, and that night, you texted him, admitting you were kind of scared to be there in a new place, not having really known your roommate. He had never been more glad to have lingered in town, getting a motel there instead of driving off to the next state. He answered your texts, of course, but he didn’t tell you he was coming.

  He surprised you by knocking at your window, something that would later become a habit every time he visited you at college. You let him in with wide eyes and hushed whispers that fell into laughter. He stole your guitar off the wall, threw your sweater, shoes, and camera at you, and then swept you out of there. 

  He drove some distance away from the campus, parking in a nice field. You sat in the grass together, just talking as he absentmindedly strummed your guitar, adding his own bits of conversation in now and then. This wasn’t uncommon either; sometimes you’d just do this: talk about everything and nothing, sometimes with him stealing your guitar. He didn’t and couldn’t have one of his own, so he toyed with yours. You never minded, or said a thing about it. 

  That night, for the first time (but not the last), he convinced you to sing while he played, settling on “Going to California.” He set your camera up to record it, said you could look back at it any time you got scared or anxious at college again, though really it was just a convenient excuse to hear you. You were so nervous, falling into giggles at the start, him unconsciously joining in. Eventually, with all the laughter out, you focused enough to start and get through the song, matching his speed, smiling when he joined in in harmony. You must’ve gone back to the video, paused it at this moment to keep it as a photo. 

  His anger gets tucked away, retreating from his fists so he can pick up the picture frame gently. You must’ve kept the video. You kept this this whole time, sitting on your dresser. He’s never noticed it before. He clutches the photo, teeth clenching tightly together. How could he ever accept 200 years? How would he ever move on? He wouldn’t. 

  Photo still in hand, he shuffles back to his seat, slumping into it. 

  “I miss you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I can’t…I can’t do this anymore.”

********

  The Impala’s engine revs loudly, Dean’s foot pressing the pedal all the way down, whipping through long winding roads. He skids to a rough stop, tires kicking up dirt in a plume of smoke.

  He doesn’t allow himself time to hesitate. He kills the engine, goes to the trunk, opens the little box he stole to throw in small bones, a jar of graveyard dirt, both he also stole from your workroom, and one of his many fake IDs. He grabs his shovel, carrying it all to the center of the crossroads, sweat beading down the back of his neck before he even starts digging. 

  He tosses the box into the small hole he’s made, lazily covering it back up. You’ll be mad with him if you ever found out; you’d be so mad. But he can take you being angry at him; at least you’d be around to be angry at all. 

  The seconds tick by like minutes, his skin flaming up in insistent clawing. He couldn’t regret this. He wouldn’t. 

  “Oh, come on already. Show your face, you bitch!” He roars into the empty night sky, chest heaving rapidly. 

 “Easy sugar, you’ll wake the neighbors,” she purrs. He whips around to face the demon, her eyes flashing a dark red. She wears a little black dress, dark hair framing her pretty face. “Dean, it is so, so good to see you.”

  She inhales sharply, settling into a wicked smile. “I mean it. Look at you. Gone and got your family killed, and now your little girlfriend is…comatose. It’s too sweet. Excuse me, you’re gonna have to give me a moment.”

  She steps closer to him, real close, barely a breath away.

  “Sometimes you gotta stop and smell the roses,” she teases, nimble fingers reaching up to brush his cheek. “I like the beard.”

  He grips her wrist, pulling her hand away. 

  “I should send you straight back to hell,” he spits, holding her wrist hard enough to hurt. She only smiles bigger. 

  “Oh, you should,” she nods, toying with him. “But you won’t. And I know why.”

  “Oh yeah?” he challenges, releasing her hand with a rough toss. 

  “Yeah, following in Daddy’s footsteps. You wanna make a deal,” she purrs. “Wake your girlfriend up from her deep slumber, and, let me guess, you’re offering up your own soul?”

  “There are a hundred other demons who’d love to get their hands on it, and it’s all yours,” he answers. It’s an offering on a silver platter, everything in exchange for his everything. “All you gotta do is wake her up, and give me ten years—ten years, and then you come for me.”

  “You must be joking,” the demon laughs. 

  “That’s the same deal you give everybody else,” he pushes. 

  “You’re not everybody else.” She leans in, lips by his ears, whispering smoothly, “Why would I want to give you anything? Keep your gutter soul. It’s too tarnished, anyway.”

  Dean nods, looking off to the side, working his tongue over his teeth. “Nine years,” he offers. 

  “No.”

  “Eight.”

  She laughs loudly. “You keep going, I’ll keep saying no.”

  “Okay, five years. Five years, and my bill comes due,” he gambles, grasping for straws. “That’s my last offer—five years or no deal.” 

  She leans in, lips brushing his. He flinches back, skin burning. “Then no deal,” she mutters.

  “Fine,” he spits. 

  “Fine,” she replies, walking away. “I’ll say hi for you when she wakes up in a couple hundred years.”

  Fuck.

  He flinches.

  “Wait.”

  “It’s a fire sale, and everything must go,” she teases, turning back around. 

  “What do I have to do?” He begs, struggling to catch his breath.

  “First of all, quit groveling. Needy guys are such a turnoff.” She sighs, eyes flickering over his frame. “Look…Look, I shouldn’t be doing this. I could get in a lot of trouble. It’s easier for all of us without her around. But what can I say? I got a blind spot for you, Dean. You’re like a…puppy. You’re just too fun to play with. I see why she likes you.”

  She sighs again, eyebrow quirking. “I’ll do it.”

  “You’ll bring her back?” He says a little too quickly. 

  “I will, and Sam will stay right as rain,” she agrees. “And because I’m such a saint, I’ll give you one year, and one year only. But here’s the thing: if you try and welch or weasel your way out, then the deal is off. She goes back to sleep. So…it’s a better deal than your dad ever got. What do you say?”

  “Deal,” he mutters.

  “Perfect,” she smiles. She grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him in until her lips crash against his, sealing the deal. 

  He pushes away, stumbling back, every nerve in his body burning and screaming because those lips were not yours. 

  The demon doesn’t seem offended; if anything, she smiles wider. 

  “She’ll wake up in an hour. Gives you time to clean up. Aren’t I nice?”

  He sped the whole way home, something akin to hope bubbling in his heart. Perhaps he should’ve felt regret too, but he couldn’t, not now. 

  Luckily, everyone’s asleep when he returns, bursting through the front door. He takes the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping halfway up. He skids to a stop outside your door. You're still asleep. Just like the demon said. 

  Okay. Okay. This was manageable, he tells himself. 

  He showers, shaves his stupid beard, returns your photograph to your dresser, and sits at your bedside for what should be the last time.

  His knee bounces rapidly, elbows pressed to his thighs, leaning forward, waiting for you.

  The heart-shaped alarm clock at your nightstand ticks forward, striking 4 am. 

  Your fingers twitch. His eyes widen, leaning even closer. 

  Your eyelids flutter, bedroom a bleary blur, consciousness slowly returning. 

  “Hey, hey,” he whispers, heartbeat spiking. He transfers himself to sit at the edge of your bed.

  “Dean?” You mumble, eyebrows furrowing, as you push yourself to sit up a little. 

  “Yeah, yeah,” he nods, eyes flickering all over your face. “It’s me, sweetheart, it’s me.”

  He cups your face, every ugly, dark spot in his heart igniting to life, the storm in his mind breaking away. You’re beautiful, you’re so goddamn beautiful he can’t breathe. 

  He can’t help himself; he peppers your face in kisses. Your cheeks, your forehead, over your nose, your chin, your jaw, above your eyes, beside them, over the eyelids themselves. He can’t stop, even when you break into a fit of easy laughter, clinging to his wrists but not pushing him away. 

  “Dean, what’s gotten into you?” you laugh, cheeks warm. 

  He pauses.

  You don’t know. 

  He presses your palm flat against his chest, making you feel the rapid, frantic thumps of his heart. 

  “Dean?” you mumble.

  “What do you remember?” he asks gruffly, thumb brushing back and forth against your hand. 

  “Well…Sam, and I—I brought him back somehow. I passed out, and I had the strangest dream…” Your eyes wander past him, sweeping over your room. Your eyebrows furrow. “You brought me home?”

  He shakes his head, a knot lodged in his throat. You really don’t know. 

  “No, baby, that was all you,” he explains, brushing your hair back, unable to stop touching you. “You did pass out, you, um, before you hit the ground you disappeared. ‘Found you here like this.”

  You laugh nervously, searching his eyes for a sign that he’s joking. But you find none, only desperation and dark bags beneath his eyes. Your hand wanders away from his wrist, thumb gently dragging beneath his eye. He leans into your touch even though he can see the worry written all over your face, in your little frown. A question is on the tip of your tongue when your eyes flicker down to the lace sleeves hanging off your arms. 

  “That’s so strange,” you mumble, more to yourself than anything, taking in the rest of your dress. “I was wearing this in my dream.”

  “We found you in it,” he explains, hand dragging from your face, down your neck, over your shoulder, feeling the lace beneath his fingers. They trail down your waist, then to your hips where he grips the fabric, bunching a great handful in his fist. “It’s pretty,” he says, looking from his hand of fabric back to you. “You're pretty.”

  He knows he sounds like a lovesick idiot, but he doesn’t care. 

  “Dean,” you laugh softly. It really is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m perfect,” he admits. “Can’t compliment my girl now?”

  “You're acting like you haven’t seen me in years,” you answer with a smile and a little tilt of your head. If only you knew. “How long was I sleeping, hm? 8 hours?”

  You really don’t know.

  “Longer,” he shakes his head. He nudges you closer, throwing your legs into his lap so he can press forward, your arm wrapping around his shoulders, nose nudging yours. 

  “Ten?” You ask, pressing a little kiss to the corner of his mouth. His eyes flutter shut, fingers digging into the fabric at your hip. He doesn’t want to tell you, even though you deserve the truth. 

  He shakes his head again, swallowing roughly. 

  “Twelve?”

  “A month,” he whispers.

  “What?” you laugh, pulling back enough to scan his face. He won’t meet your eyes, stares at your shoulder instead. “Are you…You’re not joking, are you?”

  “I wish I was,” he mumbles, eyes flicking to your face in time to catch the smile slip away. You cup his face between your hands; he leans in, forehead resting against yours. “‘Missed you so much.”

  “I don’t understand,” you mumble. How would a month even be possible, and surely you’d know.

  “I don’t really, either,” he admits. “‘Just know it was ‘cause of what you did for Sam. Don’t care anymore than that, you’re awake now.”

  “A month?” you repeat just above a whisper. “I missed a whole month?”

  If only you knew it would be a lot longer if he hadn’t intervened. It’s here now, between your touch and your worry that confirms he did the right thing. If you’re this upset over a month, then 200 years would destroy you. 

  “Didn’t miss much,” he answers, attempting to be comforting. “Fixed your car up for you.”

  “There wasn’t anything wrong with it,” you laugh, kissing the corner of his mouth again, and then his cheek right over one of his many freckles. He wouldn’t lie about a month, and he’s clearly acting like it’s been that long with being extra touchy and the bags beneath his eyes. 

  “Needed an oil change, tires were a little flat,” he lists out. “And—“

  “Dean,” you cut him off. Sure, this is a tough pill to swallow, missing an entire month. You missed Sam’s whole birthday month, let alone his actual birthday. But now you missed the whole thing, and any number of things that Dean might not be telling you. So, yes, this is an impossible idea to wrap your mind around, but it’s clear: Dean needs you, needs comfort more than you do. He looks pale and exhausted. You couldn’t imagine what he’d been putting himself through while you were…gone. Actually, you could, because you knew he didn’t cope well after his Dad died. 

  “Kiss me,” you add, begging softly. It’s more for him than it is for you, not that you don’t want him every minute of every day. 

  It throws him off his rambling, blinking hard before his mind catches up.

  “Happily,” he murmurs before finally, finally closing the remaining distance. 

  He tries to be soft and slow, but he’s missed you so much that it winds up being desperate and thorough, open-mouthed kisses. He squeezes your hip; you hum, letting him lick into your mouth. He groans, your very being filling his senses until he’s happily drowning in it. It doesn’t erase this past month, but it gets damn near close, filling the space where you were meant to be. It does, however, erase that demon, the guilt rising to the surface. He pushes it down, kissing you harder. 

  Reluctantly, he pulls away, needing to fill his vision with only you. Your eyes flutter open, your lips a little red; he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, enthralled with the sight. This is all he’s wanted for the last month, only you. 

  “Gonna show you how much I missed you, later,” he murmurs. “Want you to eat and drink somethin’ first.”

  “Not hungry,” you shake your head, hand slipping down to his jaw.

  “Too bad. ‘Haven’t eaten anything in a month, haven’t even used the goddamn bathroom. So you’re eating, alright?” He orders, getting into his gruff leader voice that makes you smile. He acts so tough while he does the most caring things. 

  “Okay,” you give in, eyes falling to his lips. Then your eyes narrow, “Have you been eating?”

  “Yeah,” he answers. You give him a knowing look. “…A little,” he corrects. “Sam was on my ass about it.”

  “Good,” you nod. “Will you eat with me, then?”

  “I’ll do anything you want me to.”

********

  “Here, come sit your pretty ass down,” Dean teases, gesturing towards the kitchen counter. You give him a knowing look; he laughs, crowding in close enough to lift you onto the countertop even though you don’t need the help.

  You chew on your bottom lip as you watch him move around your kitchen with purpose, knowing exactly what cabinets to pull open to find the frying pan, a bowl, and a spatula. Every other second, he steals a glance at you, making sure you’re still there. 

  He seems different in a way you can’t quite place. What could’ve happened in a month? 

  A month. You roll it over in your mind, angling it each way like a kaleidoscope, trying to place it, make sense of it. Thirty days. 720 hours, give or take the exact time. You don’t just lose that, let alone sleep that. How could that much time pass without your knowledge—without you? And how did that affect your family? You can only tell so much or guess so much about Dean. He hadn’t slept, only ate a little, and busied himself with fixing your car. But what about inside his head? Was he okay? Really? Because right now he’s got pancake mix, milk, and eggs out like his life depends on it. And he’s set up shop right beside you, as distance would kill him. But you can’t read his mind. 

  “Let me help you,” You offer, nudging your knee against his hip. 

  He places his hand on your inner leg, thumb resting on your knee. 

  “What’d I say about your ass?” He asks, a stupid smirk playing on his lips as he cracks an egg with his free hand. 

  “That it was pretty,” You tease back, laughing softly. 

  “Mhm, that’s true,” he answers, giving your leg a little squeeze. “And that it’s gonna stay right there while I make you somethin’ to eat.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you mock.

  His eyebrow quirks, head tilting just so to throw you a playful glare. “How ‘bout you tell me about your dream?”

  “Mm, it was so strange,” you explain, finding his hand with both of yours, fingers brushing over his own. “I was in this flower field, and my Mom was there. It felt so real; she looked, sounded, felt real. You know, in a regular dream the sensations are muddled like a memory of the action or feeling rather than the real thing. But it wasn’t like that; it was like we were both really there. I thought we were, thought I was in an afterlife. She said I wasn’t dead, which I guess you can attest to, and she said it wasn’t a dream either. But now I’m not so sure.”

  He doesn’t pull his hand away as he finishes up the batter, mixing with his free hand, looking up to let you know he’s listening. All he’s wanted for the past month was to hear your voice. 

  “It kind of felt like she was trying to warn me about something. I mean, she was saying I’m this, like, all-powerful witch, more than I could ever conceive,” you tell him. “And, you know, she told me this story about, I guess, some great-aunt, way down the line. She said that woman did what I had done for Sam, but for her son.”

  He freezes, spine straightening, tensing. Do you know what he’s done, then? Have you figured it out?

  “She was explaining that I'm so…powerful, so easy to…react because my powers aren’t just my own; it’s everyone that’s come before me piled up or something. That’s why I’ve died and come back like nothing happened, and why I knew what to do for Sam without ever hearing the story before,” you continue, missing the way his shoulders deflate again. “I don’t really understand it, I mean it’s probably not even true, right? ‘Just my subconscious coming up with a good answer to comfort me.”

  Butter sizzles on the pan, yellow glob spreading out. 

  “It doesn’t even really make sense,” you shake your head. “Wouldn’t that insinuate that I’m them in some way? But I’m not, I’m me. See? Weird fricking dream.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a dream,” he murmurs, pouring some of the pale batter onto the sizzling pan. 

  “Really?” You ask, perking up. You didn't think he’d even entertain the idea. Why would he? “You think?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past you,” he half-shrugs. 

  “What?” You laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “‘Means there’s no one else like you,” he answers, green eyes leaving the pan to meet yours with the kind of certainty that makes your breath hitch. “‘Means you’re incredible.”

  He doesn’t know how you don’t see it. Maybe it’s because you refuse to be even a little self-centered. But he sees it: all the things you’re capable of. Sometimes he thinks he’s supposed to be scared of it, what you can do, but all he can feel is amazement. You’ve healed him countless times; you saved his goddamn little brother! How could he be scared of you? How could he think of you as anything but the most incredible person to walk this Earth?

  “Now you’re just sweet-talking me,” you tease, smiling in that big, warm, contagious way that makes his mind go all soft and dumb. 

  He flips the pancakes on the pan, the tops golden brown.

  “Trust me, this ain’t sweet talkin’, baby,” he drawls, lowering the heat and abandoning the spatula to step between your legs. “I mean it.”

  His big hands cup your face, silver ring chill against your warming cheek. He kisses you softly, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, pressing his body as close as your long and heavy dress would allow. 

  “‘Never told it to you enough,” he mumbles between kisses. “You’re so, so amazing. ‘Love you so much.”

  “I love you,” you breathe into his mouth, breathing life right into his soul. 

  He pulls away, slowly, pressing one last quick kiss to your perfect lips. Your eyes are lidded, giving him that little desperate look of yours that says you want him to kiss you again, again, and again. And he wants to, he really does, but he needs to make sure you’re okay, well taken care of. He moves to pull away, go back to the pancakes so that they don’t burn. But you cling to his shirt, the desperation in your eyes flickering away to worry, and not being able to deny you anything, he lingers.

  “Is it bad that I don’t want it to have been a dream?” You ask just above a whisper, searching his expression like his response matters most.

  “No,” he shakes his head, rubbing his thumb over the apple of your cheeks. “No, it’s not bad. You don’t want it to be a dream, then let it be real.”

  “You’re not worried?” You ask.

  He smiles; if only you understood how much worrying he’d already been doing with you gone. This was nothing. Yes, he was sure it wasn’t a dream, perhaps more sure than you because the detail about the story you were told wasn’t one you made up, but one he had proof existed. And, no, he doesn’t know what it was then, if not a dream, but it’s the least worrisome thing on his mind.

  He shakes his head. “It was your mom, nothin’ bad about that,” he admits. “‘You want me to make some tea?”    

  “Oh, yes, please,” you answer with a growing smile. He’s so cute and caring, and you’re not even sure he’s aware of it.

  “So polite,” he mumbles, thumb brushing over your lips, eyes dragging down your frame. 

  He pulls away slowly, moving across the kitchen to the cabinet where he knows you keep your kettle. He moves smoothly, muscles in his back flexing as he takes the kettle out, fills it with water, takes the pancakes off the pan, and pours more batter in. He’s good at this, likes the purpose, likes getting to take care of you. He doubles back for the kettle, placing it on the stove. You freeze, eyes widening. 

  You scramble off the counter quicker than he can ask what’s wrong, crouching down to look at yourself better in the reflection of the kettle. 

  “My hair!” You gasp, touching and moving through the white streak. White. Half an inch or an inch wide of white hair right there in the front on the left side of your head. White!

  “What the hell happened!” You shriek. Your reflection might be a bit warped in the kettle, but it certainly isn’t creating this illusion; it’s real. “I’m too young to have white hair!”

  He chuckles softly; you glare at him, and he drops his smile. 

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner!” You exclaim. 

  “I got used to it,” he shrugs, pulling you away from the stove. “‘Think it looks cool.”

  “Um, no, I look like an old person,” you remark. “And not in a fun way.”

  “You don’t look old,” he laughs, brushing your hair back, feeling the white strands beneath his fingers. It’s a physical reminder of what you did, the sacrifice you had made. “Kinda look like Rogue.”

  “Are you doing that being a nice boyfriend white lie thing?” You ask, searching his face for a sign of a lie. While you wouldn’t blame him for trying to spare your feelings, you also wanted genuine honesty about this. So much for trying to hide your difference; now you’d stick out like a sore thumb wherever you went. But you find no such sign of lying on his face, because his eyes are soft and filled to the brim with endearment. 

  He shakes his head. “You still look very, very pretty,” he assures, lips finding yours again as if to prove he means it. “Always so pretty, ‘n gorgeous.”

  “You're biased,” you say between kisses, letting him guide you backwards until your back hits the edge of the counter. 

  He tilts your head back, letting his tongue slip between your lips, tasting you like it’s the first and last time he will. 

  “Barely biased,” he corrects, mumbling against your lips, fingers curling into your hair. 

********

  You toy with the radio in the kitchen, turning the knobs to adjust the volume and toying with the station until you find one you like. The Velvet Underground plays smoothly from the device, humming soothing music into the room. 

  Dean carries two plates of pancakes and cutlery to the dining room table, a big smile on his face. You brush by him to double back for the drinks, carrying a cup of tea in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee in the other. 

  He takes his mug from you the moment you're at his side. He lifts the dark green mug to his lips, taking a sip while his eyes linger on you, crinkling at the edges. You mimic him, taking a sip of your tea with a shy smile and fond eyes meeting him over the rim of the cup. 

  This is what he gave up his future for, moments like this. You look so sweet, just perfect. If he had a camera on him, he’d capture the way you look right now, the way you’re looking at him; he’d keep it in his wallet, show you off to people, but mostly just keep it for himself. It was worth it, he decided. He’d give his soul up over and over again for a million moments like this one.

  He puts his mug down to pull out your chair; you laugh softly, cheeks warm as you put your cup down and tease him about being “such a gentleman.” He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but you catch the little smirk on his lips as he pushes a chair closer to yours.

  The pancakes are warm, a faint buttery smell mixing with the strong smell of roasted coffee. You pour some syrup over your pancakes, the sweet smell wafting into your nose, before Dean steals the bottle, practically drowning his own stack in the sticky liquid. 

  You stare out the window, at the tall trees and the hummingbird zipping past, as you take your first bite, humming around the fluffy goodness, shoulders melting like the pancakes on your tongue. In truth, you haven’t felt this relaxed and peaceful in a long time. 

  “Forgot you're such a good cook,” you mumble.

  He should probably be mildly offended and make a sarcastic joke about it, but his chest is too busy swelling with pride to tease you. 

  “Just don’t get the opportunity to show off,” he reasons, nudging your arm before shoving a big forkful of pancakes into his mouth. 

  “Can I ban you from diners so you’ll have to make more pancakes?” You ask.

  He chuckles, shaking his head at the absurdity. “Don’t gotta ban me for that.”

  “Just making sure,” you tease, giving him your best serious look before falling into easy laughter. You’re giggly this morning, and he’s eating it up. 

  “Mhm,” he hums, draping his arm across the back of your chair, fingers toying with your hair, a sappy smile on his lips. 

  A loud meow breaks you from your trance of peacefulness. You manage to turn in the direction of the sound just quick enough to see a black ball of fur round the corner quickly, nails skittering against the floor for purchase. She launches herself into your lap, standing up on your legs, her soft little arms resting on your shoulder. You push your chair back so you can hold her properly, placing kiss after kiss to her soft little head and cheek. 

  “Oh, my kitty!” You coo. In turn, she presses her head against your jaw, rubbing against you firmly. 

  Her grey eyes glow brightly, her little body of fur vanishing to that of a grown woman. Your chair nearly tilts back at the added weight of the woman sitting across your lap and the mixed laughter between you two. 

  “That never stops being weird,” Dean mumbles to himself.

  “How are you here?!” Adeline shouts, hands clutching your shoulders. Her grey eyes are wide, a wild smile on her face, both a rarity. She’s still in her pajamas, black and white plaid pants and a black t-shirt with a large skull adorning a cute bow. 

  “What are you talking about?” You ask, searching her face. There are dark bags beneath her eyes too. You guess no one has been sleeping well. “I thought I was always here?”

  A range of emotion passes over her face: confusion, surprise, more confusion, and then acceptance. You misunderstood her question for one, and secondly, you clearly knew nothing. And knowing nothing meant nothing good. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Maybe you were just different from Margaret, or maybe one of her futile attempts at waking you had finally caught up. 

  “It doesn’t matter,” she shakes her head, shaking your shoulders with excitement. “You’re here!”

  “I am!” You nod just as enthusiastically, though clear confusion is written across your eyes. “Did I miss a lot?”

  “Just pathetic moping,” she answers, hands moving to your face to turn it side to side as if to look for something.

  “It wasn’t pathetic,” Dean corrects.

  “Yeah, sure,” she brushes him off. 

  “Well, at least your bickering is still the same,” you tease.

  She scoffs. “Don’t start that, or I’ll remember why I should be angry with you.”

  “Can I have a one-day grace period before my lecture?” You ask, using your most convincing voice and smile.

  “Fine,” she agrees.

  “Great,” Dean adds dryly. “Can you get off my girlfriend now?”

  Adeline laughs, but for once without a fight listens to what Dean says. She stands from your lap, collapsing into the seat across from you, stealing a forkful of food from your plate. 

  “Why didn’t you come wake me?” She asks through a mouthful of food, though it’s unclear who the question is for.

  In truth, Dean hadn’t even thought about it. You were awake, you were back, he had you again; what else mattered? 

  “I didn’t really think anyone else was here. I only assumed Sam would be,” you answer, saving him from coming up with a response. “I mean, I still don’t really know what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, welcome to the great mystery,” Adeline remarks, slumping back in her chair. “We never got anywhere either.”

  “Oh…” You mumble. “At least we’re confused together…?”

  “What’s going o—“ Sam pauses in the archway. You hadn’t heard him come downstairs. His hands fall away from rubbing his tired eyes, face paling at the sight of you.

  You shoot up from your chair, practically launching yourself at him in a tight hug. You saw him rise before it all went dark; you knew you completed the job, and yet seeing him in the flesh is different than knowing. He hugs you back, big arms just barely hesitating. You don’t notice it, nor the way he looks over your head at his brother, giving him wide eyes. He drops the look as you pull away enough to study him, eyes jumping around his face, examining his body as if a hidden injury may still be there. 

  “I should be thanking you,” he mumbles, a mix of feelings sloshing around in his chest. He knows something is wrong because you shouldn’t be awake, and yet he’s glad you’re awake because you’re his best friend, you saved his life, and only you would be able to understand even a fraction of what he experienced. Even so, he’s still not sure he should be alive. Does he thank you for sacrificing yourself for him? Or does he resent what it may have cost and caused? He can’t reconcile these thoughts, not now, so he settles for the easy one: his best friend is back. 

  Your eyes settle on his, face scrunching into a look of pure confusion, like the mere idea of him being thankful for you is blasphemy. “Don’t thank me, that’s stupid,” you answer simply. “Actually, you can thank me by not dying again, that would be great.”

  It’s like he expected. What they all expected, really. Of course you wouldn’t see what you’ve done as an obligation or a thing worthy of glory; you saved him because he was family and that’s what you do for people you love. It’s as simple as saying the sky is blue. 

  “I’ll…I can do that,” he smiles boyishly, chuckling softly.

  “Oh!” You perk up. “I owe you your birthday gift! It’s in my bag, wherever that is.”

  He laughs again, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.” 

  His birthday hadn’t been on his mind at all; it passed in a blight of travel and pain, and much more important things to deal with. He turned 24, and it hadn’t mattered, not compared to what the yellow-eyed demon had told him, or the people that died, or dying himself, and least of all being resurrected by you. 

  “Later then,” You decide for him. “But don’t let me forget!”

  “Okay,” he agrees, eyes wandering back to his brother. Dean’s eyes are on you, soft and admiring, the warmth he feels in his heart spilling over all around him.

  “Um, Dean,” he calls, breaking him from his trance. “Can I talk to you real quick?”

  Dean’s spine straightens, his satisfied expression dropping away. Sam knows, he realizes quickly, or he’s close enough to knowing. But he can play this off. He can lie, he’s good at lying. 

  “Sure,” he answers casually. 

  All the while, you study Sam with furrowed brows, trying to understand why he’s acting weird, because no one singles someone out and asks to talk to them privately without something weird going on. 

  “Are there any more pancakes?” Adeline asks suddenly, temporarily stealing your attention away.  

  “Yeah, Dean made a lot,” you answer, gesturing towards the kitchen. Luckily, you follow after her, but not before throwing the Winchesters a worried look. 

  They disappear out of the dining room, trailing down the hallway until Sam was sure no one else would hear. 

  “What the hell happened?” Sam whisper-shouts between gritted teeth. 

  “I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” Dean lies, shrugging lazily. 

  “Really?” He deadpans. 

  Alright, maybe playing stupid wasn't the best option. 

  “‘Cause unless two-hundred years passed without me knowing, she should still be asleep!” Sam exclaims, hand extended out to gesture to you through the walls. Point made. 

  “Well, we got lucky,” Dean figures. “She’s different from Margaret, didn’t need all that time.”

  Sam scoffs, face scrunched as he studies his brother, seeing through his tall tales. They weren’t the lucky type; you were never going to wake up, he had accepted that even if Dean couldn’t.

  Wait. 

  His face pales, eyes widening. “What did you do?” Sam asks carefully, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you…”

  And just like that, his perfect morning comes crumbling down. 

  “What did you want me to do?” Dean presses, giving in to the truth, teeth gritting together. “There was no other choice!”

  “Yes, there was!” Sam snaps. 

  “What? Let her sleep for hundreds of years?!” Dean exclaims, gruff and loud. “Never get to have a life with her?!”

  “This isn’t any better!” Sam shouts. Panic has twisted its way around his lungs like barbed wire, every breath a sharp reminder of the cost. This was his fault, wasn’t it? If he didn’t die, you wouldn’t have sacrificed your future for his, and so Dean wouldn’t have given his soul up. He runs his hands through his hair, stress keeping them there.

  “Oh my god, Dean,” he half yells, half gapes. “How long do you have?”

  Dean sighs, looking off to the side like the wallpaper could save him. His jaw works in tight circles. There’s no easy way to say this. Hell, he doesn’t want to say it at all. Not too long ago, he was poking fun at the idiots who sold their souls, but they did it for money or fame; he did it for his girl, that had to matter, didn’t it? Even so, if it makes him an idiot, then so be it. 

  “One year…” He finally answers, daring to look his brother in the eyes. 

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Sam mutters, eyes prickling with hot tears. “What's wrong with you? Does she know?”

  “No, and she won’t,” Dean replies firmly. He didn’t want Sam to know, but that was always going to have an expiration date; he couldn’t have hidden the obvious forever. “You can’t tell her.”

  “No. No, she deserves to know,” Sam utters, shaking his head, swallowing back those tears. “God, Dean, how could you be so selfish?”

  “Selfish?” He echoes, scoffing a mocking laugh. “I did this for her!”

  “No, you did it for yourself!” Sam snaps. “You think she’s gonna be happy when she finds out you gave up your goddamn soul for her?”

  “That’s why she can’t know,” he utters. 

  Sam shakes his head. “She’ll figure it out eventually, and it’ll be worse than just telling her. God, Dean, I can’t believe you! After everything we went through with Dad?!”

  “I had to!” Dean roars, voice bouncing off the walls, no doubt reaching you in the next room. 

  “No. No, you didn’t have to do anything,” Sam corrects. “You threw your life away, just like that…If you don’t tell her by the end of the night, Dean, I will.”

  “Don’t,” he pleads, eyes wide. 

  “It’s for your own good,” Sam decides, swallowing roughly. “Both of yours.”

  The train and hem of your dress drag against the grass; your hair flows behind you, catching the golden rays of the afternoon sun. You lead the way down the path to the back edge of your property where a large lake sits. He follows right behind you, carrying a mixed container of bird feed and dried oats for you. 

  You stop a couple of feet away from the lake's edge, overlooking the expanse of the glittering water. Dragonflies hover from rock to rock, and brown ducks float across the cool water. The sun pours through the branches of the trees, reflecting the treeline into a blur across the rippling water. 

  He hands you your collection of food for them, watching the small smile that graces your face as you throw great handfuls into the water. The ducks quack loudly, zooming over to the source of food. The sight only makes you smile wider. 

  Was what he did selfish? He gave his soul up for you, so that you wouldn’t be forced to sleep your life away in a coma. But it had also been for him, because he didn’t want to live without you—he couldn’t. He’d never make it. So, perhaps, in a way he was selfishly unselfish. He could live with that sentiment. Look at you, glowing and content just being in nature, feeding the ducks, and watching the swans round the river bend. You were meant for life; you enjoy the simple things, you see the good in people, and you see the beauty in nature—in everything. 

  “Did you know swans mate for life?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at him. “And if their mate dies, they’ll experience grief in a similar manner as we do. Sometimes, it leads to their own deaths, too. They don’t want to live without each other. It’s pretty macabre, but I think it’s also kind of pretty.”

    Would you understand his choice? Would you see that, like a swan, he couldn’t live without you? Could you forgive him in time? 

You turn back to face the lake, ears perked up to not miss his response. Maybe he’d poke fun at the randomness of your fun fact, or say he didn't know it. He does neither. 

  “We went to your grandparents' house to figure out how to wake you,” Dean reveals, the words spilling from his lips before he could think better of it. You deserve the truth, and from him no less. If he doesn’t do it now, he’ll wait forever, and time isn’t on his side. “We didn’t find an answer, just that someone had done the same thing before, a lady named Margaret. She did it for her son.”

  You freeze, spine straightening, shoulders locking up. You face him slowly, a sickly expression on your face. 

  “Like in my dream,” you mumble. 

  “Yeah, except you didn’t make it up,” he exhales, nodding, his heart twisting uncomfortably in his chest. He’s hardly said a thing, and yet you already look like a cold bucket of water has been dropped on you. “She woke up 200 years later…I-I couldn’t accept that. We tried everything.”

  Your lips twitch, laughing quietly, breathless, and without humor. “Wh-What do you mean? What are you say…”

  Your expression drops, face paling, eyes somehow both widening and sinking in simultaneously. The container slips from your grasp, spilling birdseed across the grass; you don’t blink or frown at the accident, only stare at him like if you look away you’ll stop understanding him. 

  “I don’t understand…” You mutter, shaking your head. Except, you do. Your stomach twists and sinks violently in your gut, bile curdling beneath the weight in your chest.  “Dean, what did you do?”

  Still, you know.

  You know.  

  Dean wouldn’t mess with you like this. Two hundred years didn’t just pass by itself, and everyone was acting weird this morning, especially towards Dean. He did something to change your fate, and those kinds of things don’t come without a price. 

  “You can be mad at me all you want, it’s alright,” he answers instead, hands raised carefully in surrender, like you're some scared animal ready to split on a second's notice. “You can hate me all you want.”

  It's all the confirmation you don’t want. Your bottom lip wobbles harshly, chest rising and falling unevenly, glossy tears coating your eyes, eyebrows pinched together in a silent plea—it’s the same look you gave him all those years ago, like your world was crumbling around you. And it’s a punch to the gut for him, taking the air straight from his lungs. He hates being the reason why you cried, why you were upset, but this is a whole new level. He never meant to make his girl cry. 

  “No,” you shake your head, taking a step back, words muddled and shaky. “That’s…that’s not fair. Tell me you're lying, please.”

  “Not fair” might as well be the story of his life. He didn’t get to have “fair,” as much as he didn’t get to have luck or safety. Those kinds of things just aren’t in the cards for the Winchesters. This, of course, could be no different. 

  “I’m not,” he confirms, subconsciously stepping closer to you, wanting to pull you into his embrace. “I sold my soul for you, Y/N. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  You meet him more than halfway, jabbing your finger into his chest as tears spill down your cheeks.

“You don’t pick me over you, ever!” You shout over the tightness in your throat. 

  He stays rooted in place, not flinching or pushing back. He can take your anger. He’d rather see the fire in your eyes than the tears he caused. Anger is familiar to him; he wears it just beneath his skin. He’ll sit here and let you take it out on him if it’ll make you feel better. Except, you won’t, and he knows that just as well. You’d never hurt him, never lay a hand on him, and never say something cruel and twisting just to make him feel small. He’s gotten that all before, but never from you, and this time would be no different. He almost wishes it would, at least then he’d know what to do. 

  “I pick you every day,” he bites softly, meeting your hurt gaze with a hardened expression. “You think I wake up for me?”

  “Don’t,” you mumble, hand slipping away.

  He catches your wrist, pressing your hand flat to his chest, his heart beating frantically beneath your palm. “You feel that? That’s for you, baby. Only you. I couldn’t live without you. Couldn’t do it without you. I’ve been on borrowed time for a while now, we both know that. Might as well give you what you already own.”

  “I don’t want it,” You shake your head rapidly, hair brushing your face, strands sticking to your tear-stained cheeks, trying to shrink away from him. “I want you. I need you. Didn’t you think about that? What am I supposed to do without you?”

  He says nothing, trying to steel himself against your hurt, clenching his jaw tightly. 

  “H-How long do you have?” You ask.

  “One year.”

  Your heart drops out of your body, a broken whimper escaping through your lips.

  365 days. Every minute boils down into seconds. 8,750 hours. 31,536,000 seconds. 

  31,535,999…

  31,535,998…

  31,535,997…

  Your knees give way as a sob racks through your whole body, uncontrollable tears pouring from your eyes. He catches you before you can fall, hands firmly gripping your forearms, keeping you up, holding you to him. For a brief moment, you let him touch you, let him hold you and bring you both carefully down into the grass, grasping him tightly in fear of the inevitable. 

  How could he do this? To You? To Sam? For You? That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This couldn’t be what your mom was warning you about. You finally got what you wanted; everyone was safe, the job was almost done, it was supposed to end well. 

  So, just as quickly, the anger returns, boiling up beneath the grief, trying desperately to cling to something to claw its way out. 

  “That’s not fair!” You cry, pushing at his chest. “That’s not fair, you promised! You said you wanted a life with me!”

  The knife in his heart twists violently, tears glossing over his eyes. He tries to cup your face between his palms despite the way you keep pushing at him. His beautiful girl. In another life he’d be able to give you whatever you wanted. In another life he’d keep his promise: his promise to not leave you, and his promise to marry you someday. But in this life, he doesn’t get the right, and that’s a burden far bigger than the death sentence hanging on his shoulders. 

  “I do,” he urges, gruffly. ‘Don’t ever doubt that,’ he wants to add, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hurts you both more by saying, “But it was never gonna be in the cards for us.”

  “That’s not fair,” you repeat yourself, shaking your head. What else is there to say? 

  He holds your face in his hands, trying to make you see him, and understand this was for the better. “Me for you. You for Sam. One year. Two-hundred years. It wouldn’t have mattered,” he continues.

  There was never going to be a happy ending. Someone had to get hurt; that’s just how the game works—it’s how the story goes. 

  “It does matter!” You argue, fruitlessly, the anger in you melting beneath his palms, pulling away from the shore to wash itself away with a tide of grief. “That’s your problem, Dean. You think you don’t matter, that no one will miss you! And you’re wrong. It does matter! It matters!”

  “So, I just let you sleep for ‘couple hundred years, that’s it?” He challenges, squeezing your cheeks, thumbs pointlessly wiping away the tears that keep coming. “You’d wake up alone, and everyone you knew and loved would be gone. Your brother, Adeline, Sam, me? You’d hate it. You’d be so alone, a-and so scared and confused.”

  He’s right. And you hate it. You wouldn’t want to wake up years later with everything you knew changed and everyone gone, but you don’t want this either. Someone was always going to be hurt by this; it was just a matter of you or him. You with the deal he’s made, and him if he never went through with it at all. But you’d handle it better, he thinks, because you have a future, you see things in a way he can’t, you could get out of the hunting life, you can find someone else to love and take care of you. Him? It wasn’t going to happen. 

  “I’m going to be so alone without you,” you argue.

  “That’s not true,” he shakes his head, his throat burning. “You’ll have—“

  “You don’t get it,” you cut him off through your sobs. “You don’t get it! I won’t have you! I want you!” You poke his chest harshly with every desperate plea. “I’ve only ever wanted you!”

  His hands drop to your wrists again, seizing your flailing anger. Staring at your tear-stained face, he can see his past mapped out before him: the day he met you, the laughter shared over milkshakes and fries, comforting you after your first break up, the first time you silently held him after a bad argument with his Dad, every holiday celebrated together, and all the times he went out of his way to visit you. Every happy, fearful, sad moment together led to this, hadn’t it? And so he sees every mistake he made, remembers all the words he should’ve said, but mostly he sees you and all the love you’ve offered him for as long as you’ve known him. 

  “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. 

  “You’re not,” you accuse in the midst of your anger, lips pulled into a quivering pout. 

  “I’m sorry for making you cry,” he continues anyway. 

  “Stop.”

  “I’m sorry for giving you hope.”

  “Dean—“

  “But I will not apologize for the deal. I won’t,” he drawls. “There was never going to be enough time for me to love you the way you deserve.”

  “Don’t say that,” you cry, hiccuping over your words, every new tear adding to the agonizing pain behind his ribs.

  “It’s true,” he says, releasing your wrists, voice breaking. 

  You reach for his face, wiping at his tears with a gentle touch, one he doesn’t deserve as he sits here hurting you over and over again. 

  “I wanted it to be you,” You mumble. 

  “I know,” he sighs, leaning into your touch. “I’m sorry.”

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ you want to beg him, but there’s no use, he gave up that choice. He couldn’t stay even if he wanted to. All you have is this moment, holding each other in desperation as if the act alone can change fate. He did this for you. An act of love. 

  “W-we have time,” you decide, scrambling for scraps of hope. Grief can wait, you can shove it down into the cavity of your chest and morph it into something useful. You swallow roughly, trying to hold off the broken sobs. “We can figure this out.”

  Time. The invisible clock seems to follow him around everywhere now, counting down the minutes till the next shoe drops. 

  “We can’t,” he admits, turning his head to press his lips to your palm. 

  “No, we’ll find a loophole. We’ll reverse the deal,” you argue, harshly wiping away your tears with the back of your hands before he knocks your hands away to do it for you with a softer touch. 

  His girl, sweet as ever, trying to do another thing for him. 

  “I can’t,” he repeats, thumbs pressed just beneath your eyes. “If I try to back out, you’ll go back to sleep.”

  “Good thing I’m not you,” You correct, forcing yourself to your feet on shaky legs beneath a heavy dress. “So, I’m going to find that demon, and make her wish she never made that deal.”

  You step away from him, grabbing handfuls of your dress for a swift pace. He shoots up to his feet, trailing after you. 

  “Wait!” He calls after you. He lunges forward, grabbing your arm, pulling and spinning you to face him, your chest brushing his, his other hand coming to rest on your hip to keep you from running. “You’re not listenin’ to me.”

  “I won’t accept this,” you declare, breathing quick and hard. “I won’t let you do this for me, Dean.”

  “It’s done, ‘no changin’ it now,” he shakes his head, tightening his hold on you. “Don’t want to.”

   “No. No, I’ll find another way!” You press, determination fizzling out with a new wave of tears hanging on your waterline. 

  “Y/N, you have to let this one go.” He cups your face, holding you firmly, forcing you to hear him.

  “I can’t. I won’t,” you spit.

  “You have to,” he repeats. Like it’s that simple.

  “I don’t want to!” You yell, trying to shove his hand away, but he stays there anyway, unmoving. 

  “I love you,” he says, green eyes burning into yours, eyes red and sincere. 

  “Don’t,” you warn, trying to stay angry with him, trying to find it in yourself to hate him. But you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like this, not when he’s saying things like that, not when he sacrificed himself for you, not when you would’ve done the same. “Don’t say that.”

  “You know it’s true,” he challenges, stepping closer, his breath fanning over your face, holding your face in both hands now. “You know it’s true. I love you, ‘can’t change that.”

  You lose your fight, standing there breathing hard as everything you could’ve had gets ripped away in front of you, silently and unchangeable. It weighs you down. So, you don’t push away when he presses his forehead to yours, his tears dripping onto your cheeks to join your own. You were never going to have it all. 

  “Dean,” you cry just above a whisper. “Please, I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I know,” he swallows roughly, voice trailing off. “I know.”

  Then his lips are on yours, tasting salt and every unspoken word. It’s all the pain and love created between two souls finally getting to intertwine again. The kiss quickly turns messy and rough, desperation seeping from each other's skin, trying to make up for every lost moment and every moment that will be lost in a year's time.

  Quickly, you find yourself lying in the grass, him over you, hands pushing the hem of your dress up so he can press in closer, thighs settling around his hips, as you kiss and kiss until you're breathless. You become as intertwined and connected as two people can become, silently pleading for the universe to see what you have and grant you kindness. Could you make up for a lifetime just like this? Could it ever be enough?

(Next Chapter)

A/N: I think this may be not great but idk because i’ve spent too much time with it. So i hope it’s okay. Idk if im fully happy with it, but it was already being really long and I unfortunately can’t project the images in my mind exactly onto the screen.

  “Don’t forget the extra onions this time, okay?” Dean says, forking over a couple of bills from his wallet.

  “Thanks,” I chirp, taking his money.

“Don’t forget ‘em, alright?”

  “Dude, we’re the ones who’re gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions,” Sam grumbles, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he gets out of the car. 

  “Alright, brb,” I chirp, quickly pecking Dean’s cheek before joining Sam outside the car. 

  “Hey, see if they’ve got any pie,” Dean shouts out the window. “Bring me some pie!”

  “Okay!” I yell back, waving at him.

  “He’s not getting those onions,” Sam declares beside me.

  “He’s going to know,” I point out, laughing as I open the door for him. “Then pout the whole time, and hold it against us for the next month.”

  “You’re the one that kisses him,” he counters, getting in line, which luckily isn’t very long. 

  “That's what gum is for, and you're in the back seat anyway,” I reason, falling in line beside him. 

  The diner bustles with life, cutlery scraping together, footsteps pattering against the vinyl floor, waitresses walking around and taking orders. 

  The person in front of us moves off to the side, taking a seat at the island, hands folded in front of him. Sam steps forward, smiling politely at the waiter as they make small talk. 

  “So, what can I get for you?” the waiter asks, notepad raised. 

  “Can I have a—“

  Black splotches dance across my vision, the floor suddenly closer than it was before. My cheek slams against the vinyl tiles, my teeth chattering together. Eyes barely open, I pick my head up but an inch off the ground, watching blood that is not mine pool across the floor, dripping down booths and counters. Head too heavy, my body gives out, collapsing finally into sweet darkness.

  Slowly, I blink, blurred colors forming into solid shapes. The floor is cold and dirty, the whole room is. There’s a window on the far wall, covered up by a tarp and wooden planks. 

  The world rights itself as I push myself up to sit, my head pulsing like I got hit over the head with a printer. Geez.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, I press my hand into the side of my forehead, squinting at the room around me. It looks like an old warehouse. How the hell did I get to a warehouse? 

  The diner. The blood.

  What the hell happened? 

  So, despite the molten pain scattering across my head like a turning hourglass, I try to push myself to my feet. But immediately, I’m pulled right back down, tripping and landing hard on my knees. 

  “Fuck!” I grumble, looking down at my restraints. Thick metal cuffs surround my wrists, chaining me to a tall pillar. 

  “What th—“

  This is starting to make less and less sense. Something spikes in my heart, screaming warnings. Iron. That’s why my head still hurts.

  Emptiness. 

  Nothing flowing through my veins. Nothing to call on.

  I exhale slowly, trying to make sense of this before I start screaming or erupt into anxious tears. Okay. Start from the beginning. 

  But then there’s metal scraping against metal; something heavy being pushed open. Then, footsteps pattering across the floor.

  Wait.

  Not footsteps.

  No.

  Boots scoffing across the floor. Heavy, lugging around. Dragging.

  I feel the color leave my face, my body freezing, bones stiffening up as if hardening can lessen the inevitable blow. 

  The figure comes into view, turning the corner, shadows cast over his face. My vision seems to zero in, locking in on the impossible. He steps further into the dim lighting, standing just at the edge of darkness, smiling wickedly.

  “…Dad?” I whisper, voice breaking pathetically.

  “‘You miss me, kiddo?” he chuckles, words ringing in my head. 

  My hands shake in their confines, tears welling up in my eyes all by themselves. I shake my head, blink hard, try everything to right this wrong. 

  It’s not possible.

  I have to be drugged—have to be hallucinating. Or maybe I’m dying. Or maybe I’ve finally died for good, and this is Hell. Or it’s a trick of the light. A trick, yes. Because he’s dead.

  He died years ago. He got himself killed. We burned his body out to sea. He’s dead. Gone. That's what Dean had said too. Gone. He can’t hurt me because he’s gone. And yet he’s standing right there. 

  Real.

  “Do you like my new toy?” Someone else asks. A different voice—a different person tucked into the corner. 

  I don’t dare turn my head away from him, worrying that looking away will make him come closer or make him angry. 

  But I hear the footsteps of that other person coming closer, coming out of the shadows. 

  I have questions on the tip of my tongue, but under his watchful eyes I feel small again. Three feet tall. A kid. 

  “I can taste your fear,” the other purrs, stepping into my line of sight. Roughly, he grabs at my jaw, forcing my head back, eyes on him. His eyes are pitch black, a demon. Great. But in every other way I don’t recognize this guy. He’s some innocent who got possessed.  

  “Look, I’ll make this real simple,” he continues, nails digging into my flesh until I react. “Big things are going down, ‘boss needs you outta the way. ‘Can’t have the guard dog messing up business.”

  Guard dog.

  There’s really only one person who referred to me as that.

  The Yellow-Eyed Demon. 

  Eyes widening, I lunge forward, pushing against my restraints.

  “You touch the Winchesters, and I swear to God I’ll scalp every one of you sons of bitches,” I spit, teeth barred like the dog they think I am.

  The blood in the diner. It wasn’t mine. But maybe it was Sam’s. Or the innocent people eating there. Maybe they took Sam and Dean. 

  “Feisty,” he chuckles. “I like that in a woman.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll have what’s coming to ‘em, and so will you,” he continues, grinning so wide it’s like his jaw might fall right off. Maybe it should. “‘Gave every hunter out there your location, well, except that boy toy of yours.”

  Dean's alive then. That slip-up alone lifts some weight off my shoulders.

  “Soon, they’ll all be here, lookin’ for you. It’ll be their first witch hunt in centuries. How nice,” he mocks playfully. “That is, if Dean doesn’t find you first.”

  “Well, Dean isn’t coming. He isn’t an idiot,” I seethe. I don’t want him to come. Don’t want him to fall for this trap. Especially when he should be finding Sam instead. 

  “No?” he smiles, eyes dipping down my face, my neck, landing on my tits. “Fine pussy like yours? Mm, I know he’ll come runnin’.”

  My skin crawls, and I’m sure if it could, it’d curl in on itself. I wish it would. But Dean has to assume Sam and I aren’t together, and he has to believe I can handle myself. His focus needs to be elsewhere. 

  “But just in case,” he continues. “Well…this is where my friend comes in.”

  He forces my head to the side, eyes landing back on my Dad. 

  “What is he?” I mutter because the alternative is believing he is alive somehow.

  Then, strangely, he seems to animate to life, responding only because he was spoken to. 

  “Aw, c’mon, you really don’t recognize your dear ol’ daddy?” My Dad, or not-Dad, says. 

  I stare at him harder like it’ll make him disappear or reveal a secret zipper. All the while, I hear Dean’s voice in my head:

“It was a nightmare, baby. He can’t hurt you. He’s gone.”

  Yes, a nightmare. This could certainly be a nightmare. 

  “He’s dead,” I answer, Dean’s words overlapping with mine. It keeps me sane.

  I wish Dean were here. 

  “Smart girl, ‘figured that one out quick,” the other man says. “You're right, he is dead. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

  My not-Dad takes two steps forward; naturally, I flinch, pulling back against the hand on my jaw.

  I prove his point.

  I’m sorry, Dean, I’m not as brave as I should be. 

  “Thought so,” the man smiles, letting my face go abruptly. He stands straight, backing up a couple of feet. “See, I know Dean will come, because you’re gonna give him a sign.”

  “Like hell I am,” I scoff. 

  “Oh, trust me, you will,” he growls. “You just can’t help yourself. ‘Just like all those years ago.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” 

  “Your time before Kansas,” he smiles.

  I stare at him, the cogs in my mind turning through the catalogue that is my memory. 

  The corn field? Is that what he means? Must be. 

  “I was a kid. I was playin’ around, and I messed up,” I reason, though I couldn’t tell you why I’m defending myself to a demon of all people—of all beings. 

  “Did you?” he challenges.

  Did I? What kind of question was that? Of course I did. Why would I intentionally destroy a crop field?

  “You’re a low-life demon, and you’re cryptic? Can you pick a goddamn struggle?” I spit. 

  “Oh, I’m really going to enjoy watching this,” he laughs. He steps all the way to the side, leaving nothing in the way of my not-Dad. 

  I don’t know what this thing is. I don’t know how it looks like him, but God does it look like him. His eyes hardened, pure hatred burning in his irises like they did every time he looked at me. It had become his constant state of being after Mom died. 

  He lugs forward, his movement stiff, unlike how he used to be. It’s more proof this isn’t him. I know it isn’t him. But my heart and body betray me, falling back to its childish ways.

  I scramble back on my hands and feet, struggling against the chains around my wrists. He keeps coming. I back myself into the pillar, spine pressing deep into the solid structure.

  My hands shake, raising up in defense as his fist comes down.

********

  Frustration boils in his veins, his fists pressed to the hood of the Impala. If he didn’t care about the car so much, he probably would’ve engraved his fists into the metal. 

  The two people he cares most about disappear mere feet away from him, and the only goddamn hint he has is the sulfur he found at the diner. It’s a demon, great. But that means nothing when he doesn’t know where the hell you two are. 

  “This is it. All demonic signs and omens over the past month,” Bobby says, leaning over a map of America. Dean had called him right away, he didn’t know what else to do. 

  “Are you joking?” He scoffs, looking at the normal map, no markings on it to be found. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Exactly,” Bobby reasons. 

  Dean shakes his head, there can’t be nothing. 

“Well, come on, there’s gotta be something. What about the-the normal, low-level stuff? You know, exorcisms, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you: there’s nothing,” Bobby emphasizes. “It’s completely quiet.”

  “Well, how the hell are we supposed to look for Sam and Y/N?” Dean retorts. “What, do we just close our eyes and point?”

  Warmth spills down my nose, blood dripping onto the floor in fat drops. I don’t really feel his punches or kicks anymore.

  Well, that’s a lie; I do.

  Pain erupts across my ribs, my face, my stomach. I think my nose is broken. I can’t breathe except out of my mouth in gasping heaps, cheek pressed to the concrete. But, as I said, I don’t really feel the pain anymore because I’m not really there. I’m elsewhere. 

  I’m back at home, face pressed to the wooden floors, crying into the rug until my brother comes storming out of his room or into the house, jumping in front of me, taking the worst of his anger.

  But my brother isn’t here. No one is coming to save me. 

  I can’t fight. Not because I don’t know how, not even because my wrists are confined. But because I just…can’t. Not against him. 

  My head cracks against the concrete, my vision twirling and spotting. I scream, the floor echoing it back to me, blood pooling from my mouth.

  I think I’ll die here. I’ll die by my father's hand. I always figured it’d end that way. 

  Father.

  Further.

  “Enough!” The demon shouts. 

  My father, or not-father, stops. Spine straightening, he backs up. 

  The idea of him taking orders from anyone makes me laugh, pain burning along every nerve ending. My vision blurs, shapes returning to blurred colors. With every blink, it’s harder to open my eyes. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to sleep some. I’ll fall asleep and wake up next to Dean, he’ll hold me and say I’ve had another nightmare. He’ll say it’s not real because my Dad has been dead a long time. It’s just a bad dream. And bad dreams can end as long as you wake up. 

  There’s a shoe in front of my face, black and blurred. The demon kneels beside me, a key jingling against metal. The lock turns with a click, weight dropping from my wrists. 

   I feel it come back to me. There’s a hum in the back of my mind, not to be confused with the pounding along my skull. My veins feel full, energy thumping and sparking down my fingertips. 

  “Alright, again!” The demon shouts, stepping back, back, back. 

  I press my forehead to the ground, smiling in my blood. Mercy from a demon? Giving me a fair fight? I laugh again, teeth coated in red.

  Pain explodes along my scalp, my hair abruptly pulled back, lifting my head off the floor. My laugh dies out quickly, replaced by rough breathing and a grumbled scream. The ground begins to shake wildly, vibrating the concrete around us.

  Wait.

  No, no, this is what he wanted. A sign. He wants me to lash out. 

  I try to wriggle out of his hold, nails biting into his hand. I try to reel myself in, calling back the power that’s escaped me, though I hadn’t known I let it go to begin with. I never do, not when it’s like this. I’m a live wire ready to snap, and that’s what he wants. 

  I try to hold it in me, forcing the energy to collapse and confine itself. I worry myself with making it small rather than trying to control and use the force to fight. I can’t do both. And I’d rather die than send Dean in the wrong direction, or worse, into a trap. 

  There’s laughter from the demon as my not-father slams my head into the concrete again. There’s a loud crack, my eyes rolling back into darkness. 

  Yet, energy explodes from me, pouring from every orifice, bright purple igniting the room in burning light. There are agonizing screams around me, clawing at my ears. Energy whips back, throwing itself out in every way. Wind whooshes around me, whispering a melody beneath the pleading terrors. 

  I curl into myself, squeezing my eyes shut, screaming until my throat burns and my vocal cords give out. 

  The ground stops rattling. My body goes still; everything is called back.

  I pant into the floor, choking on blood and coughing through the pain in my chest. Still, I peek my eyes open, pushing myself up to my knees, holding my side like doing so would fix my ribs. 

  It’s quiet. 

  The warehouse is in shambles. Where the walls stood is nothing but rubble. The outside world surrounds me, and the flat concrete pad I made this place become. I stumble to my feet, eyes wide, whipping around.

  There are bodies on the floor. My not-dad, and the demon—the body the demon was possessing. Dead. I killed them. 

  There’s a wide circle outside the rubble of the “warehouse” where trees used to be; it surrounded the place on all three sides, the fourth an empty road, but beyond that strip of asphalt the trees are gone too. They’re gone, wiped out in a perfect circle. It’s like a crop circle…

  It’s like that time in the corn field. 

  I stammer back, tears welling up in my eyes at the destruction I caused. I killed two people, and how much wildlife?

  I stare down at my hands, shaking. I caused this. 

  “There’s something wrong with your daughter.”

  I am destruction. I wiped out the land.

  I drag myself through the rubble, wiping the blood from my face. They’ll all know where I am. They’ll be coming for me. 

  Dean.

  I have to warn him. 

  I make it to the empty road, turning back to see my damage from afar. It has to be around an acre, everything in it dead. Gone. Practically vaporized. If it wasn’t a perfect circle, if there wasn’t rubble on the ground, you might be able to think this was how the land has always been. But I know. I know I caused this.

  The demon was right. 

  I just can’t help myself. 

  I’m still the little girl who ruins everything she touches.

  I have to turn my back on the destruction; otherwise I’ll stand here forever and never get the chance to warn Dean. So, slowly, I walk down the empty, open road, following the asphalt. I don’t have my phone; I left it in the car with Dean. I was only going into the diner a couple hundred feet away from the car, and I was with Sam, so why would I have needed it?

  I’m exhausted. And I’m not healing right. I don’t know why. Or it’s just slow. Either way, every other step I’m stumbling over my feet, the horizon tilting like a seesaw, blood flowing down my nose, dripping down my chin and neck to soak the simple white sundress I had picked out this morning. I can’t see right. I can’t breathe right; it's ragged through my mouth, lips cracked and dry, and my chest explodes in pain with every inhale and exhale. 

  I’m scared to use my powers, worried I’ll lash out again or straight up pass out if I conjure up a phone or teleport to a phone booth. So, I’ll walk.

  I drag myself along, holding myself together on the side of the road. My eyes shut every two minutes, eyelids resting while my legs work on autopilot. Here, I exist between time, the sun beaming down on me, feeling harsher than it had this morning. And yet, Time is running out. Each second that passes is a moment where Sam could be in danger. The “big plan” mentioned was for him, I know it. That’s what this whole thing has been leading up to. It’s the final hours. 

  Something in my chest crunches with every step, a reminder of him—whatever he was. Dad or not, it might as well have been the real him. Sometimes I wonder if I was born from love at all, because I know my mom was full of it, but Dad? It’s hard to remember a time he was happy, that he had anything but hatred in his heart. So, maybe I was born from clashing constellations, or opposing eons clattering together into a supernova. Maybe I was always born to destroy. I'm so good at it. 

  I feel like I'm chasing an explanation, or time. I'm running from fear too, running from the hunters on my trail. Maybe the demon was lying, it doesn’t matter anymore because the sign I gave will have them running. I'm not in a position to fight. I don't even want to.

  I don’t think I’ll make it to a payphone. 

  My vision is getting worse: the tilting is more often, the trees and road are a blur of green and black. I’m slowing down. I was too slow to begin with. Each stumble forward takes more energy than the last. I feel exhaustion taking place. I can feel my bones trying to tug me down. 

  It could be miles until I see a phone, or a town for that matter.

  I won’t make it. 

  I stop on the side of the road, collapsing down into the grass, resting against a tree. The bark is rough against my head, the grass tickles my legs and hands. When this is all over, I’ll return to the Earth. What a beautiful thing. But for now, I still have a purpose that is different from destruction. 

  I focus the energy I have left into my hand, pushing against the volcano of pain in my mind, until it’s enough to conjure a phone. I flip it open, dialing Dean’s number like it’s a reflex. He always made sure we had each other's numbers memorized, even if we had to change them often on the road. Regardless, I'm glad for it now, because I can’t make out the individual numbers on the keypad.

  I press the phone to my ear, the ringing tune almost like a lullaby to me in this state. I look out across the empty road splitting this forest, seeing the treeline begin once more. There’s two birds chirping up above me, conversing about something I wish I understood. 

  The phone picks up after the third ring, his voice filling my ears as the sun breaks through the canopy of leaves above me.

  “Hello?” He grumbles. Guarded. Angry. Lost.

  It doesn’t matter, it’s still him.

  “Dean,” I sigh, feeling my shoulders drop and my spine slump. 

  “Y/N?” I can almost imagine his eyes widening, and the way he’s probably standing or sitting straighter now. “Y/N?! Where are you?! Are you okay? What the hell happened? Where did you go?”

  He’s spewing questions faster than I can understand them, but I like hearing his voice. 

  “‘Don’t know where I am,” I mumble, finally letting my eyes shut, the sun's rays warm on my skin. 

  “Okay, okay, that’s okay, baby,” he says, calmer now, though I can tell he’s forcing it. He’s trying to control himself. “Just, uh, tell me what you see, yeah? I’ll come find you, ‘swear. Just gotta tell me what you see.”

  I frown. I can hear his worry clear as day. I don’t like making him worry, and hate it even more when I make him sad. 

  “You have to find Sam,” I say instead. “He said they’ve got big plans.”

  “Who’s ‘he’?”

  “Find Sam,” I repeat.

  “I will. I will, ‘promise,” he says, panting. Out of breath. “Please, Y/N, please just tell me where you are. I’ll come get you, and we’ll find Sam together, okay?”

  He hasn’t used my name in a while. It’s usually “sweetheart,” “darling,” “angel,” or “baby.” Not usually my name. It’s how I know he’s scared, and the knowledge eats at my heart, tearing it apart. Can he hear my pain: my heavy breathing, and the nasal sound of my voice because of my messed-up nose?

  I shake my head, even though I know he can’t see it.

“You’re not listenin’ to me,” I say, unfairly. “You have to find Sam. Focus on him. Only him.”

  It’s quiet on the line, then:

  “I’m not leavin’ you behind, you hear me?” Dean utters, voice firm and unwavering. It’s his ‘no arguing’ voice. 

  “You have to,” I beg.

  “‘S not happening,” he snaps. “You don’t want me comin’, that’s fine, alright? I—I’ll send Bobby or, uh, or Adeline, or your brother if they’re closer. Alright? Just—just please tell me where you are.”

  “‘S not safe,” I warn him. Maybe he’ll understand then, my beautiful stubborn man. “Not safe for me anymore. Not safe for you to be ‘round me either.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks. “Y/N, I don’t care what’s thrown at me. I’m not leaving you.”

  I know he won’t, it’s why I…

  “I love you,” I whisper, a tear rippling down my cheek, my chest filling up with warmth. 

  “Hey, hey, don’t say it like that,” he panics. “Don’t say it like it’s final.”

*******

  “Y/N?”

  “Y/N?!”

  “Y/N!”

  The line is dead. You aren’t responding—haven’t for the last 30 seconds.

  “Fuck!” he shouts, nearly slamming his phone into the ground. Instead, he holds the little device so tight his knuckles go white, hitting his fists into the steering wheel over and over again. “Fuck!”

  He had you, for just a moment, and now you're gone again. Gone. Maybe hurt. Maybe dead.

  You sounded weak over the phone, tired and small. He knows something happened to you, and it kills him that you wouldn’t tell him. Why couldn’t you just tell him where you were?

  He’s breathing hard and quick. In all honesty, he hasn’t gotten a good breath in since he lost you both. There’s a fist tight around his lungs.

  But he needs to find you. He needs to put aside his screaming anger and guilt to get you. He needs you. 

  He leans down and over, picking your bag up off the passenger floor. He didn’t want to go through your purse, it makes him feel dirty, but he needs your phone because he refuses to hang up on you even if you aren’t there anymore. 

  He flips open your phone, pulling Ash’s number up quickly. He answers after the first ring. 

  “Y/N?” he asks. “Hey, where are you? Dean’s lookin’ for you, thought you—“

  “It’s me, Ash,” he cuts him off.

  He was only on the phone with him a handful of minutes ago; the only information he had was a big secret, one that required him to go to the Roadhouse rather than just hear it over the phone. It’s where he was going until your call came through, and he pulled off to the side of the road immediately. 

  “Oh.”

  “Look, can you track a number?”

  Beep…Beep…Beep.

  My body feels heavy, my eyelids worse. Every peek open is a blur of bright fluorescent lights and a weight that forces me back into darkness. Each breath takes too much effort too.

  I twist my head to the side, though it’s more like a languid lull. My arms are above the white blanket I’m tucked beneath, an IV pressed into my forearm. I try to say something, but it comes out as a grumble. 

  I hate hospitals, and I hate the pain medication they give because I can’t think, my mind is all foggy and dull, my body is too heavy, and nothing is right.

  “Hey, don’t panic,” someone says, voice firm and yet somehow calm. “You’re okay now.”

  I try to place the voice, rolling through a catalogue of people while my eyes adjust the blur into a person.

  “Adeline,” I exhale finally.

  She’s sitting by my bedside, hunched over in the plastic chair, her black hair a mess, her dark makeup smudged beneath her eyes. She’s completely disheveled.

  “Hi,” she whispers, smiling just a little.

  “You found me,” I mumble, trying to push myself to sit up, my arms weak.

  “Of course I did,” she answers, helping me up and adjusting my pillow so I can sit up comfortably. “I’ll always find you.”

  “…Are you mad?” I ask, trying to read her. 

  She scoffs, shaking her head. “Of course I am, but I’m too glad that you’re awake and alive to yell at you.”

  I laugh softly, my ribs aching. My head lulls back, barely hitting the pillow, still feeling too heavy to be up like normal.

  “…Dean called me, that’s how I found you,” she admits, hand finding mine, fingers brushing over my wrist, resting right on top of my pulse.

  Oh, Dean. 

  “Got some guy named Ash to track your phone, told me I needed to go find you,” she continues, looking away. “He…um, he wanted to get you himself; I even called him out on it. But he said you were really freaked out and he had to trust your word.”

  “You’re awfully calm,” I point out.

  She shakes her head, meeting my eyes again. “Scared.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah…” she murmurs. “The closer I got to town, the more I heard about….”

  I frown, guilt creeping up and scratching at my heart. Maybe that’s why she won’t say it.

  “There’s fuckin’ hunters crawling all over,” she continues. “I thought they got you. ‘That you were gone.”

  “I—“

  “No, let me finish,” she cuts me off. “I wasn’t even the one that found you. Some lady driving by saw you on the side of the road. You barely had a pulse, so she brought you to the hospital. You’re lucky it wasn’t some fucking creep. She’s a nice lady.”

  “You talked?” 

  “Well, she waited ‘round till someone was there for you. It was a good thing I checked hospitals. That’s how I found you,” she explains, eyes dropping to the blankets.

  She feels guilty. That’s what this is. That’s why she’s saying it like that. She feels like she should’ve been the one to find me directly.

  I squeeze her hand, trying to get her to look at me again. “‘M glad you’re here. You still found me, you know.”

  “Don’t,” she shakes her head, grey eyes hardening. “I should’ve made you come with me all those months ago. If I did this wouldn’t have—“

  “Don’t you blame yourself,” I cut her off. “This was not your fault. And you wouldn’t have ever been able to pull me away. I’m in this deep, Adeline.”

  “I know you are,” she grumbles, jaw flexing. “I hate it.”

  “Well…if it makes you feel any better, I’m hating it right about now too,” I admit, looking away from her. “I…I did it again…”

  “What are you—“

  “You know,” I cut her off, gaze snapping to hers. I watch her falter, lips parting in a quiet exhale. 

  Her shoulders slump. She’s not trying to be tough in front of me. “Yeah,” she admits, tired. “But we’ll figure it out, alright?”

  “What’s there to figure out?” I counter, growing antsy. It’s like there’s a clawing in my chest, screaming at me to get up and run. If I don’t run now, I’ll be trapped forever. Already the walls are closing in.

  “We’ll figure it out,” she repeats anyway, sternly. Firmly. No room for argument. 

 There's an undeniable weight hanging over us, waiting for the right moment to crash down. It’s every unspoken word over the last couple of months, the “what ifs,” the fear, horror, mortification, but mostly, it’s understanding. It’s hard to grasp it unless you’ve experienced it, but sometimes, you meet someone—you see someone, and it doesn’t matter what you say, it doesn’t matter how you see yourself, because all they see is you. You’re not a monster to them, nor are you put on a pedestal; you’re just the “you” they’ve always known. And that’s enough. 

  I can see it now in her, the way she looks at me with wide, glossy eyes somewhere between worried and accepting. I won’t change in her eyes. It doesn’t matter what happens; she’ll be there. That’s all. The knowledge crushes over my head before the heavy weight can, tears welling up in my eyes because this is more than kindness; this is love. Unconditional love. This is family. 

  I can see her trying to work over what to say, eyebrows pinching together, deciding between honesty and comfort or a snarky remark that will make me laugh and roll my eyes. But she doesn’t get the chance to choose at all, because her phone starts ringing sharply, her ringtone “Living Dead Girl” blaring through the silence. 

  Adeline sighs, taking her phone out of her pocket. She only takes a second to look at the name before grumbling:

  “Fuckin’ 4th time he’s called me in the last 30 minutes.” She stands, flipping her phone open and pressing it to her ear before I get to ask “who.”

  “Hello?” she snaps.

  “…Yeah, yeah, she’s still okay—yes, I’m sure. Why the fuck would I say ‘yes’ if I wasn’t sure?”

  I don’t know who she’s talking to, but her irritated state makes me laugh.

  “Oh, you’re so lucky you’re—-Hey, hey, I did not start this—No, of course this isn’t the time, but—“

  She huffs loudly through her nose, shaking her head. “You know what? I was gonna tell you all nicely, but noooo…Here!”

  Adeline shuffles over to me, handing me her phone with enough conviction you’d think she’d be sentencing someone to life. I take her phone with a curious look, watching as she purses her lips and drops back into the chair, legs and arms crossing. 

  Almost cautiously, I bring the device to my ear, trying to hear for any tells on who she could’ve been beefing with. 

  “Um…hello?” I answer quietly.

  I hear tires screech to a loud stop, his voice coming through in a panicked gasp.

  “Y/N?” 

  Dean. My sweet Dean.

  “Hi,” I repeat, feeling strangely bashful. 

  “Oh, God,” he gapes. “You’re—I thought you were—You scared the crap outta me.”

  “…I’m so fricking sorry, I—“

  “Hey, hey,” he cuts me off, voice firm. “You ain’t gotta apologize to me, okay? I’m—I’m just glad to hear your voice, alright? But I swear to God, if you try that ‘I’m not tellin’ you’ bullshit again, ‘m gonna put a tracking device in all your clothes.”

  “That’s okay,” I laugh, shaking my head, smiling brightly as I accept his “threat.” Though I know he isn’t exactly bluffing either. Exaggerating? Likely. 

  “There she is,” he says softer, and I can almost see his eyes softening. “…You know, you can’t leave me again like that.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I answer.

  “I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

   The line goes quiet for a moment, except for the sound of his breathing. Nothing has ever sounded nicer.

  But, once more, his voice comes through, saying: “Don’t go quiet on me. C’mon, I gotta hear you talk. ‘Just keep talkin’ to me, pretty girl.”

  For a moment, my cheeks warm, and it feels like a normal day where he teases and flirts with me, nothing lurking around the corner. But, perhaps just as quickly, my mind reminds me that I don’t deserve the simple pleasure of feeling loved or needed. At least, not today. 

  “I don’t know what to say,” I admit, solemnly, looking down at my lap. “I don’t have anything happy to say.”

  “I don't need happy. ‘Just need you,” he answers without missing a beat. It makes me falter, my heart getting all twisty, actively contradicting every horrible reminder my mind can give. Because, for a brief moment, he has the power to push the bad away, leaving only him and me. 

  “Um…” I start, unhelpfully, my voice already giving way to a break. “I didn’t get a lot of information, but…the yellow-eyed demon is behind all of this if you haven’t figured that out already. He needed me outta the way, wanted hunters after me and wanted to give you a distraction. That’s why I didn’t want you to come.”

  “I would’ve come anyway,” he says firmly, as if he needs me to believe him. As if he needs to prove himself. 

  “I know,” I admit. I had already worried about that. “…And yet, you listened.”

  “Yeah, well, ‘figured I should to Ms. ‘I’m always right’,” he scoffs, clearly not wanting to agree with me. I can almost hear his eyes roll. 

  I laugh a little and shake my head even though he can’t see. 

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” I say quietly. As much as I love Dean, I’d never ask or want him to choose me over his brother. And right now, Sam is very, very important. 

  “I’m not,” he bites, though I know his anger isn’t directed at me but at himself. He’s so incredibly loyal and brave. I’m worried it’s going to get him killed one day. 

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re hurt!” he snaps. “You’re barely alive in some hospital room, and I’m not there!”

  “I’m very alive,” I correct.

  “Yeah, well, you weren’t. Someone hurt you, and I wasn’t there to—“

  “Dean,” I cut him off. He could not be blaming himself. I won’t allow it. There’s genuinely nothing he could’ve done to stop it or help when he was god knows how many miles away. 

  He exhales gruffly, huffing through his nose. I can only imagine how his throat would bob roughly right about now, and he’d drag a hand down his face or jaw. 

  “It was…” I continue, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t have been possible.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks cautiously, and I can almost hear the way his spine straightens, sitting taller. 

  “My Dad,” I exhale shakily. “There was a demon there; he was using my dad to—He wanted—I couldn’t fight back. H-he was like some sort of puppet, and I know he’s supposed to be dead and it wasn’t him but…Dean, it was him.” 

  I can feel Adeline’s eyes burning into the side of my face. But he’s silent on the line, making me wish I could actually see his face to try and guess what he’s thinking. Instead, I get silence. Momentary silence, because my hands are trembling and the words are spilling past my lips like the tears peaking out from the corner of my eyes.

  “He—“ I choke through my words, the memory playing behind my eyes. I can see his fist coming down on me. I can feel the phantom pain bloom across my skin. I can see his eyes, dark, teetering on a kind of exhausted anger. I could feel it in every hit, the burning in his veins—the hatred. The disgust, perhaps.

  I was a kid again. I never wanted to be that again. 

  “I—I never meant to hurt anyone. I didn’t mean—“ He deserves to know what kind of monster he’s in love with. Maybe he shouldn’t love me at all, regardless of how much I want him to. I see their still bodies on the floor, unmoving, nearly charred. 

  “Hey, hey,” he says softly. “You didn’t do anythin’ wrong, alright? Y’were just protectin’ yourself.”

  I shake my head. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t get it. 

  “No, no, Dean, I killed everything,” I correct, wiping harshly at my cheeks, teeth clenching together tightly. 

  “You remember when you told me ‘bout the first time your dad hit you?” he asks suddenly.

  “Yes,” I answer simply, trying to muffle my sniffling. Of course I do. Besides Adeline and my brother, who had been there, he was the first person to learn the full truth. 

  “‘N you said it was ‘necessary’ cause you were falling into some defense mechanism?” he continues. “This is just like that, yeah? You were scared, and hurt, so you reacted. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

  Once more, I wish I could see his face, because maybe it’d allow me to see his thought process. How is he excusing what I did? How could he see it like that? Is he just coping? 

  “Dean,” I cry, as if saying his name would suddenly make him understand or see what I’m seeing. Why won’t he get it? “I killed so many trees, and who knows what animals were living there or around. And I destroyed a whole building! I-it wasn’t just self-defense, I-I’m a—“

  “A monster?” he finishes for me. I can almost hear the mockery on his tongue as he shifts in his seat. “That what you want me to believe? ‘Wanna convince me the same girl who loves with her whole goddamn heart and tries so hard to see the good in people is evil? Or the girl who feeds raccoons even if they have ‘nough food, just cause they’re ’cute?’ ‘N what about the girl who has stopped every time she saw a hurt bird just so she could heal its wing to give it a second chance? ‘She evil? ‘Cause if she’s a monster than I’m the fuckin’ devil.”

  My trembling lips part, each bitter word hitting me in the chest with an echo. It takes my shaky breath away, eyes widening. He’s being mean, and yet, I can see what he’s seeing. What he’s always seen. 

  “Listen to me,” he mutters sternly. “What you can’t control doesn't make you a monster. Not you. I’ll spend the rest of m’life convincing you of that, if that’s what you need. ‘Cause I don’t give a crap about some building, or a demon, and I think the forest can forgive you for a couple trees.”

  I laugh, pathetically, wiping away and sniffling through my tears. I don’t know how he can be so loyal, or good, or how he can blindly believe in me like this. But it makes my heart pulse and weep with uncontained love bubbling over.

  “I wish you were here,” I mumble, voice breaking at the end. 

  He sighs loudly. “‘Don’t know how badly I wanna be.”

  “D-do you have a lead on Sam?” I ask, swallowing down the leftovers of my breakdown. Sam had to be the focus. 

  “Yeah, yeah, some weird crap happened, but Bobby figured enough out. ‘Think we know where he is,” Dean reveals, solemnly. 

  “Good,” I nod. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah,” he sighs. “Look, I…I don’t wanna upset you more, but you should know.”

  My heart drops. 

  “The Roadhouse is gone,” Dean explains. “Burnt to the ground. Ash knew something big, ‘paid the price for it.”

  “Is Ash…?”

  “Yeah.”

  Oh, God. My heart twists, breath staggering. Ash may have been really peculiar, but he was so helpful and kind. He didn’t deserve to get stuck in the middle of all this mess, let alone die because of it. Oh, God.

  “And Ellen?”

  “We don’t know.”

  I don’t know if that’s worse. But it leaves room for hope. She could still be alive. Maybe she got out before the fire even started, maybe she got far away from the place, and that’s why they couldn’t find her. 

  I try to fight around the tightness in my throat, having to believe in something positive. 

“You…you said Bobby had a lead, where are you two headed?” I ask, finally. 

  “Cold Oak, South Dakota,” Dean answers. 

  I nod. “Okay. Okay, I’ll be there. I’ll meet you.”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he warns. “You’re hurt. You need to sit this one out.”

  “I’m better,” I reason. I’m healing just fine. I’m tired, sure, I feel achy, and I know I’m not at 100%, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. 

  “I—“

  “I’ll be there,” I repeat firmly, unwilling to let him argue. Everything over the past two years has been leading to whatever this is; there’s no other choice but to be there, and I don’t want to be anywhere else, let alone a hospital, while people I care about run into the unknown. Absolutely not. “I love you. Okay, bye.”

  I hang up quickly, eliminating any and all chances of arguing. I let the phone plop down to my lap, busying myself with removing the IV from my arm.

  “Leave that alone,” Adeline says, swatting my hand away. 

  I look at her. For a moment, I kind of forgot she was here. 

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” she adds, eyes a little wild with desperation, and yet her face is set in stone, unmoving. 

  I guess there will be some arguing. 

  “Adeline, they’re my family. I’m not letting them run into danger alone!” I counter, though I do stop bothering the IV because there’s something strangely freaky about the way it looks like there’s a huge hole in your arm even when it’s only a little mark. As I said, I don’t like hospitals. 

  “Well, you’re my family, and I’m not letting you get yourself killed! You almost died!” She yells, chest rising and falling quickly. 

  “I didn’t!” I argue. 

  “You could’ve!” Adeline shouts. “You barely had a fucking pulse when they brought you in. How many times do you have to be at death's door to give this life up?!”

  “I am this life! Adeline, I’m a monster! I’m—“

  Admittedly, the word I had become so accustomed to no longer felt right. It’s Dean’s fault. He got into my mind with his harsh sincerity, breaking down my preconceived notions. I don’t know if I believe him when he says I didn't do anything wrong, because it feels wrong. I feel dirty. But it was to protect myself from further pain; maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Still, I had no control, so I can only wonder how much longer it will be until I lose control when it’s not needed and I hurt the people I care about. So, maybe in some way I am a monster, or there’s some monster cowering in my blood, teeth barred like a scared dog, ready to snap when someone gets too close.

  “You aren’t!”

  “Well what if I am?!”

  “You aren’t!” She bellows, throat rubbed raw. “And you don’t need to save people or have some kind of penance to prove that you aren’t!” 

  Oh. 

  My shoulders lose any lingering tension, my face dropping right along with it. 

  Oh. 

  I feel my chest caving in, ribs collapsing onto my heart and lungs like a roof made of sticks, and just like picking up sticks, I fumble for an answer. There’s an ache there in my heart, a void that’s been there for a long time, pried open by the components of my DNA. But now, it feels hard to sustain when two people who know me the best are convinced I’m nothing like what that void says I am. It’s filling up, slowly. 

  Still, penance or not, they’re my family. 

  “I need to be there,” I repeat, softer this time. “They’ll need me.”

  Her heaving chest slows, grey eyes checking mine. Her dark eyebrows pinch together, shoulders deflating just so. She sees through me, maybe even past my intentions. Regardless, she finds my hand again, squeezing gently.

  “Then I’ll be there too.”

  Wind whips against my face, blowing my hair behind me. We’ve been driving for hours, and being on a motorcycle for a long period of time is significantly different from a car. But I can ignore the ache in my thighs, butt, and back because my mind is elsewhere, worrying over things I cannot control. 

  We got on the road as soon as we could, ignoring the doctors as I changed into Adeline’s spare clothes: a tank top, shorts, and a flannel. It wasn’t an exact fit, but again, I couldn’t care less. The trees blurred past us, the loud rumble of the engine in our ears.

  The only update we got since we left was ten minutes ago from Dean, who texted that they just got there. It only made me feel worse, my stomach twisting in nauseating knots, because we’re still too many minutes out, and the longer I don’t know what’s happening, the easier I can assume it’s all gone wrong. I’m pretty sure we’ve broken every traffic law ever made; Adeline’s motorcycle pushed to the limits with the speedometer all the way to the left. We’re going as fast as we can, and it’s not enough. 

  After what must be too long, we finally come to a stop, dirt and dust kicking up from beneath the wheels. She kills the engine, letting the motorcycle lean to its side beside the empty Impala and Bobby’s old truck. At least they’re still here, though I don’t know if that’s good or not.

  I hop off immediately, tossing the spare helmet to the ground, rain drizzling down.

  “You know how to shoot?” I ask Adeline as she takes off her own helmet, black hair cascading down her back.

  “No,” she answers like the mere thought is absurd. 

  “That’s fine,” I say, producing a machete in my hand. “Here, take this. We need to go.”

  “And you need to breathe,” she counters, accepting the weapon and quickly following after me as I head down the dirt hill in front of the vehicles. 

  We haven’t done anything, and yet my chest is rising and falling quickly as if preparing itself for a blow. My skin crawls, cicadas chirp in the distance, something feels wrong. 

  “I’ll breathe later,” I say absentmindedly. 

  I hear her boots thudding just behind me; it’s the only noise I can focus on as I continue to barrel forward. 

  “That’s not how that works,” she remarks. 

  Wind and rain pelts down on us, the ground growing slippery; my flannel sticks to my shoulders uncomfortably. Does the Earth know something is wrong, too? Is it mourning? 

  Then, in the very distance are figures, darkened by the night and the lack of light. My body registers the sight before my brain does. I take off running.

  Slowly, I can make out Bobby standing there in one of his usual baseball hats, and a couple of feet away from him are two other figures, both on the ground, one holding the other. My heart drops out of my body, tumbling to the grass, replaced by fear that spikes through my veins. I push my legs harder, grassy land blurring by. It’s not enough. 

  I fold over the space between them and me, collapsing time into something movable. In a blink I’m by Bobby’s side, skidding to a hasty stop. 

  For one long moment, I can’t make sense of the scene in front of me. Dean is cradling his brother, rocking him slowly back and forth, sobbing over his motionless body, blood seeping through his shirt, soaking him in red. 

  I’m too late. 

  I stumble forward, collapsing to my knees beside them, the wet Earth cold against my bare legs.

  “Sam?” I mumble, fresh tears welling up in my eyes, blurring my view of them. He’s still. So very still.

  Dean looks up, his eyes red, his face wet with tears and rain. He looks at me with a silent plea in his eyes, lost. He looks completely lost. 

  “No, no, no,” I cry, shaking my head, hands hovering over his body, not knowing where to touch or if I should touch at all. 

  Not Sam. God, not him. 

  Rage curdles in my throat. I want to scream. It claws at my chest, begging for release. 

  He doesn’t look so big in his brother's arms like this. He looks like a kid again. For a long moment, I only see him as a child. The same kid who’d borrowed books from me for a long period of time, always feeling the need to explain it took him so long because we didn’t see each other often right before trying to discuss the book with me. Or the shaggy-haired kid who’d call just to ask me a question about school, knowing that I’ve already taken the class and would actually know an answer or two. 

  Oh, Sammy. 

  I can still remember the day he was officially taller than me. Dean had written a letter complaining about it in secret, but it did no justice to seeing him in person, ridiculously tall and lanky but still the sweet boy I’d always known.

  A sob rips through my trembling lips, eyes jumping around his pale face. 

  “Sam, please,” I beg. But of course he doesn’t answer. It makes no sense. He was alive this morning. He was just alive.

  I brush the wet hair off his forehead like it still matters, my hands shaking. He was always so good, he cared so much, and he was so smart. I knew he’d get his dream one day. He deserves to be a lawyer. He deserves to be here. 

  “Y/N,” Dean croaks through his own unashamed crying. 

  I look at him again, seeing only pain in his eyes.   

  “Please,” he begs, eyes wide. 

  I can’t. I am powerless where it matters most. That void in my heart opens wide, arms extended to swallow me whole. 

  Still, I nod, head moving up and down like a bobble head, sniffling. 

  “C’mon, c’mon, let’s get him inside,” I murmur, slowly rising to my feet. 

  He nods. He needs directions now, something he can follow. He’s good at listening. He’s good at following orders. He needs orders. 

  Thunder cracks loudly above us, lightning striking in the distance. He staggers to his feet, struggling to hold his brother's dead weight. 

  “What are you doing?” Adeline and Bobby ask at the same time. I don’t know when she finally caught up, but I don’t care. They look at each other as their words overlap; he gives her a weird look, but moves to help Dean, who seethes and groans, wanting to bear it on his own.

  “I’m going to fix it,” I say, voice breaking. 

  She grabs my arm harshly, head tilting to catch my eyes. “You can’t,” she mutters.

  I shake my head. She’s right. 

  “I’ll try.”

*************************

  I stare at his body, lifeless on the wooden table. No matter how much I look, it doesn’t make sense. Just this morning he was complaining about the bad jokes we were making. Now, he’s pale and lifeless on a table, shirt soaked in blood and rain. 

  I wish he were here to complain again. I want him to lecture us about something, I don’t care what. Anything. 

 Dean hasn’t left his side, and I hadn’t asked him to. We worked around him. I lit candles around the room; I drew a pentacle around the table, enclosing Sam inside.

  “Alright, I’m done,” Adeline announces, holding a canister of salt. She’s unamused, worried, but she did what I said anyway. 

  “Are you sure you got everything?” I ask, eyes wide. “And I mean everything.”

  “Yes, I did, I swear. That Bobby dude even double-checked it,” she answers. “But I don’t see the point in all this.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I brush her off. It’s unkind, I know, but I don’t really care to explain logistics at the moment. 

  Her eyes burn into the back of my skull as I step inside the pentacle. It needs to be intact because if this goes right, then I need to ensure it’s just Sam’s soul coming back, not a spirit or a demon. That’s also what the salt is for.

  I can do this. Scratch that. I have to do this. 

   “Dean,” I say softly. His eyes snap to mine, hurt written all over him. It crushes my heart all over again. “I need you to step back a little bit, okay?”

  He doesn’t want to. I can see it in his eyes, and in the way his shoulders are hunched forward in an attempt to protect himself. Still, he must believe in my abilities enough to listen, because he does back off, though he doesn’t go far, staying on the very edge of the pentacle.

  I need his hope to be enough for both of us. I need this to work, for his sake more than anyone’s. And, yes, it’s selfish. But if I can destroy without blinking, then I should be able to bring life just the same. 

  I lift Sam’s shirt just high enough to rest above the wound, mumbling an apology that he can’t hear. He was stabbed in the back, the blade went clear through. I want to find who did this to him. I want to crush them. 

  I bring my trembling hands down onto his skin, one palm covering his bloody wound, and the other over his heart. 

  I inhale and exhale, letting my eyes close slowly as energy pours from my palms. It’s cold and dark in my mind's eye. Desolate. But I fall into familiar motions, stitching skin and blood vessels together until sweat beads on my forehead and my head aches. 

  Thunder rumbles outside, shaking the old wooden building we’re in. 

  I follow the emptiness, letting it lead me deeper into complete darkness. Energy prickles in the air like static electricity, tickling my skin and thickening the air. In my mind's eye, my fingertips brush completely coldness, the hairs on my arms standing up. I dip my hand into the strange feeling, this alternative energy akin to ice water. My eyes shoot open, a harsh chill spilling through my veins, running up my spine. 

  The flames of the candle wiggle, moving rapidly against the sudden breeze that sweeps through the room. 

  I push further, putting my whole arm into this ice water, all the way up to my elbow until I feel a spark of warmth. My eyes burn as if I’m staring right into the face of the sun, the sudden breeze brushing my hair around. 

  The room shakes, quaking beneath my feet. I call the warm energy forward, seeking it out like a lighthouse. I scoop that far-away energy even as I feel the tell-tale sign of blood dripping down my nose, warmth pooling from either nostril. 

  Adeline shifts around the room, catching Bobby’s worried eye and Dean, who seems more focused than frightened or worried. She moves until she gets a clear view of you, head tilting to catch your eyes. Your eyes are rolled back completely, the purple she expected gone, the whites of your eyes on display. You're mumbling something in Latin beneath your breath, a spell or something older she’s never heard before. Blood pools from your nose, pouring over your lips and chin, and yet you keep speaking, mumbling something unrecognizable. You look remarkably terrifying. 

  I pull that energy forth, dragging it out of the cold depths of that river. With a whoosh, the candles in the room extinguish, gentle smoke wafting above them. I keep tugging it, dragging it up into the darkness, bringing light. Heat licks at my fingertips, burning down my skin in agony I can take because I am bringing the energy home.

  Energy explodes from around me, igniting the room in blinding purple light. But it stretches out further. As quick as the wind, it expands outside the old building, stretching further and further in a ring of perfect energy, the Earth shaking violently. 

  I flinch away from Sam, stumbling back from his body, hands raised as if I had actually been burnt, but my fingertips are untouched. My vision blurs, little stars dancing around. Then, Sam suddenly sits straight up, heaving and choking, chest rising and falling quickly, brown eyes rapidly shooting across the room. 

  Someone is shouting. The room shifts, tilting on its axis. The floor crashes closer.

To be continued…

(Next Chapter)

Taglist: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @raven--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @toocrazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @isleofmisfitvoldsoy @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @heart-locket @tiggytaylor , @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @ugvvguggvvgu @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @moonyardz @hiphip-hooray @thewinchesterwench @whimsyandfear @lyraoftheskies @sodavrr , @drakelover78

“Couldn’t you take Jess shopping with you?” He complained when they’d been in the same soap aisle for thirty minutes. “You coulda started bonding with her over girl stuff-“

“I don’t need to bond with Jess,” Mom sniffed, and Dean smirked. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet, and impish, smug satisfaction leaking over his words. He never had stuff to pull over on Sammy anymore. It was always wonderful to get one over on the little shit, especially after all that Dean’s a disloyal creep shit at family dinner.

“You should start bonding with her,” he drawled, leaning down enough that Mom would catch what he was trying to toss out. He knew something she didn’t.

Mom paused. She loved gossip. Dad said it was genetic, but Sammy didn’t love it, because Sam was boring. Another reason for Dean to be the favorite.

She said he was a lot like Mom. Dean told Her she’d only met Mom once, and She’d just shrugged and told him that she could tell. He was sweet, She’d said. Sweet and dramatic.

In the moment, Dean had pretended to be offended. She’d giggled and told him he was proving a point, and maybe she was right. He didn’t really care all that much about anything else, when She was smiling and pressing into his side. 

Dean had wanted to get back to that, instead of wasting his time in the soap aisle. “Sammy’s gonna ask Jess to stick around,” he tried to hint at Mom, raising his brows pointedly. “So- Y’know- Get on knowin’ her.”

Mom didn’t seemed all that shocked and thrilled about Dean’s insider information. Her small smile sent a chill through his body. That was the smile she’d given him, right before asking if She was his horribly kept secret. It didn’t spell anything good for Dean’s afternoon.

“Jess and I went shopping yesterday,” Mom hummed. “She’s lovely, and- Sam asked me for my mother’s ring.”

“Wha-“ Dean scowled. “No, he didn’t. He was goin’ with one he bought.”

“Maybe he changed his mind,” Mom shrugged, and Dean shook his head.

“No- No.” He crossed his arms, shifting on his feet. “No, ‘cause- Grandma Dee- You said that was gonna be mine, Ma-“

“Okay,” Mom turned around with bright, dangerous smile. “Do you want it now?”

Dean stared at her. He opened and closed his mouth, a fish on a sinker, too caught up on the shiny little bobble prize—making fun of Sam—to realize he’d been hooked and pulled up for a brutal gutting. Mom’s smile widened. Dean huffed and laugh and made any other kind of noise, to avoid answering the question. He glared at her. It didn’t seem to have much of an effect.

He had already bought a ring.

He was kinda planning to do a double thing. Two rings, higher odds. She’d only take one—She wasn’t good at taking Dean’s gifts that cost him twenty bucks, a ring might send her into cardiac arrest, but Dean was more than happy to kiss her back to life—but Dean would save the other a little down the line. He was thinking something like propose with Grandma’s ring, in three months, after they moved in together, in his car, around sunset ‘cause it made her look all pretty and golden. Dean would take them out somewhere almost as gorgeous as Her, they’d get out to see the view, She’d get back in the car, Dean would go down on the knee. Then, at the wedding, Dean would work into his vows that he bought the other ring after a month of dating, because he wanted Grandma’s but he couldn’t stand to wait that long to know. Then She’d kiss him, and it would be awesome and romantic, and Dean would keep out-romancing all her little chick flicks for the rest of their lives.

Something like that. He was open to changing details, like where he proposed, or what kind of dress she was wearing to the wedding. The rest was kinda set in stone.

And he’d been quiet for too long, at the grocery store. Mom caught it. He didn’t really have a way out, and looking at soap turned into twenty questions about Dean’s future.

At least he got to talk about Her. It was the only thing better than talking to Her. And he bought her some new soap, since they’d been there so damn long. He pressed it into Her hands with a kiss, when he got home.

“Long trip for soap,” She mumbled against his lips, and Dean chuckled.

“You got no idea, Princess.” He cupped the back of Her neck, dragging his thumb over the curve of her jaw. “My Mom’s got requests, by the way.”

Her eyes widened. “Your- Your Mom- Did you- You didn’t talk about me-“

“’S all we talked about.”

“Why,” She whined, dropping her face into his shoulder.

“Why?” Dean chuckled, petting Her head and swaying them back and forth. “Well, don’t know if you got this yet, baby, but I’m kinda in love with you.”

She grunted. It was the cutest sound Dean had ever heard.

“You want me not to talk about you?” He murmured.

She was silent for a moment, Her fingers brushing against his abdomen, making heat bloom in his gut, sending a hungry shiver up his spine. “Are you saying nice things?” She whispered, and Dean laughed again.

It earned him an earnest, worried glare, and he shook his head, kissing Her brow, then her nose, then the very top of her lips. She watched him under fluttering lashes, turning the soap nervously in her hands.

“De…” She breathed, and he hummed. “What are you saying-“

“Nothin’ but nice things,” he said gently. “Couldn’t think of something bad if I tried.”

She doubted that. It had satisfied the little monster in Her brain for a second, before She started thinking and pouting all over the place. Dean had been able to see the parasite turning behind Her eyes, grinding apart every bit of praise and affection he offered her, looking for a point where the sweetness went rancid. Checking for rot in the foundation, because She’d spent too long scrambling to repair that kind of decay in herself, and still didn’t fully understand that Dean was here to do nothing but help.

He knew She couldn’t stop herself. Habits broke hard. Dean knew better than damn anyone. He still think he was doing enough for Her most nights, until it was ten at night and she was dragging him away from washing Her dishes because she just wanted him in bed. She’d tell him to pick the movie, and he’d wait for Her to join him on the couch so he could read her reaction to everything he scrolled past. She told him he was trying to do too much. He never thought he was doing enough, and She stayed through his three AM apartment pacing and angry silences on the couch, when he curved a little too hard into himself, and just needed to hold Her and remember she still loved him, even when life wouldn’t allow him to stay at Her feet.

So Dean didn’t mind holding Her over his chest that night after dinner, rubbing small circles on Her hips and watching her frown at his lazy smile. She gave him a million hollow examples of things to complain about. He batted every one of them away without thinking.

“I’m here all night, sweetheart,” he told Her when she started getting restless. She huffed and grabbed one of his hands, turning it between Her’s.

“What did your Mom want me to do?” She asked softly.

“Nothin’ big,” he said. “Just- All girls.”

She frowned. “All… girls?”

Dean nodded, kissing the back of Her hand. She frowned at him. It took a long moment.

Then Her eyes had widened, a pretty flush bursting over Her cheeks, and Dean laughed.

“Don’t worry, I told her to wait-“

“I can’t control that!” She shrieked over him. “I- I can’t- It’s you. You and your stupid sperm-“

“Stupid?” Dean feigned hurt, and She shook her head frantically.

“No, not- Not you- But- What if we only have boys,” She started to wiggle above him, and Dean’s grip tightened on her hip.

“Princess…” He said through gritted teeth, but She didn’t hear. She rarely did, with those kinds of warnings. Not until Dean was so hard it hurt, pressing almost into Her ass and pinning her against his crotch.

“She’s going to hate me,” She kept rambling, clinging to Dean’s hand like a lifeline. “I- I’m only going to have boys and she’s going to hate me-“

“She ain’t gonna hate you, baby,” he tried to soothe Her. He should’ve known better.

“She might! She might hate me- Oh- Oh my god-“

Dean grunted Her name. She still didn’t hear.

“We’ll just need to keep going until we get a girl,” She said firmly, nodding like she was planning some kinda war strategy. “At least one- That will make her like me.”

“She already likes you- Sweetheart, I was just makin’ a joke.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him. Her eyes were getting all shiny and glazed. Her voice got small, and Dean was the one holding on too tight now. She rolled Her hips, trying to curve into Herself, and his jaw flexed.

Christ, She was so warm and soft. So Dean’s, in his shirt, sitting on his chest like it was the only throne She needed, flushed and babbling about something so far in the future, but so close when it was falling out of her lips. He got why wild animals got all territorial about their mates now. He didn’t need anything but this forever, and someone trying to hurt the one thing he wanted to be his, he could throw more than fists about it.

She looked seconds away from an apology he didn’t want, so Dean rolled her over and kissed Her until she stopped thinking. It was easy. It was always so easy, to just get lost in the humid friction of their bodies. Dean didn’t need to worry about the world when it was under him, smiling so sweet and thrashing under his touch.

“Sensitive,” he cooed in Her ear, running a featherlight touch up her thigh. “Always so sensitive, Princess. ‘S fuckin’ adorable.”

She whined and grabbed his wrist, pinning it against the place where he hip met her leg. A small patch of skin that made her spasms, when Dean so much as dragged his fingers against it. He smirked, and did just that. She let out a sweet, high whimper, pushing him further down. Dean had to take a long, slow breath, when he found that large, dark spot on her panties. He pressed his face into the crook of Her neck with a groan, letting himself explore her soaked folds over the fabric, sucking a dark, possessive mark and flicking his tongue over the ache. He rubbed Her clit in tight circles, and she moaned, grinding up into his touch.

“That’s right,” he muttered, licking a stripe up Her neck. “That’s a girl, takin’ what your needy little pussy needs, c’mon-“

Dean pressed his palm flat, and She mewled, arching off the mattress. Dean’s shoulders stung from the drag of Her nails, but he didn’t care. The burn of his cock—trapped in his sweats, but tenting and rubbing against Her soft tight in a way that made him almost drool—made all the patience worth it.

“Gonna be so warm and tight for me, aren’t you,” he rose up, enough to grab Her jaw and force eye contact. “Gonna let me fuck you until you’re so stuffed it’s runnin’ down your leg tomorrow, make everyone know you’re fuckin’ mine.”

Tears streamed down Her cheeks, but Dean knew them well. There were the tears that made Her small, that he wiped with his thumb while he cradled her in his lap, and there were these tears. They only popped up when he had Her so helplessly trapped against him. When She got so overwhelmed and horny she couldn’t speak, but the second Dean tried to pull away, she chased after him like she was in a heat.

And he’d barely touched Her, but her legs were already spread and Her eyes were glossy with need. Dean narrowed his eyes and slapped Her pussy. She keened and grabbed his wrist on her jaw, rolling her hips and batting her lashes.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered, because there was nothing for him to do but pray. “Look at you.”

She leaned into Dean’s touch, and he swallowed. He didn’t think She’d ever understand it. Just how much of a goner he really was. He could’ve stayed there all night, fucking Her with his hands and mouth when his dick needed to take five, then sliding back into Her heat and giving her a real, proper fill of what she so clearly needed. They would’ve been exhausted in the morning, but Dean didn’t care. She’d reek and glow of his attention. Sleep was worth losing, for that.

But awesome days didn’t last. And Dean didn’t sleep that night, for far, far worse reasons.

Jess called, before Dean could even get Her off on his fingers. And they had a problem. A big problem. A problem that meant Dean was going to have to sleep alone and wake up alone and drink coffee alone in the morning, while She got ready for Graduation by herself.

Sam thought Dean was staying in a motel. That he was only driving a rental, so he’d be fine carpooling to the ceremony as long as he got to drive. It was a good plan. Smart. Save money, save the environment, whole shebang. Dean would’ve jumped on it, if there wasn’t the problem of the lie.

He wasn’t in a motel. He was at Her place. And Jess—in a rare moment of kindness—had tried to talk Sam out of it, but Sam said they were going to offer, and if Dean didn’t want to go with them, he should probably go with Mom and Dad.

Dean did not want to go with Mom and Dad. He was gonna be stuck to them all day anyway. He’d rather shoot his damn brains out, than put up with questions all morning about his job and his girl, little  comments about his stubble getting too long and Sammy graduating college when Dean only had that high school diploma Dad didn’t seem to think he even deserved.

She took over the planning for him.

“We can work it out, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, wrapping his arms around Her stomach. “Hell, why don’t we just tell Sammy right now-“

“Because,” She snipped, and he sighed.

“He’s gonna find out eventually-“

“He’ll find out next week. When we’re all settling, and he can have space to process. Telling him now will just- He’ll be so mad-“

Dean kissed Her shoulder, toying with the sleeve of Her shirt. “He’s gonna be pissed no matter what, baby-“

“Well, I don’t want him to be pissed tomorrow.”

Dean had sighed, and She’d finally looked up from her phone. Dean could see all those gears, grinding and sparking against each other, almost violent in the way they smashed and molded Her thoughts. He ran his thumb down Her nose, and her eyes crossed trying to watch it. A smile ghosted his lips. She gave him a soft, hopeless stare.

“Please,” She said, and Dean gave in.

Sam called with the plan Jess had warned him about. Dean agreed—he didn’t have much of a choice—and gave Sammy the address for the motel. She booked the room on Her phone, right as Sam echoed it back. Dean sighed, and kissed Her cheek, muttering an acknowledgement. The moment Sam got over the secret dating thing and Dean was allowed to be pissed about this, he was gonna smack the kid for taking this away from him, even for a night.

She dropped him off with a sad smile and soft kiss.

“Stay here,” he murmured, pulling Her back before she could walk out the door. “C’mon, you can take off before Sammy gets here-“

“Dean-“

“We can say your dad is here too,” he bumped Her nose. “And you’re lending him your car, but he snores, so you’re sleepin’ with me.”

She laughed. Dean knew the no was coming, so he slotted his mouth over her’s and devoured the sound. It would tide him over until morning, when She left, and he was left alone in this stupid motel room, swinging his leg and glaring around the room.

He’d gotten too used to Her place. This felt like he was in the doghouse, and he didn’t like it one bit. He tried to sleep, but the bed was too big, and the mattress was too cold. He grabbed the spare pillow and hugged it, but it was a mockery of Her warm, perfect body. He tossed and turned until the red light of the alarm clock seemed demonic, and every passing car on the road made his head hurt.

Dean flipped on the beside lamp, and shuffled over to the couch. The TV didn’t have anything good, but the drull of the sound made his eyes heavy, and he drifted through the late hours of the night, his arm slung over the couch, looking for Her presence even when he knew it wouldn’t be there.

Then, a little after midnight, there was a knock on his door. Dean rubbed his eyes as he stood, half expecting Sammy to be on the other side, demanding Dean do something to prove he was ready for tomorrow.

Instead, it was Her. Blinking up at Dean with red eyes and swollen lips. She hugged Herself tight, and Dean smiled faintly. He opened his arms. She walked into them without a second of hesitation, and Dean pulled Her close.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He murmured, and She shook her head against him.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Her words were soft and small. “Needed you.”

Dean grinned at the air and kicked the door closed. “Well, you got me, baby,” he said against Her brow. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She hummed, and let Dean walk Her back to the bed. He kissed all over Her face, as the settled into the sheets, and she knocked out before Dean even got the blanket over their bodies. His eyes lulled, to the sound of her soft breaths. He watched Her drool over his chest, watched her nose twitch like a bunny, watched her face twist strangely when She groped the mattress—a pout already overtaking her features—then relax the moment Dean wove their fingers back together.

He passed out in thirty, and woke up with the sun leaking through the curtains. The red clock seemed gentler, than the night before. The motel seemed warmer, even with the chill of the morning mist, and Dean didn’t have to wonder why.

It was always, always, just Her.

Dean slipped out to get coffee and muffins—their favorite kind, because Dean hadn’t bothered with a favorite muffin until She had one, and now it was his favorite because it tasted like Her—and checked for Her car in the lot. Near the back, blending with all the others, a little shit of a parking job, but it just made him smile. She was always so shit at that, it was adorable to watch Her try.

He came back with to Her sitting up in bed, peering around the bedroom and wrinkling Her nose at the empty space next to her.

“Mornin’, Princess,” he slipped inside, ducking down to kiss Her pout and pass the coffee into her hands. “Big day.”

“Hmh,” She blinked at the coffee, then Dean. “Where’d you go?”

Dean held up the muffin and She looked a little more awake. She reached for it. Dean pulled it back with a grin, and a kiss to the tip of Her nose.

“Deeean-“

“You gotta get up and shower, baby.”

“But I want the muffin-“

“And you can have it,” Dean flicked Her nose, then soothed his thumb over the hurt. “And anything else, soon as you take a shower.”

She glared at him. Dean raised his brows, holding the muffin high over Her head. She looked at it, shifting on Her knees, and Dean could see her next move from a mile away. He raised it higher, and guided the coffee out of Her hands, taking the smallest step back.

She lept for the muffin, and Dean caught Her around the waist.

“Dean-“ She shrieked, and Dean chuckled, using the momentum of Her swinging legs to get her over his shoulder.“Dean- Wait- Ohhh-“

Dean wasn’t above playing dirty. She wanted to wiggle, he’d tease the back of Her thigh and splay a possessive hand over Her ass. His fingers brushed Her core, and she made the most beautiful, pathetic sound he’d ever heard.

“Sorry,” he kissed the part of Her thigh pressed near his face, and it didn’t really matter if he meant it or not. She made the same pretty noises all the same.

“You’re so mean,” She whined when he lowered Her onto the sink, and Dean chuckled, brushing the hair away from Her face.

“If you think this is mean, sweetheart,” he cooed. “I think I might’ve been spoiling you rotten.”

She flushed, and Dean dragged his thumb over Her lower lip. It really didn’t matter if he was on the money or just teasing. She should be spoiled rotten. He should be treating Her so well that, when they had that good life and She got roped into book clubs with all the other wives, She’d be shocked by the kind of shit their husbands pulled. She should come home ranting about how awful the norm sounded, shoving Herself into Dean’s lap and never once wondering if it was normal for him to drop everything in his hands, just to hold her there.

“Take a shower,” he kissed the corner of Her mouth. “I’ll drive you back, then tell Sammy I’m comin’ to pick him up.”

She hummed, glancing over Dean’s shoulder. “You won’t…” She looked back to him, then the shower.

Dean snorted. What kind of man was he gonna be to say no. “Gimme five,” he told Her, and it was like dangling a carrot in front of a rabbit. She almost bounced off the sink, stripping and darting into the warm water Dean had already started to run. He slapped Her ass and grabbed Her neck, tugging her carefully back for one more, long, deep kiss.  

He hated having to leave Her for five seconds, but he wasn’t going to drop the ball just to get his dick wet. He slipped back into the room, fishing around the couch cushions for his phone. He’d call Sammy, tell the kid to wait for him to pick them up, then run under the water with his girl. He’d wrap around Her, teasing his fingers over the lips of her pussy, kissing away her giggles and sweet moans of his name, pulling Her apart in the steam before pushing her against the wall and making sure she felt him, all damn day-

Someone knocked on the door, and Dean’s hands fumbled. The phone dropped and hit the carpet, in perfect time with the next knock.

He swallowed, and looked between the two doors. She was behind the good one, with the water running and Her clothing—unmistakably her clothing, from size to style to color, it was more damning than the pictures of Her on Dean’s phone—and behind the other…

Dean’s jaw clenched. Son of a bitch.

“Dean?” Sam called, pushing on the doorknob. “Dude, I know you’re in there, just- Open the door-“

“I’m comin’, Sammy, geez,“ Dean yanked the door open, throwing on a casual grin like a pair of sunglasses. “What’re you doing here so freakin’ early, I’ve barely even had breakfast-“

“You can have it in the car,” Sam shrugged, looking past Dean into the room. “Look, you’ve got- What is that, a muffin?” Sam frowned at him. “Since when do you eat muffins.”

Dean huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m diversifying. I’m- Gettin’ adventurous, and-“

“Diversifying,” Sam said doubtfully, and Dean nodded.

“’S what I said.”

“Hm.” Sam looked back to the room. He tried to go inside, but Dean shifted his weight ever so slightly, blocking the path.

Sam gave Dean a strange look. Dean just smiled back.

“What are you doing-“

“Nothing,” Dean said. It was too quick. Sam heard it.

The kid narrowed his eyes. Dean’s smile was starting to feel crazed. Sam tried to push inside again, but Dean shoved back.

“Dean- What the hell-“

“Nothing- Shit-“

Sam tried to whack him out of the way, but Dean was faster. He side-stepped, then threw his shoulder forward, trying to push Sammy back out onto the sidewalk. He grunted with the effort, but Sam barely budged.

“You big- Fuckin’ freak-“

“I’m the freak? You’re the one being weird-“

“I’m not weird, you’re weird-“

“I’m normal!” Sam shouted, and Dean snorted, pushing back.

“So am I!”

“No! No- You’re-“ Sam waved an arm, then looked off to the side with wide eyes.

He said Her name in surprise. Dean’s heart stopped. He rushed forward, ducking under Sam’s arm, unsure of what the hell he was going to do but sure he had to be at her side-

She wasn’t there. Dean stumbled out onto the sidewalk, and found it empty.

Sam rushed past him into the room.

“Son of a- What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean stomped back inside, and Sam laughed, cold and harsher than Dean had been ready for.

He’d never been on the other side of Sam’s righteous glare. Not really. He’d gotten a lot of bitch-face and puppy eyes, but he and Sammy, they were good. They’d been good.

But right now, Sam was looking at Dean like he was low in the gutter and made of liter and mold.

Sam had never looked at him like that. It made Dean’s blood cold.

And Dean realized too late that the shower…

It was still running.

And he didn’t have a drop of water on his body.

“Sammy…” He started, raising his hands. “Listen, it’s-“

“It’s not what I think?” Sam snapped, and Dean swallowed.

“It’s- It ain’t- Just- Let me explain-“

“I’m not the one you have to explain to, Dean! It’s- What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Dean winced, then paused. He would’ve thought Sam was the only one to explain to. “Uh… I don’t-“

“You don’t?” Sam scoffed. “Wow. Just- Wow, dude. You know, I’m glad I never met your girlfriend, if you’re going to put her through this.”

“Through-“ Dean blinked. There seemed to be a massive loop Sam had jumped through without telling him. “Sammy, what the hell are you-“

“What am I talking about?” Sam snorted. “I’m talking about you cheating, Dean! Or are you going to try and tell me that there’s no one in the bathroom right now?”

Oh.

Dean didn’t have any kind of response to that. He wasn’t even sure if he’d just struck gold, or signed his own death warrant. Bright side, Sam didn’t know it was Her. Downside…

“Sam, I’m not a fuckin’ cheater-“

“Yeah,” Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude. Just- Send her away and get in the car, alright? I don’t-“ Sam shook his head. “I don’t have time for this today.”

“You don’t have time for it-“

“No. I don’t.” Sam looked Dean up and down, letting out a slow, almost pained breath. “You know, this is why I didn’t want you with her,” Sam said Her name, and Dean’s hands curled into fists.

“Don’t- Don’t fuckin’ say that-“

“Why not? It’s the truth! You- You just never take any of these relationships seriously, Dean, even the girl you say you’re in love with you cheat on-“

“I’m not cheating-“

“Then who the fuck is in the bathroom, huh? Just a friend? Some girl who really needed a place to crash, and you’re just- You’re so generous you told her you had bed and shower-“

“Sam!” Dean roared, and Sam’s mouth snapped shut.

They stared at each other. Dean had a million words crashing up his throat. Admissions and declarations and cruel sneers. He worked his jaw to keep them down. He wasn’t gonna do this here. She’d be so pissed, and he could take a little bit of Sam’s wrath, to keep Her heart steady.

“Just- Gimme a break, alright,” he muttered. “I can explain this,” he waved a hand. “I swear. But- Not right now. Ain’t even had my coffee yet, right?”

He tried a weak smile.

Sam didn’t return it, and something dropped like a stone into his chest.

“Fine,” Sam muttered, shooting a distasteful glare at the door. “Just- You know it’s wrong, Dean. I know you do. Whoever’s in there, she can’t be worth-“

“She’s worth anything,” Dean raised his voice over Sam’s, not caring if it was a confession. She’d need to hear it. Sam needed to remember it, for when this blew up in all their faces. “And you can judge me all you want, Sammy. I wouldn’t change a damn thing I did.”

Sam sighed, and he didn’t even seem pissed anymore. Just… Disappointed. Like daring to expect more from Dean was something he always knew would fail. The horse with the skinny legs, that he’d bet on, knowing it wasn’t gonna do anything but come in dead last. Dean felt sick. He looked at the door, wishing he could just slink back to Her side and let the weight on his shoulders melt, hot and shameful, slipping off him like a shedding skin. She’d stroke his hair and tell him he was alright. She’d love him, skinny legs and all.

But Sammy shoved past him, and told him to just get in the car. Dean lingered. He scribbled a note for Her on the motel pad, and Sam poked his head back in with a scowl.

“Stop leaving your number-“

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean folded the note, making sure the lines were all matched up. She’d hate it if they weren’t. “I’m comin’, don’t just your panties stuck up your ass.”

Sam made a bitch face, and marched back to the car. Dean followed, looking over his shoulder every five second. Jess gave him a strange look in the car, and he gave her the tiniest shake of head. Sam was sure to snitch, but—for some reason—Dean knew Jess wouldn’t think he was cheating for a second. She’d think he was an idiot, but that seemed to be unavoidable.

But Dean would rather be an idiot than an asshole. He’d tried both. He thought he was getting better at being neither.

Pulling out of the parking lot, Sam’s glare burning through the mirror, Dean was starting to feel like he was both.

Worth it. In a sea of lies, that had been his one, glowing lighthouse of truth.

Anything that let him have Her, it was always going to be worth it.

Sammy’s pissed at me. Might try to stop me from speaking to you all day. I’ll figure it out. Love you, Princess.

Yours,

DAW

You keep the note in your pocket, all day. Turning it over between your fingers until it’s wrinkles, shredding just the edges, but making sure the words remain intact. The sun beats you into a sweaty daze, through the ceremony. You’re restless in your chair, pressed between two strangers, forcing yourself not to turn around and look for Dean. You know he’s here, with his parents. Here for Sam. Not you. Not officially. The only people here for you on paper are Bobby, Jody, Claire, and Jo. You’ll be going with them, after this is done. Dean will go with Sam and Jess, and you won’t have anything but your note until he gets home tonight.

But when they call you on stage, you almost can’t help it. You smile at Bobby cheering for you. You laugh at Sam—always taller than anyone else—clapping loudly from the line.

You look for Dean, and only relax when you find him.

Near the back. Standing instead of sitting, his eyes shining onto yours through the crowd. He’s grinning, arms crossed, pride shining on his face that feels like a cool breeze, through the rushing heat of the day.

You relax, and the rest of the ceremony passes in a restless blur. You know you cheered for Sam and Jess, but after that, it’s a rush of bodies, all swimming against the tide of everyone else, trying to find their family first.

Claire tackles you from behind, and you scream loud enough for it to echo.

“Fucking- Claire-“ You whirl around and find her giggling, obvious pride shining over her face. “I could’ve punched you-“

“But you didn’t,” she gloats. “You just screamed like a baby.”

She’s lucky she’s still small and cute. You’d drown her in the bay if she wasn’t.

Jody and Bobby come too slow behind her. Claire scurries behind Jody when you pretend to go at her, and Jody laughs, giving you a hug and low congratulations. Bobby smiles at you, small but real, and squeezes you tight.

“Good one, kiddo,” he mutters in your ear, and you smile, patting his back. ‘

“Thank, dad.”

He grunts, and shuffles back to Jody with his head bowed. She rubs his shoulder and gives you and amused look. “All day,” she whispers, loud and amused. “He’s been seconds from cryin’ all damn day.”

“Shut it, I ain’t-“ Bobby rolls his eyes, under Jody’s stare. “Whatever. Claire, you give her the flowers?”

Claire’s eyes widen. “I- Um- I mighta-“

“I got ‘em,” Jo pushes her way past two massive men, shoving the bouquet into your hands. “The gremlin left ‘em on the chairs.”

They’re beautiful. The moment is beautiful. You let yourself sit in it, holding the flowering instead of Dean’s note, satisfied with the love in front of you, around you, and sinking into your skin. You’re going to go to dinner with your family, and go home, and ahead of you there’s nothing but endless sky and the future.

Sam and Jess find you through the crowd. It’s a quick conversation. Jess is beaming and Sam—who’d seemed pissed about whatever fight he had with Dean before the ceremony, though you hadn’t dared to ask—is almost relaxed.

And they remind you of the party. At their apartment. With their families, and a few of Jess’ nurse friends, and Dean.

You helped plan it. You got the drinks and made Dean make cupcakes. Between the sleeplessness of last night and the chaos of the morning, you’d forgotten.

And you don’t really have a good reason, not to say yes.

Things turn into a blur again, so so fast. Bobby and Jody take Claire back to the hotel to change—she’d been getting restless, and they probably want a break from the noise—but promise to meet you there. Jo rides with you, watching you carefully from the corner of her eye.

“Where’s Dean?” She asks, too cautious to be casual.

You try to shrug it off. “Probably with Sam.”

“He ain’t gonna congratulate you-“

“Sam still doesn’t know we’re together,” you mutter, and Jo’s mouth falls open. “Look, I- I know-“

“You still haven’t fuckin’-“

“I’m planning to!” You whine. “I- I am, okay, it’s just- Not now. He and Dean are already fighting about something, I- I don’t want to make it worse.”

Jo sighs—her long, dramatic sigh, so filled with judgement you can almost feel it like a sunburn—but drops it for now. You know she’ll bring it up again. You hope you have a better answer when she does.

But tonight, everything seems to just be morphing into something about survival.

It’s the small things. They pile up like matches on your back, the weight slowly turning from a nuisance to something unignorable.

The first one is John Winchester. He opens the door when you knock, and looks you up and down like you’re tracking mud.

“Who’s this,” he nods to Jo, and you pull her closer to your side.

“My friend.”

John’s nose twitches. “She Sammy’s friend too?”

“We’ve won trivia together,” Jo snips for you. “We’re basically besties now.”

John grunts, and steps aside. You think he at least knows that he can’t kick you out. That doesn’t make it any easier to ignore the sting of his every word and glare, stripping away the tougher layers you’ve so carefully built, reminding you of how small you’re supposed to be.

This would be the part where you’d usually find Dean, and let him shield you until you felt strong again. But you walk into the living room, and two more matches drop at once.

You’re not allowed to talk to Dean. Not like you want to. You can’t shuffle over to him with your head down, knowing he’ll immediately guide you into his arms.

And you’re not allowed to step between him and one of Jess’ nursing friends, with her perfect hair and long eyelashes and easy smile. She’s fawning over him, almost dripping with desire, pressing close enough that you’re in your right to rip off her press-on nails, if only for making Dean uncomfortable. He’s leaning away from her, not laughing at most of her jokes and scanning the crowd every few seconds. He grins when he sees you. The nurse takes it as a smile for her, and steps further in his path. You almost find it in you to laugh, and Dean’s sour expression.

Almost.

The matches are piling too high too fast, and it’s starting to make your shoulders ache.

Dean can’t get away from the nurse. Jess even notices and tries to call her away, but Sam pulls her back and mutters something cold you can’t make out. He’s been stiff all day, and he’s only getting stiffer. He’s avoiding their father—all of you are—but there’s no avoiding Mary Winchester, and Sam gets caught in the web first.

And while Sam’s in the web, you get caught with one of Sam’s science friends. He’s sweet. Nerdy, in an endearing kind of way. He smells a little too heavily like cologne, and he laughs so aggressively at all your jokes, it almost doesn’t sound real. It’s better than Kai’s sneer. It’s nothing close to Dean’s low chuckle, like he never expects you to knock him off his feet, every single time.

You can feel his glower, from across the room. It’s directed over your head—purely at Sam’s friend—but the laser focus still grazes your hair. You wish you could do something about it, but the guy keeps catching you every time you try to get away.

First it’s another one of Jess’ nurse friends, gossiping about how hot Dean is, when you’re not allowed to scream that he’s yours. Then it’s Mary, asking you hushed and thinly veiled questions about you and Dean’s plans for the future.

Then it’s Sam. You know he doesn’t mean to be mean, but when he’s stressed, it always oozes through the cracks.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

Sam gives you an unimpressed look. “Your magic boyfriend. The perfect one. Couldn’t even come to your graduation, huh?”

You swallow. “Sam-“

“Never mind,” he says your name, shaking his head. “Just- Forget it.”

You try to go after him. You’re not sure what you could possibly say, but you would’ve figured it out. You would’ve, if the guy—you can’t even remember his name—didn’t appear behind you again, asking questions you can’t hear about your plans for the future.

And you realize the matches are being shoved down your throat now. That you really can’t fucking breathe, and it’s not going to better, and you need to scream or cry or collapse right here, in the middle of the room.

You manage to slip away on shaky knees, shutting yourself in Sam and Jess’s room. You sink to the floor, your back pressed to the bed, and draw your knees to your chest. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. Nothing is happening that needs to be screamed about. The world is hardly ending, but your brain won’t stop trying to convince you that the ground is falling out from under your feet. You’re hyperventilating and shaking like a child, walking through a waking nightmare you can’t even begin to describe. It’s just loud and bright and cold and hot, and you can’t fucking breathe-

“Hey, hey.”

Dean says your name urgently, taking your face between his hands. You don’t know when he got there. You don’t really care.

“Princess, sweetheart- It’s alright, okay?” He ducks down to your eye level, gently guiding your puffy eyes to his deep, worried ones. “Tell me what’s wrong, I’ll fix it, and everything’ll be alright. Yeah?” He gives you a small smile, running his thumb down your nose. “I’ve got you. Just- C’mere-“

Dean pulls you right into his chest, and he must heard your weak sniffles and known they were wind before the storm. Dean’s warmth wraps around you, and you stop trying to fight whatever pain had wormed its way into your bones. You cry until you can’t breathe, your heart bleeding out of your throat with your tears. You hold onto Dean, determined that if he’d could possibly drift away, he’d have to take you with him. He pets your head and rocks you back and forth, switching your places so he sits on the floor and you’re cradled in his lap.

It slowly eases, and then begins to pass. It always does, but having Dean is like a lifejacket. You don’t have to thrash through the storm, and if something knocks you down, he stops it from keeping you there. He gently lifts you up, even when you try to sink. Cupping your cheek and wiping your tears as you sniffle, watching him through glossy, blurred eyes.

“Somethin’ you wanna talk about?” He asks gently, and you shake your head because there really, really isn’t.

Sometimes you just… Fall apart.

“You know that if there is,” he says slowly. “I’m not gonna be pissed. Even if it’s- I dunno. Something you think might make me pissed.”

You tilt your head, and his throat bobs. “What would make you pissed?” You whisper, and he shrugs, suddenly avoiding your gaze.

“I dunno, just- You’re a big shot now.” He smiles weakly. “And I got my car and some good hands, but- If you think you deserve better-“

“Dean-“

“I’m just sayin’-“

“Dean,” you brace your hands on his shoulders, and he swallows. Your fingers brush the nape of his neck, and he drops his face into your breasts with a groan, hugging you tight.

“You’re too good for me,” he mutters, and you laugh.

“I just had a panic attack over nothing-“

“Not nothing,” Dean mutters knowingly, a shadow over the words before he eases himself, and grins. “And you looked pretty doin’ it.”

You roll your eyes, smiling at the air. You’re never going to be sure how he does this so fast. Just makes everything… better.

“You think they offer degrees to people who ain’t smart?” Dean mumbles, and you lean back with a frown.

“You are smart,” you grab his face, and he grunts, still glaring at your breast. “De, you are-“

“Uh huh,” he gives you a wry look. “What’s that thing you’re always tellin’ me? You love me, you don’t count?”

You pinch his cheek, and he laughs, pushing up for a quick kiss. You turn your cheek, and he groans, palming at your ass.

“C’mon, sweetheart, just one-“

“No,” you shove his chest. “Tell me why you want a college degree all of a sudden.”

“Eh,” Dean shrugs it off. “Doesn’t matter, it ain’t about me. Your big day, I’m not gonna bitch all over it-“

“I already bitched all over it-“

“And you earned that,” he pecks your cheek before you can stop him. “I’m here for nothin’ but love and support and, if my lady allows it,” he slips his hand under your skirt. “Sex stuff.”

He wiggles his brows, and you giggle a little breathily. “If she allows it?” You snort, and he hums, grazing his lips over your jaw.

“Yep. She gets kinda bossy, likes jumpin’ my bones then acting like I got poison in my mouth.” He nips at your nose. “Keeps me young.”

You try to roll your eyes. It’s hard, when he’s so pretty. “You are young.”

“I dunno, baby. Sammy seems to think I’m a grave-robber-“

“Sam’s dramatic,” you dismiss. “You’re worldly.”

“Worldly.” Dean snorts. “Jesus, just call me freakin’ old.”

“No,” you drop your brow against his, and his throat bobs. “You’re worldly, and you’re mine.”

Dean’s hands tighten on your hips. His voice get low and rough, and you know you’re in the best kind of trouble. “Yours, huh?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “And I- I love you like this. With your car and bitching, and- and your hands.”

“And my hands?”

“Mhm,” you press your ass down, and he grunts, closing his eyes like he’s in pain.

He groans your name, watching you under lidded eyes. You blink at him, lips parted and breathing heavy. “Easy…” He warns, and you nod.

But you don’t really listen.

And Dean is so very good at so many things. Keeping his hands to himself around you has never been one of them. 

He twists his neck in a last, useless fight, and surges up for a kiss. It’s possessive and heavy, all spit and teeth, his hands groping your thighs and waist and his fingers dancing quickly over your panties and bare skin. You push at his shoulders when he wraps an arm around you and presses you down on his crotch. He holds you tighter, his cock pressing against your core, and you let out an undignified sound, rolling your hips down.

Dean groans and moves to his knees. He settles you down into the carpet, pushing your knees up to your chest with one hand and pinning your wrists over your head with the other. You whine and writhe, his cock bumping around your ass, never offering quiet enough friction. Dean kisses and nips at every inch of your skin, keeping you trapped below him, and the heat pooling between your thighs begins to become unbearable.

“De- Deeeean-“

“I know, baby girl,” he mutters, squeezing your wrists. “Gonna make you feel good.”

His lips graze a pulse point, and your back arches. You can’t get away from his hold, but his knee presses to your core, and you start to shamelessly grind against it. It’s not much, but the friction makes you pant, and Dean’s mouth sets you on fire, and you’re so pathetically at his mercy that even the small circles his thumb is drawing on your wrist feel like lightning. He lets go of your wrists for a second, just to yank your dress down, exposing your breasts to the cold air. He wraps his lips around one nipple, swirling his tongue, and you think you see stars.

“What the fuck?!”

Your eyes fly open, right as Dean tongue flicks and your core pulses so hard you can’t fight your moan.

Sam stares at you from the doorway, his mouth hanging open, his eyes almost bulging out of his head, and you weren’t actually being insane, before.

The world is actually going to end.

✦Part 11✦

✦End note: do you guys see how the story just... keeps gaining chapters. help.✦

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The afternoon rush had settled into the familiar rhythm of County General’s Emergency Room, every monitor beeping in a different cadence while stretchers rolled in and out of trauma bays. Yn sat beside a middle-aged construction worker with a six-centimeter scalp laceration, carefully irrigating the wound before placing another neat interrupted suture. Doctor Benton had assigned her the straightforward case before disappearing with Carter to assist on an elderly woman who had arrived in respiratory distress. Lydia stood nearby documenting the treatment, smiling as Yn chatted reassuringly with the patient. Across the room, Carol and Haleh exchanged amused looks because, as usual, every nurse seemed to have unofficially adopted the sweet, hardworking student into the ER family.

“You’re doing nice work,” Lydia said as she handed Yn another packet of 4-0 nylon. “Dr. Benton actually complimented your knot tying earlier. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Yn laughed quietly. “I think that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.” “That was a compliment?” Carol called from the desk. “For Dr. Benton? Absolutely,” Haleh answered with a grin.

The patient chuckled. “Well, I think she’s doing a beautiful job. You’re a beautiful doctor.” “I’m not a doctor yet,” Yn replied politely while tying another square knot. “Just a medical student.” “Still beautiful.” “Thank you,” she answered professionally. “Now hold still for me.”

Lydia checked the supply cart before frowning. “We’re almost out of antibiotic ointment in here. I’ll grab another tube and some fresh gauze.” “Could you bring another saline syringe too?” Yn asked. “You got it, honey. I’ll be right back.”

As Lydia disappeared into the supply room, the bay suddenly felt much quieter despite the chaos outside. Yn leaned closer to inspect the wound edges, completely focused on obtaining good approximation without excess tension. The patient watched her instead of the ceiling, his expression slowly changing from friendly to something that made her uncomfortable. She noticed it immediately but continued working, hoping he would remain cooperative.

“So,” the man said with a crooked smile, “you got a boyfriend?” Yn kept her eyes on the suture. “I’m just concentrating on getting your head stitched up.” “That’s not an answer.” “It also isn’t relevant to your treatment.” “I bet somebody as pretty as you has guys lining up.” She tied another knot and cut the suture. “Sir, I’d appreciate it if we kept the conversation about your injury.” “Oh, come on. Don’t be so serious.” “I’m being professional.” “I like that.”

Yn reached for another suture, her voice remaining calm. “Please stop flirting with me.” Instead of stopping, the man leaned slightly toward her despite the instructions to stay still. “Maybe after your shift we could get a drink.” “I’m not interested.” “You didn’t even think about it.” “I don’t need to. The answer is no.” He laughed dismissively. “Everybody says no first.” Yn finally looked him directly in the eye. “I’m telling you clearly that I’m not interested. Please respect that.”

For a moment he seemed to settle back against the stretcher, and Yn returned to the repair, believing the conversation had ended. The silence lasted only a few seconds before she felt fingers suddenly wrap around her wrist with surprising force. Her breath caught as the patient yanked her closer, making the chair beneath her scrape loudly across the floor. His grip tightened enough that she instantly felt pain radiating through her forearm.

“You’re prettier up close,” he murmured. “Let go of my wrist.” “You don’t have to act shy.” “I said let go.” When he pulled harder instead of releasing her, Yn reacted instinctively by standing up so abruptly that her rolling stool shot backward and crashed onto its side. The loud clatter echoed across the nurses’ station, instantly drawing several heads toward the treatment bay. Yn stood as tall as she could despite her trapped arm, keeping her voice firm and unmistakably loud.

“Let go of me.” “No.” “Let go. Now.” The patient frowned as if offended by her refusal. “You’re making a scene.” “You are hurting me.” Before the man could say another word, someone moved rapidly between the curtains. John Carter had heard the chair hit the floor while assisting Benton nearby, and the urgency in Yn’s voice erased any hesitation. He crossed the bay in two quick strides, immediately seeing the patient’s grip around her wrist.

“Release her,” Carter ordered sharply. The man scoffed. “Mind your business, boy.” “This is my business.” “I’m just talking to her.” “You’re grabbing her.” The patient tried pulling Yn closer again, but Carter stepped forward and firmly pried the man’s hand away before positioning himself between them. “You do not touch hospital staff without permission.” The patient sat upright angrily. “Don’t push me.” “You’ve already assaulted her.” “What?” “Stay on the stretcher.”

The raised voices had already attracted more help. Doctor Greene entered almost immediately with Malik close behind, both recognizing the situation before anyone had to explain it. Mark’s calm expression hardened as he looked directly at the patient. “What happened?” “He grabbed her wrist,” Carter answered. “I barely touched her,” the patient protested. Malik folded his arms. “Funny. Doesn’t look that way.” Mark pointed firmly toward the mattress. “Lie back now.” “I’m leaving.” “No, you’re staying until we determine you’re medically cleared,” Mark replied evenly. “And security is on the way.” “I didn’t do anything.” “You grabbed a member of our staff after she repeatedly told you no.”

The patient muttered under his breath but reluctantly settled back while Malik remained beside him, making it obvious that another attempt would not succeed. Mark began assessing whether additional sedation or restraints would be necessary while calmly explaining the hospital’s expectations. Carter, meanwhile, had already turned all of his attention toward Yn, whose breathing was finally beginning to steady now that she was no longer trapped.

“Can I see your wrist?” he asked gently. Yn nodded. He carefully lifted her hand, taking care not to squeeze where the patient had held her. A faint reddish outline of fingers had already begun darkening into purple beneath her skin. Carter rotated her wrist only slightly, stopping the instant she winced.

“Does that hurt?” “A little.” “Here?” “Mostly there.” “I don’t think it’s broken.” “No,” she whispered. “Just sore.” “You’ll probably bruise.” “I figured.” “You should still have someone examine it.” Yn managed a small smile despite everything. “Thank you, John.” He looked almost embarrassed. “You don’t have to thank me.” “I do.” “I didn’t really do anything special.” “You came.”

Before Carter could think of another awkward reply, Yn leaned forward and placed a quick grateful kiss against his cheek. His entire face froze in complete surprise, his ears turning bright red almost instantly. For several long seconds he simply stared at her, speechless, while she smiled warmly despite the aching wrist.

“You’re welcome,” he finally managed. Carol appeared beside them with Haleh only a heartbeat later. Carol gently took Yn’s uninjured hand while Haleh already had an ice pack wrapped in a towel. “Come on, sweetheart,” Carol said softly. “Let’s get that wrist looked at.” “I’m okay.” “We know,” Haleh replied. “Humor us anyway.” Carol glanced toward Carter with an approving smile. “Nice job.” He blinked. “I… thanks.” “We’ve got her from here.”

As the nurses guided Yn toward an empty treatment chair, she looked back once and gave Carter another grateful smile. He instinctively lifted his hand in a shy wave before realizing everyone was watching him. His expression remained completely dazed, somewhere between relief and disbelief, while Carol and Haleh disappeared around the corner discussing ice, elevation, and documenting the workplace injury.

John continued staring after them until a familiar voice broke through his thoughts. “Carter!” He turned abruptly. Doctor Benton stood beside him with his arms crossed. “You finished admiring the scenery?” John blinked again. “What?” “The patient in Curtain Three still needs a central line.” “Oh. Right.” Benton studied him for half a second before speaking in his usual dry tone. “You did the right thing.” John looked mildly surprised. “But standing here daydreaming won’t help anybody.” “Yes, Dr. Benton.” “And Carter?” “Yes?”

Benton allowed the smallest hint of approval to cross his face. “Next time, get back to work five seconds sooner.” John couldn’t suppress a sheepish smile. “Yes, Dr. Benton.”

You sweep through long halls in a dress that flows behind you, covering the shadows with lace and silk. You run out to the empty yard and slam into Dean, right where you knew you’d find him. Standing with the stake in his hand that he drops, in favor of spinning you off the ground and cradling your trembling body. One hand cups the back of your head, and the other digs into your hips. You trip trying to pull yourself closer, and drops a thick arm under your thighs, hauling you up into his arms.

He’s warm. So warm you let yourself pretend this is real. You bury your face in his neck and dig your nails into his neck. Wherever he is—the real Dean—you hope he can feel the dull, claiming pain. You hope he knows that you brush wet, swollen and tear stained lips over the crescent dents after, trying to push them a little deeper into his skin. You’re allowed to be possessive and selfish here.

Because, no matter how much it hurts you to know, it’s not real. 

Dean guides your face away from his neck, tugging your hair gently, forcing your gaze onto his. Tired, glassy eyes flicker like a jumping engine, a heart being shocked back to life. His mouth works in that tiny way, where he’s trying to think of something to say but only seems to know how to touch. He brushes your hair once, twice, and third time with this thumb sweeping over your cheekbone, his lips parting with a long, broken sigh.

You press a tender, worried kiss to his lips, and he snaps. His hand fists in your hair. He stumbles back like he’s been punched, kissing you until you’re both breathless and drunk on a phantom taste. He trips his way to a soft pile of grass in the courtyard, somehow managing not to come up for air. Dean lands flat on his ass and holds you over his chest, attacking your neck and jaw with brutal lips, sucking tiny bruises before flicking his tongue over the ache. You dig your fingers into his hair, biting back wrecked moans.

Dean grabs your chin, squeezing your cheeks and shooting you a stern, lust-blown glare.

“Don’t be like that, Princess,” he mutters, grazing his mouth over your puckered lips. “I gotta hear you. Lemme hear you.”

He traces his fingers teasingly up your side and nips at your lower lip. You let out a high, pathetic whine, and he smirks.

“There she is.”

Dean kisses you again, before gliding his mouth back down. There isn’t an inch of your skin he doesn’t seem determined to mark. Your moans echo off the courtyard walls, and his grunts vibrate against your skin, sending tiny, sweet shivers up your spine. Your shirt gets peeled off, so he can mouth at your breasts. He traces the curve of your ass and sits you right on the growing bulge in his pants, but never does anything more than rock his hips.

If Sam ever got a peak in your head, he’d vomit and then say something about you not even letting yourself feel good in a useless fantasy, and then you’d punch him in the face. Holding Dean after he cuts off the… other stuff, it’s just as good as anything else. You just need him, really. To be close for a fleeting hour of rapid sleep, where you can trace over his Golden features and beg the stains on your skin to keep you dirty, because the idea of being clean sounds so harrowing you think it might eat you alive.

“You doing alright up there?” Dean murmurs against your skin, his face buried between your breasts, and you nod.

There’s a long, aching sting at your eyes. You hug his head and breathe deeply, trying to burn the sweet smell of cinnamon into your nostrils. 

Dean says your name, splaying his fingers on your lower back. He tries to lean back, but you hold him in a headlock, the tears streaming down your cheeks. He grunts and pries at your forearms, grabbing your wrists with light hands and forcing your grip to slacken. He smiles faintly, at your scrunched up, snotty nose and red eyes. It’s tired. Everything about him seems tired, but he still smiles, as if you’re the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, taking both of your hands between his. “It’s gonna be alright, you’re gonna be alright.”

He kisses his knuckles, trapping yours, and you sob so hard it shakes your body. You’re not worried about you. You’ve learned, for better or worse, that you really always will get through it. The universe doesn’t seem all that open to letting you tread down that other path.

But you’re worried about him. You’re worried about him in a way that almost cleaves you in half, that threatens to be the only thing that could possible overrule the universe, that frays the already weak threads that stich up whatever foul, glorious thing you’re made of. You’re held together by hooks and needles, at this point. You’re twisting yourself into knots that half ease right here, in Dean’s arms, but all that happens is your heart spills and spills and spills, until the rotting grass is overgrown and stained with silver dew.

Dean glances down, but doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t say much but soft reassurances, until you’re able to speak again. His thumb pets down the bridge of your nose, and—if you’re shaking so much the ground starts to shake with you—he flips you onto your back and hold you until you the weight makes you breathe.

Tonight is one of those nights. He traces over your face with the most cautious touch, his face twisted with a heavy, painfully blatant longing. Hooded eyes shine, scanning over your crumpled features. His mouth hangs open, like he’s trying to inhale you, the same way you hold his fisted hand over your lips. Just trying to get a little extra of something you’ve never been able to be satisfied with. Something that’s never going to be able to be close enough.

“Better?” He rasps, when your breathing steadies. You shake your head, your lips wobbling and he sighs. “Yeah, I know.” He kisses your brow, brow knitting like he’s in pain. “I know.”

He never tells you much, but there isn’t much your brain seems to need to hear. Sam’s alive. They’re working to get back. Dean loves you, and he swears up and down and left and right, on his both his babies—you and the damn car—and his mother and brother and Scooby Doo boxers and Led Zepplin cassettes, that he’s going to come home and say it to your face again. You tell him he already has, and he laughs and tells you that you have no idea. He asks you about things, every single time. How’s Claire. How’s Jo. Are you talking to Cas again, have you spoken to Eileen at all, has Crowley come crawling out from underground. You tell him the truth, and sometimes he makes a face like he wants to argue. Sometimes he does argue, and you think you miss him so much you’re going mad.

“You gotta talk to Cas, sweetheart, who the hell knows what the angels are up to-“

“No.”

Dean sighs your name, and you shove his chest with a flat hand.

“You talk to him, if it’s so important.”

“I’d like to,” Dean mutters under his breath. “Could tell him to talk some sense back into your smart ass.”

You shove him again, and he just catches your wrist and guides it away.

“I’m serious,” he says, strict and heavy, even as he drags his thumb over your knuckles and uses a soft, coaxing tone. “If I get back and you’re still fightin’ with Cas, I’m gonna be pissed.”

And you just hold his gaze, your throat closing up so tight the words have to break to get out. “So come back,” you whisper. “And prove it.”

India is hot in the middle of April. Wet and hot, mud always coating your boots and dirt getting under your nails, a sticky warmth filling up your lungs with every breath, a million smells that remind you of Dean flooding your senses and making you press your lips tight enough to crack.

He’d love it here. The people and the food, the bartering and the TV and, again, the food. He’d pull you through the markets with your hands locked, spending half an hour talking to one seller about his fish before storming off for a reason he sputters trying to explain. You’d kiss his cheek and ask if he wants to go fishing. He’d light up like a child and drag you back to the hotel, kissing all over your face as you stumble through the door, giggling like a lovesick fool in his arms.

Instead, you lean against the old table in the warehouse, sharpening your knife and ignoring the muffled curses of the man in the chair. Bobby’s bottle shines green, in the dim, flickering light. You kick your bag a little away from your feet, dancing and humming while you wait for everyone to calm the hell down.

For him, specifically, to calm down. You tied him up in the nice binds, you’ve given him a lot of wiggle and breathing room—Jo was worried he’d get out, you know he won’t—and brought him some very expensive and stolen lamb that he didn’t get to eat, because he tried to bite your fingers off. He’d have it pretty good, if he’s stop overreacting. You’re the one who should be freaking out, and you’re perfectly calm. The Silver is bright and smooth and calm, iced over your veins and melded into your muscles. It moves when you move, and screams when you scream, and it’s like learning to walk all over again, but you’re doing it. And you’re calm.

Psychotic, the man before this one said. You sliced his hand open and dripped salt on the wound, for that one. It wasn’t the claim, but the way he said it. Like you were just some crazy, scorned bitch. Which another former captive called you, and he lost his tongue, but he’d also crossed your very, very clear line about Claire, so you think he earned it.

That’s why this one can call you whatever the fuck he wants. You’ve been called worse, and you’re past caring what kind of whore or slut or bitch or cunt you have to be. If anything, it’s a compliment. It means they’re afraid.

The man spits something, then chokes and thrashes the chair. The chains rattle unpleasantly against the floor, and you shoot him an unimpressed look.

“Neal, I can’t understand you,” you remind him, and his eyes narrow. “And remember what we talked about? Good behavior?

Neal’s face curls and contorts into something like a sneer. You sigh and spin your knife in your hand, pushing off the table with a tiny kick of your feet.

“This,” you wave the blade over his general, rather rude demeanor. “Isn’t good behavior. This isn’t how we earn speaking privileges again, buddy. I don’t want to have to remind you again.”

Neal’s eyes flash with fury. He growls something and you stop right in front of him, crossing your arms and scanning over his locked down body with a frown. He’s been here almost two weeks, and all you’ve really gotten is an uncooperative attitude and a lot of insulting comments about your body. You would’ve thought he’d give up after a while. The rest of them did.

You tap your foot and chew on your lower lip. Neal’s gag is getting dirty, but it didn’t exactly start clean. Maybe you’d soaked it in dirty dish water, before stuffing it in his mouth. He deserved it. He made a comment about Claire that he was lucky to survive.

Luck that came with being one of the last Alphas left. If there had been hundreds of them before, the count is down to double digits. You, Cas, and Crowley sort of did a lot of damage to the population, leaving only the smart ones that evaded capture, and know to stay underground. Those are the ones like the Alpha Vampire, who you haven’t been able to find after months of looking.

And then there are the ones who didn’t get caught because they were too stupid to be worth it.

The ones like Neal.

There isn’t a corner of the Earth you don’t think is worth ripping up to find Dean. For a week after Michigan, you thought God might have taken him. Jo barely managed to talk you down from truly, fully losing it, and she only got the chance because of your exhaustion from killing Eve.

“You felt God grabbin’ me, right?” She’d said, holding your hands and pleading in a way that was so unlike Jo, you’d managed to focus on her words. “You told me, you felt God yankin’ me away, just like you felt my mom. Like you felt him tryin’ to grab Bobby. You woulda stopped him, if he was goin’ for Sam and Dean. You woulda,” she’d squeezed your hand, even as you’d stared at her with empty eyes. “I know it. You know it. Hell, God himself knew it, so- Wasn’t him.”

You’d blinked at her, and nodded slowly. She was right. It couldn’t have been God. He’d vanished from the sky again, so you couldn’t ask, but you knew. One of the only things that had saved you, in that moment, was that you hadn’t been wrestling with God to pull Sam and Dean back. You would’ve detonated, if you had. But instead they’d just vanished, and you’d been hit by the despair before the wrath.

It had been long. Long and harrowing and cold, in the week after. Jo says you barely spoke, and you have to believe her, because you don’t really remember that much otherwise. It’s all a blur of a bed that didn’t have the warmth it was supposed to, showers that you were afraid to take and scars of Gold you traced with trembling, fearful fingers. The only sharp memory is the fight with Cas, and even that is sanded around the edges. You’d drifted until Jo reminded you that it couldn’t be God, and it had been like slamming against a rock. 

If it wasn’t God, it was something else. Something weaker.

You could kill something weaker. You could do it without destroying yourself, and dragging the rest of the world down with you. You could get Dean home.

In the days after that, you’d moved fast. Kevin had been sent off with Meg, who promised to keep him away from Crowley. You and Jo had packed up Bobby’s house and left, looking for something. Anything, that would even tell you where Dean had landed. That would tell you how to get him home.

“Listen,” Meg had said before you separated, low and careful. “Things like that bone? My daddy told me to be careful with them.” She’d given you a pointed look. “Told me they had kickback.”

Kickback.  

A rebound of power, Rowena had explained. An aftertaste, but everyone in a few yards gets it shoved down your throat. Dean and Sam got dragged somewhere. All you had to do was drag them back.

Which means all you have to do is figure out where they got dragged.

It’s a harder task, than you originally thought. You’ve gone after countless people and beasts and entities for answers. God convicts who were willing to talk without anyone needing to be tortured, rogue angels who looked for you to help, demons who you trapped and witches and cult members who got to find out exactly how many of the rumors have been true. And in all of them, from the annoying to the unless to the rude, Neal is, by miles and margins, the fucking stupidest.

“I’m going to take out your gag,” you tell him slowly, leaning down over his chair. “You’re not going to call me any names, I won’t cut out your tongue, and we all win, okay?”

Neal eyes the weapon, inches from slicing his cheek. You smile sweetly and flick your wrist, taking out a lock of his hair, and he flinches. Like a little fucking bitch.   

“Okay?” You prompt again, and his throat bobs.

He nods. You beam, and saw at his gag with a wide smile. The cloth falls and you let it hang around his neck, watching with raised brows and a warning curve to your lips. Neal glares at you, and you tip your head, letting your hair brush over his cheeks. He recoils back, his breathing shallow and hot over your face, and you smile in slow, smug satisfaction.

“That’s a good boy,” you purr, drawing yourself back up.

Neal—the idiot—snaps.

“You little fucking bitch-“

“Ah,” you slam the gag back up to his mouth, choking him on the fabric. His eyes flicker, hatful and beady and small. You sigh. You really wanted to do this the easy way. “That’s not what we talked about,” you tug the fabric tighter, and he grunts. “I’m being very nice right now, and you- You didn’t even eat the food I bought you! Do you know how hurtful that is?” You roll your eyes. “And- Even if I didn’t buy it, I still got it for you. And you call me a bitch? Rude.”

You shove him back and let go of the gag, taking a large step back before he can spit in your face.

He tries. He always tries, because he’s an idiot. You dodge it without blinking, but it lands only a few inches away from Bobby’s bottle. The old wood sizzles and hisses under the venom. You turn back around with a furious flurry and rage in your chest, a growing winter storm that Neal seems to feel, with how he goes still.

“Do you know what happens?” You ask slowly. “If you destroy that bottle.”

Neal opens his mouth. You don’t give him a real chance to respond.

“I kill you,” you spit, taking a large step forward. Neal’s fingernails and lips are starting to go purple. The warehouse creaks under your feet, as slow frost spreads over your feet.

“I didn’t hit the damn bottle,” Neal tries to snap, but it’s weak. His voice cracks, and his eyes are too wide. You hold a finger to your lips and shake your head. He swallows loud enough that you can hear it, and you smile.

“I kill you,” you repeat, honeyed and low. “And then I track down every one of your children, and I kill them too. Then I open Purgatory, and I kill all of you all over again. Do you understand.”

Neal’s eyes narrow. For a second, you think he really might be stupid enough to test you, but he only nods.

“Great,” you spin you knife, kneeling down to his height. “See? Isn’t it easy to listen to me?”

Neal’s mouth ticks. He still doesn’t speak, and you sigh.

“Now, I know you’re going to try and tell me you have no idea where the Leviathan bone goes, but if you do that, I’m going to have to cut off your hand. And I don’t wanna do that. It’s gross, it smells bad, now I have to get rid of a hand- You get it,” you shrug. “So, if you’d be so perfectly kind to think a little bit harder, maybe we can figure out a version of this where you only lose your finger.”

The column of Neal’s throat works. His jaw does a funny little motion, and you grab his cheeks with a sigh, pressing the knife to his throat.

“I told you to stop doing that, it’s not going to work.”

“Fuck-“ Neal pushes out the words through his teeth little bits of spittle landing on your skin.

It burns, but the sores heal in seconds. Cockatrice venom doesn’t do much to you, apparently. It’s still annoying to have to heal it.

“Fuck- You-“

“Everyone’s trying,” you say dryly, pressing the knife down until a thin bead of blood coats the blade. “Where is my Dean.”

“I’ve told you, I don’t fucking know-“

“Liar,” you lean closer, eyes narrowing. “I know you’re a liar, I know what Mommy taught you, I- I fucking know-“

Your voice breaks, and the frozen coating over your hands is giving way to pure, raw wrath. You will get him back. You have to get him back. There is nothing ahead of you, if you don’t get Dean home. This power is useless if you can’t find him, life is useless if you have to feel all of it but you don’t get to have something that’s just yours, everything has been nothing if you don’t get to have Dean.

And Neal sees it, between the shattered cracks of the Silver, waxing and waning like an ocean storm, crashing up high enough that the chains turn to roots and the pain under all of it becomes so obviously, dangerously clear.

Most Alpha and demons caved under it. They’d been trying to barter or mock, not understanding that the rumors about you and Dean didn’t cover the thinnest scope of your love. You’ve long learned that people talk about the Winchesters and their strange little monster. The demon boy and his black eyes and breakdowns. The brute hunter that carves through anything in his way, to get to his baby brother and his girl.

The Magdalene. The Whore. The Bride, who’s stuck herself to the brother’s side and sleeps in the brute’s bed. They say everything about you and Dean. That you fuck like rabbits, that he sits at your feet like a dog, that you follow him around like a lovesick schoolgirl and crawl into his lap with blood on both your hands.

And yet it takes that peak behind your fury, for them to get it. To understand that they are not looking at some tragic little star-crossed love, some Bonnie and Clyde pairing that talks big and shoots bigger.

They are looking at a Horror. They are looking at something that can’t fit in their little minds, who could sweep over lands and mold them in her name, who could hold the stars in her hands or bring paradise to the earth, but only wants one, perfect, sweet idiot of a man.

And you don’t have him right now. There’s no Dean, to tell you that you need to sleep, or breathe, or think your plan through a little bit harder. They call him the Brute Winchester, but he was the only thing that could ever get you to bow your head for a leash. He could’ve saved them. He’s not here, so there’s nothing but you, and an unending pain that you need the world to fucking feel.

Neal sees it. He blinks and leans back, under the blinding floodlight of the truth. They all do.

But most of them see it as something like a supernova, that’s going to consume them if they don’t look for cover or cower.

Neal is an idiot. Neal smiles.

“You don’t know how to get him back, do you,” he coos. “Little Whore, bragging about killing Eve and not even able to find her little boyfriend. You’re what they’re afraid of. You can’t even track him like the fucking mutt you’re supposed to be.”

You cover Neal’s mouth with your hand. Your eyes squeeze shut, your breathing shallow, your palm burning at Neal tries to bite it.

You are the weight of the roots under your feet, happy to be alive, to be connected, to grow instead of sink. You’re the cold fear of the ground, worried the heat will come, but won’t be enough to thaw it. You’re the sky far overhead, filled with so much it’s not sure what to call itself, unsure what it even is if not empty.

It is everything. You are everything. The leather cord of Dean’s amulet is stuck to your skin, trying to hold onto you when he can’t, and you are everything.

This Alpha is nothing. So you make him everything too.

When you open your eyes, Neal is frozen. His eye sockets have been overgrown with flowers that burst from under the lids and through the pupils. Grass and thin weeds grow under his nails. You uncover his mouth, and branches burst forward, a million tiny birds taking off in a swarm. You wipe the trickle of water that falls down his chin and sigh.

Better than the last one. He got a little too confident, said that Dean was probably hiding from you, or begging God to take you so you’d leave him alone, and got turned into a pile of brushel and kindle that burned rather easily, to nothing but flecks of ash in the air. You think Dean would be proud of you for controlling it. Neal only got turned into a blooming corpse, once he earned it.

And he was wrong. He was wrong. You press your hands flat against the table and take deep breaths, repeating it over and over and over. Pushing the thought out of your head like a parasite being fished up your throat. You will get Dean back. There is nowhere in the universe that you can’t reach, no cage you can’t rip open to get back to his side. Lucifer and Michael couldn’t hold you. Some little rebound of a magic bone isn’t going to out preform God’s favorite sons.

But it has. You haven’t found him.

But you will. You will. You chew on the inside of your cheek until you taste blood. Your fingers twitch and curl, trying to burrow into your palms, and you scrape them along the table instead. It starts to hurt, the pressure building under your skin and bubbling over in your chest. It hurts more than the brief sting or stab of a bite or cut ever would. You squeeze your eyes shut and grab your knife, driving it straight into the wood. You lean over, rubbing your face like you can push back the burn in your eyes and heavy stress on the bridge of your nose. A dam, threatening every second to break.

You pinch it and try to breathe slow. If you let yourself drown in the blood, pounding in your ears, you can almost hear Dean’s voice, coaching you through it.

In and out. Easy for me, Princess. Just breathe. I’ve got you.

He doesn’t have you. He said he was going to. He said he wouldn’t leave and now you’re fucking alone, suffocating on thick air in a warehouse, grabbing at wood like it’s not just going to rot under your fingers, and you’re not about to slip away into nothing, nothing, nothing, you’re going to be nothing again and you should’ve saved him, why didn’t you save him, what foul kind of use are you to the world if you can’t save the best thing about it, if you can’t do anything but cry and run around and be nothing-

Your breathing is ragged. Sharp. There’s a dull sting to your palms, and you open your eyes to find you’d started scratching at your palms until you drew thin lines of blood. You swallow, a boulder settling in your throat that you’ve never been able to dislodge alone. Bobby’s bottle shines in your periphery, knocked onto its side and cradled in a little nest of grass and leaves. Containing yourself when you use your powers- It’s a work in progress. You right the bottle with a mumbled apology you know he’s never going to be able to hear.

And you think you almost got away with it. You drag Neal’s body out back, and flick Dean’s lighter until you’ve got a sweet little flame going. You watch it for a moment, bending light in the sunrise. It seems to know you’re not Dean, whenever you use it. There’s a shadow of distrust that almost puts it out, but then it realizes it’s you, and that seems to be close enough.

You know it sounds crazy—even for you—but all of Dean’s things miss him. You wear his shirts to bed, trying to pretend he’s still there to hold you in the dark, and the fabric clings to the Gold on your skin the same way you cling to its collar, inhaling every last bit of cinnamon and grass until you can almost pretend Dean is there. You have his keys in your pocket, and they keep begging you to drive back to  an empty home. They seem to think that he’ll be there, and don’t listen when you tell them that he’s gone. He never goes, they demand. He’s just waiting for you at home. And you shake your head and clean his guns—and you do a bad job, but he’ll fix it when he gets home—and they seem to be the same kind of restless he is, where they’re itching for something to get in front of. Something to defend. They ask you with every touch, if your safe. They beg you to let them help, when you tell them you’re fine. The bullets say they exist to lodge in the skulls of your enemies. You tell them they’re being a little dramatic, and put them back in Dean’s actual bullet box with a sigh.

And you really, really almost get away with it.

Neal’s body burns, and you throw the rest of it into the backwoods river, asking the water to carry it where no one will ever find. You go back inside and clean up, rubbing your eyes and fighting a yawn. You’ve been up all night. Your eyes are drooping and your skin is raw and sensitive, a live nerve that wants to peel off your iron-heavy bones. There isn’t an artery in your chest and neck that isn’t trying to burst. A joint or tendon in your gut or legs that doesn’t want to snap. You hold it together, with the thinnest of wires. You jabbed them through every inch that threatens to unravel and pull them tight, because you don’t have the privilege of falling apart.

But you’ve never been lucky enough, to not have something go rancid and soft. To not trip over the only loose stone, and plunge face first into freefall.

You stuff all your tools and knives—you lost the Blade, throwing it at Dick Roman’s eye, and replaced it with a smaller set Claire found in China—into the bag. You wrap Bobby’s bottle in a woven cloth and wedge it between your books. You check the ground for anything else, and there it is. The loose stone. The branch that your wire catches on, that pulls you right apart.

Dean’s box slid a little under the table, when you kicked over the bag. You have to stretch to grab it, and frantically wipe off the quickly gathered dust and cobwebs. Your fingers linger on the latch. Your knees draw to your chest, and you stare at the silver detailing until your vison blurs.

Hot tears land on the back of your hand. A shattered, uncontrollable sob rips from your throat, and your shoulders pull tight. You’re curling into a ball around the box, dropping your face between your legs and shuddering with every single breath. The air feels like it’s burning up in your body. The soil beneath you becomes rich and wet, and the wood behind you mends from time, setting down roots in a place nothing else has been allowed to stay.

You scream so loud it bounces off the walls, and outside, the river seems to scream back. Lightning cracks, somewhere faraway. You scream again, and thunder rolls through the air. It’s loud because it’s trying to find him. Because if it’s loud enough, it will glow like a beacon in the dark, and Dean will come home.

You need him to come home.

It’s a while, before you’re able to stand again. Your legs are shaking, and there are no warm arms to hold you upright. You wipe your own tears, and little dandelions bloom when they hit the muddied earth. You gather yourself, because no one else will, and that was only a fissure. You can stich up a fissure.

A break—a true, untenable break—will not leave a living world in its wake. Not a world that isn’t molded to your hands. Salvation. Damnation.  

You wonder if Azazel knew that the only difference between the two would be whether or not you got to have Dean. You’re sure he didn’t. He would’ve let Dean die in that hospital bed if he did. Long before you could save him. When you weren’t capable of much more than squinting at a soul or stomping out a demon like a spider that jumped on you in the shower.

It would be the easy thing, to let yourself break. But this world deserves better than a righteous blight. There are still things in it, that you can find to be beautiful. The river spit up nuggets of gold, gathered on the bank like shells on a beach. The morning glows like you’re wandering through Dean’s heaven, when the sun splits over green mountains. You have Bobby in your bag, and you’re going to get him back. You have Dean’s box, and if you explode, you’re never going to find out what’s inside.

You’ve been telling yourself you’re waiting for him to be back. You know, deep in your gut, that you just can’t. You can’t name why. You can’t justify it. But you cry when you see it and you don’t want to open it without him.

You don’t want to do any of this without him.

You have to. It’s either that or giving up, and you’ve been running too long to let your feet fail now. You’re going to get through this.

You always do.

The motel you’ve been staying at is on the nicer side. You have a large room and complementary breakfasts. There’s a pool that only has a handful of bugs in it, at any given time. The wallpaper is peeling but the bathroom is clean, and the water pressure is strong, and the beds are covered in so many pillows you can almost shape them into a perfect Dean, whenever you sleep.

Not that you sleep much.

You took three hours, somewhere around twilight, and headed to the warehouse around midnight. You unlock the door and slip inside before anyone should be up.

And yet, waiting for you on the bed with a glare, Claire is wide awake. Her arms are cross and her chin is jutted up in that way Dean used to say was all you. The Lady is curled in her lap, Indy is flopped at her feet, and the Phoenix chick—Sparky, Claire’s been calling him, and you haven’t really been able to stop her—is pecking at her hair. You almost laugh at the absurd sight. Claire doesn’t look that amused.

“Where did you go,” she whisper shouts, and you kick off your shoes with a sigh.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Claire-“

“Yes, I do! What if there was another break-in, what if the police showed up, what if the leviathans came back-“

“Did you have another nightmare?”

Claire scowls. It’s not an accusation, but you know she takes it as one. She’s trying to play up the gum-like toughness Dean always carried with his every word and step. The sense that bending him was impossible, without him snapping back like a rubber band. She’s been doing that hewn, tight jawed expression whenever the police do come around—you dispose a lot of bodies, and people in India are really annoyingly observant—and doesn’t seem open to hearing that you really don’t need her to grow up for this.

If anything, you’re still a little annoyed she talked you into coming. You wanted her to go back to Jody, but she flat out refused. She locked herself in the Firebird and said she’d go on a hunger strike. Jody said she could take her anyway.

A selfish part of you didn’t want to let her out of your sight. Not after Michigan. Not when there were all too familiar bags forming under her eyes, and paranoid twitch that made your heart ache—that reminded you of Sam—every time the wind got a little too loud.

She’d been allowed to come on the rule that she’d listen, stay out of your warpath, and continue with school. Staying out of the warpath just means no hunting. School just means the homeschooling curriculum you stole from Bobby and Rufus. Dean’s going to have some things to say about that, when he gets home. He’ll be welcome to. He can shout at you and argue all he wants, as long as he’s in front of you. As long as you get to hear his voice.

You dump your bag on the floor and bite your cheek. You’re doing your best with what you have. It isn’t much. It’s better than nothing at all.

“Claire,” you say gently, keeping your voice down. Jo’s passed out, in the other bed. If you wake her up, she’s going to have opinions. “It’s okay if you are having nightmares-‘

“I’m not!” Claire snaps, too fast, too loud. Jo stirs a little, and you give Claire a stern look. She swallows and bows her head, her voice dropping back down. “I’m not,” she mumbles. “I- I just couldn’t sleep.”

You sigh, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Indy eerps, rolling onto her back and nosing at your knee. You rub her stomach, watching Claire in your periphery, letting her words linger in the hum of the fan and wet morning air.

“It’s not like I wake up screaming,” Claire grumbles, and your mouth twitches.

“I know.”

“Do you? ‘Cause you keep saying I’m having nightmares, so it sounds like you don’t-“

“Claire.”

She curls back, under your flat stare. You sigh and lean forward, touching her knee lightly. She keeps her gaze locked down, just as stubborn as always.

“I have nightmares,” you say softly, and Claire’s scowl deepens. “Dean has nightmares. And he never wakes up screaming.”

That makes her pause. She looks up with a poorly hidden surprise, pulling at a loose string on her shorts. You smile sadly and squeeze her knee, leaning a little further. Like you’re telling her a secret, even if you’re sure Dean would tell her the exact same.

“I wake up,” you murmur. “Because he’s not making any sounds.”

“That- But-“

“He snores,” your smile turns misty. Tired and fond and a little smooth around the edges, the weight of missing him settling right at the top of your chest. You stave it off for now. For Claire. “He snores like a fucking machine.”

Claire makes a face like she’s trying to fight off a laugh, and your cheeks ache just a little less.

“So when he’s quiet,” you say, watching her carefully. “I know something is wrong.”

Claire presses her lips in a thin line. She stares down at her fingers, and you let out a slow breath.

“He gets stiff. I realize I woke up because he was squeezing me, or lying on top of me, or just- Grabbing me. His face does that frown,” you pinch your face up, trying to mimic Dean’s worried and angry scowl, and Claire’s throat bobs. “And he breathes really heavy, and I- I wake him up. Carefully, but- I know whatever he’s dreaming about- I- I have to get him out of it.”

And it hurts just to think about. It makes every space around you feel bigger, to speak about him. Some small part of your brain thinks that if you do it enough he’ll just appear, but the rest of you knows better, and doesn’t want to talk about him at all. But that little part, it’s loud. It expands and begs, every time you indulge it. Spreading memories in every dip and space in your ribcage, pushing just to the right of your heart until you think you’re going to burst.

You can almost see him, in the longest corners of the room. The sun plays a cruel trick where the golden light takes his shape, and you can’t help yourself from looking. In case it is him. If it is, you’ll need to grab him before he vanishes behind the clouds. Tell him that if you’re not dreaming of him, you’re having nightmares. The boring kind, where you wake up screaming in a pool of sweat that’s already collecting algae, reaching for him and only finding an empty bed, then screaming louder. Nightmares that would make him take your face between his hands, that he could tell you weren’t real. John isn’t going to kill you in front of him and Sam. Bobby’s soul isn’t going to be ripped from your hands like Jo’s. Sam isn’t going to crumble to dust in your arms, falling apart too fast for you to put him back together.

You don’t know what Dean had his nightmares about. They were rare for both of you, when you shared a bed. After you’d wake him up, he’d bury his face in your chest and refuse to speak until the sun rose, his hands mapping your body and his back flexed and tense until he convinced himself he was allowed to relax. Then all you’d get was a kiss and mumbled thanks, before he clambored out of bed for coffee. You always had guesses. You pieced things together from the low, pained groans and pleas that would push themselves out, before you managed to wake him. You have the same kind of guesses about Claire.

But she’ll talk about it when she’s ready. You don’t need to know what the nightmare is about, to seal over the damage for a single day. It’s just a band aide on an open wound, but it will stop the infection. You’ll worry about the scar, when you’re not trying to keep her from being cut wide open again.

“Everyone has nightmares,” you duck, forcing Claire to meet your gaze. “But they’re just nightmares. The leviathans are gone. Jo can handle the police or a monster, and anything else- I won’t let it hurt you. Okay?”

Claire’s silent for a long while, and you wait. You have no time. You’re willing to stretch what you do have thin, for her.

She nods, and you bite back your sharp relief, just squeezing her knee one more time and taking a deep breath through your nose.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You offer, already knowing the answer.

Claire shakes her head. You glance over at Jo, fully knocked out and starfished, obvious to the world around her. You’d been planning to catch a few hours before she and Claire woke up, but the motel has strong coffee, and you’ve slept less for longer.

“You wanna watch a movie?” You offer, and Claire sits up. You laugh, and it’s small but real.

Dean would be proud.

You settle against the headboard, Claire tucked into your side, the Lady padding over and curling between your bodies, and Indy splayed over your legs, her tail whipping back and forth over the sheets. She’s almost the size of a Great Dane, now. It’s getting harder and harder, to sneak her around. You’ll call Rowena later. Ask about a shielding or illusion spell, or make one up if she can’t help.

Sparky stays on Claire’s head. They seem to have developed a bond you’re not willing to try and break. You offer the chick a finger, while Claire picks out a movie, and he nips you, nudges you for a pet, and then immediately turns back to Claire’s hair.

They motel has most of the channels. Claire asks you what you want, but you know she’s just trying to be polite.

“Whatever you want,” you tell her, and she smiles. She picks an old western that’s near the start of its run, and slumps down into the mattress. You only half watch, your eyes lidded and glazed. You’re all but asleep with your eyes open, the voices and music all blending into a white noise that threatens to lull you into sleep.

“Did they help?” Claire asks quietly, and you frown at her, unsure if you heard right. “Whoever you were- With,” she clarifies, still staring at the TV. “Are they going to help you find Sam and Dean?”

The question is so small. So unsure, like she’s not sure that she’s allowed to ask it. You twist the skin of your finger and tip your head back, trying to let the headrest carry the weight of it. The lie. The pair, that you don’t want rolling off of you and poisoning her.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think they might.”

Claire hums, and it doesn’t matter how much she believes you. She relaxes, and that ease leave a wake, settling over your skin and tendons and knotted organs. You let out a breath, and it doesn’t catch in your throat.

You don’t sleep. Not fully. But your eyes fall, and your body goes as loose as it’s allowed, and you drift in and out of the world without so much as a nightmare or tear. Claire knocks out on your arm, and the sun pushes over the sky and through the curtains. The weight of Indy comes and goes. A door creaks, and you twist enough to see Jo gone from the bed before you’re pulled back under. It’s not fruitful sleep. It’s bobbing through the calmest parts of the ocean, able to breathe, never able to fully rest.

You’ll find the land. You’ll make it, if you have to.

For now, you just drift.

Jo’s at the table with a coffee, when you finally drag yourself out of bed. Indy’s sitting at the foot of your bed, watching you with wide, curious eyes. You tuck Claire—fully asleep, but still angled like she’s  trying to watch TV—under the sheets, and pad over to Jo’s side. Indy bounds after you, dropping her chin onto your knee and whining softly. Jo rolls her eyes and pushes the coffee across the table, shooting Indy a distasteful glare.

“She’s actin’ like I let her starve,” Jo grumbles. “I took her out. Got her- Really the biggest fuckin’ fish you’ve ever seen. I mean, I still don’t know how she got the whole thing down, it was-“

She holds her hands up, almost all the way apart, and you laugh softly. “She’s a growing girl-“

“She’s grown big enough. We’re gonna have to make a fuckin’ stable.”

You raise your brows. “We?”

Jo shrugs. You both know who we is, and it’s not anyone in the room. “He will,” she doesn’t say his name. You think, sometimes, she’s worried it will set you off, like cutting the wrong wire on a bomb.

“Sam thinks she’s going to be as big as the house,” you murmur into your coffee, and Jo makes a face.

“That’s too fuckin’ big.”

“Yeah, but- At least Dean will get to build his barn.”

Jo stares at you, for just a little too long. You know she hears it. Dean will. Sam thinks.

“Have I told you he wants to build a barn?” You ask, still not meeting her gaze. Silently begging her, to just go along with it. Just right now, while you can’t bear to do anything else.

“No,” she says slowly. “Don’t think you have.”

“Well, he does. He told me he wants to build a barn, a farm, a house, and a garage. I told him he doesn’t know how architecture works, and he- He just said he’d figure it out.” You laugh to yourself, watery and almost floating through the air. “The annoying thing is he probably will. He’ll skim one book and say he’s got it, and then I’ll blink and he’ll have a house.”

Jo says your name. You ignore her.

“I mean- One time I asked him how he built my car, and he just said he put stuff together in the way that made sense. That doesn’t mean anything, but- It worked. He always makes it work.”

You choke on the last word. Jo reaches for your hand, and you curl it into a tight fist. She mutters your name, and you shake your head, tears pricking at the edge of your eyes.

“Don’t,” you whisper, staring at the table. “Please.”

Jo sighs, but doesn’t say a word. She grabs your hand, and you immediately grab it back, trying not to dig in your nails. You watch the coffee slush around in your mug. It’s going cold. Everything, from the sink pit in the hollow of your chest to the churning in your gut, is going cold. Jo’s hand is warm. It keeps your fingers from shaking, and that keeps the world from shaking with it.

Sometimes, you wonder why she sticks around too. She could’ve gone with Meg or Charlie or Adam. She could’ve gone with the Amazons. Could’ve left to look for her mom, even if you’re more than willing to be Ellen is trapped with God. But Jo just… Stays. So maybe people stay, and you begin to feel like a leech. Draining them to make yourself bigger. Suctioned onto their kindness, unable to do anything on your own.

You’re learning, that sometimes, people just… Love you.

You lean on Jo until you’re both about to topple, and she holds you up until you can drag her off the edge of the cliff. You press Sam until he’s about to break, and he doesn’t try to lock you out or push you away. You run around like a pigeon that can’t quite remember where home is supposed to be, and Bobby waits for you to remember how to turn around and find your way back. You screw up again and again and again, and you learn so slow and love so quietly and spill your guts all over Dean’s hands and chest and thighs, and he just cleans you up and stays. He loves you, without any kind of payment or justification. You rip yourself up to try and find some part of you that’s good enough for him to touch, for any of them to touch, and they just… ask you to put yourself back together.

They love you more with the cracks, even if they let the infection of you creep out. They love you when you’re small and withered, they love you when you’re consuming and so alive you can’t bear it, and you’re learning it in the slowest, hardest way possible. The way that involves contorting into every possible shape, before Dean takes you and tells you he likes this one just fine. The way that has blood under your nails and dirt on your knees and foam at your mouth, snarling and snapped like a rabid animal until you learn to trust the water again. It almost kills you, but the blood dries, and you-

You get better.

You miss Dean with more than you can fit in your heart, but you eat, and try to sleep, and you stick with Jo and Claire. You miss Dean, and—without realizing it, like the crawl of a shadow across the ground—you never doubt if he’s missing you.

“The alpha get us anything?” Jo asks a little before Claire gets up, and you shake your head. “And- You didn’t-“

You give her an apologetic look, and she sighs you name.

“You can’t keep fuckin’ killing them-“

“He was saying some very mean things,” you snap defensively. “You would’ve killed him-“

“Of course I woulda killed him! But you’re supposed to be better than me!”

You nose wrinkles. “No, I’m not-“

“Uh- Yeah. You are.” Jo rolls her eyes, leaning back with a huff. “You’re ‘supposed to torture ‘em and then say, you think that’s bad,” she turns her voice into a mockery of yours, and you frown. “Just wait until you meet my little friend.”

“I’m not Scarface, Jo-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Your mouth falls open. “No, I’m not- I don’t even- I’d never run a drug ring.”

Jo makes a doubtful expression, and squawks when you throw a balled up napkin straight at her head. Indy shoots over the table, cooped up and eager to fetch, and Jo topples back with a shout. You laugh, covering your mouth with a hand, and Jo chucks the napkin right back at your face. You block it.

You don’t block Indy.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Claire sits up, her hair falling over her face, swollen with sleep. You wish you had an answer that wasn’t childish and insane. You don’t, so you take Claire for breakfast, and flip Jo off over your shoulder.

She’s right, in the long run. Maybe you shouldn’t have killed Neal, but there are other Alphas. Other angels, other demons, other pagan gods that can—that will—help you. You don’t let yourself think of another option, for the whole day. You have to help Claire with school. You have to read and get lunch and call Kevin and get dinner. The world might stop when you’re caving in, but when you’re keeping yourself just upright, when you’re rushing through the day like it’s a current, and you’re just waiting to be spat out the other side, time does nothing but plow on forward.

You read anything you can find. You and Jo scout for leads on other Alpha’s, while Claire does her homework with a sour expression. You look online, Jo makes a few more calls on leads. If you didn’t know better, every day would just feel like a very long, strange case.

“What was that thing you were tellin’ me about?” Jo asks, peering at the translation notes you’ve scribbled through countless notebooks and loose pieces of paper.

You hum, not looking up from the Book. You always think you’ve read all of it, only for new pages to appear out of thin air. It’s suspicious. You’d think it was God, if you didn’t know he hasn’t been watching you for months. “What thing?”

“Y’know, the thing-“

“I tell you about a lot of things, Jo-“

“Yeah, but- This one was all magic and shit.”

You give her a dry, blanket expression of annoyance. She rolls her eyes.

“C’mon. It’s- What the hell else am I supposed to call it?”

“I don’t know? Its name-“

“I dunno its name- It’s-“ She sighs, glaring at the air. “You know, that magic spot thingy. You went lookin’ for one when Dean was- Well-“ She cringes slightly. “Last time.”

Your frown deepens, pulling down in thought. The magic spot thingy. “You mean the Vortex points?”

“Yes- Yes,” Jo snaps, leaning forward with a wide grin. “That. Why don’t we try that?”

“Um…” You look at the book, then the notes. Your hands flex, and your mouth falls a little open.

Why don’t you try that? Why haven’t you tried that?

“Because we don’t know where Dean is,” you answer yourself softly, and Jo’s face falls.

“Oh. Right- That’s- Never-“

“But,” you cut her off, your brain turning too fast to track. “If- It’s stronger there. Everything. Bridges, spells, enchantments-“ You swallow. “Prayers.”

Jo blinks. “You want us to… pray?”

“No,” you close the book, mouth set in a grim line. “I want Dean to pray. Somewhere- Somewhere I’m able to hear.”

Jo’s doubtful. You don’t blame her. Whatever let you hear Dean’s prayer in Heaven, whatever let him call you from across the world, over and over and over again, you don’t know how it works. You know it’s woven just to the right of your heart. You think it might be that part of you that’s embedded in him, that branch of love that grew over him, that he never pushed out. The mechanics don’t matter right now. If Dean is praying, you aren’t hearing it. If you can hear it, you can try and trace it.

“Like a radio signal?” Jo asks, and you nod. She sighs. “But- What if we ain’t able to do that?”

“Then,” you say, dark and firm. “We figure something else out.”

Jo doesn’t argue past that. This is the kind of thing, where she knows far better. It takes you the rest of the day, but there’s a Vortex point in the Himalayas. It’s a long trip. You work out a spell, that will get you there and back in a day. Claire gets clear instructions not to leave the motel room for anything, while you’re gone.

“We’re leaving at sunrise,” you tell her. “We’ll be back by sunset.”

And you don’t say hopefully. You don’t say you’ll try. You will be back by sunset, whether you have something or not.

You hope you have something. You need it. You need anything, to weave into another wire. Another way to keep yourself going, an extension of the rope you’re hanging onto, something metal you can from into a new rail before you reach the end of the line.  And you can almost convince yourself that this, this single, small mission, will be it.

You’ll go to the Vortex point, pull Dean out of the ground like a potato, and go home. If you really let yourself play pretend, you’re going to the Vortex point for nothing but research. You’re going to do some experiments, collect some data, and call Sam on the drive home. You’ll try to tell him about what you found. Dean will try to steal the phone, and Sam will lock himself in the bathroom so he can’t. You’ll smile to yourself, at the sound of him banging on the door. The moment you get home, Dean will sweep you into his arms and kiss you up against the wall.

“Sammy was bein’ a dick, sweetheart,” he’ll mutter, his arms caging you against his body.

You’ll giggle against his lips and pull on his shirt, unsure what to do with yourself but melt into him. He’ll carry you to bed, ignoring your false protests. You’ll sit on your knees when he tosses you onto the mattress, watching with wide eyes and an embarrassing heat pooling between your thighs, as he peels off his shirt. He’ll ask you about the hunt. You’ll forget everything you wanted to tell him, until he smiles fondly, cups your face, and bends down to kiss you stupid.

“Missed me, huh?” He’ll tease, his thumb gliding over the nape of your neck, and you’ll nod. Hopeless. Entirely his, in ways you think he still doesn’t quite understand.

“You have no idea,” you’ll whisper, and he’ll grin like he won a prize.

“You have no idea,” you whisper to the dark.

And if the day passes fast, with odd normalcy and smiles that only bring a little bit of guilt, the night drags. It buries you, until your lungs are stuffed and you’re sure you’re never going to see the morning again.

If you don’t have a lead, you spend the sleepless hours trying to practice. You coax a spring to shoot out of the ground, you ask an old bush to light itself on fire, you convince a river it would be better flowing north. You’re getting stronger. More comfortable, in being everything. It doesn’t hurt, when it’s not against your will. The soreness that lingers in your body after gets smaller and smaller every night, and you find yourself getting bigger and bigger.

You still don’t understand most of what you can do, but no one does. So you just test the limits, and find that the boundary is further past your fingertips than you could’ve possibly dreamt.

It’s a good distraction, until it’s not. Until you remember why you’re not letting the Silver go dormant again. Until you push a little too hard and the Spiderweb flares like the core of the Sun, rocking from the force of a solar storm.

You let yourself be weak. You spent so long in self-pity, so long trying to be small and fragile. Small and fragile things don’t survive in the wild. Small and fragile things get put in cages, and it doesn’t matter what kind of light they’re made of. They don’t have enough of themselves to break free.

Stand tall.

You are.

But it took falling, to learn how. And it cost you Dean, and now you sit on the curb of a packed street in India, surrounded by hundreds of people. Entirety alone.

The darkness doesn’t swallow you anymore, but the brighter you let yourself get, the longer the shadows become. The pain grows like a bacterial infection, finding every place it can settle and overtaking your view of the world. The guilt becomes acidic. The sorrow you didn’t let Claire see presses back up like magma, demanding and burning in your lungs. You wander the streets for somewhere that’s louder than your head, but even the most crowded bar can’t compare.

A million songs, a million men, and million unwanted touches as people shoulder past you or trying to take the empty spot next to you. None of them are Dean, so all of them are wrong. One bold drunk tries to follow you out to the street, and you cover your ears, crouching in the gutter and begging the darkness to swallow you whole.

It doesn’t. It swallows him, and spits him back out when you ask it to. He stares at you with a gaunt, sober face. You smile and know it’s nothing but a manic, crude mask. You leave him on the ground, and keep wandering for that cove you know you won’t find.

It won’t even exist, until you get Dean back. And that just makes the pain bigger. You really don’t know where to put it, when there’s nothing to distract you. It’s just you, and the pain, and everything else in the dark. Rain might fall for you. The wind might pick up, to howl for your grief. The colors dull themselves, and the golden lights glow until the marks of Dean on your body seem to glow brighter than the stars. But that’s still all just fucking pain.

There isn’t a thing you wouldn’t do, just to feel it a little less.

A year ago, you would’ve taken you knife to the soft, unblemished parts of your skin. A punishment for daring to, even in the smallest of ways, be clean. But if Dean comes back and sees new scars, he’s going to have questions, and then you’ll have to answer them, and he’ll make that mournful, adoring face, and you’ll feel all the guilt just slamming back into you like a freight train. So you find other options.

You steal a bottle from one of the crowded bars. You drink until you can’t tell were you stop and the infinite waterfall of stars begins. You wander the streets and smile at the birds. You trip over loose pebbles and they unfurl into silver butterflies that blend into the night sky. You crouch, back on the curb, the bottle tight in your hand, and you whistle until your slow, haunted song is being sung back by every bird in the city.

You smile at nothing, tears streaming down your cheeks. You pour the rest of the bottle out in the gutter, and hope that wherever Dean is, he gets to be drunk too.

Somewhere in your addled brain, you figure out that you’re in no state to go back to the room. You stumble wherever the wind carries you, and find yourself at the motel pool, your feet dangling in the water and the blue, neon light dancing on your bare thighs and hands.

And you know you’ve been here before. And you know you’re going to be here again.

You sit at the edge of the pool, watching the light swim in the water before. It’s beautiful. That irreplicable chlorine blue, vibrant and glowing on your skin in the dark. Quiet wind blows over the marshes behind you. You breathe through your nose and smooth out your tennis skirt. You remember this one. In about five to six hours, it’s going to be coated in blood, and Bobby’s going to burn it in his backyard.

It’s a shame. You really liked it.

You feel him before you see him. The world shifts a little Golden. Warm fingers trace your arms, then your wrist. A thick thigh pressing against yours, and a hand slowly drags up, splaying over your lower back. Chapped lips press to your temple, and you lean your head on his shoulder, letting your eyes drift shut.

“You remember this?” Dean asks quietly, and you hum.

“Of course I do.”

He swallows, loud enough for you to hear. You turn your face into his neck, and he pulls you a little closer. There isn’t a space between your bodies that you leave untended. Your arms wrap around his torso, and his mouth rests on the top of your head. His breathing is slow. Steady. His heart pounds in that way you memorized, before you even let yourself admit that you needed him. You used to press your fingers together until you could feel your own heartbeat, and you’d try to pretend it was Dean. You must’ve gotten good at it. This almost sounds real.

“You were so pissed at me,” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes.

“You called me a spoiled brat.”

“Well- In my defense, sweetheart, I really thought you were.”

You lean back to glare at him, and he catches your chin with a knowing smirk. His thumb drags over your lower lip, and you pout, trying to make your glower the savage, blinding one that lends you that title of Whore Beast. Instead you think you might just be mimicking a bunny. Dean taps your nose, and it scrunches. His smile widens, and you try to hide your face back in his body. He doesn’t let you, holding your chin with a firm but gentle grip.

“Mighta been right,” he teases, light dancing over every word. “Look at you.” He flicks your nose again. “Spoiled brat.”

Your glare doesn’t seem to be focused enough to block out the building eruption from every part of you that matters. It’s made of longing and love and an inability to ever really be mad at him. Not when he says ‘brat’ the same way he says ‘baby’ and ‘princess’. Like there isn’t a thing he could think of, that wouldn’t be endearing. Like there aren’t any words that capture whatever he thinks of you, so he just settles for calling you like a lighthouse, shining only to guide one ship back to shore.

“I am not spoiled,” your voice is breathless, and Dean chuckles, leaning just close enough for you to feel the heat of his lips.

“Guess I gotta step up my game, sweetheart,” he holds your gaze, and your flush might be enough to set this misty, scared little world on fire. “You’re supposed to be so spoiled you can’t even remember what it feels like to want.”

You flatten a hand on his chest for balance. Your lips part, and Dean leans a little closer, his fingers curling on your hip. You take a ragged breath, and his nostrils flare.

And you remember what it feels like to want. You remember it so clearly, because it’s still reflected behind you, fading on the horizon, stretching so long you don’t know how you ever got to the other side. You remember wanting so bad it was cannibalizing, wanting so bad you lost sleep, lost sight, lost balance. You did nothing but want, did nothing but memorize the landscape of a world you were sure you’d never be allowed to step a single, dreadened foot upon.  You wanted so bad you sat on the alter, begging to be a sacrifice he’d use to find himself someone he deserved.

And you remember him walking up to you at that alter, pushing you so carefully down, and using his body to pin you there. To keep you with him, whispering something too close to a vow against your skin, moving the marker of what was holy. The alter was only stone. You and Dean, upon it, where the only things that mattered in the world.

Dean’s brow has furrowed. He’s scanning over your features with worry, his murmur of your name soft. You wrap your arms around his neck and climb into his lap, and he holds you steady with a light, revertant touch. It seems to wash like steam over his whole body. It’s in the way his shoulders relax, in his eyes, gleaming with a pooling adoration, and in the soft, awestruck downturn of his lips. You used to think he only looked at you like this in your dreams. You’ve long learned that if there’s one thing you can never trust, it’s the reflection staring back at you, even only an echo of it on another person’s face.

“I was so mad at you,” you remind him, and his throat bobs.

“I know,” he rasps. “Said that. I think.”

You nod, pressing further forward. “I thought you hated me,” you whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Never. Never hated you, I- Hell, I tried, but-“ He swallows, a desperate edge creeping over his voice. “Couldn’t. Never could. Never did.”

You hum, looking down to your fingers. You trace his collarbone, and you could swear he shivers. “I hated you,” you mumble, and his hands twitch.

“Yeah?”

You nod, and Dean takes a ragged breath.

“When’d you-“

“When you left me,” you look at him under your lashes, and he seems afraid to move. “When you died, and you- You didn’t let me say goodbye.”

“Didn’t wanna hurt you,” he defends, but it’s weak. You just stare at him, combing through the stubble on his jaw. It’s getting longer. You haven’t seen in him in this kind of tight tee-shirt in so long, you forgot how thin they were. How they clung to his arms, how you could see every breath, even the stumbling, unsure ones. That, combined with the thickening, borderline beard he has in your dreams, it’s enough to make you fall for him all over again.

The first time you were here, he had a baby face and a smile that was only smaller than his heart. He slouched more, and never seemed willing to grab you with tighter hands than you held him. You wonder what kind of handprints he would’ve left, if you told him to hold on however he wanted. You think it would be closer to something like now.

You think that if you met Dean with this shirt and those eyes and these calloused hands, you might’ve fallen lower than your knees. You might’ve crashed into him so fast that neither of you would’ve had the time to even consider pulling away.

When he gets home, you’re hiding his razor and dragging him to the mall. He’s earned it. You’ve earned it. He’s too pretty, to bury under layers of ugly lumberjack clothing.

“Do you hate me know?” Dean asks, and you can hear it in the rare crack in his tone. His fear of the answer.

You thought he would’ve known better, from being nothing but a bought of madness, woven together from a love that spreads like a flood across everything you’ve ever known.

“No,” you breathe. “I- I was never good enough at it anyways.”

Dean’s mouth twitches up. He lets out a broken laugh of relief, cradling the back of your head. “Well, I guess we’re made for each other, huh?”

You nod, because there’s nothing else you could possibly be made for. You could cure the world of yourself, of other disease, of the devil and God in one fell swoop or scream. You could walk through the gates of Heaven, you could raze the castle of Hell, take all that promised world and rule over it the way God wants you to. Even without Dean, you’d still be doing it for some kind of love.

There is much, much more you can do than love Dean. But there is no world where you want to do everything, and not have Dean at your side. You have long decided that greatness does not negate your love for him. Your love for him only allows you to be greater.

Dean kisses you, and you press over him with everything you have. He’ll be home soon.

You both tumble into the water, as fast as you’ve always fallen together, and you don’t let go of him until the dream slips away.

Jo woke you up with a glass of water in the face. You told her that wasn’t necessary. She said it was, because you were crying in your sleep. You check the motel mirror before you go, and scowl, because she was right. There are tear stains on your cheeks, and a bloodshot ring around your pupils. You fix it, and ignore her smug look. There’s a job to do. Steps to be taken, that might be forward, or backward, or nothing but a standing march in place.

The fun part is finding out.

“This is- So fuckin’ cold-“ Jo hugs herself tight, bundled in about five jackets and poofy shoes that make her walk like a penguin. “How the hell ain’t you cold?”

You shrug, kneeling in the snow and brushing flakes off your shorts. It was like this at the other Vortex point too. You’d gotten to the top of the mountain in Brazil, and all the jungle heat had just felt like… nothing. Like you were floating through a perfectly regulated room.

“I’m gonna die,” Jo mutters to herself, rocking back and forth on her feet. “I’m gonna die, just ‘cause Dean had to stab a dick, I’m gonna die-“

“Stop saying you’re gonna die,” you tell her flatly, scooping away the piles of snow. “You’re not gonna die.”

“Yes, I am-“

“With that attitude, maybe.”

She glares, hard enough it prickles on the back of your neck. You sigh and sit back, giving her a pointed, expectant look.

“You know, the faster we do this, the faster we go back.”

Jo pauses. She looks out over the mountain—mostly just gray shadows in an infinite sea of white—and her nose wrinkles. You go back to scooping and sorting through your bag, waiting for her to catch up. She huffs. You hum to yourself, pulling out your knife and digging it into the spot you want.

There’s a loud scoff, and the snow shifts as Jo waddles over to your side. You smile at her, and she sticks out her tongue, before quickly pulling it back in with a wince.

“What’re we doin’?” She squints at your knife, and you grab her mittened hand, guiding it around the hilt.

“You’re hold that there,” you say, moving to your feet. “And I’m getting rid of the snow.”

“Alright,” Jo nods, then looks up with wide eyes. “You’re- What-“

“Shh,” you snap, and she snaps her jaw shut, looking from you to the falling snow like you’re crazy.

And you are. But you’re also getting better at it.

You stretch your arms, plant your feet, and close your eyes. You’re the snow. You’re the snow, falling from the sky without care for where it’s going, know only that it is will either find more of its kind and they will survive together in long, strong banks, or it will land somewhere hostile, and die alone. It goes with the wind, because it doesn’t have much of a choice. Not a single snowflake has ever even thought that there might be another way.

So when you offer it, every single one of them falters. Jo gasps softly behind you, and when you try to glare at her, you realize why.

The snow didn’t just stop in your head. Every single flake is suspended in the air, glowing like diamonds over the endless mountains. Rays of sun split through the thick clouds, and the light fractures in a million colors, giving the world an impression that it’s been trapped in a prism. Your hands fall slightly, stunned by the never-ending rainbow, the glory of a world that only carries one kind of life, getting to remember what it hasn’t been allowed to see in countless years. The snow doesn’t move. It just hangs there, clinging to your every breath, waiting for you to tell it what to do.

Jo covers her mouth with her hand, and you take a slow, concentrated breath. You press your hands out, and ask the snow to move, just from here, just for a little while.

There’s a flurry of white. The cold bites your skin for a half second, and you have to cover your eyes. But when you look again, you see it.

The snow is gone. It’s piled up on the edge of the cliffs and flown to other mountains, scattering across the land to grant you access to what you knew you’d find.

The stone courtyard is wide. The columns are tall and the statues of everything from monkeys to lions to tigers are finely detailed with gold. You look at Jo, still crouched on the ground, holding your knife like a life raft. She doesn’t seem sure where to look, and you understand. The temple is massive. A feat of architecture, at this elevation, built likely longer ago than either of you can imagine. You turn in a slow circle, and it would steal your breath if you weren’t so focused on it.

That small, pulsing pull, just to the right of your heart. It’s magnetic, but completely still. You press your hand flat on your chest, almost trying to pull it out, and it gets a little stronger. The Spiderweb sparks in return, and you know. That’s your Dean.

You close your eyes, trying to follow the thin, static thread that powers it like a cable. You tug a little too hard, and everything vibrates and turns to colors and a rush of gold and purple and green and blue and silver. You loosen too much, and it starts to slip through your fingers like fine sand. You kneel down, bowing your head and just trying to feel it.

Just feel it, Princess.

You’re trying. But all you can make out is his voice. Deep and rough in a way you haven’t heard in a while. Scraping at the edge of every word, like he’s hasn’t been drinking water. Croaking in his throat like he’s been shouting. He sounds tired, and it makes your heart flip.

Yet still, you can’t make out a single fucking word.

You try. You try so hard, and Dean’s voice gets so loud you reach back, some instinctive, foolish part of you thinking he’s going to be right behind you. He’s in your ear, saying words that you can’t understand, that you can’t even begin to unscramble, because it seems to be really nothing but noise. You start to pant, scraping at the ground and doubling over. Jo breathes out your name, and you shake your head.

You can hear him. He’s out there, he’s alive, he’s praying to you so why can’t you fucking hear him, you should be able to hear him-

He says your name. It’s clearer than all the snow on the mountains, and your eyes shoot open. You let out a strangled sound, and he says your name again.

“Love you,” Dean rasps, and you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck.

And you scream.

You scream so loud lightning cleaves through the mountains behind you, righteous and desperate to break something the same way you’re broken. You scream until you can’t hear the wind or the snowfall or Jo calling your name. You can only hear Dean. I love you, baby. Baby, I love you, easy, baby, I love you. It echoes around the valleys. Your head hurts so much you think it’s going to split open like a geode. Your back hurts like the sky itself is pressing down, but you’ve never had the resolve of an Atlas. You’ve never had the strength. Jo grabs you. You hold her back, trying to keep your feet on the ground.

The whole world becomes a blur of color and light and Dean’s voice, and then there’s just… Silence.

The hum of a fan. The rustle of sheets and eerp of Indy, romping across the small room as you fall to your knees. Claire says something you can’t hear, and Jo pulls her away. You hug yourself, trying to hold onto just a little bit of it. That kernel of Dean, already melting back into the Spiderweb with the rain, a heavy downpour on the roof, blowing in through the window, turning to something it didn’t think it could be. Something that doesn’t thaw, but flows through every bit of life, in the woods, the streets, the sewers and out into the ocean.

Jo takes Claire out. She says it’s for food. You know it’s so you can be alone, and you’ll thank her for it, when you can feel anything outside of yourself. You don’t want Claire around you like this. Dean would’ve done the same thing.

And he’s out there. You scratch at your chest and wrap a hand around your throat to calm down, but repeat it over and over until it’s embedded in your head. He’s alive. Dean’s alive. He’s out there, and alive.

The Lady curls in your lap, and Indy noses at your hand until you scratch her ears. Even Sparky darts over to sit on your head, pecking at your head until you offer in a finger, and move him to perch on your shoulder. Slowly, just like always, you come down.

He’s out there. Alive. Tired, but still able to speak. Still bothering to think of you.

Your gaze drifts to the box. Innocuous, peeking out from the folds of your bag. He wanted you to have it. He probably thinks you’ve already opened it.

I love you.

You crawl slowly across the ground and pull it out. The Lady and Indy poke at it, the Lady quickly losing interest and jumping on the bed, Indy seeming to recognize it as something of Dean’s and letting out a loud whine. You pat her head, settling against the foot of the bed, toying with the latch until it just… unclicks.

And you don’t know what you expected. A knife. A ring. A nice perfume, or more lingerie. Something important. Something worth giving you, then asking you not to open in front of him. You’d formed a curious mental list, of what that could possibly be.

You never once considered a pile of paper.

You frown. The box is overflowing with loose paper after loose paper, all of them covered in Dean’s blocky, uncoordinated scrawl. Sam used to say he had the handwriting of a fourth grader, and you’d smack Sam upside the head, because the little fucker didn’t teach himself the alphabet.

You miss him too. It’s smaller than that chasm of Dean that’s split through your spinal cord, but that’s a unique kind of pain. Sam alone is enough that you keep picking up the phone to ask him a question, before remembering he won’t pick up. If you asked Sam about these papers, he’d tell you to read them. He’d probably take one and just start reading it himself. At his invisible direction, you take the one off the very top. It’s crumpled. Almost a year old, if the date—April 17th, 2011—is correct.

It’s addressed to you.

Princess, 

Come home. 

You blink, the paper crinkling under your fingers. April 2011 you were in Heaven with Cas. And Dean-

Dean was writing this. For you.

I know that I’ve spent the last few months pissed at you. I know I wrote about twenty damn letters about it. A deep breath. Your biting your tongue enough to sting. And I know you’re gonna read them and only think that I hate you, but I don’t. Never did. Never could. 

You love something, you want it to be better. Heard that on TV, once. Might’ve been on the radio. Shit, maybe Sammy or you said it. But it’s the truth, baby. I love you, and I want you to be better. Not you, but you. I want you to be okay, and you aren’t okay. Not when you’re making crazy decisions like you think no one’s going to care if you go off the deep end. I care. Bobby cares. Sammy cares. And it goddamn kills me, that you think we don’t. So I need you to be okay.

I love you.

You close your eyes. It takes a moment to remember how to breathe. A moment to rub your eyes and collect yourself, so that the words don’t just float off the page.

You fucking killed me again, and I still love you. I’ve been trying to tell you. You never goddamn listen. You’re too smart for your own good, sweetheart. Can talk yourself into anything, and I- 

i think i feel you, sometimes. think i felt you now. its insane, but i feel you. the air smells more like you, and i can hear something that dont got words, but it sounds lie like you. and i know thats freaking batshit, but stranger things, right? you feel like an angel. you feel like everything good. and i wish you could understand that. sammy says you dont know. you gotta know. i wish i knew how to tell you. i wish that you’d believe me, when i did. 

i can show you. i know people can say things all they want and you dont believe them. got that spelled out for me, when it took me pinning you to a wall for you to realize maybe i wanted to fuck you. so ill keep doing it like that. ill help rowena get those souls out of you. ill kill eve for you. i wont let you pull that shit again, cause im about to make it real clear that i love you, and you can think nothing about me all you want (you probably should) but nothing you say is gonna make me love you less. i let you boss me around about a lot, princess. youre not getting the upper hand on this. you break my heart, you either stitch it back up like my hands or leave it like that till i die. but no one else is touching it. so deal with that. 

Not much for life updates. Had to tie Sammy’s shoes yesterday, cause he keeps falling over whenever he does them. Been taking Claire out to shoot bottles, she’s getting pretty good. Rowena ate dinner with us, which was weird, because I didn’t even know she ate. I don’t think she sleeps. I know she doesn’t cause I’m not either. 

I love you. And you’re going to goddamn feel it. 

Yours, DAW  

The world can’t be spinning. Your heart can’t still be beating. The edge of the paper crinkles too loud, and you drop it, terrified you broke it. Just as fast as you let it go, you pick it up. You read it again. A third time. You can hear him behind you, like at the mountain. You never goddamn listen. He thinks you might hate him. Never did. Never could. I love you. And you’re going to goddamn feel it. It’sso clear it presses on your nose, it burns in your chest, it rattles something so deep inside you the whole world seems to tilt. But not off axis.

Something flips, and you feel sick, but your feet are beneath you in a way they haven’t been maybe your whole life. Like your neck was snapped, but it just righted a part of your spine that had been wrong. Everything was upside down.

You read it until you’ve memorized it. You count the I love yous—all seven of them—like a squirrel stocking for winter.  

Then you remember the rest of the box. Not a box of paper.

A box of letters. A supply of them, enough that he barely seemed to be able to fit them all.

You fumble with the one in your hand, dropping it back at the top and pulling out the one beneath it. April 16th. You don’t read it yet, checking the one before that. April 15th. One for each day. Back through March, February, January, December. You dig all the way to the bottom, trying so hard to move fast and not rip a single page. The very first one is shorter. Dated February 21st, 2010. A little less than month after you and Sam fell in the cage, and stained with something that smells like beer.

Princess,

I don’t know how to do this. I’m going to spell things wrong. You’ll know what I’m saying. You usually do. One time I said boom and meant Molotov, but you got it. Sammy said I was the luckiest asshole alive, because he would’ve just made me go to bed with how much I was drinking.

I’m drinking more now. 

Youd be pissed.

I miss you.

This is shit. I’ll try again in the morning.

I love you

DAW.

Eight. Eight I love yous. Twelve, if you count the ones he said to your face. Twelve drops of love that hit you like a tsunami, that shake your world like falling stars. You hold it to your chest and close your eyes, tears burning over your face. You smear them like warpaint, before looking at February 22nd. He spells everything wrong, and you laugh because you can almost see his pretty face, scrunched in concentration. He doesn’t say he loves you in this one, just he says he needs you, and that’s more than enough. You grab February 23rd, and he talks about needing you to come home, and Bobby hating him for letting you jump in, and drinking rubbing alcohol—god, you hope he didn’t—before signing off.

I’ll be back tomorrow. 

Wait for me. 

I’m sorry. 

DAW.

You can’t keep reading. You can’t even see through the tears. You clutch the letters to your face, hyperventilating and shaking and feeling it. It’s so easy it makes you furious you didn’t let yourself have it sooner, and that just makes you cry harder, and soon your throat is too closed up and your nose is stuffed and your whole body has this bone deep exhaustion that can only let you sit there and feel it. All of it, unrelenting and permanent and inevitable, the same ways as yours.

Just through the scraps of paper in your hands, you can feel Dean’s love.

But you can’t say it back. You can’t have it without worrying it’s going to be taken away. You can’t just have a good thing and cherish and worship it, without looking out the window and waiting for the sky to warn you. For it to try and take it away. You can only bathe in it and fight for it and scream for it until you run out of breathe in a world where the air changes direction, just to blow your way.

And you’re glad you didn’t let the Leviathans kill God.

But you.

You can’t fucking wait to do it yourself.

Sam and Dean were celebrities. The icky, dramatic kind, that got their faces plastered on tabloids and everyone loved to hate. Dean had always thought everyone was exaggerating about it, but there was no way to ignore the truth. Not now. When it was punching him in the face.

There wasn’t a single monster in Purgatory that didn’t know the Winchesters. They had some nicknames. Some legends and rumors. Sammy got the good end of the stick.

“Beware the Younger,” Dean read off the tablet, smirking at the carved words. “Taller than the trees, colder than the winter. Demon boy- They’re all really hung up on the demon thing, huh?”

Across the firepit, Sammy sighed. “I did start the apocalypse,” he muttered, and Dean shrugged.

“Yeah, but who hasn’t. Don’t get a big head, Sammy, it’s gonna fall off your titan body.”

He laughed, and Sam made a face. “Come on, Dean, there’s no way it says that-

“Demon boy, head bigger than his heart, titan body that cuts through the world. Tower on the sunrise, never let him know your name, never let him know your game- Oh, they’re rhyming now- Never tell him where you come from or go, never make a deal you don’t plan to break.” Dean’s nose scrunched. “Dude, you sound like Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Shut up,” Sam muttered, looking around the dark woods. “What about you? Little burger man, head of ass?”

“Haha,” Dean flipped him off, squinting down the tablet. “Handsome Winchester, cooler Winchester, just surrender right now ‘cause he’s gonna kick your ass-“

“Gimme that.” Sam snatched the tablet out of Dean’s hand, and Dean laughed, letting it echo through the forest.

Sammy had warded the perimeter. They should be set for at least five hours. Enough to eat, breathe, sleep, patch up. And if something was determined enough to break through, they were already prowling past the wood line. Dean letting himself get a rare laugh wasn’t gonna change a thing.

“Fear the Elder,” Sam read and Dean leaned forward with a smirk. “Moving like the Mountains and unforgiving, blood on his hands and gold in his teeth. Silver tongue, red heart, beating louder than the sun. Never falters. Never turns around. No path he can’t tread. Man of God, Killer of God, End of the line, more vengeful than the most foul beast. Do not take what is his. Do not make his smile fall.”

Dean shrugged, a half-satisfied press to his lips. “Hey, y’know- Could be worse. I sound pretty freakin’ cool, you just sound like a knockoff bigfoot-“

“And never spill Winchester blood,” Sam said, his face falling, grim and pained. “Where the Whore will be able to smell it.”

Dean’s jaw locked. Sam glanced up, heavy, apologetic regret all over his puppy-dog face. Dean stretched at hand, beckoning Sam to pass it back over. He did, slowly, like he already kind of wanted to take it back.

“We don’t need to worry about this, it’s- She’s not here-“

“Do not think of the Whore,” Dean muttered, and Sam fell quiet. “If you need think of her, you are already dead.”

Dean swallowed, and he wanted to break this damn tablet in half. Sam bowed his head, watching Dean carefully, speaking like he was trying to talk down a damn jumper.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Dean,” he muttered. “And- I mean, that’s a warning, not a call to battle.”

Dean grunted and dropped the tablet on the ground. He knew She wasn’t in any danger of a monster taking her out. Not like Sam and Dean were.

But She wasn’t alright.

Dean didn’t know how long he and Sammy had been stuck here. Time moves differently in these places, and Purgatory nights seemed to crawl twice as long as the days. They’d touched down a lifetime ago, figured out that they were pretty much screwed, and never had a second to tally up the weeks since.

They’d made an agreement. No giving up. Not on each other. Not on getting back home. They’d either stay alive long enough for someone topside to yank them out, or figure out a way home themselves. Dean thought She and Cas might work it out in the first month, until She told him that she hadn’t spoken to Cas since some big fight after Michigan. Dean should’ve seen that one coming. He loved Her to death and past it, but she’d never exactly been open to people telling her what to do, or stopping her, or getting in her way. Cas had—under Dean’s instruction—done all three.

He’d tried to soft pitch the idea that maybe Cas had just been listening to Dean, and it was more his fault that he’d landed his ass in Purgatory. She hadn’t given Dean the impression that she listened.

But She could figure this out herself. Weird stuff was her specialty, and there wasn’t much weirder than being trapped in Purgatory. Dean tried to give Her all the help he could, from the other side. There wasn’t much. He didn’t know anything about any of this, and She didn’t think he was real.

He’d thought about telling Her. He thought about it until his head hurt. He opened his mouth and choked on the words. He got a half-confession out, then looked at her a little too long and lost his voice. She might not believe him. She didn’t seem to, whenever he got too close to the truth.

A few nights ago, he’d written out this whole damn speech. Sammy had been knocked out, Dean had been on watch duty, and he’d used his makeshift knife to scratch the words in the dirt. He’d look up at rustles in the woods, or one of Sam’s bigger sleep-snorts, but that was it. He was going out next. He’d see Her, and she wouldn’t know she was seeing him, and it was one of those things Dean knew was going to bite him in the ass about, if he didn’t deal with it soon.

It’s me, Princess. Really me. Real me, Dean. Your Dean. Not a dream Dean- He’d laughed to himself, then groaned.

There was no good way to do it. The more he thought about it, the worse it got. This wasn’t a monster of his own making, it was an infection he’d already let sit too long. It was already a big if, whether or not she’d believe him. There wasn’t much he could say to prove it, when she thought he was just a figment of her imagination. If he told Her something about herself, she’d know it. If he said something about himself, She’d think he was making it up, and he’d have no way to convince her otherwise. She’d think it was too good, too easy to be true. Dean would’ve thought the same thing two years ago. Before Death. Before soulmates.

And if he got her to listen, there wasn’t an explanation that wouldn’t end there. Soulmates.

Dean had sort of dug himself a very big, very deep grave with this one. He kinda wanted to tell Sammy, just to give the kid a good laugh at his expense.

He only had two ways through this one. He said soulmates, and She didn’t believe him—pretty likely, as even if it made perfect sense, if there was one thing his girl had always been good at doing it was talking circles around herself until she believed up was right and left was down—and she didn’t believe the dreams were real, and Dean got stranded in the grave. He’d prove it when he got home, and She’d blame herself for not listening, and have a pretty big freakout, and then calm down and kill Dean for keeping that from her for a whole year.

Or he said soulmates, and She believed him, and she dragged him out of Purgatory by his ear just to kill him. For keeping that from her. For a whole damn year.

He’d groaned and kicked dirt of his speech, dropping his face into his hands. He was screwed. He was so fucking screwed, he might as well start figuring out how he wanted to decorate the doghouse.

And he knew making it, that this wasn’t going to be his best call, but he didn’t have many others to choose from.

He wouldn’t tell Her. It wouldn’t work. She didn’t trust Her own head, enough for Dean to talk her into it. And with everything She’d told him, there was more than enough for her to worry about. If he told Her, the small sanctuaries of their dreams would just turn into another place for her to freak out. She’d ask him to relay theories to Sam, and demand to see all his injuries, babying and smacking him at the same time when he told her how he and Sammy had dealt with the latest rush of vamps.

Dean knew it could be called selfish. He didn’t care. Not for this. Not when the dreams were all he goddamn had.

If you need think of her, you are already dead.

Dean almost snorted. He did nothing but think of Her, and he felt kinda dead. He and Sammy were both just cutting their way through the motions, mechanical and unwavering until they came out the other side.  

“You made any progress on that map thingy?” He muttered, and Sammy sighed.

“No, not really. I- I don’t know, Dean, how useful is it even gonna be-“

Dean cut him off with Her name. “She’ll wanna see it. You two can geek out about rivers or whatever, soon as we’re out.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, doubtful and quiet. His eyes dropped to the dirt, Dean leaned forward on his log, making his voice firm.

“Sammy, don’t make the freakin’- grieving wife face-“

“Why not?” Sam snapped, but it wasn’t forceful. It was just… tired.

They were both so damn tired.

“I mean, what the are we even doing, Dean? Wandering around, hoping we don’t die in the morning? We don’t even have a clue where to start, where this ends-“ Sam waved a hand, his voice raising. “All I do is try not to lose it and shoot you by accident, and all you do is make- Make stupid jokes and pray before bed! You, Dean, you’re praying.” Sam scoffed. “I’d think you were a shifter if we didn’t test each other every freakin’ day. I mean, who are you even pray to. Who’s going to care?”

Sam’s shout lingered in the air. He let out a heaving, long breath—Dean had a feeling he’d been holding it in for a while—and slumped back down. Dean stared at the fire, at the long shadows, flickering in the dark.

Sammy wasn’t wrong. He had been praying. Every night during his watch, every day when he stopped to take a piss, he was about three Hail Mary’s away from calling himself an altar boy.

But he couldn’t think of another damn thing to do.

He said Her name, slow and hallowed. The most important word in the world. He could swear that, in the starless Purgatory sky, something glowed past the dark.

Sammy looked up with a frown, and Dean swallowed, repeating Her name, a little louder this time.

“I’ve been prayin’ to her. Every night.” He shook his head. “And- I know it ain’t doing much, but- Hell, Sammy, I can’t stop. It’s gotta get help her, right? I tell her where we are, I tell her what we’re seeing, everything. That’ll help.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said softly. “I mean, why would she even be hearing it? I know- In Heaven- But this isn’t Heaven. Cas can’t hear our prayers down here-“

“She isn’t Cas.” Dean muttered. “It’s- It’s different-“

“No, I- I know, Dean, but- She doesn’t exactly take prayers, dude-“

“She takes them from me.”

Sam fell silent. Dean sighed, staring at his hands. Caked in mud. Cold and clasped together. He felt goddamn sick.

“We’re- Me and her-“ The words just wouldn’t come out. Not without Dean twisting them. “We got a soul-bond.”

“A soul-bond?”

Dean grunted an agreement, and Sam stared at him.

“What- What the hell does that even mean-“

“Means what it means,” Dean snapped. “Means she should be able to hear it, when I’m the one praying. But- I don’t know, Sammy. Some kinda wire must be getting crossed, ‘cause I don’t think it’s working.”

They were silent for a moment. Dean glanced up, only to find Sam still frowning at him. There was that far-off look on his face, though. Like he was more in his head than out there with the rest of the world. Dean leaned into his vision, waving for attention, and Sammy blinked.

“Huh?”

“Nothin’, just- Earth to Sammy,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “What were you doing the nerd eyes about.”

“The-“ Sam sighed. “I told you not to call it that-“

“I’ll call it what I want,” Dean shrugged. “What’s up.”

“It’s- I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing,” Sam said it all small, and Dean knew it wasn’t nothing.

“Sam…” He warned, and Sam caved quick.

“Just- What if- And I’m not saying this is it, but-“ Sam glanced up, then back to Dean, dropping his voice. “We’re in a weird spot. And I know he doesn’t stand much against her or whatever, but- He can pretty easily mess with you, Dean. No offense.”

Dean scowled. “How am I not supposed to take offense to that-“

“Because it’s God,” Sammy hissed. “And you’re like- A dude.”

“A dude who stole his wife,” Dean muttered under his breath, and Sammy rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, dude. That’s my point. Maybe he’s not super happy about that, and he’s… I don’t know, messing with the prayer signal.” Sam’s throat bobbed, his voice getting tight. “And she… She just can’t hear you at all.”

And a critical, cardiac thing in Dean plunged. His lungs faltered like they’d collapsed, and his heart slowed to a titanic pace, and his jaw tightened so much he knew that—if She was here—She’d grab it and pry it open and yell at him about grinding his teeth.

She had to have been hearing. She had to know he was in Purgatory, that he was looking for a way back to Her, that he loved Her. God was a son of a bitch, but he owed Dean that much. Dean had saved his damn life. He’d given everything—mostly for Her, but God sure was reaping the benefits—and the bastard didn’t get to just swoop in. To take Her away from Dean, when She needed him.

If She hadn’t been hearing him, She- She might think he was dead.

Sam said Dean’s name, worried and tense. Dean waved him off. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Not when he could feel parts of the ground crumbling, and he couldn’t afford to lose his footing.

“I’m getting’ my two,” he grunted, moving down to his back. “Wake me up to trade watch.”

Sam sighed and gave him that sad, pitiful look again, but he knew better than to argue. They could go to bat about strategy, about next moves, about food or camp or any other damn thing, and they’d work it out. It was the closest to the team Dad had trained them to be, for better or worse.

But Dean wasn’t gonna talk about Her. Not in any way that might turn to a fight.

He twisted so his back was to Sammy, closed his eyes, and counted himself luckier than most. At least he still got a part of her, even if it was going to vanish from his fingers by morning.

If you can hear me, he prayed. And Christ, I hope you can, I’m coming home, sweetheart. I swear I’m coming home. I’ll hold on if you hold on. Fuck, I’ll hold on for both of us. Just don’t give up on me. Dean squeezed his eyes tighter, fighting off the burn. I love you. All the way down, remember. You and me. Just you and me.

And all Dean heard in response was the howl of the wind, high above his head, untouchable, untamable, and wild in the dark.

Dean didn’t count the money on the table. He remembered exactly how much there had been. He remembered exactly how long it had lasted, before he’d needed to make some difficult calls. He turned over a few bills in his hands, and wondered if there had been another way. One where he’d stretched everything thinner, while keeping Sammy in one piece. There wasn’t going to be any avoiding the rougher parts. There never was. You didn’t get outta the mountains without crawling through the caves. But if he’d been a little smarter, maybe the would’ve come out with a few less bruises, or he could’ve taken more bullets.

“What’s the money for?” She murmured, and Dean wrapped his arm around Her shoulders, pulling her almost fully into his lap.

“Nothing,” he lied easily. She didn’t have to worry about it. Dean knew She was probably doing enough of that already. “You have a good day, Princess?”

She shook Her head, her lips pursed into a swollen little line, her whole face crestfallen and her body shaking like a damn toy poodle. She climbed over him, legs hooking around his waist and head bowing. Dean knew Her well. He cradled the back of Her head and kissed her brow, frowning against the warm skin.

“Fight with Jo?” He asked quietly, and got no answer. “You talk to Cas-“

“No,” She mumbled, and Dean sighed.

He left Her cling to him. She almost burrowed Her face into his neck, and when Dean spread his fingers on her lower back and pushed Her closer, she let out a soft, sweet little noise and eased fully into his arms. It filled Dean with a strange, warped kind of pride. He was caring for Her. She was letting herself relax, and he was willing to bet a real cut of money that she hadn’t stopped moving since he and Sammy had vanished.

A few days after this night at the table, he’d be out with Sammy at the park, and the kid would ask him about girls. What was ‘up’  with them, how he was supposed to talk to them, why Dad didn’t like either of them hanging around them too long. Dean could chalk up a lot of Sammy’s lapses in charm to Dad giving him the impression that the prettier the girl was, the more likely she was to be venomous or something.

And Dean had done his best to combat that, but he’d been a bit of an idiot. He hadn’t met Her yet. He hadn’t known how good the world could get, when you had something so beautiful it caught all the light and cast it around her, like a diamond that melted into water, a river that swept Dean away to a kind of paradise he should’ve known better than to fight.

He’d told Sammy then that women were like dogs. He’d barely been thirteen. He’d been failing most of his classes, scraping by with hands covered in things a boy’s hands should never know, and he’d been trying to get big enough to match Dad’s shadow. Dad said women were like dogs. All different kinds of them, loud or quiet, loyal or violent, lazy or constantly running around for attention. They brought you joy, but they were just damn dogs. Nothing you wouldn’t do for yours. No real, logical need  for them outside of a companion.

Sammy had been doubtful. He’d always been smarter than Dean anyway.

But Dean knew better now. He needed Her, just for the damn logical reason of a third, better opinion than he and Sammy were going to offer. He needed Her to swoop in like of God from the Machine and save their asses, and he need to feel Her outside of these dreams. He needed Her to be okay. It was better than nothing, that he could take this wolf of a woman and turn her into a snuggling koala, but She didn’t think it was real. And Dean didn’t know how that was going to carry over into the real world.

“You gonna be alright?” He asked, because even if She lied, at least that meant she had some fight left.

She leaned back and stared at him. She had those doe eyes again, and it made Dean swallow. He couldn’t fuck her in here. Not when She didn’t think it was real.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, and Dean’s tongue darted out, almost against his will. He muttered Her name, and she leaned forward until their brows were resting together, her breathing short and ragged. Dean rubbed a slow circle on Her back, almost purely to ground himself. She stared at his mouth, then slowly dragged her gaze up, and Dean thought he might choke on his heart.

“Don’t gimme that,” he said, pleading and quiet, and She shied a little back.

No. Dean couldn’t have that. He grabbed Her neck, keeping her forward, and let their lips brush in the lightest possible touch.

“C’mon, Bambi,” he said, soft and teasing. “Look at me.”

She did. Tears made Her eyes glow, and Dean dug his fingers into her soft skin, trying to keep her together with just a touch. Even one she didn’t think was real.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he said, and it came out like an order. He was past caring. “Got it?”

She nodded. It was small. Tight and unsure. Dean took it anyway.

“C’mere,” he pulled Her closer, moving into a deep, slow kiss. She made that pretty little sound of surprise, like she still didn’t expect it to always feel this good. Dean pressed his tongue on Her swollen lower lip, and she shivered, pulling herself closer by her thighs.

He smiled against Her lips. He didn’t rush. This was all he had. This was what he was fighting to get back to.

He wasn’t about to let a single moment slip through his fingers. Not now. And never when he got home.

✦chapter 74

✦End note: sooooo much planned this season. 2 secrets i believe. many many things :). thank you for reading! Chapter Title from Ain't No Mountain by Marvin Gaye

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

"I was actually about to take a nap in an on call, got a few free minutes?" He poises, and, after nearly ten hours of non-stop work, it sounds like heaven.

He leads the way, even opening the door for you when you arrive. Sliding past him, you catch a whiff of his smoky aftershave.

It's electric, like a shock as it fills your senses. Rolling your shoulders, you do your best to conceal the shiver that unzips your spine.

Eyes drifting to the small twin mattress, your heart sinks. There's no way the two of you will fit on that, your gaze falling to your plush frame.

John's a mind reader, he must be, with the way his hands find your waist. They're gentle, unassuming, a light graze of his thumb burning into your skin as he squeezes by you.

"Here," he mutters, ushering a loose gurney up against the bed.

Though it's sweet, it does nothing to ease your worries. Embarrassment is a black widow creeping up your spine, digging its fangs into you, spreading its venom deep within.

"I'm taking the gurney, what, are you nuts?" He smiles, taking a seat and patting the bed next to him.

It's hard to stay upset when he looks at you the way he does— wide, puppy dog eyes, a bright smile his parents could never quite beat out of him. He's beautiful. You feel sick.

You saunter over, plopping down on the bed. You're face to face, now, everything you wish you could tell him rising up like steam.

"Hi," he whispers. Your heart pounds.

"Hi," you reply, the twinkle in his eye nearly bringing you to tears.

Without another word, he swings his legs over, resting his head back on the gurney. You follow suit, laying on your side. He turns onto his moments later, and you're once again face to face with the most beautiful man in the world.

"How are the babies?" He whispers, scooching closer to where the two beds meet, falling into an awkward slot.

"They're so amazing," an instant smile spreads across your lips. "I mean, when they're not sobbing, or puking, or exploding in diarrhea."

You two burst into a fit of giggles, and you're seven years old again— the murmurs of a famous Carter family gala wafting up the stairs, dress clothes long ago shed, lounging in a large guest bed.

When John had invited you to move in with him almost six months ago you thought all your problems were solved. You would no longer lose rent on a stuffy apartment you didn't even like, being kept up by frat parties that seemed to run all night. You'd share with Carter, be able to study together as you had since starting as med students together, be able to help each other out and share the rent.

“Oh my god, John!”

You hadn't thought about the noise. The moaning, the thudding of beds, the awkward greeting of the new girl of the week in the mornings where all you wanted to do was drink coffee and get ready for the day in peace.

Your bed was next to Carters, a wall separating the two of you.

This girl was blonde, slim, not from the hospital from what you could tell. They'd stumbled in at eleven and you'd heard him jingle at the door so you hid yourself away, running from the living room you paid rent for to offer them privacy and peace that they never offered you.

“John...” the girl had whined, you imagined her hands crawling up his chest, peeling off his coat and scarf, dragging her lips over his neck.

“Wait, wait, wait-” you heard John, probably making sure the coast was clear before he took her on the sofa. The sofa you'd paid for! He'd called your name, checking where you were. Gathering you'd hidden yourself away he carried on.

It wasn't the first night the sound of fucking next door had kept you up, in fact you'd lost count of the many of women John preferred to you. Slowly your patience was failing. Sleep as an intern in the ER was precious- like a gem stone. You shouldn't have been losing it in your own apartment.

You heard the mumble of medical procedures and thought you were in a nightmare.

“John, what are you doing?” the girl asked.

You knew what he was doing. To make himself last and drag on the night he thought about medical notes, the books you studied piled on the coffee table.

“Making it last,” you heard him say.

You wished he wouldn't.

When the low moaning started again you couldn't take it.

It was somewhere past four but you'd never known Mark Greene to turn away help.

“What are you doing here? You're not on till seven,” said Carol as you threw on your doctors coat, swinging on the stethoscope.

Outside it was dark, starting to rain and you'd drank two coffees on the way in. You weren't feeling awake but the hustle of the ER and the calls of trauma were better to hear than the moaning and slams of bed.

“Couldn't sleep, thought I'd get in early, early bird catches the.... something,” you said, eyeing the board. Abdominal pains, sores, vision blurs, the usual. There were plenty not taken up with a doctor.

“Couldn't sleep huh?” Carol asked, as familiar with the drill as you were.

“Nop.”

“And what was her name this time?”

“I didn't catch it.”

You didn't know if it was a head nurse thing or just a Hathaway thing but Carol had caught the feelings you had for John maybe even before you had.

She'd watch the two of you come in as fresh faced med students aiming for two different things. The two of you worked well on cases. You learnt how to take a more direct approach through Carters determination in surgery and John learnt to take closer care with his patients with your attentiveness in a pedes rotation.

“God, men are pigs,” said Carol.

“What have I done now?” asked Ross as he passed, leaving and picking up a chart. “You're in early,” he observed.

“I'm dedicated.”

“Wanna check out a cough in five?”

“I'll be there.”

You didn't need to stare to see Carol and Doug share a look. As you'd taken an interest in pedes work in the ER you'd been brought under Dough Ross's rather large wings. And if you were around Ross by proximity you were around Carol. And if you were around them Carter wasn't far.

It was a chain of terrible love stories.

“Eventually you'll get written up for overtime,” said Carol.

“A hospital that hates over-achievers, damn.”

“You should just talk to him.”

You turn to her, leaning on the counter. “And tell him what? I hate him having sex?”

“Well if he could be a little quieter,” she suggested.

“It's not him, it's the women.”

Carol was silent as you distracted yourself with the charts. You knew what she would say next, you knew what you would say after that and it would continue as it had for months. “You should tell him how you-”

“-no.”

“What's the worst that could happen?”

“He says he doesn't feel the same way, tells everyone, I'm left embarrassed, I lose my apartment, need I go on?”

Her eyes rolled. “No I get it.”

“Hey!” Ross called out. “Cough! Five! Let's go!”

You followed him on and used what you'd come to the Er to get: distractions. You followed Ross around from patient to patient, got called in on a trauma and even had time to change the the filters in the coffee machine before you were faced with John.

He was bright eyed, smiling with his dimples. Heck, you were even convinced his eyes lit up seeing you, with your coat hanging off, hair already falling out of its hold and he'd just left some blonde babe. Maybe she'd dropped him off at the hospital and he'd beg a lift back with you. Or he'd told her to let herself out the apartment.

Carter had no right to look at you like that.

“Hey,” he smiled. “You get in early? I thought you started at seven with me?”

“Oh yeah... I was paged in early.”

“Trauma?”

“Cough.”

He laughed. “You were paged in for a cough.”

“I know can you believe it,” you had tried to make it sarcastic, wanted it to seem like a passing comment but your lips didn't move into a smile and it fell weak into your stomach.

John leant next to you at the counter, tilting his body in a way to try to look at you. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Something's up, what?”

Maybe it was how close you’d worked, going from students to interns. Or it was your living together which made you both understand each other with small looks.

Clearly you didn’t know each other well enough, otherwise he’d note the bags under your eyes or the way your body didn’t lean into his like you used to.

John jutted his hip against yours with a chuckle. “Talk to me, c’mon.”

“I just didn’t get much sleep last night.” You admitted.

How stupid could men be?

John didn’t even catch on to what you were laying down. “How about we do something tonight? Catch a movie? Get some dinner?”

You and John used to do that sort of thing often. When you'd first moved in together it was all watching films with take out, taking it in turns to order your favourites. You could hardly recall what the films were about because the two of you spoke throughout them. It took a month then you knew everything there was to know about him.

But that was almost two years ago and things were different.

You were in love with him.

He had no idea.

Instead he had love for hours a night and that seemed to do him fine.

John was still waiting for an answer. “Dinner? Movie?”

You looked at him. Over his shoulder you spotted Carol, shaking her head. “Dinner sounds great.”

John's face broke out into a smile. “Yes!” he cheered. His lips pressed to your head quick, gone before you could get a feel of him.

“Carter!” Benton called.

Benton's ordering and bossing around of Carter had grated on his nerves for months but you'd never seen him smile so wide and all but skip to him.

Maybe things weren't being so bad.

“Why would you agree to go to dinner?” asked Carol.

Why would you? Because even if he wasn't your lover, he was still your friend. You'd take that. “Was I supposed to say no?”

“You're gonna hurt yourself,” she said.

But sadly you had hope, which was probably the only thing keeping you in the state you were in.

“It's just dinner with a friend,” you said, picking up a patients chart, any chart.

Carol clocked her head at you. “It's not though is it?”

“To him it is.”

John appeared at your side, hands bracing your arms as he leant over you. For a moment you panicked, imagining that he heard it all. His grin said different. “I'll book us Nona's, your favourite Italian, I'll get it for eight.”

He disappeared, rushing around the corner. You got a last look at his scrubs and gown.

When you turned back to Carol she'd gone too.

“And so I said to him, that's not his Appendix, that's his Kidney.”

Johns laughter bounced around the restaurant. As promised he’d booked your favourite Italian, a table in the window lit by a candle and golden lights around you.

There was an empty plate from a tiramisu you’d shared and several empty glasses of wine dotted around from the evening you’d shared, lipstick of your stained glasses you’d had.

John had entertained you all night, telling jokes, talking about work. His eyes had been lit up since you both sat down, talking animated and never letting a moment of quiet. He’d even dressed up, supporting a suit as if this was some kind of date.

With the lights down low and dragging your fingers over your glass of wine, you almost imagined it was.

The waiter came by and John waved him down.

“Another bottle of white,” he ordered, sharing the last dregs of the bottle between your two glasses.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re trying to get me drunk,” you joked.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he laughed. “I’ve missed you. It’s just nice that we get to do this, I didn’t see you at all yesterday. You were in bed when I got home.”

Home. Home with his date.

“We’ve been… busy,” you said.

Johns smile broke but only a fraction, some sort of disappointment floating by and marring his expression. “Yeah, I-I guess we have.”

There was a flicker of silence, the first sort there’d been in the night.

The wine was delivered.

“We should do this once a week,” suggested John, alight with the idea.

You laughed. “What, with our schedule?”

“Okay.” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Once a month, surely we can manage that, right? We’re capable people, capable doctors.”

There was more laughter, dulling the ache you’d been carrying.

At some point Johns hand had come down and touched yours.

You’d expected him to pay your hand friendly, move it away and make another crack at a joke.

His hand lingered. Stayed, his fingers stayed slowly moving against the back of your hand.

John watched as his fingers drew lazy circles over your skin. There was a smile playing on his lips.

You didn’t have it in you to move away. You chuckled lightly. “What are you doing?”

John looked at you, his other hand coming up to cup his chin as he rested there. “I’ve missed you.”

It was sincere, almost loving.

You laughed it away. “You’ve said that already.”

“What? A guy can’t say it again?”

“A guy can’t say but you…” you trailed off.

“I what?” asked John pointedly, tilting his head to get a better look of you.

It was almost cruel how unaware he was, or maybe acted he was. The thought that he knew your feelings that were oh so obvious to some and were using them against you made you feel sick.

You slipped your hand out of his and took a sip of your wine. “Nothing.”

“No, what?” he asked, nudging himself closer to the table. “What were you gonna say?”

You drained the glass of wine and picked up the bottle, pouring yourself more while John watched and waited. You laughed, doing your best to brush it off. “I dunno what I was gonna say, slipped by me.”

You could tell he didn't believe you. He seemed to like to chose when he wanted to believe you.

“I-” He'd just started to speak when his gaze drifted over your shoulder and widened at the door. “Oh god, don't turn around, don't look- don't look!”

Frowning you did just what he said not to do, wine still in hand.

Carter was busy slouching in his chair, trying to hide.

A girl walked in with two of her friends, peeling off their coats and handing them to the staff at the door. They were all large smiles and tanned skin, dresses that hugged perfectly and hands manicured. They were alight with life and not drowned in exhaustion like you.

You looked back to John and didn't even have to guess and why he was hiding from them. Your brows rose at him.

“I went to school with her,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “She has a massive crush on me.”

“Does she?” at least you weren't the only fool to love him.

John nodded, the front of his hair moving as he did.

You looked again and as if she sensed you, the girl turned.

“No... no... no....” chanted John as she seemed to recognise him, even half swallowed by the table as he was trying to be.

“John Carter!” the girl greeted with her arms out and her wide smile.

John was polite in standing and hugging her.

You were polite in occupying yourself with the wine.

“Oh my god, look at you it's been so long!” she said, pulling away. Her hand smoothed the jacket of his suit. “God when I last saw you you were winning horses races on... oh, what was your horses name, again?”

“Marigold,” said John.

“Marigold, that's right!” she laughed, hand slapping at his bicep and lingering.

You snorted at the obvious affection she was laying on. At least (you hoped) you were slightly more incredulous.

They both looked to you.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt,” she apologised.

John went to speak but you spoke before he had the chance.

“You didn't, actually, join us if you like,” you invited.

John's face fell. “What?”

“Oh, I mean I'm here with friends but, hey, what's one drink between old friends?” she pulled up a chair effortlessly, setting it between you and Carter.

Carter himself lingered up on his feet, pulling his jacket close and slotting a button in. He looked at you, almost with some betrayed ideas in his eyes. He sat down, deflated but his old friend from school - Samantha- was already taking his wine glass and filling it. She was already talking about the first time she met John.

You didn't know why you'd decided to interrupt your own night with him. Just as you didn't know why John seemed to perturbed that you had.

Two days later he was at it again.

“John! Oh, John!”

You didn't even get a glance at this one, you had no idea who it was. The old friend from the restaurants or a friend of hers that had joined you later in the night. Maybe it was patient or a friend or family of patients. It could've even been the new intern that had started. You didn't know.

They were all blending into one.

“John! John! John!”

You'd tried putting on headphone from you walk man. You'd tried smothering yourself with your cushion. You'd tried every trick under the sun but it was as if the sounds of pleasure had buried itself in your bones. Even if you couldn't hear it, you knew it was there and it was enough in your bones to have you tossing and turning.

“H, stands for hemolysis, the- the break down of red blood cells-”

You threw your covers off. It was nearing three a.m. The ER could always use an extra pair of hands. That's what you told yourself as you pulled on clothes in the dark, desperate to get out the apartment before you crawl out of your skin.

Perhaps turning on the light would have been beneficial.

You pulled up your pants, jumping to do so but sliding on a lose sock. You fell, hurtling to the ground and trying to catch yourself on the desk had only resulted in banging your head on the side.

For a moment, lying in the dark of your room with a new ache in your head you thought maybe you were concussed because there was suddenly no noise. No nothing.

“John-”

“- wait, shh, shh-”

Nope, still there.

You finally got your pants on without any more injury and left your room.

There were to empty beer bottles at the kitchen counter. You noticed them as you pulled kitchen roll onto your head, pulling it back you pulled open the fridge to check in the light. A little blood.

All the more reason to get to the ER.

You were just fetching your bag from the side when the squeak of a door behind you alerted you.

“Hey, what's going on?” John spoke up.

You didn't dare turn around. You knew if you did you'd find a recently fucked-out Carter, maybe his friend hanging off his arm like his other friends had two nights before at Nona's.

He called out your name.

“Nothing, John,” you dismissed, swinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Where are you going, it's like, three am?”

You didn't answer.

“Did the hospital call?”

“Just go back to bed, Carter.”

It could have been the head split, the fact you were running on little sleep as it was or that John was so insisting he cared when the noise of you falling had clearly broken him out of his blissed state.

You never called him Carter. If you did, it was a bad sign.

“Wait- wait- jus' a second, hold on-”

You turned, catching a glimpse of him retreating back in his room.

You dabbed at your cut again, seething at the pain it brought.

You doubted stitches were needed but maybe some glue. Heck, maybe you could find an on-call room and sleep off the wound.

John's door opened again and he was rushing out, tugging a shirt on with joggers already pulled up. He flicked the light on and you watched his eyes widen at the cut as if you'd been shot. “Woah-woah, hey-hey-”

“Leave it, John.”

“What happened? What'd you do?” he rushed to you, sliding on the floor as he cupped your cheeks, checking the cut in the light.

His clothes hung limp on him and you didn't even have to look close to see the blue and purple bruises at his neck, still fresh, a thin trail of kisses not yet settled. There was no slouch in him like you knew there to be in you. He was alert. The kind of attention sex required.

He was using all that energy- the energy he was stealing from you- to asses your wound.

“What were you doing, jumping-jacks?” he tried to joke.

You didn't feel like laughing. “Can you leave it, please?”

The crinkle at his eyes at his own teasing dropped. He became as dull as you felt.

“No, no I- I can't leave it,” he said, serious. “You're bleeding, you're hurt, what happened?”

You sighed. “I was dressing in the dark, I'm a clutz.”

He shook his head. “Why were you dressing at three am?”

“Because I'm going into work.”

“We're not on nights.”

“Then I'm going in for fun.”

“Like the other night when you were paged in for a cough that didn't exists?” he said. “Mark told me, so what's going on?”

You had hoped Mark Greene- your mentor- wouldn't be noticing the slow falling apart of your love life. No such luck there. “Nothing,” you told him. “Nothing is going on.”

“You running off in the night is something, in my books at least,” said John, stern. His arms fell to his side. “So, you want to tell me?”

You'd just done a thirty-six hour shift and was only reward with two hours sleep. You didn't have it in you to be kind to him while your own chest felt like it was caving in on itself. “No, I don't.”

John scoffed. “Well, I've got all night, I can wait.”

“No, you don't.”

He frowned.

At that moment his latest peeked out of the room. She'd had the decency to wrap herself up in his thin white sheet at least. Her hair was a mess, her body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She genuinely seemed sorry to be interrupting but clearly wanted to get back to the high she was chasing.

“Hey, John, is everything okay?”

She was so un-like you. She was everything you weren't. You didn't even know who she was but she wasn't you and seeing her coming out of John's room, wrapped up in his sheet and smell and faint marks of him you were reminded of that.

You didn't know why she- an odd number in his list of conquests- broke your heart. But it did.

You chocked on a sob, turning away from them both.

John's neck snapped to you at the noise. “Hey, hey-” his hands were soft on your forearms but you shrugged him off.

“John?” asked the girl again, a lazy drawl of her voice piercing your heart.

“Just, go back in, I'll- I'll be a second,” he said, dismissively.

It some how made it all the much worse because he didn't care for the other girls feelings. It was nothing serious to him, it never was. If it was serious, if he brought a girl back and took painstaking effort to introduce the two of you maybe you could pull on a brave face, pretend to be happy for him.

But he was constantly throwing it all in your face.

“John?” the girl asked again.

“Meg, seriously, I just need to sort this out-”

Sort it out? Like you were something on a check list?

You'd managed to make it to the front door before John caught you.

“Hey, wait! No- jus'-” his hand slammed down over you on the door, closing it before you could escape. “You're scaring me now, what's going on?”

“Nothing,” your own voice betrayed you, cracking as tears escaped you.

You rushed to wipe them away but John beat you to it.

“Hey, hey.” His thumb swept at the tears, voice laced in worry and pain. “Why are you crying? What's happened?”

You knew yourself well enough from the years of stress of medical school, from losing patients that were making promising progress and dying, from months of hearing John love on a girl that wasn't you to know when you couldn't trust your voice. All you could do was duck your head and sniff.

John was still close enough for you to smell the other girls perfume on him. “Why- why don't we sit down? I'll make you some tea.”

“I don't want tea,” you chuckled dryly.

John seemed startled. Tea was always what you offered him after the hard days. “Coffee?”

“I just want to go,” you admitted.

“Go? Go where?” he asked, voice almost as broken as yours. “You want to leave, you want to get out of here?”

He asked like he was almost understanding where you were coming from.

You nodded.

“Can I come with you?”

You shook your head.

John nodded with tight lips, like his own heart was breaking. “Okay them, I- I can't let you go. Not alone.”

You cried. “John-”

“It's three am it's dark out, I'm not letting you go anywhere alone-”

“John-”

“And frankly you're scaring me right now, I can't stand seeing you like this-”

“- I just don't want to be near you right now.”

The confession hung between the two of you like a hook caught in your hearts and tearing you both down. It was one thing you hurting because of John's actions but it wasn't like you'd told him how you felt. So really, you were hurting him for nothing.

“Okay, okay,” he said calmly. Turing for a second to gather himself up, patting the back of his hair down. “Okay you don't have to be anywhere near me but can you at least stay? So I know you're safe. I'll- I'll hide in my room or something. Out there, it's-it's not and I know you hate me right now but you will give me a heart attack if you go-”

“- I don't hate you,” you uttered.

“Well you just said you don't want to be near me,” he pointed out, the first angry notes in his voice. He took a deep breath and took a step closer, his hands clenched in together. John bent a little in the knees to get a look at you. “I'm sorry, whatever I did, I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

He hadn't. Nothing he'd done had been with you in mind.

John laughed at himself. “It's me, for Christ sake, I'd never do anything to hurt you, okay? You've got to believe me. You know me.... you know me!”

The door to his room opened again and in the dim light the both of you saw his girl- Meg- wander out. She was in one of his old grey shirts, flaunting herself with jutted out hips. She threw herself down on the sofa and watched, waiting.

You wiped your tears away, telling yourself to get a grip. “Can we just- can we do this later, John, please?”

You'd thought the tears and begging would have been enough but John looked at you, studying all over you. He took in a deep breath like he was getting his confidence from somewhere.

He shook his head, staring at you. “No. Okay, wait- just wait for for a second, one second.”

You did. You waited one second and watched as he returned to Meg, crouching at the sofa and talking low to her. He even put his hand on hers and spoke very calmly and clearly.

Whatever he was saying Meg seemed to not like, or really understand, her eyes flickered back up to yours accusingly.

That's when you slipped out the door and hailed down a taxi to take you to the ER.

Carol had offered to help but you said no, so did Lydia, practically following you down with the right kit to take care of the cut on your head. Genie had offered with a kind understanding smile but you'd hidden yourself away on an empty bed with a mirror.

Mark was the only one you'd let stay in the room, even then you weren't letting him get close enough to help. “We should get a CT, at least.”

“Geez, it's just a small cut,” you chuckled, putting the thin strips of tape over it to help bring it together. It was the sort of thing that wasn't even medical. Just common sense.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said.

“And do you want to be the one to tell Wheever you ordered un-neccary tests and wasted hospital rescourse and money?”

You'd thought that would have been enough to deter him but instead Mark leaned forward.

“Yes.”

Damn.

“As chief resident I don't have to have you working till you get the all cleared.”

You huffed. You could always find an on-call room to catch up on sleep but you feared you'd re-play John's heartbreak over again if you did. “Fine, book me the CT,” you said, slinging your stephscope back around your neck and pocketing your pocket mirror.

“Thank you,” said Mark and with one last look of conserved worry, he left.

But the door swung open a second later and Carter waltzed in, hands in the pocket of his lab coat. He paused and looked at you, as if you were a patient of his.

It was going on four. He'd followed you in.

You opened your mouth to say something. A sorry, maybe. An apology for ruining his sex time and for crying.

John beat you to it. “I know you said you didn't want to be around me but I'm sorry, I-” he laughed at the very idea that was true. He knew you too well for that. “I don't believe you.”

“What do you want me to do about that?”

“I want you to talk to me.” John grabbed the stool close and sat on it, pushing himself close in front of you like any attentive doctor would. He grabbed your hands. “Talk to me.”

You wondered what you should have told him first. That out of desperation for your well-being Chuni had offered up her spare room at her place till you could get a place of your own. That Mark was willing to move around the schedule and face Wheever's wrath in doing so. That you couldn't take one more night of not being the one John chose.

“I'm sorry for being mad earlier, at the apartment,” you said first, looking down to where he held your hands. His knuckles were bleached white from the tightness he held onto you to. “I'm not- I'm not mad at you.”

His body sagged in relief. “You're not?”

“No.”

“Oh - thank god.” His body curved over yours, breath fanning the envelope of your hands.

“It's just me, it's just stuff,” you dismissed.

“No, it's not just stuff,” he said, equally as dismissive. “If it's getting you up in the middle of the night, ending in you being hurt- I mean... we can sort it.”

His thumb was a delicate tough as he brushed over your cut.

It didn't feel as painful when he did.

John's gaze lingered on your cut before looking back at your eyes. There was nothing to indicate he knew what this was really about, only a small hurting sorrow that he didn't know how to help you.

It was enough to hurt you all over again.

But maybe pulling the band off at once was better than a slow, agonising pull.

You squeezed his hands. “John, I'm moving out.”

The words were like heavy stones sinking in the bottom of a lake. You saw his expression blanked, his hands release yours slowly and his face pale as if the world was ending. His eyes searched yours trying to detect a hint of amusement.

He found nothing.

Mark popped his head back in, saving you. “CT's ready for you.”

“Thanks Mark,” you said as he nodded once and left again.

John hadn't moved, frozen in place. He stared past your body.

“I'll um... I've got to go...” it was the cowards way out but the way you saw it you'd been tough a long time, lying in bed and crying yourself to sleep. Letting yourself feel pathetic for doing so when you had so much more in life to give it meaning. If you could just get away enough, create some distance so you didn't feel trapped you could at least keep his hand in friendship. At least still have the privilege of looking in his eyes everyday and know, just for a second, you once had a chance for it all with him.

When you got back to the door and looked back, John was still on the stool, eyes watering.

Three hours later your shift officially started but you were already four patients deep, a case in pedes with Ross, a trauma that had gone up to the OR, an elderly man with a nasty fall to his hip and possible schizophrenia. Your last was a young girl, complaining of stomach craps. You suspected pregnancy and was thinking as much when you glanced out the door to the front desk.

John was staring through the door at you, Carol at his side trying to talk to him also staring in at you.

It wasn't a good sign in any case, not when Carol knew everything and John knew so little. It didn't help he looked wrecked. Tie askew, hair sticking up in the way that indicated hands running through it in stress.

Then he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

“Leanne, have you been sexually active recently?”

“With my boyfriend.”

“And how long ago was your last period?”

“Two weeks.”

“Are you late?”

“Not yet.”

You jotted it all down on the chart. “Ok, we're gonna get some blood work, start you on an IV and get a urine sample in-”

The door swung open and you and Maleek who was helping on the case looked up.

John stood there, breathless like he'd ran the ten or so paces it took to get here.

“John?” you asked.

“You love me?”

The world stilled. There was suddenly nothing but you and him. Him looking at you astonished, like he couldn't believe it. At a loss of words from the very idea.

“I'm sorry- what?”

He took a heavy step forward, a deep inahle seething. “You love me.”

It wasn't an accusation the second time.

You looked back to the fifteen year old and Maleek who seemed as startled as you. “Can we not- I'm with a patient-”

“It's okay, I got this,” said Maleek, stepping in the way.

And John Carter was still standing there, catching his breath and staring at you.

You, with little other choice, barged past him.

You heard Carol calling out for you as you marched around trying to find a private corner to have the dreaded confrontation.

“I'm sorry!” she called.

John was hot on your heels. “Don't apologise, I deserved to know!”

Benton had joined the crew of on lookers at the desk. “Do I want to know?” you heard him ask.

“Probably not,” Mark replied.

Exam room two was empty and you held the door open for Carter. He marched in, hands running over his hair again as he mumbled to himself. You closed the door behind, locking it and closing the blinds because you knew everyone was going to try to listen to your world crumble.

You gave yourself a two second head start in catching your breath before turning to him.

John stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, waiting. His lip tucked under his teeth. “You love me.”

“Who told you?”

“Carol,” he said. “I was so worried about you I asked if she knew what was going on but turns out everyone did. You know, I could've asked Doug, Mark, Susan, Genie, basically everyone I mean- was I the last one to know?”

“There was nothing for you to know.”

“Really?” he scoffed.

“Yes!” you snapped. “It was my feelings, you didn't need to know them!”

“Yes, I did! I needed to know!”

“Why?”

“Why? Because- because it's me!”

You groaned, frustration ripping through the tears you had cried that morning. “What does it matter, John? You don't love me!”

“Of course I love you!”

“Not in the way I love you, not like that!”

“Yes I do!” he all but screamed.

The room fell silent. You could hear the labour of his breath and the wheels and running outside the room. A trauma was called in yet nobody was rescuing you or John.

He stood there, exposed.

Yes I do!

It was the heat of the argument, you told yourself, as you shook the idea out of you. For a second you almost believed him.

John deflated, watching as you hugged yourself, as you didn't rush to him or smile at his confession. “Do you... do you think I don't love you?”

You levelled your gaze on him.

As if he could see the break of your heart through the windows to your soul he shattered.

“Oh my god. You think I don't love you?”

You lifted your shoulders in a tired shrug. “Was I supposed to believe you did? You fuck a different girl every night while I'm on the other side of the damn wall.” The words come out bitten and finally the penny dropped for John.

The sleepless nights, the times he knew you were tired, the way you hid around every corner, in every room. Slowly he fit all the pieces together and he didn't like what he was seeing.

“That wasn't- they were- they were nothing,” he stuttered.

It was your turn to scoff. “Yeah, it never sounded like nothing-”

“You have to believe me, okay, you- you have to-” he begged, rushing in front of you. His hands took yours without your offer and he held it close to him, over his chest where you could feel his racing heart by the palm of your hand. “- you can't- you have to-”

He clenched his jaw.

You waited for more. “Can't what?”

John screwed his eyes shut, uttering a curse before opening his eyes. They pleaded onto you. “You can't think they meant anything over you. You can't,” he said so definitely you almost believed him. Almost.

“You're not making sense.”

“I know- I- I know,” he said, moving closer to you. He rested his head on your shoulder and you didn't have the strength to move. There was no smell of any other girl, only your shampoo he used in his hair. You could feel the tremble of his body. “This isn't how I wanted this to go.”

You were still, like you were a bunny in the jaws of a lion.

John pulled back and you were shocked at the redness of his eyes, at the tears threatening to spill. “When I dreamt about this I dreamt roses and a better declaration,” he chuckled at himself.

“I'm glad you find this really amusing, John, but I-”

“I don't- I don't,” he said at once. But he still chuckled dryly. “I just think I've messed up my whole life and I- I don't know how to fix this.”

You weren't sure what he was saying because he couldn't be talking about whatever was going on between the two of you. Frankly, you weren't sure what was going on. There was confessions hanging in the air like dirty laundry and tears from him that you didn't know what to do with. None of it made sense.

Your brain went to the only sense it could make.

“You've ruined your life?” you asked, full of concern for him. “What? Is one of the girls pregnant?”

John swiped his hands over his face, roughly. “No. No, I've just realised I fucked everything up with you.”

You stared at him and laughed. “And that's your entire life ruined?”

Carter nodded earnestly.

He loved you? He was insisting he did. Looking at you like he did.

A fist grabbed your heart and squeezed. You counted every girl you'd met through him and tried to add it up to love. It only made your head hurt and you knew it had nothing to do with the cut.

“I can't- I can't do this right now,” you said. “I have patients. So do you.”

“Can we talk? Tonight. Can we- can we talk? Please. Back home,” he begged, voice quiet like you'd never heard him before. “Please don't leave me.”

You wanted to argue there was nothing to leave. That even if you were going to go you still had a room of things to pack and sort. “Okay, fine, tonight.”

For the rest of the day you and John avoided each other, only working side by side on traumas. It was the only clue anyone got about the two of you. Nobody had dared ask what was going on but as you threw yourself into work and John got back on the floor after a thorough self-pity party they were all smart enough to guess it didn't go well.

“So, you're talking?” asked Carol at the end of your shift as you finished passing off your charts.

“Tonight, yeah.”

“That's good, isn't it?”

You huffed, finding your bag. “He says he loves me, Carol.”

She didn't know whether to smile or not. “Yeah, I think he does.”

“So what were the girls?”

“Distractions? A bit of fun? Men don't always have to make sense. Even if they are in love,” she told you, knowing all too well the the ins and outs of men and stupid choices through Doug Ross and their famous on and off relationship. “But give him a chance, he might surprise you.”

A chance.

You were tired. The kind that came from a long shift and little sleep. The kind you'd become accustom to that it didn't shock you when you felt it knocking on your door.

Were you too tired for a chance?

A throat cleared behind you and Carol disappeared from your side.

John stood in front of you, sheepish, with a bouquet in hand. They were your favourite flowers. “For you.”

Ignoring the audience that was trying (and failing) at being subtle, you took them.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, shy, in a way you hadn't seen him be since the both of you first started in the ER.

Nobody knew what to say next.

“Can I, um, can I take you home now?”

You could have been petty and told him you'd catch the subway back. Or that you'd hail a cab but you were both going the same way and you'd end up in your living room, talking, one way or another.

The car ride was quiet with John trying to find a radio station that didn't grate on him and ended up in silence.

When he pulled up in front of your apartment building he rushed out the car like it was on fire. He pulled open your door before you got the chance and helped you with your bag and bouquet.

In the apartment it was just as un-touched as it had been in the morning.

You didn't realise until you saw it so that you'd been expecting a lingering guest.

But there was only signs of you and John.

He was watching you while he set both your things down. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, no thanks I think I should be sober for this,” you said. Amicable ground was trying to be found, keeping your voice neutral was the best you could do. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, no.”

The silence was invasive. An un-wanted guest.

You would start it, as you had with all your messed up feelings. You could finish it even if it hurt. “If you love me what were all the girls?”

John seemed to leap at the chance to defend himself. “Nothing. They were nothing, they were-” he paused, taking time to think about his next words. “They were just distractions. Meaningless. To get you out of my mind.”

“Cheap, John.” It was almost word for word what Carol said.

“Nothing I say can defend myself, I'm not trying to defend myself I'm trying to tell you the truth. I need you, and if I've ruined this I'm not letting you go without fighting.”

He approached you, giving you space and time to step back or flinch away. You didn't.

“I've loved you since I met you. Ever since you came up to me thinking I was a doctor and knew where labs were, I knew it. Love at first sight- if you think that's bullshit- I don't care because I knew it. But you made it clear, very clear you were here to be the best doctor you could be and I wanted that for you, I still do- I always will,” he said.

You remembered John years ago, tailored white coat and hopeful. You'd gone up to him because you were supposed to meet Doctor Greene in labs and had no idea where that was and he was the first person in a white coat and clipboard you'd seen.

You did twelve hours next to him that day, competing on stitches and sutures.

“You know, I had an apartment when I heard you were looking to move in with someone, cheap rent and that,” he said, laughing at himself. “I moved out of that apartment and got another one within the week with a spare room just so I could ask you to move in.”

The apartment you were stood in.

“What?”

John nodded like he knew it was ridiculous. “It worked.”

You knew the Carter family was rich beyond imagination. You'd always wondered why John insisted on a room mate when he could afford to live comfortably without one.

“When you told me you were thinking of moving in with Anna god I had a heart attack, practically begged her to back off.”

John had helped you pack your old place, had carried your stuff with care into his apartment. It had looked so much like him, so lived in you wouldn't even think to wonder how long he'd lived there. You'd never have guessed only a week till you invaded with your stuff.

“It was the closest I could have you without having you.”

“Why didn't you tell me then?” you asked.

His face screwed up like he regretted it. He did, you guessed. “Because we both get tired. We get irritable. I hate failing patients and you take on so many that you can't give yourself a minute to think during the day.”

You weren't sure if it was a compliment or not.

“We work together, we live together, take patients together I figured we'd crash and burn if I told you how I felt,” he admitted. “And- god, help me- if I had to live only being your friend it was better than living without you at all.”

But you and John had never argued. The both of you had figured out how to silently read each other. How to know when he needed space or a hug and a shoulder to cry on. He knew when you needed an extra pair of hands or to just put a stupid movie on to fall asleep too.

The nights you'd fallen asleep in his arms on the sofa and woke in your bed. The mornings where you were on and he wasn't but he was still up to get you a coffee. The days you worked close together and ignored everyone else. It all meant something else now.

“The girls were to forget,” said John. “It didn't work, hardly. All I could think about was you. And I know- I know it's wrong. I had to recite medical facts to myself just to get the thought of you out my head.”

“I thought you did that to make it last for them,” you admitted, realising now how silly it's all been.

He shook his head. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I'd rather cut off my own hands than make you cry. And I've made you cry and hurt you so just get a knife and-” he made a chopping motion, chocking on a laugh.

John wiped his tears with the back of his hand and he looked at you. “If you want to leave then leave but I can't let you go. I'll be around, I'll be really hard to get rid of.”

The both of your rooms stood behind you. Both dark. Both separate cages for the two of you.

“All I could think about when I saw you with those girls was how much they were never like me,” you spoke, quietly. “I thought you'd never... you know... think of me that way.”

John's hands were firm on your cheeks, gaining your attention. “It was always about you. You didn't deserve that, you didn't, I wish I could take it all back and tell you. But why didn't you tell me?”

Why? Because you were afraid. Knowing what you knew now it didn't seem a strong enough argument.

You laughed. “Are we stupid?”

John grinned through his own tears. He nodded, caressing your cheeks. “I think we are, I think so.”

Your foreheads leaned against each other as you laughed.

Slowly, it faded as he pressed his forehead into yours harder.

“I'm so sorry, baby.”

“I'm sorry,” you said, hands coming to hold his face, feeling the rough stubble in your palms.

“No, no, you have nothing to be sorry for, it's me, it's me,” he uttered, eyes closing. “If I've ruined this forever please tell me.”

You couldn't say he didn't have a point. Working long hours made you both difficult at times but never to each other. You couldn't say the girls wouldn't hurt you for some time more, that your insecurities weren't something you had to work on yourself.

Yet, you couldn't say you could manage without him.

“I don't think you have, no.”

John breathed out against you. “No?”

“No,” you shook your head against his. “I think if we love each other-”

“- we do, we do-”

“ -we should at least give it a try.”

“I'm not trying with you, I'm not trying- I'm doing,” John assured you, hands still moving along your cheeks, your hair, anything to hold you. “I'm not messing it up again, I'm not. I'd propose right now if you asked me to.”

You pulled back enough to stare at him seriously. “Don't.”

“Okay, okay, I won't,” he said. When he opened his eyes back at you he smirked, a twitch to his brows. “At least not today.”

There was laughter in place of tears and you knew that if you slept tonight there'd be no need to hurt. Maybe, instead, time to heal.

“Not for a long time,” you told him.

John nodded along, mockingly going along with you. “But eventually right?”

“Maybe you should kiss me before we get that far?”

The laughter died quietly. You were slowly brought into his arms as they wrapped around you, hands moving down your back without going further.

There was a gentle breeze of his warmth and the tips of his hair tickled you as he tilted his head, your own neck moving back to meet him.

It was soft and sweet. A small press of his lips like he was too scared to break you. It was your hands around his neck that brought him closer, it was his whimper that moved him on as his hands held your waist. You stayed pressing into each other, promising silent things as you did, until you both recognised the burn in your lungs for breath.

“I love you,” he said, slowly dragging his lips against yours again.

This time, you could admit to him without fear.