Hi there! Welcome to my little corner of the internet!
About Me: Call me Taylor (She/Her | Over 21+) || Dreamer, writer, lover.
Fandoms Iâm writing in:
- Supernatural/Dean Winchester (Familiar Ground - ongoing; One Day - completed)
- Dawsonâs Creek/CJ Braxton (Crossroads of the Heart - ongoing)
- Big Sky (Second Chances: Forever - ongoing; Second Chances - completed)
- Supernatural/One-Shots
Posting Schedule (as of 1/28/2026):
Familiar Ground - Mondays
Second Chances: Forever - Tuesdays
Crossroads of the Heart - Every other Wednesday
Supernatural One-Shots - Whenever there's a holiday or event to post about
Stories I wrote:
- Supernatural/Dean Winchester (One Day)
Stories on hiatus:
- The Rookie/Tim Bradford (Breaking The Wall)
I will not take requests at this time. This may change in the future.
AUTHORâS NOTE
Any content that has 18+ content will be labeled on the story itself, as well as any dark themes or trigger warnings. Iâd advise minors (under 18) to not read those stories.
Note: I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or published to any third-party sites, apps, or AI generators/readers.
If you come across one of my works posted elsewhere, please let me know.
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As you could tell... I'm back! While I'm not yet back in full forceâCrossroads of the Heart will take a bit of re-reading and re-familiarizing myselfâFamiliar Ground and Second Chances: Forever are definitely back! (Not to mention, I will be having a new Supernatural One-Shot coming out for the Summer Solstice too!)
The schedule date for them will be a bit wonky. I'm going to try to keep it consistent, but likely toward the middle of the week. Like hopefully, Familiar Ground will be Tuesdays, Second Chances: Forever will be Wednesdays, and once I'm back to it, Crossroads of the Heart will be Thursdays (though every other week?).
(More under the cut, because this is turning into a long post.)
And perhaps... some sad news.
I foresee an ending to Crossroads of the Heart. I do love writing CJ Braxton and his steady love for Y/N, with the chaos gremlin that is Gabby and her unusual love with Miles, but I feel the end has come for that storyline. I don't know when it'll end, only that it will. I promise it'll end well and happily though!
And I know I mentioned I'd be working on a novel! Well, it's definitely going to be worked on! I have a tentative title in place, and a general storyline already! đ
General teaser of the novel, for those who wanted to know about it:
[Male main character/MMC] thought the best parts of his life were behind him.
[Female main character/FMC] spends every weekend singing at weddings and every Monday reminding herself not to believe in fairy tales.
When a mutual friend's wedding throws them together, neither expects more than a pleasant conversation. Instead, they find themselves drawn into an easy friendship built on sharp humor, honest conversations, and the kind of understanding that only comes along once in a lifetime.
As friendship slowly deepens into something more, [MMC] and [FMC] begin to wonder if maybe life isn't divided into winners and losers, first loves and lost chances.
Maybe there are second verses.
And maybe the most beautiful songs are the ones that continue after you thought they were over.
âââ
So yeah. I'm happily writing again. The FUBAR is, hopefully, seeing the end.
Oh, life will continue to, er, lifeâbut that difficult situation? I got out. I'm safe. To borrow a phrase from a family member, I'm rebooting my life and it's getting better. Not great, but far better. I'm healthier. And outside of melting in the heat, the stress... is manageable. To the point where my muse is exploding with stories again.
So thank you all for being patient with the sudden silence, the lack of updates. I super appreciate it all. đ
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singerâs house brings Natalie Guimetâan old childhood friend and constant from his time thereâback into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds donât fade with timeâthey wait.
Word Count: 4,477
Tags/Warnings: Mention of death, afterlife, mention of eating disorders, grief, hints of 18+ discussion, alcohol
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Note: I'm back! Thank you all for your immense patience for my absence. Life had kicked me back and I couldn't even do Familiar Ground for a time. But life seems to have calmed down so I'm hoping to return to writing all the stories again!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Seven: Arrangements
Bobby pointed his fork at all three of them before anyone could even think about reopening the conversation.
âNo.â
Dean blinked. âWe didn't even say anything.â
âYou were about to.â
âI wasn't.â
âYou were breathin' like you were about to.â
Sam immediately looked down at his plate to hide a smile.
Bobby ignored him.
âFood first,â he declared. âApocalyptic soul-stealin' nightmare later.â
Natalie found herself smiling despite everything.
Bobby noticed and pointed at her next. âAnd you. Eat.â
âI am eating.â
âMore.â
âBobbyââ
âMore.â
Dean snorted into his beer.
Natalie shot him a look.
Traitor.
Bobby sat back, apparently satisfied that everyone had food in front of them, and for the first time all evening, the house settled into something almost normal.
Almost.
Conversation drifted in fits and starts. Sam made an observation about the water spirit. Bobby complained about hunters who never returned books where they found them. Dean argued that Bobby's filing system was incomprehensible.
Through it all, however, something had changed.
Something small.
Something private.
Natalie sat beside Dean, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed. The first touch was accidental. At least, it could have been. Her hand shifted near her plate and her knuckles brushed his.
Neither of them pulled away.
A few moments later, Dean's thumb grazed lightly against the back of her hand. Natalie's breath caught. No one noticed.
Well.
No one except Sam. Sam noticed everything. Across the table, he wisely kept his mouth shut.
A little while later, Natalie reached for her beer at the same time Dean reached for his. Their fingers touched. This time Dean let his hand linger. Just for a second. Just enough to make sure she felt it.
Natalie's lips curved faintly.
Bobby was in the middle of complaining about rust demonsâ"which ain't a thing but probably should be"âwhen Dean's hand found hers again beneath the table.
Not holding. Not yet. Just resting close enough that his thumb could stroke lightly over her knuckles. The gesture was so small. So simple.
And somehow it felt more intimate than the kiss.
Because this was Dean. Dean, who rarely slowed down. Dean, who carried affection in actions more than words. Dean, who kept finding reasons to touch her simply because he could.
Natalie looked down at her plate to hide her smile.
Across from them, Sam saw it anyway. He glanced between the two of them. The subtle touches. The quiet happiness. The way Dean looked lighter than he had in years.
Sam smiled to himself and returned to his dinner.
At the head of the table, Bobby continued grumbling about food, hunters, and the state of the world. But beneath all that gruff irritation was relief.
For tonight, at least, everyone was home. Everyone was alive. And for the first time in a very long time, the house felt full again.
Bobby sighed. The kind of sigh that suggested he had personally suffered on behalf of every stubborn person in the room. His eyes drifted to Natalie's plate.
Natalie immediately caught him looking. And gave him a look. It was a very specific look. I am eating. Back off, old man.
Bobby's mouth twitched.
Dean saw the exchange and barked out a laugh.
Natalie shot him a betrayed glance.
Dean bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.
"I ate," she insisted.
Bobby grumped under his breath, eyeing the admittedly diminished contents of her plate.
Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "Fine."
"Thank you."
"Don't get used to it."
Natalie rolled her eyes.
The moment settled something in the room. A little of the tension leaked away. The familiarity of itâthe banter, the grumbling, Bobby monitoring everyone's food intake whether they liked it or notâfelt strangely comforting after everything that had been revealed.
For a few moments, they simply ate.
Then Bobby set down his fork. The room quieted. He looked at Natalie. This time there was no irritation in his gaze. Just concern. "Tell us about the Master."
Natalie's smile faded.
Dean immediately felt her tense beside him. Without thinking, his hand brushed hers beneath the table. A silent reassurance.
She glanced at him briefly. Then took a breath. "I'm not sure how much of what it told me was true."
Sam leaned forward slightly. "Tell us anyway."
Natalie nodded. "It doesn't think the way we do." That was how she began.
The room went still.
"When I talked to it..." She paused, searching for words. "I got the impression that Heaven and Hell weren't enemies to it."
Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean it wasn't aligned with either side."
Bobby's expression darkened.
Natalie stared down at her beer bottle. "It spoke about both of them like they were neighboring countries."
The statement landed heavily.
Sam's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "It exists outside the system."
Natalie nodded. "As far as I could tell." She rubbed her thumb against the glass. "Outside Heaven. Outside Hell. Outside the usual universe entirely, maybe."
Dean's stomach tightened. The way she said it sounded less like theory and more like experience.
"It described Heaven and Hell as..." She hesitated. "Structures."
Bobby looked disgusted by the implication.
"Structures built around rules."
"And this thing isn't bound by those rules?" Sam asked.
"No." Natalie swallowed. "It lives in the spaces between them."
The room fell silent.
Dean remembered the scar. Remembered her saying it could have killed her. Remembered the fear in her voice when she'd admitted she wasn't strong enough. "What does it want?" he asked quietly.
Natalie looked at him.
For a moment, Dean saw the memory of Nova Scotia flash across her face.
Then she answered. "Power." A pause. "But not the way demons want power."
Sam frowned. "Then what kind?"
Natalie's gaze drifted toward the dark window over the sink. "The kind that comes from controlling what everyone else ignores."
Nobody spoke.
She continued softly. "The lost." Another pause. "The forgotten." Her voice dropped lower. "The souls that slip through the cracks."
The room grew very quiet indeed. Because every hunter at that table knew one terrible truth: There were always cracks.
The silence lingered after her last words. Dean could feel everyone thinking. Turning over possibilities. Trying to understand something that sat completely outside the lore they knew.
Natalie stared at the label on her beer bottle for a moment before speaking again. "The Master called them border souls."
Natalie looked up. The question seemed to pull her backward through time. "When I finally got her to talk..." she said softly, "she told me my father wasn't at peace."
The room went still. Dean remembered her saying as much earlier. But hearing it again somehow landed harder.
"She said Leandro hadn't crossed cleanly." Natalie swallowed. "That he wasn't suffering."
A flicker of relief crossed Bobby's face. Then vanished.
"But he wasn't free either."
The relief died completely.
Dean watched Bobby's expression close.
Natalie continued. "Missouri said that when my father died, he wasn't killed by the master."
"He was killed by the monster," Sam said, recalling the story.
Natalie nodded. "That's when she started talking about border souls." Her fingers tightened around the bottle. "She said sometimes a death creates... interference."
Dean frowned. "Interference how?"
"I don't know." The admission frustrated her. "I kept asking. She kept refusing to explain." A sad smile touched her lips. "She spent half the conversation trying to convince me to leave it alone."
Bobby snorted. "Smart woman."
Natalie shot him a look.
Dean almost smiled. Almost. Because he already knew where this was going.
"She told me my father was one of them." The room quieted again. "A border soul." Natalie's voice softened. "Not in Heaven." A pause. "Not in Hell." Another. "Just... trapped."
Dean felt her pain then. Not the physical kind. The grief. The years of it. Because until that moment, Leandro had been dead. Gone. Mourned. Now he occupied a far crueler place. Not gone. Waiting.
Lost.
"And Missouri knew?" Sam asked.
Natalie nodded. "I think she knew more than she ever told me."
"Probably." Bobby's voice was rough.
Natalie looked toward him. "I think she was trying to protect me."
"She was." The certainty in Bobby's answer surprised everyone. He stared into his beer. "Missouri wasn't the kind to hide things unless there was a reason."
Dean watched him closely. Bobby looked older suddenly. Tired. Like he was remembering old conversations he'd hoped would stay buried.
Natalie noticed it too. "You knew something."
It wasn't an accusation. Just a realization.
Bobby was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "I knew there were questions."
Dean immediately looked at him. "Bobbyâ"
"I never had answers." His voice carried genuine frustration. "I knew the hunt didn't sit right. Knew things about it never lined up." He rubbed a hand over his face. "But not enough to go chasin' ghosts."
Natalie looked down. "Well." Her laugh was small and humorless. "I did."
Nobody argued with that. Because the scar on her stomach was proof enough. Dean's hand found hers beneath the table again. This time he didn't bother pretending it was accidental.
Natalie looked over. His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand. A simple gesture. But the message was clear: You're not carrying this alone anymore.
For the first time since she'd started talking, some of the tension left her shoulders. And Bobby noticed. Of course he did. He watched them for a second. Then looked away.
Not because he disapproved. Quite the opposite. Because after everything Natalie had just told them, Bobby found himself grateful that when she finally decided to stop carrying the burden alone: Dean Winchester had been waiting to catch it with her.
Dean sat with his beer untouched, Natalie's hand still beneath his, his thumb occasionally brushing across her knuckles as the conversation settled into an uneasy silence.
The house seemed smaller somehow.
Maybe because the thing they were discussing wasn't a ghost. Wasn't a vampire nest. Wasn't even a demon.
It was something that existed beyond the categories that had shaped Dean's entire life.
The old clock on Bobby's wall ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, the South Dakota wind rattled loose sheet metal in the junkyard.
Finally, Dean broke the silence. "How do we kill it?"
The question landed with the weight of a dropped stone. Natalie closed her eyes briefly. Sam looked thoughtful. Bobby immediately looked irritated.
"That's your first question?" Bobby demanded.
Dean turned toward him. "It nearly killed her."
"That wasn't my question."
"It is now."
Bobby pushed his chair back slightly, the wood scraping against the floor. "You don't even know if it can be killed."
Dean's jaw tightened. "Everything can be killed."
Natalie made a small sound under her breath.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Deanâ"
"No," Dean said, leaning forward. "We're talking about a thing that's collecting souls and using monsters as tools. So yeah. I want to know how we put it in the ground."
Bobby barked out a humorless laugh. "And then what?"
Dean frowned. "What do you mean, then what?"
"What happens to all those souls if this thing is holdin' them together?" Bobby shot back. "What happens if it's part of the structure?"
The room fell quiet again. That possibility hadn't occurred to Dean. It clearly had occurred to Bobby.
"You don't know that," Dean argued.
"No," Bobby agreed. "Neither do you."
The older hunter stood and began pacing again, his beer forgotten on the table. Dean could see the gears turning behind his eyes, could see decades of experience trying to wrestle with something completely outside the normal rules.
"We're making assumptions," Bobby continued. "Big ones."
Natalie watched him carefully. "We know it's dangerous."
"Damn right it's dangerous."
"We know it's trapping souls."
"Maybe."
That made her blink. "Maybe?"
Bobby stopped pacing and pointed at her. "You know what it told you."
Natalie's expression hardened. "I saw the records."
"You saw what it wanted you to see."
The room went still. Dean felt something shift. Because Bobby had a point. A frustrating point. But a point.
The Master had controlled the battlefield from the beginning. It had expected Natalie. Expected her questions. Expected her grief. For all they knew, the entire encounter had been staged.
Sam sat forward, elbows on the table. "Actually," he said slowly, "that's the real problem."
Everyone looked at him.
"We don't know what's true."
Natalie frowned. "What do you mean?"
Sam spread his hands. "Think about it. Everything we know comes from three sources. Missouri. The Master. And assumptions."
Dean hated when Sam got that look. The one that meant he was right.
"Missouri said Leandro wasn't at rest," Sam continued. "The Master confirmed it. But neither one actually explained the mechanics."
Natalie's shoulders tensed. "You're saying my father might not be trapped."
"I'm saying we don't know."
The distinction mattered. Dean could see it hit her. Not relief. Not hope. Something more complicated. The possibility that she had spent three years chasing a story whose ending she still didn't understand.
"I met it," Natalie said quietly.
"No one is saying you didn't."
"It nearly killed me."
Dean's hand tightened around hers instinctively.
Sam nodded. "I know. But that's different than understanding what it actually is."
The silence stretched. Then Bobby sighed heavily and dropped back into his chair. "What I'm hearin'," he said, rubbing a hand through his beard, "is that everybody's already talkin' about killin' somethin' we don't understand."
Dean opened his mouth.
Bobby cut him off. "And before you start, boy, if this thing really exists outside Heaven and Hell..." He pointed toward the ceiling. "Then we are officially operating outside our pay grade."
That earned the smallest snort from Sam. Even Natalie smiled faintly. Dean did not. Because he kept returning to one image. Natalie bleeding out on a cold floor in Nova Scotia. The scar. The fear in her voice when she'd admitted she almost hadn't come home.
"You know what?" Dean said finally.
Everyone looked at him. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"I don't care."
Bobby groaned immediately. "Of course you don't."
Dean ignored him. "I don't care if it's part of the structure. I don't care if it exists outside Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Oz, Narnia, wherever the hell."
Sam rolled his eyes.
Natalie actually laughed.
Dean pointed at her. "That thing hurt you." The room quieted instantly. His gaze didn't leave hers. "And maybe we don't know how to kill it."
A beat.
"Yet."
Something fierce settled across the table. Because Dean Winchester had never been particularly impressed by impossible.
Bobby stared at him for several long seconds before shaking his head. "God help me."
"No argument there," Sam muttered.
Bobby pointed at all three younger hunters. "You are not marchin' back to Nova Scotia tomorrow."
"We weren'tâ"
"You were thinkin' it."
Dean had, in fact, been thinking it.
Bobby's glare sharpened. "We do this right." The words carried the force of command. "We research. We investigate. We figure out what this thing actually is."
His gaze moved to Natalie. "Then." To Dean. "And only then." To Sam. "We decide whether killin' it is even the right answer."
No one immediately argued. Which, for this group, was as close to agreement as anyone was likely to get.
Dean sat back in his chair, but only physically. The rest of him remained wound tight as piano wire. The revelation that Natalie had nearly died, that she had spent three years chasing whispers across the continent, and that some impossible thing had marked her and let her live, had settled beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn't remove. Every instinct he possessed kept returning to the same place: the scar across her stomach. He could still see it every time he closed his eyes.
The room itself felt deceptively normal. Dinner sat half-finished on plates. Bobby's old kitchen light cast a warm yellow glow across scarred wood and mismatched chairs. The refrigerator hummed softly in the background. It should have felt like every other evening they'd spent at Bobby's over the years.
Instead, it felt like they were sitting around the edge of a cliff.
Dean finally broke the silence. "So how do we kill it?"
The question landed heavily in the room.
Natalie looked up from her plate. Sam's attention sharpened immediately. Bobby, however, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as though Dean had just confirmed every frustration he'd ever had about raising Winchester boys.
"Of course that's where your mind goes," Bobby muttered.
Dean frowned. "Something trapping souls isn't exactly getting a free pass from me."
Bobby's chair creaked as he leaned back. "And what exactly makes you think killing it's the right answer?"
The challenge caught Dean off guard. Not because Bobby disagreedâBobby disagreed with him all the timeâbut because the older hunter seemed genuinely troubled by the question itself.
Dean gestured toward Natalie. "It nearly killed her."
"It nearly killed her because she went after it."
"And?"
"And that's not the same thing."
Dean stared at him in disbelief.
Across the table, Sam folded his hands together, his expression thoughtful in the way Dean knew usually meant his brother was about to become annoyingly reasonable. "Bobby might have a point."
Dean let out a sharp breath. "You too?"
Sam didn't flinch. "Think about what we actually know."
The words hung in the air.
Natalie had gone very still. Dean could see her listening carefully, her fingers wrapped around her beer bottle, her expression caught somewhere between hope and dread.
"We know the Master exists," Sam continued. "We know it had records. We know it knew about Leandro. We know it injured Natalie and let her leave. But beyond that?"
He spread his hands. "We're taking a lot on faith."
Bobby nodded immediately. "Exactly."
Dean hated when they agreed.
"What, you think she's lying?" he asked sharply.
"No." Sam's answer came immediately. "I think she believes what she saw."
Natalie's gaze dropped to the table.
The distinction mattered.
Dean could tell from the way her shoulders tightened.
Bobby rose from his chair and began pacing again, unable to stay seated when he was worried. It was a habit Dean had watched for years. Whenever Bobby started wearing a path into the floorboards, it meant something had gotten under his skin.
"This thing knew exactly what buttons to push," Bobby said. "It knew about her father. Knew she'd come looking. Knew she'd keep digging."
The older hunter stopped near the sink and turned back toward them. "For all we know, the whole damn encounter was orchestrated."
Natalie looked up sharply. "You think it lied?"
"I think powerful things rarely tell the whole truth."
The room fell quiet again.
Dean found himself watching Natalie's face. He could practically see the argument playing out behind her eyes. The certainty she'd carried home from Nova Scotia was being challenged now, not because Bobby thought she was wrong, but because Bobby had spent decades surviving by questioning everything.
Even his own conclusions.
Especially his own conclusions.
Natalie finally leaned forward, resting her forearms against the table. "When I was there," she said slowly, choosing each word with care, "it felt real."
Nobody interrupted her.
"The records were real. The souls were real. The fear was real." She swallowed. "And my father's name was there."
Something flickered across Bobby's expression then. Pain. Old pain. The kind that had never entirely healed.
Dean realized suddenly that Bobby wasn't just worried about Natalie. He was reliving Leandro's death all over again. Every new revelation peeled open another layer of guilt the older hunter had spent decades trying to bury.
Bobby lowered himself back into his chair, looking older than he had an hour ago.
"Kid," he said quietly, "I've spent twenty years wishing I'd had answers."
Natalie's eyes softened. "I know."
"No." Bobby shook his head. "I don't think you do."
His voice had lost all its irritation now. What remained was exhaustion and regret.
"When your father died, I tore that hunt apart. Every witness. Every scrap of lore. Every lead I could find. I wanted there to be a reason. I wanted there to be something I missed because that would've been easier than accepting what happened."
The room was utterly silent.
Dean glanced at Sam. Sam had gone still too.
"You know what I found?" Bobby continued.
Natalie slowly shook her head.
"Nothing."
The word landed heavily.
"Just a dead friend and a little girl who deserved her father."
Natalie's eyes glistened.
Dean felt her hand find his beneath the table. This time it wasn't subtle. It wasn't accidental. She simply reached for him.
He laced their fingers together immediately.
Neither of them commented on it.
Bobby noticed anyway.
Of course he did.
His gaze lingered briefly on their joined hands before moving away again. "Maybe this Master is exactly what you think it is," he said. "Maybe it really is holding souls. Maybe Leandro's one of them."
A pause followed.
"But if we're going after it, we're doing it because we know what we're dealing with."
Dean's jaw tightened. "And if we find out she's right?"
Bobby looked directly at him. "Then we'll burn that bridge when we get to it."
A reluctant smile tugged at Sam's mouth.
Natalie actually laughed softly.
Dean shook his head. "That's not the expression."
"It is now."
For the first time all evening, the tension eased slightly. Only slightly. Because everyone in the room knew the truth. The Master was still out there. Leandro's fate remained unresolved.
And somewhere beyond Heaven and Hell, something had noticed Natalie Guimetâand had allowed her to walk away alive.
The question hanging over all of them wasn't whether they would go after it.
The question was what they would discover when they finally did.
The conversation eventually ran out of steam. Not because they had reached any answers. If anything, they had accumulated more questions than when they started.
But there came a point where exhaustion settled over the room like a blanket. The beer bottles were mostly empty. The dinner plates sat abandoned. The clock on the wall had crawled steadily toward midnight, then beyond it.
Bobby was the first to surrender.
The older hunter pushed himself upright with a groan and reached for another beer from the refrigerator. He twisted the cap off with practiced ease and stood there for a moment, looking at the three younger hunters around his table.
His gaze settled on Natalie. Then Dean. Then back to Natalie.
The look alone was enough to make Dean suspicious. "What?"
Bobby sighed heavily. "Lord help me."
Dean frowned. "What?"
Bobby pointed vaguely between the two of them. "I don't wanna know."
Natalie blinked. "Don't wanna know what?"
"How the hell you two are gonna handle sleepin' arrangements tonight."
The silence that followed was immediate. Natalie's eyes widened. To Dean's absolute horror, he felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Across the table, Sam immediately buried his face behind his beer bottle.
Bobby looked vindicated. "Yep."
"Bobby!" Natalie exclaimed.
"What?"
"You cannot justâ"
"I absolutely can."
Dean opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Which somehow made everything worse. Natalie looked equally horrified. And embarrassed. And if Dean wasn't mistaken, actually blushing. That realization nearly finished him off.
Bobby took one look at both of them and barked out a laugh. "Oh, that's priceless."
"Bobby," Dean managed.
"Nope."
The older hunter pointed his beer at them. "Not hearin' it."
Then he pointed toward the hallway. "You two can figure out whatever awkward nonsense you're gonna figure out."
Dean wished the floor would open beneath him.
Natalie appeared to share the sentiment.
"I don't want details."
"Bobby!"
"I don't want explanations."
Dean groaned.
"I definitely don't want visual aids."
"Oh my God."
"Which means," Bobby concluded, taking a victorious swallow of beer, "you can both shut up, idjits."
With that, he turned and headed toward the hallway. Halfway there he paused. Without turning around, he added, "And if either one of you wakes me up, I'm changin' my will."
Then he disappeared. The sound of his bedroom door closing echoed through the house.
Silence followed.
Long.
Painful.
Silence.
Sam was the first to break. A slow grin spread across his face.
Dean pointed at him immediately. "Don't."
Sam lifted both hands. "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"Maybe."
Dean groaned.
Natalie dropped her face into her hands.
Sam's grin only widened. "You know," he said mildly, gathering plates, "I think I'll do the dishes."
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
Dean muttered something rude under his breath.
Sam laughed quietly and carried the dishes toward the sink, giving them what privacy he could without actually leaving the room.
Which left Dean and Natalie sitting alone at the table.
Or at least as alone as two people could be while Sam Winchester deliberately made more noise than necessary with plates in the background.
For a few moments neither spoke. The enormity of the evening finally seemed to catch up with them. The confessions. The kiss. The Master. Leandro. Everything.
Dean found himself looking at Natalie. Natalie looked back. And suddenly the reality of it hit. They weren't wondering whether they had feelings anymore. That question had been answered. Decisively.
Instead they found themselves facing an entirely different uncertainty.
What happened now?
For years their friendship had been built on familiar ground. They knew how to be friends. Knew how to call each other in the middle of the night. Knew how to tease, argue, comfort, and trust one another.
But this?
This was new territory.
Natalie laughed softly, the sound carrying equal parts joy and nervousness. "This is weird."
Dean immediately nodded. "Yeah."
Another pause.
Then, unexpectedly, they both laughed. The tension loosened. Not entirely. But enough. Dean reached across the table and took her hand again. The gesture felt natural now. Easy. Natalie squeezed his fingers.
Outside, the junkyard settled beneath the South Dakota night. Inside, Bobby was pretending not to listen from his bedroom, Sam was washing dishes with entirely too much interest, and somewhere beyond the safety of the house waited questions neither of them could yet answer.
But for the moment, none of that mattered.
For the first time in years, Dean and Natalie simply sat together in the quiet, looking at one another and realizing that after all the waiting, all the fear, and all the years spent circling around what they feltâthe story between them had finally begun.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories Iâm writing!
This isn't an easy post to make. I'm way late in making it and I'm so sorry for being vague.
The long short of it is, I have to put Second Chances: Forever and Crossroads of the Heart on temporary hiatus. Familiar Ground I think I can keep going for now, but the other two on temporary hiatus.
Real life events have hit... well.. FUBAR. (To give definition, it's: f*cked up beyond all recognition.) I was hoping to avoid all that, but unfortunately, it didn't succeed. Now I'm in a kind of "Okay, Taylor needs to stress and try to keep it from going insane--can she succeed?" mode.
I hope the answer is "Yes".
I just don't know if/when I can.
It makes it hard to write. Hard to focus. I wish I could focus on writing instead.
I hope it'll be resolved soon. Bear with me. Be patient. I promise, soon, somehow, the writing will be back. Maybe not every week, but it will be.
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singerâs house brings Natalie Guimetâan old childhood friend and constant from his time thereâback into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds donât fade with timeâthey wait.
Word Count: 3,507
Tags/Warnings: Argument, fears, kissing, mention of death, eating disorder mention
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Six: Confession
That night the house smelled faintly of burnt onions and cheap beer.
Inside, Sam and Bobby had taken over the kitchen in what could only generously be called an attempt at dinner. Cabinet doors opened and closed, a pan clattered, Bobby muttered something about âdamn vegetables,â and Sam triedâpatientlyâto keep things from becoming inedible.
Outside, the junkyard lay quiet.
Natalie stood near the back fence, arms folded loosely, staring out over the dark shapes of rusted cars and stacked metal. The yard looked exactly the same as it had when she was a kid.
Same crooked rows.
Same gravel paths.
Same places where she and Dean had dared each other into trouble.
But she wasnât really seeing any of it.
Her mind drifted instead through memory.
Dean at twelve, grinning like a menace with dirt on his face.
Dean at fifteen, tipsy and serious all at once.
Dean dancing with her in Bobbyâs backyard under moonlight because some idiot had stood her up.
Deanâs voice over a crackling phone line telling her heâd fallen in love.
Sheâd thought it would hurt less than it did.
Footsteps crunched softly on gravel behind her.
Natalie didnât hear them.
Dean stopped just inside the yard, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
He watched her for a moment.
The way she stood. The way her shoulders held tension even when she was still. The way the wind tugged lightly at her hair.
He remembered a hundred versions of her standing in this yard.
None of them had looked like this.
And that thought circled back againâthe same one that had been gnawing at him since she started telling her story.
Why the hell had that phone call mattered so much?
Why would hearing him say heâd fallen in love send her chasing something that nearly killed her?
Dean stepped forward.
Gravel shifted under his boot.
âNatalie.â
She startled slightly, blinking as she turned. The faraway look vanished instantly.
âOh,â she said. âHey.â
Dean didnât bother easing into it.
âWhy?â
The question landed bluntly between them.
Natalie frowned. âWhy what?â
âThat call,â he said. âThe one about Cassie.â
Her expression changed too quickly.
âWhat about it?â
Dean huffed quietly, running a hand through his hair. âYou told us thatâs when you started digging into your dadâs death.â
âSo?â
âSo,â he said, stepping closer, âwhy did me telling you I fell in love make you go on a suicidal mission to Nova Scotia?â
Natalie blinked, caught off guard.
âThatâs notââ
âIt is,â Dean cut in.
âNo, itâs not,â she said quickly. âDean, that phone call didnât push me into anything. I already had questions about my dad.â
Dean stared at her.
Then he shook his head.
âKnock it off.â
Her mouth opened in protest.
âI know you,â he said flatly.
Natalie went still.
âIâve known you since you were a kid,â Dean continued. âYou lie when you get cornered. Your voice goes tight and you start talking too fast.â
She crossed her arms defensively. âIâm not lying.â
Dean took another step forward.
âYou are,â he said.
Not accusing.
Just certain.
âI just donât know why.â
The wind shifted through the junkyard, rattling loose metal somewhere in the distance.
Natalie held his gaze.
And for a long moment, neither of them moved.
Natalie swallowed.
Dean watched it happen.
It was smallâjust the movement of her throat, the tightening of her jawâbut it was enough to tell him something had landed harder than she wanted him to see.
Sheâd promised herself something in Nova Scotia.
Lying on that narrow clinic cot while someone stitched her stomach closed, the room smelling like antiseptic and salt air. Blood loss making the world swim.
She had promised herself that if she livedâif she walked away from that house aliveâshe wouldnât keep running from the truth anymore.
She would tell Dean.
Even if she wasnât ready.
Because sheâd come so close to dying that night.
Too close.
Now here he was.
Standing in Bobbyâs backyard, the same yard where theyâd grown up half-wild and reckless, where heâd kissed her once when they were kids and everything had shifted in a way she hadnât known how to handle.
That kiss.
God.
It had shown her something about Dean she hadnât been ready for at fourteen.
Not just the cocky grin and the reckless dares.
The depth.
The way he could look at someone like they mattered.
Now they werenât kids anymore. They were hunters. Grown. Scarred. Alive in ways that came with a price. And that terrified her.
Because she had seen what love did in this life. Her mother had never really recovered after losing Leandro. That kind of love didnât fadeâit hollowed you out and stayed. Hunters lost people all the time.
Now she and Dean both lived that life. What happened if she let herself fall into it What happened if she finally admitted what had been sitting in her chest for yearsâ Only for Death to come knocking the way it always did? She couldnât survive that.
Natalieâs heart began to race.
Dean took another step toward her. âNatââ
âI canât.â
The words burst out before she could stop them.
Dean froze.
She shook her head quickly, breath coming faster now. âI canât tell you,â she said, voice tight with panic.
Deanâs brow furrowed. âWhy not?â
Her hands clenched at her sides. âBecause I canât,â she repeated helplessly.
Fear had wrapped around her ribs like a vice. If she said it out loud, it would become real. If it became realâit could be taken away.
âIâm sorry,â she stammered, shaking her head again, eyes bright now. âDean, I just⊠I canât.â
And for the first time since heâd stepped into the yard, Dean Winchester had no idea how to push past the wall sheâd just thrown up between them.
Normally, Dean would have backed off.
That had always been the way between them. Natalie drew a line, Dean respected it. It was one of the reasons theyâd lasted so long as friendsâthrough childhood, through years apart, through everything the hunter life had thrown at them.
But something about tonight felt different.
Maybe it was the scar.
Maybe it was the thought of her bleeding out on some cold floor in Nova Scotia while he had no idea.
Maybe it was the quiet panic heâd seen in her eyes just now.
Whatever it was, Dean didnât step back.
He stepped forward.
Natalie saw it immediately. The shift in his posture. The set of his jaw. The way the hesitation left his shoulders.
âDean,â she said quickly, almost pleading.
He shook his head once.
âNo.â
The word wasnât loud. But it landed.
âIâve been patient,â he said.
She tried to laugh it off, though the sound came out thin. âYouâve been here five minutes.â
âYou know what I mean.â
Natalie looked away, toward the rows of rusted cars glinting faintly under the moonlight. âThis isnât something I can justââ
âNat.â
His voice stopped her.
Not harsh. Not angry.
Firm.
When she looked back, he was closer now.
âIâm not asking you to tell me everything about Nova Scotia,â he said. âIâm asking why that call mattered.â
Her chest tightened.
âI told you,â she said weakly. âIt made me think about my dad.â
Dean exhaled slowly through his nose.
âThatâs not the whole truth.â
She crossed her arms, defensive. âItâs enough of it.â
âFor you, maybe.â
She tried to pivot away again. âDean, it doesnât matter now.â
âIt matters to me.â
That stopped her.
The words hung there, quiet but immovable.
âWhy?â she whispered.
Dean didnât hesitate.
âBecause you nearly died,â he said.
The bluntness of it stole the air from her lungs.
âYou went chasing something that almost killed you,â he continued, voice steady but intense. âAnd the thing that kicked it all off was me.â
âThatâs notââ
âIt is,â he said. âAnd you know it.â
Natalieâs breath came quicker now.
âDean, pleaseââ
âNo,â he said again.
He wasnât angry.
That somehow made him more formidable.
There was no fight to push against. No heat to deflect.
Just the steady, immovable presence of someone who had decided he wasnât walking away without the truth.
Natalie tried anyway.
âYouâre making this bigger than it is.â
He didnât respond.
âYouâre assuming things.â
Silence.
âYou always do that,â she muttered.
Still nothing.
Dean just stood there, waiting.
Waiting the way hunters waited out storms.
Eventually, her defenses started to crumble under the weight of it.
The junkyard was quiet around them. Wind sliding through broken metal. The distant hum of insects. The faint clatter of something shifting inside the house where Sam and Bobby were still cooking.
Natalie looked down at the dirt.
Her voice, when it came, was small.
âThat call hurt.â
Dean blinked.
âHearing you say youâd fallen in love,â she continued, staring at the ground. âIt hurt more than I expected.â
He didnât interrupt.
âBecause,â she said slowly, âI realized something Iâd been avoiding.â
Her hands trembled slightly.
âThat Iâd been half in love with you for years.â
The words settled into the night air like something fragile and irreversible.
Dean didnât move.
Natalie forced herself to keep going before fear swallowed the moment.
âThat kiss when we were teenagers,â she said. âI pretended it didnât matter. We both did.â
Her voice shook now.
âBut it did,â she admitted. âIt scared me. Because it showed me something about you I wasnât ready to deal with.â
Deanâs heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear the wind.
âAnd when you told me about Cassie,â she said, âI realized Iâd waited too long to figure out what that meant.â
She finally looked up at him.
Moonlight caught the shine in her eyes.
âSo I ran,â she said softly. âI told myself I was chasing answers about my father.â
Her mouth twisted faintly.
âAnd part of me was.â
A breath.
âBut part of me was running from you.â
The junkyard fell utterly still.
âAnd now?â Dean asked quietly.
Natalie shook her head once, helpless.
âNow Iâm terrified,â she admitted.
âOf what?â
âOf letting myself fall in love with someone who lives the same life I do,â she said. âBecause hunters lose people, Dean.â
Her voice cracked.
âAnd I donât know if I could survive losing you.â
The confession hung between them in the dark, fragile and unguarded.
For a moment, Dean couldnât move.
Natalieâs words still hung in the night air between them, fragile and raw.
Iâd been half in love with you for years.
The junkyard was quietâwind slipping through rusted metal, the distant hum of the highway somewhere beyond the treesâbut Dean barely heard any of it.
Because something in his chest had just cracked open.
All those years.
All the moments that had sat half-finished between them. The dares. The laughter. The kiss theyâd both pretended hadnât mattered. The phone calls. The way sheâd always been the one person he could talk to without posturing.
Heâd thought it was just him carrying that weight.
Dean took a slow step toward her.
Natalie didnât move.
Her eyes were wide now, shining faintly in the moonlight, like sheâd just handed him something she wasnât sure heâd take.
His hands trembled slightly where they hung at his sides.
âYou idiot,â he said quietly.
Natalie blinked, startled.
Dean let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief.
âYou ran across the continent chasing ghosts,â he said, voice softer now. âNearly got yourself killed.â
A beat.
âBecause you were scared of me?â
Natalieâs mouth opened slightly, ready to argue.
Dean closed the distance between them.
Not fast.
Careful.
Like he was approaching something fragile.
âI thought it was just me,â he admitted.
The words were rough, unused.
Natalieâs breath caught.
âAll these years,â he continued, âI figured that kiss was just one of those dumb teenage things we both pretended didnât mean anything.â
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
âBut it stuck with me.â
Natalieâs hands curled slightly at her sides.
Dean shook his head faintly.
âWhen I told you about Cassie,â he said, âI meant it. I loved her.â
He didnât look away from that truth.
âBut it wasnât the same.â
Natalieâs voice was barely there. âWhat do you mean?â
Dean swallowed.
âI never stopped thinking about you.â
The confession came out quietly, but it landed like thunder.
Natalie stared at him.
Dean lifted one hand, hesitating just a second before resting it lightly against her arm.
The contact was warm. Real.
His voice dropped softer still.
âYouâre scared of losing me,â he said.
Natalie nodded once, helpless.
âYeah.â
Dean exhaled slowly.
âNat⊠thatâs the job.â
She flinched.
âBut running from it doesnât stop it,â he added gently.
Her eyes searched his face.
âWhat if you die?â she whispered.
Deanâs mouth curved faintlyânot amused, not dismissive.
Honest.
âThen I die knowing I didnât spend my whole life pretending the one thing that mattered most to me didnât exist.â
Natalieâs breath hitched.
Dean leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching hers now.
âYouâve been half in love with me for years?â he murmured.
She nodded, eyes shining.
âYeah.â
A quiet smile flickered across his face.
âTook you long enough.â
Natalie let out a shaky laugh through the tears threatening her eyes.
Deanâs thumb brushed lightly along her arm, grounding.
âGood thing,â he said softly, âIâve been waiting.â
Natalie blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from spilling.
For a moment she could only look at him.
The thing she had buried for yearsâpushed aside, outrun across continents, hidden behind hunts and questions and dangerâwas suddenly standing right in front of her.
Dean.
Real.
Warm breath in the cool night air. Green eyes steady on hers. His hand resting against her arm like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go.
This was the thing she had dreamed about.
The thing she had convinced herself would never happen.
And now that it was here, it wasnât terrifying the way she had imagined.
It was⊠wondrous.
Amazing.
Real.
Her heart was racing so fast she could feel it in her throat, but beneath the fear there was something else risingâsomething lighter, brighter.
Excitement.
Natalie lifted her hand slowly and placed it against his chest.
The solid warmth of him beneath her palm grounded her instantly. His heartbeat thudded strong and steady under her fingers.
Dean inhaled softly at the contact.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Then, almost without thinking, they stepped closer.
One small step.
Then another.
The space between them closed slowly, deliberatelyâlike neither of them wanted to rush something that had taken years to find its way here.
This wasnât reckless.
It wasnât the clumsy, uncertain kiss of teenagers stealing a moment they didnât understand.
This was different.
Sacred in its quiet.
Natalie could feel Deanâs breath now, warm against her lips as they hovered just inches apart. Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his shirt. His hand slid gently from her arm to her waist, steady but careful.
Their foreheads brushed for the briefest second.
Deanâs voice was barely a whisper. âYou sure?â
Natalie nodded, breath shaky but certain.
âYeah.â
Their lips met.
Soft.
Tender.
Real.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Just a quiet, deliberate joiningâyears of friendship shifting into something deeper, something that had always been there waiting.
Natalie felt the world narrow to that one momentâthe warmth of him, the familiar steadiness of Dean Winchester now threaded with something new.
When they finally parted, they didnât step away.
They stayed close, foreheads resting lightly together, both of them smiling faintly like they were still trying to believe it had actually happened.
Inside the house, the kitchen light spilled warmly across the sink and the cluttered counters.
Sam was standing at the stove, cautiously stirring something that mightâif luck heldâbecome dinner. Bobby leaned against the counter nearby with a beer in hand, pretending to be interested in the state of the onions Sam had chopped.
But the truth was the window over the sink gave a perfect view of the backyard.
And Bobby had been glancing out there every few seconds.
He watched Dean step closer.
Watched Natalie lift her hand to his chest.
Watched the slow, careful way the distance between them disappeared.
Bobby snorted.
Sam looked over. âWhat?â
Bobby tipped his chin toward the window.
Sam glanced out.
The two figures in the yard were unmistakable nowâstanding close, foreheads touching, then the soft shift of movement that made it very clear what had just happened.
Samâs eyebrows climbed.
Bobby took a slow pull from his beer.
âWell,â he muttered.
Sam tried not to smile.
Bobby shook his head faintly, equal parts amused and relieved.
âAbout damn time.â
Outside, the junkyard was quiet except for the soft wind moving through the rows of old metal.
Dean didnât step away.
For a moment he just stood there with Natalie, both of them still adjusting to the reality of what had just happened.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted his hand again.
His fingers rested lightly at her waist first, like he was confirming she was really there. Then they slid gently to the small of her back. His other hand came up, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her cheek.
Every movement was careful. Curious.
Exploring the edges of something new.
Natalie felt it tooâthe wonder of it. The almost surreal shift from the years they had spent circling this thing without touching it.
She reached up in return.
Her fingertips grazed his cheek first, tracing the familiar line of it. Then his jaw, rough with the start of stubble. Finally her hand settled over his chest again, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm.
Neither of them seemed able to stop touching the other, like they were rediscovering something that had always been there.
Natalie let out a soft breath.
âDeanâŠâ
He tilted his head slightly. âYeah?â
Her fingers tightened faintly in the fabric of his shirt.
âIâm scared.â
He didnât laugh.
Didnât brush it off.
âWhat part?â he asked quietly.
âThe Master,â she said first. âWhatever it is. Whatever itâs doing.â Her voice dropped. âIt nearly killed me once.â
Deanâs hand at her back tightened just slightly.
âAnd?â he asked.
Natalie swallowed.
âAnd Iâm scared of losing you,â she admitted.
The words trembled a little as they left her.
She looked up at him, eyes searching his face. âNow that this is⊠real.â
Dean was quiet for a moment.
Then his hand came up to cup her cheek, warm and steady.
âHey,â he murmured.
Natalie leaned instinctively into the touch.
âYou donât get to decide the ending before the story even starts,â Dean said softly.
Her lips twitched faintly at that.
He rested his forehead against hers again, grounding them both.
âWeâll deal with the Master,â he said. âTogether.â
Natalie breathed in slowly.
âAnd the rest?â she asked.
Deanâs mouth curved into a small, confident smile.
âWeâll figure that out too.â
The back door creaked open.
Bobby stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other holding a dishtowel like it had personally offended him.
He looked out at the two of them standing in the yard.
Close.
Very close.
Deanâs hand still resting at Natalieâs waist. Natalieâs fingers curled into the front of Deanâs shirt.
Bobby squinted.
âWell,â he announced loudly, âthatâs long enough of that.â
Natalie startled slightly, stepping back just enough to look toward the house.
âDinnerâs ready,â Bobby continued, gruff as ever. âAnd before anyone arguesâyes, itâs edible.â
Samâs voice drifted from the kitchen behind him. âThatâs generous.â
Bobby ignored him.
Instead he speared Natalie with a look.
âAnd you,â he said, pointing a finger at her, âare eating.â
Natalie blinked. âI was planning toââ
âUh-huh,â Bobby cut in. âYouâre eating a lot. If I gotta sit there and force-feed you like a stubborn mule, I will.â
Dean huffed a quiet laugh beside her.
Natalie rolled her eyes faintly, but there was warmth in it. âYes, sir.â
âDonât âsirâ me,â Bobby grumbled. âJust get in here before Sam burns the place down.â
He turned and disappeared back inside.
Natalie glanced up at Dean, amusement and lingering nerves flickering across her face.
âWell,â she murmured.
Dean smiled faintly.
âGuess thatâs our cue.â
They started toward the house together.
Just before they reached the back steps, Deanâs hand brushed against hers.
For a moment it was the same casual contact it had always been between them.
Then he caught her hand fully.
His fingers laced through hers.
Natalie felt the shift instantly.
This wasnât just habit.
This wasnât just comfort.
This was new.
Warm. Certain. Real.
She squeezed his hand gently in return.
Not just as his friend.
But as the woman who had finally admitted she loved him.
Together they stepped into the houseâtoward dinner, toward Bobbyâs worried watchfulness, toward Samâs quiet support.
And toward whatever plan they would have to make to face the Master waiting somewhere out in the dark.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
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Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlenâs lifeâchange he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, familyâa second chance at forever.
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Five: Rediscovery
Beau shifted Ella higher against his chest, settling her comfortably on his hip. She grabbed at the collar of his shirt, content and oblivious to the weight of the moment unfolding across the table.
With his free hand, he leaned forward and gently wrapped his fingers fully around Y/Nâs.
Not a loose touch.
A steady one.
âLook at me,â he said softly.
She did.
There was no frustration in his face. No confusion. No wounded pride.
Only concern. And love.
âWhatever this is,â he continued, thumb brushing slowly over her knuckles, âit ainât wrong. You hear me?â
Her throat tightened, but she nodded.
âYou stepped back when you needed to,â he went on. âNot because I told you to. Not because you had to. But because it was what you needed. And Iâd make that same choice again tomorrow.â
Ella babbled happily, tugging at his beard.
Beau smiled briefly at her before returning his full attention to Y/N.
âAnd if what you need next is different?â he said. âIf you want to work again. If you want to study somethinâ. Start somethinâ. Build somethinâ. Or if you want to stay right where you are for a while longer.â
He squeezed her hand.
âI support you. Completely.â
No hesitation.
âNo matter what you decide,â he added quietly. âNo matter what you feel. You donât owe this family self-sacrifice at the cost of yourself.â
Her breath hitched.
âYouâre my wife,â he said, voice steady. âNot just the mother of my kids. Not just the woman who keeps this house runninâ. Youâre you. And that matters.â
Y/Nâs eyes shimmered, not with panic nowâbut with relief.
âI donât want you shrinking,â he finished. âNot for me. Not for anyone.â
Silence settled around themâsoft and full.
The diner noise resumed at the edges, but at the center of the booth there was only them.
Y/N exhaled slowly.
âThank you,â she whispered.
Beau leaned forward and kissed herâgentle, reassuring, unhurried.
âAlways,â he murmured against her lips.
Ella clapped between them, entirely pleased with herself.
And for the first time that day, the restlessness in Y/Nâs chest felt less like a threatâŠ
And more like possibility.
With Beauâs hand still loosely wrapped around hers, something inside Y/N loosened.
Not solved.
Not finished.
But steadier.
The food arrived, and Ella immediately declared war on the napkins.
âDeputy,â Beau muttered, attempting to rescue the stack before it hit the floor. âStand down.â
Ella squealed and flung one anyway.
Y/N laughedâreally laughed this time. The tightness in her chest eased as she reached across the table to intercept a rogue spoon before it launched.
Lunch moved forward in that softer rhythm families settle into when something heavy has been spoken and survived.
Beau cut his sandwich one-handed while keeping Ella from tipping sideways. Y/N stole one of his fries without asking. He pretended to be outraged.
âThat was mine,â he said mildly.
âShared resources,â she replied.
Ella babbled at them both, then reached toward Y/N with sticky fingers. Y/N leaned forward to kiss her daughterâs knuckles, unbothered.
Beau watched them, green eyes warm.
âYou know,â he said lightly, âthis is what I pictured when I was twenty-five.â
âOh really?â Y/N raised a brow. âYou pictured applesauce on your uniform?â
âExactly this,â he said gravely. âSticky baby. Beautiful wife. Questionable diner coffee.â
She smiled at him over the rim of her glass.
The earlier storm in his expression was gone. The shadow in her eyes had softened.
They werenât avoiding the conversation.
They werenât fixing it either.
They were just⊠carrying it together now.
Ella knocked over Beauâs water glass with triumphant timing.
Water sloshed across the table.
They both stared at it.
Then at each other.
Then laughed.
Beau grabbed napkins. Y/N lifted Ella away from the spreading puddle.
âDefinitely your daughter,â Beau muttered.
âSheâs yours too,â Y/N shot back.
The chaos was gentle. Manageable. Real.
And as Beau reached across to squeeze her knee beneath the tableâjust once, quiet and groundingâY/N felt something shift.
Not away from motherhood.
Not away from this life.
But toward something opening.
Possibility.
Lunch finished with crumbs and laughter and a baby who had clearly won the day.
And when they stepped back out into the cold Montana air, Y/N no longer felt like she was bracing against something unnamed.
She felt⊠curious.
And that was different.
That was enough.
Outside the diner, the cold Montana air wrapped around them again, sharp but clean.
Beau adjusted Ellaâs hat, tugging it down gently over her tiny ears. âYou be good for your mama,â he told her solemnly.
Ella responded by grabbing his nose.
âClose enough,â he muttered.
He leaned in and kissed Y/N firstâslow, steady, the kind of kiss that anchored more than it ignited. Then he pressed a softer one to Ellaâs forehead.
âIâll be home early,â he promised. âWeâll make it a night.â
Y/N smiled. âYou donât have toââ
âI want to,â he said simply.
There it was again.
Choice.
He stepped back, gave them one last look, and headed toward the station, already pulling his composure back on like a coat.
Y/N watched him go for a moment before turning toward the car.
The drive home felt different than the drive in.
Ella babbled in the backseat, kicking her boots lightly against the car seat. Snow glittered in the midday sun. The town passed by in familiar strokes.
And Y/N thought.
Did she dare?
The question didnât feel frightening anymore.
Just big.
Did she dare go back to work? Step into something that belonged to her again?
Did she dare go back to college like Emilyâsit in a classroom with a notebook and ideas and ambition humming in her veins?
She wasnât trapped. She hadnât been cornered. She had chosen motherhood when she needed to. And nowânow she had options.
Endless ones.
Especially with a husband who would rearrange the world if she asked him to.
The car pulled into the driveway. Y/N turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, looking at the house. It wasnât a cage.
It was a foundation.
She unbuckled Ella and lifted her into her arms, pressing a kiss to her soft cheek.
âMaybe Mamaâs got some thinking to do,â she murmured.
Ella smiled, as if entirely in favor of that plan.
Y/N stepped out into the cold, heart lighter than it had been that morning.
Not because she had answers.
But because she knew she was allowed to ask the questions.
Beau kept his promise.
The truck pulled into the driveway just as the sun dipped low enough to turn the snow golden. He stepped out, already bracing for noise.
He wasnât disappointed.
The moment he opened the door, the house hit him like a living thing.
âEliza, the ducks are not allowed on the couch!â Y/Nâs voice floated from the living room.
âTheyâre in negotiations!â Eliza shot back.
Caleb shrieked in delighted defiance at something unseen, little feet pounding against hardwood like he was testing structural integrity.
And Emilyâsweet, long-suffering Emilyâwas in the middle of it, attempting to intercept Caleb before he used a throw pillow as a launching device.
Beau stood in the doorway for one long second, taking it all in.
Then he grinned.
âWell,â he called out, âlooks like I came home to a war zone.â
âDADDY!â Eliza screeched, abandoning her wolves immediately and sprinting toward him.
He bent down just in time to catch her mid-leap. âStatus report,â he demanded gravely.
âDucks are suspicious,â she informed him breathlessly.
âAlways are.â
Caleb barreled in next, colliding into Beauâs leg with zero regard for physics.
âDa!â he shouted, arms up.
Beau scooped him too, staggering slightly under the double assault. âAlright, alright.â
Emily laughed from the couch. âYouâre outnumbered.â
âNever,â Beau replied, shifting both kids like heâd trained for this.
Y/N appeared from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. There was a flush to her cheeks and a strand of hair escaping her braid, but her eyesâher eyes were lighter than they had been that morning.
âYou made it early,â she said.
âTold you I would,â he answered, meeting her gaze.
For just a second, everything else blurred.
Then Eliza tugged on his collar. âDaddy, you have to help. The ducks are making unreasonable demands.â
âOf course they are,â he sighed.
Emily intercepted Caleb before he attempted to dive headfirst off Beauâs hip. âIâll take this one.â
âBless you,â Beau muttered.
Somewhere down the hall, Ella let out a soft, sleepy soundâbut didnât fully wake.
âOnly one behaving,â Y/N said dryly.
âThatâs because sheâs unconscious,â Emily replied.
The house swelled with laughter.
Wolves were reorganized.
Ducks were re-assigned.
Caleb was redirected toward blocks instead of furniture climbing.
Beau stepped fully into the chaos like it was oxygen.
And for Y/Nâwatching him there, sleeves rolled up, grin wide, children orbiting him like he was gravityâit didnât feel overwhelming. It felt alive. Full bloom chaos.
And right in the center of itâhome.
Dinner was loud but triumphant.
Eliza explained, in detail, why ducks were not to be trusted near mashed potatoes. Caleb attempted to feed Beau from his own fork with alarming enthusiasm. Emily fielded questions about college while simultaneously preventing a small-scale food uprising.
Beau carved chicken one-handed while holding a conversation about snow forts and zoning laws. Y/N moved between them all, laughing more easily tonight, less tight around the edges.
If the day had begun with a shadow, it was gone nowâreplaced by warmth and movement and the rhythm of family.
By the time plates were cleared, Caleb had sauce on his eyebrow, Eliza had somehow acquired glitter from an unknown source, and Ellaâfully awake nowâwas babbling from her high chair like sheâd been briefed on everything and had notes.
Eliza gasped dramatically. âThe wolves are not bath creatures.â
âTonight they are,â Y/N replied sweetly.
Caleb took off running.
Beau caught him mid-sprint. âOh no you donât, tornado.â
The bathroom filled with steam and laughter within minutes. Eliza negotiated the temperature like she was reviewing a contract. Caleb tried to drink the bathwater. Beau scooped water over both of them with exaggerated seriousness while Y/N stood guard with towels and shampoo.
âCaleb, we do not baptize the floor,â Beau muttered as water sloshed over the edge of the tub.
Eliza dumped a plastic duck onto Calebâs head. âYou have been chosen.â
Caleb shrieked in delight.
Y/N laughed so hard she had to brace herself against the counter.
Eventuallyâmiraculouslyâboth older children were clean-ish and wrapped in towels like squirming burritos. Beau carried Caleb down the hall upside down, to Calebâs absolute ecstasy.
Then came Ella.
Her bath was quieter.
Gentler.
Beau held her securely while Y/N washed her tiny arms, her soft curls, her impossibly small toes. Ella blinked up at them, calm and curious, as if she understood that this was the safe part of the world.
When they wrapped her in a warm towel, she leaned into Beauâs chest, completely trusting.
By the time all three children were pajamaed and brushed and mostly settled, the house had shifted from chaos to drowsy contentment.
Eliza was mid-sentence about wolf strategy when she yawned.
Caleb had collapsed face-first into Beauâs shoulder.
Ellaâs eyes were already fluttering closed.
Beau caught Y/Nâs eye over the tops of their childrenâs heads.
They were both damp from bathwater.
Tired.
Smiling.
âSuccessful mission,â he murmured.
Y/N nodded.
âSuccessful,â she agreed.
And as they carried their sleepy pack toward bed, the house hummedânot with chaos nowâbut with the steady, earned peace that follows it.
The house finally stilled.
Three bedroom doors were closed softly. The dishwasher hummed. The lights dimmed one by one until only the warm glow from their bedroom remained.
Y/N stood at the dresser, brushing out her hair, the rhythm of it slow and thoughtful. The day had been longâgood, but fullâand she felt it in her bones.
She didnât hear Beau at first.
She only felt him.
His presence moved into the room the way it always didâsteady, grounding, warm. He stepped behind her without a word and rested his hands lightly at her hips, his chin brushing her shoulder.
âHey,â he murmured.
She met his gaze in the mirror.
There was no storm in his eyes tonight. No worry. Just something deliberate.
âIâve been thinkinâ,â he said softly.
âThatâs dangerous,â she replied faintly, echoing his morning tease.
He smiled against her hair.
He didnât rush.
Didnât demand.
He turned her gently in his arms, brushing a strand of hair back from her face with slow, careful fingers. His touch wasnât urgentâit was intentional.
âYou doubt yourself too much,â he said quietly. âYou ever notice that?â
She looked away slightly. âI was rambling at lunch.â
âYou were being honest,â he corrected.
His thumb traced along her jaw, then down to the hollow at her throat.
âYou think your worth is tied to what you produce. What you manage. What you sacrifice.â His voice lowered. âBut thatâs not how I see you.â
He leaned down and kissed herânot heated, not hungryâjust slow. A kiss that lingered. That said I choose you.
He walked her backward toward the bed without breaking contact, hands sliding along her waist, reverent rather than urgent.
âYou are not valuable because you carry this house,â he murmured against her lips. âYouâre valuable because youâre you.â
He eased her down onto the mattress, following her slowly. His hand moved through her hair, his mouth finding hers again, deeper this timeâbut still unhurried.
Every touch was deliberate.
Every brush of skin was affirmation.
He kissed along her cheek, her temple, her collarboneâmapping her like he was reacquainting himself with something precious.
âI see you,â he whispered against her skin. âNot just Mama. Not just my wife. You.â
Her breath caught.
There was no rush.
No proving.
Just warmth building between themâsteady and sure.
He let his hands wander slowly, exploring, memorizing. He looked at her like he had the first time heâd realized he loved herâlike she was something miraculous.
She felt it.
Not performance.
Not expectation.
Just being wanted.
Being known.
Being chosen.
When he finally drew her fully into him, it was slow and connectedâmore conversation than conquest. Their bodies moved together in quiet rhythm, breath mingling, foreheads touching.
He kissed her again and again, as if sealing something.
As if answering the unspoken question sheâd carried all day.
When they finally stilled, tangled in sheets and warmth, he brushed his fingers down her spine and pressed one last kiss to her shoulder.
âYou donât have to earn your place here,â he murmured.
She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
For the first time in days, the restlessness didnât ache.
It simply rested.
Held.
They lay tangled together, the room dim and quiet except for the steady rhythm of Beauâs breathing.
Y/N traced a slow line along his chest, gathering her thoughts. The words felt less sharp now. Less frantic.
âIâve been thinking,â she said softly.
He huffed lightly. âShould I brace myself?â
She smiled against his skin. âNo.â
A small pause.
âI was thinking⊠maybe when Ella turns one.â
He shifted slightly so he could see her face better, though he didnât let go of her.
âGo on.â
âI could go back to work,â she said. âNot tomorrow. Not next month. But when sheâs a year old. That gives us time. Time to plan. To look at daycare. For me to figure out what I even want to do.â She swallowed. âSheâs only seven months. Weâre not rushing anything.â
Beau didnât answer immediately. He studied herâreally studied her.
âIs that what you want?â he asked gently.
âI think so,â she admitted. âAt least⊠I think I want the option. I want to prepare for it. Adjust to the idea. I donât want to wake up one day and feel stuck.â
His hand moved slowly along her back, steady.
âAlright,â he said simply.
She blinked. âAlright?â
He smiled faintly. âDarlinâ, you think Iâm gonna fight you on this?â
She searched his face.
âYou sure?â she asked quietly.
âIâm sure,â he said. âIf going back to work makes you feel alive again, weâll make it happen. If you decide you hate the idea in six months, we wonât. If you want to try part-time. If you want to study instead. If you want to start somethinâ of your own.â
He brushed his thumb over her shoulder.
âI just want you happy.â
There was no ego in it.
No fear.
Just truth.
âI donât need you to stay home to prove anything,â he continued. âAnd I donât need you to work to prove anything either. I need you to be at peace with yourself.â
Y/Nâs chest tightenedânot with anxiety this time, but gratitude.
âIt scares me a little,â she admitted.
âGood,â he said softly. âMeans it matters.â
She laughed faintly.
He kissed her forehead.
âWeâve got time,â he reminded her. âFive months is a long runway. Weâll look at numbers. Weâll talk through schedules. Weâll figure out what makes sense.â
He nudged her chin gently so sheâd look at him again.
âAnd if at any point it stops feelinâ right, we adjust. Together.â
Together.
That word settled deep.
Y/N exhaled slowly, resting her head back against his chest.
âOkay,â she whispered.
âOkay,â he echoed.
Outside their bedroom, the house held steady.
Inside, something new had quietly taken rootânot pressure.
Not obligation.
Possibility.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singerâs house brings Natalie Guimetâan old childhood friend and constant from his time thereâback into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds donât fade with timeâthey wait.
Word Count: 4,106
Tags/Warnings: Death mention, Heaven and Hell, loss, grief, arguments
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Sorry itâs been late!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Five: The Backstory
Natalie held Bobbyâs gaze.
She knew what sheâd done.
Now.
That one word had cracked something open. She could feel it in the air, in the way all three men at that table had gone still. She braced for itâfor Bobbyâs temper, for Deanâs anger, for questions thrown like knives.
She waited for the explosion.
It never came.
Instead, Bobby leaned back in his chair and let out a long, heavy sigh. It wasnât angry. It wasnât sharp.
It hurt.
The sound of it made her chest tighten.
He scrubbed a hand over his beard, eyes closing briefly like he was carrying something too big for the room. When he opened them again, the fire wasnât there. Just ache.
He looked at Dean. âYou wanna take it?â he asked quietly.
His voice was heavier than sheâd ever heard it.
Dean didnât answer right away.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Once. Twice. He set his beer down carefully, like if he moved too fast something would shatter.
Then he nodded. âYeah,â he said, but it came out rough.
He turned toward her fully now.
Natalie met his eyes.
And whatever sheâd expectedâanger, accusation, heatâwasnât there.
There was fear.
Dean opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His jaw flexed. The line between his brows deepened. He looked like he was standing at the edge of something he didnât know how to cross.
âNatââ he started.
Nothing came after it.
For the first time in as long as sheâd known him, Dean Winchester didnât have the words.
The silence stretched.
Sam shifted slightly in his chair, watching the two of them with quiet, steady patience. When it became clear Dean was stuck somewhere between protectiveness and panic, Sam leaned forward just a fraction.
His voice was calm. Simple. âWhat happened?â
And the room went very still.
Natalie didnât answer Sam right away.
She sat there in the quiet, hands folded loosely on the table, eyes fixed somewhere between the wood grain and the space just past Deanâs shoulder.
Then she looked at him.
âDo you remember,â she began slowly, âthat phone call you made the night you told me about Cassie?â
Dean blinked.
âCassie?â he repeated, caught off guard.
The name felt distant. Dusty. Like something boxed up and shoved to the back of a closet years ago.
He frowned, digging through memory. âYou mean that time I called you after Iâd cleaned house at that poker game?â he asked. âCouple weeks into dating her? I wasââ He made a vague gesture. ââin a mood.â
Natalie shook her head.
âNo,â she said.
Her voice was thin. Strained. Like she was holding something tight behind her teeth.
And that was what made Dean go still.
That wasnât casual reminiscing.
âThatâs not the one,â she said quietly.
Deanâs confusion sharpened. He leaned forward slightly. âThen which call are you talking about?â
Natalie swallowed.
âThe night you called me,â she said, eyes finally meeting his, âand told me youâd fallen in love.â
The room tilted.
Dean stared at her.
He felt something drop in his chest, heavy and uncertain.
âIââ He shook his head faintly. âI donât remember that.â
Natalie gave a small, almost broken breath of a laugh. âYou were probably drunk.â
Sam shifted subtly beside him. Bobby said nothing.
Dean searched his memory againâharder this time.
There had been motel rooms. Payphones. Late nights with too much whiskey and too many thoughts. Heâd called her more than once back then. Sheâd been⊠steady.
Familiar.
But fallen in love?
He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. âNat, I barely remember making half the calls I made in my twenties.â
Her expression didnât change.
âYou told me,â she continued, voice soft but unwavering, âthat youâd told her the truth. About what you do. About monsters. And that she didnât believe you.â
The memory flickered.
The motel railing. The cold air. The ache in his chest when heâd said it out loud for the first time.
âYou said,â Natalie went on, âthat you loved her. And you didnât know if that made you stupid.â
Dean felt the words hit him like an echo.
Heâd asked her that.
He remembered asking someone that.
His gaze sharpened on her face.
âYou remember that?â he asked quietly.
Natalie nodded once. âI remember everything,â she said.
Deanâs mouth went dry.
He hadnât known that call had mattered.
Hadnât known sheâd carried it with her.
He leaned back slowly in his chair, trying to reconcile the version of himself whoâd made that call with the man sitting here now.
âWhy are you bringing that up?â he asked.
Her hands tightened slightly against the table.
âBecause,â she said, voice barely above a whisper, âthat was the night I realized something.â
And whatever that something wasâDean had a feeling it was about to change everything.
Dean didnât like the way her hands were gripping the edge of the table.
He didnât like the way sheâd said I remember everything.
Natalie drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders like it meant something tacticalâlike it would tell him where the blow was coming from.
âWhen you told me youâd fallen in love,â she said carefully, âand that you mightâve lost it⊠it reminded me how short this all is.â
Deanâs brows knit together.
âYou sounded so sure,â she went on. âSo sure that it mattered. Even if it hurt.â
He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under the weight of her memory. Heâd barely thought about that call in years. Barely thought about Cassie.
âYou were willing to tell the truth,â she said. âEven knowing it might cost you.â
Dean swallowed.
For a split secondâunbiddenâthe memory of another truth flickered through him. Whiskey. Her wrist under his hand. That awkward, charged kiss when they were kids and too young to understand what it meant.
He wondered: Did she ever think about that night?
Before the thought could settle, she continued, cutting through it.
âI started thinking about what I didnât know,â she said. âAbout the things Iâd never asked.â
Deanâs focus sharpened. âLike what?â he asked.
Natalieâs eyes didnât leave his. âThe full story,â she said quietly. âAbout what killed my father.â
Bobbyâs chair scraped sharply against the floor.
Deanâs head snapped toward him.
Bobby was staring at Natalie now, irritation flaring hot and quick. Not rageâsomething sharper. Recognition.
âSo thatâs what this is,â Bobby muttered.
Natalieâs jaw tightened, but she didnât look away.
Dean felt the pieces start to shift in his head. âYou asked him,â Dean said slowly.
Natalie nodded once. âYeah,â she admitted.
Bobbyâs gaze cut between them. âAnd I told you what you needed to know.â
âYou told me what you thought I needed to know,â Natalie replied, voice calm but firm.
Deanâs stomach dropped.
This wasnât random. This wasnât a reckless solo hunt gone sideways.
This had started here.
At this table.
With a question.
And whatever Bobby hadnât told herâit had sent her chasing answers across an ocean.
Then:
A few weeks after that call, Natalie found herself sitting at her motherâs kitchen table, staring at nothing.
Deanâs voice still echoed in her head.
I think I loved her.
She hadnât meant to let it get under her skin the way it had. She told herself it was fine. Of course heâd fall in love. Of course he would find someone. They werenât anything. Theyâd never been anything. Just kids whoâd grown up around the same grief.
So why had it felt like something had quietly shifted inside her chest?
She hated the answer.
Part of her knew exactly what she was doing when she started digging into her fatherâs death again. It wasnât just about Leandro. It wasnât just about truth.
It was about distraction.
About not sitting in the motel silence replaying Deanâs drunken confession in her head.
But that wasnât the whole of it.
Because she watched her mother, Julia, every day. Watched the way her eyes softened at old photographs. The way she never took her wedding band off, even all these years later. The way Leandroâs name still lived in the house like a presence.
Julia had never moved on.
Not really.
That kind of love didnât just fade.
And if her mother could carry that love forward for decadesâif it still mattered that muchâŠ
Then Natalie owed it to her father to understand who he had been. Not just the version preserved in stories. The full truth. The complicated parts.
So she drove to Sioux Falls.
Bobby had been under the hood of a truck when she arrived. Heâd glanced up, surprised but pleased, wiping his hands on a rag as she approached.
âWhatâs got you lookinâ like that?â heâd asked.
âLike what?â
âLike youâre about to ask me for somethinâ I ainât gonna like.â
Sheâd tried to smile.
âTell me about my dad,â sheâd said.
Bobby had stilled. âBeen tellinâ you about him your whole life.â
âNo,â sheâd replied. âTell me how he died.â
That had changed everything.
Bobbyâs expression had shuttered slightly. Not closed. Just⊠guarded.
âIt was a hunt,â heâd said gruffly. âWent bad. Your father pushed me outta the way. Took the hit. End of story.â
âThatâs not a story,â sheâd pressed.
âThatâs what happened.â
âWhat were you hunting?â sheâd asked.
âDonât matter.â
âIt matters to me.â
Bobby had looked at her long and hard then. âYou think knowinâ the specifics changes the outcome?â heâd asked. âHe died protectinâ someone. Thatâs who he was.â
âBut what were you hunting?â sheâd repeated.
Bobbyâs jaw had tightened. âMonster,â heâd said finally. âUgly one.â
Too vague.
Too clean.
Natalie had felt it immediatelyâthe missing pieces. The way he sidestepped certain words. The way his eyes flicked away when she asked about ritual interference, about outside forces, about whether thereâd been anything⊠strange about the aftermath.
âBobby,â sheâd said quietly, âwhat arenât you telling me?â
Heâd set the rag down. âI told you what you need to know.â
It was the same phrase heâd always used when he thought something would only hurt her.
And that was the moment it clicked.
He wasnât protecting himself.
He was protecting her.
Which meant there was more.
Natalie had left that day with half-answers and a growing certainty that her fatherâs death hadnât been simple.
And once that thought took root⊠it wouldnât let her rest.
Now:
Dean stayed very still.
He watched the irritation climb Bobbyâs spine the way heâd watched it a hundred times beforeâshoulders going rigid, jaw locking, eyes narrowing not in anger, but in fear.
Bobbyâs version of worry had always been sharp-edged.
âYou came to me,â Bobby said, voice tightening. âI told you what happened.â
âYou told me part of it,â Natalie replied.
âThat was the part that mattered.â
âTo you,â she said softly.
Dean felt the air shift again.
Bobbyâs hand flattened against the table. âYou think I was hidinâ somethinâ for kicks?â
âI think you were trying to protect me.â
The words didnât calm him. They made it worse.
âDamn right I was,â Bobby shot back. âBecause you donât go digginâ into graves that donât need digginâ!â
Deanâs stomach knotted.
Sam stepped in before it could spiral.
âWhat did you do next?â Sam asked, voice level, measured. âAfter Bobby wouldnât give you more.â
The question cut cleanly through the heat.
Natalieâs gaze shifted to Sam. Gratitude flickered there briefly.
âI started looking for someone who might,â she said.
Deanâs brow furrowed. âWho?â
Natalie hesitated. Then: âMissouri Moseley.â
Dean blinked.
Bobbyâs irritation snapped into surprise. âYou went to Missouri?â
âYes.â
âWhen?â
âA few months after I talked to you.â
Deanâs mind reeled. âMissouri Missouri?â he asked, because that was somehow easier than processing the implications.
Natalie almost smiled. âYes, Dean. That Missouri.â
Bobby leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. âWhatâd she tell you?â
Natalieâs fingers curled slightly against the table again.
âShe knew why I was there before I said anything,â Natalie said quietly. âShe told me I wanted to know if my father was at peace.â
Dean felt his chest tighten.
âAnd?â Sam prompted gently.
Natalieâs eyes flicked to Bobby, then back to Dean. âShe said he wasnât.â
The words landed like a physical blow.
Deanâs breath left him in a slow exhale.
Bobby went utterly still.
âShe said he wasnât at rest,â Natalie continued. âThat he hadnât been killed by the master⊠but by the monster.â
Dean frowned. âMaster of what?â
âShe wouldnât say. Not directly. But she implied there were⊠outside forces. That something about his death didnât cross clean.â
Silence settled heavy over the table.
Samâs mind was already working, Dean could see it. âSo you thought there was something managing that?â Sam asked. âSomething overseeing whatever didnât cross?â
Natalie nodded once.
âI started tracking stories,â she said. âHunters who died mid-fight. Souls that didnât register in Heaven or Hell. Whispers of something⊠collecting what slipped through.â
âAnd you think that didnât tell you somethinâ?â Bobby snapped.
Dean didnât speak. He didnât need to. Because he understood something Bobby didnât in that moment.
Natalie hadnât gone chasing danger for glory. Sheâd gone chasing her father.
And maybeâŠ
Maybe sheâd also been running from something else entirely.
The room felt smaller now.
And Dean had a feeling the worst part of the story hadnât even started yet.
Now:
Natalie didnât rush it.
She let the silence sit a moment longer, as if bracing herself against the weight of what came next.
âThere were rumors,â she said finally, voice steady but quiet. âNot mainstream hunter stuff. Not in books. Just⊠whispers.â
Dean leaned forward slightly without meaning to.
âHunters talk,â she continued. âEspecially the older ones. Especially when they think no oneâs really listening.â
Bobbyâs jaw tightened, but he didnât interrupt.
âI started hearing about deaths that didnât track,â she said. âHunters killed mid-fight. Clean kills. No deals made. No signs of crossroads involvement. But their names never showed up in Heaven lore. No angel interference. No reapers lingering.â
Samâs brow furrowed. âYou checked that?â
âYes.â
Dean shot him a lookâof course she did.
Natalie went on. âThen I heard about something else. A pattern. Certain monsters showing up more frequently around hunters whoâd dug too deep into angel business. Monsters that were⊠guided.â
âGuided how?â Dean asked.
âSteered,â she replied. âAs if someone was letting them through wards. Letting them land specific hits.â
The room went still.
âAnd the rumor?â Sam pressed gently.
Natalie swallowed.
âThat thereâs a being,â she said, ânot angel. Not demon. Something older than both systems. Something that exists in the cracks.â
Dean felt a chill crawl up his spine.
âIt doesnât make deals in the crossroads sense,â she continued. âIt bargains in souls that donât cross clean. Souls caught between Heaven and Hell. Souls interrupted mid-transition.â
Bobbyâs voice was rough. âYouâre sayinâ someoneâs harvestinâ.â
âYes.â
âFor what?â
âPower,â she said simply. âLeverage. Knowledge. Influence over gates.â
Deanâs stomach dropped.
âAnd you think your fatherââ he began.
âI think,â Natalie cut in carefully, âthat whatever killed him wasnât random.â
She met Bobbyâs eyes then.
âI think the monster was the weapon,â she said softly. âNot the cause.â
The words landed heavy.
Sam leaned back slightly, processing. âAnd these rumors led you to Nova Scotia?â
Natalie nodded.
âThere were clusters of sightings up there. Hunters dying under similar circumstances. A house on the coast tied to old warding practices that didnât align with either angelic or demonic script.â
Deanâs jaw flexed. âSo you went.â
âYes.â
âAlone.â
âYes.â
Bobby swore under his breath.
Dean didnât.
He couldnât.
Because as much as every instinct in him screamed that it was recklessâŠ.
He understood exactly why sheâd done it. And the scar on her stomach suddenly felt less like an accident. And more like proof sheâd found exactly what she was looking for.
Now:
Natalieâs fingers traced the rim of her beer bottle, slow, absent.
âI found it,â she said.
No one moved.
âThe house was real. The wards were real. The records were real.â She swallowed. âAnd so were the names.â
Deanâs chest tightened.
âMy fatherâs was there,â she said quietly. âNot listed as crossed. Not listed as damned. Just⊠held.â
Bobbyâs hand flattened against the table again. âHeld how?â
âIn suspension,â she replied. âLike a ledger entry waiting for disposition.â
Sam leaned forward. âDisposition by who?â
Natalie looked at him.
âBy the Master.â
The word hung there.
Dean felt his pulse in his throat. âYou saw it.â
âYes.â
âWhat is it?â Bobby demanded.
Natalie shook her head faintly. âNot angel. Not demon. Not something I could classify cleanly. It exists between systems. It doesnât answer to Heaven or Hell. It exploits the gaps.â
Deanâs jaw tightened. âAnd it knew you were coming.â
âYes.â
âHow?â
âI donât know,â she admitted. âBut it was expecting me.â
She drew in a breath.
âIt spoke like this was inevitable. Like grief is predictable. Like daughters always come looking.â
The words hit harder than she intended. Dean felt it.
âWhat happened?â Sam asked quietly.
Natalie didnât look at him. She looked at Dean.
âI tried to confront it,â she said. âI didnât go to bargain. Not at first. I went to confirm. To see if my father was truly trapped.â
âAnd?â Dean asked, voice low.
âAnd it confirmed enough,â she said. âIt told me he wasnât at rest. That he had been interrupted mid-transition. That the monster that killed him was⊠guided.â
Bobby swore softly.
Deanâs hands curled into fists under the table.
âIt said hunters like him are valuable,â Natalie continued. âBrave. Trained. Full of unfinished intent. Those souls hold⊠energy.â
Samâs face went pale.
âAnd when I refused to leave without trying to free him,â she went on, voice thinning slightly, âit demonstrated how small I was in comparison.â
Deanâs heart began to pound.
âIt didnât kill me,â she said carefully. âIt could have. Easily.â
Her gaze flicked down, just briefly, to her abdomen.
âIt cut me,â she said. âDeliberately. Deep enough to make a point. Not deep enough to end me.â
Deanâs breath hitched.
âIt told me I wasnât strong enough. Not yet.â A hollow breath escaped her. âThen it let me go.â
âLet you?â Bobby echoed, anger rising again.
âYes.â
âWhy?â Dean demanded.
Natalie met his eyes steadily.
âBecause it knew I would carry the message back,â she said. âBecause fear spreads faster when itâs delivered by someone who survived.â
Silence fell over the room.
Deanâs mind replayed the image: her on that floor, bleeding, alone, and something standing over her deciding whether she lived or died.
He felt sick.
âAnd your father?â Sam asked gently.
Natalieâs voice softened.
âIt said heâs not suffering,â she said. âBut heâs not free.â
Dean closed his eyes briefly.
âAnd now?â Bobby asked.
Natalie looked at each of them in turn.
âNow,â she said, âit knows Iâm still looking.â
The room felt smaller than ever.
And for the first time that night, Dean understood something with terrifying clarity: Nova Scotia hadnât been the end of it.
It had been the beginning.
Now:
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Bobby pushed back from the table so abruptly his chair scraped hard against the floor.
âSon of aââ
He didnât finish it.
He started pacing instead.
Back and forth across the worn living room floor. Past the bookshelf. Past the couch. Hands braced on his hips. Then dragging down over his beard. Then fisting at his sides.
Dean watched him carefully.
Because this wasnât just anger.
This was realization.
âThat hunt,â Bobby muttered, more to himself than anyone else. âThat damn huntâŠâ
He stopped near the fireplace, staring at nothing.
âI always figured it was just bad luck. Wrong place. Wrong timing. Ugly monster.â His jaw tightened. âBut if that thing was guiding itââ
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
âThen it started back then,â he said. âAnd I didnât see it.â
Natalie shifted in her chair. âBobbyââ
He turned on her, not furiousâjust raw.
âYou think I donât hear what youâre sayinâ?â he demanded. âThis didnât end with Leandro. It followed you.â
The room went still.
Dean felt the truth of that settle heavy in his chest.
Bobby ran a hand through his hair, pacing again.
âThat hunt killed your father,â he said roughly. âAnd now itâs got its hooks in you.â
Natalie opened her mouth to argue.
He cut her off. âDonât.â
His voice crackedânot loud, but enough.
âYou are not collateral damage from my past,â he said. âI lost Leandro once. I ainât losinâ you to the same damn shadow.â
The words hung there.
Deanâs jaw tightened.
Because Bobby wasnât just angry at the Master.
He was angry at himself.
For not digging deeper back then.
For not asking different questions.
For not seeing the pattern.
Natalie stood slowly from her chair. âIâm not a kid,â she said gently. âYou didnât send me there.â
âNo,â Bobby agreed gruffly. âBut I didnât stop you either.â
âYou couldnât have.â
He stopped pacing.
Looked at her.
The girl heâd helped raise. The one whoâd camped in his yard and burned marshmallows and laughed too loud in a house that had needed that sound.
Now standing in front of him with a scar that said something far older had marked her.
âThis thing,â Bobby said lowly, âainât just a ghost story anymore.â
Natalie shook her head once. âNo.â
Dean leaned forward slightly, eyes dark.
âItâs personal,â he said.
And Bobby gave a single, tight nod.
Yeah.
It was.
Now:
Dean didnât take his eyes off Natalie.
Something old and instinctive surged up in himâsomething that had started when they were kids daring each other into trouble and had never really gone away.
Sheâd stood alone in Nova Scotia.
She wasnât doing that again.
âNo,â he said quietly.
Natalie looked at him. âDeanââ
âNo,â he repeated, firmer now. âYou donât go back after this thing alone.â
âI wasnât planning toââ
âYou were,â he cut in.
She opened her mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped her.
It wasnât anger.
It was resolve.
The kind that didnât bend.
Sam rose from his chair without fanfare, moving to stand beside Dean. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just solid.
âSheâs not wrong,â Sam said calmly, glancing at Natalie. âThis isnât something one person handles. If thereâs a being harvesting souls in the cracks between systems, thatâs not a solo mission.â
Natalieâs jaw tightened. âI didnât ask you toââ
âDoesnât matter,â Dean said.
Bobby watched the two brothers stand shoulder to shoulder, watched the unspoken agreement pass between them the way it always had. Something warm and fierce stirred in his chest.
Heâd raised these boys, too.
Not by blood.
By choice.
And now they were choosing her.
âYou think Iâm gonna let you walk back into that lionâs den by yourself?â Dean asked, stepping closer. âAfter what it did to you?â
âI survived,â she shot back.
âBarely.â
The word hit.
Natalieâs hands curled at her sides. âYou donât even know what it would take.â
âThen weâll figure it out,â Sam said evenly.
Bobby gave a sharp nod. âDamn right.â
Natalie looked between the three of themâDeanâs fire, Samâs steady logic, Bobbyâs stubborn protectiveness.
âThis isnât just about revenge,â she said softly. âItâs bigger than that.â
Deanâs eyes didnât waver.
âGood,â he replied. âBecause Iâm not doing this for revenge.â
Her breath caught.
âIâm doing it,â he said, voice low and certain, âbecause it marked you. And that makes it my problem.â
Silence.
Bobby felt something fierce and grateful bloom in his chest. These boysâthese idjitsâwerenât just hunters heâd trained.
They were family.
Natalie shook her head faintly. âYou donât have toââ
âWeâre not asking,â Sam said gently.
Dean took another step closer.
âYouâre not alone in this,â he told her. âNot anymore.â
And for the first time since Nova Scotia, Natalie looked like she didnât quite know how to stand against that kind of promise.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories Iâm writing!
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singerâs house brings Natalie Guimetâan old childhood friend and constant from his time thereâback into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds donât fade with timeâthey wait.
Word Count: 3,672
Tags/Warnings: Mentions of death, parental loss, heaven and hell, grief, alcohol
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Four: The Master
The drive back to Sioux Falls was quiet.
Too quiet.
Dean and Sam had taken the Impala ahead, gravel spitting under her tires as they pulled onto the highway. Bobby hadnât given Natalie a choice. Heâd jerked his chin toward his own truck and said, âYouâre ridinâ with me.â
No argument. No room for one.
Now the two of them sat in the cab, engine humming low, fields stretching dark and endless on either side of the road. The sky was bruised purple at the edges, the last of the sun bleeding out behind them.
Bobby kept his eyes on the road.
Natalie kept hers on the window.
The silence wasnât empty. It was loaded.
She could feel it in the way his grip tightened on the steering wheel. In the way he cleared his throat once and didnât follow it up with anything. In the way he kept glancing at her without turning his head.
She studied him sidelong for a second, then said softly, âYou can ask.â
Bobby huffed. âDonât tempt me.â
âI mean it,â she said. âYou donât have to pretend.â
He drummed his fingers once against the wheel, jaw working.
âI ainât sure I wanna know the answer,â he admitted gruffly.
Natalieâs lips pressed thin.
âOr maybe,â he went on, âI should leave it to Dean. Let him do the digginâ.â
She looked back out at the dark fields.
âI donât know if I could tell Dean,â she said quietly.
That one landed.
Bobby didnât respond right away. The tires hummed over asphalt. A mile marker slipped past.
âYou think he ainât already seen enough to know somethinâs wrong?â Bobby asked.
She gave a small, humorless breath. âThatâs the problem.â
Silence again.
Bobby drove another long stretch without speaking, the headlights cutting a steady path through the dark. He didnât push. Didnât press. Just let the road do what roads didâgive space for truths to settle.
Finally, he asked one thing.
âDid you get what you were lookinâ for?â
Natalieâs fingers tightened in her lap.
Nova Scotia flashed behind her eyes. Cold air. Salt water. Blood in the snow. Missouriâs voice. The answer she hadnât wanted but had chased anyway.
She blinked fast, turning her face just slightly toward the window so the dashboard light wouldnât catch her eyes.
âYeah,â she said softly. âI did.â
Bobby heard the strain in it.
But he didnât call it out.
He just nodded once, slow and heavy, and kept driving toward home.
Then:
The room felt smaller after Missouri said it.
Baby girl, I donât think youâre ready for this.
Natalie swallowed hard. âReady for whatââ
Missouri lifted a hand.
âDonât,â she said gently. âYouâre about to ask something you already know the answer to. You just donât want it confirmed.â
Natalie froze.
Missouriâs eyes softenedâbut didnât waver. âYou came here to ask if your fatherâs at peace. If Leandro made it to Heaven. If the kind of man he was⊠if the way he died⊠earned him rest.â
Natalie nodded once, barely.
âHe died protecting someone else,â she said quietly. âThat has to count.â
Missouri was silent for a long moment.
The air in the room seemed to press in, heavy and unmoving.
Finally, Missouri spoke.
âHe was brave,â she said. âHe was good. And yesâthose things matter.â
Hope flickered in Natalieâs chest.
Then Missouri stopped.
The silence stretched. Tight. Uneasy.
Natalie leaned forward. âIs he at peace?â
Missouri didnât answer.
Instead, she shook her head.
Once.
Slow.
No.
The word wasnât spoken. It didnât need to be.
Natalie blinked, like maybe sheâd misread it. âNo⊠what?â
Missouriâs voice, when it came, was gentleâbut unflinching. âNo, baby girl.â
The world tilted.
âThat doesnât make sense,â Natalie said immediately. âHe died saving someone. He didnât make a deal. He wasnâtââ
âNot all unrest comes from damnation,â Missouri said quietly.
Natalieâs breathing turned shallow. âThen where is he?â
Missouri hesitated.
That hesitation said more than anything else.
âI donât think youâre ready for the rest of that answer,â she said.
Natalie leaned forward again, desperate now. âI can handle it.â
Missouriâs gaze sharpened, sadness threading through it. âYou think that now.â
Natalieâs hands trembled in her lap.
âIs he in Hell?â she whispered.
Missouri did not answer that directly.
Instead, she said, very carefully, âHe is not at rest.â
The room fell silent.
And for the first time since sheâd walked through that door, Natalie wished she hadnât.
Then:
They were nine and ten and convinced that camping in Bobbyâs backyard counted as wilderness survival.
The tent was pitched crooked again, staked between two junked cars like they were mountain peaks instead of rusted relics. A small fire crackled in the pit Bobby had cleared years ago, sparks lifting into the warm South Dakota night.
Natalie sat cross-legged in the grass, carefully rotating a marshmallow over the flames.
Dean sat opposite her, poking at the fire with a stick like it had personally offended him.
The split lip was obvious in the firelight. So was the black eye blooming dark along his cheekbone.
Natalie tried not to stare.
She failed.
âWhat?â Dean muttered without looking at her.
âNothing.â
âThen stop lookinâ at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike Iâm about to fall apart.â
She frowned. âIâm not.â
He prodded the fire harder. âItâs nothing.â
She didnât believe that for a second.
He wouldnât tell her what had happened. Hadnât told Bobby either, far as she knew. Just showed up that afternoon quieter than usual, jaw tight, refusing ice packs like they were an insult.
Natalie let the silence stretch, then brightened deliberately.
âOkay,â she said suddenly. âNew rule.â
Dean groaned. âI donât like new rules.â
âToo bad. Whoever makes the best marshmallow wins.â
He blinked. âWins what?â
âBragging rights.â
âThatâs not a prize.â
âIt is if you win.â
He rolled his eyes but adjusted his stick, holding the marshmallow closer to the coals. Natalie pretended to take it very seriously, squinting at the rotation angle like it was engineering.
âToo fast,â she announced. âYouâre gonna burn it.â
Dean shook the stick furiously, cursing under his breath. She dissolved into laughter.
He tried not to smile.
He failed.
âOkay, okay,â she said, wiping her eyes. âRound two. But this time, we tell ghost stories while we cook.â
âIâm not scared of ghost stories,â he said flatly.
âI didnât say you were.â
She launched into the most ridiculous tale she could conjureâabout a haunted raccoon that only attacked people who didnât finish their vegetables. She made dramatic clawing noises. Widened her eyes. Wiggled her fingers at him across the fire.
Dean stared at her like sheâd lost her mind.
âYouâre an idiot,â he said.
She grinned. âYouâre smiling.â
He touched his lip reflexively and winced. The smile faded just a littleâbut not entirely.
Natalieâs voice softened. âIt looks worse than it is,â she said, nodding at his eye.
He shrugged. âDoesnât hurt.â
âLiar.â
He glanced at her thenâreally looked at herâand some of the tension bled out of his shoulders.
âThanks,â he muttered.
âFor what?â
He shrugged again. âFor being dumb.â
She beamed. âAnytime.â
The fire popped, sparks drifting upward into the vast summer sky. Dean leaned back on his hands, face still bruised, still soreâbut less tight than it had been an hour ago.
Natalie hadnât fixed whatever had happened.
She hadnât needed to.
Sheâd just stayed.
And sometimes, at nine and ten years old, that was enough.
Now:
Headlights swept across the junkyard as Bobbyâs truck rolled in.
Dean was already outside the Impala, arms folded tight across his chest, boots planted in the gravel like heâd been standing there longer than he wanted to admit. Sam leaned against the hood, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, posture loose, patient.
Dean wasnât patient.
He watched the truck cut its engine. Watched the cab light blink out. Watched the passenger door hesitate a fraction of a second before it opened.
Natalie stepped down first.
She moved carefullyâsubtle, but there. Not limping. Not weak. Just aware of her body in a way that hadnât been there before Nova Scotia.
Deanâs jaw tightened.
Sam glanced sideways at him. âTake it easy,â he murmured.
Dean didnât respond.
He knew something had happened. Heâd known it for months, if he was honestâheard it in her voice, felt it in the way she deflected, seen it in the way sheâd come back thinner, harder. But that scarâthat scar had a shape to it. A story.
And it wasnât small.
He wanted answers. Wanted them the way he wanted oxygen when heâd been held underwater too long. What could possibly have driven her that far north? What had kept her there three years? What had cut her open like that and let her walk away breathing?
The questions pressed against his ribs.
Natalie closed the truck door and looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a second, something flickered thereâawareness. Recognition of the storm sitting just behind his calm.
Dean straightened slightly, the instinct to push rising sharp and immediate.
Tell me.
He didnât say it.
Because he knew he couldnât. Not like that. Not after all the years between them. Not when sheâd asked for ânot here.â
God, he wished he could.
He wished he could grab her shoulders and demand it. Shake the truth loose. Drag whatever darkness sheâd brought home into the open where he could see it, fight it, fix it.
But this wasnât a hunt.
This was her.
Sam shifted beside him, ever steady. âYou gonna talk to her?â he asked quietly.
Deanâs gaze never left Natalie as she walked toward them.
âYeah,â he said.
Not yet.
But soon.
Because whatever had happened in Nova Scotia hadnât just left a scar.
It had changed her.
And Dean Winchester wasnât going to stand by and pretend he didnât see it.
Now:
Natalie stepped away from Bobbyâs truck and met Deanâs gaze head-on.
She didnât look away.
She saw it immediatelyâthe hunger in him. The need. Not curiosity. Not idle concern. Something sharper than that. A demand he was fighting not to voice.
His jaw had already tightened. A muscle ticking once near the hinge. The faint line carved between his brows. The way his shoulders squared when he was bracing for a fight.
And his eyes.
God, his eyes.
Green, bright even in the low junkyard light, lit now with something that wasnât angerâbut wasnât far from it either. Fear, maybe. The kind he disguised with control.
She knew those tells like she knew the back roads of Sioux Falls.
Sheâd grown up reading him.
Dean took a half step forward before he caught himself. The movement was small, but she didnât miss it.
Tell me, his entire body said.
Natalie held his stare and let a slow breath out through her nose.
If she told him why sheâd gone to Nova Scotiaâif she told him it had started with Missouri Moseley shaking her head and saying noâif she told him sheâd followed whispers and crossroads rumors and half-forgotten ritual texts because sheâd needed to know whether her father was trapped somewhere betweenâ
Dean wouldâve stopped her.
He would have argued. Would have told her it wasnât her fight. Would have said some version of thatâs not how this works.
And maybe he wouldâve been right.
But she hadnât gone north for logic.
Sheâd gone because Missouri had told her Leandro wasnât at rest.
And Natalie Guimet had never been very good at leaving unfinished things buried.
Deanâs jaw clenched again.
She saw the moment he chose restraint. Saw the swallow. The breath he forced steady.
She offered him the smallest, most deliberate nodânot here. Not like this.
His eyes searched her face, looking for cracks.
She gave him none.
Because if he knew sheâd crossed oceans and borders chasing rumors of fractured gates and angelic interference⊠if he knew how close sheâd come to making a deal she couldnât undoâŠ
He wouldnât just have stopped her.
He wouldâve followed.
And she hadnât been willing to let him risk that.
So she held his gaze and let him see only what she wanted him to see: steady. Alive. Here.
The rest could wait.
For now.
Then:
Three years ago, Natalie leaned forward in Missouri Moseleyâs parlor, fingers knotted together so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.
âPlease,â she whispered. âTell me.â
Missouri pursed her lips, eyes studying her like she was weighing something far heavier than words.
âIâm not sure I should,â she said at last.
Natalieâs stomach dropped. âWhy not?â
âBecause your father was a good man,â Missouri replied gently. âA good hunter. And good men donât always want their children walkinâ the same crooked roads they did.â
Natalie frowned. âI already hunt.â
Missouriâs gaze sharpened. âIâm not talkinâ about huntinâ, baby girl. Iâm talkinâ about deals. Complications. Choices made when the night got too long.â
The word deals hit like ice water.
Natalie blinked. âWhat deals?â
Missouri said nothing.
âYou think my dad made a deal?â Natalie pressed. âWith what? A crossroads demon? That doesnât make senseâhe wouldâve told my mom. Bobby wouldâveââ
She stopped.
Because Bobby hadnât told her everything. She knew that much. Hunters always carried more than they handed down.
Natalieâs brows furrowed. âDid Bobby know?â
Missouriâs lips curved faintlyânot unkind, but knowing. âYou know the answer to that, baby girl.â
The implication sat heavy.
Before Natalie could push further, Missouri shifted slightly, reclaiming control of the conversation.
âWhen your father died,â she said carefully, âhe wasnât killed by the master.â
Natalie stared at her. âThe master of what?â
Missouriâs gaze held hers. âHe wasnât taken by the one who pulls the strings.â
A pause.
âHe was killed by the monster.â
The words felt deliberate. Specific.
Natalieâs pulse quickened. âThat doesnâtâwhat does that mean?â
Missouri didnât elaborate.
âSometimes,â she said instead, voice lower now, âwhen a hunter dies mid-fight, somethinâ breaks in the crossing. Especially if there were⊠outside forces in play.â
âOutside forces,â Natalie repeated, dread creeping in.
Missouri folded her hands in her lap. âYou came here because you felt it, didnât you? That somethinâ about your fatherâs death wasnât settled.â
Natalieâs throat tightened. âYes,â she admitted.
Missouri nodded once.
âThen listen to that instinct,â she said. âBut be careful where you follow it.â
Natalie leaned forward again, desperate now. âIs he trapped?â
Missouriâs silence was answer enough.
And in that silence, the first seed of Nova Scotia took root.
Now:
The door creaked open and they all filed in, boots thudding against worn wood floors.
The house felt different tonight. Charged. Like the walls themselves knew something was about to break loose.
Dean stepped in first, already opening his mouth.
Bobby held up a hand.
âNot a word.â
Dean blinked. âBobbyââ
âI said not a word.â Bobby shut the door with a firm shove and turned to face all three of them. His gaze swept across Dean, Sam, then Natalieâlingering just long enough to make clear he wasnât blind.
He exhaled through his nose.
âBefore the yellinâ starts,â he said, âI want a beer.â
The words hung there.
âAnd since I ainât havinâ one alone, youâre all sittinâ down and shuttinâ up until I crack âem open.â
Samâs brows lifted slightly.
Dean looked like he might protest anyway.
Bobby pointed at the table. âSit.â
Natalieâs lips twitched.
The command. The tone. The sheer stubborn insistence on ritual before chaos.
God, sheâd missed this.
She dropped into a chair without argument, leaning back slightly as Bobby disappeared into the kitchen. The fridge door opened. Bottles clinked.
Dean hovered a second longer before finally pulling out a chair across from her. Sam sat quietly beside him, posture loose but attentive.
Bobby returned, setting bottles down one by one with deliberate weight.
âDrink,â he said.
They did.
The first sip was cold and grounding, the familiar bite of cheap beer sliding down her throat. Natalie let out a slow breath she hadnât realized sheâd been holding.
Something about thisâthe four of them around Bobbyâs scarred wooden table, tension simmering but not yet boilingâfelt achingly familiar.
Like childhood. Like coming home covered in dirt and being told to wash up before explaining anything.
Bobby took a long pull from his bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
âAll right,â he said gruffly.
And this time, no one stopped him.
Bobby didnât look at Dean. Didnât look at Sam. He looked at Natalie. He exhaled hard, like the words were heavier than the beer in his hand.
âYouâre like a daughter to me.â
Natalie blinked.
Of all the ways sheâd imagined this conversation starting, that hadnât been one of them.
Bobby shifted in his chair, uncomfortable already, but pushing through it anyway. âDonât make a face. You know itâs true.â
She hadnât been making a face. Sheâd just⊠froze.
He went on, gruffer to cover it. âYou takinâ off to Nova Scotia like that. No explanation. No timeline. Three damn years without so much as a proper sit-down.â His jaw worked. âThat was hard.â
Natalie swallowed.
âAnd then you show back up just as sudden,â he continued, eyes steady on hers. âNo warning. No heads up. Justâboom. Youâre standinâ in my doorway like no timeâs passed.â
The room was quiet. Even Dean didnât interrupt.
âYou worried me,â Bobby said bluntly. âYou scared me.â
Natalieâs heart clenched.
âAnd I donât scare easy,â he added. âBut that scar? The way you look at certain things now? That ainât nothinâ.â
His voice dropped just a fraction. âDammit, Natalie. I need to know youâre okay.â
The words werenât loud.
They didnât have to be.
Natalie stared at him, completely disarmed. This wasnât gruff lectures or irritated commands. This was something rawer. Something he didnât offer often.
She hadnât expected it to hurt this much.
âIââ Her voice caught. She steadied it. âIâm okay.â
She meant it.
But she couldnât quite leave it there.
ââŠNow.â
The word slipped out softer than she intended. It landed like a dropped glass.
Deanâs fingers tightened imperceptibly around his bottle.
Samâs gaze sharpened.
Bobby didnât miss it either. His eyes flicked over her face, reading the gap between past and present.
âNow,â he repeated slowly.
Natalie nodded once.
The distinction hung there, thick and undeniable. She wasnât pretending anymore. But she wasnât finished talking either.
And every man at that table knew it.
Nova Scotia, few months ago:
Nova Scotia had been colder than she expected.
Not just the air.
The ocean wind cut sharp along the cliffs, salt spray freezing against black rock, the sky a low, iron-gray ceiling that never seemed to lift. Natalie had followed the trail for monthsâold ritual sites, whispered rumors of hunters who died mid-fight and never crossed clean. Souls caught halfway. Suspended.
It had led her here.
To the master.
Not the monster that killed her father. That thing had been nothing more than teeth and instinct. No, this was the one who managed what came after. The one who gathered what slipped through cracks when deaths didnât align neatly with Heaven or Hell.
Sheâd tracked them to a coastal house that shouldnât have existed. White paint peeling. Windows dark. Wards etched into doorframes so subtly most hunters wouldâve missed them.
She hadnât.
Sheâd broken them anyway.
Inside, sheâd found records. Names. Dates. A ledger of souls not accounted for in either direction.
Leandro Guimet.
Not at rest.
Her heart had stopped for a full second when she saw it.
And then: âI was wondering when youâd arrive.â
The voice had come from behind her. Calm. Almost pleasant.
The master had been waiting.
Somehow, theyâd known she would come. That grief would drive her. That love would make her reckless.
âYou shouldnât be here,â the master had said mildly.
Natalie had reached for her blade.
The fight had been fast.
Too fast.
Sheâd landed hits. Broken wards. Cut through whatever illusions theyâd thrown at her. But this wasnât a monster with claws. This was something older. Smarter. Something that didnât fight fair.
Pain had exploded across her stomach before she even registered the movement.
Sheâd hit the floor hard.
Warmth spread beneath her fingers. Wet. Slippery.
She tried to breathe.
The master crouched beside her, expression almost curious. âYou thought you could negotiate?â
âI didnât come to negotiate,â sheâd managed.
âOf course you did,â theyâd replied gently. âYou came to bargain.â
Her vision had begun to blur.
Outside, the ocean crashed violently against stone.
Sheâd thought of Bobby then.
And thenâDean.
The memory came unbidden. Fifteen years old. Whiskey on his breath. His hand catching her wrist. That awkward, stolen kiss in Bobbyâs living room. The way theyâd pretended it hadnât happened the next morning.
Youâre stuck with me.
Sheâd been half in love with him ever since.
Idiot.
Sheâd chased a ghost across an ocean for a man who might not even be reachableâand now she might never get to tell the one person whoâd always come when she needed him.
The master had stood again, stepping back. âYouâre not strong enough,â theyâd said almost kindly. âNot yet.â
Not yet.
Sheâd clung to that.
Because it meant she wasnât dead.
Not yet.
Natalie pressed a shaking hand to her wound, grit and salt stinging her skin. Forced herself to roll. To crawl. To move.
Get up, she told herself. You donât get to die here.
The wind screamed outside as she staggered through the doorway, vision narrowing, the world tilting sideways.
Somehowâthrough blood loss and stubborn fury and pure tenacityâsheâd made it to the car.
She didnât remember the drive.
Only waking hours later in a remote clinic that asked too few questions. The scar was clean. Surgical. Deliberate.
She had lived.
And as she lay there, staring at the ceiling, sheâd made herself a promise: If she walked away from thisâŠ. She would stop running from the things she felt.
Even if she wasnât ready to say them yet.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories Iâm writing!
Iâm glad you like it! đ Iâve been having fun doing the back and forth of the ages, exploring young Dean and Natalie and the âpresentâ. And the teasing as to what had happened⊠as well as the possibilities between Dean and Natalie.
And to think, it was all because I was missing writing Dean and the one-shots just werenât enough, haha!
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singerâs house brings Natalie Guimetâan old childhood friend and constant from his time thereâback into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds donât fade with timeâthey wait.
Word Count: 3,672
Tags/Warnings: Mentions of death, parental loss, heaven and hell, grief, alcohol
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Four: The Master
The drive back to Sioux Falls was quiet.
Too quiet.
Dean and Sam had taken the Impala ahead, gravel spitting under her tires as they pulled onto the highway. Bobby hadnât given Natalie a choice. Heâd jerked his chin toward his own truck and said, âYouâre ridinâ with me.â
No argument. No room for one.
Now the two of them sat in the cab, engine humming low, fields stretching dark and endless on either side of the road. The sky was bruised purple at the edges, the last of the sun bleeding out behind them.
Bobby kept his eyes on the road.
Natalie kept hers on the window.
The silence wasnât empty. It was loaded.
She could feel it in the way his grip tightened on the steering wheel. In the way he cleared his throat once and didnât follow it up with anything. In the way he kept glancing at her without turning his head.
She studied him sidelong for a second, then said softly, âYou can ask.â
Bobby huffed. âDonât tempt me.â
âI mean it,â she said. âYou donât have to pretend.â
He drummed his fingers once against the wheel, jaw working.
âI ainât sure I wanna know the answer,â he admitted gruffly.
Natalieâs lips pressed thin.
âOr maybe,â he went on, âI should leave it to Dean. Let him do the digginâ.â
She looked back out at the dark fields.
âI donât know if I could tell Dean,â she said quietly.
That one landed.
Bobby didnât respond right away. The tires hummed over asphalt. A mile marker slipped past.
âYou think he ainât already seen enough to know somethinâs wrong?â Bobby asked.
She gave a small, humorless breath. âThatâs the problem.â
Silence again.
Bobby drove another long stretch without speaking, the headlights cutting a steady path through the dark. He didnât push. Didnât press. Just let the road do what roads didâgive space for truths to settle.
Finally, he asked one thing.
âDid you get what you were lookinâ for?â
Natalieâs fingers tightened in her lap.
Nova Scotia flashed behind her eyes. Cold air. Salt water. Blood in the snow. Missouriâs voice. The answer she hadnât wanted but had chased anyway.
She blinked fast, turning her face just slightly toward the window so the dashboard light wouldnât catch her eyes.
âYeah,â she said softly. âI did.â
Bobby heard the strain in it.
But he didnât call it out.
He just nodded once, slow and heavy, and kept driving toward home.
Then:
The room felt smaller after Missouri said it.
Baby girl, I donât think youâre ready for this.
Natalie swallowed hard. âReady for whatââ
Missouri lifted a hand.
âDonât,â she said gently. âYouâre about to ask something you already know the answer to. You just donât want it confirmed.â
Natalie froze.
Missouriâs eyes softenedâbut didnât waver. âYou came here to ask if your fatherâs at peace. If Leandro made it to Heaven. If the kind of man he was⊠if the way he died⊠earned him rest.â
Natalie nodded once, barely.
âHe died protecting someone else,â she said quietly. âThat has to count.â
Missouri was silent for a long moment.
The air in the room seemed to press in, heavy and unmoving.
Finally, Missouri spoke.
âHe was brave,â she said. âHe was good. And yesâthose things matter.â
Hope flickered in Natalieâs chest.
Then Missouri stopped.
The silence stretched. Tight. Uneasy.
Natalie leaned forward. âIs he at peace?â
Missouri didnât answer.
Instead, she shook her head.
Once.
Slow.
No.
The word wasnât spoken. It didnât need to be.
Natalie blinked, like maybe sheâd misread it. âNo⊠what?â
Missouriâs voice, when it came, was gentleâbut unflinching. âNo, baby girl.â
The world tilted.
âThat doesnât make sense,â Natalie said immediately. âHe died saving someone. He didnât make a deal. He wasnâtââ
âNot all unrest comes from damnation,â Missouri said quietly.
Natalieâs breathing turned shallow. âThen where is he?â
Missouri hesitated.
That hesitation said more than anything else.
âI donât think youâre ready for the rest of that answer,â she said.
Natalie leaned forward again, desperate now. âI can handle it.â
Missouriâs gaze sharpened, sadness threading through it. âYou think that now.â
Natalieâs hands trembled in her lap.
âIs he in Hell?â she whispered.
Missouri did not answer that directly.
Instead, she said, very carefully, âHe is not at rest.â
The room fell silent.
And for the first time since sheâd walked through that door, Natalie wished she hadnât.
Then:
They were nine and ten and convinced that camping in Bobbyâs backyard counted as wilderness survival.
The tent was pitched crooked again, staked between two junked cars like they were mountain peaks instead of rusted relics. A small fire crackled in the pit Bobby had cleared years ago, sparks lifting into the warm South Dakota night.
Natalie sat cross-legged in the grass, carefully rotating a marshmallow over the flames.
Dean sat opposite her, poking at the fire with a stick like it had personally offended him.
The split lip was obvious in the firelight. So was the black eye blooming dark along his cheekbone.
Natalie tried not to stare.
She failed.
âWhat?â Dean muttered without looking at her.
âNothing.â
âThen stop lookinâ at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike Iâm about to fall apart.â
She frowned. âIâm not.â
He prodded the fire harder. âItâs nothing.â
She didnât believe that for a second.
He wouldnât tell her what had happened. Hadnât told Bobby either, far as she knew. Just showed up that afternoon quieter than usual, jaw tight, refusing ice packs like they were an insult.
Natalie let the silence stretch, then brightened deliberately.
âOkay,â she said suddenly. âNew rule.â
Dean groaned. âI donât like new rules.â
âToo bad. Whoever makes the best marshmallow wins.â
He blinked. âWins what?â
âBragging rights.â
âThatâs not a prize.â
âIt is if you win.â
He rolled his eyes but adjusted his stick, holding the marshmallow closer to the coals. Natalie pretended to take it very seriously, squinting at the rotation angle like it was engineering.
âToo fast,â she announced. âYouâre gonna burn it.â
Dean shook the stick furiously, cursing under his breath. She dissolved into laughter.
He tried not to smile.
He failed.
âOkay, okay,â she said, wiping her eyes. âRound two. But this time, we tell ghost stories while we cook.â
âIâm not scared of ghost stories,â he said flatly.
âI didnât say you were.â
She launched into the most ridiculous tale she could conjureâabout a haunted raccoon that only attacked people who didnât finish their vegetables. She made dramatic clawing noises. Widened her eyes. Wiggled her fingers at him across the fire.
Dean stared at her like sheâd lost her mind.
âYouâre an idiot,â he said.
She grinned. âYouâre smiling.â
He touched his lip reflexively and winced. The smile faded just a littleâbut not entirely.
Natalieâs voice softened. âIt looks worse than it is,â she said, nodding at his eye.
He shrugged. âDoesnât hurt.â
âLiar.â
He glanced at her thenâreally looked at herâand some of the tension bled out of his shoulders.
âThanks,â he muttered.
âFor what?â
He shrugged again. âFor being dumb.â
She beamed. âAnytime.â
The fire popped, sparks drifting upward into the vast summer sky. Dean leaned back on his hands, face still bruised, still soreâbut less tight than it had been an hour ago.
Natalie hadnât fixed whatever had happened.
She hadnât needed to.
Sheâd just stayed.
And sometimes, at nine and ten years old, that was enough.
Now:
Headlights swept across the junkyard as Bobbyâs truck rolled in.
Dean was already outside the Impala, arms folded tight across his chest, boots planted in the gravel like heâd been standing there longer than he wanted to admit. Sam leaned against the hood, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, posture loose, patient.
Dean wasnât patient.
He watched the truck cut its engine. Watched the cab light blink out. Watched the passenger door hesitate a fraction of a second before it opened.
Natalie stepped down first.
She moved carefullyâsubtle, but there. Not limping. Not weak. Just aware of her body in a way that hadnât been there before Nova Scotia.
Deanâs jaw tightened.
Sam glanced sideways at him. âTake it easy,â he murmured.
Dean didnât respond.
He knew something had happened. Heâd known it for months, if he was honestâheard it in her voice, felt it in the way she deflected, seen it in the way sheâd come back thinner, harder. But that scarâthat scar had a shape to it. A story.
And it wasnât small.
He wanted answers. Wanted them the way he wanted oxygen when heâd been held underwater too long. What could possibly have driven her that far north? What had kept her there three years? What had cut her open like that and let her walk away breathing?
The questions pressed against his ribs.
Natalie closed the truck door and looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a second, something flickered thereâawareness. Recognition of the storm sitting just behind his calm.
Dean straightened slightly, the instinct to push rising sharp and immediate.
Tell me.
He didnât say it.
Because he knew he couldnât. Not like that. Not after all the years between them. Not when sheâd asked for ânot here.â
God, he wished he could.
He wished he could grab her shoulders and demand it. Shake the truth loose. Drag whatever darkness sheâd brought home into the open where he could see it, fight it, fix it.
But this wasnât a hunt.
This was her.
Sam shifted beside him, ever steady. âYou gonna talk to her?â he asked quietly.
Deanâs gaze never left Natalie as she walked toward them.
âYeah,â he said.
Not yet.
But soon.
Because whatever had happened in Nova Scotia hadnât just left a scar.
It had changed her.
And Dean Winchester wasnât going to stand by and pretend he didnât see it.
Now:
Natalie stepped away from Bobbyâs truck and met Deanâs gaze head-on.
She didnât look away.
She saw it immediatelyâthe hunger in him. The need. Not curiosity. Not idle concern. Something sharper than that. A demand he was fighting not to voice.
His jaw had already tightened. A muscle ticking once near the hinge. The faint line carved between his brows. The way his shoulders squared when he was bracing for a fight.
And his eyes.
God, his eyes.
Green, bright even in the low junkyard light, lit now with something that wasnât angerâbut wasnât far from it either. Fear, maybe. The kind he disguised with control.
She knew those tells like she knew the back roads of Sioux Falls.
Sheâd grown up reading him.
Dean took a half step forward before he caught himself. The movement was small, but she didnât miss it.
Tell me, his entire body said.
Natalie held his stare and let a slow breath out through her nose.
If she told him why sheâd gone to Nova Scotiaâif she told him it had started with Missouri Moseley shaking her head and saying noâif she told him sheâd followed whispers and crossroads rumors and half-forgotten ritual texts because sheâd needed to know whether her father was trapped somewhere betweenâ
Dean wouldâve stopped her.
He would have argued. Would have told her it wasnât her fight. Would have said some version of thatâs not how this works.
And maybe he wouldâve been right.
But she hadnât gone north for logic.
Sheâd gone because Missouri had told her Leandro wasnât at rest.
And Natalie Guimet had never been very good at leaving unfinished things buried.
Deanâs jaw clenched again.
She saw the moment he chose restraint. Saw the swallow. The breath he forced steady.
She offered him the smallest, most deliberate nodânot here. Not like this.
His eyes searched her face, looking for cracks.
She gave him none.
Because if he knew sheâd crossed oceans and borders chasing rumors of fractured gates and angelic interference⊠if he knew how close sheâd come to making a deal she couldnât undoâŠ
He wouldnât just have stopped her.
He wouldâve followed.
And she hadnât been willing to let him risk that.
So she held his gaze and let him see only what she wanted him to see: steady. Alive. Here.
The rest could wait.
For now.
Then:
Three years ago, Natalie leaned forward in Missouri Moseleyâs parlor, fingers knotted together so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.
âPlease,â she whispered. âTell me.â
Missouri pursed her lips, eyes studying her like she was weighing something far heavier than words.
âIâm not sure I should,â she said at last.
Natalieâs stomach dropped. âWhy not?â
âBecause your father was a good man,â Missouri replied gently. âA good hunter. And good men donât always want their children walkinâ the same crooked roads they did.â
Natalie frowned. âI already hunt.â
Missouriâs gaze sharpened. âIâm not talkinâ about huntinâ, baby girl. Iâm talkinâ about deals. Complications. Choices made when the night got too long.â
The word deals hit like ice water.
Natalie blinked. âWhat deals?â
Missouri said nothing.
âYou think my dad made a deal?â Natalie pressed. âWith what? A crossroads demon? That doesnât make senseâhe wouldâve told my mom. Bobby wouldâveââ
She stopped.
Because Bobby hadnât told her everything. She knew that much. Hunters always carried more than they handed down.
Natalieâs brows furrowed. âDid Bobby know?â
Missouriâs lips curved faintlyânot unkind, but knowing. âYou know the answer to that, baby girl.â
The implication sat heavy.
Before Natalie could push further, Missouri shifted slightly, reclaiming control of the conversation.
âWhen your father died,â she said carefully, âhe wasnât killed by the master.â
Natalie stared at her. âThe master of what?â
Missouriâs gaze held hers. âHe wasnât taken by the one who pulls the strings.â
A pause.
âHe was killed by the monster.â
The words felt deliberate. Specific.
Natalieâs pulse quickened. âThat doesnâtâwhat does that mean?â
Missouri didnât elaborate.
âSometimes,â she said instead, voice lower now, âwhen a hunter dies mid-fight, somethinâ breaks in the crossing. Especially if there were⊠outside forces in play.â
âOutside forces,â Natalie repeated, dread creeping in.
Missouri folded her hands in her lap. âYou came here because you felt it, didnât you? That somethinâ about your fatherâs death wasnât settled.â
Natalieâs throat tightened. âYes,â she admitted.
Missouri nodded once.
âThen listen to that instinct,â she said. âBut be careful where you follow it.â
Natalie leaned forward again, desperate now. âIs he trapped?â
Missouriâs silence was answer enough.
And in that silence, the first seed of Nova Scotia took root.
Now:
The door creaked open and they all filed in, boots thudding against worn wood floors.
The house felt different tonight. Charged. Like the walls themselves knew something was about to break loose.
Dean stepped in first, already opening his mouth.
Bobby held up a hand.
âNot a word.â
Dean blinked. âBobbyââ
âI said not a word.â Bobby shut the door with a firm shove and turned to face all three of them. His gaze swept across Dean, Sam, then Natalieâlingering just long enough to make clear he wasnât blind.
He exhaled through his nose.
âBefore the yellinâ starts,â he said, âI want a beer.â
The words hung there.
âAnd since I ainât havinâ one alone, youâre all sittinâ down and shuttinâ up until I crack âem open.â
Samâs brows lifted slightly.
Dean looked like he might protest anyway.
Bobby pointed at the table. âSit.â
Natalieâs lips twitched.
The command. The tone. The sheer stubborn insistence on ritual before chaos.
God, sheâd missed this.
She dropped into a chair without argument, leaning back slightly as Bobby disappeared into the kitchen. The fridge door opened. Bottles clinked.
Dean hovered a second longer before finally pulling out a chair across from her. Sam sat quietly beside him, posture loose but attentive.
Bobby returned, setting bottles down one by one with deliberate weight.
âDrink,â he said.
They did.
The first sip was cold and grounding, the familiar bite of cheap beer sliding down her throat. Natalie let out a slow breath she hadnât realized sheâd been holding.
Something about thisâthe four of them around Bobbyâs scarred wooden table, tension simmering but not yet boilingâfelt achingly familiar.
Like childhood. Like coming home covered in dirt and being told to wash up before explaining anything.
Bobby took a long pull from his bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
âAll right,â he said gruffly.
And this time, no one stopped him.
Bobby didnât look at Dean. Didnât look at Sam. He looked at Natalie. He exhaled hard, like the words were heavier than the beer in his hand.
âYouâre like a daughter to me.â
Natalie blinked.
Of all the ways sheâd imagined this conversation starting, that hadnât been one of them.
Bobby shifted in his chair, uncomfortable already, but pushing through it anyway. âDonât make a face. You know itâs true.â
She hadnât been making a face. Sheâd just⊠froze.
He went on, gruffer to cover it. âYou takinâ off to Nova Scotia like that. No explanation. No timeline. Three damn years without so much as a proper sit-down.â His jaw worked. âThat was hard.â
Natalie swallowed.
âAnd then you show back up just as sudden,â he continued, eyes steady on hers. âNo warning. No heads up. Justâboom. Youâre standinâ in my doorway like no timeâs passed.â
The room was quiet. Even Dean didnât interrupt.
âYou worried me,â Bobby said bluntly. âYou scared me.â
Natalieâs heart clenched.
âAnd I donât scare easy,â he added. âBut that scar? The way you look at certain things now? That ainât nothinâ.â
His voice dropped just a fraction. âDammit, Natalie. I need to know youâre okay.â
The words werenât loud.
They didnât have to be.
Natalie stared at him, completely disarmed. This wasnât gruff lectures or irritated commands. This was something rawer. Something he didnât offer often.
She hadnât expected it to hurt this much.
âIââ Her voice caught. She steadied it. âIâm okay.â
She meant it.
But she couldnât quite leave it there.
ââŠNow.â
The word slipped out softer than she intended. It landed like a dropped glass.
Deanâs fingers tightened imperceptibly around his bottle.
Samâs gaze sharpened.
Bobby didnât miss it either. His eyes flicked over her face, reading the gap between past and present.
âNow,â he repeated slowly.
Natalie nodded once.
The distinction hung there, thick and undeniable. She wasnât pretending anymore. But she wasnât finished talking either.
And every man at that table knew it.
Nova Scotia, few months ago:
Nova Scotia had been colder than she expected.
Not just the air.
The ocean wind cut sharp along the cliffs, salt spray freezing against black rock, the sky a low, iron-gray ceiling that never seemed to lift. Natalie had followed the trail for monthsâold ritual sites, whispered rumors of hunters who died mid-fight and never crossed clean. Souls caught halfway. Suspended.
It had led her here.
To the master.
Not the monster that killed her father. That thing had been nothing more than teeth and instinct. No, this was the one who managed what came after. The one who gathered what slipped through cracks when deaths didnât align neatly with Heaven or Hell.
Sheâd tracked them to a coastal house that shouldnât have existed. White paint peeling. Windows dark. Wards etched into doorframes so subtly most hunters wouldâve missed them.
She hadnât.
Sheâd broken them anyway.
Inside, sheâd found records. Names. Dates. A ledger of souls not accounted for in either direction.
Leandro Guimet.
Not at rest.
Her heart had stopped for a full second when she saw it.
And then: âI was wondering when youâd arrive.â
The voice had come from behind her. Calm. Almost pleasant.
The master had been waiting.
Somehow, theyâd known she would come. That grief would drive her. That love would make her reckless.
âYou shouldnât be here,â the master had said mildly.
Natalie had reached for her blade.
The fight had been fast.
Too fast.
Sheâd landed hits. Broken wards. Cut through whatever illusions theyâd thrown at her. But this wasnât a monster with claws. This was something older. Smarter. Something that didnât fight fair.
Pain had exploded across her stomach before she even registered the movement.
Sheâd hit the floor hard.
Warmth spread beneath her fingers. Wet. Slippery.
She tried to breathe.
The master crouched beside her, expression almost curious. âYou thought you could negotiate?â
âI didnât come to negotiate,â sheâd managed.
âOf course you did,â theyâd replied gently. âYou came to bargain.â
Her vision had begun to blur.
Outside, the ocean crashed violently against stone.
Sheâd thought of Bobby then.
And thenâDean.
The memory came unbidden. Fifteen years old. Whiskey on his breath. His hand catching her wrist. That awkward, stolen kiss in Bobbyâs living room. The way theyâd pretended it hadnât happened the next morning.
Youâre stuck with me.
Sheâd been half in love with him ever since.
Idiot.
Sheâd chased a ghost across an ocean for a man who might not even be reachableâand now she might never get to tell the one person whoâd always come when she needed him.
The master had stood again, stepping back. âYouâre not strong enough,â theyâd said almost kindly. âNot yet.â
Not yet.
Sheâd clung to that.
Because it meant she wasnât dead.
Not yet.
Natalie pressed a shaking hand to her wound, grit and salt stinging her skin. Forced herself to roll. To crawl. To move.
Get up, she told herself. You donât get to die here.
The wind screamed outside as she staggered through the doorway, vision narrowing, the world tilting sideways.
Somehowâthrough blood loss and stubborn fury and pure tenacityâsheâd made it to the car.
She didnât remember the drive.
Only waking hours later in a remote clinic that asked too few questions. The scar was clean. Surgical. Deliberate.
She had lived.
And as she lay there, staring at the ceiling, sheâd made herself a promise: If she walked away from thisâŠ. She would stop running from the things she felt.
Even if she wasnât ready to say them yet.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories Iâm writing!
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlenâs lifeâchange he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, familyâa second chance at forever.
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Four: Restlessness
Y/N woke before the sun fully rose.
That alone was unusual.
Most mornings, Beau was already upâquietly pulling on boots, moving through the house with that steady, early-rising discipline of his. But today, the room was still dim and warm, and he was still beside her.
She lay there for a moment without moving, simply breathing him in.
His arm was draped loosely over her waist, heavy and protective even in sleep. His breathing was slow and deep, chest rising and falling beneath her palm. The faint scent of himâsoap, warmth, something uniquely Beauâwrapped around her like a blanket.
She turned her head slightly and studied him.
The sharp line of his jaw, softened by sleep. The beard she loved so much, now threaded with more gray than when theyâd first met. The fine lines at the corners of his eyesâthe proof of laughter, of worry, of living fully.
He was closer to fifty now than the man sheâd first known.
That thought landed gently, not frighteningâjust real.
Time had moved.
They had moved with it.
Y/N traced a finger lightly along the edge of his shoulder, marveling at the quiet miracle of it all. She had not expected this life. Not this marriage. Not this steady, chosen love that felt less like fireworks and more like bedrock.
She had not expected to find a man who looked at her like she was the answer to a question he hadnât known he was asking.
And yet here he was.
Her Texan husband.
Closer to fifty, sureâbut never old. Not in spirit. Not in presence. Not in the way he moved through the world, vibrant and alive and stubbornly, beautifully virile.
She smiled to herself.
A slow, satisfied, almost smug little smile.
Without opening his eyes, Beau murmured, voice rough with sleep, âYou better have a good reason for that cat-smug smile.â
Y/N startled, then laughedâlow and warm, pressing her face briefly into his shoulder.
âWere you awake?â she whispered.
âMm,â he grunted. âNot entirely. But I know that smile.â
She lifted her head, brushing her lips against his jaw. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âAnd youâre smilinâ like you got a secret,â he muttered, eyes still closed.
She traced the gray at his temple gently. âJust thinking.â
âDangerous,â he murmured.
She laughed again, softer this time, the restless flicker sheâd felt moments earlier easing under his sleepy presence. Whatever that strange, unsettled feeling had beenâit didnât matter right now.
Right now, there was this.
Warmth.
Love.
The steady weight of a life built together.
Beau shifted slightly, pulling her closer without waking fully, and she let herself settle into him, smiling against his skin.
Restless could wait.
For this moment, she was exactly where she belonged.
Morning did not arrive gently.
It arrived with Eliza declaring that the wolves had spotted suspicious duck behavior near the cereal cabinet.
It arrived with Caleb running through the hallway like a joyful tornado, one sock missing, shouting something about âtruck!â while holding absolutely no truck.
It arrived with Ella, seven months old and done waiting for attention, loudly announcing her existence from the crib in a series of indignant squeals.
Beau and Y/N moved like they always didâwithout discussion, without friction.
He scooped Ella first, pressing a kiss to her soft hair while she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. Y/N intercepted Caleb before he could climb onto the back of the couch. Eliza narrated everything at a volume that suggested national importance.
âDucks are not allowed in the pantry,â she declared.
âCopy that,â Beau said solemnly.
Y/N smiled faintly as she poured milk, wiped a spill, kissed Calebâs temple, adjusted Ellaâs blanket. Her body knew the rhythm of this life. It had settled into her bones.
And yet⊠the restlessness was back.
A faint ache beneath her ribs. A hum just under the surface of everything. Not panic. Not fear. Just⊠something unsettled. Like a thread tugging gently at the edge of her awareness.
She couldnât name it.
She just felt it.
She moved through the morning anywayâsteady, practiced. Toast popped. Diaper changed. Backpack zipped. Beau lifted Caleb and tossed him once into the air, catching him easily while Caleb shrieked with delighted chaos.
Beau laughed, full and open, wrestling lightly with their son in the living room.
And in that momentâmid-tussle, Calebâs hair wild, Eliza marching past with wolf businessâBeau glanced up.
He saw it.
Just a flicker.
A shadow in Y/Nâs eyes that didnât belong to exhaustion.
He stilled slightly, though Caleb kept wriggling in his arms.
âYou alright?â he asked, casual but sharp.
Y/N blinked, pulled from wherever her thoughts had drifted. âWhat?â
âYou look⊠somewhere else.â
She caught herself immediately. Smiled. Nodded.
âIâm fine,â she said. âJust thinking.â
He studied her a second longer.
âFine?â he pressed gently.
âFine,â she repeated, firmer now.
Beau nodded, but his gaze lingered just a moment too long before he turned back to Caleb.
The house surged forward againânoise, laughter, spilled milk, a wolf emergency.
Y/N moved with it.
But inside, as she rinsed a cup and watched the light shift through the kitchen window, a quiet question surfaced.
Was she fine?
Or had something shifted in her world that she hadnât yet found the words for?
Y/N tied Elizaâs boots with steady fingers while Eliza narrated a very urgent update about snow tracks near the mailbox.
âWolves donât wear boots,â Eliza informed her.
âNo,â Y/N agreed softly, tightening the knot. âBut kindergarteners do.â
Caleb was less cooperative. He wriggled like a live wire while she tried to zip his jacket, giggling as if this were a game designed purely to test her patience. She caught him by the waist, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and finished the zipper anyway.
Ella was already bundled in her playpen, blinking solemnly as if she understood that morning departures were Serious Business.
Beau came through the hallway, keys in hand, hat already on. âAlright,â he said, clapping once. âLoad up.â
Eliza marched toward the door like a commander heading to duty. Caleb followed in a zigzag pattern that required interception.
Y/N handed off lunchboxes, adjusted a mitten, smoothed Elizaâs hair one last time.
Then, just as Beau was about to step out with both children in tow, he stopped.
He turned back.
Eliza was halfway down the steps. Caleb was arguing with the air.
Beau reached for Y/Nâs wrist gently and pulled her just a step aside, out of the childrenâs immediate orbit.
He didnât speak at first.
He just looked at her.
Really looked.
Searched her face. Her eyes.
The shadow was still there. Not dramatic. Not broken. Just⊠not her usual bright steadiness.
He lifted a hand to her cheek.
âYou sure?â he asked quietly.
Y/Nâs breath caught for a fraction of a second. Then she smiled, softer this time.
âIâm okay,â she said. âReally.â
He didnât argue.
Didnât push.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed her.
Not rushed. Not possessive. Just soft. Tender. A grounding kiss that said I see you without forcing her to explain anything.
His thumb brushed her jaw once before he pulled back.
âIâm here,â he said simply.
She nodded.
âI know.â
He gave her one last searching look, then stepped back, scooping Caleb up under one arm while calling to Eliza to stay out of the snowbank.
The door shut behind them.
The house went quiet.
Y/N stood there for a long moment, fingers brushing her lips where heâd kissed her.
He had seen it.
Whatever it was.
And he hadnât demanded answers.
He had just loved her through it.
The ache in her chest shifted slightlyânot gone, not solvedâbut steadied.
She exhaled slowly.
Maybe she wasnât fine.
But she wasnât alone in it either.
The house felt too quiet once the door closed behind Beau and the kids.
Not emptyânever emptyâbut stretched.
Y/N stood there for a moment longer than necessary before moving.
Ella filled the silence first. A soft coo from the living room. A kick of her feet against the blanket. A reminder that the day was still very much in motion.
Y/N scooped her up, pressing her nose briefly into the babyâs warm neck. Ella smelled like milk and sunshine and something sweetly new.
âWell,â Y/N murmured, bouncing her gently. âItâs just us.â
Ella responded with a delighted squeal, grabbing a handful of Y/Nâs hair.
They played on the floor for a whileâstacking soft blocks, rolling a rattle back and forth, Y/N narrating everything like she used to when Eliza was this small. Ella laughed when Y/N made exaggerated wolf noises. She kicked and twisted and rolled until she finally began to rub at her eyes.
âAlright,â Y/N whispered. âThatâs my cue.â
She rocked her until the babyâs weight went heavy and trusting in her arms. Settled her in the crib. Watched the tiny chest rise and fall.
Silence again.
The restlessness crept back in.
Y/N moved to the kitchen.
She wiped counters that were already clean. Straightened chairs that didnât need straightening. Ran the dishwasher though it was only half full. Folded a dish towel twice, then a third time, as if precision might quiet whatever was stirring inside her.
It didnât.
She tried the laundry next. The vacuum. Sorting through a stack of mail sheâd already skimmed yesterday.
Her body moved efficiently, habitually.
Her mind did not settle.
It wasnât sadness.
It wasnât anger.
It was a low hum beneath her ribsâlike something unspoken pressing gently at the inside of her chest.
She paused at the sink, hands braced on the counter, staring out the window at the pale Montana sky.
Everything in her life was good.
Her husband loved her.
Her children were healthy.
Her home was warm.
So why did it feel like something was⊠shifting?
Or missing?
Or waiting?
She pressed her palm flat against her sternum, as if she could physically smooth it out.
âStop,â she whispered to herself.
But the restlessness didnât stop.
It lingered.
Soft.
Persistent.
Unanswered.
By the time the clock crept toward lunch, Y/N had wiped down every surface twice and reorganized a drawer that did not need reorganizing.
The restlessness had not left.
It had only grown teeth.
She stood in the hallway outside Ellaâs nursery for a long moment, listening to the soft babble coming from the crib. Then, almost impulsively, she moved.
âOkay,â she murmured. âWeâre going on an adventure.â
Ella did not object.
Y/N bundled her carefullyâtiny hat, thick coat, blanket tucked around her legsâand loaded her into the car. The drive into town felt brisk and purposeful, the cold Montana air sharp against her cheeks when she stepped out.
The sheriffâs department door opened with its familiar weight.
Warmth and the low hum of office chatter greeted her.
Doris looked up first.
âWell look what the snow blew in,â she said, arching a brow. âAnd she brought the tiniest deputy.â
Y/N smiled faintly. âIs Beau around?â
Doris tilted her head toward the back hallway. âMayorâs in there. Important meeting. Heâll be a minute.â
Y/N nodded and shifted Ella higher on her hip. âThatâs fine.â
They settled near Dorisâs desk, Ella immediately reaching for a stack of papers like she intended to audit something. Doris intercepted smoothly.
âWhoa there, future sheriff.â
Doris eyed Ella critically, then softened in spite of herself. âSheâs gotten big.â
Y/N glanced down at her daughter. âShe has.â
âWonât be long before sheâs walkinâ,â Doris added.
Y/N nodded again, distracted. âI know.â
Doris leaned back in her chair, studying Y/N now instead of the baby.
âWhat will you do then?â
Y/N blinked. âWhat?â
Doris shrugged one shoulder. âWell. Once sheâs big enough for daycare, honey⊠whatcha gonna do?â
Y/N shifted slightly, caught off-guard. âWhat do you mean?â
Dorisâs gaze sharpenedânot unkind, but direct.
âI mean,â she said plainly, âwhatâre you gonna do with yourself?â
The question hung in the air between them.
And for the first time that morning, the restlessness in Y/Nâs chest had a shape.
The office door at the end of the hall opened sharply.
Beau stepped out first.
His expression was storm-darkâjaw tight, shoulders squared, the look he wore when a conversation had gone sideways. The mayor followed a step behind, speaking in low, clipped tones, but Beau wasnât listening anymore.
Then he saw her.
The tension drained from his face so quickly it was almost visible.
âHey,â he breathed, surprise and warmth overtaking everything else.
Y/Nâs lips curved softly. âHi.â
Ella spotted him next and let out an excited squeal, arms pumping like she might launch herself.
âWell look at you,â Beau murmured, crossing the room in long strides. He didnât hesitateâjust scooped Ella out of Y/Nâs arms and pressed a kiss to her cheek. âCame to check on me?â
Y/N watched him, the way his entire presence shifted when he held their daughter. âWe thought you might need a break.â
He huffed a quiet laugh. âYou have no idea.â
Doris, watching from her desk, muttered something under her breath about good timing and retreated into paperwork.
Beau leaned down and kissed Y/Nâquick, but lingering enough to anchor them both. âLunch?â
âThat was the plan,â she said gently.
He didnât need convincing.
âLetâs go.â
He carried Ella himself, one arm steady around her while the other rested lightly at Y/Nâs back as they stepped out into the cold. The walk to the diner was short. Snow crunched under boots. Ella babbled happily, gripping Beauâs collar like she owned him.
Inside, warmth and familiar noise wrapped around them.
They slid into a boothâBeau with Ella, Y/N across from them. He bounced the baby absently while scanning the menu.
âMayor tried to tell me we need to cut patrol hours,â he muttered, irritation flickering briefly. âSaid budgetâs tight.â
But beneath the conversationâbeneath the warmth of the diner and the sight of Beau grinning down at EllaâDorisâs voice echoed.
What will you do then?
Once sheâs big enough for daycare⊠whatcha gonna do?
Y/N watched Beau play with Ellaâs tiny fingers, watched the way he was so fully rooted in purpose.
Sheriff.
Father.
Husband.
Her.
She smiled when he glanced up at her. But inside, something shifted again. Because for the first time, the question wasnât abstract.
It was real.
What would she do?
Y/N flipped through the menu, though she wasnât really reading it.
The words blurred together.
Her mind drifted.
Back.
Back to a different kind of morningâone where she couldnât get out of bed without dizziness swallowing her whole. Where doctorsâ voices were cautious and clipped. Where phrases like high risk and monitor closely lived in the air like permanent fixtures.
She remembered lying there, frustrated and frightened, feeling useless.
Remembered the guilt.
Remembered the fear that she was failingâat work, at motherhood, at everything.
She had been so overwhelmed then. So stretched thin between wanting to be present for Eliza, for Caleb, for Beauâand still trying to prove she could do it all.
Sheâd cried one night.
Not quietly. Not stoically.
She had looked at Beau and admitted she couldnât keep doing both. That she felt like she was drowning. That she wantedâno, neededâto just be a mother for a while.
He hadnât argued.
Hadnât hesitated.
Hadnât once made her feel like she was asking too much.
âThen thatâs what weâll do,â heâd said.
Simple.
Decided.
Final.
Heâd picked up extra shifts. Stayed late. Taken on the financial strain without a single complaint. When she apologizedâbecause of course she hadâheâd kissed her and told her she wasnât a burden. She was his wife.
When Ellaâs pregnancy nearly broke her body, when the hospital visits multiplied and the fear became tangibleâBeau had stepped up again.
Chosen her.
Every time.
Heâd sat in uncomfortable chairs. Heâd memorized her medication schedule. Heâd learned how to take her blood pressure. Heâd carried the house when she couldnât.
He had never stood in her way.
Never resented her.
Never made her feel small for needing something different.
Across the table now, he was making Ella laugh by scrunching his nose and pretending to steal her tiny hand.
The storm from earlier was gone.
He was steady again.
He always was.
Y/Nâs throat tightened unexpectedly.
She had asked to step back.
He had built space for her to do so.
And now⊠now Ella was growing.
The house would quiet eventually.
The question wasnât about money.
It wasnât about obligation.
It was about her.
Who was she becoming now?
Beau glanced up, catching her expression mid-thought.
âYou alright?â he asked softly.
She smiled at him.
âYes,â she said.
And she meant it.
But the question still lingered.
Not heavy.
Just waiting.
The diner noise faded again.
Not entirelyâbut enough that Y/N could hear her own thoughts.
She remembered the grocery store.
The day Eliza had knocked a pyramid of cans onto the aisle, not even two years old yet. Y/N had been exhausted. Alone. Embarrassed. Overwhelmed.
And thenâboots had stopped beside her.
A steady voice.
A man who didnât flinch at chaos. Who had crouched down and spoken to her toddler like she was a person instead of a problem.
She hadnât expected anything from that moment.
Certainly not this.
She hadnât expected to fall in love with a sheriff from Texas.
Hadnât expected marriage.
Hadnât expected Calebâs laughter filling a hallway.
Hadnât expected Ellaâs tiny fingers gripping his beard.
Hadnât expected this life.
Across from her now, Beau was wiping applesauce off Ellaâs chin with a napkin, brow furrowed in total concentration.
Her heart swelled.
And tightened.
She leaned forward suddenly and caught his free hand in hers. âBeau.â
He looked up immediately.
Something in her tone shifted his entire posture.
âWhat is it?â he asked quietly.
She swallowed. âNo,â she said. âIâm not entirely okay.â
He didnât move. Didnât interrupt.
She pressed on, the words tumbling faster than she meant them to.
âI should be. Everything is good. The kids are healthy. Youâre amazing. This life is beautiful and I love it. I love us. But Iââ Her breath hitched. âI feel restless. And I donât even know why. It feels wrong to feel that way. Ungrateful.â
Her fingers tightened around his.
âDoris asked me what Iâm going to do when Ellaâs big enough for daycare and I didnât have an answer. I stepped back because I needed to. You supported me through all of it. You carried so much. And now I donât know who I am outside of being Mama. And I love being Mama. I love it. But I donât know whatâs next and that scares me and I feel like I shouldnât be scared because everything is good andââ
âHey.â
Beauâs voice cut through gently but firmly.
She hadnât realized she was nearly breathless.
He squeezed her hand once, grounding.
âSlow down,â he murmured.
Her chest rose and fell too fast.
âBreathe.â
She tried.
He shifted Ella to his other arm and reached across the table with his free hand, cupping the back of Y/Nâs fingers, steady and warm.
âYouâre not ungrateful,â he said quietly. âYouâre human.â
She shook her head faintly. âI shouldnât feel like somethingâs missing.â
âDoesnât mean somethingâs missing,â he replied. âMight just mean somethingâs changinâ.â
The words settled.
He watched her carefully, eyes steady, not judgmental, not alarmed.
âRestless doesnât mean broken,â he continued. âAnd it sure as hell doesnât mean you donât love this life.â
Her eyes stung. âI just donât know what to do with it,â she whispered.
He squeezed her hand again. âThen weâll figure it out,â he said simply.
No panic.
No defensiveness.
No threat.
Just them.
And the next chapter, waiting.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
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Series Summary: Y/N is a psychology major assigned to shadow CJ at The Stand, unaware he's the one who basically saved her life four years before. CJ is unaware that she's the one who left a notable impact on him over the phone four years ago. As they navigate the work at The Stand, they develop a spark that demands revelation and connection.
Word Count: 4,644
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, work âdramaâ, mentions of suffering partner, cap words
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Divider: by @saradika-graphics
Chapter Sixty-Four: Chaos Gremlin
Gabby woke up warm.
Not just warmâwrapped. Anchored. Curled into something solid and steady that didnât move when she shifted, didnât flinch when she stretched, didnât complain when she stole more than her share of the blanket.
Miles.
She blinked a few times, orienting herself. Her apartment was washed in early-morning light, pale gold spilling through the thin curtains, catching dust motes in the air like they were doing something important. The room was quiet in that soft, suspended way that only existed before the day remembered it had obligations.
She realized, belatedly, that she was being held.
Miles lay behind her, one arm slung loosely around her middle, his hand resting over the gentle curve of her stomach like it belonged there. His breathing was slow, evenâstill asleep, or at least pretending to be. His chin was near her shoulder, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his breath when he exhaled.
Gabby smiled to herself.
This was the version of him most people didnât get.
At work, he was dry. Observant. Sarcastic in that quiet, surgical way that landed precisely where it was meant to. He moved through the world like he didnât need much and didnât expect anything in return.
With her?
He softened.
Not in grand gestures. Not in speeches or declarations. In thisâan arm that stayed wrapped around her even in sleep. A hand that found her without thinking. A presence that didnât crowd her but never quite left her alone.
She wiggled slightly, testing the boundaries of his hold.
It tightened immediately.
âDonât,â he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep. âYouâre warm.â
Gabby grinned, triumphant. âGood morning to you too, sunshine.â
His arm shifted, pulling her a little closer, his forehead brushing her hair. âItâs too early for you to be a person.â
âItâs never too early for me to be a person,â she declared. âIt is, however, the perfect time for me to be a problem.â
He let out a soft huff of a laughâbarely there, but real. âI know.â
She tilted her head back just enough to look at him upside down. His eyes were half-open now, unfocused, blinking slowly as he came awake. His hair was a mess. His expression was unguarded in a way he never let anyone else see.
Gabby reached up and poked his cheek. âYouâre doing the soft face.â
âI donât have a soft face.â
âYou absolutely do,â she said. âThis is it. This one. This is your âI like you and Iâm not fighting itâ face.â
He closed his eyes again. âGo back to sleep.â
She laughed quietly, careful not to jostle too much, and settled back into his chest instead. His arm remained around her, steady and sure, his hand splayed protectively where their lives were slowly, impossibly changing.
The world could wait a few more minutes.
Gabby let herself stay right thereâchaos gremlin temporarily subdued, wrapped up in the rare, precious stillness of Milesâ quiet affection.
And Miles, despite himself, didnât move.
Not even when she inevitably started humming under her breath.
Because thisâher, here, like thisâwas exactly where he wanted to wake up.
Miles shifted beneath her, the movement slow and careful, like he was calibrating how awake he actually needed to be.
Gabby felt it immediately.
âYouâre pretending,â she accused, still half-buried in his chest.
âIâm conserving energy,â he murmured. âFor the inevitable chaos youâre about to unleash.â
She gasped, offended. âI am a gentle morning presence.â
He opened one eye. Looked at her. Closed it again. âObjectively false.â
She laughed, the sound bright and uncontained, and rolled just enough to face him. His arm followed automatically, staying around her, his hand still resting at her back like it had a job to do.
âOkay,â she said, serious now. âImportant question.â
He sighed. âI knew this was coming.â
âWhat do you want for breakfast?â
He blinked. Considered. âSomething that doesnât involve me standing.â
âWow,â she said. âThe bar is on the floor.â
âIâm tired,â he replied. âI was up at three a.m. because someone needed crackers, water, and a very specific blanket that âfelt right.ââ
She pointed at him. âThat was a medical emergency.â
He snorted despite himself.
Gabby pushed herself up slowly, mindful of the way her body felt different these daysâheavier in some places, more insistent in others. Milesâ hand slid from her back to her hip, steadying her without making a big deal out of it.
She paused, caught that.
âSee?â she said softly. âSoft.â
He didnât argue.
She leaned down and kissed his cheekâquick, warm, affectionateâthen shuffled toward the edge of the bed. âIâm making pancakes. The good kind. With the little chocolate chips you pretend you donât like.â
âI donât pretend,â he called after her. âI tolerate them.â
âLies,â she sang from the doorway.
She padded into the kitchen, already talking to herself about batter and toppings and whether today felt like a whipped-cream day or a fruit day or both. Cabinets opened. A bowl clinked against the counter.
Miles lay there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of her moving around his apartment like she belonged there.
Because she did.
He got up eventuallyâslow, careful, a little stiffâand followed the smell of breakfast and the sound of her humming off-key.
Gabby was standing at the stove in one of his old T-shirts, hair a wild mess, completely focused on flipping a pancake like it was a high-stakes operation.
She glanced over when she felt him there. âYouâre up.â
âHard to sleep through this,â he said, gesturing at the chaos of ingredients scattered across the counter.
She beamed. âGood.â
He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her for a moment longer than necessary.
Loud.
Messy.
Pregnant.
Impossible.
And somehowâexactly right.
âHey,â he said.
She looked up. âYeah?â
âThanks for staying.â
Her smile softened, just a little. âAlways.â
And for once, Gabby didnât have anything else to add.
Breakfast happened in stages.
First, there was the assemblyâGabby sliding a plate toward Miles with a flourish like sheâd just won a cooking competition. Pancakes stacked unevenly, some with chocolate chips peeking out, others suspiciously plain. A bowl of cut fruit sat to the side, clearly added at the last second in a fit of âI should be responsible.â
Miles eyed the plate. âYou made extra.â
âIâm growing a person,â she said solemnly. âThat person demands tribute.â
He sat, pulled the plate closer, and took a bite.
Paused.
Took another.
âThese are⊠actually good,â he admitted, grudging but sincere.
They ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutesâGabby talking with her mouth full despite Milesâ pointed looks, Miles pushing fruit toward her plate when she tried to ignore it.
âYou need the fruit,â he said.
âI need the pancakes,â she countered.
âYou need both.â
She narrowed her eyes. âAre you⊠parenting me?â
âI am partnering you,â he corrected.
She considered that, then nodded. âAcceptable.â
She reached across the table and stole one of his pancakes anyway.
Miles didnât stop her.
At some point, Gabby slowed down, one hand resting absently on her stomach as she leaned back in the chair. She exhaled, long and content. âOkay. That hit.â
He watched her carefully. âToo much?â
âNo,â she said. âJust⊠a lot.â She gestured vaguely at herself. âEverything is a lot right now.â
He nodded, understanding without needing more explanation. He stood, took her plate, and started clearing the table before she could protest.
âHey,â she said. âI help.â
âYou cooked,â he replied. âI clean.â
She softened at thatâjust a littleâand watched him move around the kitchen with quiet efficiency. When he finished, he returned with two mugs of tea and set one in front of her.
She looked up at him, touched. âYou remembered.â
âIâm not an idiot,â he said, sitting back down. âYou said coffee makes you nauseous now.â
Gabby wrapped both hands around the mug, eyes suddenly shiny for reasons she would absolutely deny later. âYouâre very good at this, you know.â
âAt what?â
âThis,â she said simply. âUs.â
He looked at her for a long moment, then reached across the table and squeezed her hand. âSo are you.â
She smiled, wide and unguarded, crumbs still on her plate, hair a mess, life complicated and loud and unfinished.
And Milesâstolid, sarcastic, quietly devotedâsat across from her, fully aware that this chaos gremlin had rearranged his entire world.
Breakfast dishes could wait.
For now, this was enough.
Reality arrived the way it always didârudely and without consulting either of them.
Gabby glanced at the clock and gasped like sheâd just been personally betrayed. âOH NO.â
Miles didnât even look up from rinsing a mug. âDefine âoh no.ââ
âWe are LATE,â she announced, already pushing her chair back and standing too fast. She froze, one hand on the table, blinking. âOkay. Not late late. But emotionally late.â
He set the mug down carefully. âSit.â
âIâm fine.â
âGabby.â
She sat.
Miles waited exactly three seconds, then nodded. âGood. Now breathe.â
She didâexaggerated and loud. âThis is the part where my body reminds me I am not, in fact, indestructible.â
âAnd this is the part where I remind you to put on pants before you panic,â he said evenly.
Chaos resumed immediately after.
Gabby disappeared into the bedroom, narrating at full volume. âWHY are all my clothes suddenly WRONG. WHO shrank my bra. THIS SHIRT IS OFFENSIVE.â
Miles moved through the apartment with practiced calm, grabbing his keys, wallet, phoneâthen quietly setting out her prenatal vitamins by her water bottle without comment.
âHave you seen myââ Gabby reappeared, half-dressed, stopped. ââŠoh.â
âTake them,â he said.
She did, obediently, then immediately forgot what sheâd been doing and wandered toward the closet again.
Miles leaned against the doorframe, watching her pinball from task to task. âShoes,â he reminded.
âRight. Shoes. But firstâhair.â
âYou donât need to do your hair.â
âI NEED to do my hair,â she insisted. âI am a public menace otherwise.â
She grabbed a hair tie, snapped it twice, then stared at it like it had personally insulted her. âNo. Wrong vibe.â
Miles checked the time. Then, gently, he stepped in.
He took the hair tie from her hand, gathered her hair back with surprising tenderness, and twisted it into a loose, messy bun. Not perfect. Not polished.
Very her.
âThere,â he said quietly.
She blinked up at him, momentarily stunned. ââŠYou just did that.â
âYes.â
âThat was hot,â she said immediately.
He rolled his eyes. âShoes.â
She laughed, slipped them on, then paused againâhands on her belly this time, expression shifting.
Miles noticed instantly. âWhat.â
She looked at him, voice softer. âThank you. For not making this harder.â
He stepped closer, pressed a kiss to her forehead. âYou already are everything. My job is to keep up.â
She grinned. âYouâre doing great.â
They grabbed coats, bags, sanityâwhat little there wasâand headed out the door together, still talking over each other, still slightly late, still completely aligned.
Miles locked the door behind them.
Chaos gremlin: mobile.
Long-suffering partner: present.
Another day officially underway.
They arrived at work like a small, loud weather event.
Gabby burst through the door first, coat half-off, bag sliding off her shoulder, already mid-sentence. âI HAVE A LOT TO SAY AND NONE OF IT IS WORK-RELATED.â
Miles followed behind her, calmer, carrying her bag without comment because this was apparently his life now.
CJ looked up from his desk just in time.
âOh no,â he said flatly. âSheâs fully charged.â
Gabby zeroed in on him immediately. âCJ. CJ. CJ.â
âYes, Gabby,â he replied, already bracing himself.
She leaned her elbows on his desk, eyes wide and dramatic. âI need you to know that I made pancakes this morning. Likeâgood pancakes.â
âIâm very proud of you,â CJ said solemnly.
âAnd Miles cleaned,â she continued, pointing over her shoulder like she was presenting evidence. âWhich means I am thriving in a loving, supportive domestic environment.â
Miles muttered, âPlease donât encourage this.â
CJ nodded sympathetically. âYouâre doing great, Miles.â
Gabby gasped. âSEE? VALIDATION.â
She shifted her weight, hands immediately going to her belly. âAlso, your childâbecause Iâve decided this is a communal babyâhas opinions. Strong ones.â
CJ raised an eyebrow. âAbout?â
âEverything,â she said. âThe lights. The chairs. Your vibe. Are you okay today? Because if youâre not okay, I can tell.â
CJ smiled despite himself. âIâm okay.â
She squinted at him. âSuspicious.â
Before he could respond, she leaned closer and stage-whispered, âIf you need snacks, emotional support, or someone to scream into the void with, I am available.â
âThatâs very generous,â he said. âTerrifying, but generous.â
Y/N passed by then, coffee in hand, already smiling because she knew exactly what she was walking into.
Gabby spotted her instantly. âAND YOUR WIFE IS GLOWING. I KNEW IT. I CAN SENSE PEACE.â
Y/N laughed. âGood morning to you too.â
Miles gently but firmly took Gabby by the shoulders. âOkay. Time to work.â
Gabby pointed at CJ as she was being steered away. âTHIS IS ME SHOWING AFFECTION.â
âI know,â CJ called after her. âThatâs the problem.â
She blew him a kiss over her shoulder. âLOVE YOU.â
CJ leaned back in his chair and exhaled. âSheâs a menace.â
Y/N smiled, soft and fond. âShe is.â
And somehowâamid the noise, the chaos, the relentless affectionâthe day felt lighter already.
Gabbyâs morning unfolded like a natural disaster with a headset.
Somehowâsomehowâshe was devastatingly good at her job.
Her calls were efficient, empathetic, precise. Her tone shifted on command: soothing when someone cried, firm when boundaries were needed, warm without being indulgent. She documented cleanly, followed protocols, routed issues correctly. If anyone had been listening in without context, they wouldâve sworn she was the calmest person in the building.
This made absolutely no sense to anyone who could see her.
Between calls, she hovered. Not subtly. Not quietly.
She appeared.
At Y/Nâs desk first, leaning just enough to invade personal space without technically touching. âHydrated?â Gabby asked in a whisper that carried halfway across the room.
âYes,â Y/N replied, not looking up.
âEmotionally?â Gabby pressed.
âIâm working.â
Gabby nodded solemnly. âGood. Growth.â
She vanishedâonly to reappear behind Miles two minutes later while he was typing.
âAre you sitting correctly?â she asked.
Miles didnât look up. âI swear to Godââ
âFor your back,â she clarified. âAlso for the babyâs vibes.â
âI am not pregnant,â he said flatly.
âSpiritually, you are,â she replied, patting his shoulder before he could stop her.
Another call came in.
Gabby snapped back into place at her desk instantly, headset on, posture perfect. âThank you for calling The Stand, this is Gabbyâhow can I help you today?â
Miles watched her for a beat, deeply unsettled.
She wrapped the call in under four minutes. Perfect notes. Flawless de-escalation.
Then she was up again.
CJ felt her before he saw her.
He looked up slowly. âNo.â
She grinned. âYes.â
âIâm busy.â
âIâll be fast.â
âThatâs never true.â
She leaned on the corner of his desk, eyes bright. âI just want to say that your energy today is very âquiet but noble,â and I respect it.â
CJ closed his eyes briefly. âThank you?â
âAnd also,â she added, lowering her voice, âif you need me to distract anyone, fake a printer emergency, or stage an emotional intervention, I am available.â
âI am begging you not to,â he said.
She beamed. âSee? Communication.â
Priya passed by, caught the scene, and paused. âGabby.â
âYes?â
âSit down.â
Gabby saluted. âFor now.â
She satâfor exactly the length of one full call.
Then she popped up again, already mid-sentence, already everywhere. Terrifyingly competent. Relentlessly affectionate. Utterly unstoppable.
By 10:30 a.m., the office had accepted the truth: This was not a phase.
This was just Gabby before lunch.
Lunch happened the way it always did when Gabby was involvedâloudly. Abruptly. With zero warning.
Miles didnât even get to finish saving his work before she appeared at his side, already tugging on his sleeve. âIâm starving. The baby is starving. If we do not eat now, this becomes a medical situation.â
He glanced at the clock. âItâs 11:57.â
âThat is lunch,â she said firmly.
He sighed, shut his laptop, and stood. âYou didnât even ask.â
âI informed,â she corrected. âItâs different.â
Miles stared at it. âYouâre not going to finish all that.â
âWatch me,â she said, deadly serious.
They sat. She immediately started eating like sheâd been personally wronged by breakfast for not lasting longer.
Miles took a bite of his sandwich and watched her for a moment. âYouâve been⊠a lot today.â
She paused mid-chew. âDefine âa lot.ââ
âHovering. Commenting. Emotionally monitoring the entire building.â
She swallowed, then leaned back, hands resting on her stomach. âI am nesting.â
âAt work.â
âYes.â
He rubbed his face. âYou scared CJ.â
âI did not,â she protested. âI supported CJ.â
âYou offered to fake a printer emergency.â
âThatâs support-adjacent.â
Despite himself, Miles smiled faintly. âYouâre exhausting.â
She grinned, pleased. âAnd yetâyou love me.â
He didnât hesitate. âYeah. I do.â
That softened her instantly.
She reached across the table and took his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles. âThank you for not making me feel weird about being⊠like this.â
He squeezed her fingers gently. âYouâre not weird. Youâre pregnant. And loud. Those are different things.â
She laughed, bright and unrestrained. âGod, I adore you.â
They ate in companionable quiet for a few minutes after thatâGabby narrating flavors, Miles pushing extra fruit her way, both of them relaxed in a way that only happened when they were briefly out of everyone elseâs orbit.
Eventually, Gabby sighed contentedly. âOkay. I feel marginally more human.â
Miles stood and gathered their trays. âReady to terrorize the office again?â
She hopped up. âAbsolutely.â
He shook his head, already resignedâand already smiling.
Lunch over.
Chaos, recharged.
The afternoon devolved immediately.
Gabby returned from lunch energizedâwhich was objectively the worst possible outcome.
She swept back into the office like a woman reborn, announcing, âI HAVE BEEN FED AND I AM POWERFUL,â before even reaching her desk.
CJ looked up slowly, already tired. âThatâs not a sentence that should exist.â
âItâs too late,â Gabby said cheerfully. âIâm unstoppable now.â
She sat down, took exactly one callâhandled it flawlessly, efficiently, compassionatelyâand then popped right back up again like sheâd been launched.
She drifted past Y/N first, leaning in conspiratorially. âHeâs suffering,â she whispered, nodding toward CJ.
Y/N glanced over, took in CJâs resigned posture, the way he was already bracing himself for impact, and laughed softly. Not cruel. Affectionate. Amused.
âHeâll survive,â Y/N murmured.
âBarely,â CJ called without looking up.
Gabby gasped. âSEE? CONFIRMATION.â
She migrated next to CJâs desk again, arms folded over her belly, eyes bright. âI just want you to know that I am monitoring morale.â
CJ pinched the bridge of his nose. âOf course you are.â
âAnd yours is⊠noble,â she added thoughtfully. âBut strained.â
âI am begging you to sit down.â
She nodded. âIn a moment.â
She did not sit down.
Instead, she wanderedâchecking in on Priya (âYOU ARE CALM AND IT MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLEâ), hovering near Miles (âWHY ARE YOU SO UNBOTHERED, IT FEELS JUDGMENTALâ), and circling back to Y/N like a particularly affectionate comet.
Y/N laughed again, covering her mouth briefly as Gabby gestured wildly mid-story about nothing at all. âI donât know how you do this all day,â Y/N said gently.
Gabby grinned. âTalent.â
CJ watched the exchange, shaking his head with the long-suffering patience of a man who had accepted his fate.
âThis,â he said to no one in particular, âis my life now.â
Y/N met his eyes across the room, smile warm and knowing.
He might have been suffering.
But he wasnât suffering alone.
And somehowâbetween Gabbyâs chaos, Y/Nâs quiet laughter, and the strange, loud rhythm of the dayâit all felt⊠lighter than it had in weeks.
Even CJ had to admit that.
He sighed again, nobly.
And endured.
Toward the end of the workday, Miles began the quiet, practiced ritual of retrieval.
Gabby was still in motionâhovering, narrating, vibrating with opinionsâcompletely unaware that the day had reached its natural conclusion. She stood near Y/Nâs desk, mid-sentence, gesturing with a pen like she was delivering a closing argument to an invisible jury.
âAnd THEN,â Gabby said, âI realized the printer was judging me.â
Miles appeared at her side like gravity itself.
âGabby,â he said calmly.
She turned, eyes lighting up. âOh! Hi! Did you hear about the printerââ
âItâs time,â he said gently.
She blinked. âTime for what?â
âHome,â he replied.
She glanced at the clock, startled. âAlready?â
âYes.â
âBut I still haveââ
âYou donât,â he said, reaching for her bag and slipping it over his shoulder before she could protest. âYou finished your last call. You documented everything. Youâve been orbiting the building for forty minutes.â
Gabby opened her mouth to argue.
Then stopped.
Something in his voiceâsteady, certain, affectionateâcut through the chaos. She exhaled, dramatic but compliant. âFine. But I was being useful.â
âI know,â he said, brushing his thumb lightly over her wrist. âYou always are.â
That softened her instantly.
Y/N smiled softly from her desk, watching the exchange with fond amusement. CJ glanced up too, relief flickering across his face as Miles gently steered Gabby toward the door.
âThank you,â CJ said sincerely.
Miles nodded. âIâve got her.â
Gabby turned mid-step and pointed at CJ. âREST. HYDRATE. EMOTIONALLY PROCESS.â
âYes, maâam,â CJ said solemnly.
She beamed, satisfied, and let Miles guide her the rest of the way out. As they passed the door, she leaned into him, voice dropping just enough to be private.
âYouâre very good at this,â she said.
âAt what?â
âMe.â
He squeezed her hand. âI know.â
The door closed behind them, the office settling into a rare, blessed quiet.
CJ exhaled deeply. Y/N laughed under her breath.
Another day done.
Chaos gathered.
Love intact.
Miles walked her homeâlong-suffering, devoted, and exactly where he wanted to be.
Dinner negotiations began the moment they stepped into the apartment.
Gabby kicked off her shoes and immediately announced, âI want fries.â
Miles set their bags down, already moving toward the kitchen. âYou want nutrition.â
âI want happiness,â she countered, flopping dramatically onto a stool. âWhich comes in fried, salty form.â
He opened the fridge, surveyed the contents like a man preparing for battle. âYouâve had fries twice this week.â
âYes, and look at me,â she said, gesturing expansively at herself. âThriving.â
âYouâre growing a human.â
âAnd that human wants fries,â she insisted, hand going to her stomach like she was taking dictation. âThe human is very persuasive.â
Miles pulled out vegetables, a cutting board, chicken. âThe human is getting protein.â
Gabby gasped. âYouâre silencing my voice.â
âIâm feeding you,â he said evenly. âThereâs a difference.â
She slid off the stool and padded over, peering into the pan suspiciously. âWhat about compromise?â
He glanced at her. âDefine compromise.â
âYou make the responsible thing,â she said sweetly, âand I also get fries.â
He paused. Considered. Then nodded once. âOven fries. With dinner.â
She grinned like sheâd just won a court case. âI love democracy.â
He shook his head, lips twitching despite himself, and set the oven to preheat. Gabby leaned against the counter, watching him workâchopping, seasoning, moving with quiet efficiency. The chaos slowed as the smells filled the apartment, warm and grounding.
She reached out and tugged lightly at his shirt. âThank you.â
He glanced down. âFor what?â
âFor taking care of me,â she said simply. âEven when Iâm⊠like this.â
He softened immediately, setting the knife aside and pulling her into him, one hand warm at her back. âEspecially when youâre like this.â
She melted into his chest, sighing contentedly. âGood. Because Iâm not changing.â
âI know,â he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. âEat your vegetables.â
âRude,â she murmuredâbut she stayed right there, held, fed, and loved.
Miles sat across from Gabby and watched her eat.
Not just lookâwatched.
The way she cut her food into uneven pieces, then ignored half of them in favor of the oven fries sheâd insisted on. The way she talked between bites, waving her fork for emphasis, narrating something that had happened at work as if it were a life-or-death story. The way her free hand rested protectively over her stomach without her even realizing it.
Somehow⊠this was his life now.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, letting the moment stretch.
It still startled him sometimesâhow heâd gotten here. Not through some grand plan or deliberate choice, but because someone else had noticed. Because Y/N had caught on to something he hadnât even admitted to himself yet. Had nudged himâgently, kindlyâinto actually talking to Gabby during that staff event, instead of hovering at the edges like he always did.
One conversation. Then another. And somewhere along the way, he fell in love. With her chaos. With her honesty. With the way she felt everything at full volume and never apologized for it.
Now he was sitting at his own table, watching the woman he loved eat dinner, watching her carry their child, realizing that his life had tilted permanentlyâand somehow landed exactly where it was meant to.
Gabby caught him staring.
âWhat?â she asked, mouth full, immediately suspicious.
He shook his head, a small, stunned smile tugging at his mouth. âNothing.â
She narrowed her eyes. âThat was a look. Explain the look.â
Miles reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing gently. âI was just thinking⊠how I got here.â
Her expression softened, just a little. âAnd?â
âAnd I wouldnât change a single thing.â
She smiled thenâwide, warm, unguardedâand squeezed his hand back. âGood,â she said. âBecause youâre stuck with me.â
He huffed a quiet laugh. âI know.â
And for the first time in his life, the future didnât feel like something to brace against.
It felt like something to build.
With her.
Miles didnât rush her.
They were already in bed, the room dim and quiet, the city outside reduced to a low, distant hum. Gabby lay on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head, hair spilling across the pillow. Miles shifted closer, careful, mindful of the way her body had changedâof the new life she carried between them.
He brushed a kiss to her temple.
Then her cheek.
Then the corner of her mouth.
âHey,â he murmured.
She smiled, sleepy and warm. âHey.â
He gathered her a little closer, his hand resting over her belly in a way that felt both tentative and reverent. âI was thinking about the next appointment,â he said quietly. âThe ultrasound.â
Her eyes brightened instantly. âYeah?â
âIâd really like to go with you,â he continued. âWhen we find out⊠if youâre okay with that.â
For a heartbeat, Gabby just stared at him.
Then she launched.
She threw herself at him with a soft laugh and a breathless, âAre you kidding? Of course Iâm okay with that,â arms wrapping around his neck, face pressed into his shoulder. He laughed too, startled, steadying her, careful not to jostle her too much.
They kissedâtender at first, then deeper, warmer, full of the kind of affection that came from choosing each other every day. The moment softened into closeness, into shared breath and gentle laughter as they found a way to fit together, awkward and sweet and entirely theirs.
Eventually, they settled back into the pillows, limbs tangled, Gabbyâs head tucked against his chest. Miles pressed a kiss into her hair, his hand still resting where their future was quietly growing.
âThank you,â she whispered.
He closed his eyes, holding her close. âAlways.â
And in the hush of the roomâwrapped in warmth, in love, in the quiet promise of what was coming nextâthey drifted together into sleep.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @star-yawnznn, @hobby27, @hellsbratonthet
Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories Iâm writing!
(Or that time Dean tried to celebrate Valentine's Day)
Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean decides to enjoy Valentine's Day--and it just goes bad for our Casanova. For once, hilarity does not ensue. This is a one-shot. (And does take place after Supernatural - Happy Birthday Dean.)
Author's Note: I couldn't resist. After writing Supernatural Thanksgiving, Supernatural Christmas, and Supernatural New Year, Dean's birthday, and enjoying it, I had to do a short story to celebrate Valentine's Day! I'm going to keep doing little one-shots with various events and holidays to shove Dean and Sam in (usually) comedic moments, I think, for the time being--so if you're interested to read future one-shots, let me know and I'll add you to those tag lists!
If you enjoyed it, please consider donating to my ko-fi! (Not required, I promise!)
Divider: by @talesmaniac89
The bunker was quiet in the way only underground places could beâinsulated from weather, from sunlight, from anything that marked time in a natural way. Morning didnât arrive with birds or pale gold light. It arrived with the soft mechanical hum of old systems coming online and the distant clank of pipes adjusting to temperature shifts.
Sam was awake before Dean.
He usually was.
He lay on his back for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the familiar ceiling above his bed. Concrete. Hairline cracks heâd memorized years ago. A place that was safeâor as safe as anything in their lives got.
His brain was already halfway through a case file when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful. Too energetic for 8 a.m.
Sam closed his eyes briefly.
No.
The door to his room swung open without ceremony.
âSammy.â
Sam didnât move. âItâs eight.â
âAnd?â
âAnd that is too early for whatever tone youâre using.â
Dean stepped fully into the room, already dressed, already in boots, jacket slung over one shoulder like he was about to make a dramatic exit.
There was something in his expressionânot manic, not agitated.
Bright.
âRise and shine,â Dean declared. âItâs February 14th.â
Sam cracked one eye open. âIâm aware.â
Dean grinned. âGood. Because today?â He pointed at himself. âIs my day.â
Sam stared at him. ââŠYour birthday is in January.â
Dean scoffed. âNot that day.â
Sam pushed himself upright slowly. âWhat are you talking about?â
Deanâs grin widened like heâd been waiting his entire life for this reveal. âValentineâs Day, Sammy.â
Silence.
Sam blinked. âYou hate Valentineâs Day.â
âNo, I hate corporate nonsense,â Dean corrected immediately. âTotally different.â
Sam rubbed his face. âYou once referred to it as âHallmarkâs annual emotional hostage situation.ââ
Dean waved that off. âYeah, well. Growth.â
Sam squinted at him. âWhat kind of growth?â
Dean spread his hands wide like he was presenting a thesis. âThink about it. The entire world is out tonight. Emotions high. Expectations low. People are feeling festive, maybe a little bold.â
Sam stared.
Dean leaned in slightly. âItâs my Super Bowl.â
Sam let out a slow breath. âYou cannot be serious.â
Dean shrugged. âWhy not?â
âBecause,â Sam said carefully, âyou donât even like this holiday.â
Deanâs jaw tightened just slightlyâso briefly most people wouldnât have noticed.
But Sam did.
Dean recovered fast. âI donât like the pressure. Big difference. Tonight? No pressure. Just fun.â
Sam studied him. This wasnât just bravado. This was deliberate. âYouâve been thinking about this,â Sam said.
Dean shrugged again, but it wasnât casual this time. âMaybe.â
Sam swung his legs off the bed and stood. âSo whatâs the plan?â he asked.
Deanâs smile turned sharp and confident. âWe hit a bar. Somewhere with bad decorations and cheap drinks. We observe the field.â
âObserve the field.â
âScout the terrain.â
âYouâre not a lion.â
âAgree to disagree.â
Sam couldnât help itâhe smiled despite himself. But there was something else under it. Something tugging faintly at his instincts.
Dean didnât do random enthusiasm.
Dean did distraction.
âYou sure about this?â Sam asked, more gently.
Dean tilted his head. âWhat, you donât think I still got it?â
Sam hesitated.
Dean caught it. âOh come on,â Dean said. âYouâve seen me.â
âThatâs not what I meant.â
Deanâs eyes narrowed playfully. âSounded like what you meant.â
Sam crossed his arms. âI just donât want to sit in some over-decorated bar while you crash and burn.â
Dean laughed. âI donât crash.â
âYou crashed on New Yearâs.â
âThat was shelving.â
âYou crashed at Christmas.â
âThat was mice.â
âYou crashed at Thanksgiving.â
âThat was cooking.â
Sam held up a finger. âPattern.â
Dean rolled his eyes. âDifferent category.â
Sam sighed. He didnât actually mind going. Truthfully, part of him was curious.
Not about Dean flirtingâthat wasnât new. But about why this mattered enough for Dean to wake him up like this.
âI'm driving,â Sam said finally.
Deanâs expression immediately shifted. âWhoa. Hold up.â
Sam raised an eyebrow. âWhat.â
âYou think Iâm letting you drive tonight?â
Sam stared at him. âWhy wouldnât you?â
Dean looked genuinely offended. âBecause itâs Valentineâs Day.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I am not showing up somewhere with you behind the wheel like Iâm being chaperoned.â
Sam blinked. âYou are being chaperoned.â
Dean pointed at him. âNot officially.â
Sam shook his head. âDean, if youâre planning on drinkingââ
âIâm not getting wrecked.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
Dean stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. âSammy. I do not let you drive unless Iâm three sheets to the wind.â
âThatâs not a rule.â
âItâs absolutely a rule.â
Sam couldnât help a small laugh. âThatâs insane.â
âItâs tradition.â
âYou made that up.â
Dean grinned. âStill counts.â
Sam studied him for another long moment.
Dean wasnât joking.
Not entirely.
There was something almost stubborn about itâabout driving, about control, about presenting the right image.
âYouâre really doing this,â Sam said quietly.
Dean shrugged. âYeah.â
A beat passed.
Then he added, softer, almost offhand: âWhat? You think I donât deserve a night?â
That landed differently.
Samâs posture shifted.
It wasnât about ego. It wasnât about conquest. It was about proving something. Maybe to the world. Maybe to himself.
Sam grabbed his jacket from the chair. âFine,â he said.
Deanâs eyes lit up immediately. âAtta boy.â
âBut,â Sam added, âI reserve the right to mock you mercilessly.â
Dean smirked. âYou always do.â
They walked down the hall together, boots echoing faintly against concrete.
Sam felt it thenânot dread.
Just⊠anticipation.
Dean was too confident. Too deliberate. And in their world, confidence like that tended to attract attention.
Not always the kind you wanted.
As they reached the garage, Dean tossed Sam the keys.
Sam caught them automatically. ââŠYou just said I wasnât driving.â
Dean smirked. âWarm the car up.â
Sam sighed.
Dean climbed into the driverâs seat a second later.
The Impala roared to life, steady and familiar.
Dean rested his hands on the wheel like he was settling into something sacred. âValentineâs Day,â he muttered, almost to himself. âLetâs see what you got.â
Sam glanced at him sideways. Just a secondâDean didnât look cocky. He looked hopeful. Sam didnât comment. He just settled into the passenger seat. And they pulled out of the bunker.
The Impala rolled out onto the highway with the low, steady purr of an engine that had seen everything and judged none of it.
The night air was cold but clear. February sharpness. The kind that turned breath into smoke and made everything feel just a little more exposed.
Dean drove.
Of course he drove.
One hand loose on the wheel. The other resting casually near the gearshift. Classic rock low on the radioânot blasting, not performative. Just there.
Sam watched him without making it obvious.
âYouâre awfully quiet,â Dean said after a few miles.
âIâm observing the field,â Sam replied.
Dean snorted. âYou donât observe. You overthink.â
âThatâs literally observing.â
Dean glanced at him, amused. âYouâre trying to figure out why I care.â
Sam didnât deny it.
âAren't you?â Dean asked.
Sam shrugged. âYou donât usually announce holidays like a conquering hero.â
Deanâs mouth twitched. âIâm not conquering anything.â
âUh-huh.â
Dean exhaled slowly through his nose. It wasnât defensive. It wasnât irritated. It was thoughtful.
âLook,â he said finally. âYou ever notice how this day messes people up?â
Sam tilted his head. âYeah. How?â
âExpectations,â Dean said. âEveryone walks around thinking tonightâs supposed to be something big. Magical. Life-changing.â
Sam considered that. âThatâs⊠a little cynical.â
Dean shrugged. âMaybe. But itâs predictable.â
âAnd you like predictable?â
âNo,â Dean said immediately. âI like odds.â
Sam waited.
Dean continued, eyes on the road. âThink about it. People are out. Theyâre open. Theyâre not hiding in their houses. Theyâre dressed up. Theyâre feeling something.â
âAnd thatâs your angle?â Sam asked.
Dean smirked faintly. âItâs not an angle.â
âSounds like an angle.â
Dean shook his head.
âItâs justâŠâ He paused. âEveryoneâs looking for something tonight.â
That sat there.
Sam watched the passing road signs blur by. âAnd you're looking for... what?â Sam asked quietly.
Deanâs jaw shifted. âFor fun,â he said lightly. âDonât make it heavy.â
Sam didnât push. But he filed it away. Because Dean wasnât wrong.
Valentineâs Day did make people reach. Even people who swore they didnât care.
The Impala took a turn into town.
Lights glowed warmer here. Storefronts decorated. Red paper hearts taped to windows. Strings of white lights looped around streetlamps.
Deanâs posture shifted just slightly as they drove through it. Not tense. Not nervous.
Alert.
Like he was stepping onto a field he knew how to navigate.
âYouâre not getting hammered,â Sam said.
Dean scoffed. âI know how to pace.â
âYou say that every time.â
âAnd Iâm usually right.â
Sam raised an eyebrow.
Dean shot him a look. âUnless thereâs tequila.â
âThereâs always tequila.â
Dean grinned. âThen pray for me.â
They passed three bars before Dean slowed.
The fourth one had heart-shaped neon in the window and a sign advertising half-price drinks for couples.
Dean nodded once. âPerfect.â
Sam stared at the sign. âYouâre not a couple.â
Dean glanced at him. âYou wound me.â
Sam sighed as Dean pulled into a parking space.
The engine cut. The silence settled in.
Dean sat there for a second longer than necessary.
Sam noticed. âYou good?â Sam asked.
Dean looked at him, then away. âYeah,â he said. âWhy wouldnât I be?â
Sam considered calling it. He considered suggesting they just grab food instead. A burger joint. Something neutral. But he didnât. Because Deanâs eyes were steady now.
Because Dean looked⊠determined.
And because sometimes you had to let your brother try.
âAlright,â Sam said.
Dean pushed open the door. âTry not to scare anyone.â
âYouâre the one prowling.â
Dean shot him a grin over the roof of the car. âSammy,â he said confidently, âtonightâs my night.â
They stepped inside.
The bar smelled like sugar and citrus and cheap perfume.
Music played just a little too loudâsomething upbeat and vaguely romantic that had probably been selected by someone who thought irony counted as atmosphere. Red paper hearts dangled from the ceiling. Fairy lights lined the shelves behind the bar, casting everything in a warm, forgiving glow.
It was crowded, but not packed. Enough movement to feel alive. Enough noise to disappear into.
Dean paused just inside the doorway, scanning.
Sam watched him do it.
It wasnât predatory. It wasnât crude. It was assessment. He read rooms the way other people read weather patterns â where the tension was, who was relaxed, who was trying too hard.
Deanâs shoulders settled. âSee?â he murmured. âPrime.â
Sam slid into a booth near the wall. âIâll be here. Documenting your downfall.â
Dean shot him a look. âHater.â But he was smiling.
He approached the bar.
And this timeâthis timeâit was normal.
â
Attempt One
Dean leaned beside a woman waiting for her drink. She had dark hair pulled back loosely, gold hoops in her ears, a red sweater that matched the decor almost too well.
âBusy tonight,â Dean said, casual.
She smiled. âYou think?â
He tilted his head toward the banner strung behind the bar. âGuess theyâre leaning into it.â
She laughed softly. âItâs kind of ridiculous.â
âKind of?â Dean said. âI feel like Iâm about to be serenaded by a violinist hiding under a table.â
She grinned.
Sam felt himself relax. Okay. See? This was fine.
The woman introduced herself. They talked. Nothing dramatic. Nothing sharp. Just easy back-and-forth.
Dean wasnât trying too hard. That was what Sam noticed most. He wasnât performing. He wasnât laying it on thick. He was just⊠talking.
After a minute, her friends called her back over. She hesitated slightly, then gave Dean a polite, genuine smile. âNice talking to you.â
âLikewise.â
She left.
Dean returned to the booth with a small shrug. âSee?â he said.
Sam raised his hands. âFunctional.â
Dean smirked. âPlease. Iâm just warming up.â
Sam rolled his eyes but felt the knot in his chest loosen a fraction.
This was fine.
â
Attempt Two
The second one started fine, too.
A blonde near the jukebox. Confident stance. Sharp laugh.
Dean approached with that same steady ease.
Sam didnât hear everything this timeâthe music was louder hereâbut he watched body language.
Dean leaned in. The woman leaned back slightly. Not rejection. Just recalibration.
Dean said something. She smiledâbut it didnât quite reach her eyes. Her posture stiffened.
Samâs brow furrowed.
Dean adjusted immediately. Stepped back half an inch. Softened. The woman crossed her arms. That was new.
Dean said something elseâa little lighter. The womanâs expression shifted from guarded to wary. And then, almost abruptly, she shook her head.
âSorry,â she said, too sharp for the tone of the room.
Dean blinked. He hadnât touched her. Hadnât leaned too close. Hadnât said anything outrageous. He stepped back, hands up slightly. âHey, no worries.â
She walked away quickly.
Dean stood there for a second. Just a second. Long enough for Sam to notice. Then he shrugged it off and came back.
âOkay,â Dean muttered as he slid into the booth. âThat one was weird.â
Sam tilted his head. âYou werenât pushing.â
âI wasnât anything,â Dean said. âI complimented her jacket.â
Sam studied him. It could still be coincidence. People were unpredictable. Valentineâs Day amplified things. Emotions high. Expectations everywhere.
âMaybe sheâs just on edge,â Sam offered.
Dean nodded once. âYeah.â
But he didnât sound convinced.
â
Attempt Three
The third interaction was the first time Sam felt it. He didnât know what it was at first.
Just⊠something.
Dean approached someone sitting alone at the end of the bar. Brown curls. Soft smile. Nursing a drink. He didnât open with a line. He didnât joke. He just said, âHey.â
She smiled back.
And for a momentâit looked easy again.
Dean relaxed visibly.
Sam leaned back, folding his arms. Okay. There it is.
But then... the womanâs smile faltered. It didnât vanish. It⊠cracked. Like something had slipped into the space between them. Her eyes narrowed just slightly.
âYouâre not serious,â she said quietly.
Dean frowned. âAbout?â
âWhatever this is.â
Her tone wasnât angry. It was wounded.
Dean straightened a little. âItâs just a conversation.â
She shook her head, almost to herself. âYou donât even know me.â
âI was trying to,â Dean said.
Her jaw tightened. âYouâre just going to leave.â
The words werenât accusing. They were certain.
Dean blinked. âIâwhat?â
But she was already pulling away. Turning back to her drink. The conversation died mid-breath.
Dean stood there longer this time. Not embarrassed. Not annoyed. Confused.
He walked back slower.
Samâs amusement had completely drained. âWhat did you say?â Sam asked quietly.
âNothing,â Dean replied. âI said hi.â
Sam replayed it in his head. The first one had been fine. The secondâsharp. The thirdâemotional. Immediate. Disproportionate. And not in a way that tracked.
Dean leaned back in the booth and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. âOkay,â he muttered. âNow thatâs weird.â
Sam didnât answer right away. Because he felt it again. The air in the bar. It wasnât colder. It wasnât darker. But something had tightened.
At the far table, a couple was arguing now. Low voices, tense. Near the entrance, someone brushed past someone else too hard. The energy in the room had shifted.
Dean looked up. âYou feel that?â
Sam nodded slowly. âYeah.â
Deanâs jaw flexed. âThis isnât just bad luck.â
And for the first time that night, Sam wasnât watching Dean.
He was watching the room.
The shift in the bar wasnât loud.
That was what made it worse.
There was no dramatic drop in temperature. No flicker of lights. No obvious sign that something supernatural had slipped its way into the evening.
It was subtle. Like static under music.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring into the middle distance. âOkay,â he said slowly. âThreeâs a coincidence.â
Sam didnât respond.
Dean glanced at him. âDonât look at me like that.â
âLike what.â
âLike Iâm already dead.â
Sam exhaled lightly. âIâm just observing.â
Dean scoffed. âOverthinking.â
But he wasnât smiling now. He looked toward the bar againânot hunting this time. Assessing.
Sam watched his brother carefully.
Dean didnât handle rejection poorly. He never had. It slid off him most of the timeâego intact, confidence undented. But this wasnât rejection.
This was something else.
It wasnât âno.â It was emotional recoil. Every time.
âYou want to bail?â Sam asked quietly.
Dean shook his head almost immediately. âNo.â
The answer was firm. Too firm.
âWhy not,â Sam pressed gently.
Dean looked at him thenâreally looked at himâand something flickered there. Stubbornness. And something underneath it.
âBecause I didnât do anything wrong,â Dean said.
It wasnât defensive. It was factual.
Sam nodded slowly. âI know.â
Dean leaned back, jaw tight. âThen Iâm not walking out like I did.â
Sam caught that.
Like I did.
Not like I failed.
Not like I embarrassed myself.
Like I did.
Like there was something he was supposed to do differently. Sam didnât push it. Instead, he let the silence settle between them.
The music shifted to something slower. A love song heavy on strings.
A couple near the bar started arguing more visibly now. Not shoutingâbut sharp gestures. Accusations in tight whispers. At another table, a woman laughed too loudly at something that wasnât funny. The atmosphere was tightening.
Dean stood.
Sam tensed slightly. âDean.â
âIâm not quitting,â Dean said quietly.
It wasnât bravado. It wasnât cockiness. It was resolve.
He moved toward the far end of the barânot toward the loudest group, not toward someone already smiling. He chose someone standing alone near the window.
Dark hair. Soft posture. Not guarded.
Dean approached slower this time.
Sam leaned forward in the booth, watching closely.
Dean didnât lead with a joke. Didnât comment on the decorations.
He just said, gently, âHey.â
The woman looked up. Her expression was neutralâthen warm. âHi.â
For a moment, everything stilled. The music faded in Samâs awareness. The noise of the bar dimmed.
Dean smiledâsmall. Honest. âIâm Dean.â
The womanâs lips parted like she was about to respond. And then, her expression changed. Not slowly. Not gradually. Like something had slammed into her thoughts.
Her warmth drained. Her eyes darkened with sudden suspicion. âYou donât mean that,â she said quietly.
Dean blinked. âMean what?â
âWhatever this is.â Her hand tightened around her glass. âYouâre just going to leave.â
There it was again. That same certainty.
Deanâs shoulders stiffened. âI donât even know you yet,â he said.
âExactly.â
The word landed hard.
She stepped back. The air between them felt brittle.
Dean stood there for half a second too longâlike he was trying to see what she was seeing. Then he stepped back. Slowly.
He didnât argue. Didnât joke. Didnât deflect. He just walked away.
Samâs chest tightened.
Dean slid back into the booth and stared at the table. âOkay,â he said under his breath. âWhat the hell.â
Sam didnât laugh.
The room was louder nowânot in volume, but in tension. Two people near the jukebox were arguing openly. A man shoved past someone too hard. A drink spilled. The bartender snapped at someone unnecessarily.
Emotions were spiking in the wrong directions.
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. âYou see that, right?â he asked.
Sam nodded slowly. âYeah.â
Dean looked upâand for the first time that night, the confidence wasnât there. Not gone. But cracked.
âIâm not saying anything different,â Dean said quietly. âIâm not pushing. Iâm not being a jerk.â
âI know,â Sam said.
Dean swallowed. âSo, what is it?â
That wasnât a rhetorical question. That was the moment Sam stopped pretending this was coincidence. Because it wasnât just happening to Dean. It was happening around him.
Amplifying.
Like something was leaning into every moment he opened himselfâeven a littleâand twisting it toward doubt.
Samâs eyes drifted upward. Not consciously at first. Just scanning. Ceiling beams. Lighting fixtures. Dark corners. The fairy lights near the rafters flickered once.
Only once.
But Sam saw it. And in that flickerâhe thought he saw movement. Something angular. Something perched. Watching. His stomach dropped.
Dean was still talking. ââŠIâm not losing my edge, right?â
There it was. Not ego. Not pride. Something else.
Sam looked at his brother. At the way Deanâs jaw was set just slightly too tight. At the way he was trying not to look affected. At the way he had meant it when he said he wasnât walking out like that. And Sam felt it.
The pattern. The target.
âStay here,â Sam said quietly.
Dean frowned. âWhy.â
âJust⊠stay.â
Deanâs eyes narrowed. âSam.â
Sam stood. âI think this isnât about you,â he said.
Dean scoffed lightly. âFeels like it is.â
Sam looked at himâsteady, certain. âNo,â he said. And then he turned his eyes back to the ceiling.
This time, when the fairy lights flickeredâhe saw it clearly.
Something long-limbed and gaunt, perched along the beam like a bird that had forgotten how to be beautiful. Its head tilted. Not cherubic. Not winged. Sharp. Watching Dean.
And when Dean shifted in the boothâthe thing leaned forward.
Interested.
Sam didnât bolt.
He didnât shove his way through the crowd or draw attention. He stood carefully, casually, like he was heading for the restroom. âStay here,â he repeated.
Deanâs eyes narrowed immediately. âThatâs not how this works.â
âI need to check something.â
Dean leaned forward slightly. âYou saw something.â
It wasnât a question.
Sam hesitated just long enough to confirm it.
Dean followed his gaze upward.
The rafters were dark, but not empty. The fairy lights flickered again. For half a second, the outline sharpened.
Long limbs folded unnaturally. Fingers hooked around a beam. A narrow skull crowned with something like fractured antlers â not bone, not wood, but something jagged and wrong.
It wasnât glowing. It wasnât dramatic. It was subtle. Which made it worse.
Deanâs voice dropped. âThatâs not Cupid.â
âNo,â Sam murmured.
The thing tilted its head.
And when Dean shifted in his seatâwhen his shoulders squared again like he was about to stand and try one more timeâthe creature leaned forward slightly.
Interested.
Dean noticed that too. âWell,â he muttered, âthat explains the vibe.â
Sam didnât answer. He watched the room instead.
A couple near the bar was now arguing openly. Not shoutingâbut the kind of tight, wounded words that landed deeper than volume. A woman at a high-top table was staring at her phone with tears in her eyes. A man at the counter clenched his jaw so tight the muscle ticked visibly.
It wasnât just Dean anymore. The thing wasnât creating heartbreak. It was accelerating it. Every insecurity. Every doubt. Every unresolved bruise under the surface.
Valentineâs Day was doing half the work for it.
Dean stood slowly. âOkay,â he said under his breath. âWe take it outside.â
Sam nodded once.
Dean didnât make a scene. Didnât reach for a weapon yet. He just walked toward the exit like a man stepping out for air. The creatureâs head tracked him. Sam followed.
The moment Dean pushed open the door, cold air sliced through the warmth of the bar. The music muffled behind them. And the thing moved.
It didnât flap. It didnât swoop. It simply dropped from the beam. Soundless. Landing in the alley across the street, where shadows pooled between dumpsters and brick.
Deanâs posture shifted immediatelyâhunter, not flirt. âAnti-Cupid,â he muttered.
Sam exhaled slowly. âLooks like it.â
Dean glanced at him. âYouâve seen one before?â
âNo.â
Dean tilted his head slightly. âMe neither.â
They crossed the street together. The alley was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against the ears. The creature stood half in shadow, half in streetlight glow.
Up close, it was worse. Its body was thin, almost skeletal, but not weak. Long arms. Too many joints. Fingers that tapered into fine points rather than claws. Its face wasnât monstrous. It was almost human.
Too human.
Eyes hollowed by something like disappointment. And where Cupid might carry a bowâthis thing carried nothing. It didnât need to.
It stepped forward. The air shifted. Sam felt it immediatelyâa pressure behind his eyes. Thoughts that werenât his.
You always leave.
You donât mean it.
Youâre not staying.
He clenched his jaw.
Dean staggered half a step, just barely.
And that was what made Samâs stomach drop.
It wasnât projecting rage. It was projecting doubt. Amplifying the quiet voice everyone carried under their ribs.
Dean recovered quickly. âHey,â he called out to it. âYou wanna explain yourself?â
The creature tilted its head again. It didnât speak. It didnât need to. Its gaze fixed on Dean.
And Sam understood.
It wasnât feeding on love. It wasnât feeding on heartbreak. It was feeding on the moment before vulnerabilityâthe risk. The attempt.
Every time Dean opened himself even slightly tonightâeven casuallyâthe creature leaned in.
It twisted the response. It made the other person feel the worst-case outcome before anything could form. It turned potential into collapse.
Deanâs mouth pressed into a thin line. âSo thatâs what this is,â he said quietly.
Sam looked at him.
Dean didnât look embarrassed anymore. He looked angry. Not at the women. Not at himself. At the thing.
âYou donât get to do that,â Dean said.
The creature stepped closer. The pressure intensified.
Sam felt a flicker of old memories brush his thoughtsâpeople leaving, doors closing, choices that werenât his to make. He pushed it down.
Dean fired first.
Silver round. The creature recoiled, not dramaticallyâjust enough to confirm it was tangible. It hissed. The sound wasnât animal. It was almost⊠disappointed.
Dean advanced. âYeah,â he muttered. âThatâs right.â
The creature lunged. Not at Sam. At Dean. Because Dean was the one trying. Because Dean was the one reaching.
They collided hard against brick.
Sam moved fast, grabbing iron from his jacket pocket and slamming it into the creatureâs side.
It shriekedânot in pain. In frustration. Like the interruption offended it.
Dean shoved it back, jaw clenched. âGet out of my night,â he snapped.
The creatureâs gaze burned into him. And for one secondâjust oneâDean hesitated. Something in his expression flickered.
Sam saw it.
Not fear. Recognition. The creature fed on the idea that he would leave. That he wouldnât stay. That vulnerability wasnât safe.
Dean roared and drove the blade home.
The creature dissolved into shadow and grit, scattering into the alley like smoke ripped apart by wind.
Silence fell.
Dean stood there, breathing hard. He wiped a smear of dark residue from his cheek. ââŠSo,â he said. âNot my fault.â
Sam stepped closer. âNo,â he said quietly.
Dean let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. âGood,â he said.
They stood in the cold a moment longer. Inside the bar, the arguing had already softened. The pressure in the air had eased.
Dean rolled his shoulders once, resetting.
âYou wanna head back in?â Sam asked.
Dean looked at the door. Then at the empty alley. Then down at his hands. After a long second, he shook his head. âNah.â
It wasnât defeat. It wasnât embarrassment. It was tired. âLetâs just go home,â he said.
Sam nodded.
They walked back to the Impala in silence. Dean slid into the driverâs seat without comment. The engine started. The town lights fell away behind them.
For a few miles, neither spoke. Then Dean said lightly, staring at the road: âGuess I picked the wrong bar.â
Sam didnât smile. He kept his eyes forward. âNo,â he said softly. âYou didnât.â
Dean didnât ask what he meant. He just turned the radio up slightly.
And stared out into the dark.
The bunker greeted them with its usual hum.
Not warm.
Not cold.
Just steady.
Dean shut the door behind them and took off his jacket like nothing extraordinary had happened. Like they hadnât just killed a mythological inversion of romance in an alley behind a bar.
Like the night had been normal.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. âBeer?â he asked.
Sam leaned against the table instead of answering. âSure.â
Dean tossed him one without looking. The metal hit Samâs palm cold and solid. The kind of grounding you didnât get in bars decorated with paper hearts.
Dean popped his open and took a long drink. âStupid holiday,â he muttered.
Sam didnât respond.
Dean leaned back against the counter, casual, one ankle hooked over the other. âYou see that thingâs face?â he said. âLike it was disappointed.â
Sam nodded faintly. âIt wasnât disappointed,â Sam said.
Dean raised an eyebrow. âNo?â
âIt was hungry.â
Dean snorted. âYeah. Well. Wrong guy.â
Sam watched him carefully.
Deanâs posture was loose. His tone was light. But there was a faint tension in his shoulders that hadnât been there that morning.
âYou didnât look surprised,â Sam said.
Dean frowned slightly. âAbout what.â
âWhat it was feeding on.â
Dean took another drink instead of answering immediately. Then shrugged. âEverybodyâs got baggage,â he said.
âThatâs not what I meant.â
Deanâs jaw shifted. He looked at Sam for a secondâreally looked at himâand then looked away. âIt was messing with peopleâs heads,â he said. âThatâs all.â
Sam stepped closer to the table. âIt was messing with doubt,â he said quietly. âWith the fear that someoneâs just going to walk away.â
Dean stilled for half a beat. Barely noticeable. Then he scoffed. âMan, youâre making this way heavier than it was.â
âAm I?â
Dean pushed off the counter and walked past him toward the hallway. âIt was a monster,â he said. âWe killed it. The end.â
Sam didnât follow right away. He stood there, listening to the bunker hum around him. Because it hadnât just been a monster. It had targeted Dean. Specifically.
It hadnât gone after the loud couples. It hadnât attached to random tension. It had leaned forward every time Dean tried. Every time he opened himself even a fraction.
Dean reappeared in the doorway, beer in hand. âYou coming or you planning to psychoanalyze me all night?â
Sam gave him a small smile. âIâm not psychoanalyzing you.â
âGood.â Dean took another sip. Then, almost offhand: âI wasnât losing my touch.â
It wasnât a joke.
Sam met his eyes. âNo,â he said.
Dean held the gaze for a second longer than usual. Then he nodded once. âGood.â
He turned toward his room. Halfway down the hall, he stopped.
Without turning around, he said: âNext year, Iâm picking a different bar.â
Sam watched his back. There was humor in it. There was defiance. But there was something else too.
Hope.
Dean disappeared into his room.
The bunker settled.
Sam stayed in the kitchen a moment longer. He thought about the creatureâs eyes. About the way it leaned in when Dean smiled. About the certainty in those womenâs voices.
Youâre just going to leave.
Sam closed his eyes briefly. Because Dean had never been the one to leave. Dean stayed.
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlenâs lifeâchange he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, familyâa second chance at forever.
Word Count: 3,461
Tags/Warnings: Teeth-aching fluff, child's POV, hint of 18+ implied smut/smut
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Three: Loving This Life
The house was quiet in the way that only came late at nightâevery light dimmed, every door closed, the world narrowed down to the soft warmth of their bedroom.
Beau lay on his side, Y/N tucked against him, their bodies still close, still lingering in that easy, unguarded space that followed intimacy. His arm was draped over her waist, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against her skin.
He breathed her in, steadying himself.
âI had lunch with Emily today,â he murmured.
Y/N shifted slightly, fitting closer, head resting against his chest. âYeah?â
âYeah,â he said. âShe came by work. Took me to the diner.â
That earned a soft smile from her. âThat sounds like her.â
âShe wanted to talk,â Beau went on, voice low, thoughtful. âAbout love. First love. What itâs supposed to feel like. What sheâs supposed to do.â
Y/N listened, fingers idly tracing the line of his ribs.
âI told her what it was like with Carla,â he said. âAnd what it was like with you.â
Her hand paused for just a moment.
âAnd?â she asked gently.
âI told her both were real,â he said. âBoth mattered. But they were different. With Carla, it was young and wild and breathless. With youâŠâ He exhaled, slow. âWith you, it was choice. It was seeinâ the whole life in front of me and wantinâ it anyway.â
Y/N lifted her head to look at him, eyes soft in the low light.
âShe asked when I knew,â he continued. âI told her about the picnic. About Eliza fallinâ asleep on me. About lookinâ at you and realizinâ I wasnât just fallinâ for youâI was fallinâ for the life around you.â
Y/Nâs breath caught, quiet and emotional.
Beau brushed his thumb along her cheek. âI wanted you to know I told her that. Because itâs still true. Every day.â
She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, voice barely above a whisper. âIâm really glad she has you to talk to about things like that.â
He huffed softly. âIâm really glad I get to be the one.â
They lay there, wrapped in each other, the world small and safe between them.
Outside, the night held steady.
Inside, love did tooâquiet, chosen, and deep enough to be shared across generations.
Eliza's Day
Eliza woke up because the wolves told her to.
They didnât say anything exactlyâbut she knew. You could feel it in your bones when it was morning. The sun was sneaking through the curtains in skinny stripes, and the house made its quiet morning noises: the hum that meant the heater was awake, the tiny sigh from the baby monitor, the faraway clink of something in the kitchen.
Morning.
Eliza sat up fast, hair sticking out everywhere, blanket twisted around her legs like it had tried to trap her in the night. She kicked free, serious already. Important things happened in the morning. Wolves didnât sleep in.
She slid out of bed and padded to the window, peeking out through the curtain like a lookout on a snowy mountain. Outside, everything was white and bright and perfect. Snow meant tracks. Tracks meant stories.
The ducks would be awake too.
âEliza,â she whispered to herself, nodding. âToday is a day.â
She grabbed her wolf sweater from the chairâbecause obviouslyâand pulled it on backward at first, then fixed it with an annoyed huff. Getting dressed was boring, but necessary. Leaders had to wear uniforms.
Down the hall, she could hear the baby making soft noises. Ella-noises. Not crying. Just talking to the ceiling like the ceiling was interesting. Eliza smiled. Ella was probably telling secrets.
She crept into her parentsâ room without knockingâbecause this was her house and also emergencies didnât knockâand climbed onto the bed like a cat.
âDaddy,â she whispered loudly. âMama.â
No response.
She frowned, climbed higher, and poked Beauâs arm.
âDaddy. The wolves are awake.â
One green eye cracked open.
Beau groaned softly. âThey always are.â
âThat means itâs morning,â Eliza said, patient. âAnd we have to check the ducks.â
Y/N shifted, half-awake, smiling even with her eyes closed. âGood morning, Eliza.â
âGood morning,â Eliza said seriously. âIs it breakfast time?â
Beau sighed into the pillow. âIt is technically breakfast time.â
Eliza nodded, satisfied. She slid off the bed and marched down the hall, calling over her shoulder, âIâm gonna check on Caleb and Ella so they donât get eaten.â
âElizaââ Beau started.
âI KNOW,â she called back. âJust pretend!â
She stopped by Calebâs room first. He was awake, standing in his crib like a tiny king, hair wild, holding a stuffed duck by the neck.
âCaleb,â Eliza said urgently. âYouâre safe. For now.â
âDuck!â Caleb declared, shaking it violently.
âYes,â Eliza agreed. âThat duck.â
Then she went to Ella, who kicked her legs happily the moment Eliza appeared.
âHi baby,â Eliza whispered, leaning close. âYou missed everything.â
Ella gurgled, deeply impressed.
Eliza nodded solemnly. âIâll tell you later.â
By the time Eliza marched into the kitchen, barefoot and purposeful, Y/N was already there, starting coffee. The light was brighter in here, full of promise.
âGood morning,â Y/N said.
Eliza climbed into her chair and sighed like a very tired grown-up. âI have a lot to do today.â
Y/N smiled. âI donât doubt it.â
Eliza stared out the window at the snow again, mind already racingâwolves on patrol, ducks negotiating breakfast crumbs, adventures waiting just outside the door.
Morning had arrived.
And Eliza was ready.
Breakfast happened in pieces, the way it always did.
Eliza supervised.
She sat at the table swinging her legs, wolf sweater properly on now, while Y/N moved between stove and counter. Pancakes sizzled. The smell was "safe house smell," which meant nothing bad could happen here. Caleb sat in his booster seat, chanting something that sounded like âcakeâ but might have meant power. Ella banged her spoon in her high chair, already participating in the day.
Eliza poured syrup herself. Carefully. Too much syrup was how ducks got stuck.
âEat your breakfast,â Y/N said gently.
âI am,â Eliza replied, licking syrup off her finger. âIâm also thinking.â
Y/N hid a smile.
Beau came in next, hair still a little wild, pulling on his jacket. âMorninâ, wolf-child.â
Eliza beamed. âDaddy.â
He kissed the top of her head. âYou got school today.â
Her smile flickeredâbut only a little.
âI know,â she said. âBut I can still be a wolf after school.â
âAbsolutely,â Beau agreed. âKindergarten just borrows you for a few hours.â
That helped.
Eliza ate faster after that, because kindergarten was a mission you had to be prepared for. She packed her backpack herselfâlunchbox, mittens, wolf drawing she might need in case of negotiations. She pulled on her boots with dramatic effort, huffing like it was a mountain climb.
Y/N knelt to zip her coat. âYou ready?â
Eliza thought about it very seriously.
âYes,â she said. âBut the ducks might need me later.â
âThey always do,â Y/N promised.
Outside, the snow crunched under their boots. Eliza held Beauâs hand tightly, swinging it once for luck. The air was cold and bright and made her cheeks feel brave.
At the school, other kids bounced and shouted and dropped gloves. Eliza paused at the door, suddenly still.
Y/N knelt in front of her. âWhatâs going on in that head of yours?â
Eliza leaned in and whispered, âIf I go inside, the wolves will have to watch the house without me.â
Y/N smiled softly. âThey can handle it. You trained them well.â
Eliza nodded. That was true.
She straightened, squared her shoulders, and marched insideâturning once to wave like a general heading into a meeting.
Inside, the classroom smelled like crayons and glue and loud feelings. Eliza hung up her coat and joined the circle on the rug, legs crossed, eyes sharp.
Kindergarten was strange. But it was also full of stories.
And Elizaâfeisty, wild, almost six years oldâwas exactly where she was supposed to be.
Kindergarten went very fast and very slow at the same time.
First there was circle time, which Eliza liked because sitting on the rug meant you were part of the council. Mrs. Henley talked about the calendar, but Eliza knew the truth: today was a snow wolf day. She raised her hand twice to explain this, but Mrs. Henley said they were only talking about the month.
Eliza accepted this. Adults were like that.
They learned letters. Eliza already knew her letters, but she liked drawing them into animals. An E could be a wolf if you added ears. A D was obviously a duck. She showed this to the kid next to her, who said, âThatâs not how letters work,â which Eliza knew was wrong but decided not to argue about. Wolves chose their battles.
Snack time happened. Eliza traded half her apple slices for three pretzels because that was a fair treaty. She supervised the crumbs on the table to make sure no one was stealing more than their share.
Recess was the best.
The playground became a frozen forest. The slide was a mountain. The swings were escape routes. Eliza ran with two other kids who understood that the ground was lava and snow, which made it extra dangerous. She declared herself Lead Wolf for approximately seven minutes until someone else declared themselves Queen of Everything. Eliza allowed this because leadership was flexible.
Inside again, they did art.
Eliza drew a very serious picture: a house, a wolf standing guard, ducks lined up politely, and a tiny baby circle with lines coming out of it (Ella). She labeled it carefully with backward letters. Mrs. Henley said it was âvery imaginativeâ and put it on the drying rack, which meant it was safe.
They read a book after lunch. Eliza tried very hard not to fall asleep, but the carpet was warm and the teacherâs voice was calm, and for a second she driftedâjust a littleâdreaming of wolves curled up in snowdrifts.
Then it was time to clean up.
Then it was time to line up.
Thenâfinallyâit was time to go home.
When Y/N appeared at the classroom door, Eliza felt her whole body light up. She grabbed her backpack and marched out like sheâd completed a very important mission.
âHow was your day?â Y/N asked, kneeling.
Eliza considered this carefully.
âI protected everyone,â she said. âI learned things. I made treaties. And nobody got eaten.â
Y/N smiled. âSounds like a success.â
Eliza nodded solemnly.
School was over.
The wolves could stand down.
She was homeward bound.
Home was loud.
Which meant it was safe.
Eliza kicked off her boots and dumped her backpack by the door, immediately dropping to the floor to greet Caleb, who came at her like a small, fast bear. He wrapped his arms around her legs and laughed like this was the best surprise of his life.
âEliza!â he shouted.
âYes,â she said seriously, patting his head. âIt is me.â
Ella was on her blanket nearby, propped up with toys, chewing on something that definitely used to be clean. Eliza flopped down next to her, inspecting closely.
âYou survived,â Eliza told her. âGood job.â
Ella squealed, kicking her feet.
Y/N hovered nearby, moving between them with practiced easeâsnacks appearing, sippy cups being negotiated, diapers being changed like pit stops in a very important race. Eliza helped by handing things over and occasionally narrating events so everyone knew what was happening.
Caleb wanted Elizaâs snack.
Ella wanted Calebâs toy.
Eliza decided this required diplomacy.
âNo,â she said firmly. âThis is not how treaties work.â
Caleb frowned. Ella drooled.
Y/N smiled. âSnack time first, then playtime.â
Eliza accepted this ruling.
They were in the middle of rebuilding a block towerâCaleb knocking it over, Eliza rebuilding it taller, Ella cheeringâwhen the front door opened.
Eliza froze.
She knew that sound.
Boots. Keys. The door closing just a little louder than Mamaâs.
Her head snapped up. Her whole body lit like someone flipped a switch.
âDADDY.â
She was on her feet before Y/N could even say his name, sprinting across the room like the house was on fire and only Daddy could save it.
Beau barely had time to shut the door before Eliza launched herself at him. He caught her automatically, lifting her up with a grunt and a laugh.
âHey there, wolf-child,â he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. âHow was school?â
Eliza wrapped her arms around his neck. âI protected everyone.â
âI figured,â Beau said solemnly.
Caleb toddled over next, arms raised, demanding his turn. Beau scooped him up with the other arm, balancing both kids like this was just how bodies worked.
Ella squealed from the floor, deeply offended.
Beau crouched immediately, setting Eliza down just long enough to scoop Ella up too, tucking her against his chest.
âAlright, alright,â he murmured. âWhole packâs accounted for.â
Eliza beamed, standing tall.
Daddy was home.
That meant everything was exactly how it should be.
Dinner was loud.
Dinner was messy.
Dinner was perfect.
Eliza took her place at the table like a general returning from battle, backpack abandoned, sleeves pushed up, ready for whatever came next. Caleb banged his spoon against his tray in a rhythm that suggested either hunger or revolution. Ella squealed whenever someone looked at her, convinced this meant she was winning.
Y/N moved between stove and table, calm in the eye of the storm, setting plates down just in time to stop Caleb from reaching for something hot. Beau took over pouring drinks, intercepting flying utensils with the reflexes of a man who had learned the hard way.
Eliza narrated everything.
âCaleb is not allowed to eat my food,â she announced.
âMine,â Caleb said, reaching anyway.
âNo,â Eliza replied firmly. âThatâs stealing.â
Beau sat down just in time to catch a falling fork. âLetâs try using our inside manners.â
Caleb grinned.
Ella kicked her feet, flinging a bit of carrot onto the table like a declaration.
Eliza leaned over to inspect it. âElla is still learning. Thatâs okay.â
Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Dinner continued in wavesâsomeone needed more milk, someone dropped something, someone absolutely could not sit still. Eliza ate between managing crises, making sure Caleb didnât get too much sauce and Ella didnât get ignored.
At one point, Caleb deliberately knocked over his cup.
Silence.
Eliza stared at him.
âCaleb,â she said slowly, âthat was a bad choice.â
Beau covered his mouth with his napkin, shoulders shaking.
Y/N stepped in smoothly, grabbing towels. âAccidents happen.â
Caleb looked proud anyway.
When Beau finally asked about Elizaâs day, she straightened immediately.
âI went to school,â she said. âI made treaties. I ran very fast. I drew a wolf. And nobody got eaten.â
âThatâs a good day,â Beau said sincerely.
Eliza nodded. âYes.â
By the time plates were mostly empty and bellies mostly full, the chaos softened into its familiar, comfortable aftermath. Caleb leaned sideways in his chair, suddenly exhausted. Ella sucked on her fingers, eyes drooping.
Eliza slumped back with a satisfied sigh.
Dinner was done.
The house was loud, full, alive.
And for Elizaâalmost six years old, fierce and imaginative and deeply lovedâthis was exactly what family was supposed to sound like.
After dinner, Beau claimed Eliza like it was official business.
âCâmon, wolf-child,â he said, holding out his hand. âIâve been informed you had a very important day.â
Eliza took his hand immediately, fingers small and fierce around his. âYes,â she said. âI did.â
They retreated to the living room while Y/N wrangled dishes and bedtime routines. Caleb was already half-asleep, slumped against a pillow. Ella had been passed to Y/N, drowsy and warm, her day clearly catching up with her.
Beau settled onto the floor with a grunt, stretching his legs out. Eliza climbed right into his lap without asking, like this was simply where she belonged.
âTell me everything,â Beau said.
So she did.
She told him about school, about how letters could turn into animals if you knew how to look, about recess wolves and snow lava and snack treaties. She demonstrated with hand motions. She used dramatic pauses. She corrected herself when things werenât explained properly.
Beau listened like this was the most important briefing heâd had all day.
When Eliza declared that she had been Lead Wolf and Queen of Everything at different times, Beau nodded solemnly. âThatâs a heavy burden.â
âIt is,â Eliza agreed. âBut I did good.â
âI know you did,â he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.
They played after thatâfigurines lined up into elaborate stories, wolves guarding ducks, heroes rescuing babies. Beau let Eliza win when she needed to win and lose when she needed to feel strong.
At one point, she sprawled against him, head tucked under his chin, completely boneless.
âThis is the best evening ever,â she declared, voice thick with happiness.
Beau smiled, heart full enough it almost hurt. âYeah?â
âYes,â Eliza said firmly. âBecause I went to school and Daddy came home and we had dinner and now weâre together.â
Beau tightened his arms around her just a little. âSounds like a pretty good day to me.â
She yawned, wide and dramatic, still clinging to him.
Eliza was almost six. Feisty. Wild. Full of imagination.
And right now, in Beauâs arms, she was safe, loved, and utterly content.
The best evening ever.
Bedtime came the way it always didâslow at first, then suddenly all at once.
Eliza was shepherded into pajamas, teeth brushed with minimal argument, wolf sweater reluctantly traded for flannel. She dragged her favorite book off the shelf and hugged it to her chest like a prize.
Beau followed her into her room, light dimmed low, the world shrinking down to soft shadows and familiar shapes.
âRead to me,â Eliza said, climbing into bed.
âThatâs usually how this works,â Beau replied, smiling.
He sat on the edge of her bed and opened the book, the pages whispering as he turned them. Eliza tucked herself against his side, head resting on his arm, blanket pulled up to her chin.
He read slowly, giving voices where voices were needed, pausing dramatically when the story called for it. Eliza listened intently, eyes heavy but fighting it, one finger tracing the pattern on the blanket.
Halfway through, she interrupted him.
âDaddy?â
âMm?â
âWill the wolves be okay tonight?â
Beau didnât hesitate. âTheyâre on patrol. Best ones weâve got.â
She nodded, reassured. âAnd the ducks?â
âSleeping,â he said. âDreaminâ about ponds.â
Satisfied, Eliza relaxed again.
By the time he reached the last page, her breathing had gone soft and steady, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Beau closed the book quietly and set it aside.
He brushed her hair back from her face, gentle and careful.
âGoodnight, wolf-child,â he whispered.
Eliza didnât answer.
She didnât need to.
Beau stood slowly, turning off the light before closing the door most of the wayâjust enough so the hall light spilled in, just enough so sheâd never feel alone.
Down the hall, the house waited.
But in this room, wrapped in stories and love, Eliza sleptâsafe, content, and dreaming of wolves under stars.
Beau closed Elizaâs door softly behind him, the hallway light spilling in just enough to keep the dark gentle instead of deep. He stood there for a second, listeningâsteady breathing, the quiet hum of the houseâand then turned down the hall.
Their bedroom was dim and warm. Y/N was already there, propped against the pillows, hair loose, the bedside lamp casting everything in a soft, amber glow.
She looked up when he came in. âHowâd it go?â
A smile tugged at his mouth. âFell asleep like a champ,â he said. âDidnât even make it to the end of the story.â
Y/N laughed quietly. âShe never does.â
Beau crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, leaning in to kiss herâslow, familiar, full of everything the day had carried with it. He rested his forehead against hers when they pulled back.
âI love this life,â he murmured. âYou. The kids. All of it.â
Her hand came up to his cheek, thumb brushing his beard. âI love you.â
He kissed her again, deeper this time, and they shifted closer, bodies fitting together the way they always didâeasy, natural, unspoken.
The world outside their door stayed quiet.
Inside, Beau sank into the warmth of Y/Nâs arms, the two of them moving together, not rushed, not loudâjust connected, steady, and sure.
By the time the light clicked off, they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing in sync, the house wrapped around them like a promise kept.
Another day done.
Another night held by love.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
I thought of trying it from Calebâs POV, but Iâm not that brave yet! But Elizaâs POV is fun and adorable. đ And yes, she is a good big sister, learning from Emily to boot.
Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlenâs lifeâchange he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, familyâa second chance at forever.
Word Count: 3,461
Tags/Warnings: Teeth-aching fluff, child's POV, hint of 18+ implied smut/smut
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Any and all mistakes are mine.
Dividers: by @sweetmelodygraphics
Chapter Fifty-Three: Loving This Life
The house was quiet in the way that only came late at nightâevery light dimmed, every door closed, the world narrowed down to the soft warmth of their bedroom.
Beau lay on his side, Y/N tucked against him, their bodies still close, still lingering in that easy, unguarded space that followed intimacy. His arm was draped over her waist, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against her skin.
He breathed her in, steadying himself.
âI had lunch with Emily today,â he murmured.
Y/N shifted slightly, fitting closer, head resting against his chest. âYeah?â
âYeah,â he said. âShe came by work. Took me to the diner.â
That earned a soft smile from her. âThat sounds like her.â
âShe wanted to talk,â Beau went on, voice low, thoughtful. âAbout love. First love. What itâs supposed to feel like. What sheâs supposed to do.â
Y/N listened, fingers idly tracing the line of his ribs.
âI told her what it was like with Carla,â he said. âAnd what it was like with you.â
Her hand paused for just a moment.
âAnd?â she asked gently.
âI told her both were real,â he said. âBoth mattered. But they were different. With Carla, it was young and wild and breathless. With youâŠâ He exhaled, slow. âWith you, it was choice. It was seeinâ the whole life in front of me and wantinâ it anyway.â
Y/N lifted her head to look at him, eyes soft in the low light.
âShe asked when I knew,â he continued. âI told her about the picnic. About Eliza fallinâ asleep on me. About lookinâ at you and realizinâ I wasnât just fallinâ for youâI was fallinâ for the life around you.â
Y/Nâs breath caught, quiet and emotional.
Beau brushed his thumb along her cheek. âI wanted you to know I told her that. Because itâs still true. Every day.â
She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, voice barely above a whisper. âIâm really glad she has you to talk to about things like that.â
He huffed softly. âIâm really glad I get to be the one.â
They lay there, wrapped in each other, the world small and safe between them.
Outside, the night held steady.
Inside, love did tooâquiet, chosen, and deep enough to be shared across generations.
Eliza's Day
Eliza woke up because the wolves told her to.
They didnât say anything exactlyâbut she knew. You could feel it in your bones when it was morning. The sun was sneaking through the curtains in skinny stripes, and the house made its quiet morning noises: the hum that meant the heater was awake, the tiny sigh from the baby monitor, the faraway clink of something in the kitchen.
Morning.
Eliza sat up fast, hair sticking out everywhere, blanket twisted around her legs like it had tried to trap her in the night. She kicked free, serious already. Important things happened in the morning. Wolves didnât sleep in.
She slid out of bed and padded to the window, peeking out through the curtain like a lookout on a snowy mountain. Outside, everything was white and bright and perfect. Snow meant tracks. Tracks meant stories.
The ducks would be awake too.
âEliza,â she whispered to herself, nodding. âToday is a day.â
She grabbed her wolf sweater from the chairâbecause obviouslyâand pulled it on backward at first, then fixed it with an annoyed huff. Getting dressed was boring, but necessary. Leaders had to wear uniforms.
Down the hall, she could hear the baby making soft noises. Ella-noises. Not crying. Just talking to the ceiling like the ceiling was interesting. Eliza smiled. Ella was probably telling secrets.
She crept into her parentsâ room without knockingâbecause this was her house and also emergencies didnât knockâand climbed onto the bed like a cat.
âDaddy,â she whispered loudly. âMama.â
No response.
She frowned, climbed higher, and poked Beauâs arm.
âDaddy. The wolves are awake.â
One green eye cracked open.
Beau groaned softly. âThey always are.â
âThat means itâs morning,â Eliza said, patient. âAnd we have to check the ducks.â
Y/N shifted, half-awake, smiling even with her eyes closed. âGood morning, Eliza.â
âGood morning,â Eliza said seriously. âIs it breakfast time?â
Beau sighed into the pillow. âIt is technically breakfast time.â
Eliza nodded, satisfied. She slid off the bed and marched down the hall, calling over her shoulder, âIâm gonna check on Caleb and Ella so they donât get eaten.â
âElizaââ Beau started.
âI KNOW,â she called back. âJust pretend!â
She stopped by Calebâs room first. He was awake, standing in his crib like a tiny king, hair wild, holding a stuffed duck by the neck.
âCaleb,â Eliza said urgently. âYouâre safe. For now.â
âDuck!â Caleb declared, shaking it violently.
âYes,â Eliza agreed. âThat duck.â
Then she went to Ella, who kicked her legs happily the moment Eliza appeared.
âHi baby,â Eliza whispered, leaning close. âYou missed everything.â
Ella gurgled, deeply impressed.
Eliza nodded solemnly. âIâll tell you later.â
By the time Eliza marched into the kitchen, barefoot and purposeful, Y/N was already there, starting coffee. The light was brighter in here, full of promise.
âGood morning,â Y/N said.
Eliza climbed into her chair and sighed like a very tired grown-up. âI have a lot to do today.â
Y/N smiled. âI donât doubt it.â
Eliza stared out the window at the snow again, mind already racingâwolves on patrol, ducks negotiating breakfast crumbs, adventures waiting just outside the door.
Morning had arrived.
And Eliza was ready.
Breakfast happened in pieces, the way it always did.
Eliza supervised.
She sat at the table swinging her legs, wolf sweater properly on now, while Y/N moved between stove and counter. Pancakes sizzled. The smell was "safe house smell," which meant nothing bad could happen here. Caleb sat in his booster seat, chanting something that sounded like âcakeâ but might have meant power. Ella banged her spoon in her high chair, already participating in the day.
Eliza poured syrup herself. Carefully. Too much syrup was how ducks got stuck.
âEat your breakfast,â Y/N said gently.
âI am,â Eliza replied, licking syrup off her finger. âIâm also thinking.â
Y/N hid a smile.
Beau came in next, hair still a little wild, pulling on his jacket. âMorninâ, wolf-child.â
Eliza beamed. âDaddy.â
He kissed the top of her head. âYou got school today.â
Her smile flickeredâbut only a little.
âI know,â she said. âBut I can still be a wolf after school.â
âAbsolutely,â Beau agreed. âKindergarten just borrows you for a few hours.â
That helped.
Eliza ate faster after that, because kindergarten was a mission you had to be prepared for. She packed her backpack herselfâlunchbox, mittens, wolf drawing she might need in case of negotiations. She pulled on her boots with dramatic effort, huffing like it was a mountain climb.
Y/N knelt to zip her coat. âYou ready?â
Eliza thought about it very seriously.
âYes,â she said. âBut the ducks might need me later.â
âThey always do,â Y/N promised.
Outside, the snow crunched under their boots. Eliza held Beauâs hand tightly, swinging it once for luck. The air was cold and bright and made her cheeks feel brave.
At the school, other kids bounced and shouted and dropped gloves. Eliza paused at the door, suddenly still.
Y/N knelt in front of her. âWhatâs going on in that head of yours?â
Eliza leaned in and whispered, âIf I go inside, the wolves will have to watch the house without me.â
Y/N smiled softly. âThey can handle it. You trained them well.â
Eliza nodded. That was true.
She straightened, squared her shoulders, and marched insideâturning once to wave like a general heading into a meeting.
Inside, the classroom smelled like crayons and glue and loud feelings. Eliza hung up her coat and joined the circle on the rug, legs crossed, eyes sharp.
Kindergarten was strange. But it was also full of stories.
And Elizaâfeisty, wild, almost six years oldâwas exactly where she was supposed to be.
Kindergarten went very fast and very slow at the same time.
First there was circle time, which Eliza liked because sitting on the rug meant you were part of the council. Mrs. Henley talked about the calendar, but Eliza knew the truth: today was a snow wolf day. She raised her hand twice to explain this, but Mrs. Henley said they were only talking about the month.
Eliza accepted this. Adults were like that.
They learned letters. Eliza already knew her letters, but she liked drawing them into animals. An E could be a wolf if you added ears. A D was obviously a duck. She showed this to the kid next to her, who said, âThatâs not how letters work,â which Eliza knew was wrong but decided not to argue about. Wolves chose their battles.
Snack time happened. Eliza traded half her apple slices for three pretzels because that was a fair treaty. She supervised the crumbs on the table to make sure no one was stealing more than their share.
Recess was the best.
The playground became a frozen forest. The slide was a mountain. The swings were escape routes. Eliza ran with two other kids who understood that the ground was lava and snow, which made it extra dangerous. She declared herself Lead Wolf for approximately seven minutes until someone else declared themselves Queen of Everything. Eliza allowed this because leadership was flexible.
Inside again, they did art.
Eliza drew a very serious picture: a house, a wolf standing guard, ducks lined up politely, and a tiny baby circle with lines coming out of it (Ella). She labeled it carefully with backward letters. Mrs. Henley said it was âvery imaginativeâ and put it on the drying rack, which meant it was safe.
They read a book after lunch. Eliza tried very hard not to fall asleep, but the carpet was warm and the teacherâs voice was calm, and for a second she driftedâjust a littleâdreaming of wolves curled up in snowdrifts.
Then it was time to clean up.
Then it was time to line up.
Thenâfinallyâit was time to go home.
When Y/N appeared at the classroom door, Eliza felt her whole body light up. She grabbed her backpack and marched out like sheâd completed a very important mission.
âHow was your day?â Y/N asked, kneeling.
Eliza considered this carefully.
âI protected everyone,â she said. âI learned things. I made treaties. And nobody got eaten.â
Y/N smiled. âSounds like a success.â
Eliza nodded solemnly.
School was over.
The wolves could stand down.
She was homeward bound.
Home was loud.
Which meant it was safe.
Eliza kicked off her boots and dumped her backpack by the door, immediately dropping to the floor to greet Caleb, who came at her like a small, fast bear. He wrapped his arms around her legs and laughed like this was the best surprise of his life.
âEliza!â he shouted.
âYes,â she said seriously, patting his head. âIt is me.â
Ella was on her blanket nearby, propped up with toys, chewing on something that definitely used to be clean. Eliza flopped down next to her, inspecting closely.
âYou survived,â Eliza told her. âGood job.â
Ella squealed, kicking her feet.
Y/N hovered nearby, moving between them with practiced easeâsnacks appearing, sippy cups being negotiated, diapers being changed like pit stops in a very important race. Eliza helped by handing things over and occasionally narrating events so everyone knew what was happening.
Caleb wanted Elizaâs snack.
Ella wanted Calebâs toy.
Eliza decided this required diplomacy.
âNo,â she said firmly. âThis is not how treaties work.â
Caleb frowned. Ella drooled.
Y/N smiled. âSnack time first, then playtime.â
Eliza accepted this ruling.
They were in the middle of rebuilding a block towerâCaleb knocking it over, Eliza rebuilding it taller, Ella cheeringâwhen the front door opened.
Eliza froze.
She knew that sound.
Boots. Keys. The door closing just a little louder than Mamaâs.
Her head snapped up. Her whole body lit like someone flipped a switch.
âDADDY.â
She was on her feet before Y/N could even say his name, sprinting across the room like the house was on fire and only Daddy could save it.
Beau barely had time to shut the door before Eliza launched herself at him. He caught her automatically, lifting her up with a grunt and a laugh.
âHey there, wolf-child,â he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. âHow was school?â
Eliza wrapped her arms around his neck. âI protected everyone.â
âI figured,â Beau said solemnly.
Caleb toddled over next, arms raised, demanding his turn. Beau scooped him up with the other arm, balancing both kids like this was just how bodies worked.
Ella squealed from the floor, deeply offended.
Beau crouched immediately, setting Eliza down just long enough to scoop Ella up too, tucking her against his chest.
âAlright, alright,â he murmured. âWhole packâs accounted for.â
Eliza beamed, standing tall.
Daddy was home.
That meant everything was exactly how it should be.
Dinner was loud.
Dinner was messy.
Dinner was perfect.
Eliza took her place at the table like a general returning from battle, backpack abandoned, sleeves pushed up, ready for whatever came next. Caleb banged his spoon against his tray in a rhythm that suggested either hunger or revolution. Ella squealed whenever someone looked at her, convinced this meant she was winning.
Y/N moved between stove and table, calm in the eye of the storm, setting plates down just in time to stop Caleb from reaching for something hot. Beau took over pouring drinks, intercepting flying utensils with the reflexes of a man who had learned the hard way.
Eliza narrated everything.
âCaleb is not allowed to eat my food,â she announced.
âMine,â Caleb said, reaching anyway.
âNo,â Eliza replied firmly. âThatâs stealing.â
Beau sat down just in time to catch a falling fork. âLetâs try using our inside manners.â
Caleb grinned.
Ella kicked her feet, flinging a bit of carrot onto the table like a declaration.
Eliza leaned over to inspect it. âElla is still learning. Thatâs okay.â
Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Dinner continued in wavesâsomeone needed more milk, someone dropped something, someone absolutely could not sit still. Eliza ate between managing crises, making sure Caleb didnât get too much sauce and Ella didnât get ignored.
At one point, Caleb deliberately knocked over his cup.
Silence.
Eliza stared at him.
âCaleb,â she said slowly, âthat was a bad choice.â
Beau covered his mouth with his napkin, shoulders shaking.
Y/N stepped in smoothly, grabbing towels. âAccidents happen.â
Caleb looked proud anyway.
When Beau finally asked about Elizaâs day, she straightened immediately.
âI went to school,â she said. âI made treaties. I ran very fast. I drew a wolf. And nobody got eaten.â
âThatâs a good day,â Beau said sincerely.
Eliza nodded. âYes.â
By the time plates were mostly empty and bellies mostly full, the chaos softened into its familiar, comfortable aftermath. Caleb leaned sideways in his chair, suddenly exhausted. Ella sucked on her fingers, eyes drooping.
Eliza slumped back with a satisfied sigh.
Dinner was done.
The house was loud, full, alive.
And for Elizaâalmost six years old, fierce and imaginative and deeply lovedâthis was exactly what family was supposed to sound like.
After dinner, Beau claimed Eliza like it was official business.
âCâmon, wolf-child,â he said, holding out his hand. âIâve been informed you had a very important day.â
Eliza took his hand immediately, fingers small and fierce around his. âYes,â she said. âI did.â
They retreated to the living room while Y/N wrangled dishes and bedtime routines. Caleb was already half-asleep, slumped against a pillow. Ella had been passed to Y/N, drowsy and warm, her day clearly catching up with her.
Beau settled onto the floor with a grunt, stretching his legs out. Eliza climbed right into his lap without asking, like this was simply where she belonged.
âTell me everything,â Beau said.
So she did.
She told him about school, about how letters could turn into animals if you knew how to look, about recess wolves and snow lava and snack treaties. She demonstrated with hand motions. She used dramatic pauses. She corrected herself when things werenât explained properly.
Beau listened like this was the most important briefing heâd had all day.
When Eliza declared that she had been Lead Wolf and Queen of Everything at different times, Beau nodded solemnly. âThatâs a heavy burden.â
âIt is,â Eliza agreed. âBut I did good.â
âI know you did,â he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.
They played after thatâfigurines lined up into elaborate stories, wolves guarding ducks, heroes rescuing babies. Beau let Eliza win when she needed to win and lose when she needed to feel strong.
At one point, she sprawled against him, head tucked under his chin, completely boneless.
âThis is the best evening ever,â she declared, voice thick with happiness.
Beau smiled, heart full enough it almost hurt. âYeah?â
âYes,â Eliza said firmly. âBecause I went to school and Daddy came home and we had dinner and now weâre together.â
Beau tightened his arms around her just a little. âSounds like a pretty good day to me.â
She yawned, wide and dramatic, still clinging to him.
Eliza was almost six. Feisty. Wild. Full of imagination.
And right now, in Beauâs arms, she was safe, loved, and utterly content.
The best evening ever.
Bedtime came the way it always didâslow at first, then suddenly all at once.
Eliza was shepherded into pajamas, teeth brushed with minimal argument, wolf sweater reluctantly traded for flannel. She dragged her favorite book off the shelf and hugged it to her chest like a prize.
Beau followed her into her room, light dimmed low, the world shrinking down to soft shadows and familiar shapes.
âRead to me,â Eliza said, climbing into bed.
âThatâs usually how this works,â Beau replied, smiling.
He sat on the edge of her bed and opened the book, the pages whispering as he turned them. Eliza tucked herself against his side, head resting on his arm, blanket pulled up to her chin.
He read slowly, giving voices where voices were needed, pausing dramatically when the story called for it. Eliza listened intently, eyes heavy but fighting it, one finger tracing the pattern on the blanket.
Halfway through, she interrupted him.
âDaddy?â
âMm?â
âWill the wolves be okay tonight?â
Beau didnât hesitate. âTheyâre on patrol. Best ones weâve got.â
She nodded, reassured. âAnd the ducks?â
âSleeping,â he said. âDreaminâ about ponds.â
Satisfied, Eliza relaxed again.
By the time he reached the last page, her breathing had gone soft and steady, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Beau closed the book quietly and set it aside.
He brushed her hair back from her face, gentle and careful.
âGoodnight, wolf-child,â he whispered.
Eliza didnât answer.
She didnât need to.
Beau stood slowly, turning off the light before closing the door most of the wayâjust enough so the hall light spilled in, just enough so sheâd never feel alone.
Down the hall, the house waited.
But in this room, wrapped in stories and love, Eliza sleptâsafe, content, and dreaming of wolves under stars.
Beau closed Elizaâs door softly behind him, the hallway light spilling in just enough to keep the dark gentle instead of deep. He stood there for a second, listeningâsteady breathing, the quiet hum of the houseâand then turned down the hall.
Their bedroom was dim and warm. Y/N was already there, propped against the pillows, hair loose, the bedside lamp casting everything in a soft, amber glow.
She looked up when he came in. âHowâd it go?â
A smile tugged at his mouth. âFell asleep like a champ,â he said. âDidnât even make it to the end of the story.â
Y/N laughed quietly. âShe never does.â
Beau crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, leaning in to kiss herâslow, familiar, full of everything the day had carried with it. He rested his forehead against hers when they pulled back.
âI love this life,â he murmured. âYou. The kids. All of it.â
Her hand came up to his cheek, thumb brushing his beard. âI love you.â
He kissed her again, deeper this time, and they shifted closer, bodies fitting together the way they always didâeasy, natural, unspoken.
The world outside their door stayed quiet.
Inside, Beau sank into the warmth of Y/Nâs arms, the two of them moving together, not rushed, not loudâjust connected, steady, and sure.
By the time the light clicked off, they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing in sync, the house wrapped around them like a promise kept.
Another day done.
Another night held by love.
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singerâs house brings Natalie Guimetâan old childhood friend and constant from his time thereâback into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds donât fade with timeâthey wait.
Word Count: 4,277
Tags/Warnings: Mentions of death, burning, parental loss, heaven and hell, grief, underaged drinking, first kisses
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!
Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89
Chapter Three: Going To Ground
Then:
They were fourteen and thirteen, sitting on the hood of a dead car in Bobbyâs junkyard, legs dangling, the evening thick with cicadas and heat.
Natalie picked at a fleck of rust with her fingernail, quiet longer than usual. Dean noticed. He always did.
âOkay,â he said finally. âWhat?â
She hesitated, then glanced sideways at him. âCan I ask you something?â
Dean shrugged. âYou just did.â
She huffed, then sobered. âAbout your mom.â
The word landed like a dropped toolâsharp, metallic.
Dean went still.
Natalie watched his face carefully, ready to back off, ready to apologize. Sheâd never asked before. No one had, not really. Not like this.
âYou donât have to,â she said quickly. âI justââ
âNo,â Dean cut in, voice rough. He swallowed. âItâs⊠okay.â
He stared out over the junkyard, eyes unfocused, like he was lining himself up with a memory he didnât visit often. Not because it wasnât thereâbut because it was always there.
âShe was⊠good,â he said finally. âLikeâreally good. Made everything feel normal. Safe.â
Natalie nodded, listening.
âI was four,â Dean went on. âSam was a baby. I woke up and smelled smoke.â He paused, jaw tightening. âThought Dad burned dinner or something.â
He let out a short, humorless breath. âShe was on the ceiling. In Samâs nursery.â
Natalieâs breath caught.
âLike⊠stuck there,â Dean said, words coming halting now. âFire everywhere. Screaming. Dad yelling at me to grab Sam. To run.â
His hands curled into fists at his sides. âI remember the heat. I remember holding Sam and thinking I was gonna drop him because he was so small and I was shaking so bad.â
Natalie didnât interrupt. Didnât look away.
âShe died there,â Dean said quietly. âBurned. Right in front of us.â
Silence settled heavy between them.
âThatâs when everything changed,â he added. âDad⊠he wasnât the same. And neither was I. I stopped being a kid that night. Didnât really get a choice.â
Natalie swallowed hard. She slid her hand over, tentative at first, then rested it on his arm.
âIâm sorry,â she said softly.
Dean nodded once. âYeah.â
They sat there for a long moment, the junkyard creaking and settling around them, the past hanging between them like smoke that never quite cleared.
âThanks,â Dean said after a while. âFor askinâ. And not⊠freakinâ out.â
Natalie squeezed his arm gently. âYou donât scare me.â
He glanced at her then, something fragile and grateful in his eyes.
âGood,â he said. âBecause youâre stuck with me.â
She smiled, small but sure. âI know.â
And for once, the story of how Dean Winchester became who he was didnât feel like something he had to carry alone.
Now:
Dean watched Natalie move through the field with the kind of attention he usually reserved for exits and shadows.
She walked the perimeter slowly, boots sinking into damp earth, eyes tracking the subtle wrongness in the groundâthe way the grass bent inward toward the well, the way the air felt heavier there. Sure. Certain. Like someone who trusted her instincts because theyâd kept her alive.
And just like that, he was fourteen again.
Back on the hood of a dead car. Heat hanging in the air. Cicadas screaming like the world didnât know how to stop. Natalieâs hand on his armâsteady, groundingâas he told her about his mom. About the ceiling. About fire. About how everything ended before heâd even known it could.
You donât scare me, sheâd said.
Youâre stuck with me, heâd said.
Dean swallowed and dragged his attention back to the present.
Natalie straightened near the well, brushing dirt from her hands, expression composed. But he could see it nowâthe same thing Bobby had clocked. The way she carried herself a little too tightly. The way her smile came a beat late when it wasnât aimed at him. The way Nova Scotia sat on her shoulders like a weight she hadnât set down yet.
Three years was a long time.
Long enough to collect scars you didnât talk about. Long enough to learn which truths stayed buried because digging them up hurt worse.
She turned slightly, catching him watching her. One brow lifted in silent question.
He shook his head, just a fraction. Nothing.
She accepted it without pressing, the way she always had.
Dean let his gaze follow her again as she moved back toward the house, sunlight catching in her hair, footsteps confident, unhesitating. Whatever sheâd faced up north, whatever sheâd carried home with her, it was written in the way she moved nowâlike someone whoâd survived something and learned not to announce it.
He wondered, not for the first time, what it would take for her to tell him.
And whether, when she did, heâd be able to do for her what sheâd done for him all those years agoâsit still, listen, and help carry the weight.
The wind shifted across the field. The water beneath the ground stirred.
Dean took a breath, squared his shoulders, and turned back toward the hunt.
Some memories stayed with you.
Some promises did too.
And some storiesâNatalieâs, hisâwerenât done being told yet.
Then:
They were fifteen and fourteen and sitting on the floor of Bobbyâs living room, backs against the couch, a bottle of whiskey between them like stolen treasure.
It burned. Horribly. Natalie had made a face so dramatic Dean nearly choked laughing, and then they were both goneâgiggling, shoulders knocking, the room tilting just enough to feel unreal. Everything felt louder. Closer. Easier.
âThis is terrible,â Natalie declared, slurring just a little.
Dean snorted. âYou took another drink.â
âBecause I thought maybe itâd be better the second time.â
He nudged her with his knee. âThatâs not how alcohol works.â
She shoved him back. âYou donât know how alcohol works.â
They laughed again, breathless, collapsing sideways until their shoulders pressed together. Deanâs head tipped back against the couch, the ceiling spinning lazily above them.
âBobbyâs gonna kill us,â Natalie said suddenly, the thought breaking through her haze.
Dean grinned. âNah. Heâll just yell. A lot. Possibly forever.â
She giggled, then went quiet, studying the bottle. âThis was his good stuff.â
âOh,â Dean said. âYeah. Weâre definitely dead.â
She swatted his arm. âThis is your fault.â
âYou climbed the shelf,â he shot back. âThat makes you an accomplice.â
She pushed at his chest, playful, unsteady. âShut up.â
Dean caught her wrist on instinct.
The movement stilled them both.
Her laughter faded first. Then his.
He hadnât meant to grab herânot really. But he didnât let go either. His thumb rested warm against the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse jump under his touch. He looked at her, really looked, and something in his expression shiftedâdarkened, focused, unfamiliar.
Natalieâs breath caught.
âOh,â she said quietly.
Dean didnât smile. Didnât joke. He just leaned in, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted to.
She didnât.
The kiss was clumsyânoses bumping, mouths unsure, both of them freezing for half a second like they werenât sure what to do next. But it was gentle. Careful. Like they were handling something fragile without knowing why.
Her lips were warm. Softer than heâd expected.
Too soon, she pulled back.
Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide, words tumbling out all at once. âOh my GodâDeanâBobbyâs gonna kill usâthis was his best whiskeyâI canât believe we drank itââ
She scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping, hands fluttering as if she could put everything back where it belonged just by moving fast enough.
Dean stayed where he was, heart hammering, watching her pace.
âNatââ he started.
âWe should clean up,â she rushed on. âHide the bottle. Pretend this never happened.â
She stopped, finally, and looked at himâembarrassed, flustered, something unspoken flickering between them.
âOkay?â she said, too quick.
Dean nodded, swallowing. âYeah. Okay.â
They hid the bottle. Straightened the room. Sobering up fast as reality crept back in.
They never talked about it again.
But sometimesâyears laterâDean would remember the feel of her pulse under his thumb, the way the world had gone quiet for just one second too long.
And wonder how something so small could linger like that.
Then (sort of):
It was late when Dean called.
He stood outside a roadside motel, phone pressed to his ear, the night cool enough to bite through his jacket. He hadnât planned itâhadnât even checked the time zone properly. The worry had just⊠crept in. The kind that didnât ask permission.
She answered on the third ring.
âHey,â Natalie said.
The word came out wrong. Too breathy. Too tight. Like sheâd just finished runningâor gritting her teeth through something she didnât want to name.
Dean straightened immediately. âHeyâsorry. I didnât mean to wake you.â
A pause. Just long enough to register.
âNo,â she said quickly. âYou didnât. I was already up.â
Her voice smoothed out as she spoke, like sheâd adjusted something internally. Dialed herself back into place.
Dean frowned at the dark parking lot. âYou sure?â
âYeah,â she said, lighter now. âIâm fine. Whatâs up?â
There it was. The pivot. Clean and deliberate.
He hesitated, thumb rubbing against the side of the phone. He hadnât called with an agenda. Just the need to hear her voice. To know she was okay. Whatever okay meant lately.
âI justâŠâ He exhaled. âI didnât wanna push you. You sounded busy last time we talked.â
She didnât answer right away. When she did, it was gentle. âYouâre not.â
âOkay,â he said. Then, quieter, âSam came back.â
That did it.
âOh,â Natalie breathedâand this time, the warmth was real. âDean.â
âYeah,â he said, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. âHe left Stanford. Weâre⊠weâre hunting together again.â
âI know you missed him,â she said softly. âIâm really happy for you.â
He leaned back against the railing, eyes closing for a second. âYeah. Me too.â
They talked a little longerânothing heavy. Road stuff. Weather. A joke about how Sam had gotten even taller somehow. Eventually, they said goodnight, easy and familiar, like they always did.
Dean hung up and stayed there for a while, staring at nothing.
Because even nowâhours laterâit wasnât the conversation that stuck with him.
It was the way sheâd sounded when she answered.
Breathy. Strained. Like sheâd been hurting and didnât want him to know.
Dean shoved his phone into his pocket and headed back inside, the unease settling low in his chest.
Somewhere far north, Natalie Guimet was carrying something he hadnât been there to see.
And months later, the sound of her voice still haunted him.
Now:
Dean had just decided.
It came on him quietly, the way real decisions always didânot loud or dramatic, just a settling in his chest. A when this is over. A soon. He watched Natalie standing near the well, sunlight catching at her shoulders, and thought: Iâm not letting this sit anymore. Not again.
He took a step toward her.
The ground gave way.
It happened so fast she didnât even have time to cry out. One second she was thereâsolid, uprightâand the next the earth collapsed beneath her with a sickening crack.
âNATALIE!â Dean shouted, the sound tearing out of him raw and unfiltered.
Sam was yelling too, already moving, boots skidding as they raced toward the edge. Dirt and stone slid inward, dust billowing up in a choking cloud.
Bobby swore behind them, voice sharp with alarm. âSon of aâ!â
Dean dropped to his knees at the edge, heart slamming so hard it hurt. âNat! Talk to me!â
âIâm here,â her voice came back up at them, breathless but steady. âIâmâdamn itâyeah, Iâm okay.â
Relief hit him so hard his hands shook.
Sam leaned over carefully. âYou sure?â
âScraped,â she said. âBruised. Nothing broken.â
Bobby was already on his radio, barking for rope, for boards, for anything. âOld well shaft,â he snapped. âDidnât hold.â
They worked fastâmethodical, practiced, fear kept barely leashed. Within minutes they had her up, Natalie hauled free and deposited onto solid ground, dusty and scuffed and cursing under her breath like it was a personal offense.
Dean crouched in front of her immediately. âDonât move,â he ordered, hands hovering uselessly, not sure where to touch, afraid of hurting her.
âI said Iâm fine,â she insisted, though she winced as she shifted, rolling onto her side so she could sit up.
And that was when it happened.
The sun broke through the clouds, spilling down over her, lighting her from the side as she adjusted her jacket. The hem rode up just enoughâjust a fraction.
Dean saw it.
A scar.
Fresh. Angry-pale against her skin. A clean line across her stomach, too deliberate to be accidental, too recent to be old. Months old, at most.
The world narrowed to that single detail.
His breath caught. His mouth went dry.
Natalie noticed the change instantly. Her hand came down, tugging her jacket back into place, shoulders stiffening. Too late.
Dean looked up at her face, all the pieces slamming together at onceâthe phone call, the breathless voice, the way sheâd come home thinner, harder.
âWhat happened?â he asked quietly.
She met his eyes for half a second.
Then she looked away.
Behind them, Bobby and Sam were talking logistics, damage control, the hunt resuming around them like it always did. But Dean barely heard a word of it.
Because now he knew.
Whatever Natalie Guimet had faced in Nova Scotia hadnât stayed there.
Sheâd carried it home.
And this timeâDean Winchester promised himself as his heart pounded in his earsâthis time, he wasnât going to let her carry it alone.
Natalie stayed quiet.
She brushed dirt from her sleeve, eyes fixed on the ground like if she didnât look at anyone, the moment might pass her by. Around them, the world kept movingâSam and Bobby a few paces off, voices low as they debated whether the boundary could be reset before nightfall, whether they had time to finish the job.
Dean didnât hear a word of it.
All he could see was the flash of pale skin. The line of that scar. Clean. Intentional. Too close to vital.
Something in him snapped.
âWhat happened?â
The words came out sharp, cutting clean through the conversation.
Bobby stopped mid-sentence. Turned slowly.
Sam startled, eyes widening. âDeanââ
Dean didnât look at him. âDonât.â
Natalieâs head jerked up. âDean,â she said quickly, reaching for his arm. âHey. Itâs fine. Drop it.â
He shook her offânot rough, but final. âNo.â
Bobbyâs gaze moved between them now, wary, calculating. âSonââ
âThat scar,â Dean said, voice tight, barely controlled. âThatâs not nothing. Thatâs not âI tripped on a rock.â Thatâs âI almost didnât walk away.ââ
Natalieâs jaw set. âYou donât know that.â
âI know what I saw,â he shot back. âAnd I know what you sounded like on the phone months ago. I know what âIâm fineâ looks like when itâs a lie.â
Sam stepped forward again, cautious. âDean, maybe this isnâtââ
âI said donât,â Dean snapped, finally turning on him. Not angryâscared. Raw. âThis isnât about the hunt.â
Natalieâs shoulders curled inward, defensive, walls slamming back into place. âYouâre making this a bigger deal than it is.â
âYeah?â Dean laughed once, sharp and humorless. âBecause from where Iâm standing, it looks like whatever happened up there damn near killed you.â
The words hung in the air.
Bobby swore under his breath, realization dawning heavy and slow. He looked at Natalieânot the hunter, not the capable womanâbut the girl heâd raised, scraped knees and all. His mouth opened, then closed again.
Natalieâs eyes flicked to him, then away.
Dean stepped closer, lowering his voiceânot softer, but steadier. âYou donât get to shrug this off. Not with me. Not after that fall.â
She swallowed. âDeanââ
âThat scared the hell out of me,â he said, the admission slipping out before he could stop it. âSeeing you disappear like that? And then realizing you already walked away from something worse?â
Silence.
Sam shifted, uneasy. Bobby folded his arms tighter, jaw clenched, saying nothingâbut watching, listening.
Natalie let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a brief second like she was bracing herself.
âNot here,â she said quietly. âNot like this.â
Dean held her gaze, chest tight, fear still buzzing under his skin. Thenâreluctantlyâhe nodded.
âFine,â he said. âBut weâre not dropping it.â
She met his eyes again, something vulnerable flickering there before she masked it. âI know.â
The hunt pressed in around them once more, unfinished and impatient. But something else had shifted nowâsomething just as dangerous, just as unavoidable.
Dean stepped back, jaw set.
Because whatever Natalie had survived in Nova Scotia had come back with her.
And this time, he wasnât letting it stay buried.
Then:
They were fourteen and thirteen and sitting on the back bumper of Bobbyâs old truck, the sky just tipping toward dusk. The air smelled like oil and cut grass, cicadas humming steady in the trees.
Dean had been quiet for a while.
Natalie noticed. She always did.
âWhat?â she asked finally, nudging his knee with hers.
He shrugged, too casual. âNothing.â
âLiar.â
He huffed. âShut up.â
She smiled faintly, then sobered when he didnât smile back.
âI heard something,â he said after a minute.
She stilled. âWhat?â
âIn the kitchen. Other night.â He picked at a loose thread on his jeans. âYou werenât around. Your mom was talking to Bobby.â
Natalieâs expression changedânot defensive, not yet. Just guarded.
Dean glanced at her, then away. âI kinda always figured⊠I dunno. That maybe your parents were divorced. Or Bobby was, like, your uncle or something.â
She didnât answer.
âI didnât realize,â he said quietly, âthat he wasnât family.â
The word hung there.
Natalie stared out at the yard, jaw tightening just slightly. For a second, Dean thought she might tell him to mind his business. Tell him it didnât matter.
Instead, she spoke.
âMy dadâs name was Leandro,â she said softly. âHe was a hunter.â
Dean went still.
âHe and Bobby were friends,â she continued. âOld friends. My dad helped teach Bobby some stuff when he was first getting into it.â
She swallowed.
âThey were on a hunt. Something went wrong.â Her voice thinned, just a little. âDad pushed Bobby out of the way. Took the hit.â
Deanâs stomach dropped.
âHe didnât make it,â she finished.
Silence settled heavy between them.
Dean didnât know what to say. Didnât know how to respond to something that felt so close to his own story and yet entirely hers.
âSo BobbyâŠâ he started.
âBobby blamed himself,â Natalie said. âEven though it wasnât his fault. Mom says he came by every week after that. Fixed things. Brought groceries. Helped with bills.â
She glanced down at her hands.
âWhen it got hard,â she went on, âwhen Mom needed to work more hours or just⊠breathe⊠Bobby said I could come stay with him. Whenever. No questions.â
Dean absorbed that slowly.
âSo youâre not, like, related,â he said.
Natalie shook her head. âNot by blood.â
He nodded once. âHe kinda acts like you are.â
Her lips curved faintly. âYeah.â
Dean kicked at a pebble near his boot. âYour dad⊠he saved Bobby?â
âYeah.â
Dean nodded slowly. âGuess that makes sense,â he muttered.
Natalie looked at him sideways. âWhat?â
He hesitated. âMy momâŠâ He swallowed. âShe died in Samâs nursery.â
Natalie went very still.
âThere was a fire,â he said, voice rougher now. âI donât remember everything. Just⊠flames. Dad yelling at me to grab Sam. To run.â
He stared straight ahead, eyes distant.
âShe was on the ceiling,â he added quietly. âI donât know how. She just⊠was.â
Natalieâs fingers curled into the fabric of her jeans.
âI donât know why it happened,â Dean said. âJust that it did. And then everything changed.â
He shrugged, but it wasnât careless.
âSo yeah,â he said after a moment. âYour dad died on a hunt. My mom died⊠in that room. Guess thatâs just how it goes.â
Natalie reached over and rested her hand on his forearm, gentle and steady.
âIâm sorry,â she said.
Dean nodded once. âYeah.â
They sat there in silence, griefs different but familiar, braided together by circumstance neither of them had chosen.
âHey,â Dean said eventually.
âWhat?â
âYouâre stuck with him,â he said, jerking his chin toward the house. âBobby.â
A small smile touched her mouth. âI know.â
Dean gave a faint nod.
âGood.â
And for the first time, he understood that the bond tying Natalie to Bobby wasnât blood.
It was something else.
Something chosen.
Something that lasted.
Now:
The air shifted just before sunset.
Dean felt it firstânot in some mystical, psychic way. Just instinct. The pressure in the ground had changed. The restless thrum beneath the farm had grown sharper, tighter, like something straining against a line pulled too thin.
Sam was crouched near the collapsed shaft, flipping through notes. âOkay,â he said, more to himself than anyone else. âIf the well was the original boundary marker, then when it collapsed, it broke the containment ring entirely.â
Bobby adjusted his cap and scanned the field. âWhich means we donât salt-and-burn.â
Natalie straightened from where sheâd been examining the exposed earth. Dirt streaked her hands, hair wind-tossed, eyes focused in a way that told Dean sheâd shoved everything else aside for now.
âWe rebuild it,â she said. âNot the structure. The intent.â
Dean arched a brow. âIntent.â
She glanced at him. âOriginal property line was set with running water as the boundary. The well tied that energy down. If we can reestablish the perimeter with iron and salt in the same patternââ
ââit resets the seal,â Sam finished, catching on.
Bobby grunted approval. âTemporary, but itâll hold long enough.â
Dean grabbed the iron stakes from the trunk of the Impala, glancing at Natalie as he passed her one. Their hands brushed. Neither of them commented.
They worked fast.
Sam measured out the original line based on the old plat map. Bobby drove iron into the soil with steady, practiced blows. Dean salted the perimeter in a clean, unbroken line. Natalie walked it last, murmuring the binding in careful Latin, voice low but unwavering.
The ground trembled once.
A pulse.
Then another.
Water surged up through the collapsed shaft, not violentlyâjust enough to break the surface, clear and cold. The air lost its weight. The pressure eased.
Silence fell.
Dean stood still, listening. Waiting for something to lash back.
Nothing did.
Sam exhaled first. âI think that did it.â
Bobby wiped his hands on his jeans. âYeah.â
Natalie stepped back from the line, shoulders loosening for the first time since theyâd arrived. âItâs settled,â she said.
Dean studied her profile, watching the way the tension left her body. For a moment, she looked younger. Less guarded.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the field in soft gold.
Dean let out a breath he hadnât realized heâd been holding. âWell,â he said lightly, though his voice carried something deeper. âGuess we still know what weâre doing.â
Natalie glanced at him, a small smile curving her mouth. âGuess so.â
Bobby clapped his hands once. âAll right. Pack it up. Before somethinâ else decides to crawl outta the dirt.â
They moved back toward the cars together, the hunt resolved, the farm quiet again.
But as Dean walked beside Natalie, close enough to feel her warmth in the cooling air, he knew one thing with certainty:
The water spirit had been easier.
Because some boundaries, once broken, didnât reset so cleanly.
And tonight, one of those was waiting between them.
Then:
It had taken Natalie three days to work up the nerve.
Missouri Moseleyâs place didnât look like much from the outsideâbrick, narrow, unassumingâbut the moment Natalie stepped inside, the air felt different. Warmer. Heavier. Like the room already knew her before sheâd opened her mouth.
Missouri didnât look up right away. She was stirring something in a chipped teacup, movements unhurried, precise.
âYou can sit down,â she said mildly.
Natalie blinked. âI didnâtââ
âYou didnât call ahead. I know.â Missouri set the spoon aside and finally lifted her gaze. Her eyes were sharp, assessing without cruelty. âYouâve been pacing outside for twelve minutes.â
Natalie flushed faintly and sat.
She opened her mouth.
Missouri held up a hand. âBefore you say a word,â she said calmly, âI already know why youâre here.â
Natalie went still.
âItâs about your father,â Missouri continued. âLeandro.â
The name hit like a physical thing.
Natalieâs fingers tightened in her lap. âIââ
âYouâre wondering if heâs at rest,â Missouri went on gently. âIf heâs okay. If he made it somewhere better than what youâve seen out there.â
Natalie stared at her.
Because yes.
Because Heaven and Hell werenât theory anymore. They werenât folklore whispered between hunters in motel rooms. They were real. Tangible. Structured. Bureaucratic in a way that made her skin crawl.
And if Heaven and Hell were realâ
Then where was her father?
âIâve seen things,â Natalie said quietly. âHeard things. Angels. Demons. Deals.â Her voice faltered. âAnd I keep thinkingâwhat if he didnât land where he was supposed to?â
Missouri studied her for a long moment, silent.
Natalie swallowed. âHe died saving someone,â she said. âHe was good. He deservedââ She stopped, jaw tightening. âI just need to know heâs okay.â
The room felt very small.
Missouri leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap.
âBaby girl,â she said softly, and there was something in her tone that made Natalieâs stomach drop, âI donât think youâre ready for this.â
The words hung between them.
Not unkind.
Not cruel.
But heavy.
And for the first time since sheâd walked through the door, Natalie wondered if the truth she was chasing might be worse than not knowing at all.
Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007
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(Or that time Dean tried to celebrate Valentine's Day)
Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean decides to enjoy Valentine's Day--and it just goes bad for our Casanova. For once, hilarity does not ensue. This is a one-shot. (And does take place after Supernatural - Happy Birthday Dean.)
Author's Note: I couldn't resist. After writing Supernatural Thanksgiving, Supernatural Christmas, and Supernatural New Year, Dean's birthday, and enjoying it, I had to do a short story to celebrate Valentine's Day! I'm going to keep doing little one-shots with various events and holidays to shove Dean and Sam in (usually) comedic moments, I think, for the time being--so if you're interested to read future one-shots, let me know and I'll add you to those tag lists!
If you enjoyed it, please consider donating to my ko-fi! (Not required, I promise!)
Divider: by @talesmaniac89
The bunker was quiet in the way only underground places could beâinsulated from weather, from sunlight, from anything that marked time in a natural way. Morning didnât arrive with birds or pale gold light. It arrived with the soft mechanical hum of old systems coming online and the distant clank of pipes adjusting to temperature shifts.
Sam was awake before Dean.
He usually was.
He lay on his back for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the familiar ceiling above his bed. Concrete. Hairline cracks heâd memorized years ago. A place that was safeâor as safe as anything in their lives got.
His brain was already halfway through a case file when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful. Too energetic for 8 a.m.
Sam closed his eyes briefly.
No.
The door to his room swung open without ceremony.
âSammy.â
Sam didnât move. âItâs eight.â
âAnd?â
âAnd that is too early for whatever tone youâre using.â
Dean stepped fully into the room, already dressed, already in boots, jacket slung over one shoulder like he was about to make a dramatic exit.
There was something in his expressionânot manic, not agitated.
Bright.
âRise and shine,â Dean declared. âItâs February 14th.â
Sam cracked one eye open. âIâm aware.â
Dean grinned. âGood. Because today?â He pointed at himself. âIs my day.â
Sam stared at him. ââŠYour birthday is in January.â
Dean scoffed. âNot that day.â
Sam pushed himself upright slowly. âWhat are you talking about?â
Deanâs grin widened like heâd been waiting his entire life for this reveal. âValentineâs Day, Sammy.â
Silence.
Sam blinked. âYou hate Valentineâs Day.â
âNo, I hate corporate nonsense,â Dean corrected immediately. âTotally different.â
Sam rubbed his face. âYou once referred to it as âHallmarkâs annual emotional hostage situation.ââ
Dean waved that off. âYeah, well. Growth.â
Sam squinted at him. âWhat kind of growth?â
Dean spread his hands wide like he was presenting a thesis. âThink about it. The entire world is out tonight. Emotions high. Expectations low. People are feeling festive, maybe a little bold.â
Sam stared.
Dean leaned in slightly. âItâs my Super Bowl.â
Sam let out a slow breath. âYou cannot be serious.â
Dean shrugged. âWhy not?â
âBecause,â Sam said carefully, âyou donât even like this holiday.â
Deanâs jaw tightened just slightlyâso briefly most people wouldnât have noticed.
But Sam did.
Dean recovered fast. âI donât like the pressure. Big difference. Tonight? No pressure. Just fun.â
Sam studied him. This wasnât just bravado. This was deliberate. âYouâve been thinking about this,â Sam said.
Dean shrugged again, but it wasnât casual this time. âMaybe.â
Sam swung his legs off the bed and stood. âSo whatâs the plan?â he asked.
Deanâs smile turned sharp and confident. âWe hit a bar. Somewhere with bad decorations and cheap drinks. We observe the field.â
âObserve the field.â
âScout the terrain.â
âYouâre not a lion.â
âAgree to disagree.â
Sam couldnât help itâhe smiled despite himself. But there was something else under it. Something tugging faintly at his instincts.
Dean didnât do random enthusiasm.
Dean did distraction.
âYou sure about this?â Sam asked, more gently.
Dean tilted his head. âWhat, you donât think I still got it?â
Sam hesitated.
Dean caught it. âOh come on,â Dean said. âYouâve seen me.â
âThatâs not what I meant.â
Deanâs eyes narrowed playfully. âSounded like what you meant.â
Sam crossed his arms. âI just donât want to sit in some over-decorated bar while you crash and burn.â
Dean laughed. âI donât crash.â
âYou crashed on New Yearâs.â
âThat was shelving.â
âYou crashed at Christmas.â
âThat was mice.â
âYou crashed at Thanksgiving.â
âThat was cooking.â
Sam held up a finger. âPattern.â
Dean rolled his eyes. âDifferent category.â
Sam sighed. He didnât actually mind going. Truthfully, part of him was curious.
Not about Dean flirtingâthat wasnât new. But about why this mattered enough for Dean to wake him up like this.
âI'm driving,â Sam said finally.
Deanâs expression immediately shifted. âWhoa. Hold up.â
Sam raised an eyebrow. âWhat.â
âYou think Iâm letting you drive tonight?â
Sam stared at him. âWhy wouldnât you?â
Dean looked genuinely offended. âBecause itâs Valentineâs Day.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I am not showing up somewhere with you behind the wheel like Iâm being chaperoned.â
Sam blinked. âYou are being chaperoned.â
Dean pointed at him. âNot officially.â
Sam shook his head. âDean, if youâre planning on drinkingââ
âIâm not getting wrecked.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
Dean stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. âSammy. I do not let you drive unless Iâm three sheets to the wind.â
âThatâs not a rule.â
âItâs absolutely a rule.â
Sam couldnât help a small laugh. âThatâs insane.â
âItâs tradition.â
âYou made that up.â
Dean grinned. âStill counts.â
Sam studied him for another long moment.
Dean wasnât joking.
Not entirely.
There was something almost stubborn about itâabout driving, about control, about presenting the right image.
âYouâre really doing this,â Sam said quietly.
Dean shrugged. âYeah.â
A beat passed.
Then he added, softer, almost offhand: âWhat? You think I donât deserve a night?â
That landed differently.
Samâs posture shifted.
It wasnât about ego. It wasnât about conquest. It was about proving something. Maybe to the world. Maybe to himself.
Sam grabbed his jacket from the chair. âFine,â he said.
Deanâs eyes lit up immediately. âAtta boy.â
âBut,â Sam added, âI reserve the right to mock you mercilessly.â
Dean smirked. âYou always do.â
They walked down the hall together, boots echoing faintly against concrete.
Sam felt it thenânot dread.
Just⊠anticipation.
Dean was too confident. Too deliberate. And in their world, confidence like that tended to attract attention.
Not always the kind you wanted.
As they reached the garage, Dean tossed Sam the keys.
Sam caught them automatically. ââŠYou just said I wasnât driving.â
Dean smirked. âWarm the car up.â
Sam sighed.
Dean climbed into the driverâs seat a second later.
The Impala roared to life, steady and familiar.
Dean rested his hands on the wheel like he was settling into something sacred. âValentineâs Day,â he muttered, almost to himself. âLetâs see what you got.â
Sam glanced at him sideways. Just a secondâDean didnât look cocky. He looked hopeful. Sam didnât comment. He just settled into the passenger seat. And they pulled out of the bunker.
The Impala rolled out onto the highway with the low, steady purr of an engine that had seen everything and judged none of it.
The night air was cold but clear. February sharpness. The kind that turned breath into smoke and made everything feel just a little more exposed.
Dean drove.
Of course he drove.
One hand loose on the wheel. The other resting casually near the gearshift. Classic rock low on the radioânot blasting, not performative. Just there.
Sam watched him without making it obvious.
âYouâre awfully quiet,â Dean said after a few miles.
âIâm observing the field,â Sam replied.
Dean snorted. âYou donât observe. You overthink.â
âThatâs literally observing.â
Dean glanced at him, amused. âYouâre trying to figure out why I care.â
Sam didnât deny it.
âAren't you?â Dean asked.
Sam shrugged. âYou donât usually announce holidays like a conquering hero.â
Deanâs mouth twitched. âIâm not conquering anything.â
âUh-huh.â
Dean exhaled slowly through his nose. It wasnât defensive. It wasnât irritated. It was thoughtful.
âLook,â he said finally. âYou ever notice how this day messes people up?â
Sam tilted his head. âYeah. How?â
âExpectations,â Dean said. âEveryone walks around thinking tonightâs supposed to be something big. Magical. Life-changing.â
Sam considered that. âThatâs⊠a little cynical.â
Dean shrugged. âMaybe. But itâs predictable.â
âAnd you like predictable?â
âNo,â Dean said immediately. âI like odds.â
Sam waited.
Dean continued, eyes on the road. âThink about it. People are out. Theyâre open. Theyâre not hiding in their houses. Theyâre dressed up. Theyâre feeling something.â
âAnd thatâs your angle?â Sam asked.
Dean smirked faintly. âItâs not an angle.â
âSounds like an angle.â
Dean shook his head.
âItâs justâŠâ He paused. âEveryoneâs looking for something tonight.â
That sat there.
Sam watched the passing road signs blur by. âAnd you're looking for... what?â Sam asked quietly.
Deanâs jaw shifted. âFor fun,â he said lightly. âDonât make it heavy.â
Sam didnât push. But he filed it away. Because Dean wasnât wrong.
Valentineâs Day did make people reach. Even people who swore they didnât care.
The Impala took a turn into town.
Lights glowed warmer here. Storefronts decorated. Red paper hearts taped to windows. Strings of white lights looped around streetlamps.
Deanâs posture shifted just slightly as they drove through it. Not tense. Not nervous.
Alert.
Like he was stepping onto a field he knew how to navigate.
âYouâre not getting hammered,â Sam said.
Dean scoffed. âI know how to pace.â
âYou say that every time.â
âAnd Iâm usually right.â
Sam raised an eyebrow.
Dean shot him a look. âUnless thereâs tequila.â
âThereâs always tequila.â
Dean grinned. âThen pray for me.â
They passed three bars before Dean slowed.
The fourth one had heart-shaped neon in the window and a sign advertising half-price drinks for couples.
Dean nodded once. âPerfect.â
Sam stared at the sign. âYouâre not a couple.â
Dean glanced at him. âYou wound me.â
Sam sighed as Dean pulled into a parking space.
The engine cut. The silence settled in.
Dean sat there for a second longer than necessary.
Sam noticed. âYou good?â Sam asked.
Dean looked at him, then away. âYeah,â he said. âWhy wouldnât I be?â
Sam considered calling it. He considered suggesting they just grab food instead. A burger joint. Something neutral. But he didnât. Because Deanâs eyes were steady now.
Because Dean looked⊠determined.
And because sometimes you had to let your brother try.
âAlright,â Sam said.
Dean pushed open the door. âTry not to scare anyone.â
âYouâre the one prowling.â
Dean shot him a grin over the roof of the car. âSammy,â he said confidently, âtonightâs my night.â
They stepped inside.
The bar smelled like sugar and citrus and cheap perfume.
Music played just a little too loudâsomething upbeat and vaguely romantic that had probably been selected by someone who thought irony counted as atmosphere. Red paper hearts dangled from the ceiling. Fairy lights lined the shelves behind the bar, casting everything in a warm, forgiving glow.
It was crowded, but not packed. Enough movement to feel alive. Enough noise to disappear into.
Dean paused just inside the doorway, scanning.
Sam watched him do it.
It wasnât predatory. It wasnât crude. It was assessment. He read rooms the way other people read weather patterns â where the tension was, who was relaxed, who was trying too hard.
Deanâs shoulders settled. âSee?â he murmured. âPrime.â
Sam slid into a booth near the wall. âIâll be here. Documenting your downfall.â
Dean shot him a look. âHater.â But he was smiling.
He approached the bar.
And this timeâthis timeâit was normal.
â
Attempt One
Dean leaned beside a woman waiting for her drink. She had dark hair pulled back loosely, gold hoops in her ears, a red sweater that matched the decor almost too well.
âBusy tonight,â Dean said, casual.
She smiled. âYou think?â
He tilted his head toward the banner strung behind the bar. âGuess theyâre leaning into it.â
She laughed softly. âItâs kind of ridiculous.â
âKind of?â Dean said. âI feel like Iâm about to be serenaded by a violinist hiding under a table.â
She grinned.
Sam felt himself relax. Okay. See? This was fine.
The woman introduced herself. They talked. Nothing dramatic. Nothing sharp. Just easy back-and-forth.
Dean wasnât trying too hard. That was what Sam noticed most. He wasnât performing. He wasnât laying it on thick. He was just⊠talking.
After a minute, her friends called her back over. She hesitated slightly, then gave Dean a polite, genuine smile. âNice talking to you.â
âLikewise.â
She left.
Dean returned to the booth with a small shrug. âSee?â he said.
Sam raised his hands. âFunctional.â
Dean smirked. âPlease. Iâm just warming up.â
Sam rolled his eyes but felt the knot in his chest loosen a fraction.
This was fine.
â
Attempt Two
The second one started fine, too.
A blonde near the jukebox. Confident stance. Sharp laugh.
Dean approached with that same steady ease.
Sam didnât hear everything this timeâthe music was louder hereâbut he watched body language.
Dean leaned in. The woman leaned back slightly. Not rejection. Just recalibration.
Dean said something. She smiledâbut it didnât quite reach her eyes. Her posture stiffened.
Samâs brow furrowed.
Dean adjusted immediately. Stepped back half an inch. Softened. The woman crossed her arms. That was new.
Dean said something elseâa little lighter. The womanâs expression shifted from guarded to wary. And then, almost abruptly, she shook her head.
âSorry,â she said, too sharp for the tone of the room.
Dean blinked. He hadnât touched her. Hadnât leaned too close. Hadnât said anything outrageous. He stepped back, hands up slightly. âHey, no worries.â
She walked away quickly.
Dean stood there for a second. Just a second. Long enough for Sam to notice. Then he shrugged it off and came back.
âOkay,â Dean muttered as he slid into the booth. âThat one was weird.â
Sam tilted his head. âYou werenât pushing.â
âI wasnât anything,â Dean said. âI complimented her jacket.â
Sam studied him. It could still be coincidence. People were unpredictable. Valentineâs Day amplified things. Emotions high. Expectations everywhere.
âMaybe sheâs just on edge,â Sam offered.
Dean nodded once. âYeah.â
But he didnât sound convinced.
â
Attempt Three
The third interaction was the first time Sam felt it. He didnât know what it was at first.
Just⊠something.
Dean approached someone sitting alone at the end of the bar. Brown curls. Soft smile. Nursing a drink. He didnât open with a line. He didnât joke. He just said, âHey.â
She smiled back.
And for a momentâit looked easy again.
Dean relaxed visibly.
Sam leaned back, folding his arms. Okay. There it is.
But then... the womanâs smile faltered. It didnât vanish. It⊠cracked. Like something had slipped into the space between them. Her eyes narrowed just slightly.
âYouâre not serious,â she said quietly.
Dean frowned. âAbout?â
âWhatever this is.â
Her tone wasnât angry. It was wounded.
Dean straightened a little. âItâs just a conversation.â
She shook her head, almost to herself. âYou donât even know me.â
âI was trying to,â Dean said.
Her jaw tightened. âYouâre just going to leave.â
The words werenât accusing. They were certain.
Dean blinked. âIâwhat?â
But she was already pulling away. Turning back to her drink. The conversation died mid-breath.
Dean stood there longer this time. Not embarrassed. Not annoyed. Confused.
He walked back slower.
Samâs amusement had completely drained. âWhat did you say?â Sam asked quietly.
âNothing,â Dean replied. âI said hi.â
Sam replayed it in his head. The first one had been fine. The secondâsharp. The thirdâemotional. Immediate. Disproportionate. And not in a way that tracked.
Dean leaned back in the booth and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. âOkay,â he muttered. âNow thatâs weird.â
Sam didnât answer right away. Because he felt it again. The air in the bar. It wasnât colder. It wasnât darker. But something had tightened.
At the far table, a couple was arguing now. Low voices, tense. Near the entrance, someone brushed past someone else too hard. The energy in the room had shifted.
Dean looked up. âYou feel that?â
Sam nodded slowly. âYeah.â
Deanâs jaw flexed. âThis isnât just bad luck.â
And for the first time that night, Sam wasnât watching Dean.
He was watching the room.
The shift in the bar wasnât loud.
That was what made it worse.
There was no dramatic drop in temperature. No flicker of lights. No obvious sign that something supernatural had slipped its way into the evening.
It was subtle. Like static under music.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring into the middle distance. âOkay,â he said slowly. âThreeâs a coincidence.â
Sam didnât respond.
Dean glanced at him. âDonât look at me like that.â
âLike what.â
âLike Iâm already dead.â
Sam exhaled lightly. âIâm just observing.â
Dean scoffed. âOverthinking.â
But he wasnât smiling now. He looked toward the bar againânot hunting this time. Assessing.
Sam watched his brother carefully.
Dean didnât handle rejection poorly. He never had. It slid off him most of the timeâego intact, confidence undented. But this wasnât rejection.
This was something else.
It wasnât âno.â It was emotional recoil. Every time.
âYou want to bail?â Sam asked quietly.
Dean shook his head almost immediately. âNo.â
The answer was firm. Too firm.
âWhy not,â Sam pressed gently.
Dean looked at him thenâreally looked at himâand something flickered there. Stubbornness. And something underneath it.
âBecause I didnât do anything wrong,â Dean said.
It wasnât defensive. It was factual.
Sam nodded slowly. âI know.â
Dean leaned back, jaw tight. âThen Iâm not walking out like I did.â
Sam caught that.
Like I did.
Not like I failed.
Not like I embarrassed myself.
Like I did.
Like there was something he was supposed to do differently. Sam didnât push it. Instead, he let the silence settle between them.
The music shifted to something slower. A love song heavy on strings.
A couple near the bar started arguing more visibly now. Not shoutingâbut sharp gestures. Accusations in tight whispers. At another table, a woman laughed too loudly at something that wasnât funny. The atmosphere was tightening.
Dean stood.
Sam tensed slightly. âDean.â
âIâm not quitting,â Dean said quietly.
It wasnât bravado. It wasnât cockiness. It was resolve.
He moved toward the far end of the barânot toward the loudest group, not toward someone already smiling. He chose someone standing alone near the window.
Dark hair. Soft posture. Not guarded.
Dean approached slower this time.
Sam leaned forward in the booth, watching closely.
Dean didnât lead with a joke. Didnât comment on the decorations.
He just said, gently, âHey.â
The woman looked up. Her expression was neutralâthen warm. âHi.â
For a moment, everything stilled. The music faded in Samâs awareness. The noise of the bar dimmed.
Dean smiledâsmall. Honest. âIâm Dean.â
The womanâs lips parted like she was about to respond. And then, her expression changed. Not slowly. Not gradually. Like something had slammed into her thoughts.
Her warmth drained. Her eyes darkened with sudden suspicion. âYou donât mean that,â she said quietly.
Dean blinked. âMean what?â
âWhatever this is.â Her hand tightened around her glass. âYouâre just going to leave.â
There it was again. That same certainty.
Deanâs shoulders stiffened. âI donât even know you yet,â he said.
âExactly.â
The word landed hard.
She stepped back. The air between them felt brittle.
Dean stood there for half a second too longâlike he was trying to see what she was seeing. Then he stepped back. Slowly.
He didnât argue. Didnât joke. Didnât deflect. He just walked away.
Samâs chest tightened.
Dean slid back into the booth and stared at the table. âOkay,â he said under his breath. âWhat the hell.â
Sam didnât laugh.
The room was louder nowânot in volume, but in tension. Two people near the jukebox were arguing openly. A man shoved past someone too hard. A drink spilled. The bartender snapped at someone unnecessarily.
Emotions were spiking in the wrong directions.
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. âYou see that, right?â he asked.
Sam nodded slowly. âYeah.â
Dean looked upâand for the first time that night, the confidence wasnât there. Not gone. But cracked.
âIâm not saying anything different,â Dean said quietly. âIâm not pushing. Iâm not being a jerk.â
âI know,â Sam said.
Dean swallowed. âSo, what is it?â
That wasnât a rhetorical question. That was the moment Sam stopped pretending this was coincidence. Because it wasnât just happening to Dean. It was happening around him.
Amplifying.
Like something was leaning into every moment he opened himselfâeven a littleâand twisting it toward doubt.
Samâs eyes drifted upward. Not consciously at first. Just scanning. Ceiling beams. Lighting fixtures. Dark corners. The fairy lights near the rafters flickered once.
Only once.
But Sam saw it. And in that flickerâhe thought he saw movement. Something angular. Something perched. Watching. His stomach dropped.
Dean was still talking. ââŠIâm not losing my edge, right?â
There it was. Not ego. Not pride. Something else.
Sam looked at his brother. At the way Deanâs jaw was set just slightly too tight. At the way he was trying not to look affected. At the way he had meant it when he said he wasnât walking out like that. And Sam felt it.
The pattern. The target.
âStay here,â Sam said quietly.
Dean frowned. âWhy.â
âJust⊠stay.â
Deanâs eyes narrowed. âSam.â
Sam stood. âI think this isnât about you,â he said.
Dean scoffed lightly. âFeels like it is.â
Sam looked at himâsteady, certain. âNo,â he said. And then he turned his eyes back to the ceiling.
This time, when the fairy lights flickeredâhe saw it clearly.
Something long-limbed and gaunt, perched along the beam like a bird that had forgotten how to be beautiful. Its head tilted. Not cherubic. Not winged. Sharp. Watching Dean.
And when Dean shifted in the boothâthe thing leaned forward.
Interested.
Sam didnât bolt.
He didnât shove his way through the crowd or draw attention. He stood carefully, casually, like he was heading for the restroom. âStay here,â he repeated.
Deanâs eyes narrowed immediately. âThatâs not how this works.â
âI need to check something.â
Dean leaned forward slightly. âYou saw something.â
It wasnât a question.
Sam hesitated just long enough to confirm it.
Dean followed his gaze upward.
The rafters were dark, but not empty. The fairy lights flickered again. For half a second, the outline sharpened.
Long limbs folded unnaturally. Fingers hooked around a beam. A narrow skull crowned with something like fractured antlers â not bone, not wood, but something jagged and wrong.
It wasnât glowing. It wasnât dramatic. It was subtle. Which made it worse.
Deanâs voice dropped. âThatâs not Cupid.â
âNo,â Sam murmured.
The thing tilted its head.
And when Dean shifted in his seatâwhen his shoulders squared again like he was about to stand and try one more timeâthe creature leaned forward slightly.
Interested.
Dean noticed that too. âWell,â he muttered, âthat explains the vibe.â
Sam didnât answer. He watched the room instead.
A couple near the bar was now arguing openly. Not shoutingâbut the kind of tight, wounded words that landed deeper than volume. A woman at a high-top table was staring at her phone with tears in her eyes. A man at the counter clenched his jaw so tight the muscle ticked visibly.
It wasnât just Dean anymore. The thing wasnât creating heartbreak. It was accelerating it. Every insecurity. Every doubt. Every unresolved bruise under the surface.
Valentineâs Day was doing half the work for it.
Dean stood slowly. âOkay,â he said under his breath. âWe take it outside.â
Sam nodded once.
Dean didnât make a scene. Didnât reach for a weapon yet. He just walked toward the exit like a man stepping out for air. The creatureâs head tracked him. Sam followed.
The moment Dean pushed open the door, cold air sliced through the warmth of the bar. The music muffled behind them. And the thing moved.
It didnât flap. It didnât swoop. It simply dropped from the beam. Soundless. Landing in the alley across the street, where shadows pooled between dumpsters and brick.
Deanâs posture shifted immediatelyâhunter, not flirt. âAnti-Cupid,â he muttered.
Sam exhaled slowly. âLooks like it.â
Dean glanced at him. âYouâve seen one before?â
âNo.â
Dean tilted his head slightly. âMe neither.â
They crossed the street together. The alley was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against the ears. The creature stood half in shadow, half in streetlight glow.
Up close, it was worse. Its body was thin, almost skeletal, but not weak. Long arms. Too many joints. Fingers that tapered into fine points rather than claws. Its face wasnât monstrous. It was almost human.
Too human.
Eyes hollowed by something like disappointment. And where Cupid might carry a bowâthis thing carried nothing. It didnât need to.
It stepped forward. The air shifted. Sam felt it immediatelyâa pressure behind his eyes. Thoughts that werenât his.
You always leave.
You donât mean it.
Youâre not staying.
He clenched his jaw.
Dean staggered half a step, just barely.
And that was what made Samâs stomach drop.
It wasnât projecting rage. It was projecting doubt. Amplifying the quiet voice everyone carried under their ribs.
Dean recovered quickly. âHey,â he called out to it. âYou wanna explain yourself?â
The creature tilted its head again. It didnât speak. It didnât need to. Its gaze fixed on Dean.
And Sam understood.
It wasnât feeding on love. It wasnât feeding on heartbreak. It was feeding on the moment before vulnerabilityâthe risk. The attempt.
Every time Dean opened himself even slightly tonightâeven casuallyâthe creature leaned in.
It twisted the response. It made the other person feel the worst-case outcome before anything could form. It turned potential into collapse.
Deanâs mouth pressed into a thin line. âSo thatâs what this is,â he said quietly.
Sam looked at him.
Dean didnât look embarrassed anymore. He looked angry. Not at the women. Not at himself. At the thing.
âYou donât get to do that,â Dean said.
The creature stepped closer. The pressure intensified.
Sam felt a flicker of old memories brush his thoughtsâpeople leaving, doors closing, choices that werenât his to make. He pushed it down.
Dean fired first.
Silver round. The creature recoiled, not dramaticallyâjust enough to confirm it was tangible. It hissed. The sound wasnât animal. It was almost⊠disappointed.
Dean advanced. âYeah,â he muttered. âThatâs right.â
The creature lunged. Not at Sam. At Dean. Because Dean was the one trying. Because Dean was the one reaching.
They collided hard against brick.
Sam moved fast, grabbing iron from his jacket pocket and slamming it into the creatureâs side.
It shriekedânot in pain. In frustration. Like the interruption offended it.
Dean shoved it back, jaw clenched. âGet out of my night,â he snapped.
The creatureâs gaze burned into him. And for one secondâjust oneâDean hesitated. Something in his expression flickered.
Sam saw it.
Not fear. Recognition. The creature fed on the idea that he would leave. That he wouldnât stay. That vulnerability wasnât safe.
Dean roared and drove the blade home.
The creature dissolved into shadow and grit, scattering into the alley like smoke ripped apart by wind.
Silence fell.
Dean stood there, breathing hard. He wiped a smear of dark residue from his cheek. ââŠSo,â he said. âNot my fault.â
Sam stepped closer. âNo,â he said quietly.
Dean let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. âGood,â he said.
They stood in the cold a moment longer. Inside the bar, the arguing had already softened. The pressure in the air had eased.
Dean rolled his shoulders once, resetting.
âYou wanna head back in?â Sam asked.
Dean looked at the door. Then at the empty alley. Then down at his hands. After a long second, he shook his head. âNah.â
It wasnât defeat. It wasnât embarrassment. It was tired. âLetâs just go home,â he said.
Sam nodded.
They walked back to the Impala in silence. Dean slid into the driverâs seat without comment. The engine started. The town lights fell away behind them.
For a few miles, neither spoke. Then Dean said lightly, staring at the road: âGuess I picked the wrong bar.â
Sam didnât smile. He kept his eyes forward. âNo,â he said softly. âYou didnât.â
Dean didnât ask what he meant. He just turned the radio up slightly.
And stared out into the dark.
The bunker greeted them with its usual hum.
Not warm.
Not cold.
Just steady.
Dean shut the door behind them and took off his jacket like nothing extraordinary had happened. Like they hadnât just killed a mythological inversion of romance in an alley behind a bar.
Like the night had been normal.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. âBeer?â he asked.
Sam leaned against the table instead of answering. âSure.â
Dean tossed him one without looking. The metal hit Samâs palm cold and solid. The kind of grounding you didnât get in bars decorated with paper hearts.
Dean popped his open and took a long drink. âStupid holiday,â he muttered.
Sam didnât respond.
Dean leaned back against the counter, casual, one ankle hooked over the other. âYou see that thingâs face?â he said. âLike it was disappointed.â
Sam nodded faintly. âIt wasnât disappointed,â Sam said.
Dean raised an eyebrow. âNo?â
âIt was hungry.â
Dean snorted. âYeah. Well. Wrong guy.â
Sam watched him carefully.
Deanâs posture was loose. His tone was light. But there was a faint tension in his shoulders that hadnât been there that morning.
âYou didnât look surprised,â Sam said.
Dean frowned slightly. âAbout what.â
âWhat it was feeding on.â
Dean took another drink instead of answering immediately. Then shrugged. âEverybodyâs got baggage,â he said.
âThatâs not what I meant.â
Deanâs jaw shifted. He looked at Sam for a secondâreally looked at himâand then looked away. âIt was messing with peopleâs heads,â he said. âThatâs all.â
Sam stepped closer to the table. âIt was messing with doubt,â he said quietly. âWith the fear that someoneâs just going to walk away.â
Dean stilled for half a beat. Barely noticeable. Then he scoffed. âMan, youâre making this way heavier than it was.â
âAm I?â
Dean pushed off the counter and walked past him toward the hallway. âIt was a monster,â he said. âWe killed it. The end.â
Sam didnât follow right away. He stood there, listening to the bunker hum around him. Because it hadnât just been a monster. It had targeted Dean. Specifically.
It hadnât gone after the loud couples. It hadnât attached to random tension. It had leaned forward every time Dean tried. Every time he opened himself even a fraction.
Dean reappeared in the doorway, beer in hand. âYou coming or you planning to psychoanalyze me all night?â
Sam gave him a small smile. âIâm not psychoanalyzing you.â
âGood.â Dean took another sip. Then, almost offhand: âI wasnât losing my touch.â
It wasnât a joke.
Sam met his eyes. âNo,â he said.
Dean held the gaze for a second longer than usual. Then he nodded once. âGood.â
He turned toward his room. Halfway down the hall, he stopped.
Without turning around, he said: âNext year, Iâm picking a different bar.â
Sam watched his back. There was humor in it. There was defiance. But there was something else too.
Hope.
Dean disappeared into his room.
The bunker settled.
Sam stayed in the kitchen a moment longer. He thought about the creatureâs eyes. About the way it leaned in when Dean smiled. About the certainty in those womenâs voices.
Youâre just going to leave.
Sam closed his eyes briefly. Because Dean had never been the one to leave. Dean stayed.
Thank you very much! I try to delve into the psyche of Dean in my fanfics, to really get to the root of him instead of the fantasy (if that even makes sense, lol). Iâm glad you liked it!
(Or that time Dean tried to celebrate Valentine's Day)
Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean decides to enjoy Valentine's Day--and it just goes bad for our Casanova. For once, hilarity does not ensue. This is a one-shot. (And does take place after Supernatural - Happy Birthday Dean.)
Author's Note: I couldn't resist. After writing Supernatural Thanksgiving, Supernatural Christmas, and Supernatural New Year, Dean's birthday, and enjoying it, I had to do a short story to celebrate Valentine's Day! I'm going to keep doing little one-shots with various events and holidays to shove Dean and Sam in (usually) comedic moments, I think, for the time being--so if you're interested to read future one-shots, let me know and I'll add you to those tag lists!
If you enjoyed it, please consider donating to my ko-fi! (Not required, I promise!)
Divider: by @talesmaniac89
The bunker was quiet in the way only underground places could beâinsulated from weather, from sunlight, from anything that marked time in a natural way. Morning didnât arrive with birds or pale gold light. It arrived with the soft mechanical hum of old systems coming online and the distant clank of pipes adjusting to temperature shifts.
Sam was awake before Dean.
He usually was.
He lay on his back for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the familiar ceiling above his bed. Concrete. Hairline cracks heâd memorized years ago. A place that was safeâor as safe as anything in their lives got.
His brain was already halfway through a case file when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful. Too energetic for 8 a.m.
Sam closed his eyes briefly.
No.
The door to his room swung open without ceremony.
âSammy.â
Sam didnât move. âItâs eight.â
âAnd?â
âAnd that is too early for whatever tone youâre using.â
Dean stepped fully into the room, already dressed, already in boots, jacket slung over one shoulder like he was about to make a dramatic exit.
There was something in his expressionânot manic, not agitated.
Bright.
âRise and shine,â Dean declared. âItâs February 14th.â
Sam cracked one eye open. âIâm aware.â
Dean grinned. âGood. Because today?â He pointed at himself. âIs my day.â
Sam stared at him. ââŠYour birthday is in January.â
Dean scoffed. âNot that day.â
Sam pushed himself upright slowly. âWhat are you talking about?â
Deanâs grin widened like heâd been waiting his entire life for this reveal. âValentineâs Day, Sammy.â
Silence.
Sam blinked. âYou hate Valentineâs Day.â
âNo, I hate corporate nonsense,â Dean corrected immediately. âTotally different.â
Sam rubbed his face. âYou once referred to it as âHallmarkâs annual emotional hostage situation.ââ
Dean waved that off. âYeah, well. Growth.â
Sam squinted at him. âWhat kind of growth?â
Dean spread his hands wide like he was presenting a thesis. âThink about it. The entire world is out tonight. Emotions high. Expectations low. People are feeling festive, maybe a little bold.â
Sam stared.
Dean leaned in slightly. âItâs my Super Bowl.â
Sam let out a slow breath. âYou cannot be serious.â
Dean shrugged. âWhy not?â
âBecause,â Sam said carefully, âyou donât even like this holiday.â
Deanâs jaw tightened just slightlyâso briefly most people wouldnât have noticed.
But Sam did.
Dean recovered fast. âI donât like the pressure. Big difference. Tonight? No pressure. Just fun.â
Sam studied him. This wasnât just bravado. This was deliberate. âYouâve been thinking about this,â Sam said.
Dean shrugged again, but it wasnât casual this time. âMaybe.â
Sam swung his legs off the bed and stood. âSo whatâs the plan?â he asked.
Deanâs smile turned sharp and confident. âWe hit a bar. Somewhere with bad decorations and cheap drinks. We observe the field.â
âObserve the field.â
âScout the terrain.â
âYouâre not a lion.â
âAgree to disagree.â
Sam couldnât help itâhe smiled despite himself. But there was something else under it. Something tugging faintly at his instincts.
Dean didnât do random enthusiasm.
Dean did distraction.
âYou sure about this?â Sam asked, more gently.
Dean tilted his head. âWhat, you donât think I still got it?â
Sam hesitated.
Dean caught it. âOh come on,â Dean said. âYouâve seen me.â
âThatâs not what I meant.â
Deanâs eyes narrowed playfully. âSounded like what you meant.â
Sam crossed his arms. âI just donât want to sit in some over-decorated bar while you crash and burn.â
Dean laughed. âI donât crash.â
âYou crashed on New Yearâs.â
âThat was shelving.â
âYou crashed at Christmas.â
âThat was mice.â
âYou crashed at Thanksgiving.â
âThat was cooking.â
Sam held up a finger. âPattern.â
Dean rolled his eyes. âDifferent category.â
Sam sighed. He didnât actually mind going. Truthfully, part of him was curious.
Not about Dean flirtingâthat wasnât new. But about why this mattered enough for Dean to wake him up like this.
âI'm driving,â Sam said finally.
Deanâs expression immediately shifted. âWhoa. Hold up.â
Sam raised an eyebrow. âWhat.â
âYou think Iâm letting you drive tonight?â
Sam stared at him. âWhy wouldnât you?â
Dean looked genuinely offended. âBecause itâs Valentineâs Day.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I am not showing up somewhere with you behind the wheel like Iâm being chaperoned.â
Sam blinked. âYou are being chaperoned.â
Dean pointed at him. âNot officially.â
Sam shook his head. âDean, if youâre planning on drinkingââ
âIâm not getting wrecked.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
Dean stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. âSammy. I do not let you drive unless Iâm three sheets to the wind.â
âThatâs not a rule.â
âItâs absolutely a rule.â
Sam couldnât help a small laugh. âThatâs insane.â
âItâs tradition.â
âYou made that up.â
Dean grinned. âStill counts.â
Sam studied him for another long moment.
Dean wasnât joking.
Not entirely.
There was something almost stubborn about itâabout driving, about control, about presenting the right image.
âYouâre really doing this,â Sam said quietly.
Dean shrugged. âYeah.â
A beat passed.
Then he added, softer, almost offhand: âWhat? You think I donât deserve a night?â
That landed differently.
Samâs posture shifted.
It wasnât about ego. It wasnât about conquest. It was about proving something. Maybe to the world. Maybe to himself.
Sam grabbed his jacket from the chair. âFine,â he said.
Deanâs eyes lit up immediately. âAtta boy.â
âBut,â Sam added, âI reserve the right to mock you mercilessly.â
Dean smirked. âYou always do.â
They walked down the hall together, boots echoing faintly against concrete.
Sam felt it thenânot dread.
Just⊠anticipation.
Dean was too confident. Too deliberate. And in their world, confidence like that tended to attract attention.
Not always the kind you wanted.
As they reached the garage, Dean tossed Sam the keys.
Sam caught them automatically. ââŠYou just said I wasnât driving.â
Dean smirked. âWarm the car up.â
Sam sighed.
Dean climbed into the driverâs seat a second later.
The Impala roared to life, steady and familiar.
Dean rested his hands on the wheel like he was settling into something sacred. âValentineâs Day,â he muttered, almost to himself. âLetâs see what you got.â
Sam glanced at him sideways. Just a secondâDean didnât look cocky. He looked hopeful. Sam didnât comment. He just settled into the passenger seat. And they pulled out of the bunker.
The Impala rolled out onto the highway with the low, steady purr of an engine that had seen everything and judged none of it.
The night air was cold but clear. February sharpness. The kind that turned breath into smoke and made everything feel just a little more exposed.
Dean drove.
Of course he drove.
One hand loose on the wheel. The other resting casually near the gearshift. Classic rock low on the radioânot blasting, not performative. Just there.
Sam watched him without making it obvious.
âYouâre awfully quiet,â Dean said after a few miles.
âIâm observing the field,â Sam replied.
Dean snorted. âYou donât observe. You overthink.â
âThatâs literally observing.â
Dean glanced at him, amused. âYouâre trying to figure out why I care.â
Sam didnât deny it.
âAren't you?â Dean asked.
Sam shrugged. âYou donât usually announce holidays like a conquering hero.â
Deanâs mouth twitched. âIâm not conquering anything.â
âUh-huh.â
Dean exhaled slowly through his nose. It wasnât defensive. It wasnât irritated. It was thoughtful.
âLook,â he said finally. âYou ever notice how this day messes people up?â
Sam tilted his head. âYeah. How?â
âExpectations,â Dean said. âEveryone walks around thinking tonightâs supposed to be something big. Magical. Life-changing.â
Sam considered that. âThatâs⊠a little cynical.â
Dean shrugged. âMaybe. But itâs predictable.â
âAnd you like predictable?â
âNo,â Dean said immediately. âI like odds.â
Sam waited.
Dean continued, eyes on the road. âThink about it. People are out. Theyâre open. Theyâre not hiding in their houses. Theyâre dressed up. Theyâre feeling something.â
âAnd thatâs your angle?â Sam asked.
Dean smirked faintly. âItâs not an angle.â
âSounds like an angle.â
Dean shook his head.
âItâs justâŠâ He paused. âEveryoneâs looking for something tonight.â
That sat there.
Sam watched the passing road signs blur by. âAnd you're looking for... what?â Sam asked quietly.
Deanâs jaw shifted. âFor fun,â he said lightly. âDonât make it heavy.â
Sam didnât push. But he filed it away. Because Dean wasnât wrong.
Valentineâs Day did make people reach. Even people who swore they didnât care.
The Impala took a turn into town.
Lights glowed warmer here. Storefronts decorated. Red paper hearts taped to windows. Strings of white lights looped around streetlamps.
Deanâs posture shifted just slightly as they drove through it. Not tense. Not nervous.
Alert.
Like he was stepping onto a field he knew how to navigate.
âYouâre not getting hammered,â Sam said.
Dean scoffed. âI know how to pace.â
âYou say that every time.â
âAnd Iâm usually right.â
Sam raised an eyebrow.
Dean shot him a look. âUnless thereâs tequila.â
âThereâs always tequila.â
Dean grinned. âThen pray for me.â
They passed three bars before Dean slowed.
The fourth one had heart-shaped neon in the window and a sign advertising half-price drinks for couples.
Dean nodded once. âPerfect.â
Sam stared at the sign. âYouâre not a couple.â
Dean glanced at him. âYou wound me.â
Sam sighed as Dean pulled into a parking space.
The engine cut. The silence settled in.
Dean sat there for a second longer than necessary.
Sam noticed. âYou good?â Sam asked.
Dean looked at him, then away. âYeah,â he said. âWhy wouldnât I be?â
Sam considered calling it. He considered suggesting they just grab food instead. A burger joint. Something neutral. But he didnât. Because Deanâs eyes were steady now.
Because Dean looked⊠determined.
And because sometimes you had to let your brother try.
âAlright,â Sam said.
Dean pushed open the door. âTry not to scare anyone.â
âYouâre the one prowling.â
Dean shot him a grin over the roof of the car. âSammy,â he said confidently, âtonightâs my night.â
They stepped inside.
The bar smelled like sugar and citrus and cheap perfume.
Music played just a little too loudâsomething upbeat and vaguely romantic that had probably been selected by someone who thought irony counted as atmosphere. Red paper hearts dangled from the ceiling. Fairy lights lined the shelves behind the bar, casting everything in a warm, forgiving glow.
It was crowded, but not packed. Enough movement to feel alive. Enough noise to disappear into.
Dean paused just inside the doorway, scanning.
Sam watched him do it.
It wasnât predatory. It wasnât crude. It was assessment. He read rooms the way other people read weather patterns â where the tension was, who was relaxed, who was trying too hard.
Deanâs shoulders settled. âSee?â he murmured. âPrime.â
Sam slid into a booth near the wall. âIâll be here. Documenting your downfall.â
Dean shot him a look. âHater.â But he was smiling.
He approached the bar.
And this timeâthis timeâit was normal.
â
Attempt One
Dean leaned beside a woman waiting for her drink. She had dark hair pulled back loosely, gold hoops in her ears, a red sweater that matched the decor almost too well.
âBusy tonight,â Dean said, casual.
She smiled. âYou think?â
He tilted his head toward the banner strung behind the bar. âGuess theyâre leaning into it.â
She laughed softly. âItâs kind of ridiculous.â
âKind of?â Dean said. âI feel like Iâm about to be serenaded by a violinist hiding under a table.â
She grinned.
Sam felt himself relax. Okay. See? This was fine.
The woman introduced herself. They talked. Nothing dramatic. Nothing sharp. Just easy back-and-forth.
Dean wasnât trying too hard. That was what Sam noticed most. He wasnât performing. He wasnât laying it on thick. He was just⊠talking.
After a minute, her friends called her back over. She hesitated slightly, then gave Dean a polite, genuine smile. âNice talking to you.â
âLikewise.â
She left.
Dean returned to the booth with a small shrug. âSee?â he said.
Sam raised his hands. âFunctional.â
Dean smirked. âPlease. Iâm just warming up.â
Sam rolled his eyes but felt the knot in his chest loosen a fraction.
This was fine.
â
Attempt Two
The second one started fine, too.
A blonde near the jukebox. Confident stance. Sharp laugh.
Dean approached with that same steady ease.
Sam didnât hear everything this timeâthe music was louder hereâbut he watched body language.
Dean leaned in. The woman leaned back slightly. Not rejection. Just recalibration.
Dean said something. She smiledâbut it didnât quite reach her eyes. Her posture stiffened.
Samâs brow furrowed.
Dean adjusted immediately. Stepped back half an inch. Softened. The woman crossed her arms. That was new.
Dean said something elseâa little lighter. The womanâs expression shifted from guarded to wary. And then, almost abruptly, she shook her head.
âSorry,â she said, too sharp for the tone of the room.
Dean blinked. He hadnât touched her. Hadnât leaned too close. Hadnât said anything outrageous. He stepped back, hands up slightly. âHey, no worries.â
She walked away quickly.
Dean stood there for a second. Just a second. Long enough for Sam to notice. Then he shrugged it off and came back.
âOkay,â Dean muttered as he slid into the booth. âThat one was weird.â
Sam tilted his head. âYou werenât pushing.â
âI wasnât anything,â Dean said. âI complimented her jacket.â
Sam studied him. It could still be coincidence. People were unpredictable. Valentineâs Day amplified things. Emotions high. Expectations everywhere.
âMaybe sheâs just on edge,â Sam offered.
Dean nodded once. âYeah.â
But he didnât sound convinced.
â
Attempt Three
The third interaction was the first time Sam felt it. He didnât know what it was at first.
Just⊠something.
Dean approached someone sitting alone at the end of the bar. Brown curls. Soft smile. Nursing a drink. He didnât open with a line. He didnât joke. He just said, âHey.â
She smiled back.
And for a momentâit looked easy again.
Dean relaxed visibly.
Sam leaned back, folding his arms. Okay. There it is.
But then... the womanâs smile faltered. It didnât vanish. It⊠cracked. Like something had slipped into the space between them. Her eyes narrowed just slightly.
âYouâre not serious,â she said quietly.
Dean frowned. âAbout?â
âWhatever this is.â
Her tone wasnât angry. It was wounded.
Dean straightened a little. âItâs just a conversation.â
She shook her head, almost to herself. âYou donât even know me.â
âI was trying to,â Dean said.
Her jaw tightened. âYouâre just going to leave.â
The words werenât accusing. They were certain.
Dean blinked. âIâwhat?â
But she was already pulling away. Turning back to her drink. The conversation died mid-breath.
Dean stood there longer this time. Not embarrassed. Not annoyed. Confused.
He walked back slower.
Samâs amusement had completely drained. âWhat did you say?â Sam asked quietly.
âNothing,â Dean replied. âI said hi.â
Sam replayed it in his head. The first one had been fine. The secondâsharp. The thirdâemotional. Immediate. Disproportionate. And not in a way that tracked.
Dean leaned back in the booth and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. âOkay,â he muttered. âNow thatâs weird.â
Sam didnât answer right away. Because he felt it again. The air in the bar. It wasnât colder. It wasnât darker. But something had tightened.
At the far table, a couple was arguing now. Low voices, tense. Near the entrance, someone brushed past someone else too hard. The energy in the room had shifted.
Dean looked up. âYou feel that?â
Sam nodded slowly. âYeah.â
Deanâs jaw flexed. âThis isnât just bad luck.â
And for the first time that night, Sam wasnât watching Dean.
He was watching the room.
The shift in the bar wasnât loud.
That was what made it worse.
There was no dramatic drop in temperature. No flicker of lights. No obvious sign that something supernatural had slipped its way into the evening.
It was subtle. Like static under music.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring into the middle distance. âOkay,â he said slowly. âThreeâs a coincidence.â
Sam didnât respond.
Dean glanced at him. âDonât look at me like that.â
âLike what.â
âLike Iâm already dead.â
Sam exhaled lightly. âIâm just observing.â
Dean scoffed. âOverthinking.â
But he wasnât smiling now. He looked toward the bar againânot hunting this time. Assessing.
Sam watched his brother carefully.
Dean didnât handle rejection poorly. He never had. It slid off him most of the timeâego intact, confidence undented. But this wasnât rejection.
This was something else.
It wasnât âno.â It was emotional recoil. Every time.
âYou want to bail?â Sam asked quietly.
Dean shook his head almost immediately. âNo.â
The answer was firm. Too firm.
âWhy not,â Sam pressed gently.
Dean looked at him thenâreally looked at himâand something flickered there. Stubbornness. And something underneath it.
âBecause I didnât do anything wrong,â Dean said.
It wasnât defensive. It was factual.
Sam nodded slowly. âI know.â
Dean leaned back, jaw tight. âThen Iâm not walking out like I did.â
Sam caught that.
Like I did.
Not like I failed.
Not like I embarrassed myself.
Like I did.
Like there was something he was supposed to do differently. Sam didnât push it. Instead, he let the silence settle between them.
The music shifted to something slower. A love song heavy on strings.
A couple near the bar started arguing more visibly now. Not shoutingâbut sharp gestures. Accusations in tight whispers. At another table, a woman laughed too loudly at something that wasnât funny. The atmosphere was tightening.
Dean stood.
Sam tensed slightly. âDean.â
âIâm not quitting,â Dean said quietly.
It wasnât bravado. It wasnât cockiness. It was resolve.
He moved toward the far end of the barânot toward the loudest group, not toward someone already smiling. He chose someone standing alone near the window.
Dark hair. Soft posture. Not guarded.
Dean approached slower this time.
Sam leaned forward in the booth, watching closely.
Dean didnât lead with a joke. Didnât comment on the decorations.
He just said, gently, âHey.â
The woman looked up. Her expression was neutralâthen warm. âHi.â
For a moment, everything stilled. The music faded in Samâs awareness. The noise of the bar dimmed.
Dean smiledâsmall. Honest. âIâm Dean.â
The womanâs lips parted like she was about to respond. And then, her expression changed. Not slowly. Not gradually. Like something had slammed into her thoughts.
Her warmth drained. Her eyes darkened with sudden suspicion. âYou donât mean that,â she said quietly.
Dean blinked. âMean what?â
âWhatever this is.â Her hand tightened around her glass. âYouâre just going to leave.â
There it was again. That same certainty.
Deanâs shoulders stiffened. âI donât even know you yet,â he said.
âExactly.â
The word landed hard.
She stepped back. The air between them felt brittle.
Dean stood there for half a second too longâlike he was trying to see what she was seeing. Then he stepped back. Slowly.
He didnât argue. Didnât joke. Didnât deflect. He just walked away.
Samâs chest tightened.
Dean slid back into the booth and stared at the table. âOkay,â he said under his breath. âWhat the hell.â
Sam didnât laugh.
The room was louder nowânot in volume, but in tension. Two people near the jukebox were arguing openly. A man shoved past someone too hard. A drink spilled. The bartender snapped at someone unnecessarily.
Emotions were spiking in the wrong directions.
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. âYou see that, right?â he asked.
Sam nodded slowly. âYeah.â
Dean looked upâand for the first time that night, the confidence wasnât there. Not gone. But cracked.
âIâm not saying anything different,â Dean said quietly. âIâm not pushing. Iâm not being a jerk.â
âI know,â Sam said.
Dean swallowed. âSo, what is it?â
That wasnât a rhetorical question. That was the moment Sam stopped pretending this was coincidence. Because it wasnât just happening to Dean. It was happening around him.
Amplifying.
Like something was leaning into every moment he opened himselfâeven a littleâand twisting it toward doubt.
Samâs eyes drifted upward. Not consciously at first. Just scanning. Ceiling beams. Lighting fixtures. Dark corners. The fairy lights near the rafters flickered once.
Only once.
But Sam saw it. And in that flickerâhe thought he saw movement. Something angular. Something perched. Watching. His stomach dropped.
Dean was still talking. ââŠIâm not losing my edge, right?â
There it was. Not ego. Not pride. Something else.
Sam looked at his brother. At the way Deanâs jaw was set just slightly too tight. At the way he was trying not to look affected. At the way he had meant it when he said he wasnât walking out like that. And Sam felt it.
The pattern. The target.
âStay here,â Sam said quietly.
Dean frowned. âWhy.â
âJust⊠stay.â
Deanâs eyes narrowed. âSam.â
Sam stood. âI think this isnât about you,â he said.
Dean scoffed lightly. âFeels like it is.â
Sam looked at himâsteady, certain. âNo,â he said. And then he turned his eyes back to the ceiling.
This time, when the fairy lights flickeredâhe saw it clearly.
Something long-limbed and gaunt, perched along the beam like a bird that had forgotten how to be beautiful. Its head tilted. Not cherubic. Not winged. Sharp. Watching Dean.
And when Dean shifted in the boothâthe thing leaned forward.
Interested.
Sam didnât bolt.
He didnât shove his way through the crowd or draw attention. He stood carefully, casually, like he was heading for the restroom. âStay here,â he repeated.
Deanâs eyes narrowed immediately. âThatâs not how this works.â
âI need to check something.â
Dean leaned forward slightly. âYou saw something.â
It wasnât a question.
Sam hesitated just long enough to confirm it.
Dean followed his gaze upward.
The rafters were dark, but not empty. The fairy lights flickered again. For half a second, the outline sharpened.
Long limbs folded unnaturally. Fingers hooked around a beam. A narrow skull crowned with something like fractured antlers â not bone, not wood, but something jagged and wrong.
It wasnât glowing. It wasnât dramatic. It was subtle. Which made it worse.
Deanâs voice dropped. âThatâs not Cupid.â
âNo,â Sam murmured.
The thing tilted its head.
And when Dean shifted in his seatâwhen his shoulders squared again like he was about to stand and try one more timeâthe creature leaned forward slightly.
Interested.
Dean noticed that too. âWell,â he muttered, âthat explains the vibe.â
Sam didnât answer. He watched the room instead.
A couple near the bar was now arguing openly. Not shoutingâbut the kind of tight, wounded words that landed deeper than volume. A woman at a high-top table was staring at her phone with tears in her eyes. A man at the counter clenched his jaw so tight the muscle ticked visibly.
It wasnât just Dean anymore. The thing wasnât creating heartbreak. It was accelerating it. Every insecurity. Every doubt. Every unresolved bruise under the surface.
Valentineâs Day was doing half the work for it.
Dean stood slowly. âOkay,â he said under his breath. âWe take it outside.â
Sam nodded once.
Dean didnât make a scene. Didnât reach for a weapon yet. He just walked toward the exit like a man stepping out for air. The creatureâs head tracked him. Sam followed.
The moment Dean pushed open the door, cold air sliced through the warmth of the bar. The music muffled behind them. And the thing moved.
It didnât flap. It didnât swoop. It simply dropped from the beam. Soundless. Landing in the alley across the street, where shadows pooled between dumpsters and brick.
Deanâs posture shifted immediatelyâhunter, not flirt. âAnti-Cupid,â he muttered.
Sam exhaled slowly. âLooks like it.â
Dean glanced at him. âYouâve seen one before?â
âNo.â
Dean tilted his head slightly. âMe neither.â
They crossed the street together. The alley was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against the ears. The creature stood half in shadow, half in streetlight glow.
Up close, it was worse. Its body was thin, almost skeletal, but not weak. Long arms. Too many joints. Fingers that tapered into fine points rather than claws. Its face wasnât monstrous. It was almost human.
Too human.
Eyes hollowed by something like disappointment. And where Cupid might carry a bowâthis thing carried nothing. It didnât need to.
It stepped forward. The air shifted. Sam felt it immediatelyâa pressure behind his eyes. Thoughts that werenât his.
You always leave.
You donât mean it.
Youâre not staying.
He clenched his jaw.
Dean staggered half a step, just barely.
And that was what made Samâs stomach drop.
It wasnât projecting rage. It was projecting doubt. Amplifying the quiet voice everyone carried under their ribs.
Dean recovered quickly. âHey,â he called out to it. âYou wanna explain yourself?â
The creature tilted its head again. It didnât speak. It didnât need to. Its gaze fixed on Dean.
And Sam understood.
It wasnât feeding on love. It wasnât feeding on heartbreak. It was feeding on the moment before vulnerabilityâthe risk. The attempt.
Every time Dean opened himself even slightly tonightâeven casuallyâthe creature leaned in.
It twisted the response. It made the other person feel the worst-case outcome before anything could form. It turned potential into collapse.
Deanâs mouth pressed into a thin line. âSo thatâs what this is,â he said quietly.
Sam looked at him.
Dean didnât look embarrassed anymore. He looked angry. Not at the women. Not at himself. At the thing.
âYou donât get to do that,â Dean said.
The creature stepped closer. The pressure intensified.
Sam felt a flicker of old memories brush his thoughtsâpeople leaving, doors closing, choices that werenât his to make. He pushed it down.
Dean fired first.
Silver round. The creature recoiled, not dramaticallyâjust enough to confirm it was tangible. It hissed. The sound wasnât animal. It was almost⊠disappointed.
Dean advanced. âYeah,â he muttered. âThatâs right.â
The creature lunged. Not at Sam. At Dean. Because Dean was the one trying. Because Dean was the one reaching.
They collided hard against brick.
Sam moved fast, grabbing iron from his jacket pocket and slamming it into the creatureâs side.
It shriekedânot in pain. In frustration. Like the interruption offended it.
Dean shoved it back, jaw clenched. âGet out of my night,â he snapped.
The creatureâs gaze burned into him. And for one secondâjust oneâDean hesitated. Something in his expression flickered.
Sam saw it.
Not fear. Recognition. The creature fed on the idea that he would leave. That he wouldnât stay. That vulnerability wasnât safe.
Dean roared and drove the blade home.
The creature dissolved into shadow and grit, scattering into the alley like smoke ripped apart by wind.
Silence fell.
Dean stood there, breathing hard. He wiped a smear of dark residue from his cheek. ââŠSo,â he said. âNot my fault.â
Sam stepped closer. âNo,â he said quietly.
Dean let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. âGood,â he said.
They stood in the cold a moment longer. Inside the bar, the arguing had already softened. The pressure in the air had eased.
Dean rolled his shoulders once, resetting.
âYou wanna head back in?â Sam asked.
Dean looked at the door. Then at the empty alley. Then down at his hands. After a long second, he shook his head. âNah.â
It wasnât defeat. It wasnât embarrassment. It was tired. âLetâs just go home,â he said.
Sam nodded.
They walked back to the Impala in silence. Dean slid into the driverâs seat without comment. The engine started. The town lights fell away behind them.
For a few miles, neither spoke. Then Dean said lightly, staring at the road: âGuess I picked the wrong bar.â
Sam didnât smile. He kept his eyes forward. âNo,â he said softly. âYou didnât.â
Dean didnât ask what he meant. He just turned the radio up slightly.
And stared out into the dark.
The bunker greeted them with its usual hum.
Not warm.
Not cold.
Just steady.
Dean shut the door behind them and took off his jacket like nothing extraordinary had happened. Like they hadnât just killed a mythological inversion of romance in an alley behind a bar.
Like the night had been normal.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. âBeer?â he asked.
Sam leaned against the table instead of answering. âSure.â
Dean tossed him one without looking. The metal hit Samâs palm cold and solid. The kind of grounding you didnât get in bars decorated with paper hearts.
Dean popped his open and took a long drink. âStupid holiday,â he muttered.
Sam didnât respond.
Dean leaned back against the counter, casual, one ankle hooked over the other. âYou see that thingâs face?â he said. âLike it was disappointed.â
Sam nodded faintly. âIt wasnât disappointed,â Sam said.
Dean raised an eyebrow. âNo?â
âIt was hungry.â
Dean snorted. âYeah. Well. Wrong guy.â
Sam watched him carefully.
Deanâs posture was loose. His tone was light. But there was a faint tension in his shoulders that hadnât been there that morning.
âYou didnât look surprised,â Sam said.
Dean frowned slightly. âAbout what.â
âWhat it was feeding on.â
Dean took another drink instead of answering immediately. Then shrugged. âEverybodyâs got baggage,â he said.
âThatâs not what I meant.â
Deanâs jaw shifted. He looked at Sam for a secondâreally looked at himâand then looked away. âIt was messing with peopleâs heads,â he said. âThatâs all.â
Sam stepped closer to the table. âIt was messing with doubt,â he said quietly. âWith the fear that someoneâs just going to walk away.â
Dean stilled for half a beat. Barely noticeable. Then he scoffed. âMan, youâre making this way heavier than it was.â
âAm I?â
Dean pushed off the counter and walked past him toward the hallway. âIt was a monster,â he said. âWe killed it. The end.â
Sam didnât follow right away. He stood there, listening to the bunker hum around him. Because it hadnât just been a monster. It had targeted Dean. Specifically.
It hadnât gone after the loud couples. It hadnât attached to random tension. It had leaned forward every time Dean tried. Every time he opened himself even a fraction.
Dean reappeared in the doorway, beer in hand. âYou coming or you planning to psychoanalyze me all night?â
Sam gave him a small smile. âIâm not psychoanalyzing you.â
âGood.â Dean took another sip. Then, almost offhand: âI wasnât losing my touch.â
It wasnât a joke.
Sam met his eyes. âNo,â he said.
Dean held the gaze for a second longer than usual. Then he nodded once. âGood.â
He turned toward his room. Halfway down the hall, he stopped.
Without turning around, he said: âNext year, Iâm picking a different bar.â
Sam watched his back. There was humor in it. There was defiance. But there was something else too.
Hope.
Dean disappeared into his room.
The bunker settled.
Sam stayed in the kitchen a moment longer. He thought about the creatureâs eyes. About the way it leaned in when Dean smiled. About the certainty in those womenâs voices.
Youâre just going to leave.
Sam closed his eyes briefly. Because Dean had never been the one to leave. Dean stayed.