Dean Winchester Obsessed

the hunt had been dogshit. dean had been severely messing up key points of the plays you, him, and sam were attempting to execute—and dean didn’t even have a good excuse. there wasn’t anything even to really be upset about, which was making dean more upset that he couldn’t get it together. what is he, if not a protector? what is he, if not shielding people from harm and taking on the suffering himself?

but you weren’t mad. neither was sam. even though he’d gone out earlier, mumbling something about a food run, you knew he wasn’t upset about anything. in fact, you knew what his true intentions were.

to get you and dean alone.

dean had gone non-verbal after the hunt was finally over. literally the moment he knew both you and sam were safe, he stopped talking. he got like this often—instead of blowing up, he’d revert back into himself and hide away, his thoughts tearing at his psyche for how he’d messed up. how he’d failed.

his father’s voice was always in his head, ringing in his ears in the silence dean had made for himself—and it was so loud. yet dean didn’t want to get out of this spiral. he deserved it, didn’t he? for not protecting his family? for failing to protect people? for being too slow to kill the monster? so dean would rather sit in his own harsh and self-deprecating thoughts than think to ask for help.

which is where you come in.

see, no matter how much dean fucked up, you never left him for dead. you always stuck by him, regardless of what he did. he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this kind of treatment—maybe he was a saint in a past life, and is being rewarded now for it. but either way, you seem to care for him without expecting anything in return. it’s bewildering. everyone always needs him for something. he needs to take care of people, otherwise they’ll leave him. but dean has failed many times at protecting you, and keeping you safe. and lo and behold, you’re still around. you didn’t catch the first flight to wherever the fuck dean wasn’t. and he doesn’t understand why. not at first.

so as much as dean hates to think it, he thinks you love him, solely just because he’s… well, him. and no other reason. no other ulterior motive. it’s a little unnerving, since the complete opposite is what he’s used to.

but back to the motel room. back to sam ditching you so you could “do your dean thing”—that is, make dean feel better without even trying. you didn’t even know you were doing anything to make him less clouded until sam pointed it out.

now, you notice it all the time: how dean’s shoulders relax when he’s near you, or sees you come into view. how he subconsciously unclenches his jaw, because you’ll tell him to stop grinding his teeth. it’s like you just care about him because you can. because you want to. dean doesn’t understand it. but he’ll take it, because he’s only human.

first, you tune the alarm clock to the radio station that’s playing not half-bad classic rock as dean cleans his guns like he does after every hunt. keep it on low volume, just enough to fill the silence without saying much—yet you’re saying more than you possibly ever could with that gesture, trying to make dean comfortable. he both loves and hates you for it.

next is making him shower before you. it seems unimportant—but you knew if he let you shower first, like he always did, he would probably just stand under the water for 30 seconds because he wanted to be done as fast as possible.

dean does stand under the water—but you left your body wash and soap in the shower from the night prior. dean uses it—not because he wanted to smell like you, but because you said he could use them if he wanted. not at all because your scent made him feel a little less weight on his chest. nope.

the final thing? it’s not much, at least to you. but dean cherishes it. it’s just being there for him, is the last thing you do. that’s it. but not in a suffocating way. you understood that dean needed to be the one to take the first step—but you don’t smother him, or try to force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do. you sit close enough to him after your own shower so that he can move closer if he wants, but not so far away that he feels like you’re purposefully trying to be away from him. giving dean the choice of what he wants to do.

sometimes, he’s not even sure what he wants. his whole life, he’s never really been given the option. it was always what was best for someone else, a collective, or what was best for the greater good. never what was best for dean. never what he wanted. so he’s a little torn, and a little overwhelmed over the fact that he has to make a decision for himself—and just for himself, no one else.

tonight, he decides to be selfish. to keep you close. actually, as close as possible. because you’d love him no matter what. you wouldn’t outright tell him that this hunt going all sorts of wrong wasn’t his fault, because you knew it’d overwhelm him—but you did in every other way. in the song on the radio. in the scent of your soap. in the feeling of your body molded against his own, warm and safe.

what took you so long, dean thinks, to come into his life? to take care of him, not because you were forced to, but because you wanted to? to stay beside him, because he was dean, the man? not because he was a brother, a hunter, a protector? maybe his luck would never be this good again. maybe if he’s in the dirt, gone too young like he’s been bracing for since he was 4 years old, he’ll know his luck was better than most. better than anyone’s.

because you’re in his life. unburdened, carefree, and willingly.

📨 sorry this took so long my dear massage anon, work is kicking my ass GAHHHH

He’s still wearing his black undershirt and boxers from the night before. You’re wearing nothing at all under the sheets and an old quilt. Your engagement ring pressed several indents into your cheek while you were sleeping. You rub the sting out of your skin, but it ultimately just draws your gaze to that ring, and your mind back to Brady.

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You think you remember someone calling him Benny.

You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on the crunch of grass and dusty earth, all the way back up to the house. 

You have your phone in your other hand, but you realize that your purse, and therefore your keys, are inside the house. 

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You remember about the spare key; to your relief, it still lies under one of Mary’s old flowerpots by one of the back doors. You enter the house and tiptoe your way to the dining room, where you think you left your purse. Your memory once again proves correct, but what you don’t expect to find is John Winchester eating breakfast.

You freeze there at the end of the table. He sits where he always does—at the head, overlooking a large window where the vast plains of the ranch lay in view of the mountains.

“Some things just don’t change, do they?” John remarks, taking another bite of a buttered biscuit. He forks some more scrambled eggs in his mouth as well and gestures at the empty seats at the table. “Want some breakfast?”

An embarrassed flush already heats your face and neck. 

“No, thank you,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s just as well, considering you failed to mention that you work for the company that wants to take my home and livelihood, and the legacy I want to pass on to my sons.” 

A sigh escapes you. Sam finally told him. 

You glance down at your phone when it buzzes with yet another text. There are 15 other messages from Brady, along with a few missed calls. Shit. 

“I thought you and I had an understanding, before you left,” John says, reclaiming your attention, as well as your ire. No one knew how to get under your skin better than Winchesters.

“I was barely eighteen, and my life was falling apart. You had no right to demand anything from me, no matter how much you want to control Sam and Dean. Especially Dean,” you remind him. “And that’s besides the fact that I’m not doing anything to you. Yes, I work for Roman & Weiss. Yes, they bought out your father-in-law’s farmland. And yes, they just gave you an offer on a piece of your ranch for twice it’s worth right now. It’s more profit than you’ve probably seen in, what, about five years? Yeah. We did the research and the math.”

John wipes his hands and mouth on a napkin, with the surety of a man in his own home, and stubbornness of an oak tree that won’t be moved.

“I’m the one who saved your life,” John says.

You forgot the way he did that, effectively ignoring almost everything someone’s said before. You saw him do it to Dean more than once.

Your brows furrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father,” he says. 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Somehow, Dean hadn’t expected to wake up alone in bed. Disappointment sinks into his bones as he lays there stunned. He rewinds the night like the dream that was, but should’ve never been.

He’s had that dream a few times over the past 12 years, but he never actually thought it would come to life—your voice, your body, your touch, and the way you responded so well to his. But in those dreams, you never left him in the end. He should’ve known better though. You always do.

He overslept by a couple of hours. Usually he’s up at 5:30 every morning, but it’s close to seven when he literally stumbles out of bed and throws the rest of his clothes back on, muttering a curse under his breath as he goes.

He jogs up to the main house when he sees that your car is still in the driveway. It stupidly gives him a small hope that you haven’t left because you’re hesitating. Maybe he’s got one more chance to say something that won’t just spin your head around. Maybe he’ll say something that makes you stay.

He gets into the house through the back door that was weirdly left unlocked. He hears your voice as well as his dad’s in the dining room, but Dean frowns as he begins to piece the conversation together.

“…Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father.” 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Dean pauses in the doorway, frowning as he takes in the tension in the room.

What the fuck kind of têt-á-têt is this?

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too,” John says, sitting back in his seat as he gestures toward your hand. “Though it seems you don’t care too much about him, considering you’re right back where you started: in my son’s bed.”

You seethe where you stand, but Dean’s voice stops you from another hot retort.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he says tersely. 

His eyes travel over you, taking in the disheveled state of you and your grass-stained feet, the pair of heels hanging from your fingers, your wild, admittedly sexy bedhead, and that furious look on your face that suggest you want to throw those shiny stilettos at his dad’s head. Or maybe that butter knife on the table.

You huff in exasperation and storm out of the dining room. 

Dean glares at his father, but he quickly follows you, stopping the front door with his shoulder when you try to slam it shut. He calls your name, more than once. You just keep beelining for your car.

Dean feels compelled to grab for your hand, to get you to turn around and implore you to listen, but you slip out of his grip and nearly stumble against your car. He more cautiously helps to steady you, grasping your arms. Once again, you push his hands away.

“Stop, Dean. Just let me go,” you say, almost on the verge of frustrated tears as you shake your head. “You were right. We’re better off just walking away from all this. From each other. We have different lives now.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “So last night—” 

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” you say, even though you struggle with it. “I don’t know if I know you anymore, but that man is exactly the same.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asks. “What the fuck did he say to you?”

But you never answer him. You ignore him calling your name.

Dean is at a loss as he watches you get into your car and leave him standing there, like a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know exactly what just happened, how it could all go to shit so fast. This has to be a new record for him. 

And in that moment, his heart earns another splintering crack, like the dry earth beneath his feet.

You crank up the AC and lower the car windows so you don’t suffocate. The blasting hot air begins to dry the tears from your eyes, but you can’t help but glance out the rearview mirror on your left, watching Dean stand there in the driveway. His figure gets smaller as the distance grows, but so too does the ranch house, and the pain it represents.

You wrestle not only with what you’ve done, but what John said to you.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too.”

It boils your blood just thinking about it. You furiously wipe at your cheeks.

You can’t believe your mom accepted that kind of money from John fucking Winchester, of all people, but you also don’t think for one moment that he did that for you, as if it was some kind of Good Samaritan gesture. It was control. It was a way to make sure you left Salida…and to make sure Dean stayed to become what John wanted him to be.

“You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

Dean’s voice echoes in your head. It settles in your chest like a brand. You feel sick to your stomach, but there’s no cure.

So, you decide that he was right after all. There’s no point in rehashing the past anymore. There’s only the life you have now, and the future you intend to build.

Cue the Kansas violins. Dust in the fucking wind.

It takes half the drive back into town, but once you have yourself under control, you roll up the windows and finally call Brady. You spend the first five minutes apologizing, calming his frustration and worries.

“I’m so sorry. The day just…got away from me,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “There was a good bit of drinking with the eating, and of course, once a cowboy breaks out a guitar, there goes the night,” you say with an attempt at levity. “But um…the stories about my dad. That all just hit me harder than I expected. It got late, and they offered for me to stay the night. The Winchesters were like family to me once.”

“…Okay, I get that. But I was really worried. You couldn’t just call me back, or answer any of my texts?” Brady asks. 

You want to say that you did answer his texts all through the dinner time, except for that last one.

Hey, babe. When are you getting back? It’s getting late. I don’t think you should drive in the dark out there.

And two minutes later…

Would you mind picking up some food on your way back to the hotel? I’ve had no time to eat. Been meeting with contractors all day. Anything remotely decent around here? That diner last night was ass.

You’d stopped responding after that. You were busy contemplating how you’d just watched your father’s ashes dissolve into the river.

“I know, I should’ve given you the heads up that I was staying, but, um…my phone died,” you say. The lie feels acidic on your tongue, along with all the other half-truths.

“All right, well, I’m glad you got the closure you needed,” he says. “After you get cleaned up, can you meet me at the property? There’s an environmental question that you should speak into before we, uh, raise any alarms.”

You do need to shower and change, and get some food in you first, but you frown.

“What’s the issue?” you ask.

“The river,” Brady says.

Summer || 20 years ago

You’re 10 years old, watching Dean in his swim trunks as he jumps from the rickety pier his grandfather built. He lands in the water and splashes you on entry, making you laugh. 

Sam jumps next. He’s only eight, but he wants to prove he can do everything his older brother does.

The sweltering summer is perfect for this. Even though you’re out of school on vacation, Mr. Winchester is already making Dean help with the horses and the cattle. Sammy’s too young, but next year he’ll start too. He’s the only one of you who’s already started on his summer reading.

“Come on, jump!” Sam calls to you.

You linger on the edge of the narrow pier because the water looks murky and gross. But when Dean calls your name, his wide smile gives you courage. 

You jump in, and the boys cheer. 

“Watch out!” Dean grabs your foot playfully, pretending it’s a fish. You scream and splash him. 

He laughs, and that becomes the new game, until you all create a new one. 

Dean ends up being the mule, pulling Sam around on his back. After a few minutes, he good-naturedly gives you a turn too. You just get annoyed when he picks you up and drops you in the deeper water.  

You tackle him and push his head down below the surface, just for a second or two. 

“Hey!” he says, shaking out his wet hair. You giggle and dunk him again. 

But he stays down in the water, even when you take your hands off his shoulders. You and Sam share a hesitant look, wondering if Dean’s just holding his breath on purpose. You can barely see him though, and you start to get worried. 

“Dean?”

After a few long moments that tick by, all you see are bubbles on the water.

“Dean!” you shout, reaching into the water to grab for him. 

That’s when he bobs to the surface and spits water in your face. 

You splutter in shock. He cackles. 

You shove his shoulder. “That’s not funny!”

After wiping excess water droplets off your face, you swim away from him and Sam and climb up to the shore.

“Aw, come on. You don’t have to be such a girl!” Dean calls after you.

You stick out your tongue at him and keep walking away, barefoot on the gravel and dirt. You blink the river out of your eyes and peel off a reed from your swimsuit. Taller grass lines the dirt trail on both sides. You almost cut through it to get back to your family’s cabin, but you gasp as you notice something dusty and scaley in the path.

The large snake coils and makes its warning known with an ominous rattle. You scream, but mostly because Dean grabs your waist from behind to pull you back.

“Careful!” he says. “Get behind me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you also pull him back by his arm, not letting him get closer to the snake. Its body is light brown with darker brown splotches lined down its spine. The head is oblong and flat with a point to its nose, but it flicks a black, forked tongue as its tail continues to rattle.

Dean glances at you over his shoulder.

“Let go so I can deal with it,” he says. “Looks like a prairie.”

Your dad told you that there are three main kinds of rattlesnakes in Colorado, but prairies have the worst bite.

“Just ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away,” you argue.

“Kill it, Dean!” Sam says. He came out of the water too. He stays closer to the pier but wants to watch what happens. Living in rural Colorado, all three of you have seen your fair share of snakes. One tried to get into Sam’s crib once when he was a baby. That was the first snake Dean ever saw his dad kill.

“Both of you, stay back!” Dean says sharply. He guides you a couple more feet behind him and reaches for a stick on the ground. He doesn’t have a weapon, so he tries to guide the snake into the tall grass.

The animal gets agitated at his poking, coils tighter and tighter as it rears back to strike—

Until a boot crunches its head, and a knife separates the body from it.

You’re relieved to see your dad. Bobby adjusts his hat and gives you all a firm look.

“You all know better than to mess with a rattler,” he says gruffly. “Any of y’all get bit?”

“No, sir,” Dean says.

Bobby nods, his shoulders loosening as he gives you and Dean a quick look over to make sure. He pats Dean on the shoulder afterward.

“Okay, good,” Bobby says, though he aims a shrewd look at the boys. “Does your dad know you’re out here instead of workin’ on your chores?”

Sam and Dean don’t have a good answer for him as they avoid his gaze. Even you feel guilty by association.

Bobby smirks a little. “All right. Go on and swim for a little while longer. It’s hot as hell out here.” 

The boys perk up, share a glance, then they head back for the river before Bobby changes his mind. You hug him, even though you’re all wet. 

“Thanks, Daddy!” you chirp. 

He soothes a hand over your frizzing hair. You look up, resting your chin on his chest. He looks down at you with a smaller, more genuine smile.

“Be careful with those boys,” he says.

You agree with a nod before you follow your friends in running off the pier.

Now…

Your fingers toy with the silver rose inside its oval-shaped pendant, which now has a place laying against your chest on a thin chain. It’s delicate, beautiful. You wonder if your dad bought it, or if it was his mother’s, or his grandmother’s. Either way, it means something to you now. It holds the weight of regret—over a decade’s worth. 

“Hey, you with me?” Brady asks. 

He somewhat earns your attention. “Hmm?”

“Who gave you that necklace?” he says, glancing down at your chest. “It doesn’t really match your ring.” 

“My dad left it for me,” you reply.

“Ah. That’s nice,” Brady says. But soon, he frowns, brushing wild strands of your hair out of your eyes. He fingers the wrinkles in the collar of your blouse as well. “You look tired, babe…and still a bit disheveled. We’re meeting with some important people soon, the architect and one of the board members. Are you up for this?”

No, if you’re honest. But he didn’t exactly give you a choice on coming out here, just a few miles down the road of Winchester Ranch.

“Sorry my dad’s death is so inconvenient for you,” you snipe. “A couple days ago, I seem to remember you saying the timing was perfect.”

“That’s not what I said,” Brady says, his brows knitting together. He relents, cupping the back of your neck and stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All right, I’m sorry. I know I’m pushing, but you know this is a big project for me—for us. Dick and my father are trusting us to make sure this goes smoothly. If we do well, we could get the high-rise project in Las Vegas.”

The idea doesn’t excite you as much as it should. You’re having a hard time having any kind of coherent thought right now, especially here. 

You two are standing in the bare bones of what used to be the Campbell home. It’s about to be converted into the front-facing offices of a new community of houses. The barns and chicken coops on the former farm have already been demolished and levelled. 

You remember the Campbells, Sam and Dean’s grandparents. Samuel and Deanna were good people. When you were young, sometimes you’d help them feed the animals on weekends. Deanna used to bake cookies on Saturday mornings, and she’d have a plate ready for you and her grandkids. You hope they’re happy in North Carolina.

But thinking about them only brings your mind back to last night, and the lie you can’t bring yourself to unravel as Brady shows you the map of the land. He explains the latest problem. 

“Right now, the land isn’t built to support the amount of electricity we’ll need to create an entire community. Looks like you missed that when you were scoping out the property,” Brady says, giving you a pointed look.

You frown. You take out an iPad from your purse and dig through your files.

“Shouldn’t the appraiser have caught that?”

“You’re the one who handles the environmental concerns,” Brady says. “If the appraiser didn’t catch it, you should’ve.”

This is the hard part of workplace relationships. Brady was the one who trained you, and even though he’s no longer your direct overseer, he has the seniority and the responsibility as a team lead.

“I’m sorry,” you say contritely. “I was looking at what the city needs as far as infrastructure. I guess I just assumed the land would have power.”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Brady replies dryly. “They make an ass out of you and me.”

You frown at him, with a narrow look. Now you’re getting pissed. 

“You don’t need any help making an ass of yourself lately,” you say.   

Brady eyes you, but chooses to let that go for the moment. 

“It’s a problem because it could take millions of dollars to bring that much power out here. The builder told me that if we utilize the river as an additional power source, it could work, but we’ll need all of it.” 

You grow concerned. Shit. That’s a lot of money.

But that last part sends up a red flag in your mind.

“What do you mean, all of it?” you ask.

“I mean, we’ll need to build a dam,” Brady says.  

You stare back at him incredulously as you realize what he actually means. A dam would divert the flow of the river from the rest of the land—mainly from the Winchester Ranch. 

“You can’t cut the Winchesters off from their main water supply, Brady. That affects the soil and their ability to grow hay for the cattle and horses to graze. It’s already been a brutal summer. That could finish them.”

“The river flows from our land, and we can do what we have to in order to make this multimillion-dollar investment work,” he says. “Look at it this way. By the time they know what hit them, it’ll probably be too late for them to recoup their losses. It’ll push John to agree to our offer. We’ll acquire the property, keep building out the rest of this valley, and he’ll have more than enough money to retire.” 

“He doesn’t want to retire,” you point out. “He wants to pass on the ranch to his sons.”

Brady just shakes his head and focuses on the plans laid out on his own iPad. 

“He can’t compete with reality forever, honey. Farming and ranching don’t make money anymore. Not in this country. About 22% of beef is imported, and that’s only going to increase. 80% of our seafood already comes from Canada, China, and Southeast Asia.”

He may be right, but you really don’t feel good about this.

After meeting with the architect, the board member, and even Edgar, one of Dick’s stooges, Brady suggests going out to lunch. You had a late breakfast, so you tell him to go on ahead. You plan to start drafting the paperwork needed for some other elements of the build, as well as the issue of the electricity. 

Brady gives you a look—one that tells you that he really thinks you should come to lunch. You know he wants to present a united front, but the truth is, you’re in no mood to schmooze and drink and listen to him criticize the food and the atmosphere wherever you two go. You know you had the same gripes and judgments when you first arrived back in Salida, but this is the town you grew up in. Parts of it still live in your heart, you’ve discovered.

Brady isn’t happy about your refusal to join them for lunch, but he drives them off in his Lexus, which he had Edgar deliver to him from California.

You decide to take a walk down to the river to see it for yourself. You don’t remember how it looks on this side of the fence that borders the ranch. It takes you a good 20 minutes to walk down the line of the fence, all the way to the river. As you walk through the taller grass, already you can see how the sun shines on the water just the same over here.

You take another step, but you immediately know it’s wrong.

Searing pain runs up your ankle, and it buckles you as a scream tears from your throat. You fall to the ground, spitting out long blades of grass, and for a precious moment you lay there stunned, just to realize that you’re in far more trouble than you could imagine.

You’re out here alone.

Jack Kline is fucking terrible on a horse, but at least he didn’t lie about it. 

Dean shakes his head, seated on his own mount as he watches Jack utter a stream of nervous, whoas, and slow down, horse, and somebody, help!

Benny rides up beside Dean, while Cas tries to go over and help before Jack falls out of his saddle again. 

“Where the fuck did you find this kid, Dean?” Benny asks.

“Look, I know, but it’s hard to find people willing to work a ranch these days,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over his face. 

The horse bucks Jack off again. Cas dismounts from his own and helps the kid up; he’s holding his shoulder with a pained hiss. 

“You squeezed too hard in the worst places and didn’t squeeze hard enough where it mattered,” Cas says. 

Walt snorts from the sidelines. 

“That’s what she said,” he jokes. No one laughs. They’re too tired and fed up with this dead weight while trying to move over two hundred cows from one pasture to another for grazing. 

“At this rate, we won’t get back to the bunkhouse until midnight if we have to keep peeling this dumb fuck from the dirt,” Walt remarks. “We should just leave him here until he can man up and figure it out.”

“Knock it off,” Dean barks, making sure his voice is heard by all the men. “No one goes back to eat and sleep until the work is done. If that means we work all night, then we fucking work all night.” 

He gets off his horse and yanks Jack up from the ground by his belt. 

“Come on,” he says, in a frustrated whisper. “I’m not watching you eat dust ‘til dawn. Listen. Cas is right, you need to relax a bit. Don’t squeeze his flank so tight. The horse can sense if you don’t trust him, so why the hell should he trust you to lead him?”

Jack takes that in with a nod of understanding. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Right,” Dean nods, patting him on the back. “Now get back up and try again. Slow. Easy.”

He’ll tie the kid’s hands to the saddle if he needs to.

But luckily, Jack takes Dean’s advice to heart. Cas comes in closer to give him more pointers as they all finally push the herd over into Pasture 5, which borders what used to be the Campbell farm.

“All right, Jack. Remember to look out for newborn calves, so we can tag them and get them vaccinated later,” Dean calls out. 

“Sure, but uh…what about, you know, other animals? Like bears?” Jack says. He eyes the trees of the nearby national forest warily.  

“Definitely watch out for wildlife,” Dean says. “Bears and mountain lions you can shoot if they’re trying to kill our cattle, or you. But never kill a fucking wolf, especially the ones with tracking collars on them. Those guys are monitored and protected by the CPW.”

“What’s the CPW?” Jack predictably asks.

“Colorado Parks and Wildlife,” Cas supplies.

Jack nods. “Oh…what happens if you kill a wolf that’s protected?”

“That’s a $100,000 fine, probably even jail time,” Dean says. “You will be responsible for that fine, or your bail. Not the ranch.”

Jack considers that, and the forest, with an uneasy frown. 

“I thought you said you take care of your own,” he says. 

“Not for a $100,000, Jack. We don’t have that kind of money lying around, so you’ll be paying that off for a small eternity,” Dean says. 

A ragged scream interrupts their conversation and cuts through the low mooing of cattle. Dean straightens at attention. His gaze searches the plain, but Cas points out a woman along the river—on the other side of the fence. 

“Help!”

Dean’s eyes widen. He recognizes your voice. 

He spurs his horse into a gallop, almost on a reflex. He stops at the fence, dismounts from his horse, and vaults himself over the barbed wire. He then springs over to you, quickly taking in how you’re sprawled out in the grass. He worries you’ve stepped in a hole and broken something, or worse, been bit by a snake. 

But he realizes that your foot is caught in a bear trap. 

“What the fuck?” Dean utters. “These things are illegal!”

You’re tearful and in pain, but you heave a shaky sigh and shake your head. 

“Jesus Christ. Of course it’s you.”

His brows raise high in disbelief, and he glares at you. “You know what, you’re fucking lucky it’s me.”

Cas and Benny come over quickly to help him. Jack stays behind to hold the horses’ reins.

“Ma’am,” Cas greets you with a nod, and Benny with a tip of his hat. You met them just yesterday.

“Hey, guys,” you say, though your voice is unsteady. Benny braces you while Cas joins Dean in securing your bleeding foot.

“Okay, just relax,” Dean tells you, more soothingly as he feels you trembling. He lays a hand on your calf, meeting your eyes. Biting your lip, you give a jerky nod as you hold onto Benny’s arm.

“Grab that spring. We gotta push down at the same time,” Dean says to Cas, who nods.

The moment they grasp the metal springs on either side of the mechanism, you tense up at the pain, whimpering though you try not to flinch.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s gonna be over in a second,” Dean says. He meets Cas’s eyes and counts off. “1—2—and 3.”

Together they push down on the springs and slowly ease your foot out of the trap. You’re wearing flat dress shoes this time, at least, but it would’ve been smarter to wear boots out here.

You’re bleeding from the puncture wounds, so Dean slips his arms around your back and under your knees so he can pick you up and take you back to his horse. Your eyes meet his in an unspoken tension, but ultimately, you’re resigned to accepting his help for the rest of this too. 

He passes you along to Benny over the fence, until Dean can hop back over it. The men work together to help you onto Dean’s horse, sitting side-saddle in front of him. 

He takes the reins, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shoots you a sly smirk.

“Hold on tight,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but you’re forced to grab onto him when he spurs the horse into a trot, back toward civilization.

The car ride to the hospital is filled with a particular kind of tension. The familiar rumble of the Impala and its worn leather interior make it hard to focus on the road ahead, when you keep getting dragged into sepia-toned memories within your mind.

Survivor’s “Oceans” plays on an old cassette of Dean’s that used to be his father’s, just like this car. You remember when John started to let him drive it when he turned 17. You were 15, and already starting to look at your best friend differently, even before he kissed you for the first time.

“Oceans between us,” Jim Peterik belts through the speakers. “Strangers upon the shore. Like islands we stand alone, oceans between us now…”

You sigh and grab your phone from your pocket to text Brady. He already knows why you’re headed to the hospital, and that a “family friend” is taking you there.

On my way. Meet you there in 10. You sure you’re OK?

You text him back:

Yeah. It hurts, but I’ll be fine. Will probably need stitches though. See? You should’ve just come to lunch with us.

Your lips press together in annoyance.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean remarks.

You send him a tired look. “Brady’s meeting us at the hospital. Don’t…say anything crazy to him, okay? I told him you’re a family friend.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Dean,” you warn.

“I don’t have three fucking rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends, but I guess things really are different in L.A.,” he says.

“All right, give it a rest,” you say, rubbing your blushing cheek in irritation. “You don’t make anything easy on me, do you?”

“Oh, yeah? Why should I?” Dean gripes.

“Because I’m the one with the busted foot, you ass!”

“Well, who’s fault is that? Oh, right, the asshole who left you out there alone to begin with.”

A growl of frustration leaves your lips as you cover your face, rather than stare at the obnoxious cut of Dean’s jawline.

“It was my choice to go out there alone. My own fault that I stepped in a goddamn trap. My fault for what happened last night, okay?” you snap. “So let’s just drop it and move on.”

Dean eyes you in annoyance. You don’t get to take the blame for what happened last night, because it’s mostly on him, he thinks.

The problem is, he’s not sorry. And though he refuses to admit it, even to himself (or to Sam’s judgy ass), the last thing he wants is to pretend it never happened.

Dean helps you from the car into the Emergency Department, where you’re forced to wait for a room. Brady arrives as you’re filling out the paperwork and insurance information. He’s come from the business lunch, wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks, along with a matching black Rolex.

“Hey, baby,” he greets, giving you a brief kiss.

You can’t help but glance at Dean from the corner of your eye; he wears a stoic expression, even when Brady briefly seizes him up, then holds out a hand to him.

“Hi, I’m Brady. Thanks for giving her a ride,” he says.

Dean forces himself to shake the other man’s hand, but doesn’t try all that hard to be pleasant.

“Just so you know, bear traps are fucking illegal in this state,” he says. “And more often than not, people get stupid and forget they’re there.”

Brady’s politeness fades. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. He’s being rude as hell, but he is right, Brady. You could’ve at least told me,” you interject, although you give Dean a warning look.

In this narrow instance, however, you have to agree with him when you look at your foot. It’s heavily wrapped with Dean’s gray flannel, half of it stained crimson with your blood.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Brady says, squeezing your shoulder, but he stares back up at Dean with new tension in his frame. “We’ll look into the legalities of the traps, but I just take issue with some wise-ass trying to tell me how to run my property.”

Dean has to chuckle at the irony. He rubs a hand over his chin as he considered this guy, your fiancé. He’s everything Dean’s father hates about corporate investors, bankers, lawyers, and politicians. Dean understands why.

“But it’s not your property, now is it?” he says. “The guys tugging the other end of your leash are the ones actually calling the shots, and they just want to take and remake everything until it all looks the same. But you’re not satisfied with my grandfather’s land. No, now you’re trying to take my family’s land.”

“Dean,” you say quietly. 

He pauses, glancing at you. He finds your tired, imploring gaze. However reluctantly, he relents.

Brady takes notice, and his angry frown firms into a colder wall.

“I appreciate what you did for her today, but I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says.

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I think so too.”

He offers you a nod, and you return it, watching him hesitate the slightest bit before he leaves the Emergency Room. Brady watches him go too, if with a more critical eye. He sits beside you.

“So that’s Dean Winchester. He’s the older one doing John’s grunt work?” he muses.

“He manages the ranch. It’s not an easy job,” you correct.

He eyes you shrewdly. “And what’s your history with him? You said the Winchesters are just family friends.”

“We grew up together, Sam, Dean, and me. But yeah, later on, Dean and I dated in high school,” you admit. “We broke up before I left for college, moved to Cali. My parents got divorced a little before then, so it was, um…more or less a clean break.”

A hefty pinprick of guilt stabs you in that sore place behind the ribs, while Brady processes it all with a nod and a thoughtful hum. You see him running calculations behind his eyes, storing the information as he stares ahead, rather than at you.

“Surprising then that Sam Winchester is their lawyer,” Brady remarks, somewhat amused at the idea. “I know these hicks like to keep it all in the family, but come on. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five…”

“Twenty-eight,” you supply. “Don’t underestimate Sam. He’s smart. Got a perfect score on his LSAT.”

Brady raises his brows. “Well, taking the test isn’t the same as the real deal, making negotiations, reading the opposition, and fighting in the courtroom.” 

You hesitate. “True.”

Brady has a few more years of fighting under his belt at 36.

The door beside the reception desk opens, and a nurse finally calls you in to be seen by the doctor.

You undergo a brief procedure to clean and suture the puncture wounds. No bones were broken, but you’re going to be on crutches for a few weeks until your foot heals. 

On the way back to the hotel, you notice Brady texting while he drives.

“Babe,” you say, slipping your hand over his wrist to earn his attention. He puts the phone down and holds your hand, bringing it to his lips in a kiss. You smile, but it soon fades. 

“I want to talk…about the river,” you say with a sigh.

The affection in Brady’s eyes dims. “What’s there to talk about? The plan is already underway. I made a few calls while you were in there with the doctor.”

You frown, slipping your hand out of his. “That was fast. So that’s why you didn’t stay with me while I was literally getting poked and prodded.”

He sighs and refocuses on the road, ignoring his own guilt. The fact that he doesn’t have a defense, or doesn’t bother to offer one, makes your heart sink into sadness. 

“You know, I’m not sure if I know who you are out here,” you say. 

This is exactly how you felt the day that he told you he wasn’t going with you to your father’s funeral. That has to be why you allowed yourself to find comfort in Dean.

Perhaps he had a point when he scoffed at whirlwind romances. It definitely feels like the rosy phase of champagne and wooing is over, and you’re starting to see where you really rank on Brady’s list of priorities.

But he did promise you the world when he proposed. He promised to take care of you, to love you, to make sure you were never alone again. After losing your mom, that was all you wanted.

There had been dinners, gifts, weekends at resorts in Venice Beach, parties in Beverly Hills, getaways to Napa Valley wine country…

You suppose you do fit the cliché of the country girl who gets shown the high life, but you’re starting to reconsider exactly what it will mean to become part of his world.

Was Sam right? Was Dean? 

Have you really changed that much?

“Look, you don’t get it, okay?” Brady says, bringing you back down to this earth, and this reality. “My dad is putting a shit-ton of pressure on me.”

“I know that—”

“If I don’t prove I can handle this build, this company, without his help, it could be the difference between me or my junkie sister getting control of our trust. That’s upwards of $5 billion. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand how much money that is. I’ve already signed the prenup, remember?” you say, a bit testily. 

What you don’t understand is his snideness toward his sister. She’s been addicted to Adderall and cocaine, that’s true, but she’s in recovery, actually making good strides in her sobriety last time you talked to her.

The conversation dies there though. An uncomfortable tension lasts until he pulls into the hotel parking lot. To his credit, he gets out of the car and goes to you as you open the passenger side door. He wraps his arms around your waist and helps you stand. You find balance on his shoulders on reflex.

“I don’t like this,” he says, with a measured frown.

Your eyes begin to sting, but you breathe through it. “Me either.”

He leans in slower than usual to kiss you. You allow it, closing your eyes, even though you feel cold inside. 

A reedy vine crawls up into your throat when you think of Dean’s heated breaths mingling with yours, his hands on your body, relearning you, reminding you that he had carved a place so deep inside, you didn’t know how to let it go.

I have to, is your firmer thought, after Brady begins to guide you on your crutches toward the hotel lobby. No relationship is perfect, and this man does love you. You’ll have to find a way to tell him the truth about what you did, and hope he can forgive you.

The thought follows you as you hobble back to the room. The effort takes up what energy you have left, but you know you need a shower. Brady helps you gather what you need, until you eventually find some solitude in the bathroom. You stare at your own disheveled reflection as the questions rolling just under your skin threaten to overwhelm you.

You take in a deeper breath to steady yourself, and your fingers close over your silver pendant. There’s one other thing you know you have to do.

After setting your crutches aside, you lean on the bathroom counter and reach for your phone to text Sam.

Hey. By now you’ve probably heard about me and—

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head as you erase the message. Pause. Start again.  

Hey, there’s something you need to know…  They’re going to build a dam on the river.

AN: rubs hands Okay, you got some cowboy action, some jealousy, some John Winchester being an awesome parent, as usual (🙄), and a looot of paving over the truth (for now). What do you think about the messy love triange reader's found herself in? How long do you think she can play both sides? 😬

Next Time:

It looks like, yet again, the way you left made its mark on Dean. Sam wonders if it’s worse this time. 

“Do you know how she’s doing? You know, healing up?” Sam asks. Getting caught in a bear trap is gnarly, but it was almost strange to hear. Most people who live here have better sense than to put those out. That’s tourists for you.

In answer to the question, Dean just shrugs and takes an even larger bite of his sandwich. Half a pickle falls out of the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” Sam says. He tries again, taking the corner seat beside Dean. “How are you handling all this? Her being back, you know. I mean, the engagement was a bit of a shock, and the, uh, working for the company that wants our ranch. That’s complicated. But considering you two slept together last month—”

Finally, Dean snaps and drops his food on the plate. He glares at Sam.

“All right, you got a point, or you just giving me the play-by-play? Highly unnecessary, might I add.”

“She’s getting married, Dean. What did you think was going to happen?” Sam says, a bit gentler. “Did you think she was going to just…what, tear it all up? The whole life she’s built for herself?”

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He’s still wearing his black undershirt and boxers from the night before. You’re wearing nothing at all under the sheets and an old quilt. Your engagement ring pressed several indents into your cheek while you were sleeping. You rub the sting out of your skin, but it ultimately just draws your gaze to that ring, and your mind back to Brady.

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You think you remember someone calling him Benny.

You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on the crunch of grass and dusty earth, all the way back up to the house. 

You have your phone in your other hand, but you realize that your purse, and therefore your keys, are inside the house. 

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You remember about the spare key; to your relief, it still lies under one of Mary’s old flowerpots by one of the back doors. You enter the house and tiptoe your way to the dining room, where you think you left your purse. Your memory once again proves correct, but what you don’t expect to find is John Winchester eating breakfast.

You freeze there at the end of the table. He sits where he always does—at the head, overlooking a large window where the vast plains of the ranch lay in view of the mountains.

“Some things just don’t change, do they?” John remarks, taking another bite of a buttered biscuit. He forks some more scrambled eggs in his mouth as well and gestures at the empty seats at the table. “Want some breakfast?”

An embarrassed flush already heats your face and neck. 

“No, thank you,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s just as well, considering you failed to mention that you work for the company that wants to take my home and livelihood, and the legacy I want to pass on to my sons.” 

A sigh escapes you. Sam finally told him. 

You glance down at your phone when it buzzes with yet another text. There are 15 other messages from Brady, along with a few missed calls. Shit. 

“I thought you and I had an understanding, before you left,” John says, reclaiming your attention, as well as your ire. No one knew how to get under your skin better than Winchesters.

“I was barely eighteen, and my life was falling apart. You had no right to demand anything from me, no matter how much you want to control Sam and Dean. Especially Dean,” you remind him. “And that’s besides the fact that I’m not doing anything to you. Yes, I work for Roman & Weiss. Yes, they bought out your father-in-law’s farmland. And yes, they just gave you an offer on a piece of your ranch for twice it’s worth right now. It’s more profit than you’ve probably seen in, what, about five years? Yeah. We did the research and the math.”

John wipes his hands and mouth on a napkin, with the surety of a man in his own home, and stubbornness of an oak tree that won’t be moved.

“I’m the one who saved your life,” John says.

You forgot the way he did that, effectively ignoring almost everything someone’s said before. You saw him do it to Dean more than once.

Your brows furrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father,” he says. 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Somehow, Dean hadn’t expected to wake up alone in bed. Disappointment sinks into his bones as he lays there stunned. He rewinds the night like the dream that was, but should’ve never been.

He’s had that dream a few times over the past 12 years, but he never actually thought it would come to life—your voice, your body, your touch, and the way you responded so well to his. But in those dreams, you never left him in the end. He should’ve known better though. You always do.

He overslept by a couple of hours. Usually he’s up at 5:30 every morning, but it’s close to seven when he literally stumbles out of bed and throws the rest of his clothes back on, muttering a curse under his breath as he goes.

He jogs up to the main house when he sees that your car is still in the driveway. It stupidly gives him a small hope that you haven’t left because you’re hesitating. Maybe he’s got one more chance to say something that won’t just spin your head around. Maybe he’ll say something that makes you stay.

He gets into the house through the back door that was weirdly left unlocked. He hears your voice as well as his dad’s in the dining room, but Dean frowns as he begins to piece the conversation together.

“…Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father.” 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Dean pauses in the doorway, frowning as he takes in the tension in the room.

What the fuck kind of têt-á-têt is this?

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too,” John says, sitting back in his seat as he gestures toward your hand. “Though it seems you don’t care too much about him, considering you’re right back where you started: in my son’s bed.”

You seethe where you stand, but Dean’s voice stops you from another hot retort.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he says tersely. 

His eyes travel over you, taking in the disheveled state of you and your grass-stained feet, the pair of heels hanging from your fingers, your wild, admittedly sexy bedhead, and that furious look on your face that suggest you want to throw those shiny stilettos at his dad’s head. Or maybe that butter knife on the table.

You huff in exasperation and storm out of the dining room. 

Dean glares at his father, but he quickly follows you, stopping the front door with his shoulder when you try to slam it shut. He calls your name, more than once. You just keep beelining for your car.

Dean feels compelled to grab for your hand, to get you to turn around and implore you to listen, but you slip out of his grip and nearly stumble against your car. He more cautiously helps to steady you, grasping your arms. Once again, you push his hands away.

“Stop, Dean. Just let me go,” you say, almost on the verge of frustrated tears as you shake your head. “You were right. We’re better off just walking away from all this. From each other. We have different lives now.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “So last night—” 

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” you say, even though you struggle with it. “I don’t know if I know you anymore, but that man is exactly the same.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asks. “What the fuck did he say to you?”

But you never answer him. You ignore him calling your name.

Dean is at a loss as he watches you get into your car and leave him standing there, like a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know exactly what just happened, how it could all go to shit so fast. This has to be a new record for him. 

And in that moment, his heart earns another splintering crack, like the dry earth beneath his feet.

You crank up the AC and lower the car windows so you don’t suffocate. The blasting hot air begins to dry the tears from your eyes, but you can’t help but glance out the rearview mirror on your left, watching Dean stand there in the driveway. His figure gets smaller as the distance grows, but so too does the ranch house, and the pain it represents.

You wrestle not only with what you’ve done, but what John said to you.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too.”

It boils your blood just thinking about it. You furiously wipe at your cheeks.

You can’t believe your mom accepted that kind of money from John fucking Winchester, of all people, but you also don’t think for one moment that he did that for you, as if it was some kind of Good Samaritan gesture. It was control. It was a way to make sure you left Salida…and to make sure Dean stayed to become what John wanted him to be.

“You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

Dean’s voice echoes in your head. It settles in your chest like a brand. You feel sick to your stomach, but there’s no cure.

So, you decide that he was right after all. There’s no point in rehashing the past anymore. There’s only the life you have now, and the future you intend to build.

Cue the Kansas violins. Dust in the fucking wind.

It takes half the drive back into town, but once you have yourself under control, you roll up the windows and finally call Brady. You spend the first five minutes apologizing, calming his frustration and worries.

“I’m so sorry. The day just…got away from me,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “There was a good bit of drinking with the eating, and of course, once a cowboy breaks out a guitar, there goes the night,” you say with an attempt at levity. “But um…the stories about my dad. That all just hit me harder than I expected. It got late, and they offered for me to stay the night. The Winchesters were like family to me once.”

“…Okay, I get that. But I was really worried. You couldn’t just call me back, or answer any of my texts?” Brady asks. 

You want to say that you did answer his texts all through the dinner time, except for that last one.

Hey, babe. When are you getting back? It’s getting late. I don’t think you should drive in the dark out there.

And two minutes later…

Would you mind picking up some food on your way back to the hotel? I’ve had no time to eat. Been meeting with contractors all day. Anything remotely decent around here? That diner last night was ass.

You’d stopped responding after that. You were busy contemplating how you’d just watched your father’s ashes dissolve into the river.

“I know, I should’ve given you the heads up that I was staying, but, um…my phone died,” you say. The lie feels acidic on your tongue, along with all the other half-truths.

“All right, well, I’m glad you got the closure you needed,” he says. “After you get cleaned up, can you meet me at the property? There’s an environmental question that you should speak into before we, uh, raise any alarms.”

You do need to shower and change, and get some food in you first, but you frown.

“What’s the issue?” you ask.

“The river,” Brady says.

Summer || 20 years ago

You’re 10 years old, watching Dean in his swim trunks as he jumps from the rickety pier his grandfather built. He lands in the water and splashes you on entry, making you laugh. 

Sam jumps next. He’s only eight, but he wants to prove he can do everything his older brother does.

The sweltering summer is perfect for this. Even though you’re out of school on vacation, Mr. Winchester is already making Dean help with the horses and the cattle. Sammy’s too young, but next year he’ll start too. He’s the only one of you who’s already started on his summer reading.

“Come on, jump!” Sam calls to you.

You linger on the edge of the narrow pier because the water looks murky and gross. But when Dean calls your name, his wide smile gives you courage. 

You jump in, and the boys cheer. 

“Watch out!” Dean grabs your foot playfully, pretending it’s a fish. You scream and splash him. 

He laughs, and that becomes the new game, until you all create a new one. 

Dean ends up being the mule, pulling Sam around on his back. After a few minutes, he good-naturedly gives you a turn too. You just get annoyed when he picks you up and drops you in the deeper water.  

You tackle him and push his head down below the surface, just for a second or two. 

“Hey!” he says, shaking out his wet hair. You giggle and dunk him again. 

But he stays down in the water, even when you take your hands off his shoulders. You and Sam share a hesitant look, wondering if Dean’s just holding his breath on purpose. You can barely see him though, and you start to get worried. 

“Dean?”

After a few long moments that tick by, all you see are bubbles on the water.

“Dean!” you shout, reaching into the water to grab for him. 

That’s when he bobs to the surface and spits water in your face. 

You splutter in shock. He cackles. 

You shove his shoulder. “That’s not funny!”

After wiping excess water droplets off your face, you swim away from him and Sam and climb up to the shore.

“Aw, come on. You don’t have to be such a girl!” Dean calls after you.

You stick out your tongue at him and keep walking away, barefoot on the gravel and dirt. You blink the river out of your eyes and peel off a reed from your swimsuit. Taller grass lines the dirt trail on both sides. You almost cut through it to get back to your family’s cabin, but you gasp as you notice something dusty and scaley in the path.

The large snake coils and makes its warning known with an ominous rattle. You scream, but mostly because Dean grabs your waist from behind to pull you back.

“Careful!” he says. “Get behind me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you also pull him back by his arm, not letting him get closer to the snake. Its body is light brown with darker brown splotches lined down its spine. The head is oblong and flat with a point to its nose, but it flicks a black, forked tongue as its tail continues to rattle.

Dean glances at you over his shoulder.

“Let go so I can deal with it,” he says. “Looks like a prairie.”

Your dad told you that there are three main kinds of rattlesnakes in Colorado, but prairies have the worst bite.

“Just ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away,” you argue.

“Kill it, Dean!” Sam says. He came out of the water too. He stays closer to the pier but wants to watch what happens. Living in rural Colorado, all three of you have seen your fair share of snakes. One tried to get into Sam’s crib once when he was a baby. That was the first snake Dean ever saw his dad kill.

“Both of you, stay back!” Dean says sharply. He guides you a couple more feet behind him and reaches for a stick on the ground. He doesn’t have a weapon, so he tries to guide the snake into the tall grass.

The animal gets agitated at his poking, coils tighter and tighter as it rears back to strike—

Until a boot crunches its head, and a knife separates the body from it.

You’re relieved to see your dad. Bobby adjusts his hat and gives you all a firm look.

“You all know better than to mess with a rattler,” he says gruffly. “Any of y’all get bit?”

“No, sir,” Dean says.

Bobby nods, his shoulders loosening as he gives you and Dean a quick look over to make sure. He pats Dean on the shoulder afterward.

“Okay, good,” Bobby says, though he aims a shrewd look at the boys. “Does your dad know you’re out here instead of workin’ on your chores?”

Sam and Dean don’t have a good answer for him as they avoid his gaze. Even you feel guilty by association.

Bobby smirks a little. “All right. Go on and swim for a little while longer. It’s hot as hell out here.” 

The boys perk up, share a glance, then they head back for the river before Bobby changes his mind. You hug him, even though you’re all wet. 

“Thanks, Daddy!” you chirp. 

He soothes a hand over your frizzing hair. You look up, resting your chin on his chest. He looks down at you with a smaller, more genuine smile.

“Be careful with those boys,” he says.

You agree with a nod before you follow your friends in running off the pier.

Now…

Your fingers toy with the silver rose inside its oval-shaped pendant, which now has a place laying against your chest on a thin chain. It’s delicate, beautiful. You wonder if your dad bought it, or if it was his mother’s, or his grandmother’s. Either way, it means something to you now. It holds the weight of regret—over a decade’s worth. 

“Hey, you with me?” Brady asks. 

He somewhat earns your attention. “Hmm?”

“Who gave you that necklace?” he says, glancing down at your chest. “It doesn’t really match your ring.” 

“My dad left it for me,” you reply.

“Ah. That’s nice,” Brady says. But soon, he frowns, brushing wild strands of your hair out of your eyes. He fingers the wrinkles in the collar of your blouse as well. “You look tired, babe…and still a bit disheveled. We’re meeting with some important people soon, the architect and one of the board members. Are you up for this?”

No, if you’re honest. But he didn’t exactly give you a choice on coming out here, just a few miles down the road of Winchester Ranch.

“Sorry my dad’s death is so inconvenient for you,” you snipe. “A couple days ago, I seem to remember you saying the timing was perfect.”

“That’s not what I said,” Brady says, his brows knitting together. He relents, cupping the back of your neck and stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All right, I’m sorry. I know I’m pushing, but you know this is a big project for me—for us. Dick and my father are trusting us to make sure this goes smoothly. If we do well, we could get the high-rise project in Las Vegas.”

The idea doesn’t excite you as much as it should. You’re having a hard time having any kind of coherent thought right now, especially here. 

You two are standing in the bare bones of what used to be the Campbell home. It’s about to be converted into the front-facing offices of a new community of houses. The barns and chicken coops on the former farm have already been demolished and levelled. 

You remember the Campbells, Sam and Dean’s grandparents. Samuel and Deanna were good people. When you were young, sometimes you’d help them feed the animals on weekends. Deanna used to bake cookies on Saturday mornings, and she’d have a plate ready for you and her grandkids. You hope they’re happy in North Carolina.

But thinking about them only brings your mind back to last night, and the lie you can’t bring yourself to unravel as Brady shows you the map of the land. He explains the latest problem. 

“Right now, the land isn’t built to support the amount of electricity we’ll need to create an entire community. Looks like you missed that when you were scoping out the property,” Brady says, giving you a pointed look.

You frown. You take out an iPad from your purse and dig through your files.

“Shouldn’t the appraiser have caught that?”

“You’re the one who handles the environmental concerns,” Brady says. “If the appraiser didn’t catch it, you should’ve.”

This is the hard part of workplace relationships. Brady was the one who trained you, and even though he’s no longer your direct overseer, he has the seniority and the responsibility as a team lead.

“I’m sorry,” you say contritely. “I was looking at what the city needs as far as infrastructure. I guess I just assumed the land would have power.”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Brady replies dryly. “They make an ass out of you and me.”

You frown at him, with a narrow look. Now you’re getting pissed. 

“You don’t need any help making an ass of yourself lately,” you say.   

Brady eyes you, but chooses to let that go for the moment. 

“It’s a problem because it could take millions of dollars to bring that much power out here. The builder told me that if we utilize the river as an additional power source, it could work, but we’ll need all of it.” 

You grow concerned. Shit. That’s a lot of money.

But that last part sends up a red flag in your mind.

“What do you mean, all of it?” you ask.

“I mean, we’ll need to build a dam,” Brady says.  

You stare back at him incredulously as you realize what he actually means. A dam would divert the flow of the river from the rest of the land—mainly from the Winchester Ranch. 

“You can’t cut the Winchesters off from their main water supply, Brady. That affects the soil and their ability to grow hay for the cattle and horses to graze. It’s already been a brutal summer. That could finish them.”

“The river flows from our land, and we can do what we have to in order to make this multimillion-dollar investment work,” he says. “Look at it this way. By the time they know what hit them, it’ll probably be too late for them to recoup their losses. It’ll push John to agree to our offer. We’ll acquire the property, keep building out the rest of this valley, and he’ll have more than enough money to retire.” 

“He doesn’t want to retire,” you point out. “He wants to pass on the ranch to his sons.”

Brady just shakes his head and focuses on the plans laid out on his own iPad. 

“He can’t compete with reality forever, honey. Farming and ranching don’t make money anymore. Not in this country. About 22% of beef is imported, and that’s only going to increase. 80% of our seafood already comes from Canada, China, and Southeast Asia.”

He may be right, but you really don’t feel good about this.

After meeting with the architect, the board member, and even Edgar, one of Dick’s stooges, Brady suggests going out to lunch. You had a late breakfast, so you tell him to go on ahead. You plan to start drafting the paperwork needed for some other elements of the build, as well as the issue of the electricity. 

Brady gives you a look—one that tells you that he really thinks you should come to lunch. You know he wants to present a united front, but the truth is, you’re in no mood to schmooze and drink and listen to him criticize the food and the atmosphere wherever you two go. You know you had the same gripes and judgments when you first arrived back in Salida, but this is the town you grew up in. Parts of it still live in your heart, you’ve discovered.

Brady isn’t happy about your refusal to join them for lunch, but he drives them off in his Lexus, which he had Edgar deliver to him from California.

You decide to take a walk down to the river to see it for yourself. You don’t remember how it looks on this side of the fence that borders the ranch. It takes you a good 20 minutes to walk down the line of the fence, all the way to the river. As you walk through the taller grass, already you can see how the sun shines on the water just the same over here.

You take another step, but you immediately know it’s wrong.

Searing pain runs up your ankle, and it buckles you as a scream tears from your throat. You fall to the ground, spitting out long blades of grass, and for a precious moment you lay there stunned, just to realize that you’re in far more trouble than you could imagine.

You’re out here alone.

Jack Kline is fucking terrible on a horse, but at least he didn’t lie about it. 

Dean shakes his head, seated on his own mount as he watches Jack utter a stream of nervous, whoas, and slow down, horse, and somebody, help!

Benny rides up beside Dean, while Cas tries to go over and help before Jack falls out of his saddle again. 

“Where the fuck did you find this kid, Dean?” Benny asks.

“Look, I know, but it’s hard to find people willing to work a ranch these days,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over his face. 

The horse bucks Jack off again. Cas dismounts from his own and helps the kid up; he’s holding his shoulder with a pained hiss. 

“You squeezed too hard in the worst places and didn’t squeeze hard enough where it mattered,” Cas says. 

Walt snorts from the sidelines. 

“That’s what she said,” he jokes. No one laughs. They’re too tired and fed up with this dead weight while trying to move over two hundred cows from one pasture to another for grazing. 

“At this rate, we won’t get back to the bunkhouse until midnight if we have to keep peeling this dumb fuck from the dirt,” Walt remarks. “We should just leave him here until he can man up and figure it out.”

“Knock it off,” Dean barks, making sure his voice is heard by all the men. “No one goes back to eat and sleep until the work is done. If that means we work all night, then we fucking work all night.” 

He gets off his horse and yanks Jack up from the ground by his belt. 

“Come on,” he says, in a frustrated whisper. “I’m not watching you eat dust ‘til dawn. Listen. Cas is right, you need to relax a bit. Don’t squeeze his flank so tight. The horse can sense if you don’t trust him, so why the hell should he trust you to lead him?”

Jack takes that in with a nod of understanding. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Right,” Dean nods, patting him on the back. “Now get back up and try again. Slow. Easy.”

He’ll tie the kid’s hands to the saddle if he needs to.

But luckily, Jack takes Dean’s advice to heart. Cas comes in closer to give him more pointers as they all finally push the herd over into Pasture 5, which borders what used to be the Campbell farm.

“All right, Jack. Remember to look out for newborn calves, so we can tag them and get them vaccinated later,” Dean calls out. 

“Sure, but uh…what about, you know, other animals? Like bears?” Jack says. He eyes the trees of the nearby national forest warily.  

“Definitely watch out for wildlife,” Dean says. “Bears and mountain lions you can shoot if they’re trying to kill our cattle, or you. But never kill a fucking wolf, especially the ones with tracking collars on them. Those guys are monitored and protected by the CPW.”

“What’s the CPW?” Jack predictably asks.

“Colorado Parks and Wildlife,” Cas supplies.

Jack nods. “Oh…what happens if you kill a wolf that’s protected?”

“That’s a $100,000 fine, probably even jail time,” Dean says. “You will be responsible for that fine, or your bail. Not the ranch.”

Jack considers that, and the forest, with an uneasy frown. 

“I thought you said you take care of your own,” he says. 

“Not for a $100,000, Jack. We don’t have that kind of money lying around, so you’ll be paying that off for a small eternity,” Dean says. 

A ragged scream interrupts their conversation and cuts through the low mooing of cattle. Dean straightens at attention. His gaze searches the plain, but Cas points out a woman along the river—on the other side of the fence. 

“Help!”

Dean’s eyes widen. He recognizes your voice. 

He spurs his horse into a gallop, almost on a reflex. He stops at the fence, dismounts from his horse, and vaults himself over the barbed wire. He then springs over to you, quickly taking in how you’re sprawled out in the grass. He worries you’ve stepped in a hole and broken something, or worse, been bit by a snake. 

But he realizes that your foot is caught in a bear trap. 

“What the fuck?” Dean utters. “These things are illegal!”

You’re tearful and in pain, but you heave a shaky sigh and shake your head. 

“Jesus Christ. Of course it’s you.”

His brows raise high in disbelief, and he glares at you. “You know what, you’re fucking lucky it’s me.”

Cas and Benny come over quickly to help him. Jack stays behind to hold the horses’ reins.

“Ma’am,” Cas greets you with a nod, and Benny with a tip of his hat. You met them just yesterday.

“Hey, guys,” you say, though your voice is unsteady. Benny braces you while Cas joins Dean in securing your bleeding foot.

“Okay, just relax,” Dean tells you, more soothingly as he feels you trembling. He lays a hand on your calf, meeting your eyes. Biting your lip, you give a jerky nod as you hold onto Benny’s arm.

“Grab that spring. We gotta push down at the same time,” Dean says to Cas, who nods.

The moment they grasp the metal springs on either side of the mechanism, you tense up at the pain, whimpering though you try not to flinch.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s gonna be over in a second,” Dean says. He meets Cas’s eyes and counts off. “1—2—and 3.”

Together they push down on the springs and slowly ease your foot out of the trap. You’re wearing flat dress shoes this time, at least, but it would’ve been smarter to wear boots out here.

You’re bleeding from the puncture wounds, so Dean slips his arms around your back and under your knees so he can pick you up and take you back to his horse. Your eyes meet his in an unspoken tension, but ultimately, you’re resigned to accepting his help for the rest of this too. 

He passes you along to Benny over the fence, until Dean can hop back over it. The men work together to help you onto Dean’s horse, sitting side-saddle in front of him. 

He takes the reins, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shoots you a sly smirk.

“Hold on tight,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but you’re forced to grab onto him when he spurs the horse into a trot, back toward civilization.

The car ride to the hospital is filled with a particular kind of tension. The familiar rumble of the Impala and its worn leather interior make it hard to focus on the road ahead, when you keep getting dragged into sepia-toned memories within your mind.

Survivor’s “Oceans” plays on an old cassette of Dean’s that used to be his father’s, just like this car. You remember when John started to let him drive it when he turned 17. You were 15, and already starting to look at your best friend differently, even before he kissed you for the first time.

“Oceans between us,” Jim Peterik belts through the speakers. “Strangers upon the shore. Like islands we stand alone, oceans between us now…”

You sigh and grab your phone from your pocket to text Brady. He already knows why you’re headed to the hospital, and that a “family friend” is taking you there.

On my way. Meet you there in 10. You sure you’re OK?

You text him back:

Yeah. It hurts, but I’ll be fine. Will probably need stitches though. See? You should’ve just come to lunch with us.

Your lips press together in annoyance.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean remarks.

You send him a tired look. “Brady’s meeting us at the hospital. Don’t…say anything crazy to him, okay? I told him you’re a family friend.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Dean,” you warn.

“I don’t have three fucking rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends, but I guess things really are different in L.A.,” he says.

“All right, give it a rest,” you say, rubbing your blushing cheek in irritation. “You don’t make anything easy on me, do you?”

“Oh, yeah? Why should I?” Dean gripes.

“Because I’m the one with the busted foot, you ass!”

“Well, who’s fault is that? Oh, right, the asshole who left you out there alone to begin with.”

A growl of frustration leaves your lips as you cover your face, rather than stare at the obnoxious cut of Dean’s jawline.

“It was my choice to go out there alone. My own fault that I stepped in a goddamn trap. My fault for what happened last night, okay?” you snap. “So let’s just drop it and move on.”

Dean eyes you in annoyance. You don’t get to take the blame for what happened last night, because it’s mostly on him, he thinks.

The problem is, he’s not sorry. And though he refuses to admit it, even to himself (or to Sam’s judgy ass), the last thing he wants is to pretend it never happened.

Dean helps you from the car into the Emergency Department, where you’re forced to wait for a room. Brady arrives as you’re filling out the paperwork and insurance information. He’s come from the business lunch, wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks, along with a matching black Rolex.

“Hey, baby,” he greets, giving you a brief kiss.

You can’t help but glance at Dean from the corner of your eye; he wears a stoic expression, even when Brady briefly seizes him up, then holds out a hand to him.

“Hi, I’m Brady. Thanks for giving her a ride,” he says.

Dean forces himself to shake the other man’s hand, but doesn’t try all that hard to be pleasant.

“Just so you know, bear traps are fucking illegal in this state,” he says. “And more often than not, people get stupid and forget they’re there.”

Brady’s politeness fades. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. He’s being rude as hell, but he is right, Brady. You could’ve at least told me,” you interject, although you give Dean a warning look.

In this narrow instance, however, you have to agree with him when you look at your foot. It’s heavily wrapped with Dean’s gray flannel, half of it stained crimson with your blood.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Brady says, squeezing your shoulder, but he stares back up at Dean with new tension in his frame. “We’ll look into the legalities of the traps, but I just take issue with some wise-ass trying to tell me how to run my property.”

Dean has to chuckle at the irony. He rubs a hand over his chin as he considered this guy, your fiancé. He’s everything Dean’s father hates about corporate investors, bankers, lawyers, and politicians. Dean understands why.

“But it’s not your property, now is it?” he says. “The guys tugging the other end of your leash are the ones actually calling the shots, and they just want to take and remake everything until it all looks the same. But you’re not satisfied with my grandfather’s land. No, now you’re trying to take my family’s land.”

“Dean,” you say quietly. 

He pauses, glancing at you. He finds your tired, imploring gaze. However reluctantly, he relents.

Brady takes notice, and his angry frown firms into a colder wall.

“I appreciate what you did for her today, but I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says.

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I think so too.”

He offers you a nod, and you return it, watching him hesitate the slightest bit before he leaves the Emergency Room. Brady watches him go too, if with a more critical eye. He sits beside you.

“So that’s Dean Winchester. He’s the older one doing John’s grunt work?” he muses.

“He manages the ranch. It’s not an easy job,” you correct.

He eyes you shrewdly. “And what’s your history with him? You said the Winchesters are just family friends.”

“We grew up together, Sam, Dean, and me. But yeah, later on, Dean and I dated in high school,” you admit. “We broke up before I left for college, moved to Cali. My parents got divorced a little before then, so it was, um…more or less a clean break.”

A hefty pinprick of guilt stabs you in that sore place behind the ribs, while Brady processes it all with a nod and a thoughtful hum. You see him running calculations behind his eyes, storing the information as he stares ahead, rather than at you.

“Surprising then that Sam Winchester is their lawyer,” Brady remarks, somewhat amused at the idea. “I know these hicks like to keep it all in the family, but come on. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five…”

“Twenty-eight,” you supply. “Don’t underestimate Sam. He’s smart. Got a perfect score on his LSAT.”

Brady raises his brows. “Well, taking the test isn’t the same as the real deal, making negotiations, reading the opposition, and fighting in the courtroom.” 

You hesitate. “True.”

Brady has a few more years of fighting under his belt at 36.

The door beside the reception desk opens, and a nurse finally calls you in to be seen by the doctor.

You undergo a brief procedure to clean and suture the puncture wounds. No bones were broken, but you’re going to be on crutches for a few weeks until your foot heals. 

On the way back to the hotel, you notice Brady texting while he drives.

“Babe,” you say, slipping your hand over his wrist to earn his attention. He puts the phone down and holds your hand, bringing it to his lips in a kiss. You smile, but it soon fades. 

“I want to talk…about the river,” you say with a sigh.

The affection in Brady’s eyes dims. “What’s there to talk about? The plan is already underway. I made a few calls while you were in there with the doctor.”

You frown, slipping your hand out of his. “That was fast. So that’s why you didn’t stay with me while I was literally getting poked and prodded.”

He sighs and refocuses on the road, ignoring his own guilt. The fact that he doesn’t have a defense, or doesn’t bother to offer one, makes your heart sink into sadness. 

“You know, I’m not sure if I know who you are out here,” you say. 

This is exactly how you felt the day that he told you he wasn’t going with you to your father’s funeral. That has to be why you allowed yourself to find comfort in Dean.

Perhaps he had a point when he scoffed at whirlwind romances. It definitely feels like the rosy phase of champagne and wooing is over, and you’re starting to see where you really rank on Brady’s list of priorities.

But he did promise you the world when he proposed. He promised to take care of you, to love you, to make sure you were never alone again. After losing your mom, that was all you wanted.

There had been dinners, gifts, weekends at resorts in Venice Beach, parties in Beverly Hills, getaways to Napa Valley wine country…

You suppose you do fit the cliché of the country girl who gets shown the high life, but you’re starting to reconsider exactly what it will mean to become part of his world.

Was Sam right? Was Dean? 

Have you really changed that much?

“Look, you don’t get it, okay?” Brady says, bringing you back down to this earth, and this reality. “My dad is putting a shit-ton of pressure on me.”

“I know that—”

“If I don’t prove I can handle this build, this company, without his help, it could be the difference between me or my junkie sister getting control of our trust. That’s upwards of $5 billion. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand how much money that is. I’ve already signed the prenup, remember?” you say, a bit testily. 

What you don’t understand is his snideness toward his sister. She’s been addicted to Adderall and cocaine, that’s true, but she’s in recovery, actually making good strides in her sobriety last time you talked to her.

The conversation dies there though. An uncomfortable tension lasts until he pulls into the hotel parking lot. To his credit, he gets out of the car and goes to you as you open the passenger side door. He wraps his arms around your waist and helps you stand. You find balance on his shoulders on reflex.

“I don’t like this,” he says, with a measured frown.

Your eyes begin to sting, but you breathe through it. “Me either.”

He leans in slower than usual to kiss you. You allow it, closing your eyes, even though you feel cold inside. 

A reedy vine crawls up into your throat when you think of Dean’s heated breaths mingling with yours, his hands on your body, relearning you, reminding you that he had carved a place so deep inside, you didn’t know how to let it go.

I have to, is your firmer thought, after Brady begins to guide you on your crutches toward the hotel lobby. No relationship is perfect, and this man does love you. You’ll have to find a way to tell him the truth about what you did, and hope he can forgive you.

The thought follows you as you hobble back to the room. The effort takes up what energy you have left, but you know you need a shower. Brady helps you gather what you need, until you eventually find some solitude in the bathroom. You stare at your own disheveled reflection as the questions rolling just under your skin threaten to overwhelm you.

You take in a deeper breath to steady yourself, and your fingers close over your silver pendant. There’s one other thing you know you have to do.

After setting your crutches aside, you lean on the bathroom counter and reach for your phone to text Sam.

Hey. By now you’ve probably heard about me and—

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head as you erase the message. Pause. Start again.  

Hey, there’s something you need to know…  They’re going to build a dam on the river.

AN: rubs hands Okay, you got some cowboy action, some jealousy, some John Winchester being an awesome parent, as usual (🙄), and a looot of paving over the truth (for now). What do you think about the messy love triange reader's found herself in? How long do you think she can play both sides? 😬

Next Time:

It looks like, yet again, the way you left made its mark on Dean. Sam wonders if it’s worse this time. 

“Do you know how she’s doing? You know, healing up?” Sam asks. Getting caught in a bear trap is gnarly, but it was almost strange to hear. Most people who live here have better sense than to put those out. That’s tourists for you.

In answer to the question, Dean just shrugs and takes an even larger bite of his sandwich. Half a pickle falls out of the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” Sam says. He tries again, taking the corner seat beside Dean. “How are you handling all this? Her being back, you know. I mean, the engagement was a bit of a shock, and the, uh, working for the company that wants our ranch. That’s complicated. But considering you two slept together last month—”

Finally, Dean snaps and drops his food on the plate. He glares at Sam.

“All right, you got a point, or you just giving me the play-by-play? Highly unnecessary, might I add.”

“She’s getting married, Dean. What did you think was going to happen?” Sam says, a bit gentler. “Did you think she was going to just…what, tear it all up? The whole life she’s built for herself?”

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Behind you, Jess sat on the counter like she belonged there, one leg swinging slowly, watching you with that quiet attention she always had when she wasn’t trying to fix anything—just understand it.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she said.

You didn’t look up from the bowl. “What thing?”

“The ‘I have too much energy and nowhere to put it so I’m going to bake like it’s a coping strategy’ thing.”

A faint huff left you before you could stop it, more breath than laugh. You scraped the sides of the bowl, steady and repetitive, letting the motion carry you.

“Is it working?” she added, softer now.

A pause.

You considered lying.

Then shook your head once. “Not really.”

Jess nodded like that was a perfectly acceptable answer.

She reached for a stray piece of dough on the counter and rolled it between her fingers, absentminded. “Sam said he’s officially locked in with that internship, by the way.”

That got a flicker of something lighter through you. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. He looked way too proud of himself about it. Tried to act like it was no big deal, but it absolutely was a big deal.”

That earned a real sound from you this time—small, but honest. The tension in your shoulders eased just slightly without you telling it to.

The oven ticked softly.

Somewhere deeper in the cabin, a floorboard creaked as the structure settled.

Jess tilted her head. “Dean’s at work?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause, then Jess added, more casually than not, “He’s probably thinking about you anyway.”

That made your hands still for half a second. Just long enough for Jess to notice.

But she didn’t push.

She never did.

Instead, she swung her leg again and watched you resume mixing, slower now, like your body had to remember what rhythm felt like.

A few minutes passed like that.

Comfortable. Familiar. Almost normal.

Until it wasn’t.

You reached for the vanilla without thinking, poured it, and the scent hit the air a fraction too sharp—too immediate.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

It used to never matter.

But your stomach turned so quickly it caught you off guard, breath stuttering for half a second as you set the bottle down a little harder than intended.

Jess’s gaze sharpened instantly. Not alarmed—just aware.

“You okay?”

You blinked once, forcing your focus back to the bowl. “Yeah. Just—”

The smell lingered longer than it should’ve.

You swallowed. “Just strong today.”

Jess didn’t respond right away.

She just watched you a beat longer than usual, then nodded like she’d decided something internally but wasn’t going to say it out loud yet.

“Okay,” she said simply, and hopped down from the counter.

She moved to the fridge instead, pulling it open like nothing had changed at all. “Do we still have enough eggs, or did Dean eat them again like a raccoon with no self-control?”

That pulled a reluctant smile out of you—small, grateful, distracted.

“Sam bought more yesterday.”

“Of course he did,” she muttered, already rummaging.

You leaned back against the counter for a second, exhaling slowly through your nose.

The kitchen was still warm.

Still safe.

Still yours.

But somewhere underneath it all, something had begun to shift—not loudly, not dramatically.

Just enough that you noticed it when you paused long enough to feel it.

And you didn’t.

Not for long.

Because movement helped.

And thinking too hard about stillness had started to feel like a mistake you couldn’t quite name yet.

Evening settled over the cabin slowly, like it didn’t want to commit to being night just yet.

The light outside had softened into that muted gold that made everything feel quieter than it really was. Shadows stretched longer across the floorboards. The windows held the last of the sky like it was something fragile.

You’d stopped pretending to be busy a while ago.

The baking had been cleaned up without much memory of doing it. Jess had drifted out earlier—something about Sam calling, something about “I’ll be back later,” said lightly, like it didn’t matter if it was true or not.

Now it was just you and Dean.

And the silence that came with that was never really silence at all.

He was in the kitchen when you found him, leaning against the counter with a glass in hand he hadn’t touched. Not restless exactly—just present in that way he got when his thoughts had nowhere else to go.

His gaze lifted the moment you came into the room.

Softened immediately.

“You alright?” he asked, like he always did. Not because he expected something was wrong—but because he checked anyway.

You nodded before you fully reached him. “Yeah.”

But the word came out a little thinner than you meant it to.

You crossed the space between you without thinking too hard about it, like your body already knew the direction it wanted. By the time you stopped, you were close enough that the warmth of him felt like something you could lean into.

And you did.

Just slightly.

Not dramatic. Not falling.

Just… there.

Dean didn’t comment on it. Didn’t shift like he’d noticed anything unusual.

But his hand came up anyway, settling at your waist in a quiet, automatic hold—steadying without asking why.

His thumb brushed once, slow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he murmured.

You hesitated. That was the thing lately. There were too many answers, and none of them came out clean.

“It’s just…” you started, then stopped.

Dean waited. No pressure in it. Just patience.

You exhaled through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again. “I keep thinking about telling them.”

His grip didn’t tighten.

But something in him adjusted—subtle, like a shift in weight.

“The Winters?” he asked.

You nodded.

A pause settled between you, not uncomfortable. Just full. It wasn’t fear that lived in your chest when you thought about it. Not exactly.

It was structure.

Expectation.

The way your parents’ world had always been built—careful choices, measured words, consequences that didn’t always need anger to feel heavy, no matter how ‘freely’ you’d grown up.

“I know they’ll be… happy,” you added after a moment. Then corrected yourself softly, “They’ll care. They’ll want to be involved.”

Dean watched you carefully, like he was listening for what you weren’t saying more than what you were.

“But?” he prompted gently.

Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his side without realizing it. “But I don’t know how they’ll feel about how we’re doing this,” you admitted.

There it was.

Not the pregnancy.

The path.

Dean didn’t answer right away.

He just shifted you a little closer instead, like he could make space for the weight of it without trying to remove it.

His hand moved once at your back—slow, grounding.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You looked up.

His expression wasn’t tense. Not worried in the way you were expecting.

Just steady.

“Listen to me,” he said. “They don’t get to decide that part.”

Your breath caught slightly—not because it was shocking, but because it landed too cleanly against something tangled in you.

Dean continued, voice lower now. “That’s not on them. That’s on us. On you and me. On how we want to do this.”

You searched his face like there might be a second meaning hiding underneath.

There wasn’t.

Just certainty.

Not loud. Not forceful.

Certain.

His thumb brushed again at your side. “You’re gonna be a good mom. That’s already decided. Everything else?” A small shrug. “We figure it out as we go.”

A quiet sound left you—not quite a laugh, not quite a breath. Your shoulders loosened a fraction without you meaning them to.

Dean noticed anyway. “You tired,” he said suddenly, softer.

It wasn’t a question. 

You blinked. “I’m fine.”

But even as you said it, your body betrayed you—leaning a little more fully into him, like the effort of holding yourself upright had shifted without permission.

Dean’s hand steadied you immediately, reflexive.

“You’re not,” he corrected gently. No frustration in it. Just observation.

You opened your mouth to argue again, but it never formed.

Because he was already moving.

Not rushing.

Just deciding.

“C’mere,” he murmured, and before you could respond, his arms slid under you with practiced ease.

You made a small sound of surprise as the ground disappeared, instinctively gripping his shoulder.

Dean huffed something that might’ve been a laugh as he adjusted your weight against him. “Relax. I got you.”

“I’m not—” you started, but it dissolved halfway through when he shifted you more securely against his chest.

His hold was warm. Familiar. Absolute without being heavy.

Your protest faded into something quieter.

Something easier.

He carried you through the cabin like it wasn’t a decision at all, like it had already been decided the moment you’d leaned into him.

Up the stairs.

Down the hall.

No urgency. Just inevitability.

And you didn’t fight it this time.

Not really.

Because his scent wrapped around you in a way that made your thoughts slow down, like they’d finally found somewhere safe to land.

By the time he set you down on the bed, it felt less like being placed somewhere and more like being returned.

Dean stayed close as you shifted, settling in without fully letting go.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said quietly.

“What thing?”

“Trying to carry everything in your head at once.”

A pause.

You didn’t deny it this time. Instead, you turned slightly toward him, watching as he sat beside you like he had nowhere else to be.

His hand found your hip again—gentle, familiar.

“Try not to,” he added softer. “Not tonight.”

You studied him for a moment.

Then nodded.

Not because everything felt resolved.

But because for now, it didn’t need to be.

And Dean stayed right there as the room settled around you both—quiet, steady, and just warm enough to make the rest of the world feel a little farther away than it had been earlier.

Saturday arrived with a kind of stillness that didn’t belong to the cabin.

The morning had been quiet in a different way than usual—not peaceful, exactly, but contained. Like everyone had agreed, without saying it out loud, that today had edges that needed to be handled carefully. So much so, Jess hadn’t made a single teasing remark.

Dean drove.

He didn’t offer to take the truck. Didn’t suggest anything else. Just grabbed the keys and held them a second longer than necessary before opening the door for you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The Impala felt different when it left the gravel road and hit pavement.

Like it understood where you were going.

You sat beside him, hands folded in your lap more out of instinct than intention. The road stretched out ahead in long, quiet lines, trees thinning slowly the closer you got to town.

Dean’s hand found your thigh once at a stoplight.

Not gripping.

Just there.

A reminder without words.

“You alright?” he asked after a while.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He glanced at you briefly—long enough to know you were answering honestly, even if it didn’t cover everything.

Then he just nodded once and focused back on the road.

No pressure.

No pushing.

Just presence.

The house came into view the same way memories always did—before you were ready for them.

Familiar roofline. Familiar windows. Familiar walkway that hadn’t changed even when everything else had.

Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with history.

You didn’t realize you’d gone still until Dean’s voice cut in gently beside you.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he said.

You swallowed once.

Then opened your door.

Inside, the Winter home felt exactly as you remembered—and completely different all at once.

Not because it had changed.

Because you had.

The structure of it hit you first.

Not emotional warmth.

Not chaos.

Order.

Everything had its place. Everything carried intention. Even the air felt like it had been arranged rather than simply existed. Things you hadn’t noticed growing up, but now hit in an unfamiliar way.

You stepped inside, and for a moment, it felt like the house itself recognized you before anyone else did.

Then voices shifted.

Movement from deeper inside.

Your mother appeared first.

Her gaze landed on you, steady and assessing in the way only someone who had raised you could manage without saying a word. Her expression softened—not dramatically, but enough that the shift was clear if you knew how to read it.

Then your father followed behind her.

The change in him was subtler still.

But immediate.

He didn’t speak right away.

Not because he didn’t know what to say. Because he was measuring what you had brought into their home. And he already knew it mattered.

Dean stayed half a step behind you.

Not hidden.

Not forward.

Just… there.

A steady weight at your back that didn’t interfere with the room but grounded everything inside it.

Your mother’s eyes flicked briefly to him.

Then back to you.

“Come in,” she said at last.

Simple.

Controlled.

Inviting without losing structure.

You stepped further into the house.

Dean followed.

The sitting room had been rearranged slightly since the last time you’d been here—subtle differences in placement, newer books on the shelves, the same careful attention to symmetry that always made the space feel deliberate.

You sat.

Dean remained standing until your father gestured for him to sit as well.

He did.

But not before a brief pause—just long enough to acknowledge the formality without resisting it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was loaded.

Your mother broke it first. “How have you been?”

A simple question. But in this room, nothing was ever simple.

You exhaled slowly. “I’ve been… good.”

A beat.

Then, softer, “We came because we needed to tell you something.”

That changed the air immediately.

Not alarm.

Not surprise.

Just focus.

Your father leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. Your mother’s hands folded in her lap.

Dean didn’t move. But you felt the shift in him anyway—subtle, attentive, ready without being intrusive.

You looked down briefly, then back up.

“I’m pregnant.”

No buildup.

No embellishment.

Just the truth, placed carefully into the center of the room like it belonged there, whether anyone was ready or not.

The reaction wasn’t dramatic. It never would be here. Somehow, you’d known that.

Your mother’s eyes softened again—but this time with something deeper underneath it. Awareness. Calculation. Care.

Your father’s gaze didn’t waver.

Not once.

Then he nodded slowly.

“I see,” he said.

Two words.

But they carried weight in a way that silence often couldn’t. Your mother’s attention shifted briefly toward Dean.

Then back to you.

“And you are certain?” she asked gently.

“Yes,” you said.

Dean’s hand moved slightly beside you—small enough that only you would notice it. A quiet grounding touch at the edge of your chair.

Not interrupting.

Just present.

Your father leaned back slightly, absorbing the information in a way that didn’t rush toward reaction.

“That changes things,” he said at last.

Not disapproval.

Not approval.

Just acknowledgment.

And in the Winter household, acknowledgment was never casual. It meant something had entered the structure of the family that would need to be accounted for.

Your mother nodded once. “It will require planning.”

Dean’s jaw tightened faintly at that.

Not defensive.

Just attentive.

You felt his presence shift subtly closer without him moving at all. A silent reminder that you weren’t alone in the structure of this room.

Your father’s eyes finally settled on Dean directly.

Measured him.

Not unkindly.

Not warmly.

Carefully.

“You will be involved in that planning,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Dean met his gaze evenly. “Yes, sir.”

Simple.

Certain.

No hesitation.

That seemed to satisfy something unspoken in the room, because your father gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Your mother exhaled gently, then looked back to you. “We will need time to adjust,” she said. “But we are listening.”

That landed differently than anything else.

Not approval.

Not resistance.

But something structured and steady enough to hold weight. Your shoulders eased slightly before you realized they’d been tense.

Beside you, Dean’s hand found yours again under the edge of your chair—quiet, grounding, steady.

Not pulling you out of the moment.

Just keeping you anchored inside it.

And for the first time since you’d walked in—

you didn’t feel like you were carrying this alone inside their house. Just carrying it inside a room that would, eventually, learn how to hold it too.

The room held steady for a moment too long after your mother’s last words.

Not empty.

Just… suspended.

Like everyone was waiting to see what shape the next thing would take.

Your mother was the first to move again. Not physically—just enough that her attention sharpened, recalibrated.

“Then we should be clear,” she said carefully. “If this is confirmed, there are expectations that come with a Winter child. Not rules in the harsh sense, but responsibilities. Structure. Awareness of lineage matters, especially with a first pup.”

Dean’s posture shifted instantly beside you.

Not dramatic.

But noticeable.

His jaw tightened, shoulders subtly squaring like something in him had just been asked to sit still under pressure it didn’t agree with.

You felt it immediately—his wolf pacing under the surface, restrained but very much there.

Your father continued, voice even. “The Winter line does not take these things lightly. You understand that. Especially since you’re both Touched.”

Your throat tightened.

“I do,” you said, before Dean could.

It came out steady, but softer than you intended. A fraction of hesitation slipped through anyway.

Dean’s hand pressed lightly against the edge of your chair again—grounding, not controlling.

Your mother watched you for a long moment, then asked, “And the environment the child will be raised in?”

There it was.

The real question underneath the question: Would you be moving back onto Winter land?

Dean let out a slow breath through his nose. You felt him hold himself back from speaking.

Just barely.

You answered instead.

“It will be safe,” you said. “And stable. It won’t be—” you paused, searching for the right words, “—unstructured. But it won’t be rigid either.” It still wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say.

Your father’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in judgment, but in assessment.

“That is not a framework,” he said.

Dean shifted again, sharper this time. You felt it in your bones before you saw it in him. The instinct to respond. To correct. To defend.

You tightened your fingers around his hand under the chair—once—a quiet signal.

Stay with me.

He exhaled slowly. Didn’t speak. But the tension stayed.

Your mother tilted her head slightly. “You are choosing a blended system, then.”

“Yes,” you said.

Simple. Honest.

Dean’s voice cut in then—controlled, but edged. “She’s not raising the pup alone,” he said.

The room went still.

Not hostile.

But recalibrated.

Your father’s gaze moved to him again.

Dean didn’t look away.

“I’m not a guest in this,” Dean continued, quieter now but firmer. “And I’m not standing on the outside of it either.”

A beat.

Then, softer—but with weight.

“That’s my pup too.”

Your mother studied him for a long moment. Then nodded once, like she had already accounted for that variable.

“We did not assume otherwise,” she said calmly. “But Winter structure requires clarity. Ambiguity creates instability.”

Dean huffed faintly under his breath at that—almost a laugh, but not amused enough to fully become one.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “We’ve got plenty of structure where I’m from too.”

You felt the shift in him after he said it—like he immediately reined himself back in.

Not disrespectful.

Just Dean.

Your father’s gaze lingered on him another second longer, then returned to you. “And your plan for disclosure?” he asked.

Your chest tightened.

You knew what he meant.

Not if you would tell them.

But when and how.

You stayed silent for a long moment, realizing just how much you’d changed in a year. Dean squeezed your hand once, reassurance that he was there for you, not them.

“I’m leaving that to you,” you said, voice far steadier than you felt. “Dean and I have talked it over. We’re raising our pup in the Winchester way.”

That part landed like a silent bomb.

Dean’s hand squeezed yours once—subtle approval.

Your father leaned back slightly, his jaw working like he was chewing on things he wouldn’t say.

“What about the blessing ceremony?” he asked, sounding far too calm for your liking.

Dean’s hand tightened in yours for a fraction of a second before he forced his fingers to relax.

You didn’t falter, not at this. “On the second night of the full moon, after our pup is born, we’ll be on Winter land for the blessing ceremony, but only so our pup is acknowledged as a member of the pack.”

Your mother nodded once, understanding flickering in her gaze, a small but soft smile slowly forming. “You’ve already thought about this,” her words were softer than you’d anticipated.

For the first time since entering your childhood home, your gaze fell to the table, your thoughts drifting to the little girl who’d practically claimed you as hers that first night on Winchester land nearly a year ago. Who knew you were carrying your own pup before you had.

“I understand the structure of the Winter pack,” you began, carefully finding words to articulate your thoughts. “But, I also understand the closeness of the Winchester pack, and that’s what I want for our pup.” Dean’s thumb brushed once against your hand—small, unconscious comfort.

Your father’s expression didn’t change much, but something in it eased by a fraction. “Then we’ll respect the route you’ve chosen, as it’s always been your to choose.”

The sting of tears attempting to form hit your eyes without warning. You thought it would have been harder to make them understand. Or that they would argue that their way was the ‘right’ way. 

“Give us a little time to adjust,” your mother murmured, her expression softer than it had been.

By the time the Impala rolled back onto the dirt road home, the tightness behind your ribs had settled into something dull and heavy.

Not pain.

Not regret.

Just the kind of exhaustion that only came after holding yourself together for too long.

The drive home had been mostly quiet.

Not uncomfortable.

Dean had kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting against your thigh almost the entire way back, thumb brushing absently every now and then like he couldn’t quite stop checking that you were still there. Still mostly okay.

You hadn’t realized how much tension had been sitting in your body until the cabin finally came into view through the trees.

Home.

The porch light was already on, warm against the deepening blue of evening. Dean parked, but neither of you moved immediately. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.

For a moment, all you could hear was the distant rustle of wind through the forest and the sound of your own breathing.

Then Dean turned toward you fully. His gaze moved slowly across your face—not searching for damage this time.

Just reading you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

The question hit differently now. Because you actually had to think about it.

Your shoulders loosened slowly as you exhaled. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… tired.”

Something in his expression softened immediately at that.

Not pity.

Understanding.

His hand slid from your thigh up along your side before settling warm against your back. “You did good,” he said.

Simple words.

But they hit harder than you expected.

Your throat tightened unexpectedly as the memory of the conversation tried to replay itself all over again—the careful words, the measured silences, the weight of sitting in your childhood home and saying:

“We’re raising our pup in the Winchester way.”

Dean must’ve felt the shift in you through the bond because his thumb brushed slowly against your side.

“No,” he corrected softly, voice rough with something proud and reverent all at once. “You did real good.”

Heat stung suddenly behind your eyes. You looked away before it could fully settle there.

Dean noticed anyway. “C’mere,” he murmured.

Before you could protest, he pulled you against him, one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders.

The scent of him hit instantly—warm skin, leather, pine, smoke, wolf.

Home.

Your eyes closed briefly as your forehead rested against his shoulder. And for the first time since stepping into your parents’ house—

you finally let yourself sag a little.

Dean held you tighter immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission.

“You stood there and told ‘em exactly what you wanted for our pup,” he murmured into your hair. “That wasn’t easy.”

No.

It hadn’t been.

Not with your father watching every word. Not with your mother weighing meaning into silence. Not with generations of Winter structure sitting behind every sentence spoken in that room.

And somehow, saying it aloud now made the exhaustion settle deeper into your bones.

“I thought it would feel different,” you admitted quietly.

Dean leaned back just enough to look at you. “How?”

You swallowed once. “I don’t know. Lighter maybe.”

His expression softened even more.

“Baby,” he said gently, “you just stood up to your whole damn bloodline.”

Despite yourself, a small breath of laughter escaped you.

Dean grinned faintly at the sound of it, clearly relieved to hear it at all. Then his gaze flicked toward the cabin.

“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s go inside.”

The warmth hit immediately when Dean opened the door.

Coffee.

Woodsmoke.

Something sweet lingering faintly from what you and Jess had baked the day before.

And underneath all of it—

pack.

Sam looked up first from the couch, where he’d been half-sprawled with a book open in one hand. Jess sat cross-legged beside him, stealing bites from a bowl of popcorn balanced between them.

Both of them went still the second they saw you.

Not alarmed.

Attentive.

Jess opened her mouth first, concern already flickering across her face—

but Dean beat her to it.

His arm slid around your shoulders immediately as he guided you fully inside, pulling you instinctively against his side.

And he was beaming.

Not smug.

Not relieved.

Proud.

It practically radiated off him.

Sam’s brows lifted almost instantly at the sight of it. His gaze flicked between the two of you, reading the emotional undercurrents with frightening accuracy.

“…How’d it go?” he asked carefully.

For half a second, the room held still.

Then Dean looked at you. And the expression that crossed his face nearly stole the air from your lungs all over again.

Pure admiration.

“My mate stood her ground,” he said.

The words landed warm and solid in the center of the room.

Not boastful.

Reverent.

Like he still couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed.

Jess’s entire expression softened immediately.

Sam let out a quiet breath, tension easing visibly from his shoulders.

And beside you, Dean’s arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders, pulling you closer against him without even thinking about it.

His wolf was still proud.

You could feel it flooding through the bond in steady waves—protective, devoted, deeply certain.

Not because you’d “won.”

Because you’d chosen.

Chosen your future. Chosen your pack. Chosen him.

And standing there in the warmth of the cabin, surrounded by the people who had become your home—

the heaviness in your chest finally loosened enough for you to breathe again.

Chapter 71 ------- Chapter 73 - coming soon

A/B/O Master List Main Master List Series Master List

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—᯽ Dean definitely picks up phrases the longer he's with you, especially after you two retire from hunting to get married and have kids (Cari and Robbie, featured in In Bad Weather and One More Day).

—᯽ You're determined to have them retain your half of their culture by speaking Spanish to them at home, so much so that you get Dean to play along. He tends to speak caveman Spanglish, even with your help and patience lol, but sometimes he just says to them:

"What she said. Andale," jerking his thumb in your general direction.

(even if it's not a mom command - which you mostly find amusing when you have to correct him lol)

—᯽ The kids will eventually be bilingual, so when they're little, sometimes they think they can pull one over on Dad by whispering to each other in Spanish before they try to mess with him or get away with something, like kids do.

—᯽ But Dean's hunter instincts don't quit that easy. Their little "hush hush" sibling communion always makes him suspicious, especially if they mention “Dad” or Papá.

—᯽ That one always perks his attention. So even if he just catches the gist of what they said when they thought he couldn't hear or understand them, he's gonna catch Robbie in the act of trying to sneak that third slice of pie.

(a little sweet tooth, like his old man)

—᯽ Or Cari when she tries to prank dear old Dad with a swab of peanut butter on his headphones.

(she's the devious one he too often has to watch out for)

—᯽ Truth be told, sometimes Dean does feel left out when he sees you chatting with the kids about their day at the dinner table in Spanish, but you either try to include him:

"Entendiste, mi amor? Robbie said he got an A- on his math test. Here, show your dad."

Or, you intentionally give Dean the cliff notes of what you just said:

"Ten cuidao con esa actitud, Caridad. Cambia esa cara también," you tell your daughter.

To your husband, you remark, "This one's giving attitude. See that face she just gave me?"

—᯽ That said, you and Dean make a great team. After 10+ years of marriage and several years together before that, living through the literal end of the world (more than once), you two are usually good at talking about things like whose turn it is to figure out what the family's going to eat for dinner and who did the dishes last.

—᯽ Dean actually utilizes his most favorite lines he's learned from you when you two get your alone time — usually in the bedroom lol ❤️‍🔥

He's all about picking up new phrases to add to his arsenal, whatever makes your skin flush and your body shiver at the sound of his voice alone. It's always a good preview of the rest he can do with his mouth.

—᯽ Family life after hunting is not always perfect though. It can be loud and hella messy, especially between mother-daughter drama and sibling warfare.

—᯽ Except when Dean gets a rare nap on the couch. He also makes the mistake of leaving himself open for attack. Seeing another perfect opportunity, older sister and little brother draw a temporary alliance for a truly diabolical team up — a fan favorite is plugging some mini marshmallows up Dad's nose.

(Yes, Dean wakes like a bear. The kind that gives big, bracing bear hugs until his children admit defeat — with lots of shrieks and giggles to go with it.)

@wvffles This is probably more than you asked for, but I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved contemplating your sweet question, love 😂💜

Tagging the Espresso-verse tag list because this kind of turned into a full series-specific HC! lol

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josie martins, head of accounts and owner of the kind of handshake that makes you instinctively sit straighter, asked about previous experience, client communication, conflicting priorities, confidentiality, what you do when three people mark three different tasks urgent.

she also asked about vought. you told her what you could, which… wasn’t much. 

short-term communications assignment. confidential client. contract concluded earlier than anticipated. 

her eyebrow had risen at the word concluded, but she hadn’t pushed after you mentioned the nondisclosure agreement. thank god for legally enforceable silence.

now you stand outside her glass office holding your bag against your ribs and attempting not to replay every answer until you convince yourself you accidentally admitted to a felony.

someone clears their throat nearby. you look up. ian stands on the opposite side of the open office with a camera hanging from one hand and a coffee in the other.

he doesn’t wave. doesn’t grin like an idiot. doesn’t announce to the thirty people working around him that approximately thirty-six hours ago you woke up wearing his shirt.

he only raises his eyebrows. well?

you grimace. his mouth twitches.

then josie’s door opens behind you. “can you come back in?”

your stomach drops. ian takes one deliberately calm sip of coffee. unhelpful. you return to the office.

josie doesn’t make you sit this time. “you interview well.”

your shoulders relax by a fraction. “thank you.”

“your experience is slightly unconventional…”

that’s one word for it.

“but useful.” she closes your résumé. “i’m not prepared to offer you a permanent contract based on this conversation and a recommendation from someone whose primary qualification for hiring decisions is knowing which lens to use.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. 

josie continues. “what i can offer right now is one week under a paid trial starting tomorrow. same hours as the coordinator role, full rate. friday afternoon we decide whether it becomes a three-month probationary contract.”

it takes a second for the words to arrange themselves correctly. “paid?”

her expression barely changes. “yes.”

“right. sorry. obviously.”

“you’ve had unusual employers?”

“of sorts.”

that gets the smallest trace of amusement. “tomorrow, nine am.”

you nod before she can reconsider. “i’ll be here.”

—-

you’re sixteen minutes early.

ian’s already at his desk. he looks up when you step through reception in trousers, blouse, blazer, laptop bag, and the expression of someone prepared to defend their right to employment through hand-to-hand combat.

“morning,” he says. professional. casual.

you give him a small nod as you walk past. “morning.”

your phone buzzes before you reach the temporary desk they’ve assigned you. you don’t turn around.

ian: terrifying. you: employed. ian: temporarily. you: blocked.

when you finally glance across the office, he’s smiling into his monitor. asshole.

by tuesday afternoon, you’ve learned that agency work is simply corporate panic decorated with better furniture and people dressed casually cool.

the office has exposed brick, hanging plants, standing desks, two dogs that apparently belong to nobody and everybody, and a kitchen stocked with eleven varieties of tea.

none of this changes the fundamental truth that everyone needs something immediately. 

a restaurant campaign is three days behind because the client approved the wrong menu photography. a beauty brand decides at eleven-forty that the product launch scheduled for four needs “more energy.” one account manager schedules two client calls in the same meeting room at the same time and somehow looks at you as though architecture caused the problem personally.

you fix it. then another thing. then another.

you build a tracker because the existing one appears designed by someone actively hostile toward spreadsheets. you colour-code deadlines. you chase two missing approvals. you move a photoshoot without losing the studio booking. you catch a typo in fifteen thousand printed menu inserts eleven minutes before the files go to production.

josie says: “good catch.” two words. you carry them around for the rest of the day like an employee-of-the-month plaque.

ian behaves himself. 

inside the office, he treats you exactly as he treats everyone else. he asks for updated schedules. you remind him a client approved the revised shot list. he tells you studio three is running twenty minutes late. you tell him that sounds like a photographer problem. 

nobody looks twice. you’re beginning to suspect he enjoys that just as much as you do. 

tuesday evening, the elevator doors close on an empty lobby and his hand immediately settles at your waist. “hi.”

you laugh. “you saw me six minutes ago.”

“i was working.”

“you’re still at work.”

“no cameras. no eyes.” he glances dramatically toward the ceiling. “we might be stuck in here forever.”

“ian—” 

he kisses you before the elevator reaches the ground floor.

your laugh gets caught somewhere between your mouths. his hand slides around your back, drawing you closer until your laptop bag is awkwardly trapped between your bodies and you have to push him away long enough to rescue it.

outside, you discover you’re heading toward the same train station. then the same platform. then the same line.

“are you following me?” you ask.

“you’re the one who showed up at my workplace.”

“you got me the interview.”

the train arrives crowded enough that you have to stand. ian catches the overhead rail with one hand and keeps the other loosely at your hip whenever the carriage jerks, more practical than possessive. at least initially.

three stops later, there’s enough space for you both to lean against the doors. five stops later, you’re kissing again. his mouth against yours while the train rattles beneath your feet, your fingers hooked lightly into the front of his jacket, both of you smiling whenever the automated announcement interrupts.

when your stop arrives, he follows you onto the platform despite his being two stations later.

“wrong stop,” you point out.

“i know.”

“why are you getting off?”

“walking you out.”

your eyebrows lift. “you know i’ve successfully travelled alone before.”

“heard rumors.”

he walks you to street level anyway. then kisses your cheek and heads back underground to catch the next train. 

idiot. 

you smile the whole way home.

on wednesday, you discover the back stairwell receives no traffic after lunch. not because you were looking. not at all. it begins because he corners you beside the printer twenty minutes earlier and quietly tells you there’s ink on your cheek.

you wipe the wrong side.

“other one.”

you try again.

“still there.”

“then help me.”

his thumb brushes across your cheek. it lingers.

you look at him. he looks at you.

then someone walks past carrying three presentation boards, and both of you separate so quickly it would be suspicious if anyone had been paying attention.

five minutes later, your phone buzzes.

ian: stairwell. you: absolutely not. ian: coward.

afterward, your lipstick is slightly ruined and ian looks much too pleased with himself.

“this is a terrible idea. i’m on trial here.”

“i know.” his amusement fades just slightly. “how’s it going?”

the change catches you. “fine.”

“fine?”

“good, actually.”

“josie still terrifying?”

“less terrifying. she said ‘good catch’ yesterday.”

ian’s face brightens as though he received the compliment. “see? told you you’d be good at this.”

something warm presses beneath your ribs. you cover it by straightening the collar you messed up. “you barely knew what i did when you recommended me.”

“knew enough.”

that evening, you can’t see him. you have laundry, a half-empty refrigerator, three personal emails you’ve ignored since monday, and approximately four pages new things about agency workflow you want to memorize before morning.

ian doesn’t complain.

at nine-thirty, while you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed with your laptop open and clean clothes forming several increasingly theoretical piles around you, your phone rings.

“hello?”

“how’d the beauty launch go?”

you smile immediately. “you’re calling me about work?”

“i’m invested.”

you laugh and fold a shirt. he asks about the restaurant campaign next. then the hotel deck. then whether the account manager ever apologized for double-booking the meeting room. the conversation wanders. work becomes dinner. dinner becomes the documentary he’s pretending to watch instead of falling asleep.

when you eventually look at the time, it’s nearly eleven.

“you have to sleep,” he says.

“you called me.”

“and now i’m responsibly ending the call.”

“how mature.”

“you’re welcome.”

you lie back against the pillows. “night, ian.”

he laughs softly. “goodnight.”

on thursday, the train happens again. 

this time neither of you pretends it’s accidental. he waits near the station entrance after work, camera bag slung across one shoulder.

“thought you had your own route,” you taunt as he falls into step with you.

“better company this way.”

“two extra stops.”

“worth it.”

you roll your eyes. you go with him anyway.

there’s nowhere to sit, so you stand near the back of the carriage. his fingers link loosely through yours where nobody from work can see. you’re beginning to like that too. the quiet separation. office and outside. professional and whatever this is becoming.

by the time you reach his stop instead of yours, neither of you bothers pretending the decision was accidental. you end up in his apartment again. then his bed.

the sex is good. really good. the kind that leaves you laughing breathlessly when your knee knocks painfully against the headboard, only for ian to kiss the spot as though that somehow fixes anything. the kind where neither of you’s trying to prove anything. hands everywhere, mouths everywhere, your clothes disappearing somewhere between the hallway and bedroom for the second time in less than a week.

afterward, you lie diagonally across his mattress while he searches for your missing earring.

“you sure you wore two?”

you lift your head. “yes.”

“could’ve arrived asymmetrical.”

“i did not arrive asymmetrical.”

“fashion’s weird.”

“find my earring.”

he eventually discovers it caught inside his bedsheet. you celebrate like he’s solved a homicide.

you don’t stay the night this time because friday matters too much.

when you start collecting your clothes, ian doesn’t pout or make some suggestive argument for staying. he only tosses you your bra from the end of the bed.

“when josie gives you the contract tomorrow, dinner’s on me.”

you pause halfway through fastening it. “if she gives me the contract.”

“when.”

“you’re very confident for someone with no hiring authority.”

“i have excellent instincts.”

“you take photos of shampoo bottles.”

“and look how good they come out.”

you laugh.

at your apartment door later, he kisses you slowly enough that you almost reconsider the whole responsible-sleep decision. almost.

“go,” you mumble against his mouth.

“you’re kicking me out?”

“i need sleep.”

“responsible.”

“disgusting, isn’t it?”

he kisses you once more. he doesn’t ask to come inside. you like that too.

friday morning, your phone buzzes while you’re walking from the station toward the agency.

ian: big day. you: please don’t say that. ian: terrifyingly competent day. you: worse. ian: dinner tonight.

you stare at the message.

you: confident.

the reply comes before you reach the building.

ian: rooting for you.

your steps slow for half a second. then you lock your phone and walk inside, exhausted but hopeful. which is considerably more dangerous. 

your trial ends at five. josie hasn’t said anything. you tell yourself that’s normal. she has meetings. clients. forty-seven unread emails. your employment status doesn’t qualify as the defining event of her afternoon.

still, every time her office door opens, your spine straightens.

at eleven, she asks you to proof a presentation deck. nothing glamorous. a hotel group launching a summer campaign whose entire brand identity appears to consist of white linen, infinity pools, and women laughing beside fruit they have no intention of eating.

you check dates. spelling. image credits. make sure the campaign launch doesn’t somehow occur three days before the scheduled photography. you catch one wrong photographer credit and a slide where the client’s own name is misspelled.

josie says, “send the corrections to nora.” you do.

by twelve-thirty, you’re back to chasing approvals and trying not to check the clock every six minutes.

five o’clock. that’s all you need to survive until.

at one-seventeen, nora appears beside your desk with her laptop pressed against her chest and the expression of someone who’s already mentally moved onto the next emergency. “the riverside shoot moved.”

you blink. “to when?”

“tuesday. the client wants the outdoor shots before the weather changes.”

you pull up the production schedule. “the studio’s booked tuesday.”

“not studio. location.”

“right…” you scroll. “the photographer’s available, but hair and makeup still has wednesday.”

“move them.”

“the client approved?”

“yes.”

“in writing?”

nora’s already looking at her phone. “they approved it on the call. just get everyone updated before somebody books over us.”

then she’s gone. you stare after her. the client folder still shows the original date. no revised approval email.

you message nora.

you: do we have written confirmation for tuesday before i move vendors?

three minutes pass. nothing. five. you check the weather report attached to the project. rain starts wednesday afternoon. the photographer’s coordinator emails asking whether they should release the tentative tuesday hold.

you look toward nora’s desk. empty. you call her. voicemail.

great.

you could wait. you probably should. but then the hold disappears and the shoot stays on wednesday and everyone spends next week complaining that nobody moved fast enough when the client explicitly asked them to.

you’ve spent four days being praised for solving problems before they become problems. so you solve this one. you confirm tuesday with the photographer. move hair and makeup. notify catering. update the location call sheet. send the revised schedule internally.

then, because you aren’t completely reckless, you leave the client off the email until nora can confirm the wording.

done.

twenty-three minutes later, nora returns. “why did glam just email me about tuesday?”

your stomach dips. “because you said the client approved the move.”

“they approved us checking availability.”

you stare at her. “you said they approved it.”

“i said they wanted it moved.”

“you literally said yes when i asked if the client approved.”

nora closes her eyes. “fuck.”

your stomach drops further. “what?”

“they haven’t approved the revised production fee.”

you look back at your screen—the photographer, hair and makeup, catering. all moved.

“can we reverse it?”

“photographer released wednesday when you confirmed tuesday.”

oh.

nora’s already typing. “okay. don’t touch anything else.”

“i can call—”

“don’t.” that lands harder than it should. 

she walks toward josie’s office. you remain at your desk.

the clock in the corner of your monitor reads 1:56. three hours and four minutes until your trial ends. 

the fallout takes forty-eight minutes. exactly five more minutes than your interview had lasted.

the photographer can move back to wednesday, but only by shifting another booking. hair and makeup no longer can’t. the location requires a change fee. the client is irritated because they received three separate vendor notifications about a date they hadn’t approved yet.

nobody dies. nobody loses the account. but money gets attached to your mistake. which is generally the moment corporate forgiveness develops limitations.

at three-oh-eight, josie appears beside your desk. “come with me.”

you follow her toward the quieter corridor behind the meeting rooms. 

the main office feels different now. more people moving through reception. unfamiliar suits. security badges that don’t belong to the agency. you barely register them. your attention is entirely occupied by the woman stopping in front of you with her arms folded.

“tell me what happened.”

you do. all of it. nora’s instruction. the verbal approval. your message asking for written confirmation. the photographer’s expiring hold. your decision to move the vendors rather than lose availability.

josie listens without interrupting. when you finish, she asks, “did you have client approval?”

“i believed i did.”

“did you have it documented?”

“no.”

“then you didn’t have it.”

your jaw tightens. “nora told me they approved.”

“nora told you they wanted the date moved.”

“she said yes when i specifically asked if it was approved.”

“and when you asked whether there was written confirmation?”

“she didn’t answer.”

josie gives you a look and you decide then that nora is a fucking bitch. you already know what comes next. “which should’ve been your answer.”

the words land with irritating familiarity. protocol. approval. consequences. apparently every job on earth has conspired to teach you the same lesson until you die.

“if i’d waited, we could’ve lost the photographer.”

“then we would’ve told the client the photographer was no longer available.”

“and they would’ve been pissed.”

“yes.” josie’s voice remains calm. “the difference is one version costs us a change fee we didn’t authorize.”

you press your lips together. she isn’t wrong. you hate that. “i was trying to fix it.”

josie exhales and looks toward the open office. “you’ve done very well this week.”

your stomach twists. that sentence has never once ended well.

“but the point of a trial period is judgment. not just whether you can do the work.”

you stare at her. “so that’s it?”

“i can’t offer the probationary contract.”

you let out a small breath through your nose. almost a laugh. of course. of fucking course. “one mistake.”

“one mistake during a one-week trial.”

“after four days of doing everything else with excellence."

“yes.”

your throat tightens. “nora gave me the instruction.”

“and nora has already been spoken to.”

“but she keeps her job.”

josie’s expression hardens slightly. “nora isn’t on trial.”

there it is. simple. practical. completely unfair and somehow still understandable.

you look away before your face can give you away. “right.”

“i’m sorry.”

“please don’t.”

josie stops. you’ve heard enough apologies from people who remain employed while explaining why you aren’t.

“i’ll have payroll include today and the vendor correction hours. you’ll still receive the full trial rate.”

you reach for the temporary badge clipped to your waistband.

your fingers have barely touched it when movement at the far end of the corridor catches your eye. security first—black uniforms moving through the agency with the careful, overprepared posture you recognize immediately.

then two vought representatives. then a woman carrying a tablet whom you’ve never met but could identify as a liaison from fifty feet away by the particular expression of professionally managed exhaustion.

and between them—oh, you have got to be fucking kidding.

soldier boy. full suit. green armor fitted across his shoulders. shield against one arm. every inch of him polished into the same impossible american icon you watched selling trucks from ian’s kitchen less than a week ago.

he’s talking to one of the vought representatives. then his eyes move and find you. he stops.

the woman beside him takes another two steps before realizing he’s no longer following.

your hand remains frozen against your badge. soldier boy’s gaze flicks down to it. then to josie. then back to you.

“what’re you doing here?” 

you blink. “working.”

his brows pull together. “here?”

before you can answer, josie steps forward. professional instinct takes over immediately. “sir, welcome. i’m josie martins, head of accounts. we’re very excited to—”

he barely looks at her. “you work here?”

josie glances at you. “she was completing a trial period.”

was. soldier boy catches it immediately. his eyes narrow. “was?”

your stomach sinks.

“mr. soldier boy,” josie intervenes, “i’m sorry for the interruption. she was actually just finishing up with us. if you’ll follow me, the vought presentation is ready and—”

“finishing up?”

you close your eyes for half a second. the whole office is staring now.

josie seems to realize too late that she’s provided precisely the wrong information. “she was already being escorted—”

“i want her.”

your eyes open. soldier boy hasn’t looked away from you.

somewhere beyond the glass wall separating the corridor from the creative floor, conversations begin dying one by one.

josie blinks. “i’m sorry?”

“on my team.”

the liaison behind him goes visibly rigid. 

one of the vought representatives clears his throat. “soldier boy, personnel decisions are handled between vought and the agency after—”

his gaze stays fixed on yours. your fingers are still curled around the badge you were about to surrender.

josie tries again. “we can certainly discuss staffing once the account has been formally awarded, but she isn’t currently part of the permanent—”

“then make her permanent.”

your stomach performs something unpleasant.

“that isn’t quite how—”

“i don’t give a shit how it works.”

he steps closer. not toward josie. toward you. only enough that the entire corridor seems to understand who he’s speaking to even when his next words are directed at everyone else.

“if she’s not on my team, i sign with another agency.”

the office goes silent.

through the glass, you catch ian standing beside his desk, camera still hanging from one hand. he looks from soldier boy to you, confusion slowly replacing whatever expression had been there before. wonderful.

josie hasn’t answered. neither has anyone from vought. 

soldier boy doesn’t seem particularly concerned as he’s still looking at you.

your fingers loosen around the badge. a minute ago, you were unemployed again. now one of the biggest clients this agency has ever had is threatening to walk unless you stay.

you should probably feel relieved. mostly, you want to strangle him.

it’s been almost a week since you last saw him. almost a week since his mouth was on yours, his fingers beneath your clothes, his offended face disappearing behind your apartment door with a carton of fries shoved against his chest.

you’d thought that was it. a stupid, heated thing that happened off the clock and could stay there.

apparently, he’s taken your termination as more of a scheduling conflict.

I hope you know that. Shit, I hope you never thought I didn’t want you. I know I sleep slept around a lot, but I only ever loved you. Fuck, Princess, I call your name when I have sex and I think about that apple pie life with you. Promised Sammy I’d have it, with you, after he went into the cage. Always thought I’d end up making you a house, getting you a ring, marrying you. We’d have a good wedding. You’d plan it, but I’d help. I’d want to help. I’d try to help, and you’d make me stop cause you’re bossy. But you’d do it better anyway. You’d look hot in the dress, and I’d wear a nice suit that doesn’t have any blood on it, then we’d get married. Go somewhere nice and sunny for our honeymoon.

I’ve had a lot of dreams about that honeymoon, Princess. Could do a whole separate letter about it. 

But I mostly just have a lot of dreams about you.

This one is my favorite. 

We get married. Live together, and no monsters come knocking. God never takes you. I give you kids. I’d like five, it’s a good number, but just one would make me the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. If it’s gotta be one, I always hoped it was a girl. She’d look just like you, but I think she’d have my taste in music. She’d like Star Wars, too. Uncle Sammy would watch it with her (he’d try to be uncle sam, but you wouldn’t let that happen) and Grandpa Bobby would teach her about cars because she’s too cool to talk to her dad about it. 

You give me nothing back, by the way. You’ve given enough, baby girl. 

And I promised Sammy I’d at least give you this, but you jumped in the cage. And I know you saved the world, but fucking Christ, shouldn’t have been you. I don’t know why it always has to be you. It’s some fucking bullshit. 

And you’d tell me it has to be you and i’d say it doesn’t then you say it does. 

I’d never make it you.

I bought that box I mentioned. Last month? Can’t remember. You’ll check. Couldn’t find pink. Got gold and purple. Looks fancy. You’d like it. 

Yours,

DAW

You look over to that same box, resting on the chipped, wooden workbench. More letters are strewn around it, divided by what you’ve read and what you’re reading today. The Lady is sitting on the read pile, and Indy’s sprawled next to your leg, her wing’s spread and tail twitching in her sleep. You’ve had to limit yourself to three a day at most. Anymore than that and you start to cry so much it feels like drowning. On the worst days you can’t see anything in negatives of Gold, a blur of muddied colors that aren’t Dean, and the last stains of him on your hands. You press them into your skin, trying to force them a layer deeper, to make them tattoo.

It isn’t quite working. And reading the letters hurts as much as it helps.

Dean left little Golden stains, on the faded paper. Spots where his palm must have pressed, where his fingers must’ve traced a word before deciding he’d gotten the spelling right, or scribbled it out and tried again. The thought makes you smile. Dean hunched over a table, chewing on the tip of his pen. Corrects his tenses, for sleep versus slept. Writing pricess before frowning and mouthing out the word, then trying again and getting it right. It couldn’t have been easy for him, to do this night after night. He doesn’t even like grocery lists, because he’s got it all in his head.

But he did. Every night, for at least a year, Dean sat down and wrote you a letter.

I mostly just have a lot of dreams about you.

You dream about him too. It’s all you dream about. All you’ve ever dreamt about. And you have no way to tell him that. No way for him to know you’re reading his letters, then holding them tight to your chest as you sob of the warehouse floor.

Thunder rumbles outside. The locals say it’s monsoon season come early, but you looked at the weather this morning. Clear skies, all the way into tomorrow.

You’re stretching out over the horizon, under the bridges until the water rises to try and get away from itself, into the clouds that can’t bear to be so high and cold and alone and untethered anymore. They’ve seen enough. Been too many places, and now everything is just Mountains they have to cross and views that means nothing alone. They want to come down. You want to come down. The sky vibrates and the static becomes violent, because you want to come down but there’s nowhere you can land that will be home.

Lightning splits the sky outside the warehouse window, lighting up the ghoul, limp and silent in the chair. You wipe the tears with the palm of your hand, glaring at the body. Bobby’s bottle glows on the bench next to the letters, and it feels awfully judgmental.

“That one wasn’t even me,” you mutter. “She was like that when I got here.”

Bobby shimmers with the roll of thunder. Disapproval prickles over your neck.

“It wasn’t me,” you glare at him, and he seems to twist. “It wasn’t, dad, it was- I don’t know, I think she killed herself or something.”

Your stomach gets small and tight as the warehouse flashes with more lightning. You didn’t know a bottle could raise its brows with quiet, measured doubt, but this one seems perfectly capable of it. It’s somehow the same face Bobby used to give you when he’d come back to a wolf pup in the shed that you weren’t allowed to keep—you’d just been trying to find it’s mother, it wasn’t your fault you bonded with it—or the garden overgrown with flowers that weren’t supposed to bloom for another few months, over the railings and sticking up between the cracks of the porch.

“I’m going to get rid of the body,” you mutter, tracing over Dean’s handwriting on that last letter. “I’m just- I’m busy.”

Bobby hums with doubt, and you shoot him a glare.

“Well- You do it then. Oh, right.” You stick your tongue out at him. “You’re a bottle. You don’t get a vote.”

You’re talking to a bottle, sweetheart,” Dean’s voice seems to murmur in your ear, and you sigh.

You know. You might be going a little crazy, but you’ve been crazier. At least you’re not tying a demon up in a bathtub to talk about your feelings this time. You put that on Indy and the Lady—who listen with half interest, although that might just be because you’re petting them—and Bobby’s soul.

And who knows. Maybe he can actually hear you in there. Sam remembered everything from when his soul was on blockers. You remember everything from the cage. And it’s a little different, but same principle. Maybe. You don’t think anyone’s ever been a soul in a bottle before, and as far as you know Bobby’s just sitting in the little heaven you made for him, blissfully unaware of the disaster outside.

You haven’t made much progress on finding Dean. Jo suggested you think of it less like no progress and more like closer to making progress. You told her to stop watching Dr. Phil reruns. There’s a reason she and Dean always did that without you and Sam. You’d get mad and shout at the TV and bitch about his inaccuracies until Dean covered your mouth and Sam got kicked out.

You cover your own mouth, and close your eyes. Your hand is too small. You don’t have the same callouses and scars. You just manage to block a small sob, and it makes your body shake with another burst of thunder. Indy nuzzles into your thigh, and you lean over yourself, trying to bottle up the aching, angry, cold that burns in your chest like a dying star. It leaks out in hot tears and trembling fingers that make the earth shake. The ghoul’s body makes a loud, gooey snapping sound as it’s neck finds a strange and ugly angle, but you only spare it a glance before you have to make yourself smaller.

Everything blurs, except for Dean’s words on the page.

You give me nothing back, by the way. You’ve given enough, baby girl. 

You’ve barely given anything. You can’t even find him and bring him home, for that life you can’t stop thinking about, no matter how hard it makes it not to scream.

God is still hidden, leaving the sky empty and yours to rip in half. There’s more lightning. More thunder. The Lady jumps off the work bench and lays over Indy’s hide, clearly annoyed by the noise. You pet her ears and watch the rain fall, pulling yourself back together with a hand around your throat.

A new strategy might be in order. This is the fourth monster this month, who’s killed themselves before you could talk. It’s pretty fucking rude.

“Word must be gettin’ round,” Jo muttered last night. “You ain’t exactly subtle, and- Y’know.” She’d given you a pointed look. “Once you got eyes on ‘em, not much they can do.”

You’d grunted, cleaning your knife with short, brutal movements. The anger and exhaustion was starting to bubble up, and Dean always said you were worse at hiding it than you thought. You get pissy face, he’d murmur, petting your head. And start snappin’ at me like you wanna kill me.

Maybe I do wanna kill you, you’d snip, and Dean would raise his brows. You’d huff, and he’d chuckle.

Princess-

Shut up-

Just let me handle it, he’d duck down, smiling soft at your taut, narrowed face. Alright?

You’d agree, even if you didn’t want to. Dean always had a way to placate you, and when he said he’d handle it, you believed him. He’d never failed, when he made that promise. But he wasn’t here to handle things now. So you’re allowed to be as curt and pissy as you fucking want.

“I’ll figure it out,” you’d muttered, and Jo had hummed. You could feel her worry, poking under your skin. She knew you too well to push it. You knew her too well to think she didn’t want to.

Then, this morning, you showed up to the Ghoul dead, and you’d maybe snapped her neck in frustration. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair, and you were stomping around and whining like a child, but it wasn’t fucking fair.

The rain keeps falling. You’re exactly where you started, only with letters in your hands and a splitting pit in your gut that only gets deeper every day. Sometimes you can almost feel a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Then you turn around, and there’s nothing there at all.

You start to clean up. The letters go back in the box, the box and the bottle go in the bag, the Ghoul gets taken out the river and burned to ash. It might be time to leave India, if Jo’s right. The monsters talk. If they all know you—know what you are, know what you want, and what you’ll do to get it—you’re basically running a euthanization camp, and that’s a little too fucked up, even for you.

“I would’ve let you go,” you mutter to the ghoul’s ashes as you dump them in the water. “I- I don’t like- I don’t like being this.”

The river swallows the gray, and sweeps it away down the swelling bank. Indy splashes about excitedly. You worry she’ll fall in, so you whistle and walk back inside. She whines, but follows.

“Can’t let people see you, baby,” you pet her head as she romps over to your side. “That’s how bad things happen.”

Indy looks like she’s rolling her eyes, and you smile faintly. Dean would’ve laughed. He would’ve said she’s acting just like her mom, and kissed you on the side of the head.

You hug yourself tight around the stomach, and let out a sigh that’s heavier than the thick, dark clouds. You miss him. You miss him so fucking much.

But you don’t miss him enough to be stupid. If anything, no Dean means you’re sharper than even, made of nothing but a steel resolve to get him back. Your head hurts and your back aches and there’s no color in the world to distract you, so everything is sharp, clear lines of black and white.

The door to the warehouse is ajar, and you pause with your head on the wood, eyes narrowing on the broken lock. Your lips tighten to a thin line, and you reach for your knife. Indy hangs back, the rain beating down over your heads. You slip inside, your back to the wall, your head on swivel. Something clatters by the bench, and you let out another, sharp whistle.

Indy bangs inside and Claire shrieks as she’s tackled to the ground.

You sigh, wiping your soaked hair from your face. “Claire, what- You’re supposed to be at the motel-“

“I was bored,” she whines, pushing at Indy’s wings as the dragon recognizes her and starts trying to lick her face. “And Jo- Jo’s too far away, and I know where you were-“

“And you know you’re not supposed to come here,” you scold, tucking your knife back away. “You could’ve gotten hurt-“

“But I didn’t. And it’s stupid I’m not supposed to come here, it’s just a warehouse-“

“It’s just a warehouse,” you say flatly, petting Indy’s horns as she trots back to your side. “Because I just got rid of the body.”

Claire’s eyes widen, her face lighting up with something too close to excitement. “The body?!”

You hum, and Claire stands a little taller.

“Can I see it? I’ve seen bodies before, and I- I won’t touch it, I promise-“

“I just got rid of it,” you give her a pointed look, and her shoulders slump.

“Oh- right.” She shifts of her feet, glancing back at the work bench, then the empty chair. “Did you… kill it?”

You sigh. For a second, you think about lying, although you’re not sure that’s better than the truth. Bobby wouldn’t have lied to you. “No,” you mutter. “It killed itself.”

“Why?”

You shrug. You’re sticking to the no lying thing. She still doesn’t need to know every brutal truth. You don’t need her to look at you like the monster, cleaving through the world to get want she wants and still coming up with nothing but blood covered hands. “I was just wrapping up,” you say softly, and if Claire notices you dodging the question, she only frowns. “And you know the rules. You’re allowed to stay with us, but-“

“No hunting stuff,” Claire finishes. “I know I- I wasn’t here for that.”

You give her a sideways look. Her voice had dropped to something small, and it’s worrying. She’s hugging her middle and looking at her shoes, and it makes worry itch over your skin, every muscle getting tight as you brace to fight something off. You lean against the workbench, dipping your head to try and meet her gaze. “Claire?”

She grunts, glancing up at you, then back down. Your frown deepens.

“Claire, if something happened, I need you to tell me-“

“Nothing happened,” she mutters, and you don’t believe her.

“Look, I- can’t promise I won’t be mad,” you murmur gently. “But I won’t yell, and I promise we’ll fix it-“

“Nothing happened!” Claire shouts, glaring at you under lidded eyes. “I just- I was hungry, okay? I wanted to go- To get dinner with you.” Her gaze drops back down. “But if you- If you’re busy.” She shrugs, kicking a pebble. “It’s fine. It’s like- Whatever.”

You stare at her for a moment, the words slow to sink in. First there’s relief, easing that clench in your stomach—she’s fine, everything’s fine—and then a smile that crawls over your face. “You want to get dinner? With me?”

Claire nods, though it’s more of a toss of her head.

“Are you- I mean,” you rub your wrist, watching her carefully. “I know Dean isn’t- Here- and you usually do dinner with him, but-“ You swallow. You love Dean, you do, but sometimes you wonder if people are surprised that he loves you back, and not even for the loud, sick reasons you used to be.

Dean’s fun. He can grumble about being old and strict all he wants, you know he used to take Sam out for fireworks and scrape by a little extra so they could see movies. He makes Cas try new human foods and plays drinking games over pool with Jo and gets you to smile and crawl a little out of your shell without feeling too bare, because he’s at your side the whole time. You dance with him. You smile with him, and actually… Do things.

You never do things, without Dean. Every single time you’ve been left without him—Brazil, Iran, Italy, and now India—it becomes painfully obvious you might be the most boring person alive. Dean would say you aren’t boring. That you’re just a different kind of fun.

If the letters are proving anything to you, it’s that Dean’s love for you might be the only thing that makes him blindly stupid. You are not fun. And if Claire is expecting fun—like when Dean brings her paintball shooting, or all of you to minigolf and he decides he simply has to guide the club in your hand while leaving Claire to her own devices, before you elbow him in the gut for thinking you need the extra help—you can’t offer anything like that by yourself. And you really, really don’t want her to be disappointed.

But right now, she mostly looks confused. As if she can’t even begin to figure out what you’re suggesting.

“I know I can’t do dinner with Dean,” she says, almost sounding offended. “I wouldn’t even want to right now, I- I want to have dinner with you.” She scowls to herself. “Or- Whatever.”

Your smile returns fast. “With me?”

“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “You’ve asked that like, three times now. Did you hit your head or something-“

“No, I- I just-“ You shake off your shook, the smile feeling easier on your face. “Yeah,” you say softly. “We can do dinner.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

Claire says it like she doesn’t care, but you can hear the threat of joy, pushing under her voice. You grab the duffle bag and nod to the car. And when she stomps past you, it’s almost visible behind her slightly matted hair. 

A smile.

You have to drop of Indy and the Lady first—regular pets aren’t allowed in restaurants, let alone magic ones—but Claire finds a place on her phone, and you text Jo to tell her you’ll be back later. You know she’ll make dinner for herself, after she gets back from getting the scrolls you asked for. You’d offer for her to join you, but some small, selfish part of you just wants it to be you and Claire.

“How’s school?” You ask when you sit down, watching her carefully. “You know, if you miss actual school-“

“Please don’t offer to bring me back again,” Claire says, crossing her arms. “I’m not doing it. My friends will be there when we get Dean back, and I’ll get to tell them all about my year abroad. This is making me cool. Going home will make me lame.”

You laugh softly, but nod. You’re trying not to offer too much, but you still think she should go back. You didn’t get to go to real school. She deserves better than that. “What do you tell your friends?” You ask, deciding that’s a safer path to go down. “About your life?”

“I dunno,” Claire shrugs, and you raise your brows.

“Dean told me you call him your dad-“

“No, I don’t!” Claire scowls. “Everyone- They just assumed he was my dad, because he kept dropping me off and picking me up after I told him not to, but-“

“He never listens to that kind of stuff,” you let out a small, light breath of a laugh. “God, it- It used to kill me and Sam, you know. I thought I was going to wake up and find him trying to microchip me.” 

“He’s so annoying.” Claire grumbles. “It was awful, it was like he thought I was a baby-“

“He does think you’re a baby.”

Claire shoots upright. “I knew it-“

“He also thinks Sam’s a baby,” you push on, and Claire frowns. “And I’m a baby. And Cas, and Jo-“

“Jo’s not a baby,” Claire scoffs, and you snort.

“But I am?”

“No, I- No.” Claire goes a little red. “You’re just like- It makes sense that Dean’s so dramatic about you-“

“Because I’m a baby?” You raise your brows, and Claire shakes her head frantically.

“No, you’re his wife or whatever, and Sam’s his brother, and-“

“You’re his kid,” you cut, gently but firmly, and Claire deflates. “You’re our responsibility, and Dean- He takes that very seriously.”

Claire huffs, glaring at her fork, and your lips twitch.

“It’s also annoying.” You add, leaning across the table. “But- At least he’s never tried to handcuff you together.”

Her head shoots up, all the annoyance draining fast. “He tried to handcuff you?”

You nod, and tell the story. It was an old, old hunt. Before he died, right after he found out you weren’t exactly human. The Hell House hunt he’d insisted on doing, that you’d been resistant to tagging along on. You’d wanted to research, but Dean had begged, and you’d never been good at telling him no. When Sam and the geek-squad of fake hunters had started going missing, Dean had gotten paranoid. You’d told him you were going back upstairs to try and trace one of the death echoes. He demanded to come with you, you told him no—he’d be in danger, you’d be fine—so he’d started shouting about handcuffing you together. You’d smacked him and done it anyway, before going back to the duffle bag and making proper wards.

“He was so pissed,” you smile to yourself. “It was adorable.”

Claire hums, tilting her head slightly. “Huh.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, it’s just-“ She shrugs. “That’s not what happens in the books.”

You stare at her for a second, then sigh. Long and heavy, to hide your laugh. “You’ve been reading the books? Claire, I’ve told you, they’re not-“

“I know they’re not right!” She insists. “I know! But I want to know what happened, and what to do, and- They’re good books-“

“No, they’re not.”

She slumps. “No,” she mumbles. “They’re not. Did you know that the- The Carver guy-“

“Chuck,” you supply, and she nods.

“Right, Chuck- He made Jo and Dean a thing, I mean- It’s so gross.”

She mocks gags, and you snort. It’s more hilarious than disgusting, for you to think about. Jo would skin Dean alive if he hit on her. And Dean wouldn’t hit on her. That part’s just simple.

“And you’re really not in them,” Claire continues complaining. “Which is like- Crazy.”

You hum in agreement. “You know, I can tell you things that actually happened. There are parts that aren’t mine, but-“ You shrug. “I’ll tell you.”

Claire’s whole face lights up. “Really? For real?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Really for real.”

Dinner goes quickly after that. Claire all but interrogates you about everything from Dean getting Sam at college to being dragged to hell. You tell her what you can, adding other detail about your life apart from them. Claire seems the most interested in those parts, asking question after question until you lose track.

“Sam and Dean are boring,” she says when you point it out. “They’re all just- Men.” She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t get why that’s so interesting.”

You snort. You’re using that one on Dean, when he gets home. “I’m just a woman-“

“No,” Claire shakes her head, swirling her straw around her drink. “You’re cool.”

That makes you laugh again, shaking your head. “I am not cool-“

“You kill demons-“

“All hunters kill demons-“

“You do it with your hands.” Claire insists. “You’re cool.”

You’re starting to think she might be Dean’s biological daughter. “Claire-“

“I agree with the girl,” a cool, measured voice says from behind you, and every nerve in your body sparks. “You are… Cool.”

You don’t need to turn, to know what you’re dealing with. Your back hurts, your head throbs, and the world stands still through you didn’t push time to a stop. The angel must have just dropped down, if you didn’t feel them before. They were smart, as well, to do it when you were with Claire. Otherwise you’d pluck it’s feathers clean, then introduce it to a lovely chair in a warehouse.

It’s not even that strong an angel, when they walk to stand behind Claire. Duller than Cas—the last time you saw him, at least—with no extra feathers or features. Electric rainbow and a stale kind of brown-purple, thousands of thinner hands and eyes that don’t seem to blink. Not much bigger than Balthazar, really. Not anything you’d need to worry about.

She’s keeping herself in the body of a red-headed woman that makes you look loose and carefree. You think you’ve seen her face in corporate commercials and stock photos of a businesswoman doing business. You wouldn’t glance twice in a crowd, if she wasn’t harboring this brave, stupid angel. You tip your head, waiting for her to speak, and she finally blinks. Once. Slowly. Like you’re not what she expected to see, despite the fact that—if there’s one thing about your situation that you’re certain of—you’re one of a kind.

“Your… Holiness,” she dips her head, and your mouth pulls down.

That’s better than what you expected. You still don’t like it. “Just-“ You say your name tightly. “That’s fine.”

She nods, but it’s a curt motion. Saying your holiness had seemed to pain her slightly. Your name doesn’t roll off any easier. “My apologies for interrupting your night. I needed to speak with you.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. “You know, I take calls.”

Her face twitches. “Yes, well, I figured this is a conversation best had in person.”

“Hm,” you look her up and down. “If you’re looking for Cas, I don’t know where-“

“I am not concerned about Castiel. I would not-“ Her jaw flexes. “Your time is more valuable than that… Strange little traitor. And I must say, I am glad you have finally realized such.”

You frown. You might be furious at Cas—really, really furious—but that doesn’t mean you’re above his time. He’s Cas. He’s strange and valuable, and he’s a little bit of a traitor but you’ve all betrayed each other all the time so it doesn’t really matter, and this angel doesn’t get to just come in and-

You take a long, deep breath. Steady. You need to be the mountains, not the wildfire. Steady.

“I’m sorry,” you say, making sure you don’t sound it. “Who are you?”

The angel tenses, then bows her head again. “Naomi, your-“ She cuts herself off from another holiness, and decides this time to say your name in Enochian. You like her even less.

“Naomi,” you echo. “You don’t look like a Naomi.”

She frowns, glancing down at her vessel and smoothing her pencil skirt. “My apologies. I rarely have time to concern myself with things like looks. That is a very… Human worry.”

She says the word human like it’s dirty. You decided you don’t like her at all. “I concern myself with looks,” you say, and Naomi’s wings flutter strangely.

“You are above judgement-“

“What do you want?” You cut her off, sliding your hand over your knife. “Because I don’t know if you’ve heard up there, but this isn’t exactly a good time.”

Naomi—to her very thin credit—doesn’t flinch. She glances at your hand and swallows, but takes a step forward. Arrogance does seem to pour off of her. She seems remarkably confident you’re not about to flay her grace from inside out, and—for Claire’s sake—you hope she’s right.

“We know everything,” she says, her voice odd, as if she’s trying to sound kind. “The Leviathan hive rotting, the death of Eve, the… Loss of Sam and Dean Winchester.” She pauses, eyeing you cautiously. “Heaven- We might keep our hands clean, but that does not mean we ever allow ourselves to be ignorant, especially after Castiel’s little stunt with the door.”

She makes a bitter face, and you narrow your eyes. She doesn’t like Cas. You think she needs to get away from Claire, now.

“It wasn’t just Cas,” you say, moving to your feet. She takes a step back. Good. “I was the one who opened the door-“

“You were under undue influence from a silver-tongued charlatan, and-“ Naomi cuts herself off with a huff, feathers shaking tightly out. “I am not here,” she snips. “To discuss the sentence of Castiel. I am here for you,” she says your name in Enochian, and your grip on your knife tightens. “And nothing else.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware.” You mutter, moving closer again. Naomi goes another step back. “But people who come for me don’t usually walk away, let alone with their intended prize.”

“I did not say I was here to collect you,” Naomi says. “I said I was here for you.” She sniffs, almost offended. “Heaven knows better than to try and take you-“

“Do they?” You mock. “Because if that’s the case, and the rest of you have been so clear about our relationship,” you gesture between your bodies with the knife. “Then you’ve been putting some real dummies in charge.”

Naomi’s jaw ticks. “Raphael- He had to make choices, to move against Castiel-“

“Not Raphael,” you click your tongue. “Zachariah. Michael. They both tried what even Lucifer knew better than to attempt, hell, even God,” you laugh, and Naomi pales. “He doesn’t just grab me. He can’t.” You twist a ring on your finger, sticking your chin high. “So if Heaven is under new management, you might want to pass on a memo about previous bad decision.”

“Heaven is under new management,” Naomi says tightly. “Me.”

“Oh, congratulations-“

“And as the new management,” she raises her voice over yours, twitching at your amused look. “I have decided that it is time to request, politely,” she takes a deep breath. “That you come home.”

You stare at her for a long moment. Naomi glance at your hand, then your openly surprised expression. Her wings flutter, seemingly ready to take off.

And you start to laugh. You laugh so hard your throat hurts, so hard you have to grab the back of Claire’s chair to stay upright.

“No,” you snort, shaking your head. “No, oh my- Did you think that was going to work?”

Naomi swallows, going stiff again. “I believe that my predecessors took the wrong foot, with the woman destined to be our Queen-“

“Yeah, they didn’t think I was destined for that, or- Well, Michael did. But he was kind of stupid and crazy, and Zacharaih, well, I put him in a jar for a reason. And I’ve gotten better at that, too- Hey,” you smile at her. “Would you like to be in a jar?”

“No,” Naomi mutters. “I would not, your holiness.”

“Great. Makes sense.” You wave. “See you around, then.”

You start to walk back to your chair. You’ve made yourself clear, though you didn’t think you’d have to. Between going up to Heaven and being tossed back into the cage for a few weeks, you’d pick the cage. At least you’d get to see Dean.

But Naomi—for all her talk about not being like her predecessors—doesn’t get your very strict, well-communicated message. She clears her throat. She doesn’t leave.

You’re starting to think she does want to be put in a jar.

“What?” You spin around, crossing your arms. “Are you going to try saying please?”

Naomi doesn’t pretend to smile. She pushes her chin to match yours and plants her heels, her wings spreading in her vessel like she’s trying to get bigger. If she thinks that’s going to intimidate you, she’s getting stupider by the second. You’re bigger than the sky.

“Heaven knows everything,” she repeats, and she’s making it way too easy to laugh.

“Yeah, I got that-“

“We know about Eve’s plan,” she adds, and you go still. “And we know that Old Heaven was not quiet as locked as she assumed.”

You swallow. There’s no fear buzzing under your skin, but there is a sickening kind of clarity. A deep, rooting sense that if Naomi isn’t asking you a question. She’s giving you a warning. A reminder.

You’re never going to be someone who gets out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, twisting Dean’s ring on your finger. Naomi’s mouth curves slightly, making her look snakish and cold.

“Forgive me, your holiness, but I think you do.”

You don’t answer. If she wants to speak, she can, but you won’t be entertaining this. Not now. Not when you’re still clawing back to a bed you can stand to sleep in.

“When the Winchester’s went to Heaven, the first time, after Zachariah took the boy,” Naomi smiles faintly, taking a daring step closer. “Old Heaven was breached. We thought it was one of ours, a young one who’d gotten too curious, a fool who thought they could go home, but no.” She tips her head. “It was only after Michael’s failure that we realized it had been you. Slipping in and out of a door we thought we’d shut so well it could never open, even with the combined grace of Heaven. We should’ve known from the start. After all, the only other individual who could’ve done such a thing was our father, and well-“ She laughs coldly. “We all know about that.”

Your eyes flick out to the sky. Still empty. You wonder—when you look back to Naomi’s cold expression—if she knows he’s not all that gone at all.

“The angels closed it?” You ask before you can think better, and Naomi nods.

“Yes, we did.”

“Hm,” you work your lips. “Why.”

“The Leviathan’s- The were unforgiving, when Eve unleashed them.” A shadow passes over Naomi’s face. “They tore through our home, destroyed everything we’d built, everything our father had given us-“ Her words turned sour. “Everything he refused to give us after.”

You swallow, glancing back down at Claire. There’s a kernel of pity, at the bottom of your heart. It’s the same thing that strains for monsters, before they try to hurt your Dean. It burned for the Oracle girl you had to kill last year. It pulses for Naomi, small and quiet, but there all the same. You’ve never had a place that you could hold onto like a home. Even Bobby’s house was more about Bobby that the foundation in the ground.

But Dean is gone. And you feel like everywhere you are is wrong. And you understand.

“I am sorry,” you say gently. “For your home. But-“

“Just- Listen.” Naomi moves forward again. Her voice drops to something desperate. “God never opened the door, after it was closed. He left our home to rot, he made us live in that- Cold place full of humans and stone and-“ She lets out a sharp, slow breath, visibly collecting herself. “Many of us still call Old Heaven home. It could be our home again, and your precious little pets,” she nods around the restaurant, around the human’s frozen in laughter and mirth and arguments and quiet satisfaction, with the beauty of a world they don’t even know they could lose. “We’d leave them alone,” Naomi says, giving you a quiet, pleading look. “We’d leave the apocalypse to lie. You’d be where you belong, with other beings of Heaven. All you’d need to do is open the door, and you- You’d be giving us-“

“Paradise?” You finish, and Naomi shakes her head.

“A home.”

You take a deep, slow breath, staring down at your feet. You can’t count the things that are real, swimming through this frozen time. You want to help. The kernel pulls, and the idea of angels never bothering you again, and-

Home. Never running. Never getting out.

Naomi leans a little forward, voice dropping low. “We’d do everything you asked. We’ve already prepared most of the spell, if you wish to do it like that. You have the first beast, and we could get your man of god-“

Your head snaps up, and Naomi goes silent. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, as the heat in the air rises. You know she heard it.

Her mistake.

“My man,” you repeat, spinning your knife in your hands. “You know where he is.”

Naomi shakes her head, retreating on shaking legs. “No, I didn’t-“

“You said you could retrieve him,” you snap. “Which means you know, which means you could bring him back-“

“We- We have ideas-“ Naomi’s attention flits around the room, like she’s looking for a way out. “We’re willing to help, on our terms.”

“No,” you raise a finger. “No. You don’t get terms. You bring me my Dean back. Now.”

“We have conditions.”

“You have nothing,” you hiss. “And you will have even less, if you don’t get my Dean-“

The world cracks, loud enough you feel it in your chest. You lunge for Naomi, right as she shoots up into the sky. Your fingers just slip against her feathers, and you’re all the celestial winds between the worlds, always trying to be something else, somewhere else, never satisfied enough and never allowed to rest. You’d let them rest. If they brought you Naomi, they’d never have to rush again-

The restaurant bursts back to life. A waiter trips against you, her platter slipping to the floor. You catch it, still staring up at the sky, and pass it into her hands without a glance. Heaven knows. Heaven literally knows where Sam and Dean are, they could get them back, you could get him back-

“Woah,” Claire says, still seated at the table. “How did you get there?”

And you deflate. You let the winds go, let Naomi go, just for tonight. You have something to work with, and if Naomi says she could get Dean, that means you could get him. That means he’s somewhere you can reach.

You smile at the ceiling. A few of the lights, humming with excitement, burst their fixtures, sending sparks around a gasping room. Your smile widens, and you offer a hand to Claire’s bemused face.

“Do you want ice cream?” You ask. “We could do that, then a movie.”

Claire blinks for a second—sharp girl, she probably noticed more than just you moving—but nods, and takes your hand. “I want toppings,” she says before you’re out the door, and you laugh.

“You can have whatever you want.”

And what Claire wants turns out to be a pile of toppings so high, they have to get her a second bowl to hold it.

“I think you’re just eating candy now, kiddo,” you observe, and she shrugs.

“I’m making up for time.”

“Time? You’re barely fifteen-“

“Yeah, but- I wasn’t allowed to have candy at all when I was a kid,” she wrinkles her nose. “My mom said it was bad for my teeth.”

You hum, licking some of your own ice cream. “It’s still bad for your teeth.”

“But you’ll fix me if I get cavities,” Claire says smugly, and she’s right. You will.

“Only twice,” you warn. “Then I start bringing you to the dentist.”

“Gross, that’s- We don’t even have insurance-“

“I know we don’t.” You smirk. “The dentist is what I call Jo and her pliers.”

Claire squawks, and you laugh at her slack expression. “That- That was so mean,” she says, but it almost seems to be in awe. “You’re never mean.”

“I’m never mean to you,” you correct. “I’m very mean to people who deserve it.”

Claire’s eyes gleam. “Who deserves it?” She demands. “Who are you mean to?”

“Hm,” you tilt your head at the air. “You remember Ruby?”

 Claire nods eagerly, and you tell her all about that disaster on the way home. You wish you’d been the one to kill her, but since you were running around Europe, you’re glad it was Dean. Claire seems glad too, huffing about it by the time you get back to the motel, acting like she’d been personally there the whole time. Just like Dean, you smile to yourself. He’d do the same thing, when you told him about other witches or hunters that were pissing you off. 

Claire talks you into one of her movies tonight. You hesitate—that’s supposed to be a her and Dean thing—but she drags you onto the couch, specifically picking one you’ve never seen. That Dean’s been trying to get you to see for almost eleven years.

“I don’t like horror,” you say. “Dean only likes it because he gets to watch it like a sports match-“

“Yeah, but I’m going to watch it like a person.” Claire hits play. “And then,” she mutters under her breath. “Rub it in Dean’s face that I got you to watch it first.”

You laugh at that, and settle into the couch. It can’t be all that scary. You’ve seen the face of the devil and the man that tried to eat him. Everything else looks like rainbows in comparison. Claire hugs herself around the middle, oddly quiet for a little too long. You wait for her to say something, watching the shadows move over her soft cheeks, and-

“I miss him,” she whispers, and you sigh, feeling the weight over every inch of your heart like an iron blanket.

“I know,” you murmur. “Me too.”

She leans into your side, eyes fixed ahead. “I- I keep- I just-“ Her voice gets small. “I tried to stay in the car, I did, but if I hadn’t- If he didn’t need to save me-“

She cuts herself off like the words hurt, and you’re sure they do. They cut under your skin in tiny, jagged pieces that shine like reflective glass, because you know the feeling all too well.

“Claire,” you whisper, pausing the movie, making sure she hears you. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” she snaps, but it’s venomless. “But- It’s just-“

“No.” You pull her closer. “It wasn’t. That’s it.”

Claire grunts. You tap her shoulder, holding her attention. 

“Say that’s it.”

She doesn’t, so you adjust her, forcing her to at least see your face in her periphery.

“Listen to me,” you murmur, squeezing her hands between yours. “That- That wasn’t you. It wasn’t anyone. It was a kickback of power from the knife, and we weren’t ready for it. That’s it. They were always going to use it, and unless I had caught it sooner-“

“You couldn’t have caught it sooner,” Claire blurts, and you give her a pointed look.

“So you couldn’t have stopped it from happening.”

Claire scowls. Her face pinches like she’s trying to make it hide, her eyes glossy and red and her shoulders hunched. You wipe away a single, stray tear, and she collapses right into your chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, choked and small. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen, I just- I don’t want to- I didn’t mean to-“

“I know,” you whisper, stroking the back of her head. “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

Claire cries until she can’t, and you lay together on the couch. When you unpause the movie, it hums in the background, and you almost find it amusing. When you giggle, Claire starts to as well, and soon very few things are scary at all.

After Claire falls asleep, you tuck her in bed. When you check your phone, there’s a voicemail from Jo that she’s staying at the town until morning, the storm still raging too much to drive. You text her a small update, knowing you won’t get a response until morning.

Then you open the contact.

Cas’s contact.

You don’t know what you’d say to him. If he already knows, and he’s just been waiting for you to ask. If he’s been just as lost. If he keeps almost calling you as well, before remembering the fight. Your thumb hovers over the call button. The warm, phantom weight of a hand you know too well rests on your wrist, lightly guiding you to just call-

You toss the phone back onto your bed. Thunder rolls through the room, lightning painting half the world white, and leaving everything else dark. If Cas wants to talk, he can come to you. It wasn’t anyone.

If only you’d believed that, enough to let go.

The bell rings, and everyone starts to move. A sea of kids—thin and tall and short and soft—bump over and against each other, shouting and laughing and pressing their shoulders together without a care in the world. You stay against your locker, waiting for the noise to die down, trying to just focus on your breathing like Rufus told you to. The world wasn’t flooding colors yet, but a lot of it was still pain. It made your knees weak and your tongue sharp. You’d barely lasted a month here, and—if the red mark on your wrists are any indication—you’re already halfway towards the end.

“Hey!” One of the boys—Peter, you remember—runs up next to you when you try to slip through the masses, his hand landing on your shoulder, his smile toothy and wide. “I heard we’re doing the frog lab in bio today, if Miss Browne lets us pick partners…”

He trails off, giving you an open, pointed look. You blink at him for a few seconds, not able to read the silent question between the lines. “You want me to…”

“Be my partner,” he prompts. “If you want. It’s like- fine if you don’t really, just thought I’d ask-“

“No, it’s okay, I just didn’t-“ You glance behind you, sure you’re going to find Peter’s gaggle of friends smirking and making faces behind you. They’d all been nice to you, the weeks you were here. Suspiciously nice. Like they wanted something. “We can be- We can do that.” You give Peter a small smile—you’re not going to do much better, are you—and he grins.

“Great, that’s- Great,” he bounces on his feet, pumping his face. “Mark’s gonna- Great.”

He moves like he’s about to try and get closer to you, then takes a large step back, still smiling wide.

A big, warm hand wraps around your waist, and Dean rests his chin on top of you head. The world freezes, and you let out a slow, stuttering breath.

“I hated it here,” you mumble, and Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to your crown.

“Can’t see why,” he teases. “You were batting better numbers than me, sweetheart. I need to be jealous of hair gel?”

He nods to Peter, and you frown. “He’s not using hair gel, that’s mean-“

“He’s all hair gel, and I’m allowed to be a bit of a dick. He’s tryin’ to steal my girl.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back to meet his gaze. “He wasn’t- Doing that- He was being nice-“

“By askin’  to be your lab partner before class starts?” Dean snorts, his arm coming fully around your stomach. “No, baby- That’s an old trick. Shit, I pulled it once or twice-“

“You pulled it?” Your voice gets sharp with a tug in your heart, spiking and ugly and vigilant. Dean can’t change his… past. With others. You wouldn’t ask him to. But that doesn’t stop that vile, green vine from seizing your heart every time you remember how many hands have touched his body before yours. They must have been  better. Less uncertain, less shaking, less scarred and possessive and-

“Hey,” Dean pets the bridge of your nose, and you hadn’t even realized you’d scrunched it so tight. “Nothin’ to be jealous of, Princess. I was an ass, and if Bobby lemme through the door without hiding the merchandise,” he squeezing your stomach, smirking at your tiny squeak. “I never woulda been a wandering man again.”

You flush, but still manage to shake your head. “That’s not true-“

“Course it’s true,” Dean dismisses, but you’re not willing to let go that quickly.

“Dean-“

“You think I look at other chicks, when I got my so- only one in front of me.” Dean makes an adorable, sour face, and your mouth twitches against your will. “I’d rather get it cut off, baby, swear to god.”

And that pulls a tired giggle from the last place in your chest that isn’t hollow. The place that pounds for Dean, just to the right of  your heart, bright and warm no matter how cloudy the rest of the world gets. “I’m just- We were a few years apart, De. And you were- Cool and popular and-“

“A douche,” he offers, and you frown.

“You were never a douche-“

“Oh, baby- All you gotta do is ask Sammy-“

“I believe you were an idiot,” you grab his hand over your stomach, narrowing you eyes. “And an asshole. And annoying.”

Dean raises his brows, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Flattery will get you everywhere, smartass-“

“But you were a kid,” you whisper, and his jaw goes tight. “You weren’t a douche.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. His free hand slides up your throat, cupping under your chin, and you hold his watery gaze. You don’t get a real response—just a low, choked grunt—before he kisses you, slow and deep.

You grab his forearm and push on your toes. He’s warm. He smells more like pine trees than you’re used to, but the heavy, thick cinnamon that’s purely Dean still lingers, and it makes you smile against his lips. He lets out a slow, battered breath, his fingers digging into your skin. You hope that when you wake up you’ll have a bruise. You hope you’ll get to hold onto any of this at all.

“I woulda been a goner, Princess,” he murmurs when you pull apart. “Forget hair gel, you woulda been fending me off with a damn broom.”

You laugh softly, rocking back and forth on your toes. “You wouldn’t have looked at me-“

“I wouldn’t have been able to look away from you,” Dean cuts you off, his grip on your chin tightening, something final under his tone. “Sammy and I got tossed into school after school, sweetheart, and I never bothered askin’ Dad to let us stay. Sammy- Sammy asked every damn time, but I was- I’d known better.” A long, darkened pain—dulled like a faded bruise, still aching to press—crosses his features. “Dad wasn’t gonna budge. Sammy never had to learn to stop pushin’, but I- I knew I wasn’t gonna get anything to hold onto.”

“Dean…” You murmur, and he shakes his head.

“Don’t- I’m not askin’ you to-“ He sighs, rubbing his jaw. “I’m just tellin’ you, Princess. I had a few good things going, and I always ruined ‘em on purpose. I never woulda ruined you.”

You smile sadly, reaching up to cup his cheek. He leans in with a tiny, forceful rumble in his chest that he can’t seem to hold back, his eyes fluttering shut. You know the stories. Sam’s told you, on late night cases where it was just the two of you, and he was so sick of you and Dean calling every night that he started trying to talk you into something. Dean and his girlfriends, how he never looked at them when he had their mouths on his neck the same way he looks at you, just standing a few feet away. You’d rolled you eyes then, and told Sam to shove it.

But you believe him now. Dean takes you hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing over your knuckles like he can’t help it, and you’ve never believed anything more.

And you wake up suddenly, in a cold sweat with your hand outstretched and twitching. Claire snores on the other side of the room and Indy eeprs, giving you an annoyed but curious look. Your fingers ball, like you can grab the dream and bring it back. Tears burn behind your eyes, and slip out with no warm, certain hands to wipe them away. You pad on light feet to the bathroom, needing a shower, a scrub, anything to get the layer of cold grime—of loneliness—off your skin.

You pause when you look in the mirror, naked and tired and made of tangled hair and heavy eyes.

There’s Gold on your hips. It looks fresher than yesterday, and tingles when you trace it. You swallow, looking down, checking your fingers, making sure you’re not going crazier than you already are. But it’s there. You grab Dean’s amulet, resting between your breast, cold against clammy skin, and close your eyes. When you count the things that are real, you can’t stop yourself from tracing over the mark. It doesn’t wash away with the water, or float off into the steam. You stare at it in the mirror for too long, when your hair is dried and treated for the morning. When you get back into bed, you pull your shirt—Dean’s shirt—up and hold the mark like you’re trying to trap it against your skin.

It must’ve been the shirt, rubbing off. But it’s still real, and you don’t want to let it go.

You don’t sleep for the rest of the night and come morning—when the Gold is still there, glowing in the sunrise—you let out a broken sob of a breath, and close your eyes.

You’ll see him again. You don’t let yourself think of a future where you don’t, because there isn’t one. You have a lead, so now all that’s left is following it. Prying it open, with words or hands or knives.

And that, you smile like a madwoman, is going to be the easy part.

Apr. 24 - 2010

Princess, 

I keep looking at the stupid box. It’s gold. I think I told you that, last time I wrote about it. But it’s golden. 

You said I was golden. That you’ve never seen another golden soul.

There are a lot of souls in the world. Lot of people. I can’t be only golden one, but you weren’t lying. I know when you do.

Maybe you’ve just never seen another one. 

I never asked you why souls are different colors. The internet doesn’t know. Just got a lot of ads for psychics. Was fucking bullshit. 

Your soul would’ve been a pretty color. Like the stars. 

Yours, 

DAW

You haven’t ever seen another Golden soul. Not like Dean’s, and not just because of the special star-stuff he and Sam are made of. You’d never really thought about it as much as you should’ve, not outside of knowing that Dean was beautiful, and you’d always wanted him all over your body until everything was right and easy. Every soul was different, but you used to do double takes when you saw pastel blue, misty souls in crowds. You still push through people to double check that the dark green, rooted soul isn’t Bobby, even though you know he’s settled in your bag at that very moment. You swallow, tracing over the scar on your palm as you reread Dean’s letter again, and again, trying to memorize it. You can hear him speaking. You can almost feel his lips, brushing against the curve of your ear. 

The door closes, and you glace up. Jo shoots you a small, curious grin, kicking off her shoes.

“Any-“

“Nope,” she sighs, wiping her hands on her pants. “Nothin’.”

You sigh, and reach for the scratched out list. Singapore, New Delhi, Mumbai, Ho Chi, Bangkok-

You scratch out Bangkok, and toss the paper off to the side before burying your face in your hands. Jo chuckles, patting your head as she crosses over to her bed and flops down. You lean back, frowning at the ceiling and trying to push all your thoughts into something coherent. They’ve mostly been a rushing river of white water and black depth. Jo says it seems like you’re drowning in yourself lately. You wish you could say she was wrong.

“Not Bangkok,” you murmur, and Jo grunts.

“Not Bangkok.”

“Was there a temple? Or- A shrine?”

Jo shakes her head, and you groan.

“So- Nothing. Fucking nothing- That’s-“ You scowl, pressing Dean’s letter back into the box. “That’s great.”

“More nothin’ than we had yesterday,” Jo jokes, and  you laugh, but it’s dry.

“I guess. Yeah. Claire-“

“In her room with Sparky. Checked before I came back.”

You hum, glancing over at the door that connect you and Jo to Claire. You’ve been trying to find motels with adjoined rooms available, just to give Claire a little space. Lord knows that if you’d been stuck sharing a room with Bobby for half a year you would’ve lost it. Sam would probably say the same thing about John, although he and Dean were always better at sharing than either of them will admit.

“Rowena got anything new?” Jo asks, and you sigh.

“Haven’t called her yet, I was hoping-“ You cut yourself off, and Jo hums, low and tired.

“Yeah. Me too.”

The last month has been nothing but moving. Naomi might not have given you a clear road, but she gave you a wooded path, and you can carve your way through it just fine. If Heaven knows were Dean is, that means someone else can to. Someone who will be more cooperative, someone who might not even need to be threatened to be helpful. Someone like an Oracle.

“You know,” Rowena had drawled when you’d called her the first time. “As the Magdalene, there is not magic outside of your pretty little hands-“

“I’ve tried divination,” you’d said flatly. “Scrying, tea leaves, forcing vision- I did it all months ago. All I got was flashes, and they weren’t- It didn’t help.” It just made you want to scream, like the mountain. Jo made you stop doing it, after she came back to the motel and found it flooded bioluminescent water.  

“Hm,” Rowena had sniffed. “Something’s blocking you? Or is it just… Performance issues.”

You hadn’t dignified her with an answer. If it was a blocked signal, you had a pretty good idea of who was doing it, and you couldn’t oppose him anyway. You needed an Oracle. God could block a psychic. Kevin only got what God wanted him to see. An Oracle was sort of your last hope before you had to pick up your knife and start hacking through Heaven.

“Bangkok was nothing,” you say, the moment Rowena picks up your call. “Less than nothing, actually. Jo says she got chased by dogs and didn’t even find a shrine.”

Rowena sighs, giving you an annoyed look through the scrying bowl. “I did tell you, it is not a perfect science, little tiger-“

“Make it a better one, then.”

Rowena huffs, and you ignore her. The list has been getting longer—she calls you every few days, when she finds something new—but it’s not enough. You don’t want to leave Sam and Dean wherever they are, any longer than you have to. It could be dangerous. They could need help, and if you’re not there to give it-

You take a deep breath, wrapping a hand around your throat. The Spiderweb is still alight. If Dean was hurt in a way you couldn’t fix, you would’ve known by now. But alive doesn’t mean safe. And you really don’t want to know the extent of what the Spiderweb can tell you about his livihood.

“What about Indonesia?” You ask, scrolling through the map on your computer. “It’s a big country, mostly island, but-“

“Remote,” Rowena murmurs. “Mostly jungle, dearie, I don’t think that’s wise-“

“I don’t mind jungle.”

“No one minds the jungle until it’s in their bedroom-“

“I’m chill with the jungle,” you shake your head, drumming your fingers on the keyboard. “Do you know any witches-“

“I know every witch,” Rowena clips. “Even if they don’t know me.”

“Congratulation, stalker.” You roll your eyes. “Do you have a little black book, or something?”

“I have four hundred years of experience,” Rowena says dryly, and you pause.

“Oh. Right. Forgot you were old.”

She glares at you through the water, and you smile to yourself, bending back over your notes.

“Have we considered they’re in Purgatory?” You ask, following the tight, looping script with your finger. Jo and Dean have both said your writing is unintelligible. You thought it was an English thing until Cas—before his brain was back together—commented on your words being as sensical as the stars. Sam could always read it just fine, and it’s not like anyone else needs to be able to read it anyway.

Although when you’re doing nothing but writing and reading—when the world is pressing on your shoulders and there’s a thin layer of mist over your eyes, clouding everything but the strict line forward—you do sort of understand what they’re saying. You can’t tell if you’d written Purgatory or Bulgaria.

“Or… Have we thought of Eastern Europe?”

Rowena shakes her head to both. “There are no Oracles left in Europe, eastern or western.”

“Hm,” you give her a pointed look. “Didn’t you think there were no oracles in the world at all?”

“Yes. Because there were none in Europe.”

“Well, it’s not like you were trapped in Europe-“

“I was a member of the high coven,” Rowena snaps. “They are based in Europe, they know every magical dealing, and if there was an Oracle-“

“You would’ve known,” you finish, smiling to yourself. “So touchy.”

Rowena huffs, muttering a Gaelic curse under your breath that—if you’re right—is cursing you to be a moor frog that never finds a mate. You snort, and keep going through your notes. Rowena clears her throat, words muffled as she talks to someone on her side.

“Don’t touch that, boy, it will burn your eyes out- There you go. Good boy.”

You glance back at the scrying bowl, and find Rowena’s lip curled and eyes gleaming.

“Fools,” she mutters to herself. “Fools in their bloodline, simpering, pathetic little fools-“

“Adam?” You call, and Rowena gives you an annoyed look.

“Don’t beckon him-“

Adam pokes his head over the bowl with a wide smile and wave. You smile softly, and wave back. You can see the soft gleam of his soul through the bowl, and while it’s not as bright as Sam and Dean’s, it’s nothing to pass over. He seems to be settling into it. Into himself. It’s nice to see, from the scruff of a beard he really isn’t managing to grow to the excited light in his eyes that realty does remind you of Dean.

“How’s Thailand?” He calls, and you shrug.

“Warm. Full of bugs, but-“ You shoot Rowena a pointed look. “I’m one with the jungle.”

She scoffs, but her mouth twitches. Adam nods eagerly, pushing further over the bowl.

“You- You look nice,” he rubs the back of his neck, his smile light and twitchy. “Your hair- It’s- Shinier than usual.”

“Oh- Thanks.” You glance over to the mirror. “I think it’s the sweat.”

 Adam nods. “Well, it’s- Sweat looks good on you- Not that no sweat doesn’t- You’re-“ His face is going red, starting from his ears and spreading out. Just like Dean’s. “Um- You know what I mean-“

“We all know what you mean,” Rowena mutters under her breath, and you blink. “Go. Make yourself useful, instead of drooling all over my bowl.”’

“Right, sorry, I just-“ He glances back to you, and Rowena clears her throat loudly.

“We’re discussing Dean,” she says sharply, and you hum, poking back over your notes.

“And the jungle. And Rowena’s ex friend group-“

“Shh.” Rowena snaps, and you laugh to yourself, focusing fully back on your tight, sloppy words.

Rowena gets Adam to wander away with a few more harsh words and reminder that they need dinner. You glance back when he shuffles off, curious and a little amused. She gives you nothing but a glare in return, and your mouth twitches.

“He’s growing on you-“

“He is doing no such thing,” she huffs. “He’s only a little dumber than Samuel, and he takes orders better than both those boys combined. It’s the only reason I’m keeping him around, rather than making him into a dog.”

You hum. “He’d make a cute dog.”

“He’d make a splendid dog. But he wouldn’t be able to carry things.” Rowena shakes her head. “You’re lucky you’re tied to Dean, little tiger. You get to keep the pretty one all to yourself.”

You flip her off and she laughs. It’s a softer sound than anyone else gets. Bobby and Dean both used to comment on it, whenever they’d get her to cackle and look at them like she was imagining which of their limbs would look best in a stew. You’d tell them she was just trying to get a rise, that she was nice when you pushed it out of her. They both said she was nice because you were you. And you still don’t quite understand what that means. You’re annoying and bossy and mean. If anything, you should be the one in the stew, although you don’t think rotted meat would make good food.

Yet still, Rowena helps you. And like with everything else, there’s nothing you can do but accept it’s sometimes useless to ask why.

“Are you in the city?” Rowena asks after another hour, and you shake your head.

“We’re an hour north, I’ve been… Off. We didn’t want to take risks.”

Rowena hears the words under the explanation. You’ve been dangerous. The closer you get to something and nothing, the easier it is to light your fuse. You’ve gotten better at controlling it—at being in a crowd without folding over yourself, at lose and not making the sky fall—but you still have bad days. Bad weeks. Moments where anything that gets close to you needs to retreat or burn or turn to something harmless and colorful, and you can’t do much to pull yourself back together. The Silver hurts then, like concrete bleeding through your body, filling up your lungs until you can’t breathe. On those days you count what’s real and pull the blankets around you until they’re shaped like Dean, but you’re still free-falling with no one who knows how to catch you. The best you can do is soften the plummet. Ease the fallout.

And it’s been one of those weeks.

So you’re staying away from the city.

Rowena hums, squinting at something you can’t see. You watch with raised brows, and she lets out a slow, worried sigh.

“What-“

“Shh.” She squints, then nods to herself.

You frown. “Rowena-“

“Patience,” she says firmly, and you stick out your tongue. “Ah, well- Listen,” she looks back to you, features grim. “This may be nothing. You know there is always the risk of it being nothing.”

You nod, your nails digging into your wrist. You know it can be nothing. But she’s saying it like it’s something, and you can’t stop the chinks from letting light in.

And there are local legends about a cave, not too far west of your motel. A cave where the flowers float like they’re in water, and the water glows like it’s made of starlight. They don’t use the word oracle or prophet, but they speak of finding the truth. Of seeing the glory of the Sun.

“You are not allowed to be terse with me if it’s nothing,” Rowena points at you through the bowl, and you hum, scraping together your stuff.

“Yeah. Got it.”

Rowena says your name, and you give her a tight smile.

“I got it-“

“Be cautious,” she says, and that makes you pause. “Be… Very cautious.”

And you could tease her about being worried about you, but there’s a strain in her gaze that stops you. You smile again, but it’s gentler. Real, without any of the jagged edges you and Rowena usually trade.

“I always am.”

You both know that isn’t true. But it’s not a lie either, and Rowena’s nose twitches enough for you to know she’s placated by the half-promise. You give her a small salute, and she closes the scrying with a scoff that’s dangerously fond.

And you pack up, text Jo—who went out to get food halfway through your call—that you’ll be back. You poke in to check on Claire—watching TV with the Lady on her lap and Sparky on her head—and go. Time is not something you let pass anymore. You don’t know how to do that little freezing trick the angels have, and learning it will just waste moments  you could be looking for Sam and Dean. There will be plenty of time for stalling and lazy mornings and being late, when they’re home. Until then, every second is a needle, and you’re not resting until they stop pricking over your skin.

Thailand jungles are cooler than Indian ones, but your joke to Rowena was more of a brag than an actual bit. The bugs buzz curiously a few feet away, but never get close, let alone try to land on or feed from you. The tangled undergrowth pulls itself apart when you ask nicely, and the leaves shift to offer you shade. Everything here is almost as alive as you are, and you’re an infection of exhausted love that creeps though the roots and shifting sunlight. The Silver howls for Dean and the jungle—painted in the depth of your loss, in the blind determination of your love—howls back. The leaves get to learn what it would feel like to lose their branches. The tigers feel the split of your heart, fracturing everything around them until it’s like being trapped in a tree.

And you feel all of them. You always have. So they move with you, and it’s not a battle to find what you need.

You find the cave before sunset. Behind a waterfall—water that glows, that you can feel carrying the weight of keeping everything else alive, that would never want to be anyway but still screams with the pressure and begins to show it—the stone is carved into something like a temple, mock brick and shrines and inlaid gold. Flowers float around, untethered from the weight of changing seasons, blessed with knowing that they’re always going end up blooming again, no matter how cold the winter.

And the Oracle.

She’s sitting on the ground, watching you with wide eyes. She scrambles to her knees, bowing her head and pressing her hands flat to the ground. You blink, tucking you knife back under your skirt, and tilt your head.

“Hi,” you try,  but her head just bows further. “Um- You’re- You look better than the last oracle I met.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she says, her accent thick but clear. “I am honored, to have you, and anything you desire I will offer-“

“Oh, that’s-“ You raise a hand, chewing on your lower lip. You should’ve expected this. You’re kind of annoyed that you didn’t. “I mean, I do have questions, but- I don’t realty desire a lot of things, and- You don’t have to do that.”

You wave to her kneeling position, but she doesn’t see. Her head is still bowed, her hair shrouding your face, and you sigh.

A quick second look at the temple answers your first question. The biggest stature, shining copper and erected near the back wall, covered in flowers and perfectly tended, it looks an awful lot like you. There’s even a little bird that looks like Sparky in your cupped hands. You wrinkle your nose and look up to the ceiling, collecting yourself with tight hands. That’s not the Oracles fault. You don’t have the time to fall apart about it.

You sit across from her, crossing your legs and rocking back and forth as you wait. She glances up under thick lashes, and you smile.

“Hi.”

She blinks rapidly, looking back to the waterfall, to where you’d stood before. Her face flushes and her fingers clench at her skirt, her shoulders heaving with shallow breathes. “He- Hello.”

“Hey.” You settle a little further, making your voice soft. “What’s your name?”

“Madee,” she whispers, and you nod.

“It’s nice to meet you, Madee.” You offer out a hand. “I’m-“

“I know who you are.” 

You swallow, and glance over her shoulder to the statue. “Right,” you murmur, hand still hovering in the air. “Right.”

Madee tentatively reaches out, wrapping her fingers through yours and shifting your hand around, as if she’s checking that you don’t turn to dust or mist. “You’re…  Real.”

“Unfortunately, yeah.”

“You are here…” She murmurs, then suddenly sits tall. “Why are you here? Have I failed? Is there- Do I have to leave-“

“No, no.” You grab her before she can shrink away, and she stills immediately. Her eyes are big, watery and puppy like. You pause, watching the light of the waterfall shifting over her soft features.

She can’t be much older than Claire.

“How long have you been here?” You ask worriedly, and Madee’s lip trembles.

“Many years,” she breathes. “Since I was a girl. When the woods called me.”

“The… Woods?”

She nods. “One night the clouds split. The world shook. Everything cried, so I cried back. My mother told me to be quiet. The woods told me to be loud, so I followed them. I found here.”

“And you,” you take a deep, careful breath. “You want to be here?”

“More than anything,” Madee whispers. “Please. Do not make me leave.”

And you think of the last oracle. The dead girl in the swamp, marred by the Leviathans, surrounded by crocodiles that protected her until their last breath. My mother told me to be quiet. Your mother used to tell you the same thing.

“I won’t make you leave,” you say, and Madee’s eyes glow with visible relief. “But I have some questions for you, and I need to answer them. Can you do that for me?”

Madee nods eagerly, leaning forward. She’s still holding your hand. You don’t make her pull it away.

“There’s a place,” you start slowly, picking out every word. “Far away from here, from anywhere. It was destroyed many, many years ago, more than we can count, but it’s still there, just-“

“Dead.” Madee finished for you, nodding along. “It is the dead world. Nothing but the King remains.”

“The King? Do you mean-“

“The taker,” Madee’s voice echoes around the cave, melodical, almost flowing through the air. “The maker and the breaker and the last man to wait for her. He sits on his throne and feasts on his bones and waits for life to come to his side so he’s never alone.”

Oh. She rhymes. That’s fun. “Right. That.” You clear your throat. “Nothing remains there, right? No life?”

Madee shakes her head. “All of life is here.”

“Cool. That’s- Good.” It is, you have to remind yourself. Sam and Dean aren’t stuck in dead heaven. You didn’t think they were—Naomi would’ve just told you so, to get you to open it up—but it’s always nice to get confirmation. “What about Hell? Have you ever seen Hell?”

Madee nods solemnly. “The first place the forest showed me was cages and broken brothers and names I can’t smother.”

“Broken- Oh. Sam.” You sigh, and Madee tilts her head.

“The boy with the black blood and tense love and anger at those who push his head under his gut?”

“Yeah. Sam.” You press your lips in a thin line. If she saw Sam… “The boy- can you find him now?”

Madee pauses. She cocks her head and closes her eyes, her nails digging into your hands. You wait, hope crawling up your throat with a sickening certainty that it will wither before it knows the sun.

And Madee shakes her head, and you knew it was coming, but that doesn’t manage to stop the burn.

“I am sorry,” she says, eyes red and voice wobbly.

“It’s okay,” you squeeze her hands, and you mean it. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t- It’s okay.” You take a deep breath, the Spiderweb twisting over itself in your chest, like a million prisms colliding. “There’s another boy,” you say. “A man. He’s-“

Madee’s eyes seem to glow. Not like a star, but like fire, trapped under amber. “Dean Winchester,” she says, and your heart stills with the wind. “King of men, bleeding and spent, on his knees and begging for rest. Lover and cover and greater than the thunder. The only one, the only one, the only one-“

She takes a sharp panicked breath, and it restarts your heart. You move up to a knee, grabbing her face and trying to drag her out of it.

“The only one,” she gasps, even as her eyes come into focus on your face. “The world will be done if he does not bow, if he does not run. The world will be done and the wrong man will have won.”

You swallow, a looming, dreaded cold gathering in your gut. Ominous. A little fucking on the nose, if whatever oracle spirit in this poor girl is taking notes. You’re glad Dean wasn’t here for it, at least. He’d probably end up pacing for the rest of the night then deciding he needed to put you on a leash and never sit down again.

“My Dean,” you say softly, and Madee nods. “You know him.”

“Everything with color knows him,” she whispers. “Everything negative wishes for him. Everything outside of your reach loathes him.

A lump presses up in your throat. Your lungs feel tight. “Do you ever see him?”

“In the steed,” Madee breathes. “On his knees, in the wing, pressing love to the trees-“

“No- Just-“ You sigh. That one was your fault. “Literally. Do you ever literally see him, in a vision or something.”

Madde nods. That persistent, deformed, malnourished hope flutters again.

“Can you see him now?” You whisper, and Madee shakes her head.

You let go of her with a pained sound that rips from your chest. You don’t mean to, but it hurts. Hope crumbles back up and refuses to just be stomped into the gutter, into that emptiness that hold every bit of love and loss and anger in the universe. You wipe your face until it’s red. Madee reaches out then shrinks back, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to help.

“It’s okay,” you manage to say through the cancerous, angry rock of grief. “It- It’s okay, it’s not your fault. It’s not.”

Madee nods, but she doesn’t look like she believes you. You sigh, and crouch back down before her.

“It’s not,” you make yourself smaller. Kinder than you want to be, but more unwavering than you feel. “It’s okay. Really.”

And Madee believes your illusion. She doesn’t see that, through every nerve and bone and brittle heartstring, you feel more fragile and lost than a peace of driftwood in the ocean. You’re surrounded by everything, and you know that—above you, below you, and far off on the horizon—there will be a place to rest. But you can’t see it. All you can see is the never ending, dark water.

“I have heard him,” Madee says, barely loud enough for you to hear.

You blink, your voice breaking with another, trembling wing of hope. “What?”

“I have heard Dean Winchester,” she says, holding you gaze. “We all have. Have you- Have you not?”

You shake your head, sinking back to your knees. “Wha- What has he said? Is he okay, is he hurt- Where- Has he asked for me-“

“He prays,” Madde whispers. “He prays and prays. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m calling anyway. Sammy and I are on our feet again. Or- Sammy’s on his feet. Never got to get off mine. We found a fuckin’ castle, Princess, and I’m not even joking. It’s big. Way too big, if anyone’s asking me. No one needs a castle this big, let alone a crazy bitch with no friends. I can smell her evil plotting, smells like bad eggs. Sam says that’s cause I ate eggs this morning. He’s being so mean to me, sweetheart. You’d kick his butt for me, if you were here. Wish you were here. That’s- Uh… That’s kinda why I’m praying. Duh.”

You laugh, wet and choked with your tears. Madee’s features are glazed, as Dean’s voice falls from her lips. And it’s Dean’s voice. Right down to the rumbling bass and rapid, unpaced thoughts. You have to grab your skirt, to stop yourself from reaching for poor Madee like she’s him.

“Sam doesn’t think you’re getting these. You probably aren’t. You woulda answered me by now, but- That doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop tryin’. If there’s even a tiny chance you’re gonna pick one of these up, I’m gonna keep doin’  them. And  you know how I am in Vegas. Never met a buck I couldn’t turn into ten dollars.”

And the air starts to shift.

It’s the smallest feeling. Madee certainly doesn’t seem to notice it,  but you- You feel it everywhere. It’s a shift in the pressure, like a headache blooming before a coming storm. Your back gets that stabbing, carving feeling at the very top of your spine. The Silver consolidates, turning and stressed like an animal in a cage. The wind picks up, and the water flows ever so slightly, everything from the ground under your feet to the birds in the trees getting a little more busy. Like workers being worried the boss will catch them slacking.

The boss.

Something so, so quiet hums above your head. You see the flicker before the strike, and lunge forward. Poor Madee gets shoved headfirst into her moss bed, and you take her place beneath the brewing cloud.

The world roars your name, and you throw everything behind you. The moss becomes radioactive and repellant, growing quickly around the cave. Trapping all three of you in.

He’s fast. You didn’t expect him to be anything else. A hand wraps around your wrist and drags you through the very world. Everything’s a sickening blur, for a very long second, before you land on your feet.

“What was that?!” God shouts, and you’ve never seen his eyes so wild and angry. “I could have seriously hurt you, I could have-“

“Smited me?” You shout back, your voice echoing through the trees, almost in harmony with the birds. “You could have smited me? Like you were going to smite the fucking child?!”

God sighs, raising his hands. “Hey, you can’t- It was a warning-“

“A warning smite?!”

“A warning,.. Tickle?” He tries. Your scowl deepens, and he takes a small step back. “Okay, it was- Not my best call. I promise not to do it again-“

“Your promises mean nothing to me.”

“Ouch,” God chuckles weakly. “Hurtful.”

You stare at him, flat and annoyed. He sighs, giving you a pleading look.

“I’m sorry-“

“Your apologies also mean nothing.”

“But-“ God sighs. “Fine. I’ve earned that. We can put Madee on the list with Job and that one guy I asked to kill his son-“

“Abraham?” You say incredulously, and God snaps his fingers.

“Yes. Him,” he whistles, smiling faintly. “Now that- That was crazy. Did you know he almost did it? He had the kid drugged out and everything, I was like- I wasn’t actually gonna make you kill your son, man. That would be insane!”

You stare at him, gaping slightly. “I- Yeah, I know that. Everyone knows that, it’s like- the third story in the bible.”

“Is it?” God blinks in surprise. “Really?”

You nod, and he hums.

“Huh. I mean, I never read it.”

“You’ve never read the-“ You shake your head. Not the point, or the time. “Never mind. You- You were about to smite a kid-“

“Yeah, yeah, we already argued about that, babe. Can I call you babe?” He gives you what he seems to think is a winning smile. “I’ve been testing out pet names, and you don’t really seem like a honey or- Kitten is really weird- So babe. I like it.” He spreads his arms. “Do you like it?”

“No,” you say flatly, crossing your arms. “And I’m not done arguing about this, you don’t just get to go around smiting people I’m talking to-“

“C’mon, that was like- The first time I ever did it! And it didn’t even work!” He scoffs. “Trust me, if I was going to smite anyone, it wouldn’t be some girl-“

You take a large step forward, your hands curling into fists. The wind starts to whip through the trees, and the bird song starts to sound like battle cries. God steps back, glancing up at the sky, then back to you.

“Hey,” he coaxes. “Hey. I’m not your enemy, babe-“

“You say babe one more time,” you spit. “I cut out your tongue.”

God smiles, but his eyes are cold. Almost… Barren. Like looking at an icy tundra, not even trying to grow something new. Just still, quiet perfection, all the way down to the white light in his core.

And you’ve made a vow to yourself. That you will, one day, be the last thing he ever sees, and the first thing he regrets. But you’re not a fool. You’re rash when you’re blind, and barely able to hold back the storm when it’s ripping you apart. But there’s just enough of you left at the base of your skull to act as an anchor. To keep you from being the very thing that you swore he’d never make you. One day, you will kill him. Maybe tomorrow, if you learn to grow a million feet tall without crushing yourself and everything you love. When you’re strong enough to be in control.

But that day is not today. So you lift your chin, and make yourself as cold as he is. Colder, translucent, impossible to touch. God sees the shift. He feels the temperature drop, as you dismiss the humid dew on the leave. It isn’t their fight. It isn’t anyone’s but yours.

God isn’t a fool either. An invisible wall juts up between you, making the air shimmer ever so slightly. If you’re a magnet, it’s polarity. And you smile. He’s afraid.

“Why,” you say, not letting an ounce of emotion into your voice. “Are you here.”

“The girl-“

“No,” you click your tongue. “Try again.”

God frowns. “I am not lying to you,” he says your name gently. “I would never-“

“Ah,” you raise a hand. “Wrong. One more try.”

“I- You’re really coming into yourself, you know?” He tries a thin, fond smile that slithers over your skin. “I knew you would-“

You cut him off with a single step forward. He gives in.

“Relax, okay? Just- I’m not hurting anyone, I’ll even pinky promise not to go back, but- I couldn’t let her keep going,” he gives you a pleading look that comes out all crooked. “She was going to ruin so many things.”

You believe him. You don’t think he’s brave enough to lie, even to placate you. “What things?”

“Well, I can’t tell you, but-“ He trips a little, when you take another step. “It’s nothing for you to worry about-“

“I disagree-“

“And I wanted to see you!” He reaches out a hand, smiling with a charm that lands dull. “I’ve missed you, we haven’t had us time in months-“

“There is no us time,” you hiss between your teeth, and God sighs.

“I know. I know, and that’s my mistake. I never thanked you, for saving me-“

“I didn’t save you,” you cut over him, raising your chin. “I stopped the Leviathans for the world, that’s it.”

“And that’s why I love you!” He beams, and the words land like acid. “You never do anything selfish, you’re- You’re amazing.”

You swallow. You don’t feel amazing. And you do selfish things all the time. “That spell,” you mutter. “It would’ve done…”

“Bad things, yeah.” God shrugs, as if the weight of the world can just brush off his shoulders like a feather. “But,” he grins. “You still saved me.”

You give him a daggered glare, no patience left on your tongue. “Where’s Dean.”

And God’s face crumbles. The casual mockery of boyish, nervous charm fades. The twitchy mannerisms vanish, and the false levity dissolves from his voice.

“I thought,” he says cooly. “That we could get through this without talking about Dean.”

He says the name like it’s wrong. You can’t wait to smash his head in like a bad melon. “You thought wrong.”

“He isn’t even-“ God tenses, his fists flexing, his hair messing itself up as he shifts on his feet. “He isn’t even here,” he points between you with a rigid finger. “I’m here. I’m here, with you, for whatever you need-“

“I need Dean-“

“You don’t-“ God cuts himself off, grinding his teeth. “You don’t. Need. Dean. You’re stronger than that. I made you stronger than that, I- I mean, I should be getting points for that, for- A strong, female lead.” His hands wring, and the world starts to feel like it’s closing. “I’ve done everything, I’ve offered everything, and you just want Dean? Car boy? The only human I’ve ever personally designed, with my own two hands, who can’t spell Hippopotamus?”

“It’s a hard word-“

“No. No it’s not. You know that, and you just- You still-“

“You gave me free will,” you say, quiet and stiff. “You could’ve made me a doll. You didn’t. You can’t be mad I fell in love with the only person who’s ever been there, who’s ever really known me-“

“I’ve been there!” God shouts, and trees creak from their roots. “I’ve known you, and I- Do I not even get points for the free will thing-“

You shake your head, and God sighs.

“You know, I’m trying really hard,” he mutters bitterly. “And you’re just- You’re not giving me anything.”

You bite on your tongue, watching him carefully. He’s right, about you not giving him anything. You’re not interested in giving him anything. You don’t care what dramatic, buzzing words he throws around about you and Dean and destiny, you’re stronger than you want to be and Dean’s the only thing that lets you break. You’re an injury and an open wound that can’t afford to be treated, and Dean is the only one who can convince you to rest before you get too sick to turn back. It’s not strength. You don’t need strength, and it’s a cheap man who whines about getting what he paid for.

You love that hotdog pants wearing, charming, adorably dumb and dorky man. You’ve been done fighting that for a while. And God doesn’t get to make you doubt that.

But you need something for him. And you’ve never been above plunging into the mud and digging up something dirty.

“I’ll go out with you, if you tell me where Dean is.”

God’s head shoots up. The trees stop creaking, and his white bores into your soul, like he’s trying to check for a lie. You don’t waver. You’re done with that too. “Really?”

You nod. “One date,” you hold up a finger. “Right now. You’ll have men until sundown, and-“

“I tell you where Dean is.” He doesn’t sound too pleased about that part. “Would you offer, if I said I wouldn’t?”

It’s a bad question. You think he knows it, based on how he sighs when you shake your head.

“You will,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You will.”

And he offers out a hand. You hesitate, fingers curled away as you reach out.

“I don’t lie to you,” he says, like he’s soothing a baby. “Sundown. Then I tell you where Dean is.”

You nod, fingers brushing his horribly cold ones, then yank back. “Sundown here,” you add quickly. “In Thailand. No matter where we are, it’s sundown here.”

God laughs tightly. “I know. I’m not a genie.”

Your mouth half-twitches. You’re still eyeing his head wearily, and he sighs.

“Please. I was serious, we can pinky promise.”

You shake your head, because that’s not God’s to have. But you take a long breath, grab Dean’s amulet, and take God’s hand.

The world doesn’t end. You are flitted away to that white palace in Old Heaven, or trapped on some planet far, far away. You’d screwed your eyes shut, and you drag them slowly open to find that you’re still in the jungle. You fist held in God’s clammy, surprisingly strong hand. It’s not Dean’s certain strength, though, like the weight of a house, keeping you safe and warm. It’s like being glue to a statue, slowly compressing, threatening to trap you in it’s grasp.

God smiles, not seeming to notice the pale in your face, the silence that’s crept over your tongue. You don’t dare to speak. Don’t dare to breathe too deep, to move enough that he’ll smell your fear. Your heart  pounds in your ears, your head light, and maybe you’ll black out. God can toss around your body a bit, and you won’t even have to remember it.

But you’re not that lucky. Because God’s smile is wide, and his grip is tight, and he can’t see how you’d rip yourself out of your body to get away from his hallowed gaze.

“I have something I’ve wanted to show you,” he says, his thumb dragging over your wrist. “That I’ve wanted to show you for so long.”

You nod tightly, and God tugs you a little closer. He smells like nothing. It’s really just like being pressed up again stone.

“Hold on,” he whispers, and you think it’s supposed to make you flush, but it comes out mocking, and it just makes your stomach twist.

God whoosh you through the world, the same way you’d dragged him away from Madee. He looks far too pleased, when he lands on the sand and you’re clinging to his shirt. You’ve never flown that far and remembered. You’ve never looked at such a small face of a big man and wondered if plummeting through the air would be a better fate. You shove off his chest, and he grabs your wrist, pulling you back with a jerked motion.

“This is a date,” he reminds you. “And you promised you’d try.”

You made no such promises. “I said I’d be yours until sundown,” you jerk your hand away, and his touch seems to scrape along your skin. “And all you did was bring me to the desert.”

“Not just the desert,” God rolls his eyes. “Your desert. Your city, your- The first people who knew you. Who worshipped you, who-“ He sighs, at the guarded look on your face. “Just… Look for yourself.”

And God sweeps out a single hand, and the sand begins to swirl. And swirl and swirl and rise over the world until it’s more of a golden mist that hangs over a beautiful, lively city.

You gasp, stumbling on still feet. God smirks, but you couldn’t help it. You’ve been all over the world. You’ve lived in the Garden of Heaven, and seen the deepest pits of Hell, and there’s never been anything like this.

It’s all arches and domes of stars and gardens that hang from rooves and pour out of ledges. Water runs through cracks in marble pavement, little carts made of pale wood overflow with fruits and pelts and goods, and a cool breeze eases the beating heat of the sun. Everywhere you look there’s life, from the dove nests in the columns to the children running underfoot, laughing with bruised knees and not a single burden of the world on their flushed cheeks.

Your eyes burn. When you trace a wall, you find etching of a language you can’t read, and drawings of a story you know like the back of your heart. A father and fire. A boy who needs to be a lion, and a baby who will never look at anything and not wonder if it’s another lie to keep him safe from the only shadows that have ever offered him clarity. A world collapsing, and blood spilt, and chains that only ever seem to grow like vines, until they’re tight around a neck.

You hover on a drawing Dean’s little face. The clean lines got the crook of his nose wrong, but the shine in his eyes right. When you look at the next panel of brick, though, they’re different. Darker than you’ve ever know, as little Sam sits on his knees with a bleeding lip. The brick after that, his eyes are normal again, but there’s a strange scar on his arm, that seems to spread up like an infection. The brick after that, you’re there—you haven’t been anywhere else—and you look angry, and Dean’s reaching up over his head for a familiar sword-

Sand falls over the wall like water. When it’s gone, the brick is clean. The drawings are gone.

“Hey, I- I was looking at that-“

“You were going to be there all day,” God waves you off, smiling around the city. “And we’re on a clock, remember. You gave it to me, and I- I would like to show you things. Please.”

He holds out his hand again. You don’t take it, but you stomp back to his side with only a glance over your shoulder. He didn’t want you to see it. That’s never meant anything good.

“Babylon,” God breathes, smiling around at the towering, grand city. “My last project, before I retried. I mean, I was still on call, but I wanted to see how humans did by themselves, so I only took special cases, and, well,” he laughs. “You know how that went.”

You grunt, hugging yourself tight. One of the smiling children runs right through you, and you freeze in your steps. God sighs apologetically, at the look of horror on your face.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly bring you back to the real Babylon,” he explains. “They have statues of you, murals, writings- It would be like me dropping into the Vatican, you understand.”

You hum weakly, watching the echo of the little boy run back into the crowd. Ghosts. All of these people, just ghosts. Echoes that God pulled up, within a few seconds. Toys that he’s maneuvering around, so you see what he needs you to.

You feel sick. Your vision is too blurry, yet not enough to stop you from seeing everything God shows you. Garden after garden, temples with paintings you’ve seen a million times, palaces and temples and deep pools of water that glitter in the sun. All his favorite places, he says, sweeping his hand over the city from a high tower. All yours.

But all you can see is Dean.

You see him in the gold of palace walls and yellow blossoms at the market. You see him in the sandstone walls and at the bottom of the pools, in the bells in the towers and stitched into your thin, linen dress. You feel him in the heat and the wind. You smell him drifting out of homes and on the merchant carts, and it’s the only thing that makes you smile all day.

And you see the others, too. You see Jo in the massive wells of water and flowing rivers and steam houses. You see her and Cas in the infinite sky, Jo the unending, unwavering horizon and Cas in all the biggest clouds. You see Bobby in the gardens and Claire in the pale, yellow ghost of some long extinct, wolf-like puppy, being sold in one of the marketplaces.

When God isn’t looking, you reach out to scratch it’s ears. Your fingers pass through misty air, and you have to close your eyes to breathe.

Then there’s a yip. And a nuzzle at your knuckles, and a rough tongue licking your wrist. Your eyes shoot open, and the puppy blinks up at you, wagging its tail and panting. You swallow and glance back to God, busy marveling over another one of the—many identical—gardens. They are beautiful. They’re also so contained and stressed with the performance of beauty, you can barely stand to look at them too long.

You grab the puppy, and try to stuff it into a jacket you left at the motel. You scan around the tight street frantically, then look up at the sky. The sand will fall back down, when God breaks the illusion. You could just… let him know about the puppy, but something turns in your gut and tells you he’s not going to take it all that well. The puppy squirms, pawing at your stupid, poorly made dress.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, and God turns.

“Do you disagree? About the irrigation. I mean- I gave the architect the dream for it, but he could’ve…” His lip curls. “Taken some liberties.”

“Um….” You blink at God, and realize your hands are on your hips, your dress back to normal, the fabric stronger and the stiches tighter than before. Your lips part, a small sound of surprises falling from your lips. God gives you a strange look. You’d give you a strange look. You don’t know what the hell is happening.

“Is something wrong?” He asks, and you hear it. Thinly coated suspicion.

So you just shake your head, tuck your hands behind your back, and shrug. If God doesn’t buy it, you only get another weary look, and he goes right back to talking about how amazing he made the city. You would’ve loved to hear from the actual people who did the labor. You don’t think you’re going to get the privilege of anyone but Mr. McGenius and his magic, clammy hands.

The day passes like a turtle swimming molasses, but it passes. God keeps the sun in the same spot like he thinks that will trick you, but he forgets to look beneath him. The shadows change. And when they’re flat on the ground, you clear your throat and stretch out a hand.

God takes it with a sigh and a smile. He seems to think this has gone in his favor. That taking you somewhere without air conditioning or real food or anything you can actually do is going to put him over Dean stealing Bobby’s truck to take you to a drive-in movie theater, wrapping you up in one of his burrito blankets, and hand feeding you popcorn whenever you started talking too much. And that wasn’t eve a real date.

But when God takes you back home—just outside the motel, at least he isn’t going to make you walk back through the jungle—he doesn’t let go of your hand. He leans forward, staring at your lips, the scraggle of his beard even patchier up close. His breath smells like nothing. You’d rather have Dean after eating garlic and fish, than have to ever make out with God’s too smooth, pale lips.

You turn your cheek, and God sighs.

“Fair enough,” he murmurs, and you yank your hand away.

“Dean-“

“I know, I know. But-“ He smiles like a rat. “Did you have a good time?”

You didn’t kill yourself. “No.”

He doesn’t deflate, like you’d hoped. His smile widens. It chills you, deeper than your bones. “Purgatory.”

You blink. “What-“

“Dean’s in purgatory,” God crosses his arms. “All the way in it. About as central as you can go.”

“He’s- He and Sam- Get them out!”

God vanishes, reappearing up on the walkway, overlooking the cloudy motel pool. You run after him on shaking feet.

“Get them out, they- They’re humans, they can’t- Get them out-“

Just before you reach him, he’s gone. Your head whips around, panting from the everything, and the water shifts. Your gaze whips down, and the leaves and silt in the pool are swirling and changing color, until they’re all faded like an old picture. You lean over the railing, watching with shallow breaths, letting out a tiny, broken sound when the image comes into focus.

Sam and Dean in a forest. It’s barren and cold looking, nothing but dirt and thin grass and blood on the ground-

Blood.

Sam’s curled in a little ball, and there’s blood all over the ground. All over Dean’s hands, when he reaches out and Sam rolls away with a twitching body. Dean’s face falls, then steels. He says something you can’t hear, and starts grabbing around Sam’s neck. Sam goes limp. Dean rubs his jaw, exhaustion etched over every handsome feature, blood staining his untrimmed beard. He looks at the sky.

He looks at you.

Your back hurts like it’s going to break open. Like you’re only an egg, and letting yourself fall apart will bring something new, something better. You’d take the risk, if you understood it. If you weren’t closer to Dean than you’ve been in months, and that might make you scream in unbridled agony, but it almost jumpstarts that dangerous, dangerous hope.

Because he’s there. Tired but alive. Carrying Sam—limp but breathing—over his back with an unbreakable glint in his eye. And you’re allowed to hope that he’ll be home by morning. That you’ll get through this, and Dean will collapse on the edge of your bed and let you cradle him until you’re both patched up. 

It could all be fine in the morning.

“I could get him,” God whispers, back at your side. “Him and Sam, and Bobby. I could bring them all back.”

You shake your head, unable to look away from Dean. “I’m never going with you,” you rasp, and God hums.

“I’m not asking you to.”

You laugh disbelievingly, and he sighs.

“Well, I am, but- It’s not like the other times, okay? I just want five- Maybe ten years. To show you how good it would be, to- To get a real chance. All I’m asking for is one real chance, nothing in the way. I’ll even toss in world peace, whenever we go on a date. And world peace, plus Dean safe?” He whistles. “What more could you possibly want?”

And you don’t answer. He right. You’re not going to get a better deal than that.

But Dean…

You can still see him, laying Sam on the ground of a cave, wiping the sweat from his baby brother’s brow and working his jaw as he figures out what he’s going to do. And you can see the shattered expression he’d give you, if you told him you traded yourself for his freedom. Ten years is nothing to God. It’s everything to you. It’s how long you knew Dean, before you were allowed to touch him. How much time you wasted clawing away from his side and gnawing off your hands when they just reached back out. You can’t waste another ten years. You can’t see your own heartbreak on Dean’s face.

God sighs, and the vision vanishes from the water.

“Think about it,” he mutters, and then he’s gone.

You sigh, and linger for only a moment long. When you push back into the motel room, you find Jo splayed over her own bed, her nose wrinkled and hand swatting at something in her dreams. You smile and shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water over your cheeks and squinting at your flushed, scrunched face in the flickering, yellow light. You sigh, and look back to the sink. The water in the faucet misses being free to follow it’s own stream. You understand, and turn it off.

When you look up again, Cas is right behind you, and your eyes only go wide.

He looks the same as how you last saw him. Bags under his eyes and messy hair, electric blue clean and the colors of his rainbow back in line. There’s something more lean to his body—to his wings, trapped in his vessel—but maybe he’s been doing a lot. You want to ask. You want to grab his hand, and tell him you found Dean.

But you’re tired.

You’re tired, and it’s been months, and he only reaches out now. Now that you have something, now that you might need him, but not enough that he’s going to have to deal with what he did. You spin around and press yourself against the counter, and he just fucking stares at you, and all that beaten down, bottled up frustration and fury… it just bursts. 

“Get out,” you hiss, and Cas only blinks. “Get out!”

He doesn’t move. Your voice rises to shrill scream.

“Get out, get out- I- I don’t want to fucking see you, I don’t want talk to you, I don’t- Get out!”

Cas doesn’t budge. Something in your chest that’s been held up by the thinnest string snaps, and you start to sob, your body shaking and hands wringing and tears streaming, hot and angry down your face.

“You put them there!” You scream, and Cas still only stares. “You didn’t let me stop them, you- You didn’t let me save them, you put them there!”

Cas tilts his head. You can barely breathe.

“They’re gone- He’s gone- He’s gone, and I- I don’t know how- I don’t know how- And it’s your fault- Your fault-“ Your voice cracks. “You didn’t let me save him,” you barely whisper. “Why didn’t you let me save him?”

And he doesn’t answer. You let out another twisted, wretching sob and stumble forward, unsure if you’re going to push him or hug him, but your hands meet nothing but tiled wall. Cas is gone. Like he was never even there at all. And you fall to the bathroom floor, crying until you can’t feel anything but the pain of it, but the ache of the Spiderweb over your heart.

Jo finds you. She helps you back to bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, holding your hand as your breathing evens out. She knows better than to talk about it now.

“In the morning,” you breathe, half asleep, and she gives you a worried look.

“What?”

“It’ll-“ You yawn, your eyes easing shut, rolling into her side and squeezing her hand tight. “’s gonna be better in the morning.”

“There aren’t stars,” you whisper, curled into Dean’s side on the forest floor.

You’re dreaming of Purgatory. Of the dark forest and Dean, safer than he probably is out there. You found him bathing in a river, and he led you to that cave where you saw him hide Sam. You lay on the ground, half curled over his chest, and you watch the empty sky with his heartbeat steady in your ear.

“I don’t like that there aren’t stars,” you mutter, and Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to your brow.

“I know.”

The dark shimmers. Golden, flickering stars light up the skyline, making Dean look like he’s a steady candle. He smiles, playing with a baby hair curled near your ear. Tears slide down your cheek, and Dean kisses then away with soft, warm lips.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. “Nothin’ you can’t do.”

You laugh, breathy and broken. Dean kisses that away to, and you let yourself close your eyes.

You’ll get him back, you promise the fake stars. You will, or-

No or.

You’re just going to get him back.  

✦chapter 76

✦End note: i'm so sorry this was late, the fic writers curse might finally be hitting me squad... but it's okay. we persist. i will not be weaker than my characters Chapter Title from Lonely is the Muse by Halsey

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

Dean’s face changed the second he heard Sam’s voice. All the heat and hunger collapsing into something frantic, guilty and wrecked. For a heartbeat, he just stared at you with his hands still on your waist and his chest heaving like he’d run a mile. Then he let out a harsh, ragged breath and gently slid you off his lap. "Shit”, he whispered with his voice shaking. You tried not to shiver at the loss of him. Dean raked a hand through his hair. His face was flushed and his mouth still red from your kisses. He stood too fast and had to pause, one hand hovering awkwardly in front of his jeans, trying to hide the obvious and failing miserably. “Son of a—”, he muttered under his breath, shifting his hips as if that would help.

Another ring and Sam’s impatient voice: “Dean! Dude, I saw the Impala, c’mon! I´m freezing my ass off out here!”.

You hugged your knees to your chest, heart in your throat. You watched as Dean took another breath. His jaw was clenched, every muscle in his body screaming tension. He looked at you with guilt and longing and panic flickering behind his eyes. Finally, he gritted his teeth, turned for the door, and hesitated just long enough to adjust himself with one hand sneaking low.

The bell rang again, longer this time. Dean barked over his shoulder “Coming, Sam! Geez, give me a damn sec!”. He fumbled with the lock, hand still trembling, then opened the door a crack.

Sam stood on the porch in a soaked jacket and hair that was dripping in his eyes. He peered in, smiling, oblivious. “Took you long enough. You look like crap, man—”. Dean grunted, avoiding his gaze. “Long night. C’mon, get inside”.

Sam stepped in, shaking off his boots. He glanced around and smiled as he spotted you curled up on the couch. “Hey! Good to see you”, he said, dropping his duffel by the doo, befire he crossed the room and pulled you up off the couch into one of those bear hugs that only Sam Winchester could give. He smelled like rain and road salt, and he squeezed you a little tighter than he probably meant to.

You let out a breathy laugh, patting his back. “Easy, Sasquatch. Gonna break me”.

He let you go, grinning. “Sorry. It’s just been… way too long”. He looked you over, concern flickering in his eyes. “You doing okay?”.

You nodded, managing a half-smile. “Yeah. I mean, as okay as anyone gets around here”.

Sam’s gaze flicked to the kitchen, where Dean was noisily rummaging for another beer, still studiously avoiding the living room. Sam glanced back at you, lowering his voice a little. “When did Dean get here?”.

You swallowed, glancing at the wall that separated you from Dean. “Last night. He just… showed up out of nowhere”.

Sam’s brows furrowed with worry. “Was he… okay?”.

You hesitated, not sure how much to say. “He was in rough shape. Beat up pretty bad. I had to patch him up”. You dropped your voice even lower. “Bobby’s still out with Jodie. I didn’t want to bug them unless it got worse”.

Sam nodded, clearly concerned but not surprised. “That tracks. He’s been shutting me out for weeks”. He paused, worry flickering in his eyes. “Was it a hunt? Did he say?”.

You kept your voice low. “He wouldn’t say much. I think it went bad”.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, sighing heavy. “Yeah… Hell did a number on him”. He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Messed with his head. He’s not the same since he came back”.

You were biting your lip in worry, because the words hit harder than he knew. You kept seeing Dean’s face, wrecked and hungry, guilt flashing in his eyes. His hands on your skin. The taste of him on your lips. And now, all you could wonder was if it was really you he wanted at all. Or if you were just the closest thing he could grab, drowning and desperate for anything that felt alive. Was that all it was? Dean’s pain, looking for a place to go?

Sam didn’t notice your silence, or maybe he did and chose to let it sit. He just kept rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “He pushed me away. Said he needed space. But I don’t think he should be alone”.

You nodded, because you were not trusting yourself to answer.

Sam gave you a gentle but searching look. “You’ll let me know if it gets worse? Or if he needs—”. “Yeah”, you interrupted, voice just a little shaky. “I promise”.

He nodded, like he believed you, but his eyes lingered a beat longer, maybe wondering if you needed help, too. You managed a tired smile, mumbling something about needing some sleep and slipped away before he could say anything more.

Upstairs, in the safety of the dim hall, you leaned your forehead against the wall and let yourself breathe. You still tasted Dean’s kiss. Still felt the shape of his hands on your body, the ragged want in his voice, the way you’d melted for him. And you hated that a part of you, no matter how small, was afraid it didn’t mean anything real. That you were just an anchor in a storm, and when he was steady again, he’d let you go. You didn’t want to be just a lifeline. You wanted to be wanted.

For a long moment, you just stood there, caught between guilt and hope, the ache of wanting more than you were allowed to ask for.

Flashback

It was late spring, and Dean was home between hunts. Seventeen, impossibly cool in faded jeans and a Metallica shirt, like he didn’t even have to try. You’d been his shadow since morning. You followed him everywhere, fetched tools before he could ask for them and tried to copy the way he leaned beneath the hood of the car. You even drank your soda the way he did—one-handed, pinky sticking out slightly—just to see if he’d notice.

“Gimme the socket wrench, kid”, he called without looking up. You already had it waiting in your hand. Dean glanced over, grinned, and took it from you before ruffling your hair with the kind of warm, absent affection that made your heart pound hard enough that you were sure he had to hear it.

“Not bad”, he said. “You ever think about being a mechanic?”.

You shrugged, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “Maybe. If I get to work with you”.

He laughed, bright and easy. “Stick with me, you’ll learn all my secrets. Bobby says I’m the best damn driver in Sioux Falls”.

You beamed, heat rushing into your cheeks. You were just a kid, but that didn’t stop the butterflies. Dean was safe and wild all at once, and somehow he always knew exactly what to say to make you feel big instead of small.

Later that afternoon, you sat on the porch steps, picking at blades of grass while Dean sang quietly along to some Zeppelin song playing on the radio. Sunlight caught in his hair, turning the edges gold, and for one ridiculous second, you wanted to tell him he looked like one of the heroes from the stories Bobby used to read you when you were little. But you didn’t. Because you were twelve, and he was nineteen, and he called you kid and squirt and trouble.

And if your heart fluttered whenever he smiled at you, well— You told yourself it was only because he was Dean.

He wiped the grease from his hands onto his jeans, then tossed you a wink over his shoulder as he headed inside for lunch. “C’mon, Y/N! Food’s up. Last one to the table does dishes!”.

You bolted after him, barefoot and grinning, desperate to keep up, to stay close, to remain in his orbit for just a little longer.

Dean never noticed the way you watched him. He just kept you close. Like a little sister. Like a shadow he never wanted to lose.

You didn’t know what you wanted yet. Not really. You only knew that wherever Dean was, that was where you wanted to be.

Sunlight slanted across the cluttered kitchen table. No Sam this time; he was off at some summer camp. It was just you, Dean, and Bobby. Dean dropped into the chair beside you, your elbows bumping as you both reached for a plate. He only grinned and nudged you gently with his shoulder.

Bobby loaded up his own plate before eyeing the two of you with mock suspicion. “You gonna eat real food this time, or just potato chips and pie?”.

You copied Dean without even thinking about it, fork in your right hand, a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, carefully avoiding the pile of green beans Bobby tried to send your way. Dean didn’t notice. He was too busy drowning his roast in gravy. Bobby did. He hid a smirk behind his mug.

Dean took a bite, then flashed you a proud grin. “That’s how you do it, kid. Meat and potatoes. All you need”. You nodded solemnly and copied his exact bite, only for your nose to wrinkle when your eyes landed on the green beans again.

This time, Dean caught it. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as though he were about to let you in on classified information. “Just push ’em under the mashed potatoes”, he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Works every time”.

Your face lit up and you did exactly that.

Bobby shook his head, but there was no real irritation in his voice. “Bad habits, Winchester. She’ll be following you right into trouble”.

Dean glanced over at you and winked. "She already does”.

Something squeezed pleasantly in your chest, and you ducked your head, suddenly very interested in your food. Your foot bumped his beneath the table—accidentally, maybe a little on purpose—and Dean nudged you right back without even looking.

It was easy with him. That effortless kind of affection that made it feel like you belonged right there beside him, no matter how small you sometimes felt.

-

You woke in the night to the sound of rain and stared at the ceiling. Down the hall, you could hear Sam’s gentle, even snore. Somewhere downstairs, a floorboard groaned. You pulled on a sweater, drifted down the hall and peered out the kitchen window.

Dean was outside, little more than a dark shape on the porch, barely visible through the storm. You watched him for a moment. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as the rain blew sideways beneath the awning, catching in his hair and along the edges of his jacket. He was staring out into the rain like he was waiting for something to crawl out of the shadows and drag him under.

He couldn't stop replaying that night. Your lips against his. The closeness between you. The terrifying ease with which he'd forgotten every reason he was supposed to pull away.

He'd wanted it. That was the part he couldn't forgive himself for. You were Bobby's daughter. You'd spent years trailing after him, his shadow, someone he'd always thought of as family. Someone he was supposed to protect. Except none of it felt simple anymore. Not after he'd kissed you back.

Dean exhaled shakily and dragged a hand over his mouth. He should go inside. Pretend it hadn't happened. Pretend he could shove the whole thing into one of those locked rooms in his head and never look at it again.

But his feet wouldn't move, because pretending wouldn't change what he'd done. And it sure as hell wouldn't change the fact that some part of him still wanted to turn around.

Behind him, the kitchen light flicked on. Your silhouette appeared in the window. You stood on the other side of the glass, watching him through the rain. You didn't open the door. Didn't call his name. The old screen door remained between you, flimsy and useless and somehow feeling like the only boundary either of you had left.

When Dean finally glanced back, something twisted painfully in his chest. Part of him wanted you to come outside. Wanted to pull you close, feel your warmth against him, and pretend for five damn minutes that the world might let him keep something simply because he wanted it. The other part of him, the part that remembered promises, responsibility, all the lines he'd spent years telling himself he would never cross, wanted to stand in that rain until it washed the thought out of him completely.

Then Dean turned away. His shoulders settled into that stubborn, carved-from-stone posture you knew too well.

You understood. He didn't want you out there. So you let the curtain slip from your fingers. Shame burned through your chest, hot and nauseating as you stepped away from the window. Maybe Dean had really simply been alone for too long. Maybe the nightmares, the injuries, the things Hell had left buried beneath his skin had finally worn him thin enough that he'd reached for the first bit of warmth he could find. Maybe he'd needed something, anything, to remind himself he was still alive. And you'd been foolish enough to think it had meant something more.

You bit your lip until it hurt. Had you made everything worse? Had you pushed when you should have stopped? Had you become one more thing Dean had to carry? The thought made your stomach twist.

You hated yourself a little for wanting him. Hated the small, stubborn piece of hope inside you that still wanted him to turn around, walk back through that door, and tell you that you hadn't imagined it. That he wanted you too. But more than anything, you hated the idea that you'd made his life harder. Dean already carried too much. He already looked like a man trying not to drown. You couldn't stand the thought of being another weight tied around his ankle.

So you went upstairs. You crawled into bed and curled tightly beneath the covers, trying to chase away a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.

Maybe morning would make things clearer. Maybe daylight would put everything back where it belonged. Maybe the two of you would find your way back to whatever safe had been before this—or at least become good enough at pretending.

-

You barely slept. For hours, you lay staring at the ceiling, rehearsing what you would say when you finally saw Dean. You'd tell him it was okay. You'd tell him you understood. You'd promise to keep it between the two of you, to never mention it again if that was what he wanted. You'd find some way to make it easier for him. Or at least… less unbearable. You would forget. That was what you told yourself, anyway. You'd pretend it had never happened. Let Dean go back to being what he'd always been to you—impossible, untouchable, safely out of reach.

He deserved that. He deserved to breathe without you making everything heavier, without your feelings and your mistakes becoming one more thing he had to carry.

By morning, your eyes burned from exhaustion.

You finally dragged yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water over your face until the shock of it made you gasp. You shoved your hair into something that almost passed for presentable and stared at yourself in the mirror for a second longer than necessary.

You looked terrible and your heart wouldn't stop pounding. Still, you made yourself leave the room. You padded quietly down the hallway, already imagining Dean in the kitchen. He'd be hunched over a mug of coffee, probably pretending to read the newspaper like nothing had happened. Maybe he'd glance up when you walked in. Maybe there'd be an awkward second where neither of you knew what to say. And then you'd fix it. You'd make sure he knew he didn't have to worry.

But when you reached the kitchen, Dean wasn't there. Bobby and Sam sat at the table instead, their voices low beneath the soft clink of plates and silverware. Bobby looked tired, but relieved to be home.

You stopped in the doorway and your stomach went cold.

Bobby looked up first, his face breaking into a crooked, affectionate smile. “Mornin’, kid. Didn’t expect you up this early”. Sam grinned, his mood lighter now that Bobby was back. “Hey. You want eggs? Bobby made a mountain”.

You hovered in the doorway, searching the room with your eyes and trying not to sound desperate. “Where’s Dean?”.

Bobby and Sam both paused. Bobby shot Sam a look, then turned back to you, his voice gentler. “He left before sunrise. Said he needed to hit the road. Didn’t say much else”.

You felt the words like a punch to the chest. Gone. Just like that. Not a word. Not a note. Not even a good-bye.

Sam watched your face, concern flickering. “He didn’t say where. Just packed up and went. You know Dean… he gets itchy when he’s stuck too long in one place”.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. That sounds like him”.

Bobby eyed you a little longer, like he wanted to ask what he was missing, but he didn’t. Just poured another mug of coffee and pushed it your way.

You tried to smile, tried to act like it didn’t matter, tried to pretend you weren’t already breaking inside. You sat at the table, picking at your eggs, pretending not to notice the empty chair, pretending you could just erase the last twenty-four hours and start again. But you couldn’t forget.

-

A few weeks passed and you tried not to check your phone every night. Tried not to glance at the screen whenever it lit up, hoping for his name. A text. A call. Anything that might mean Dean was somewhere out there thinking about you too.

You told yourself you were giving him space. That was what he needed. What he deserved. But knowing that didn't make the silence hurt any less.

Every day that passed without a word from him left behind a dull little ache, settling somewhere beneath your ribs and refusing to leave.

Flashback

You were fourteen that summer, caught in that awkward, hopeful space between girl and woman. Your body was changing faster than you could keep up with. Your chest had grown the past few weeks, and every time you wore your usual shirts you felt exposed.

You’d finally saved enough for a real bra, not just a sports top. You’d hidden it away in a little bag, pink and soft and mortifying, crammed deep in your backpack where nobody could possibly find it. Except Dean was in the kitchen that afternoon, leaning against the counter, shoving half a cookie in his mouth and looking way too pleased with himself for someone who’d just stolen the last of Bobby’s stash.

You tried to sneak through, clutching your bag, cheeks already burning.

Dean clocked you immediately. He grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief as he swallowed. “What’s with the sneaky face, Y/N? You got beer in there?”.

You clutched the bag tighter, trying to keep your cool. “It’s nothing. Just laundry”.

He pushed off the counter, moving toward you with the swagger of someone who’d never once been embarrassed in his life. “Sure it is. Lemme see”.

“Dean, no—”, you yelped, but he was faster, long arms and quick reflexes on his side. He snatched the bag from your grip, holding it high out of reach as you jumped for it, mortified. “Whatcha got, huh?”, he teased, flipping the bag open, clearly expecting to really find a beer or maybe candy. Instead, his eyes landed on pink fabric and a tangle of straps. He went silent. You watched his brain stutter, mouth open in horror.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Dean, give it back!”.

He closed the bag in a flash, cheeks turning red for the first time you could ever remember. “Oh. Oh—uh. Shit. Sorry, I—uh—here”. He shoved it back into your hands, suddenly unable to meet your eyes, ears turning pink. “Didn’t know it was, uh, girl stuff”.

You snatched the bag back and clutched it to your chest, your face burning. “It’s not— It’s just a—”. You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Dean cleared his throat and immediately looked anywhere but at you. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh. Sorry”.

You rolled your eyes, still pink to the roots. “It´s fine, but… it’s just…”. You pulled the bra halfway out of the bag and gestured helplessly at the straps. “These stupid things. They’re either way too long or way too short. I’ve tried fixing them, like, a hundred times”.

Dean blinked. Then he stared at the straps with the same suspicious concentration he usually reserved for unfamiliar engine parts. “Those little plastic things move, right?”.

“Yes, Dean”.

“Okay. Just checking”.

Despite yourself, you laughed. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking far less like the cocky Winchester you knew and much more like somebody who desperately wished Sam were here to deal with this instead. “I mean… how complicated can straps be?”. You gave him a flat look. Dean immediately grimaced. “Yeah, okay. Dumb question”.

“I watched a commercial and still couldn’t figure it out”.

“That’s because commercials lie”. You snorted.

For a moment, Dean studied the problem from a safe distance before reluctantly holding out his hand. “Give it here”. You raised an eyebrow. “The bra”, he clarified quickly. “Not while you’re wearing it. Obviously. Just let me see the straps”.

You handed it over and Dean held it at arm’s length like someone had passed him a suspicious piece of evidence. “Okay”, he muttered. “This looks basically like the adjuster on a backpack”.

“It is not a backpack”.

“I know that”.

“You’re holding it like one”.

“Do you want help or not?”. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

Dean fiddled with one of the sliders, pulling the fabric through carefully. “So… this way makes it shorter”.

“I think”.

“You think?”.

“I told you I don’t know!”.

“Fantastic. Blind leading the blind”.

A few seconds later, Dean handed it back with an expression of cautious triumph. “There. Try that”.

You disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. A minute later, your frustrated groan carried into the hallway. “Dean!”.

“What?”.

“They’re worse!”.

There was a pause before you heard a very offended: “No way”.

“They’re practically falling off!”.

“I followed the system!”.

“What system?”.

Another pause. “My system”.

You cracked the bathroom door open just enough to stick your head through. “Your system sucks”.

Dean pointed accusingly at the door. “Hey, I fix cars, not underwear”.

“Can you try again?”.

He sighed dramatically and held out his hand.

You slipped one arm through the doorway and passed the bra back to him without opening the door any farther.

“Okay”, Dean muttered. “Attempt number two”. He adjusted the straps again while you waited behind the closed door. “Try now”.

You took it back and another minute passed. “Oh!”.

Dean straightened outside. “Oh good or oh bad?”.

“Good. I think”. You stepped out of the bathroom wearing the bra beneath a loose shirt, twisting awkwardly as you tried to see your own back in the mirror. “Dean?”.

He looked up from where he’d been waiting in the hallway. “What?”.

“Can you just check if the straps are sitting right? I can’t tell if they’re digging into my shoulders”.

Dean hesitated for half a second, then shrugged. “Yeah. Turn around”.

You turned your back to him and pulled your hair over one shoulder. The back of your shirt hung low enough that the straps were visible across your shoulders, but everything else was covered. Dean leaned closer, squinting at them, “Okay… left one looks fine”.

“And the other?”.

He hooked one finger beneath the edge of the strap near your shoulder and immediately frowned. “Yeah, that one’s way tighter”.

“I knew it”.

“Hold still”. He tugged gently at the little adjuster through the open back of your shirt, trying to loosen it without making you take everything off again. “That better?”.

You rolled your shoulder experimentally. “A little”.

Dean adjusted it once more. “There?”.

“Yeah. Perfect”.

And naturally, that was the exact moment Bobby came around the corner. He stopped. Dean was standing directly behind you, one hand near your shoulder, fiddling with a bra strap visible through the open back of your shirt.

Bobby stared. Dean looked at Bobby. You looked over your shoulder. And nobody said anything for one painfully long second.

Then Bobby's eyes narrowed. “Dean”.

Dean immediately stepped back and lifted both hands. “Not what it looks like”. Bobby's expression somehow got worse. Dean grimaced. “Yeah, okay, terrible choice of words”.

You turned around quickly. “Dad, he was fixing the strap”.

Bobby looked between you. “The strap”.

“Yes. It was cutting into my shoulder”, you explained. “I couldn’t reach the adjuster properly”.

Dean pointed toward your shoulder as though presenting evidence in court. “One was tighter than the other”.

Bobby stared at him and Dean slowly lowered his hand. “I'm gonna stop talking now”.

“That’d be smart”.

You groaned. “Dad”.

Bobby sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, some of the alarm finally leaving his expression and Dean visibly relaxed.

“Maybe next time you find yourself standing behind my daughter with your hands anywhere near her bra, take about three seconds to think about how that's gonna look when somebody walks around the corner”.

Dean glanced at you, then back at Bobby. “Yes Sir”.

Bobby shook his head and started down the hallway. “Both of you are gonna put me in an early grave”.

Dean waited until Bobby was several steps away before muttering, “For the record, the strap was definitely too tight”.

Without turning around, Bobby called back “Winchester”.

Dean shut his mouth and you bit down on a laugh.

-

The days blurred together for Dean. Case after case, motel after motel, rain-slicked highways and truck-stop coffee cooling in his hands. He’d let himself slide right back into old habits, hunting down anything with teeth and a heartbeat, filling the empty hours with work and whiskey and one-night stands that never quite touched the sides.

Woman after woman, name after name. The more he tried to lose himself in the taste of someone new, the more your memory stuck to him like salt on skin. Sometimes it was in the softness of a stranger’s hair, sometimes in the way a laugh echoed through a bar. Always, always it was your face. Smiling, pink-cheeked and looking up at him like he was worth saving.

He hated himself for it. Hated how good you had felt in his hands, how every touch, even the innocent ones, had burned themselves into his palms. He remembered the shiver of your skin, the way your breath had hitched when he leaned close. He remembered how you’d tasted, sweet and desperate and so much more than all the rough distractions he’d found in parking lots and hotel rooms since. Nothing worked. Nothing washed you out of him.

Sometimes he wondered if he'd broken you. If whatever had happened that night on Bobby's couch had hollowed something out inside you the same way it had him. The thought usually came late, when there was too much whiskey in his blood and not enough noise in the room to drown himself out.

Other nights were worse. Those were the nights when the darkness closed in and Hell came crawling back beneath his skin, when sleep meant screaming and waking wasn't much better. And on those nights, all Dean could think about was you. How safe he'd felt with you there. How, for once, breathing hadn't seemed so damn hard. How easy it had been to let himself stop fighting for a minute and simply want something. Want you.

He'd sworn he would stay away. For your sake as much as his own. He told himself you deserved better than whatever wreckage he'd brought back from Hell. Told himself Bobby would skin him alive if he ever found out. Told himself that eventually, if he stayed gone long enough, you'd be happier without him haunting the edges of your life.

It sounded reasonable. Almost noble, if he didn't think about it too hard. But Dean had never been very good at running from the things that mattered.

And he couldn't outrun you. Not really. Not for long. Because every time his phone buzzed against the nightstand, his hand moved before he could stop it. And every single time, some stupid, desperate part of him hoped it would be you.

Flashback

You were sixteen, barefoot on the porch in cut-off shorts and an short shirt, sprawled across the steps with a book in your lap and your hair tangled from the wind. Sam was here for a weekend, arguing with Bobby in the kitchen. Dean was half-listening, half-watching you through the open screen door, pretending to be more interested in the carburetor on the table than in the way you tucked your legs under yourself. He didn’t mean to stare. He didn’t mean to notice, not like that. You’d always been Bobby’s girl, his tagalong. But that day, your laugh was lower, your eyes lingered longer and something in Dean’s chest twisted up hard. He didn’t have words for it then. Didn’t recognize it as attraction. It just made him restless, hot under the collar, his jokes coming out sharper, his glances a little too long. It wasn’t until Bobby’s voice thundered behind him that he realized he’d been caught. “Dean”.

Dean nearly jumped, knocking a wrench off the table. Bobby stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes flat and dark as a thunderstorm. “You got somewhere else to look?”.

Dean bristled, defensiveness snapping up like armor. “Just keepin’ an eye out, Bobby. Place is full of rats lately”.

Bobby didn’t smile and didn’t move. “She’s sixteen, Dean”.

Dean looked away, his throat tightening. “I know”.

Bobby stepped closer. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, quieter now, but hard enough to cut. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know your type. I know your damn track record”. His jaw flexed. Anger sat plainly in the lines of his face, but underneath it was something heavier. Worry. “You so much as look at her the wrong way, you’re gone. You hear me?”.

Dean forced himself to meet Bobby’s eyes. For a second, the room seemed to shrink around him. He felt like a kid again; dirty sneakers, trouble written all over him, standing in front of someone who could see every bad decision before Dean even had the chance to make it.

“She’s off limits, Dean”, Bobby said. “Always will be. You get me?”.

Dean nodded. Shame burned hot beneath his skin, sharp enough to make him want to look away again. But somewhere beneath it, something stubborn had already begun to take root. He didn’t want to hurt you. He sure as hell didn’t want to hurt Bobby. But somewhere along the way, that instinct to protect you had started tangling itself around something else—something unfamiliar, something Dean wasn’t ready to look at too closely, much less put a name to. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “I get it”.

Bobby studied him for another long second, his stare sitting heavy on Dean’s chest. Then he clapped a hand against Dean’s shoulder. Not gently. “Good. Now go clean up. Lunch is on”.

Dean gave another short nod and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to shake off the conversation as he headed for the sink.

He told himself not to look back. Told himself there was nothing to look at. Still, his eyes drifted toward the porch. Toward you. And somewhere deep down, in the place he tried hardest not to listen to, Dean felt it. Something was changing. He just didn’t know what it was yet. And worse, he didn’t know how to stop it.

Outside, you caught him looking and only smiled. Easy and unaware. Completely unafraid.

-

The air was sharp with cold, every motel parking lot washed in the same dull winter gray. Dean sat hunched behind the wheel of the Impala, both hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee. The radio played low beneath the hum of the heater while wind chased scraps of paper and plastic across the asphalt outside. He stared through the windshield and thought about nothing. Or tried to.

His phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Dean nearly ignored it. Nearly. But old habits died hard. He glanced at the screen.

Sam

His thumb hovered over the button for a second before he finally answered, his voice rough from too many nights without enough sleep.

“Yeah?”.

He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when he answered, cautious but honest. “Hey, man”.

Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes fixed on the windshield. “Hey, Sammy. You alright?”.

“I’m fine”, Sam said, in a way that made it sound almost true. “Just—checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while”.

Dean grunted. “Been busy”.

A beat of silence followed.

“You gonna be busy for Christmas, too?”.

Dean said nothing. Something in his chest tightened and Sam took a breath. “Look, Bobby’s making dinner this year. And Y/N invited me”. A pause. “She’s, uh… been asking about you. Said you oughta come back, at least for a day”. Another pause. “You know how she gets”.

Dean closed his eyes. Yeah. He knew exactly how you got. He could picture you in Bobby’s kitchen, stubbornly determined to make the place feel warm and lived-in no matter who was missing. Probably stringing up decorations Bobby complained about while secretly leaving every single one exactly where you put it.

Your voice would be bright. Too bright. Like if you smiled hard enough, nobody would notice the empty chair.

Dean swallowed. “I dunno, man”.

“Dean”. Sam’s voice softened, but there was something firm beneath it. “It’s been weeks. You can’t keep running forever. Bobby’s getting worried. She—”. Sam stopped. Dean’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. “She what?”.

Another hesitation. “She misses you”.

Dean’s throat worked. Something raw threatened to climb its way out, and he shoved it back down before it could become anything he’d have to explain. “I’ll think about it”, he managed barely louder than a whisper.

“That’s all I’m asking. Just think about it”. His voice softened again. “It’s Christmas, Dean. We’re supposed to be together”.

Dean nodded even though Sam couldn’t see him. “Yeah”. He stared down at the steering wheel.

After they hung up, Dean stayed exactly where he was. The silence inside the Impala seemed louder than the radio now. His breath fogged faintly against the cold air leaking through the windows as he pictured you sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table. Stubborn and waiting.

Then he remembered your hand in his. Remembered being close to you, and how impossible it had felt to pull away once he'd let himself have even a second of it.

His chest tightened again. That was when the passenger door opened. Cold air rushed inside, followed by the blonde bartender from earlier—Candy or Mandy, Dean genuinely couldn't remember anymore. She slid into the seat with an easy grin, running a finger along his arm like she already knew exactly what kind of night he was looking for. “You ready?”, she asked, her voice syrup-sweet.

Dean looked at her. For half a second, he almost said no. Instead, he pulled together something resembling a smile. “Yeah”. He turned the key and shoved everything else somewhere deep enough that he wouldn't have to look at it. At least for a while.

He followed her directions out of town to a run-down apartment building with a busted elevator and hallways covered in carpet that smelled permanently of smoke.

Twenty minutes later, Dean sat on the edge of her mattress. The room was half-dark, her perfume heavy in the stale air. She was close, fingers working at his belt with practiced confidence, treating the whole thing like a game she'd played a hundred times before.

Dean let her. That was the problem. He just… let her. Because he wanted to feel something. Anything. Anything that wasn't guilt. Anything that wasn't wanting the wrong. Anything that wasn't the impossible mess he'd been carrying around for weeks.

She laughed softly at something he didn't hear, leaning closer and Dean felt absolutely nothing. He closed his eyes. Tried to remember what it was supposed to feel like to want this. Instead, his mind betrayed him. He saw you. Felt the warmth of you. Heard the way his name had sounded in your voice.

Dean's jaw tightened. He tried to shut it out. Tried to replace the memory with the woman in front of him. Couldn't. Because underneath all the noise, all the whiskey and motel rooms and strangers whose names he never bothered remembering, there was only that same hollow ache.

And when Dean closed his eyes, all he could see was you.

Still he let Candy or Mandy pull him closer, but he was a million miles away. No matter how he tried to chase it, the only thing he wanted was the one thing he could never have.

She tugged his jeans down just enough, freeing him from the confines of his boxers. He was already half-hard from the mechanical anticipation, veined and heavy in her hand. She wrapped her fingers around the base, giving a slow, teasing stroke that made him twitch, her grip firm but not too tight, like she’d done this a hundred times before. And hell, she probably had. “Damn”, she murmured, her breath hot against his skin, “you’re packing, aren’t you?”.

She licked her lips, painted red and glossy, before leaning in, her tongue flicking out to trace the underside of his shaft from base to tip. Dean’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading into her bleach-blonde hair, not guiding yet, just holding on as she worked him over.

She was talented, no doubt about it, swirling her tongue around the head, sucking lightly at first, then deeper, her cheeks hollowing as she took him in inch by inch. The wet heat of her mouth enveloped him, her lips stretching around his girth, and she hummed low in her throat, the vibration shooting straight through him. She bobbed her head deliberately, saliva slicking him up as she twisted her hand in rhythm with her mouth, pumping what she couldn’t fit.

Dean groaned, his hips shifting involuntarily as she picked up the pace, slurping noisily, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently while she deep-throated him like a pro. “Fuck”, he muttered, eyes squeezing shut, but even as the pleasure built, it felt distant, like he was watching it happen to someone else.

She gagged a little when she pushed too far, but she didn’t stop, pulling back only to dive in again, faster now. Dean’s fingers tightened in her hair, urging her on, but his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t enough. It never was.

He pulled her off him with a wet pop, her lips swollen and smeared, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it broke. She looked up at him, eyes watering but grinning like she’d won a prize. “You want more?”, she purred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Dean didn’t answer. He just hauled her up, rough, flipping her onto the bed face-down like she weighed nothing. She laughed, arching her back, ass up as she spread her legs, already shimmying out of her skirt and panties. “Yeah, baby, give it to me hard”.

He grabbed a condom from his wallet and rolled it on, positioning himself behind her. No foreplay, no tenderness; this was how he did it, how he always did it to take the edge off, to drown out the noise in his head. He gripped her hips, nails digging in, and thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her.

He fucked her roughly, hips snapping forward, the room filling with the sounds of skin on skin, her moans turning into breathless pleas and his own detached grunts.

Twenty minutes later, Dean dressed in the half-light of that unfamiliar bedroom, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and sweat. Her soft laughter were echoing somewhere far behind him as she sprawled across tangled sheets. He barely heard her, barely felt the bruises on his hips or the scratch marks down his back. It all faded as soon as he pulled his jeans on, buckled his belt, and looked at himself in the mirror above her dresser. He didn’t see the usual cocky smirk that used to come after nights like this. He just saw someone tired. Someone haunted.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight, the shame rising up to choke him. He’d thought it would help, just like every other time. He’d thought maybe, if he went hard enough or long enough, if he let someone else’s voice drown out your name in his head, he’d finally be able to forget the shape of you, the taste of your lips, the warmth of your hand in his. That the ache might fade.

But it never did. If anything, it just made it worse.

As he tossed the condom in the trash, zipped his jacket, and mumbled something half-hearted to the woman in bed, he felt emptier than before, like every time he tried to fill that void, it just carved him out a little more.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

“Lady friend?” he asks, and Dean rolls his eyes. You nod, eyebrows high and eyes wide in pretend shock.

“He brought a girl back last week,” you hiss-whisper, and Sam looks at Dean again, all mock surprise.

“Is that right?” he asks, joining you on your bit, and you could kiss him.

“She slept over, too,” you add, now teasing. “Must have been a real special gal.” Dean groans, rolls his head, but you can tell part of him is loving this. All the attention on him, and how easily he can find a girl to fuck him. A pretty one, too, if your memory of her face in the Impala’s rear window can be trusted. 

“Will you two stop it?” he says, taking a left. “Jesus.”

“Well, I’m excited to meet her,” Sam continues, not deterred by his brother’s complaints. 

“Gotta make sure she has no ulterior motives,” you add. Dean scoffs.

“She might not even be there,” he says, throws you another look in the mirror. You catch it, but he looks out the front again quickly. You wonder if he’s annoyed that you’re joking. Maybe he was hoping you’d be more jealous. 

You push the thought away. Shouldn’t enjoy it as much as you do. You tap your fingers against the leather to the rhythm of AC/DC as the town comes into view.

You drove through and got groceries in the big store just outside of the town limits when you first got here. You sit up straight as Dean navigates through its streets. It’s more dilapidated than you thought it was at first - closed and boarded up shops lining the street, trash moving in the evening breeze. 

The bar has a large parking lot in front of it, and Dean pulls into a bay close to the entrance. There’s a few other cars there as well, and the front of the building is lined with motor bikes. Not cruisers, like the ones you’d sometimes see riding in groups through Sioux Falls, but modern ones, bright colors and shiny.

The three of you get out, Sam opening your door for you, and walk towards the entrance.

“So what do we know about the place?” Sam asks. Dean turns his head towards him, then looks at the bar again, shakes his head.

“Stacey’s uncle owns it, or something,” Dean says, and Sam raises his eyebrows at you, amused again.

“She has a name!” you say, and Sam snorts, wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close as you keep walking. 

“How about you both eat me?” Dean says with an eyeroll, before nodding towards the front of the bar. “Look at them, fucking toy bikes. Who are they trying to impress? Like their ride’s their entire personality.” Sam scoffs, frowns at his brother’s back.

“Your ride’s kinda your entire personality,” he points out. Dean slows, just for a few steps, then keeps going.

“At least it’s a nice ride,” he mumbles, and you see Sam press his lips together to stifle a laugh.

It’s a dive bar, you see as you walk in - dark wood, neon signs that buzz. The smell of cheap beer in the air, and a huge pool table off to the back. It’s not full, exactly, but enough going on that you can blend in, probably. Loud voices and laughter from one large group in particular nearly drown out the classic rock playing.

It’s like if Dean was a bar, you think with a grin. 

“Should we grab a table?” you ask, but Sam shakes his head. 

“Let’s stay near the bar,” he says, still looking around before he turns to you. “Makes the whole drunk enough to bet too much money act more likely.” 

The three of you move over to the bar. Dean leans over it immediately, not acting drunk, but definitely more loose than he usually is. He waves the bartender over, hand already raised to show three fingers.

“Three beers, and uh,” he says, voice just a little louder than it needs to be as he squints at the shelves behind the bar, “three tequila.”

The bartender, a guy around fifty with eyebags down to his knees, gives a solemn nod, then turns and starts working on the drinks. Dean reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, and you turn your back to the bar to raise your eyebrows at him.

“I thought we’re only supposed to pretend we’ve been drinking,” you say, voice low. Dean counts some bills out, slams them on the bar, then winks at you.

“Method acting, sweetheart,” he says. You narrow your eyes at him, see the grin he’s trying to hide. He puts his wallet away, then reaches out when the bartender brings over the beers. He nods at the man, passes the first bottle to you.

“Remember,” he says, lowering his voice so the bartender doesn’t hear it. “You’re just the distraction.” You tilt your head to the side. 

“Gee, thanks, Dean,” you say, face slack, and Dean gives an exasperated sigh.

“You know what I mean,” he says. “If there’s any trouble, you get out, okay?”

“I got it,” you interrupt him. “Show my tits and make some noise. Understood you the first time around.” Dean doesn’t react for a second, then scoffs. He leans on the bar again, takes a sip from his beer, but not before his eyes flit to your chest. He shakes his head as he swallows, throat moving.

“Just don’t want Sammy pulling some stupid white knight bullshit,” he more mumbles than says. He looks at you again, briefly, and when he sees you not rising to the condescension, you see the small twitch of shame on his features.

“Right,” you say, voice level and reasonable. “Cause Sam’s the hothead out of you two.”

As if summoned by your words, you feel Sam’s hand on your back. It sends a small shiver through you, Dean’s eyes still on you, Sam crowding in behind you. You’re not sure if he heard what you and Dean talked about.

“Can you two keep it down?” he hisses out the side of his mouth. “Those guys over there are already staring at us.”

You look up - can’t help it. You’re not practiced enough at this to subdue the instinct. It’s a group of mostly girls. Two of them are turned your way, but they’re not looking at you - they’re looking at Dean. And he, like there’s an invisible line going from every piece of ass in the room right back to him, turns as well.

You see one of the girls react, and that’s when you recognize her. The girl from the car, Dean’s hookup. The fact that Dean turns seems to confirm that he is who she thinks he is, and she grins, broad, excited, detaches from her friend and starts walking over to where the three of you are. 

“Fuck,” you hear Dean mutter, and he turns to you and Sam. If he’s looking for sympathy, he’s not gonna find it on your face, and you’re guessing neither on Sam’s. All of you are quickly distracted, though, when she, Stacey, widens her arms as she comes closer.

“Neal!” she calls out, and Dean’s eyes close. You throw a wide-eyed look up at Sam. 

“Dude,” Sam says, barely containing himself. “No, dude, you didn’t–”

“Oh my God,” Stacey giggles as she comes closer. Dean turns, just so correcting his expression before he straightens. She widens her arms and slings them around his neck. You purse your lips, watch as Dean’s hands land on her hips, but his fingers are fluttery, unsure. She pulls back and beams up at him. She really is pretty. You’d say you’re surprised but that’s a lie.

“Uh, Stacey,” Dean says, turning, eyes searching out you and Sam as his hands drop from her, but hers remain on his shoulders. “This is my brother and his girlfriend.”

“Sam,” Sam says, extending his hand, a barely hidden grin on his face. “Our parents weren’t as creative when they named me.” You see the brief confusion on Stacey’s face, but she smiles through it, then looks at you.

“Hi,” you say, smiling at her, tell her your name. “Nice to meet you. Again.” Stacey and you both chuckle, and you catch the look Dean throws between you two. Confusion. Maybe something else.

“I had no idea you were coming by,” Stacey says, now turned to Dean again. One hand runs over his chest, and you feel the urge to look away, while also leaning against Sam at the same time. His hand on your back rubs up and down. “I was gonna introduce you to someone. If you’re still looking for work.” Dean nods his head to the side.

“We wouldn’t mind making some money,” he says. He’s not wrong - with this girl knowing Dean, hustling at pool and playing drunk won’t work, as she’s more likely to catch the lie. Stacey nods, then turns, looks over her shoulder.

“Eddie, come here a sec!” she calls out.

Three men separate from the group she was standing with. One - Eddie, you assume - is young, wiry hair on his face. He’s handsome, in a small town bad boy kind of way. Dressed in black and a leather jacket. The other two guys frame him like salt and pepper shakers - one short and broad, the other tall and thin. 

“Eddie, this is Neal and his brother Sam,” Stacey says, patting Dean’s arm and for some reason, you notice, omitting your name. “They’re passing through town and looking for work. Neal, this is my cousin, Eddie.”

Eddie nods at Dean, studies him, then Sam, then you, and the way he does it is clear - Sam and Dean as potential allies, you as a piece of decoration, or meat. You straighten, lower your chin, but he’s already done with you, turns back to Dean.

“You got a car, Neal?” Eddie asks. Dean nods, and you see the way he too tenses his shoulders.

“What kind of work is it?” he asks, voice deep. Eddie sucks on his tongue for a second.

“Transport,” he says. “But I don’t work with people I haven’t gotten shit-faced with.” 

A moment of silence, and then Eddie snorts, slaps Dean’s arm. Dean laughs, but you see it’s forced. You look up at Sam, see the muscles dance along his jaw. The way his hand over your shoulder tightens.

“Let’s get a fucking drink,” Eddie says, and throws you another quick look.

The pad of your middle finger is circling the mouth of your bottle as Stacey chats away and you watch the men across the room.

Eddie led Sam and Dean off to the side, and Sam let go of you and followed. He threw you a look over his shoulder you couldn’t interpret, while Eddie and Dean were already shooting the shit. And you stood there, and rather than follow them, you remained where you were. Too similar to the way the women and girls would stay in the living room after church on Sundays when you were younger, and the men and boys would go out - to walk and converse. The only sound in that living room was the clinking of spoons against cups. Someone clearing their throat, carefully, quietly. Your feet refused to move until Stacey wrapped her arm around yours and dragged you over to another table.

And now there you are, sitting with Stacey and a few other girls that have split up from the group - the men - and come to sniff out the newcomer. Some of them eye you with disdain, but you know not to take it personally. They ask you about Sam, the tall guy, they call him, and when you say he’s your boyfriend, they seem relieved. You’re not a threat after all. 

Sam throws you occasional looks. Dean doesn’t. He’s switched out, but also, he’s not. Can’t keep his attention, and you’d laugh at that if it wasn’t so ridiculous. They order a round of shots, cheer. Sam doesn’t, but when someone says something to him he forces a tight-lipped smile onto his face.

“And that’s the last time I talked to him,” Stacey finishes, and you turn to her. Feel bad immediately, because whatever she was telling you is probably more interesting than what is happening across the room.

“Is it always like this?” you ask, and when Stacey blinks, seems confused, you nod over at the other group. Stacey looks that way, shrugs.

“You wanna be over there?” she says, humor in her voice, because that clearly can’t be what you mean. You chew at your bottom lip, then down the rest of your beer, warmed up by how tightly you held the bottle.

“So how long have you and Sam been together?” Stacey asks, leaning forward with a dreamy smile. You swallow, tap your finger against the bottle. 

“Nearly five months,” you say, can’t help your own little smile. “Feels longer. But we’ve known each other for most of our lives.”

“That’s so sweet!” Stacey says, resting her head in her right hand. “I’ve never managed to make a guy stick around for longer than three weeks. They’re all psychos.” You huff, only because Stacey is rolling her eyes, even though you think you hear a tinge of sadness in her voice.

“I was with the guy before that for a lot longer,” you say. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” You laugh, because it feels a little bit like justice for Dean ignoring you the way he is. It rings hollow, though. You see Stacey fidget, then throw a look over at the group of men too.

“So, is Neal, like, cool?” she asks, then giggles. “I mean, obviously he’s cool. But is he, I don’t know…”

You watch her as she struggles to find the right word to describe what she wants Dean to be. Loyal, maybe. Decent. Steadfast and reliable, as well as passionate. Wants him to need her, and needs to have her. You smile down at the table.

“He’s a great guy,” you say, looking up at Stacey again. She gives you a hopeful look and it’s like looking into your own past. “He really is.” Stacey grabs one of your hands, squeezes it. 

You’re distracted when you hear voices rising from the other side of the room. Both of you turn, and the guys are getting up. They’re laughing, grabbing their drinks, and then they beeline for the pool table. Sam towers over all of them, physically the most imposing one, but he seems most outside of the group. He takes a sip from his beer, looks over the bottle at you again, then follows the others, one step behind as they laugh and shout and howl.

They start a game. Not a hustle, but something to do while they keep talking. No need for Sam and Dean to hide their skills, and they don’t. The other men are thrilled and then unsure of themselves and then entertained. Both brothers play with utmost concentration, and you can tell the other girls are whispering and giggling behind you.

When you stand up, it’s almost not a conscious choice. You just do, sick of sitting there like some ornament. You didn’t travel thousands of miles and almost a decade to stop moving the moment you walk into another kind of church.

Sam watches you approach, calmly, eyes narrowed like a cat’s, and you meet his gaze, hold it. He doesn’t move, watches for what you’ll do, only moves his cue to the side so you can get in close when you press yourself against him, let your hands wander up his side, full of intention.

“I’m bored,” you say, voice not lowered because you don’t care if the others hear you. “I want you to take me in the back and fuck me.”

You feel the way Sam’s posture changes under your palms. The way he straightens and curves at the same time, the way his expression tenses, in a way that shows you how immediately tuned in he is to you.

“I don’t think our hosts would appreciate that,” he says, confirming the disdain he feels for Eddie and his crew on hosts. Also holding out, which is as good as telling you to keep going, keep convincing him, keep showing him how much you want him, which you don’t mind at all. You purse your lips.

“I don’t give a shit what they’d appreciate,” you say, your thumb drawing circles over Sam’s ribs, covered by two layers of clothes you wish weren’t there. “All I give a shit about is having your fingers in my mouth.” Sam makes a small noise, brings one hand to your hip, fingers pressing in. He opens his mouth to reply.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You turn your head, look over your shoulder. Eddie’s looking at you, tooth pick moving in the corner of his mouth in an attempt at domineering masculinity that would be hilarious if it wasn’t threatening, off-putting in its own way. He gives you a grin that has your upper lip curl.

“We’re kinda playing here,” he says, widening his arms. His gaze wanders down to your ass, then up again. “Don’t need our boy distracted.”

“She can get on the table,” the short, stout guy says, gives a dirty chuckle. “One more hole to play with.” 

Some of the other men laugh, low, threatening, clear in what they mean, and in the knowledge that they’re hoping to intimidate you, make you uncomfortable, and you feel Sam tense under your palm. Which is when your eyes land on Dean.

He’s on the other side of the pool table, his knuckles white around his own cue. He’s got his chin lowered, eyebrows drawn together. His eyes are wandering from one guy to the other, like he’s deciding which one to punch first.

You kind of want it to happen. Let Sam and Dean beat the shit out of these losers, the motherfuckers that make their women sit in the corner. You’d love to ram a bottle into Eddie’s face, and your own aggression surprises you. 

But it’s at least six against two - that’s assuming the barkeeper doesn’t have a shotgun hidden under the bar and decides to take a side. So you swallow, the way you’ve done before, the way you’ve done so often. It’s harder than it used to be, but the idea of Sam and Dean beaten and bloody and no one to look out for you… As much as you hate it, as much as you want it, it’s a dangerous escalation.

“Apologize to her.” You blink, your eyes going back to Dean. He’s looking at the stout guy, whose grin is slowly faltering when he realizes who has spoken.

“Huh?” he says, like he didn’t understand. Dean raises his chin, his expression relaxing a little. For some reason, it makes him look a hundred times more threatening.

“Apologize,” he repeats, voice calm. 

The other men don’t move. Stout guy looks at you, then at Dean again, then at you. He looks worried.

“S-sorry,” he says. You swallow, then nod once.

Eddie has been watching the exchange with a strange sort of smirk on his face. Sizing you and the boys up, you realize. He seems satisfied with whatever happened, and nods at Dean.

“How about we fucking play?” he says.

Dean looks over at you again. Keeps your gaze. Burning with something.

Sam kisses your jaw and you laugh.

“That’s distracting,” you say, taking aim again, and you swear it’s only his big palm running down your back that makes you miss your shot. “Fuck!”

Sam chuckles, straightens, takes your cue from you and looks at the remaining balls. You shake your head, reach for your beer. Take a sip, hoping it will alleviate the burning on your cheeks, and if you’re real lucky, the one between your legs, though you don’t have high hopes for that.

“You two are so frickin’ cute,” Stacey says, not for the first time, and you huff. Nothing about this feels cute, not the wetness between your legs that has steadily built over the last half hour, nor the half-hardness you felt as Sam pressed himself against your ass when he pretended to help you adjust your shot.

Stacey’s stuck to you, something about the little show earlier having seemingly intrigued her. Dean’s talking to Eddie again across the bar, and you can’t help the way your gaze sometimes flits to him. 

You don’t care about any of that - the job, the money. All you want is to be back at the trailer with Sam and Dean. Well, with Sam. You clear your throat, take another sip of your beer. 

“Sammy!” Dean calls in that moment. “Get over here.” Sam looks that way, then hands his cue to Stacey with a smile.

“You two play,” he says, nods at you, then joins his brother. You lean against the pool table, watch Stacey push some of the balls around. She seems to be thinking about something.

“You okay?” you ask, stepping closer to her. She looks up at you, something sad on her face. Then she looks over at Dean.

“He keeps looking at you, you know,” she says. 

You blink. It takes a moment for her words to sink in, and then you look over at Dean as well, standing there next to Sam, both of them so handsome it takes your breath away.

The memory of that night comes back with a vengeance. Dean deep inside you, both of their sounds in your ears and lust unlike you’d ever known flowing through you. All you’d wanted was to touch Sam like you were touching Dean, and now that you’ve gotten your taste, know how perfect Sam feels and moves, the thought of both of them…

Your stomach lurches, and you feel almost sick with arousal. You want to tell Stacey not to worry, that she should go be with Dean, but you realize you don’t want to. He’s yours, in a way that you can’t explain, just like Sam is yours, and no matter how many other girls Dean fucks, that will always be true. The strangeness of your little threesome, how close you are, the lack of barriers - it all means something. It’s intimacy on a level you’re not sure many people could understand.

When you realize Stacey’s still looking at you, you clear your throat. She’s giving you an unbelieving look. The truth is, you’d love to have a friend, miss Kay even though the two of you text regularly, but Kay never wanted to fuck Dean, or Sam, for that matter.

“Anyway,” Stacey says, and your lips move, but it’s too late to remedy the situation, too late to drag back whatever your silence betrayed. You should have said, no, he likes you, or, I’m not interested, you can have him. But it would have been all lies.

“I’m gonna get another beer,” you say, fidgeting with the one you’re holding, still nearly half full. “You want one?” Stacey shakes her head, isn’t looking at you, so you push off the pool table and walk over to the bar.

She probably thinks you’re one of those girls that just wants and needs the attention of every man in the room, even if nothing will ever come of it. You lean against the bar, order, turn over the feeling in your mind. But that’s not what it is. There’s plenty of men whose attention you could not care less about. Most of them, actually. But not Sam’s and not Dean’s. You think about how hard you want to try to convince Stacey of the difference, make her understand, feel a little bad when you realize how little you care.

“Having a nice night?”

You flinch, the voice too close to your ear for comfort. When you spin around, you see it’s Eddie, leaning in, loose smile on his lips. You narrow your eyes at him. You want to look past him, see where Sam is, but force the urge down. Clench your jaw.

“It’s okay,” you say, and Eddie straightens, nods. His lids are low, and something about him reminds you of the boys you knew in church. Cousins and neighbors and some of them walked around with something sour and acidic just below the surface. Like they were just waiting for something to allow them to hurt or push or rip, to put their hands around a throat. They were hungry for it. Eddie gives you that same impression.

“So how’d you hook up with these two anyway?” he asks, one hand going out and leaning against the edge of the bar, bringing him closer to you. You hear clinking behind you, probably your beer being served, but there is no way you are turning your back on this man. 

“We grew up together,” you say, unwilling to go into more detail, to reveal yourself and the boys to him at all. Eddie smirks, then leans in a little further, and you feel the hair rising on the back of your neck, the twitch in your fingers that makes you want to push him away.

“One of them your first?” he asks. And you open your mouth, not sure what will come out of it, not sure if maybe you won’t reach behind you and bring that fresh bottle down on Eddie’s head. Which is when you hear Stacey’s shrill voice.

“What the fuck!?” she screeches, and Eddie turns and you look past him. “What the hell is wrong with you, you pervert!”

She’s yelling at Dean, that much is clear. You just see her pull her hands back from where they were on his shoulders, his still on her hips, his face confused in a way that would be hilarious if the entire bar didn’t go quiet at that very moment, turn its attention that way. She pushes herself off Dean, takes a step back, his hands finally dropping to his sides. You see him swallow, and he’s aware enough of his surroundings that he looks around, confirming that he has an audience.

Eddie pushes off the bar, and when you look at the side of his face, you see the righteous fury there. Because they can say whatever shit they want, but of course he’s the picture of chivalry when it comes to his cousin.

“The fuck did you say to her, motherfucker?” Eddie barks, spittle flying out of his mouth, and Dean raises his hands, defensively.

“It’s all good,” he says, “just a misunderstanding.”

You see Sam then. He’s standing a few feet away from Dean, on his own, but you see the way he slowly edges closer, but so is one of Eddie’s friends, slowly and you can’t stop yourself when you say: “Dean!”

Eddie whips around, looks at you. Anger and then confusion on his face.

“Dean?” he says, looking back. “Who the fuck is Dean?”

Dean looks you right in the face, shrugs, and then all hell breaks loose.

Sam goes for the guy sneaking up on Dean, and Dean goes for Eddie. Or rather, the other way around, because Eddie sprints at Dean. But Dean is ready.

His forehead collides with Eddie’s face and he is propelled backwards, but you still see the blood spurting down his nose. Dean is moving towards you a second later, and then he’s grabbing your hand as he starts dragging you towards the door. You turn your head, quickly, but Sam shows up on your other side. You grab for his hand, his fingers intertwining with yours and you’re moving, all three of you, not sure who’s leading who.

You see some of the other men get up in the wake of the attack on Eddie. One of them moves quicker than the others and when you turn, he has the bottle he was drinking from raised over his head, ready to strike. You call out Sam’s name, but he already has his arm raised, the bottle shattering, splinters on Sam’s jacket, and then he pulls his shoulder back and decks the guy. Dean drags you further, and then the three of you are bursting out of the bar, running towards the Impala. 

The gravel under your feet is loud, the sun down and the moon up by now. You reach the car, Dean not letting go of you but rather shoving you in on the driver’s side. You scoot over as quickly as you can, but then Sam’s opening the passenger door, climbing in beside you. He grabs you around the waist, pulls you against him, just as Dean gets in, pulls the door closed behind him and another bottle shatters somewhere on the side of the car. 

“Dean,” Sam says, voice tense and you look up to see Eddie, only a stone’s throw away, lower half of his face covered in blood, three of his crew behind him. Something gleams in his hand and you see it’s a gun.  

Dean must see it too, because he turns the key in the ignition, and for a second you’re sure the car won’t start, that you will all be shot and killed right here. But then the engine turns over and Dean steps on the gas so hard gravel goes flying everywhere, the car jerking forward just as a shot rings through the night. Dean maneuvers the car off the lot when the second shot sounds, but it’s far behind you now. 

The car skids to the side for a moment but then you’re on the road. Dean whoops loudly, and you give him an unbelieving stare, but then you can feel and hear Sam laughing behind you. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says and Dean is grinning broadly, and you feel it spread over your face as well as you shake your head. Dean turns to you, and you lean forward. 

“You’re bleeding,” you say, running your hand up to his cheek, the closeness to him making the touch feel natural. Dean looks into the rearview mirror, then wipes his hand over his forehead. It’s a small cut from the impact with Eddie’s nose. 

“All good,” he says, and then he reaches over and squeezes your leg.

“But, dude,” Sam is saying as he’s climbing out of the car. “Neal?”

Your head is leaned back over the bench from laughing at Sam’s teasing, but when he reaches his hand out for you to grab it, let him pull you out of the car. Dean throws his door closed, the flask he pulled from his glove box that you have all been drinking from on the drive back to the trailer raised to his lips again. He shakes his head, and you walk around the car, Sam behind you, his hands on your hips, staying close, and take the flask from Dean. You see the glimmer where his lip is still wet from the booze, look at it while you drink, Sam crowding in close.

The three of you were squished into that front seat, laughing and howling, and now you don’t want to be apart. Your hand was roaming Sam’s thigh, his crotch for a second, hidden in the darkness of the night but also, completely obvious. Dean’s hand stayed close to your naked thigh, his knuckles brushing your skin occasionally. At one point, Sam leaned over to push Dean’s shoulder when he said something especially stupid, and it pushed you against Dean, with Sam covering your other side, and you’re pretty sure you nearly went dumb.

Dean widens his arms, now that his hands are free.

“Neal Schon?” he asks, and Sam scoffs. “Lead guitarist for Journey? God, you two are so uncultured.” You pass the flask to Sam who takes a long sip, grimaces, but there’s that soft flush to his cheeks he gets. You must be looking at him intently, because he drags you back against him. 

“Just not the name I’d pick for a girl to, y’know,” Sam says, and you turn your head, look up at him, and he seems shy, except the way he’s pressing against you isn’t shy at all. 

“To moan?” you finish for him, and he sputters, the laughter moving his body, but he is downright grinding against you. You have one hand on the hood of the car, your head just a little fuzzy from the drink, the heat of the metal from the motor running pleasurable, the body heat of Sam and Dean so close even more so. You lean your head back against Sam’s chest, look at Dean. He’s studying you in a way that makes you dizzy.

“Can’t be worse than moaning Dean,” you say, your tongue playing along your lips, not sure if you should, not sure if it’s smart. You hear Sam chuckle behind you, and Dean raises his chin, lips parted, and your eyes go to them.

“You did pretty well, all things considered,” he says and you press your ass back against Sam, wish his hand was between your legs. Your chest is heaving and Dean’s eyes go there and Sam must see, must know, but he’s not saying anything or giving any indication that he minds this.

“Pretty well?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “That name never sounded better.” And Sam laughs and his hands wander up from your hips, finger tips brushing the underside of your tits, and Dean leans in, breathing hard too.

“Oh really?” he says, and then Sam’s lips are pressing against the shell of your ear.

“Prove it,” he whispers, breath hot on your skin. 

You push yourself away from Sam and run.

You’re not totally sure why you do it, just that this already feels like a chase. A chase you want to end with you getting caught, and when you hear Sam and Dean’s thundering footsteps behind you, you know they have the same intention.

They must be going slow or giving you a head start, because you make it to the trailer, key pushed in and then throw the door open, without them catching you. You stop in front of the bed, and turn.

Sam gets to you first, hands grabbing you as he lifts you. You wrap your legs around him but he’s already dropping down on the bed, one arm going out to cushion your fall, and once your back is on the mattress, his hands go to your ribs. You squeal, laugh, head thrown back, fists pummeling Sam’s arms half-heartedly.

As if the two of them communicate without words again, Sam moves, grabs for your wrists, hold soft and you could tear yourself from him, but you don’t want to. He moves up the bed and then suddenly Dean is there, taking Sam’s place. 

Your legs drop open, and Dean slots between them the way he first did when you were seventeen, in that dusty room at Bobby’s house. His fingertips are at your ribs now, Sam holding you down, and the laughter in your throat cracks. You turn your head, face pressed against your arm, stretched above you from Sam’s hold, and you moan loudly. 

You’re not sure if the way Dean grabs your thighs, hard, desperately, as if he needs to steady himself, is intentional, but you know the way he presses the bulge in his jeans against your own center can’t be. He makes a strangled noise.

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound coming from deep in his throat. Your eyes have closed, but you blink them open. See Dean there, and then your eyes wander up, but Sam’s already looking at you. His pupils are wide, and it makes his eyes look almost black. You watch him inhale, let the air out slowly. He lowers himself, his breath on your face, lips brushing your cheek with the tip of his nose against your jaw.

“It’s okay,” he says, more air than sound. “I want you to.” He mouths at your skin, then pulls back again. You look at Dean, who’s been watching the exchange, focused, like you can’t feel his erection through his jeans, like it doesn’t feel like he’s one thrust away from entering you. He licks his lips, looks down at you.

Reason does not prevail.

Dean’s lips crash against yours, your head raised, his lowered, and your eyes stay open just long enough to see the way his eyebrows furrow, almost like he’s in pain. You lick into his mouth quickly, and he presses his tongue against yours, not moving, just pressure, just feeling and tasting before he detaches from you, tilts his head the other way, and kisses you again.

Your head is swimming, the almost déjà vu of kissing Dean, familiarity paired with strangeness, making you gasp. You can still feel Sam close by, feel his fingers leave your wrists. They skate the back of your neck, your shoulder, and you’re sure you’re about to wake up, because any world where you get to have both of them has to be a dream.

Dean breaks the kiss, rocks himself against you and you open your eyes, look into his. That startling green, and the way he looks at you feels new and old at the same time. He looks at you the way he did on Bobby’s couch, when you were still new to him, not a reminder of his inability to make a decision, or someone he knew he was bound to disappoint again. He swallows, hard, throws a brief look over your head at Sam. He looks down at you again, and you know whatever he saw on his brother’s face hasn’t led him to believe he should stop.

He kisses you again, his hips moving as he grinds against you, into you and you moan into his opened mouth. It makes him look at you as he grabs your thighs to keep you in place, rubbing himself over you, but there’s too many layers, too much distance. Your hands go to his arms, just holding, searching for a moment, then to your front. Open the button of your shorts.

Dean leans back, lets you move, then helps you pull them off. As he drags them down your legs, you use the opportunity to look up at Sam again. He’s watching you, the echo of a smile on his lips. When he notices you watching him, he lowers his head, presses his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.” You kiss him in return. Mumble it back against his lips.

You break the kiss when you hear the clink of Dean’s belt. He’s kneeling between your legs, opening it. His fingers are quickly opening his jeans, then he pushes them down. It makes you chuckle, and when Sam kisses your temple, you feel the grin on his lips too. 

“He’s in a hurry,” he says, and you laugh, but it turns into another moan when you feel Sam’s palm run over your breast, squeeze it once before he manages to find your nipple through your shirt, pinches it. “Not that I can blame him.” 

“Damn charmer,” you say, your voice sounding cracked, your lids heavy and Sam grins, twists your nipple again and in the same moment, kisses you, endlessly gentle. Then he looks into your eyes, runs the tip of his nose over yours. “Speaking of sucking, you want me to…?” You nod in the direction of his crotch, but Sam shakes his head.

“I just wanna watch for a bit,” he says. “Is that okay?” You nod. God, the thought of it, of Sam watching Dean fuck you. The love of it, you think. You kiss him once more just as Dean gets between your legs again. His jeans and underwear are gone, his t-shirt tucked halfway up but then seemingly abandoned. His cock is hard, standing before him, tip just a little flushed. You push your underwear down with one hand and Dean helps you take them off.

“You don’t waste any time,” you say as you push your foot against Dean’s chest, run it up over his soft skin, making the fabric of the shirt fall over it. Dean reaches for it, squeezes your foot before he brings it up to his face, kisses the side of it and you squeal and laugh from the way it tickles, hear Sam chuckle. Dean’s gaze wanders to between your legs where you’re all spread out and open for him.

“You just seem ready, s’all,” he says, and you know he’s not wrong. Sam slowly lets his hand wander from your breast down between your legs. He needs to shuffle lower, lie more next to you to do it, but when his fingertips draw a barely-there circle over you and you shiver in response, you’re glad for it, because you can grab his shoulder, bore your fingers into it.

“Oh God,” you say, your back arching as Sam draws another circle, and another. You feel yourself flutter and when Sam’s hand moves lower and the pads of his fingers outline your entrance, you groan.

“Don’t be such a tease,” you complain, and both brothers laugh. Dean drags his fingers over your thigh, still in his hold, and you can feel the impatience under his touch.

“You heard the lady, Sam,” he says, tongue dancing behind his teeth. Sam presses his face against the side of your neck, and you hear the low chuckle that rumbles through him at his brother’s desperate demeanor. He dips two fingers into you, and it’s like you touch a live wire, that’s how much your body shudders. Sam raises his head, looks into your eyes, and a moment later his fingers are at your mouth, pressing against your lips. You part them, and then you’re sucking his middle and ring finger into your mouth up to the second knuckle. Sam curses, and Dean groans, uses the opportunity to shuffle closer. You feel him bob against you. You drop your legs open wider, Dean remaining on his knees rather than leaning over you and just as he begins pressing into you, you close your eyes to feel it all.

It’s like the world folding in on itself. Like someone snipping a finger and it all making sense. You’d chide yourself for getting so philosophical over a dick and a pair of fingers, but it’s the truth. It’s like what you attempted, were hoping for, on Sam’s birthday. Except this is it. This is what it was supposed to be. This is right, and there is no need to choose, and no need to pick, or to limit yourself. It’s right. It’s right.

Sam’s hand wanders back between your legs eventually. His touch makes you cry out and clench, and Dean throws back his head, eyes squeezed shut and moaning loudly, while his hips keep rolling. Sam keeps kissing you, his lips seemingly unable to leave you.

They work together to make you come. Dean fucking you, his hips snapping, his cock setting you on fire until your thighs are twitching. Sam rubbing you, nipping at your neck and earlobe and panting into your ear, like an anchor at high sea. You feel the frayed edge of your orgasm, feel it roar towards you, and you don’t understand the sounds you make between the squelch of where Dean is entering you and the way your and Sam’s tongues dance.

You drop your head back, your neck tensed. It feels like every single muscle in your body is stretched and your brain explodes into white light. Any other moment, you’d laugh at that description. But not right then.

Right then, one hand clawing into Dean’s lower arm, and one gripping the hair at the back of Sam’s head, a single tear dislodges from your eye, runs up over your forehead and into your hair. You’re not crying, but your spendings are all over. Baptized, maybe, but that feels like saying too much.

Light. Just light. And safety, with your two men.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

You open your mouth to answer when there’s a knock on the door. It opens a second later.

“Hey,” Dean says. “Is there coffee?”

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you and Sam. Drops his hands, chin going up.

“Bad timing?” he asks, like it’s all nothing, like this is just a normal morning, but then he grins. Looks down immediately, controls his expression, but he doesn’t quite manage. You hide your face against Sam’s chest, chuckle.

“Uhm,” you say, and Sam brings one hand up to your neck, holds you against him. 

“There’s coffee,” you hear him say. You peer past him at Dean, watch as he moves around the two of you as Sam absentmindedly plays with your hair.

“Dean give me that!” you said, trying to reach for it but he blocked you.

“What this?” he teased as you swiped once more, your fingers barely grazing his hand.

“It’s not funny!” you grunted, your cheeks on fire. Dean didn’t seem to notice; he was enjoying your embarrassment too much.

“Oh come on don’t be embarrassed. It’s fine, I get it, you know everyone needs a little release now and then,” he laughed, turning to get out of your way. But you weren’t even registering him now, you were serious. It wasn’t funny. The embarrassment of someone, especially Dean, seeing that made you want the ground to swallow you up.

“Give it!” you grunted as you thumped him, toppling him onto the bed. He kept it buried underneath him as you straddled his back, trying to swipe your hands under the solidness of his torso.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he said, flipping you with one roll. He landed on his back, stashing the toy beneath him as you scrambled to get over him again. But his hands caught yours, holding you tight enough by the wrists that they just flapped, swiping at his face which only made him laugh harder.

“You want it back that bad huh? Wow, didn’t have you down as a toy kinda girl,” he teased. You weren’t listening. You were sure you looked a state now. Your hair was all over and you had a sheen of sweat from how frantic you’d been and you were sure that your cheeks were near the colour of the offending object, hidden underneath him.

“Dean give it,” you said, and then, in one last ditch attempt you shifted your knee in a way that made him drop your hands on instinct, his own hovering over his crown jewels as you fell, hand swooping underneath his back so you could fish it out. It was a dirty move, dirtier still if you’d actually gone through with it but you weren’t at that stage just yet. Once it was safely in your grasp you scrambled off him, scowling as you stuffed it back in your bag.

“Oh, come on I was just messin with ya,” Dean said, lying spent on the bed, a grin still on his face though you refused to stop pouting. Your heart was hammering in your chest though you knew you were being ridiculous, that he was just joking. Of course it was natural, you knew that. You also weren’t naïve to think that he and Sam never found moments to themselves at the bunker or in the dingy motels you stayed in. But right now you couldn’t see the funny side, couldn’t join in on his teasing. Because this was Dean.

Dean who told silly jokes to make you laugh or teased you a little until you rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. Dean who laughed when you did, his grin burning bright like the sun in a way that you couldn’t help but stare at. Dean who put his hand on your thigh when you were driving like it was nothing. Dean whose touch felt like it would melt your skin, leaving a mark only you could feel. Leaving behind an ache that you could never get rid of. Dean who didn’t need to do that. Dean who went out and found someone to warm his bed for the night when he was lonely. Dean who made you lonely when he chose to do that. Dean who crept into your thoughts when you were alone in the bunker. His smile, his touch, the way he looked at you making you reach for the tiny pink helper which was nothing in comparison to him.

He called your name but you didn’t listen, you just swung your duffle on your shoulder and muttered that you’d meet him at the car. Dean sighed and flopped back on the bed, hoping you’d forgive him before you made it over state lines.

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

The road home was long but straight. Two lane black top edged by dense forests for nothing but the next two hundred miles. It had been pretty at first, but the thickness of the trees meant the radio reception was spotty to say the least and given that you had refused to speak for the last two hours, your eyes glued to your phone through the intermittent periods of silence, it was painfully awkward.  

You could feel Dean watching you, his eyes leaving the road every couple of minutes to glance your way, shifting like he was going to say something before he thought better of it. It was only when the radio cut out for good did he clear his throat, waiting for you to look at him. You didn’t. Dean sighed.

“Are you still not talking to me?” he grumbled. You looked at him with a glare before you turned back at your phone, scrolling through your Facebook looking for someone who’s life was even bigger of a mess than yours to make yourself feel better. Dean huffed, “oh c’mon. It’s not a big deal.’

“You were out of line,” you muttered.

“It was a joke,” he reasoned, earning himself another glare, “I didn’t mean anything by it, honestly. It’s not a big deal, we all do it. It’s natural.”

“So? I don’t bring up every long shower and extended car ride you take, do I?” you said.

“Yeah, but I don’t mind,” he shrugged, “because I’m grown up enough to know it’s not a big deal. Whatever you do in your room-”

“Is none of your business,” you snapped. Your phone was forgotten now, slung to the side as folded your arms across your chest, trying to keep yourself together. You could feel the tightness in your chest, the embarrassment from before creeping back in. Dean shifted. He could see you were getting self-conscious, your cheeks tinging pink like they always did when you were nervous. It was how he knew he’d fucked up, knew he needed to back track and steer the pair of you back on course. One that didn’t make you torture him by shutting him out.

 “Look I’m sorry okay,” he said quietly, clearing his throat, “I didn’t mean to tease you…it just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you scoffed. Dean shifted, looking awkward himself as he said, “you know…I just didn’t think you’d need a hand in that department.”

“I don’t,” you laughed in disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were having this conversation, that you were telling him about this. The pair of you never talked about sex, not really, not yours anyway. Dean made jokes or showed up with hickeys from nights before but it was never mentioned. He did it to make Sam squirm or roll his eyes. When you mentioned a man he changed the subject, like the thought of you doing anything like that was ludicrous. Like you were some kid.

Still now you felt the need to explain yourself. That you weren’t some sex-crazed teenager who took every opportunity to lock herself away because she couldn’t bring herself to trawl dive bars like he did.

“It’s just quicker sometimes. You and Sam are just kind always around and sometimes…well sometimes it’s hard to be…” you trailed off, ears bright red, watching as Dean waited expectantly, before the word slipped out, “quiet.”

Dean looked at you, mouth agape as the words lingered in the car between you, a thousand images running through his head. He shifted, trying to ignore he way his jeans felt distinctly tighter than they had a moment ago. You continued to look at him, that beautiful clueless look you always gave him whenever you said something that unknowingly drove him wild.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he lied, looking back to the road as he tried to focus. But the road was deserted, an expanse of asphalt, bleak and boring and no match for the thoughts in his head. He could still feel you, writhing against him, all hands and heavy breath against his neck as you fought for the damn thing. Now he could feel your eyes on him, a grin growing on your face as you chuckled.

“What?” he panicked.

“Nothing,” you said, breathing that adorable laugh you did whenever he caught you off guard with a joke.

“No c’mon,” he demanded, heat creeping up his neck.

“I just, I thought I was flustered but you’re downright embarrassed,” you giggled.

“No, I’m not,” he scoffed.

“Oh, come on Dean. Like you said it’s natural besides don’t tell me you’ve never had…help,” you said.

“Never need it sweetheart,” he rebutted. You rolled your eyes, “you know it’s a friend not an enemy right? Nothing to be scared of.”

 “Oh shut up,” he said, though he didn’t want you to. He’d take all the teasing in the world if it meant hearing that giggle. If it meant you’d keep talking to him like this. You’d never done it before. He couldn’t stomach it. Hearing you talk about other men, how they touched you, got to hear all those noises you made. Loud ones apparently. Well he couldn’t cope with that.

“Clearly you just don’t know what you’re doing,” he countered, “you need more practice.”

“Oh yeah should I get it down to a tight five minutes like you?” you asked.

“Efficiency, when needed, is a skill,” he said proudly.

“Right,” you drawled, “and it’s nothing to do with-”

You trailed off, going quiet as you looked out the window. He glanced over, confused at whatever you’d stopped yourself from saying, your fingers fiddling with a hole in your jeans awkwardly. Dean frowned, “what?”

“Nothing, never mind,” you muttered.

“No go on princess,” he challenged, “out with it.”

You hesitated, not meeting his eye as you said, “well you’re not exactly complicated, guys, I mean. It’s not really a skill…”

“Is that right?” he said.

“Yeah, I mean a stiff breeze could get your motor running,” you said.

“That’s what you think huh?” he asked, jaw ticking. He couldn’t help but take it personally, that you saw him as some horny teenage boy. When you had no idea. No idea how he tried his best not to fawn over you, how every move or look made that heat pool in his belly. How he’d had to shove it all down, only allowing himself to dwell on all that when he had a moment to himself. How it wasn’t just anyone who did it, it was just them he had to run to because he couldn’t put that all on you. It wasn’t fair. You meant too much to him and he couldn’t ruin that.

You seemed to notice how you’d upset him but you didn’t apologise, just persisted in the way you did, the way he normally liked as you sighed, “oh come on! are you really gonna pretend I’m wrong here? How many girls do you bed on average per week? You only have to think about sex and you're out the damn door! And then you make fun of me for having one fuckin’ vice on the rare occasion I get the bunker or the motel to myself-”

Dean had stopped listening, the impala turning down a long dirt road in the middle of the thicket. You stopped your ranting, confused as to what the hell was doing as you demanded, "Dean where are you going?”

He didn’t answer, just put the car in park and looked at you. You could feel your heart pounding, in a different way to before, the look in his eyes making you squirm as you realised you’d upset him.

"You really think that?" he asked.

"Think what?"

"That I'm like that," he replied.

"Dean, I have eyes," you sighed. Was he really taking issue with this? Did he think you'd never noticed? That it didn't drive you crazy to watch his endless pursuit of anything that moved?

"And you never wondered why?" he laughed. 

"Why what?" you snapped, wondering what you were missed.

"You don't see it, do you?" he said, looking at you like he couldn't believe how dense you were.

"Dean what are you talking about-"

"It's you!," he cried, "it's not random! I'm not obsessed with sex; I'm obsessed with you!"

"What?" you whispered.

"The way you look at me. The way you smile or roll your damn eyes at me when I'm trying to make you laugh. You touch me all the time and don't even notice and then I'm like a fuckin' twelve-year-old poppin' his first boner. And I can't think, can't function 'cause I'm thinking of you all the fuckin' time-"

"Dean," you breathed.

"And then I watch you on cases, at bars or whatever. The way guys look at you, it makes me want to rip their damn heads off but you're so fuckin' nice you never see it. So I just pretend it doesn't bother me, pretend it's not driving me insane. Find a cheap skirt or a bar to stop thinking about you," he ranted, his chest heaved, words coming out without him giving permission. He seemed to realise all too late he'd said too much but he was too far gone, too broken from watching you just gawk at him like he was crazy, "have you never wondered why we don't talk about this shit? It's because the thought of you with someone else, hell even that stupid fuckin' thing might make my head explode-"

His words were cut off as you launched yourself at him, crashing your lips to his. He took a moment to respond, to comprehend what you were doing but then he moved against you, pulling you closer as you as he held your face in his hands. It was hot, heavy and left you breathless, his hands like fire against your bare skin as the pulled at your hips.

“What was that for?” Dean breathed as you broke away, forehead pressed to his, your chest heaving but so full of fervour you didn’t care. You laughed, your thumb sweeping across his jaw, his big green eyes wide with disbelief. And he called you clueless.

“Dean who did you think I was thinking about?” you asked, pressing a kiss where your hand had been, his stubble rough against your lips as you moved to whisper in his ear, “you’re right. I don’t notice any of them. It you, it’s always you I notice. You I want instead of that thing-”

That was it. Without warning he pulled you onto his lap, lips returning to the assault as you squealed his name. He didn’t stop, just kept kissing you as you pressed yourself to him, making him groan as his hands found their way under your shirt and found nothing but bare skin.

“You trying to kill me,’” he grunted, hips bucking against you as he took your nipple between his fingers. You moaned, you thighs clenching together as the heat in your belly started to grow, desire chugging away at rapid pace. As his mouth moved your neck his hands continued downward, the layers between you yanked away until he was touching you, fingers burying inside you without warning. 

“You’re fucking soaked,” he said with a breathy laugh, “here I was thinking you were just clueless. This what fighting with me does to you honey?”

“Fighting, arguing, hell just looking at you,” you breathed, rocking forward until his hand flat was against you, sounding slick and desperately filthy as his thumb found your clit.

“And to think I’ve been running to bash one out every time you smiled at me,” he panted, sucking against that sweet spot on your neck that made you see stars. You didn’t know how your brain managed to function, to come to from the ecstasy that was building by the minute but his words and the way you could feel him, straining against his jeans, begging for you pulled you to reality. Your hands moved to his belt fumbling to get him out but he grabbed your wrist and stopped you.

“Dean,” you whined, entirely too needy, you could see by the way his eyes glinted. He always did like teasing you too much. 

“Nuh uh sweetheart. I’m gonna make you regret ever thinking this isn’t pure skill,” he said, grinding he heel of his hand down against you, the friction making you clench around him. 

“Oh god,’” you cried, rocking needily in tandem with it, your mouth barely working against his as he worked you, sloppy and desperate. It was everything you’d ever wanted and more, something you were sure he never did with those girls.

“Actually the names Dean,” he teased, laughing as you still managed to roll your eyes. Even here, a quivering wreck barely managing to string a sentence together he was still trying to make you smile. 

“Shut up,” you panted because that was all you could muster, your release was coming, tightening around him, you nails in digging into his shoulder.

“That’s it baby,” he cooed taking in the sight of you. Maybe he should’ve talked about this with you before because no matter what you said he was sure no one had ever gotten you like this before, slack jawed half lidded and moaning his name like it was a god damn prayer. Not even that stupid toy could make you feel like this he was sure if it.

You came with a whimper, a gush over his hand that could’ve made him blow his load right then and there. He was sure at some points he’d come close. And that was just by watching you, the way you giggled when he teased Sam or how you put your hand on his arm to get past him in the kitchen in what he now realised was plenty of space. But now, as you collapsed against him all heaving chest and loose limbs it was all he could do not to throw you on the seat and bury himself until you’d taken everything he had. But you just rested against him, lips branding his skin as you mumbled expletives.  

“You good?” he chuckled, holding you tighter as he wiped his other hand on his jeans.

“That was…” you couldn’t finish. Couldn’t make the right words for that form in your brain.

“Worth the wait?” he whispered, his lips muffled by your hair.

“Annoyed we could’ve done it sooner,” you countered. Dean chuckled; you weren’t wrong. You pulled back, smiley and happy, your fingers running through is hair and down his flannel until they rested, fiddling with his belt.

“So,” you smiled.

“So,” Dean replied,

“Back seat?” you suggested,

“Definitely,” he said leaning up to kiss you once more “but first I’m gonna need an apology.”

“What for?” you giggled.

“Well by my watch, Mr No Skills got Little Miss Complex here from arguing to a puddle in five minutes flat,” he grinned, smug as anything.

“Oh shut up!” you said thumping him on the chest but he caught your wrist pulling you against him so he could kiss you again , “not a chance.”

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dean winchester tags

@caitlin1996