Dean Winchester Obsessed

Please don’t.

Rain washes away more than blood.

A breeze slips across your skin, threading through your hair and lifting loose strands across your cheek. You don’t brush them away immediately. Your attention is on the woods beyond town limits. On the aerial photos you memorized. On the distances between body dumps.

The suit wasn’t your favorite attire, but it got people to talk to you. So did the fake IDs you kept in your car. Different departments with fake names, depending on who you had to pretend to be for the job.

You lean against the side of your car outside the station, hands shoved into the pockets of your suit pants. The fabric still feels wrong on you. Too stiff. Too restrictive. But badges and pressed jackets make people cooperative. 

Predators don’t stray far from what they know.

I need a map.

With a quiet huff, you push off the car and slide into the driver’s seat, keys in the ignition. Your fingers only paused when you saw the sleek black car park in front of you. It was beautiful, bringing a soft smile to your lips before you turned the key. 

He would have loved that.

You turned the key, the engine roared to life, and you pulled away, not looking back. 

Papers are scattered across the bed, the cheap floral comforter barely visible beneath them. A county map sits at the center, two red marks pressed hard into the paper where the bodies were found. Two more circles mark where the victims were last seen alive.

You’ve changed into jeans and a soft shirt. The blue flannel hangs open over it, sleeves pushed to your forearms. More you. More comfortable.

Your finger taps slowly against your chin as you stare down at the map.

There’s a pattern here. There has to be.

You lean closer, pupils narrowing slightly as your eyes track distance and terrain. Rivers. Logging roads. A stretch of private land that borders both dump sites. Your hearing fades out—the hum of the motel AC, the distant traffic, even the muted television next door.

When you focus, you focus.

You don’t hear the engine pull into the lot outside.

You don’t hear the doors open. Or the heavy footfalls crossing gravel toward the office.

Your attention is fixed on the space between your markings.

If there were a third body, you’d have your center point. Most werewolves hunt within a comfortable radius. They dump strategically—somewhere visible enough to instill fear, but not so close to home that it draws suspicion.

Your nail presses into the paper at the edge of the woods near Miller’s Creek.

You feel it before you fully think it.

There.

A subtle prickle along your spine. Instinct settling low in your stomach. Not danger exactly.

Just proximity.

Dean drops the duffel onto the small table without looking at it. The room smells like industrial cleaner and something fried three hours ago. Sam locks the door out of habit before tossing the room key beside the TV remote.

Dean jerks his chin toward the window. “You see that Charger?”

Sam doesn’t have to ask which one. “Midnight blue. Two spaces down.”

“Yeah.” Dean exhales through his nose. “Clean. Not local.”

“Could be passing through.”

“Maybe.”

Dean doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Hunters notice other hunters. It’s instinct. The car didn’t scream civilian. It sat too deliberately. Like it belonged anywhere.

Sam flips open the case file and spreads the photos across the table. “Two victims. Both missing their hearts. No defensive wounds worth mentioning. That’s efficient.”

They don’t hear the neighboring door click shut.

They don’t hear the Charger’s engine turn over, smooth and steady, before it pulls out of the lot.

Dean steps closer, hands braced on the table. He studies the photos without flinching. “Claw marks are wrong for a bear. Bite radius fits werewolf.”

“Lunar cycle doesn’t,” Sam counters.

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly. “Full moon is still a week away. One attack happened two nights ago, and the one before that was almost a week before.”

“Which means either we’re looking at something that isn’t a werewolf…”

“Or one that doesn’t play by the rules.”

Dean straightens, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. His mind wants to drift—just for a second—to Maria. To the way she used to stand right there beside him, leaning over case photos with her hair falling forward. She always spotted the thing they missed. Something small. Something weird.

He swallows the thought down.

Five years is long enough to stop expecting someone to answer when you speak.

“Both victims were last seen near the treeline off Miller’s Creek,” Sam continues. “Different nights. Same general area.”

“Hunting ground,” Dean mutters.

“But if it’s a werewolf, why dump the bodies where they’ll be found?” Sam asks. “Most try to hide it.”

Dean’s eyes flick over the map Sam unfolds. “Unless it wants to be seen.”

Sam glances up. “That’s not comforting.”

Dean huffs faintly. “Neither is a wolf that doesn’t care about the moon.”

Silence stretches for a moment. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.

Sam gathers the photos back into a stack. “We should talk to the families. And the last people who saw them alive. Maybe they noticed someone hanging around.”

Dean nods once. “Yeah. Let’s move before the rain hits.”

He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair. The Fish & Game badge is already clipped in place. Easy cover. Small town. People trust uniforms.

As they step toward the door, Dean pauses just long enough to glance toward the window again. The midnight blue Charger isn’t there, and he wonders how he missed it leaving.

For a split second, something tightens low in his gut. Not quite suspicion.

Just awareness.

He shakes it off.

“Let’s go,” he says.

The door opens and closes behind them.

They’re already walking toward the Impala, minds locked onto claw marks and missing hearts.

Neither of them realizes they’re hunting something that doesn’t need the moon.

And neither of them knows someone else is tracking the same trail.

The town thins out quickly. Storefronts give way to open stretches of road and low tree lines that creep closer the farther you drive. The sky hangs heavier now, clouds sagging low enough that it feels like you could reach up and press your palm against them.

You’re not going to the families.

Grief makes people loud. Defensive. Messy. And you don’t need messy.

You need patterns.

There’s a bar three miles from the treeline. Not close enough to raise suspicion. Close enough that people could wander. Hunters drink. Loggers drink. Locals who think they’re tougher than the woods drink.

Prey gathers where it feels safe, even if they don’t know they’re prey.

You slow at a stop sign halfway there.

Your foot presses the brake, but your mind doesn’t.

The world in front of you blurs—not visually, but mentally. The road becomes the map from your motel room. Red marks. Circles. Terrain lines bending around water and private land. Miller’s Creek cutting through like a vein.

Two bodies found here and here.

Last seen here and here.

Your fingers curl lightly against the steering wheel. Your pupils narrow, unfocused on the present. You can almost feel the distance between the points. The way a predator might move through that terrain. The wind direction. The slope of the ground.

It’s not random.

It’s controlled.

Your claws press faintly at your fingertips again, a low hum of awareness under your skin.

There’s a center point. There has to be.

Your head tilts slightly as you picture the bar’s location relative to the creek. Not directly on the path. But near enough to serve as a feeder line. A place to watch. To choose.

The thought is just beginning to lock into place when—

A horn blares behind you.

Sharp. Sudden.

Your focus snaps back so fast it almost hurts. The world rushes in—the dull gray sky, the red octagon of the stop sign, the empty road stretching ahead.

“Damn it,” you mutter under your breath.

You don’t check the rearview mirror. Don’t care enough to. Your foot shifts to the gas, and you turn right onto the next road, tires rolling smoothly over the damp pavement.

Your heart rate steadies quickly. It always does.

But the interruption lingers.

You were close.

Close enough that the pattern had started to breathe.

Rain spits once against the windshield. Then again.

You don’t look back.

You’re already thinking three moves ahead.

Sam glances out the window, quiet. “Should be up here,” he murmurs.

Dean narrows his eyes at the stop sign ahead. And at the car sitting there. Midnight blue. Not moving. No one else in sight. Just… stopped.

Dean taps the horn once. Short. Sharp.

The car doesn’t budge.

Dean huffs, finger still on the horn. “Come on… Really? Just sitting there? Enjoying the view, huh? Scenic stop sign tour?” He rolls his eyes and taps it again. “Tourist in a hurry to do absolutely nothing… I swear.”

Sam’s lips twitch, just a fraction. “Maybe they’re… looking at something?”

Dean waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Or they’re part of a roadside meditation program. Whatever. Move it.”

The Charger finally turns right, tires crunching over the edge of the asphalt. Dean exhales, muttering under his breath. “Figures.” He glances up at the stop sign. No other cars. No obstruction. Nothing. Just… patience, apparently not his strong suit today.

He pulls up to the stop sign, checks left and right, then lets the Impala roll forward, taking a left toward the victim’s family home.

Sam keeps his eyes on the GPS, making a note of the turn. “Road’s narrow,” he says.

Dean smirks faintly. “Perfect.”

Dean eases the Impala up the narrow gravel drive, eyes scanning the modest farmhouse tucked behind a thicket of trees. The front porch light casts a weak glow, barely illuminating the tidy yard. Sam flicks off the GPS and folds it into his bag, hands steady, expression unreadable.

Prologue ----- Chapter 2 - coming soon

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His lips tug and he smiles mild, fond, and brings your hand to slip down into his palm. He squeezes twice. Your voice snags on his ear, just subtly tense. Maybe he's imagining it, too attentive. But when has he ever let details fall to chance? He can handle being called annoying, overbearing. A small chip to take for worrying over you.

"Have you been sleeping at all?"

"...A little. My brain won't shut off."

He feels that like a velvet thud of knuckle to his heart. Familiar. You sit up and back against paled cushions, hand still caught in his.

"I'll listen, sweetheart. If you wanna talk."

You nod slow and look so far away. He'd like to bring you back but feels a little out of his depth. What can he offer that isn't among the secret, tender things he wants so badly with you?

I love you. You can come to my bed and stay there forever and sink deep into the mattress springs with me.

"Wanna take a drive?" he asks instead.

Your hands together are melding heat. He watches as you lean close and his lungs hiccup when your forehead plants lightly to his. He doesn't know if he's allowed to move. Frozen as a statue, he thinks you'd be one of those smooth, marble ones in museums.

"That would be nice," you say. "Please. Thank you."

He's the only one in the world who can hear you right now. Sweetness fills every inch of his chest, it overflows in a big rise to his face, and stains your nose where the tip of his nudges.

"Yeah, angel. Anytime, c'mon."

There's a tingling to his lashes, eyelids leathery. Doesn't matter. He pulls you from the couch and isn't sure which fingers are his or yours anymore. He will drive on and on and ache.

Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.

Hard.

Not impossible.

You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.

It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.

You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.

In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.

In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.

From a single fucking touch.

You think you might be close to losing your mind.

It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.

Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.

“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”

You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”

“I know. Makes it funnier.”

Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.

Which has you on it. Basically around you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”

That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.

“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”

You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”

“I like you and respect you-“

“You poked me.”

“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”

You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.

The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.

“It’s fine- I’m fine-“

“Sweetheart.”

“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.

The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.

It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.

And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.

You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.

“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.

Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.

And neither of you speak about it again.

This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.

She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?

Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.

She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”

You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”

You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No. I’m single, El.”

Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.

“Why?”

“Because. Adult reasons.”

Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.

“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”

“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.

“That kid adores you.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I know you are.”

You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.

He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”

“At the thing I get paid for.”

“At, uh- Kids.”

“At kids?”

“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.

Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.

You might need help.

“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”

“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”

You snort, kicking her leg under the table.

Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.

Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.

That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.

You told her she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”

You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.

But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-

“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.

You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”

Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”

“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”

“Uh huh. Write it down.”

You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.

You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.

Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“

She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-

“Kind and sweet are the same-“

“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”

Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.

“You have to add two more cons.”

“I don’t have any more cons-“

“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”

That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.

Pro. He listens to you.

By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.

“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.

“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“

“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”

Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”

“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad!”

“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“

“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”

“Was he playing chubby bunny?”

“Yeah, but-“

“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”

Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.

You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.

“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”

Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.

It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.

✦Chapter Seven✦

✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Ben always makes fun of you for being so sleepy, but he secretly fucking loves it.

He loves when you're so tired you can barely keep your eyes open so he has to stand beside you, keeping you up.

He does that when you're around people, Butcher and his band of fuckwits, but when you're back in his motel room alone? He's carrying you nonstop, anywhere you want to go.

It starts off as a joke, sure, he's carried you to bed a few times, but that doesn't mean anything, 'course not.

But you soon get addicted, it's the softest he ever is with you, and you crave those tender moments.

Sometimes he'll throw you over his shoulder when you refuse to leave the house, 'cause if he has to face the fucking world, he's not doing it without you. Besides, he gets a little bonus out of it too, perfect ass-grabbing opportunity.

For both of you.

He starts to care about where you are less, he'll scoop you up into his arms around the others, and tell Hughie to go fuck himself when he covers his eyes and rakes his hands down his face, maybe makes a joke about Butcher doing it for him.

He puts on the tough guy act, teasing you about your sleepy little head, fuckin' empty, but when you blink up at him, he's never felt softer inside.

The worst of it is one morning when you wake up in his arms. It's a common occurrence, but it's gotten different lately. Instead of him showing you he's not just the rough fuck from last night and he can make sure you don't fall apart the next day, it becomes more genuine. He seems to care, wanting to hold you close with no other motive than to be close to you. Maybe cop a feel.

You blink your eyes open, squinting at the sun coming in behind him. Once you adjust, you see the beautiful glow it casts, smiling blissfully as you let your gaze trail down to his lips.

You're too hazy to properly realise what you're doing when you reach up, fingertips ghosting over the soft, pink skin.

"So pretty" You mumble and he catches your wrist immediately, grip beginning to sting.

"What?"

"You're pretty, baby. Your lips, hm, so soft. Tasty"

He slowly loosens his fingers around your wrist, letting your hand fall back to where it sat before, tracing over his skin.

You trailed up along the edge of his beard, fingertips prickling against the short hairs, nails raking down his jaw as you came back down. You leaned up, leaving a chaste peck to his nose.

"My pretty boy"

He pulled your body tight against his, fingers digging into your back to the point of a slight sting, enough discomfort to crave. His face buried in your neck, leaving a half bite on your caroted.

"Shut the fuck up"

"My-" You took a breath, feeling him squeeze tighter "-beautiful" You let out a little squeak, conceding before your ribs started to fracture.

"Y'can't say shit like that, Sugar. People'll think 'm a pussy"

"Yeah? What people? There's no one here Ben"

"Still-"

"My sweet boy"

"I sure as fuck ain't sweet" He growled low, minimal bite to it.

"Fine. You're big and mean and scary, better?"

"Just shut up"

You grinned, fingers tightening into the hair at the back of his neck, getting longer and longer with each day.

"Y'know" You started, just wanting to piss him off "A real man'd have short hair"

"You're a fuckin' masochist" He chuckled, that dark, beautifully terrifying gleam in his eyes as he rolled you over, above.

You smirked "Sure am, Baby"

"Knew I put up with you for a reason"

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maybe it's a sign.

it's nearing 3:00 am in the morning, and you still haven't had a lick of sleep. suddenly everything was too loud, being only able to focus on anything else but actually closing your eyes. there's the occasional sounds of cars driving by, the ticking of your clock--and the bzz of your phone.

you should probably check it, but you know who's calling. you know why you've been hearing it four times in a row. he's just drunk, you tell yourself. but maybe it's a sign, the universe's sign you should pick it up.

but you love him, too much actually. it takes you a minute to turn over and pick up the phone, and another 30 seconds to hesitate pressing the button to answer.

"dean?"

he knows he's been an asshole to you, lashing out and starting arguments with you wasn't something he was planning on doing at all this week. but his dad's off on another hunt, sam ran off to college, and he screwed up a solo hunt just earlier this week because he was distracted. distracted by the thought of you.

you're irritating. you make his heart beat fast, his palms sweaty and worry him whenever you're out of reach. like he's been shot by cupid over and over when he's near you, and even when you're not there. like a sap. you make him feel better just by being there, he hates you. and he hates how that isn't true. he loves you. but that's sammy's thing.

he's not cut out for this, he's an awful guy--always away on hunts, getting drunk and having one night stands are his thing. he knows it, he's owned up to it. falling in love with you? not his thing! he's never been the type for relationships, and he wasn't going to change that for you- is what he told you a few days ago. and since then, you've stopped talking to him. which is okay. he needed to go out and get drunk again anyway.

he's dean winchester, he'd rather jump into a busy street than admit that he's sorry. sorry and in love with you. it's why he's here at a bar, the taste of overpriced drinks in the air and the sound of relaxed lounge music in the background suddenly everywhere around him. he's drunk, he knows--he knows he might forget this in the morning, he knows you probably won't pick up your phone, and you probably won't understand his texts. he knows a lot of things. and one thing is for sure; he's desperate to talk to you. with the help of a drink or two (or ten), he pulls his phone out. his thumb pressed over your contact.

strictly no chick flick moments.. but it won't count if he's drunk, right?

itd me babym.. d. i screewed up imsorry 2:30 am

he orders another drink, downs it in one go. he has the bartender looking at him weird. like he's some helpless, pathetic drunk who recently got into an argument with his girlfriend. it takes him a while to press the right emoji, wanting the one that might get him some more pity points.

im ddo sorry ☹️ 2:37 am

1 missed call and another drink later, another text. now the bartender is refusing to give him a drink, but you're still not picking up. but he's not giving up.

ilove younbabybpick hp pls 2:40 am

"sweetheart.. are you there?" you almost roll your eyes and end the call right then and there. highlight almost, you care too much. you can tell he's drunk based on the way he slurs his words, the long pauses between his words and.. his texts. "yes, dean i'm here. are you only calling me because you're drunk?" "mhm.. obviously.. i jus' wanted to say that 'm sorry sweetheart. i know 'm an asshole.. shouldn't have-have told you that, baby." his words tug at your heartstrings, but you're trying to think with your head, not your heart. you know that better than anyone else. "dean, are you alone?" "all the time." "fuck- dean, where are you right now?" "downtown at that bar we first met.. don't come though, sweetheart. i'll be fine, jus' wanted to tell you 'm sorry." " we can talk about it in the morning." "i'm.. fine."

you hang up before you hear anything else, dragging yourself out of bed and shrugging your jacket on. you look like you just rolled out of bed, and you did, but it's three in the morning and you couldn't give a shit if anyone saw--if anyone was awake at all. atleast, not anybody you know (with the sole exception of dean.)

downtown isn't far from your place, it's a good walking distance actually. so it's not a surprise when you get there fast, stepping inside to a bar with a no smoking sign--it's just there for a guide, the place reeks. you spot him immediately, just from the back of his head--where he's frustrated about the bartender worrying about him. " 's none of your business, holmes." rolling your eyes, you lightly tap him on the shoulder.

"dean let's go back to my place, i can take care of you there better."

"don't fuckin' touch me.." you flinch at his harsh tone, you knew he told you not to come--but he didn't have to be rude about it. you two were of opposite worlds, and this moment only reminds you of that. you know it in the way you're only dressed in your pajamas, you've only just rolled out of your bed--he's been awake, dressed up and having already downed around 13 drinks.

"dean let's just.. go home. i know you didn't want me to come, but please don't start a scene. it's 3 in the morning." you try again, pulling at his shoulder gently. you're trying your best not to attract any attention, the bartender had already been staring at you two with an understanding look. he's seen this play out thousands of times with different people over and over.

"nah.. back off, angelina jolie.. i got a girl already." another woman? is he serious? "quit it, dean." you're trying not to raise your voice, maybe the reason he's been so distant is because you're the problem. he's in another relationship, you're a homewrecker and he's a cheater and- he mumbles your name, his thumb hovers over the call button on his phone again. "w-what?" you chuckle nervously, you're unsure of how to act--you don't know how to. but he's already yelling out your name--your heart almost skips a beat. he's yelling something a long the lines of; "damn it.. i already have my girl.. hic! pissed, can't be talking to some random chick."

is he seriously this drunk?

"your girlfriend's name is..?" you can't help the small smile on your face, the heavy feeling in your heart slowly lifting. going through three emotions in the span of 10 minutes wasn't that bad. he says your name confidently, a crooked grin creeping onto his face. "i told you, back off.. i don't need no side chick, she's.. she's my girl an' i don't need.. anybody else.." "dean-" "nd it doesn't.. hic! help that you sound like her.." "look at me, please." you smile, wiping off the tears that threatened to roll down your cheeks earlier.

"see! mmf, they always go for the taken ones!" stubborn even in an intoxicated state, he refuses to look at another woman because he has you. if only he would actually sneak a glance this time, because that other woman he's refusing to look at; is you right now. it makes you wonder just how many unsuccessful women have been coming up to him to flirt tonight. you can't help the giggle that escapes you, the giddiness you feel has you smiling like an idiot. you murmur your full name into his ear. "dean... i'll spell out my middle name for you if you need it."

"shapeshittteeerrr.." "dean-" "shifter." "call your real girlfriend then." he squints at you for a moment, grumbling as he finally presses the call button on your contact--your phone rings not long after, and you give him a deadpanned look before you pull your phone out for him to see. "hhg.. oops."

dragging a guy that's a little over 6'1 and 183 pounds back to your place is hell, especially because its 3:25 am and you're in no mood to put up with anyone else's bullshit. you let him crash at your couch, because you were not about to haul him upstairs just so he could sleep next to you. you smile at his form snuggled into your extra pillows, pulling your phone out to take a picture.

you drift off not long after, in the chair next to him and with a smile on your face. you can't wait to tease him about this tomorrow, and to seriously talk about your.. relationship now. communication is key after all.

author's note : sorry if dean might b a little ooc, hopefully u guys understood the ref i couldn't think of anything that dean woulf say LMFAO😳🙏 might make a part two, do u guys want that? #lmk👀👀👀👀👀👀

Seven months later, the quiet still felt borrowed. But it had held.

You and Ben lived in a small town outside Oklahoma where the roads ran flat and long under a wide white sky, where people still waved from pickups and left pies cooling on windowsills and minded their own business with the kind of stubborn politeness that passed for mercy. Vought barely existed there except as a name some folks had maybe heard once on a television they didn’t trust much anyway. Supes were city nonsense. News was what happened to other people. So you got your quiet.

A rented little house with a porch. A kitchen with too much morning light. A bedroom where the dresser drawers stuck in damp weather. A church three streets over with white clapboard siding and a bell that sounded thinner than the one you remembered from home, but near enough.

You and Ben had built a routine because routine was safer than promises. Coffee. Groceries. Laundry. He fixed things badly at first and better after you made him do them twice. You learned which modern food brands were edible and which ones tasted like punishment. He drove into town for hardware and came back with tools, soap, canned peaches, and once—absurdly—a bouquet of grocery-store carnations he shoved at you like he was handing over ammunition.

You had not let him kiss you much. Not really. A few quiet ones. Careful ones. Mostly when emotion got too large for words and both of you were tired enough not to fight it. Touch had been slower still. A hand at your back crossing a street. His palm hovering at your elbow when the steps iced over. Fingers brushing yours over a grocery list.

Sex was nowhere near the table. He knew better than to push, though that didn’t stop him from trying his luck now and then in that shameless, infuriating way of his. He was trying, though. God, he was trying. With all the charm he’d still somehow kept. With all the rough-edged patience he’d had to teach himself. With all the, "But I’m your husband", he could pack into one glance, one muttered comment, one hand lingering a second too long at the small of your back before he made himself step away.

And every Saturday for the past seven months, Soldier Boy had gone to church.

Because you had insisted.

“You need to wash yourself clean”, you had told him the first week, standing in the kitchen with your arms folded while he stared at you like you’d announced he was joining a convent.

He had barked out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I don’t think a Baptist church in Oklahoma has enough holy water for me”.

“It isn’t funny”.

“No Baby”, he’d said, still grinning a little. “No, it really isn’t”.

Then he went anyway.

The first time, half the congregation had turned to look because even in a town that didn’t care much about the outside world, Ben looked like trouble in a dress shirt . Broad shoulders, hard face and too much confidence even when he was trying to sit still. He had looked personally offended by the hymnal and deeply suspicious of the potluck sign-up sheet. But he went. Sat beside you in polished shoes he hated and listened to the pastor talk about repentance while his jaw worked like he wanted to argue with God directly.

Now it was habit.

This morning, sunlight striped the bedroom floor through the curtains while you got dressed. The air already held the dry warmth of early day. You slipped into your long soft satin skirt, the pale cream one that moved quietly around your legs when you walked. Then you buttoned your blouse and tucked it in with careful fingers, smoothing the fabric at your waist the way you always did. Old school, Ben had called it once, half-teasing and half-awed, watching you pin your hair back at the vanity like the whole century ought to slow down and take notes.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed in dark slacks, bare-chested still, because he had not yet bothered to pull on his shirt. One elbow rested on his knee. He had been pretending to lace one shoe for the last minute and a half, but his hands had gone still. He was just watching you.

You caught his gaze in the vanity mirror. “What”.

Ben blinked once, as if remembering his own face. “Nothing”.

“Benjamin”.

That made one corner of his mouth twitch. “You want the truth?”.

“I assume I’ll regret it”.

His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. Not vulgar for once, not even really hungry, though that lived under his skin often enough. Something softer and fuller. The kind of look that made you feel seen in places you weren’t sure you wanted seen.

“You look beautiful”, he said. The words came plain. No clever line. No grin built around them. Just the truth, and somehow that made them land harder.

You looked back at yourself in the mirror instead of at him. The blouse was modest. The skirt fell nearly to your ankles. Your hair was pinned simply, the way the older women in town wore theirs, though yours always came out a little softer around the face no matter how neat you tried to make it. “It’s for church”, you said.

“As if that changes anything”.

You almost smiled.

From the bed, he exhaled and finally bent to finish with his shoe. “You know”, he muttered, “this has gotta be some kind of crazy ass joke”.

You reached for your earrings. “What is”.

“Me”. He tugged the lace tighter than necessary. “Sitting in a bedroom in Oklahoma on a Sunday morning—”.

“Saturday”.

He pointed at you without looking up. “That too. Getting ready for church while my wife looks like…”. He stopped, then glanced up with that familiar rough heat in his eyes. “Like that”.

You put one earring in and gave him a warning look through the mirror. “Behave”.

“I am behaving”.

“That was not behaving”.

“That was admiration”.

“That was trouble”.

His mouth twitched again. “Yeah. Maybe”.

You turned from the vanity to reach for your cardigan, and the movement made the satin shift around your legs with a soft brush. Ben’s eyes dropped to the sound. He looked for one second like a man remembering far too much all at once. Then he checked himself.

That part still struck you sometimes. The stopping. The fact that he could now. The visible act of reining himself in not because he feared your anger, but because he had learned, finally learned, that wanting something did not entitle him to reach.

He stood to pull on his shirt. White, clean, sleeves rolled once before he shoved his arms through. On anyone else the motion would have been ordinary. On Ben, even dressing looked faintly combative. Buttons did not deserve that much force, but he gave it to them anyway. When he was halfway done, he looked at you again and said, quieter now, “You sure I’m not gonna burn alive in there one of these days?”.

You slid on your cardigan and picked a speck of lint from the cuff. “One can hope”.

That got a real laugh out of him. Then, because he was still Ben and because every so often sincerity came out of him before he could catch it, he added, “I go because you ask”.

You looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed with his shirt open at the collar. “I know”, you said. His expression shifted a little. “And because I like sitting next to you while you sing”.

The room went still for a beat. You hadn’t expected that. Maybe he hadn’t either.

“You sing loud”, he added, with a shrug that tried and failed to make it casual. “Not good. Just loud”.

You stared at him. Then you picked up the nearest hairbrush and threatened to throw it.

He held both hands up at once, laughing properly now. “All right, all right. Beautiful and loud”.

“Awful man”.

“Your husband”.

That could have irritated you. Some days it still did. But this morning the words landed softer than they once would have.

You adjusted his tie when he couldn’t get the knot right. Neither of you commented on the intimacy of that.

Your fingers worked at the silk while he stood very still above you, looking not at the tie but at your face. You could feel his gaze there. “Don’t”, you murmured without looking up.

“Can’t help it”.

“Yes, you can”.

“Not this one”.

You tightened the knot a touch more than strictly necessary. He made a face. “Cruel”.

You smoothed the tie flat against his shirtfront. “Clean enough for church”.

Ben looked down at where your hands rested for the briefest second against his chest, then back to your face. Something warm and almost wondering moved through his expression.

You stepped back before it could become too much. He let you. Then he reached for your coat from the chair and held it open for you without a word. Small things like that had become the shape of this new life. Not declarations. Not grand speeches. Just a thousand ordinary gestures done a little more carefully than before.

You slid your arms into the coat. He settled it over your shoulders without touching more than he had to. When you turned toward the door, he caught your wrist lightly and you looked up.

His fingers loosened at once, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours in that old restless way of his, hope and apology and want all mixed together. “Can I kiss you before church”, he asked, “or is that sacrilegious?”.

You shouldn’t have laughed. You did anyway. And it surprised both of you.

Then, because he had earned at least this much, you tipped your face up. Ben kissed you softly. Just once. Brief and careful. His hand never left your wrist. His mouth was warm and familiar and still capable of stirring old grief and newer tenderness in the same breath. When he pulled back, he looked steadier somehow. Less haunted for the moment. “There”, he said quietly.

You smoothed your skirt once, though it didn’t need smoothing. “Try not to fight with the pastor today”.

“No promises”.

“Benjamin”.

He sighed like the burden of righteousness had once again fallen unfairly upon him. “Fine. I’ll behave”.

You gave him a look. He reached for the front door before you could say anything else, opened it, and stood aside for you to step out into the Oklahoma morning first.

-

Over the next few weeks, you started fitting into the town a little better. Not into the century. That still felt unlikely. But the town, yes.

You learned which grocery store carried decent flour, which older lady at church made a pie crust worth respecting, and which roads Ben should avoid if he didn’t want to get trapped behind tractors for twenty minutes and come home muttering about “agricultural tyranny”.

You also learned, unfortunately, that the world had invented something called smart TVs.

Which was how, on a Tuesday afternoon, you walked back into the living room carrying folded laundry and found Ben sprawled on the sofa, one arm slung over the back, watching the sort of thing that made you drop a dishtowel in pure outrage.

“Benjamin”.

He jerked like he’d been shot. Not because he was ashamed, exactly. More because your voice had hit that sharp note he had learned to fear. He grabbed for the remote. The television went black.

You stood there with a pillowcase over one arm and stared at him.

His expression shifted through guilt, annoyance, and the faintest trace of a grin he was trying very hard not to let happen. “What", he said, too casually.

You pointed at the television. “In my living room?”.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s our living room”.

“That makes it worse”.

Ben rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sweetheart, I was alone”.

“You were not alone. The Lord was here”.

That finished him. He bent forward with a laugh he tried and failed to hide in his fist, and you marched across the room and smacked the back of his shoulder with the pillowcase. “This is not funny”.

“It is a little funny”.

“You need help”.

“I’m aware”.

You stood over him in full offended-wife splendor, cardigan buttoned, hair pinned up, and gave him a lecture so pointed that by the time you were done he had actually muttered, “Yes, ma’am”, just to get you to stop.

You did not stop.

But later that night, when you found the television parental controls mysteriously switched on and Ben acting like it had happened by divine intervention, you had to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.

Another day, you discovered TikTok. This happened by accident, which somehow made it worse. A woman from church had said, “Oh, honey, you should look up recipes on there” and you had nodded politely, only to discover three hours later that modern people apparently took cooking instructions from dancing girls, shirtless men, and women narrating casseroles in voices too cheerful to trust.

You were scandalized. You were also fascinated.

So the next morning you announced, with great dignity, that you were making “that baked feta pasta everybody seems possessed by”.

Ben looked up from the newspaper. “The what”.

“Don’t mock. It has millions of views”.

He lowered the paper slowly. “You know what, that sentence alone tells me this century was a mistake”. Still, he hovered in the kitchen doorway while you worked, arms crossed, watching you treat the whole absurd thing with way too much seriousness. Cherry tomatoes. Olive oil. A block of feta you regarded with suspicion. Pasta boiled properly because no internet person was going to tell you how to salt water.

When it came out of the oven and you stirred it all together, Ben leaned over the pot, sniffed once, and said, “That actually smells pretty good”.

You gave him a smug look. “I know”.

He took one bite that evening, chewed, and pointed his fork at you. “Don’t get cocky”.

“You ate half the pan”.

Also, your mouth had grown back. Just in little flashes. A comment under your breath. A look. A soft answer with enough edge tucked into it to make him blink, then grin despite himself. Ben had started to live for those moments in a way he would never have admitted plainly. You could tell. Especially when you caught him off guard.

One Saturday after church, while he was trying and failing to fix the porch step without swearing in front of Mrs. Tallou next door, you stood in the doorway and said, “You know, for a man who spent years being called a hero, you are surprisingly bad with a hammer”.

Ben looked up from where he was crouched with the toolbox at his feet. Mrs. Tallou covered a laugh with one gloved hand.

“You trying to embarrass me in front of the neighbors?”.

You folded your arms. “No. I think you managed that on your own”.

He stared at you for one beat, then laughed hard enough he had to sit back on his heels.

That night, he kissed you in the kitchen while the dishwater cooled in the sink and murmured against your mouth, “You’re getting brave”. You had looked up at him and answered, very softly, “Maybe I’m just remembering myself”. That had shut him up in the best possible way.

You baked more too. Partly because it calmed you. Partly because baking still made the house smell like something stable and decent and yours. Partly because in a world that had become almost too strange to hold in your head all at once, flour and butter and sugar still obeyed.

You made banana bread from another TikTok recipe and declared it “acceptable, though overpraised”. You made cinnamon rolls one rainy afternoon that had Ben standing in the kitchen pretending not to hover while they cooled. You learned that modern ovens ran hot and modern measuring cups were somehow more annoying than old ones.

And then one day, without telling him why, you made his favorite cake from the fifties. Yellow cake. Chocolate frosting. A simple one. The one he had once loved so much he used to eat ate night in the dark kitchen while you were asleep. The one you’d made for his birthday the year before Vought gave him Compound V, when he’d come into the kitchen behind you in his work shirt, stolen a fingerful of frosting, and kissed your temple while you pretended to be annoyed.

He came in from the yard that afternoon smelling like cut grass and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. For a second he only stood there. Then he looked at the cake. At you. Back to the cake. “No”, he said quietly.

You looked up from the counter. “No what”.

“That’s not fair”. His voice had gone rough in a way that had nothing to do with humor.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel. “Do you want a slice or not?”.

Ben crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sunlight on his skin and the faint soap from his shower that morning. “You remember that?”.

“Yes”.

Something moved over his face too quickly to name.

When you cut him a piece, his hand brushed yours taking the plate. He looked down at it for a second like he was afraid of what it might do to him. Then he took one bite. Closed his eyes. And had to set the fork down before he said, very low, “Jesus”.

You smiled a little. “Still good?”.

He looked at you over the plate, eyes too bright for something as ordinary as cake. “Yeah”, he said. “Still good”.

It was a few nights after that when he asked about the baby. The question came out of nowhere and yet, somehow, not out of nowhere at all.

You were in bed with a book open and unread in your lap. Ben sat on the edge of the mattress. He said your name first. Just your name. You looked up.

“I saw it in the file”, he said.

Your chest tightened before he even finished.

“The medical records”.

You closed the book carefully and set it aside. Your fingers stayed resting on the cover for a second longer than necessary. “I didn’t know for sure”, you said after a moment. “Not really”. Ben didn’t move. “I thought maybe”, you went on quietly. “I’d been late. Tired. But then… then it happened”.

He stared at the floorboards. You looked down at your own hands in the blanket.

“For over two years before that, it never worked”. Your voice thinned around the old shame, still somehow alive enough to sting. “I used to cry in the bathroom so you wouldn’t hear me. I felt like…”. You let out a small breath. “Like a terrible wife”.

Ben’s head came up so fast it almost startled you. “No”. The word came sharp. Immediate. You looked at him. “No”, he said again, softer now but no less certain. His jaw flexed once. “That was never on you”.

The old grief shifted inside you, surprised to find itself contradicted so forcefully after all these years. You looked down. “I know that now”, you murmured. “Mostly”.

For a few seconds neither of you spoke. Then Ben rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glanced at you sideways, and because he was still himself enough to reach for humor when the pain got too close, he said, “Well”. You blinked at him. He looked almost cautious now, which on Ben was a strange enough sight on its own. “I’m just saying”, he muttered, “if we ever wanted to… take another crack at it, I do still remember the basic mechanics”.

You stared at him. Then your cheeks turned hot all at once. “Benjamin”.

He held up both hands. “What? I’m trying to raise morale”.

“You are impossible”.

“Not impossible”. His mouth twitched. “Motivated”.

You pulled the blanket higher though it did absolutely nothing to hide your face. “That was indecent”.

“Probably”.

“You should be ashamed”.

“I usually am”, he said, and then, because he saw the way your mouth wanted to soften despite yourself, he added more gently, “I meant someday. If you ever wanted. No pressure”.

The room settled around that. Your face was still warm. Your heart too. Because the truth was, for all your modesty and all the hurt still sitting between you, you had missed him. Not just the idea of him. Not just having a husband in the house or another body in the bed. Him close. His weight of attention. His mouth at your temple. His hand at the small of your back. The private softness that had once belonged only to the two of you.

You looked at him for a long moment. Then you said, quietly, “You talk too much”. That made him grin.

But only a few nights later, it happened.

You had been lying awake listening to him breathe. You turned toward him first. His head shifted on the pillow, eyes finding you in the dim. “You all right?”, he asked, voice rough with sleep.

You nodded once. Then, because the words felt old and tender and humiliating and true all at once, you whispered, “I want my husband again”.

He went completely still.

Your hand found his wrist over the blanket. Warm skin. Steady pulse. “And I want”, you said, softer now, “to be your wife again”.

Ben made the smallest sound in his throat. He turned onto his side slowly, like any sudden movement might scare the moment away. Even then he didn’t touch you yet. “Yeah?”, he asked.

You looked at his face, half-shadowed on the pillow beside yours, and saw how hard he was trying not to rush even this. “Yes”, you whispered.

His hand came to your cheek. When you leaned into it, his eyes closed for one beat, like that small permission had hit him harder than anything else. Then he kissed you. Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to relearn you right. Your hand slid up into his hair. He shuddered at that, the reaction so immediate and honest it made your own eyes sting.

When his hand moved to your waist, it stayed light until you pulled him closer. When his mouth found your throat, it was with reverence instead of hunger first. When the old want came into him stronger, sharper, he held it back with visible effort until you asked for more in your soft, shy way that had always undone him worse than anything bold ever could.

It was not the same as before. It could never be. It was gentler. Sadder. More careful. Full of pauses and quiet checks and his voice rough in the dark asking, “Like this?” and “Feels good?” as though he needed every answer from your own mouth before he trusted himself to keep going.

And when you finally let yourself have him again, it was not because you had forgotten anything. It was because, for the first time in a very long time, he was loving you like your heart and body were both things worth protecting.

By the time it was over, you were utterly spent. You lay half across him with your cheek on his warm chest, one leg tangled weakly with his under the sheets, the summer-dark room smelling like cotton, skin, and the open window where the night air still moved the curtains in slow, lazy breaths. Ben’s heart beat strong and steady under your ear. Sweat cooled along your spine. Every muscle in your body felt loose and heavy, the kind of deep exhaustion that only came after being held too close for too long in the best and worst ways.

He had not stopped after the first time. Or the second.

By the end of it, more than an hour had slipped by in pieces too soft and blurred to count properly, and now you could barely lift your head. Your fingers rested uselessly against his chest. Even your scolding energy had mostly gone thin. Mostly.

Ben, unfortunately, looked far too pleased with himself. His hand moved lazily up and down your back, broad and warm, while the other rested at your waist beneath the sheet. Every now and then his fingers flexed there like he still couldn’t quite believe you were really in his arms letting him hold you like this.

Then, in that low, rough voice that always sounded like trouble when it dropped into a tease, he said, “You alive there, sweetheart?”.

You made a faint, exhausted noise against his skin. He chuckled under you. “Thought I might’ve fucked you tired”.

You lifted your head just enough to give him a glare. It was not your strongest glare. You knew that. He knew it too. That only made his mouth twitch.

“Don’t you start”, you murmured, voice breathy and ruined with tiredness.

“There it is". His grin turned lazy and shameless. “That face”.

You narrowed your eyes. “What face”.

“That offended little look you get when I say something, in your words, filthy”. His thumb brushed once at your side, absent and warm. “Cute as hell”.

Your cheeks heated at once. “Benjamin”.

The satisfaction on his face was immediate. He loved this. You could tell he loved this. Not just teasing you, but specifically getting you just scandalized enough to lecture him. Over the past months it had become one of his favorite games and he played it with the delighted patience of a man who had discovered a private treasure.

“You hear your voice when you scold me?”, he asked, entirely too smug. “All soft and breathy”.

You tried to push yourself up straighter and failed halfway, your arm giving out and dropping you right back onto his chest. Ben laughed outright then. Not cruelly. Warmly.

“You’re impossible”, you muttered.

“And you married me anyway”.

“I was young”.

“You still like me”.

That earned him another look, weaker than before but no less sincere. Ben only smirked and brushed your hair back from your face. His touch gentled almost immediately under the teasing. That was the way of him now more often than not, mouth shameless, hands careful. “Go on”, he said. “Tell me I’m indecent”.

“You are indecent”.

“Mm-hm”.

“And vulgar”.

“Sure”.

“And entirely too full of yourself”.

That actually made him grin. “There she is”.

You tried to stay stern. You really did. But exhaustion and warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek made it difficult to hold onto proper outrage for long. Your eyelids had gone heavy again. The room had softened at the edges. His hand kept moving in that slow rhythm over your back, making it even harder to remember why you were meant to be offended.

Ben noticed the exact moment your body started melting back into him. His voice changed with it, dropping lower, softer. “Tired?”.

You let out a tiny hum that was probably yes. He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. “Yeah. Thought so”.

-

Over the next few months, Ben stopped pretending he could keep his hands to himself. And you stopped pretending you wanted him to. It was small and constant. His palm on your lower back when you passed him in the kitchen, his mouth finding the back of your neck while you stirred a pot, his fingers sliding into your hand like he owned the right to comfort now and wasn’t wasting it. He was still cocky about it too, because of course he was.

You’d be rolling dough, flour on your cheek, and he’d lean in and murmur something filthy-soft in your ear just to watch you freeze, scandalized. Then you’d swat him with the dish towel and hiss, “Benjamin”, and he’d grin like that was his favorite hymn.

He stayed gentle with you. Always checking without making a big show of it, always in control in a way he hadn’t been decades ago. But he was still so… him. All muscle and heat, that masculine smell of soap and sweat and sun, shoulders filling doorways, voice so deep when he was amused. It made it easy to be soft again. Easy to be your feminine self, not because he demanded it, but because he made room for it like it was precious.

Some mornings you didn’t even make it to coffee before he’d catch you around the waist, pull you back against him, and mutter, “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart”, like you were the problem. And you’d roll your eyes and say, “Then go be strong somewhere else”. He never did.

He took you shopping in the next town over like it was a mission.

He was weirdly into checking the modern world’s lingerie while you stood in front of a rack of ripped jeans looking like you might faint. That made his mouth twitch. “Try ‘em on”.

You did, because he was your husband and because, annoyingly, the jeans fit. You came out of the dressing room stiff as a board, tugging the hem of the too-short shirt downward.

Ben leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah”, he said, smug. “You look hot”.

You narrowed your eyes. “I look like I’m auditioning for sin”.

“Same thing”.

You threw the hanger at him. He caught it and laughed like he’d won.

Then you found a little 50s-style dress with soft fabric, modest neckline and a nipped waist. You stepped out and immediately felt like yourself again.

Ben stopped talking. For a beat, he just looked at you like the air had changed. Then he cleared his throat and said, rougher, “That one”.

You tilted your head. “You like it?”.

He blinked like you’d asked whether he liked oxygen. “Yeah, I like it. Christ”.

He bought it without checking the price, then acted annoyed about the whole thing in the parking lot because being openly tender still embarrassed him.

He learned to do small domestic things without acting like they were beneath him. He replaced a broken hinge. He even installed a smoke detector and complained the entire time.

“Why’s it gotta beep.”

“So we don’t die.”

“I’m not dyin’.”

“I am.”

He stared at you. Then he installed two.

At night, he’d pull you into his lap on the couch like it was casual, like it was nothing, like his hands hadn’t once been the reason you feared beds. He’d watch whatever you put on. Old movies, sermons or the news he pretended not to care about, and he’d keep one hand on your thigh under a blanket with his thumb moving slow over your skin.

And when you scolded him for the way his mouth worked, for the way he teased, for the way he’d whisper something indecent at the worst times, he’d grin and say, “You’re cute when you’re mad”.

“I am not cute”.

“You’re fucking adorable”.

“You need prayer”.

“I need you”.

That shut you up every time, because it sounded too honest to fight.

Then days were passing. You were tired in a different way. Hungry, but picky. Your temper a little shorter. Your body softer around the edges.

One morning you were folding laundry and Ben leaned in the doorway watching you like he was doing math. “You’re late”, he said.

You blinked. “Late for what”.

He stared at you like you were joking. “Your period”.

Heat rushed to your face. “Benjamin”.

“What? You are”.

“That is not your business".

He walked over and took the calendar off the kitchen wall with one finger like it had personally offended him. Flipped the page. Counted silently. Then he looked at you, brows lifted, mouth already twisting into that smug, dirty humor. “Sweetheart”, he drawled, “you are so bad at that simple women stuff”.

You grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him. “Stop talking”.

He caught your wrist gently and his eyes went bright in a way you recognized instantly. Not fear, not even shock. Something that looked suspiciously like excitement, filtered through Ben’s ego like everything else. “We’re goin’ to the store”, he said.

You frowned. “For what”.

He smirked. “For the little stick that tells you whether you made me a baby”.

Your mouth fell open.

At the pharmacy he bought two tests. Back home, he hovered so hard you finally snapped, “Do you want to come in with me too?”.

Ben leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m your husband”.

“You are not watching me take a test”.

He looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t gonna watch”.

“You’re literally standing guard”.

He shrugged. “Habit.”

You shut the door in his face. From behind it, you heard him mutter, “If it’s positive, I’m naming it John Wayne”.

“You are not!”. A pause. Then, quieter: “Okay. Maybe we talk about it".

When you finally opened the door, he tried to look casual and failed completely. His eyes went straight to your hands. You held up the test with a palm that had started shaking. Ben went still. Then his face changed. “Yeah?”, he whispered.

You nodded once, breath catching.

Ben exhaled hard through his nose like he’d been punched, then stepped forward and stopped himself halfway, hands flexing at his sides. “You okay?”, he asked, too careful for a man like him.

You swallowed. “I think so”.

He nodded, eyes bright, and tried to make his mouth work around something cocky. Something dirty. Something that wouldn’t show how much it meant. What came out instead was, “Holy shit”. Then he cleared his throat and recovered just enough to add, “Guess I’m still good at my part”.

You smacked his arm. He laughed and finally, finally, he reached for you. Slow. Asking with his body first. When you didn’t pull away, his arms came around you like he’d been holding his breath for months. “I got you”, he murmured into your hair.

-

The morning you told the pastor, the sun came up clean and gold over the little town like it didn’t know anything about the years you’d lost.

You sat on the porch step afterward with a glass of water sweating in your hand, watching dust drift down the road behind an early truck. Ben paced the yard, then stopped and pretended he wasn’t pacing by “checking” the fence post for absolutely no reason. He’d been doing that a lot since the test. Hovering, without admitting it. Like if he kept moving, the joy couldn’t turn into fear.

You watched him for a moment. “Ben”, you called.

He stopped instantly. Looked at you like you’d snapped a leash. “What”.

“You’re wearing a hole in the grass”.

He blinked. Then that crooked little grin tried to show up and couldn’t quite find its place. “Habit”.

“You’re allowed to sit”.

He hesitated, then came over and dropped down beside you with a heavy exhale, shoulder brushing yours. His knee bumped yours and stayed touching, as if he’d decided he didn’t want any space left between you today.

You held your water with both hands, staring out at the quiet street. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Ben said, rough and oddly careful, “You want tea?”. You almost smiled. It was such an ordinary question. The kind of question a husband asked in the morning in a small house on a quiet street. The kind of question you’d once answered without thinking. “Yes”, you said softly. “Please”.

Ben nodded like he could do that at least. Like tea was something he could make right when so much else had been ruined. He stood to go inside, then paused and looked down at you. His eyes moved to your hand. To your wedding ring. To his ring on his own finger. He reached out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted, and tucked one loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles barely grazed your cheek. “Still can’t believe you’re here”, he murmured.

You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. “Neither can I”.

He huffed a breath through his nose and left his hand there for a second longer than necessary. Then he went inside.

You listened to him in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, the old kettle filling, the low curse when he bumped his hip on the counter because he still hadn’t learned that small houses didn’t move out of the way for big men.

The sound settled something in you. It reminded you, painfully and sweetly, of another small house. Another quiet street. Another kitchen where you used to sit with a mending basket at your feet and listen for footsteps that didn’t come.

Back then, you had waited in silence. Now, you didn’t have to.

Ben came back out with two mugs. He’d even put a spoonful of sugar in yours the way you liked without asking. That made your chest ache in a small, secret way you didn’t name.

He sat beside you again and handed you the mug carefully, then stared out at the street.

After a minute he said, “You scared?”.

You glanced at him. He didn’t look at you when he asked it. He was looking past the fence line, past the mailbox, out at nothing. The question sounded like it had cost him.

You blew gently on the tea. “Yes”.

Ben nodded once. Like he had expected that. Then he finally looked at you. His eyes were too honest for his own comfort. “Me too”, he admitted.

You shifted your mug to one hand and reached for his other on the porch step. His hand was warm, callused and heavy. He stiffened for half a second, then let your fingers lace with his like he’d been waiting for permission.

“You know”, you said softly, “in the beginning… I used to sit and sew and listen for you”.

Ben’s mouth tightened. “I know”.

“I stayed up because I thought one day you’d walk through the door and be him again”.

Ben’s gaze dropped to your joined hands. For a moment you saw the old shame try to rise. The old instinct to get mean or dismissive to escape it. But he didn’t. He stayed. You watched the choice happen in his face, and it made something in you loosen, just a little.

“I’m… sorry”, he said, quiet as breath.

You didn’t answer with forgiveness. But you squeezed his hand. Ben’s thumb moved across your knuckles.

“You still gonna make me go to church every Saturday?”, he asked.

You tilted your head. “Yes”.

He sighed like a man enduring terrible hardship. “Unbelievable”.

“You need it”.

“You need it too”, he grumbled, then added, quieter, “I’ll go”.

You smiled into your mug. "I know".

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 AND I may have a surprise for you 🙈

-

Sam immediately looked down at his plate to hide a smile.

Bobby ignored him.

“Food first,” he declared. “Apocalyptic soul-stealin' nightmare later.”

Natalie found herself smiling despite everything.

Bobby noticed and pointed at her next. “And you. Eat.”

“I am eating.”

“More.”

“Bobby—”

“More.”

Dean snorted into his beer.

Natalie shot him a look.

Traitor.

Bobby sat back, apparently satisfied that everyone had food in front of them, and for the first time all evening, the house settled into something almost normal.

Almost.

Conversation drifted in fits and starts. Sam made an observation about the water spirit. Bobby complained about hunters who never returned books where they found them. Dean argued that Bobby's filing system was incomprehensible.

Through it all, however, something had changed.

Something small.

Something private.

Natalie sat beside Dean, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed. The first touch was accidental. At least, it could have been. Her hand shifted near her plate and her knuckles brushed his.

Neither of them pulled away.

A few moments later, Dean's thumb grazed lightly against the back of her hand. Natalie's breath caught. No one noticed.

Well.

No one except Sam. Sam noticed everything. Across the table, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

A little while later, Natalie reached for her beer at the same time Dean reached for his. Their fingers touched. This time Dean let his hand linger. Just for a second. Just enough to make sure she felt it.

Natalie's lips curved faintly.

Bobby was in the middle of complaining about rust demons—"which ain't a thing but probably should be"—when Dean's hand found hers again beneath the table.

Not holding. Not yet. Just resting close enough that his thumb could stroke lightly over her knuckles. The gesture was so small. So simple.

And somehow it felt more intimate than the kiss.

Because this was Dean. Dean, who rarely slowed down. Dean, who carried affection in actions more than words. Dean, who kept finding reasons to touch her simply because he could.

Natalie looked down at her plate to hide her smile.

Across from them, Sam saw it anyway. He glanced between the two of them. The subtle touches. The quiet happiness. The way Dean looked lighter than he had in years.

Sam smiled to himself and returned to his dinner.

At the head of the table, Bobby continued grumbling about food, hunters, and the state of the world. But beneath all that gruff irritation was relief.

For tonight, at least, everyone was home. Everyone was alive. And for the first time in a very long time, the house felt full again.

Bobby sighed. The kind of sigh that suggested he had personally suffered on behalf of every stubborn person in the room. His eyes drifted to Natalie's plate.

Natalie immediately caught him looking. And gave him a look. It was a very specific look. I am eating. Back off, old man.

Bobby's mouth twitched.

Dean saw the exchange and barked out a laugh.

Natalie shot him a betrayed glance.

Dean bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.

"I ate," she insisted.

Bobby grumped under his breath, eyeing the admittedly diminished contents of her plate.

Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "Fine."

"Thank you."

"Don't get used to it."

Natalie rolled her eyes.

The moment settled something in the room. A little of the tension leaked away. The familiarity of it—the banter, the grumbling, Bobby monitoring everyone's food intake whether they liked it or not—felt strangely comforting after everything that had been revealed.

For a few moments, they simply ate.

Then Bobby set down his fork. The room quieted. He looked at Natalie. This time there was no irritation in his gaze. Just concern. "Tell us about the Master."

Natalie's smile faded.

Dean immediately felt her tense beside him. Without thinking, his hand brushed hers beneath the table. A silent reassurance.

She glanced at him briefly. Then took a breath. "I'm not sure how much of what it told me was true."

Sam leaned forward slightly. "Tell us anyway."

Natalie nodded. "It doesn't think the way we do." That was how she began.

The room went still.

"When I talked to it..." She paused, searching for words. "I got the impression that Heaven and Hell weren't enemies to it."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it wasn't aligned with either side."

Bobby's expression darkened.

Natalie stared down at her beer bottle. "It spoke about both of them like they were neighboring countries."

The statement landed heavily.

Sam's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "It exists outside the system."

Natalie nodded. "As far as I could tell." She rubbed her thumb against the glass. "Outside Heaven. Outside Hell. Outside the usual universe entirely, maybe."

Dean's stomach tightened. The way she said it sounded less like theory and more like experience.

"It described Heaven and Hell as..." She hesitated. "Structures."

Bobby looked disgusted by the implication.

"Structures built around rules."

"And this thing isn't bound by those rules?" Sam asked.

"No." Natalie swallowed. "It lives in the spaces between them."

The room fell silent.

Dean remembered the scar. Remembered her saying it could have killed her. Remembered the fear in her voice when she'd admitted she wasn't strong enough. "What does it want?" he asked quietly.

Natalie looked at him.

For a moment, Dean saw the memory of Nova Scotia flash across her face.

Then she answered. "Power." A pause. "But not the way demons want power."

Sam frowned. "Then what kind?"

Natalie's gaze drifted toward the dark window over the sink. "The kind that comes from controlling what everyone else ignores."

Nobody spoke.

She continued softly. "The lost." Another pause. "The forgotten." Her voice dropped lower. "The souls that slip through the cracks."

The room grew very quiet indeed. Because every hunter at that table knew one terrible truth: There were always cracks.

The silence lingered after her last words. Dean could feel everyone thinking. Turning over possibilities. Trying to understand something that sat completely outside the lore they knew.

Natalie stared at the label on her beer bottle for a moment before speaking again. "The Master called them border souls."

Sam's attention sharpened immediately. "Border souls?"

Natalie nodded. "Souls caught between destinations."

Dean frowned. "I thought when people die, they either go to Heaven, Hell, become ghosts, or move on."

"So did I," Natalie replied.

The answer was quiet. Too quiet.

Bobby's jaw tightened. "What'd Missouri tell you?"

Natalie looked up. The question seemed to pull her backward through time. "When I finally got her to talk..." she said softly, "she told me my father wasn't at peace."

The room went still. Dean remembered her saying as much earlier. But hearing it again somehow landed harder.

"She said Leandro hadn't crossed cleanly." Natalie swallowed. "That he wasn't suffering."

A flicker of relief crossed Bobby's face. Then vanished.

"But he wasn't free either."

The relief died completely.

Dean watched Bobby's expression close.

Natalie continued. "Missouri said that when my father died, he wasn't killed by the master."

"He was killed by the monster," Sam said, recalling the story.

Natalie nodded. "That's when she started talking about border souls." Her fingers tightened around the bottle. "She said sometimes a death creates... interference."

Dean frowned. "Interference how?"

"I don't know." The admission frustrated her. "I kept asking. She kept refusing to explain." A sad smile touched her lips. "She spent half the conversation trying to convince me to leave it alone."

Bobby snorted. "Smart woman."

Natalie shot him a look.

Dean almost smiled. Almost. Because he already knew where this was going.

"She told me my father was one of them." The room quieted again. "A border soul." Natalie's voice softened. "Not in Heaven." A pause. "Not in Hell." Another. "Just... trapped."

Dean felt her pain then. Not the physical kind. The grief. The years of it. Because until that moment, Leandro had been dead. Gone. Mourned. Now he occupied a far crueler place. Not gone. Waiting.

Lost.

"And Missouri knew?" Sam asked.

Natalie nodded. "I think she knew more than she ever told me."

"Probably." Bobby's voice was rough.

Natalie looked toward him. "I think she was trying to protect me."

"She was." The certainty in Bobby's answer surprised everyone. He stared into his beer. "Missouri wasn't the kind to hide things unless there was a reason."

Dean watched him closely. Bobby looked older suddenly. Tired. Like he was remembering old conversations he'd hoped would stay buried.

Natalie noticed it too. "You knew something."

It wasn't an accusation. Just a realization.

Bobby was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "I knew there were questions."

Dean immediately looked at him. "Bobby—"

"I never had answers." His voice carried genuine frustration. "I knew the hunt didn't sit right. Knew things about it never lined up." He rubbed a hand over his face. "But not enough to go chasin' ghosts."

Natalie looked down. "Well." Her laugh was small and humorless. "I did."

Nobody argued with that. Because the scar on her stomach was proof enough. Dean's hand found hers beneath the table again. This time he didn't bother pretending it was accidental.

Natalie looked over. His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand. A simple gesture. But the message was clear: You're not carrying this alone anymore.

For the first time since she'd started talking, some of the tension left her shoulders. And Bobby noticed. Of course he did. He watched them for a second. Then looked away.

Not because he disapproved. Quite the opposite. Because after everything Natalie had just told them, Bobby found himself grateful that when she finally decided to stop carrying the burden alone: Dean Winchester had been waiting to catch it with her.

Dean sat with his beer untouched, Natalie's hand still beneath his, his thumb occasionally brushing across her knuckles as the conversation settled into an uneasy silence.

The house seemed smaller somehow.

Maybe because the thing they were discussing wasn't a ghost. Wasn't a vampire nest. Wasn't even a demon.

It was something that existed beyond the categories that had shaped Dean's entire life.

The old clock on Bobby's wall ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, the South Dakota wind rattled loose sheet metal in the junkyard.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. "How do we kill it?"

The question landed with the weight of a dropped stone. Natalie closed her eyes briefly. Sam looked thoughtful. Bobby immediately looked irritated.

"That's your first question?" Bobby demanded.

Dean turned toward him. "It nearly killed her."

"That wasn't my question."

"It is now."

Bobby pushed his chair back slightly, the wood scraping against the floor. "You don't even know if it can be killed."

Dean's jaw tightened. "Everything can be killed."

Natalie made a small sound under her breath.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean—"

"No," Dean said, leaning forward. "We're talking about a thing that's collecting souls and using monsters as tools. So yeah. I want to know how we put it in the ground."

Bobby barked out a humorless laugh. "And then what?"

Dean frowned. "What do you mean, then what?"

"What happens to all those souls if this thing is holdin' them together?" Bobby shot back. "What happens if it's part of the structure?"

The room fell quiet again. That possibility hadn't occurred to Dean. It clearly had occurred to Bobby.

"You don't know that," Dean argued.

"No," Bobby agreed. "Neither do you."

The older hunter stood and began pacing again, his beer forgotten on the table. Dean could see the gears turning behind his eyes, could see decades of experience trying to wrestle with something completely outside the normal rules.

"We're making assumptions," Bobby continued. "Big ones."

Natalie watched him carefully. "We know it's dangerous."

"Damn right it's dangerous."

"We know it's trapping souls."

"Maybe."

That made her blink. "Maybe?"

Bobby stopped pacing and pointed at her. "You know what it told you."

Natalie's expression hardened. "I saw the records."

"You saw what it wanted you to see."

The room went still. Dean felt something shift. Because Bobby had a point. A frustrating point. But a point.

The Master had controlled the battlefield from the beginning. It had expected Natalie. Expected her questions. Expected her grief. For all they knew, the entire encounter had been staged.

Sam sat forward, elbows on the table. "Actually," he said slowly, "that's the real problem."

Everyone looked at him.

"We don't know what's true."

Natalie frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sam spread his hands. "Think about it. Everything we know comes from three sources. Missouri. The Master. And assumptions."

Dean hated when Sam got that look. The one that meant he was right.

"Missouri said Leandro wasn't at rest," Sam continued. "The Master confirmed it. But neither one actually explained the mechanics."

Natalie's shoulders tensed. "You're saying my father might not be trapped."

"I'm saying we don't know."

The distinction mattered. Dean could see it hit her. Not relief. Not hope. Something more complicated. The possibility that she had spent three years chasing a story whose ending she still didn't understand.

"I met it," Natalie said quietly.

"No one is saying you didn't."

"It nearly killed me."

Dean's hand tightened around hers instinctively.

Sam nodded. "I know. But that's different than understanding what it actually is."

The silence stretched. Then Bobby sighed heavily and dropped back into his chair. "What I'm hearin'," he said, rubbing a hand through his beard, "is that everybody's already talkin' about killin' somethin' we don't understand."

Dean opened his mouth.

Bobby cut him off. "And before you start, boy, if this thing really exists outside Heaven and Hell..." He pointed toward the ceiling. "Then we are officially operating outside our pay grade."

That earned the smallest snort from Sam. Even Natalie smiled faintly. Dean did not. Because he kept returning to one image. Natalie bleeding out on a cold floor in Nova Scotia. The scar. The fear in her voice when she'd admitted she almost hadn't come home.

"You know what?" Dean said finally.

Everyone looked at him. His voice was calm. Too calm.

"I don't care."

Bobby groaned immediately. "Of course you don't."

Dean ignored him. "I don't care if it's part of the structure. I don't care if it exists outside Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Oz, Narnia, wherever the hell."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Natalie actually laughed.

Dean pointed at her. "That thing hurt you." The room quieted instantly. His gaze didn't leave hers. "And maybe we don't know how to kill it."

A beat.

"Yet."

Something fierce settled across the table. Because Dean Winchester had never been particularly impressed by impossible.

Bobby stared at him for several long seconds before shaking his head. "God help me."

"No argument there," Sam muttered.

Bobby pointed at all three younger hunters. "You are not marchin' back to Nova Scotia tomorrow."

"We weren't—"

"You were thinkin' it."

Dean had, in fact, been thinking it.

Bobby's glare sharpened. "We do this right." The words carried the force of command. "We research. We investigate. We figure out what this thing actually is."

His gaze moved to Natalie. "Then." To Dean. "And only then." To Sam. "We decide whether killin' it is even the right answer."

No one immediately argued. Which, for this group, was as close to agreement as anyone was likely to get.

Dean sat back in his chair, but only physically. The rest of him remained wound tight as piano wire. The revelation that Natalie had nearly died, that she had spent three years chasing whispers across the continent, and that some impossible thing had marked her and let her live, had settled beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn't remove. Every instinct he possessed kept returning to the same place: the scar across her stomach. He could still see it every time he closed his eyes.

The room itself felt deceptively normal. Dinner sat half-finished on plates. Bobby's old kitchen light cast a warm yellow glow across scarred wood and mismatched chairs. The refrigerator hummed softly in the background. It should have felt like every other evening they'd spent at Bobby's over the years.

Instead, it felt like they were sitting around the edge of a cliff.

Dean finally broke the silence. "So how do we kill it?"

The question landed heavily in the room.

Natalie looked up from her plate. Sam's attention sharpened immediately. Bobby, however, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as though Dean had just confirmed every frustration he'd ever had about raising Winchester boys.

"Of course that's where your mind goes," Bobby muttered.

Dean frowned. "Something trapping souls isn't exactly getting a free pass from me."

Bobby's chair creaked as he leaned back. "And what exactly makes you think killing it's the right answer?"

The challenge caught Dean off guard. Not because Bobby disagreed—Bobby disagreed with him all the time—but because the older hunter seemed genuinely troubled by the question itself.

Dean gestured toward Natalie. "It nearly killed her."

"It nearly killed her because she went after it."

"And?"

"And that's not the same thing."

Dean stared at him in disbelief.

Across the table, Sam folded his hands together, his expression thoughtful in the way Dean knew usually meant his brother was about to become annoyingly reasonable. "Bobby might have a point."

Dean let out a sharp breath. "You too?"

Sam didn't flinch. "Think about what we actually know."

The words hung in the air.

Natalie had gone very still. Dean could see her listening carefully, her fingers wrapped around her beer bottle, her expression caught somewhere between hope and dread.

"We know the Master exists," Sam continued. "We know it had records. We know it knew about Leandro. We know it injured Natalie and let her leave. But beyond that?"

He spread his hands. "We're taking a lot on faith."

Bobby nodded immediately. "Exactly."

Dean hated when they agreed.

"What, you think she's lying?" he asked sharply.

"No." Sam's answer came immediately. "I think she believes what she saw."

Natalie's gaze dropped to the table.

The distinction mattered.

Dean could tell from the way her shoulders tightened.

Bobby rose from his chair and began pacing again, unable to stay seated when he was worried. It was a habit Dean had watched for years. Whenever Bobby started wearing a path into the floorboards, it meant something had gotten under his skin.

"This thing knew exactly what buttons to push," Bobby said. "It knew about her father. Knew she'd come looking. Knew she'd keep digging."

The older hunter stopped near the sink and turned back toward them. "For all we know, the whole damn encounter was orchestrated."

Natalie looked up sharply. "You think it lied?"

"I think powerful things rarely tell the whole truth."

The room fell quiet again.

Dean found himself watching Natalie's face. He could practically see the argument playing out behind her eyes. The certainty she'd carried home from Nova Scotia was being challenged now, not because Bobby thought she was wrong, but because Bobby had spent decades surviving by questioning everything.

Even his own conclusions.

Especially his own conclusions.

Natalie finally leaned forward, resting her forearms against the table. "When I was there," she said slowly, choosing each word with care, "it felt real."

Nobody interrupted her.

"The records were real. The souls were real. The fear was real." She swallowed. "And my father's name was there."

Something flickered across Bobby's expression then. Pain. Old pain. The kind that had never entirely healed.

Dean realized suddenly that Bobby wasn't just worried about Natalie. He was reliving Leandro's death all over again. Every new revelation peeled open another layer of guilt the older hunter had spent decades trying to bury.

Bobby lowered himself back into his chair, looking older than he had an hour ago.

"Kid," he said quietly, "I've spent twenty years wishing I'd had answers."

Natalie's eyes softened. "I know."

"No." Bobby shook his head. "I don't think you do."

His voice had lost all its irritation now. What remained was exhaustion and regret.

"When your father died, I tore that hunt apart. Every witness. Every scrap of lore. Every lead I could find. I wanted there to be a reason. I wanted there to be something I missed because that would've been easier than accepting what happened."

The room was utterly silent.

Dean glanced at Sam. Sam had gone still too.

"You know what I found?" Bobby continued.

Natalie slowly shook her head.

"Nothing."

The word landed heavily.

"Just a dead friend and a little girl who deserved her father."

Natalie's eyes glistened.

Dean felt her hand find his beneath the table. This time it wasn't subtle. It wasn't accidental. She simply reached for him.

He laced their fingers together immediately.

Neither of them commented on it.

Bobby noticed anyway.

Of course he did.

His gaze lingered briefly on their joined hands before moving away again. "Maybe this Master is exactly what you think it is," he said. "Maybe it really is holding souls. Maybe Leandro's one of them."

A pause followed.

"But if we're going after it, we're doing it because we know what we're dealing with."

Dean's jaw tightened. "And if we find out she's right?"

Bobby looked directly at him. "Then we'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

A reluctant smile tugged at Sam's mouth.

Natalie actually laughed softly.

Dean shook his head. "That's not the expression."

"It is now."

For the first time all evening, the tension eased slightly. Only slightly. Because everyone in the room knew the truth. The Master was still out there. Leandro's fate remained unresolved.

And somewhere beyond Heaven and Hell, something had noticed Natalie Guimet—and had allowed her to walk away alive.

The question hanging over all of them wasn't whether they would go after it.

The question was what they would discover when they finally did.

The conversation eventually ran out of steam. Not because they had reached any answers. If anything, they had accumulated more questions than when they started.

But there came a point where exhaustion settled over the room like a blanket. The beer bottles were mostly empty. The dinner plates sat abandoned. The clock on the wall had crawled steadily toward midnight, then beyond it.

Bobby was the first to surrender.

The older hunter pushed himself upright with a groan and reached for another beer from the refrigerator. He twisted the cap off with practiced ease and stood there for a moment, looking at the three younger hunters around his table.

His gaze settled on Natalie. Then Dean. Then back to Natalie.

The look alone was enough to make Dean suspicious. "What?"

Bobby sighed heavily. "Lord help me."

Dean frowned. "What?"

Bobby pointed vaguely between the two of them. "I don't wanna know."

Natalie blinked. "Don't wanna know what?"

"How the hell you two are gonna handle sleepin' arrangements tonight."

The silence that followed was immediate. Natalie's eyes widened. To Dean's absolute horror, he felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Across the table, Sam immediately buried his face behind his beer bottle.

Bobby looked vindicated. "Yep."

"Bobby!" Natalie exclaimed.

"What?"

"You cannot just—"

"I absolutely can."

Dean opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Which somehow made everything worse. Natalie looked equally horrified. And embarrassed. And if Dean wasn't mistaken, actually blushing. That realization nearly finished him off.

Bobby took one look at both of them and barked out a laugh. "Oh, that's priceless."

"Bobby," Dean managed.

"Nope."

The older hunter pointed his beer at them. "Not hearin' it."

Then he pointed toward the hallway. "You two can figure out whatever awkward nonsense you're gonna figure out."

Dean wished the floor would open beneath him.

Natalie appeared to share the sentiment.

"I don't want details."

"Bobby!"

"I don't want explanations."

Dean groaned.

"I definitely don't want visual aids."

"Oh my God."

"Which means," Bobby concluded, taking a victorious swallow of beer, "you can both shut up, idjits."

With that, he turned and headed toward the hallway. Halfway there he paused. Without turning around, he added, "And if either one of you wakes me up, I'm changin' my will."

Then he disappeared. The sound of his bedroom door closing echoed through the house.

Silence followed.

Long.

Painful.

Silence.

Sam was the first to break. A slow grin spread across his face.

Dean pointed at him immediately. "Don't."

Sam lifted both hands. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"Maybe."

Dean groaned.

Natalie dropped her face into her hands.

Sam's grin only widened. "You know," he said mildly, gathering plates, "I think I'll do the dishes."

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

Dean muttered something rude under his breath.

Sam laughed quietly and carried the dishes toward the sink, giving them what privacy he could without actually leaving the room.

Which left Dean and Natalie sitting alone at the table.

Or at least as alone as two people could be while Sam Winchester deliberately made more noise than necessary with plates in the background.

For a few moments neither spoke. The enormity of the evening finally seemed to catch up with them. The confessions. The kiss. The Master. Leandro. Everything.

Dean found himself looking at Natalie. Natalie looked back. And suddenly the reality of it hit. They weren't wondering whether they had feelings anymore. That question had been answered. Decisively.

Instead they found themselves facing an entirely different uncertainty.

What happened now?

For years their friendship had been built on familiar ground. They knew how to be friends. Knew how to call each other in the middle of the night. Knew how to tease, argue, comfort, and trust one another.

But this?

This was new territory.

Natalie laughed softly, the sound carrying equal parts joy and nervousness. "This is weird."

Dean immediately nodded. "Yeah."

Another pause.

Then, unexpectedly, they both laughed. The tension loosened. Not entirely. But enough. Dean reached across the table and took her hand again. The gesture felt natural now. Easy. Natalie squeezed his fingers.

Outside, the junkyard settled beneath the South Dakota night. Inside, Bobby was pretending not to listen from his bedroom, Sam was washing dishes with entirely too much interest, and somewhere beyond the safety of the house waited questions neither of them could yet answer.

But for the moment, none of that mattered.

For the first time in years, Dean and Natalie simply sat together in the quiet, looking at one another and realizing that after all the waiting, all the fear, and all the years spent circling around what they felt—the story between them had finally begun.

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Sam walked off, leaving Dean alone.

He sat up with a groan, rubbing a hand over his face before dragging himself toward the bathroom. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and sank into the stupid bath like it might drown his problems away.

What the hell did Sam expect him to do?

Ravenna hated him.

And it was his own damn fault.

So what was he supposed to do about it?

His brother didn’t seem the least bit concerned when Dean finally came downstairs, barely put together.

“What do you want?” Dean asked, stopping in the doorway of the drawing room.

Sam shot him a look, setting his book aside.

“Me?” he said. “I want a peaceful marriage. And for that to happen, I need you to fix your shit.”

Dean sighed heavily, but Sam was already on his feet.

“You love her? Then apologise,” he said simply. “Tell her why you did what you did.”

That was it? That was his big plan to fix things?

Dean scoffed.

“And what, you think she even wants to see me?” he stared at him. “Did you suddenly forget who Ravenna is?”

He was lucky she had forgiven him once.

But what was she thinking now? That he was just some rake who had used her and tossed her aside? That he’d gotten what he wanted and then lost interest?

Or worse, things even uglier than that.

“Then write to her!” Sam countered. “Send a letter.”

Dean scowled.

“I’m not good at writing.”

He was barely competent enough to handle estate correspondence — did Sam really expect him to be a damn poet?

His brother dragged a hand down his face, exasperated.

“You can put letters and words together,” he shot back. “So do it. It’s something.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say!” Dean snapped. “I don’t… I’m not you! I’m not smart or charming or sweet Sammy, who always knows the right thing to do, who always finds a way to fix his mistakes!”

Sam stared at him, his expression unreadable, as if turning Dean’s words over in his head.

“And what?” he finally said. “You wanna stay holed up in here? Drown yourself in bourbon until your body gives out?”

Maybe.

Because that was what he knew how to do. Dean knew how to fuck — be it fuck things up, or fuck someone. That was it. That was all.

And then Sammy could be the Baron. He could carry the name and the legacy, and do something good with it.

Sam let out a slow breath, shaking his head.

“You’re so damn stubborn,” he groaned. “But you don’t get to quit, Dean. Not on this.”

He stepped closer to him, and Dean crossed his arms, looking away.

“You love her? Prove it! You broke something. So fucking fix it.”

As if it was easy. As if it was simple.

“I don’t know how to fix anything,” Dean breathed out.

Sam sighed, his shoulders falling in defeat, and they both turned when the butler stopped by them.

“Lord Winchester,” he greeted. “Mr Winchester. Mr Novak is here and requests an audience.”

Dean barely had time to react before Sam straightened, seizing the opportunity before he could refuse and send Castiel away.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Dean barely had time to scowl before Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder and strode off, leaving him standing there like an idiot.

Great. Just what he needed.

With a sigh, he turned to the butler. “Fine. Send him in.”

A moment later, Castiel Novak stepped into the room, his expression unreadable as always. The man was infuriatingly difficult to read — never too much, never too little. Just calm, steady, and there.

Right now, he hated that.

Dean crossed his arms, sighing.

“What do you want, Cas?”

Castiel tilted his head, studying him with that infuriating patience of his.

“I came to talk about Miss Matarazzo,” he declared. “It’s very important.”

Dean stiffened.

Of course. Of course Cas was here about her. Because what else would it be?

He rolled his shoulders, feigning nonchalance.

“Yeah? And what about?”

Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Don’t you want to sit down?” he offered.

Dean breathed in deep, looking back to the drawing room and then pointing inside.

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Get in.”

Castiel stepped inside first, settling on the couch with that same infuriating composure, while Dean dragged himself into the chair across from him.

“I recall you seemed quite interested in Miss Matarazzo the last time I visited,” Castiel stated evenly. “Which is why I stepped away from my pursuit of her. I was content to remain her friend and forgo any romantic intentions because I have been friends with you for many years. I did not wish to jeopardise our relationship.”

Dean slowly sat back, his shoulders falling.

He wanted…

He’d come to talk about that?

“But at the party, you were quite clear in your conversation with Mr Crowley. You have no interest towards Ravenna, is that correct?”

Dean opened and closed his mouth.

What?

“You heard that?” he asked.

Who else had heard it? He’d spoken to Crowley — just Crowley. Well, and Ravenna and her uncle, by accident. But beyond them…?

How many damn people heard what the bullshit he had said?

“I was standing quite close to the door,” Castiel replied, his tone infuriatingly natural, unaffected. “Your words were harsh, but they seemed honest.”

Dean swallowed, his throat dry. Shit.

“Of course,” Castiel went on, as if this were all just a casual discussion and not a knife twisting into Dean’s ribs, “I didn’t need to come here simply to confirm your sentiments. Miss Matarazzo seemed upset enough by the situation, and I intend to give her time. But before she returns to Genova, I will be making my intentions clear.”

What?!

“Return to Genova?” Dean echoed, his stomach lurching.

She was leaving?

“I believe that’s her intention,” Castiel said, frowning slightly, as if this weren’t a goddamn disaster. “Miss Rosetta has adapted far better to English society, but Miss Ravenna remains quite attached to her home. I do hope to persuade her to stay longer, but I wouldn’t be opposed to dividing our time between England and Genova once we are married.”

Dean’s blood ran cold.

Once they were married?

Dean clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists against his thighs.

“You want to marry her.”

His voice was flat, but inside, his pulse was roaring in his ears.

“That is what I’m saying,” Castiel confirmed.

No. No, he couldn’t.

He couldn’t marry her!

What did they even have in common? Cas was too calm, too measured, too damn bland. Ravenna was fire, a storm that commanded attention. She was decisive, fierce — she felt everything with her whole soul.

They couldn’t be a worse match!

And Castiel had been married before, and it was never that. There was no passion, no hunger — just companionship. Friendly, yes. Stable. But Ravenna deserved more. She deserved—

Dean swallowed hard.

“She isn’t—” He stopped himself before the words could spill out.

She isn’t for you.

But wasn’t that exactly what he’d claimed? That he had no interest? That she meant nothing?

Castiel watched him, unreadable as ever.

“Jack and Claire adore Miss Matarazzo,” he continued. “And I believe they would be quite happy to have her as a stepmother. I’ve been lonely, Dean. And she—” he paused, a rare warmth softening his eyes. “She is the kind of woman I have waited for. Someone mature, outspoken, passionate about what she believes in.”

Dean’s stomach twisted, a sick, awful thing.

He’d done this.

He’d handed her over to him on a silver plate.

Dean forced himself to breathe evenly, but his chest felt tight, his ribs like iron bars locking him in.

Cas wasn’t just speaking hypothetically. He was serious.

“You’re really going to propose?” The words felt strange in his mouth, thick and unfamiliar.

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, steady and assured. “Not immediately, of course. I want to give her time. But when she is ready, I will make my intentions clear.”

Time.

Time for what? To move on from Dean? To forget about him completely?

Dean dragged a hand over his face, trying to ignore the sharp, ugly thing clawing at his insides.

“Right,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “And what if she says no?”

Castiel tilted his head, considering the question.

“Then I will respect her decision, of course,” he answered simply. “A relationship is made of two people.”

That was it. That was all.

Because Cas was a good man. A man who would do things the right way. Who would be patient and careful and earn Ravenna’s trust instead of throwing it away like—

Dean exhaled, pressing his palms into his knees.

Cas took his silence as a cue, standing to leave. He took his hat, placing it atop his head with the same quiet grace that made Dean want to tear something apart.

“Thank you for your time, Dean. I thought it best to speak to you first.”

Dean barely heard him. His mind was too full of her — of Ravenna. Her fire, her sharp tongue, the way she had once looked at him.

He stayed there long after Cas left, staring at the floor, his own words from that damned party echoing in his head, Castiel’s assumptions making everything more bitter.

‘You have no interest towards Ravenna.’

The hell he didn’t.

Dean stood abruptly, the frustration and anger burning inside his belly. He stomped to his room, muttering curses under his breath. He didn’t even care if it was too late. He didn’t care about the consequences anymore.

He grabbed the quill and paper, sitting down on his desk.

Well, there went his best effort.

Ravenna I don’t know how to begin this letter because I know any attempt at words will fail me. I don’t even know if you’ll ever read this or if you’ll burn it as soon as you receive it, but I can’t leave things unsaid. I’ve always been a man who says the wrong things when it matters most. It’s a curse, I think. I never learned how to properly express what was in my head or heart as a boy. When I try to do something right, it backfires and I fuck ruin things beyond saving. But I owe you more than silence and moping for my mistake. In trying to protect you, I made a complete fool of myself. In doing so, I hurt you in ways I can never take back. When I spoke to Crowley, my intentions were simple: I wanted him to think of our relationship as something insignificant, so he’d leave you alone. He brought up rumours, and I feared they were connected to us — our relationship, our closeness. I was afraid he would try to ruin your reputation or force me to admit to things we had shared. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the words I said, and I’m sorry for not making my intentions clear from the start. I should have been honest. I should have shown you how I truly felt about you instead of trying to protect you in the wrong way. I wanted the world to know how much I love you. I thought I was doing it right, but I see now I was wrong. I should have courted you like any other man would. I should have shown up at your house every day, sent you flowers, and danced with you. I should have introduced myself to your family, made an impression on them, and told them from the very beginning what my intentions were. But instead, I was too proud, too stubborn, and I ruined everything. Our relationship was never a plaything to me. I loved and cherished every moment we shared. You made me feel something I’ve been running from my entire life: real, unfiltered, and raw hope for my future. Hope for something more than I ever thought I deserved. I know it’s too late now. I know you may not want anything to do with me anymore, and I’ll understand if you don’t. You deserve more than I’ve given you, and I’ll carry that regret with me always. But if there’s any chance left, even the smallest one, I want to prove to you that I can be better. That I can be the man you deserve, the one you need. Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you, Ravenna. Not for a single moment. You’re more than just the words I said that night. You’re more than the mistakes I made. I beg you, forgive me. Even if it’s only with words just so you can leave and forget about me. But I’ll never be able to live with myself unless I know that at least, I have your forgiveness. Yours, Dean Winchester

. . .

…

Next Chapter: Chapter 50 (Ravenna XV): Forced out of the house after days of sulking, Ravenna has an unexpected encounter at the park. (16th of June on Tubmr/AO3)

…

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“Dean, you know I love Zeppelin, but if I have to hear one more song, I will jump out of this car,” Tori threatened, poking her head over the top of the bench seat, peering into the front. 

“We’re on the freeway, Tori.” Dean glanced at her over his shoulder. “Would you sit back? You’re makin’ me nervous with all your hovering.”

“I don’t care.” Tori gestured to Sam.“Gimme the box.”

Sam cast a careful look between her and his brother, as if weighing the costs and benefits of changing the music choices. Slowly, he reached under the seat, producing the cassettes

The shoebox full of cassette tapes made it half way to her hands before Dean snatched it away. 

“Absolutely not,” Dean said, flipping through them, eyes never straying from the cars in front of them. “You know the rules.”

“Yeah, well, fuck your rules. They’re dumb,” Tori shot back.

She looked down, impressed by the way he sifted through the plastic cases like he knew what each one was even though his eyes never left the road. Not once did his digits falter, tracing the tapes with precision. Sunlight glanced off the silver band on his ring finger, the refraction winking at her when he selected the cassette he wanted

Tori blinked, her cheeks warming as she realized she had been staring. She thanked whatever lucky stars that were out there that neither brother seemed to notice. Dean unloaded the Zeppelin tape and replaced it with the one he’d chosen with the same casual ease with which he’d picked it out.

Sam took over then, putting the other tape back into its case, and it was literal music to her ears when Motley Crue started to play.

“Ohhh,” Tori sighed, finally sitting back. “Much better.”

“You’re lucky. He never lets me change it,” Sam commented, stowing the shoebox back under the seat.

“That’s ‘cause you have no taste,” Dean replied.

Sam squawked in outrage. “I have taste!”

“You think Bon Jovi is good.”

Tori raised her eyebrows. “Oh, if you don’t like Bon Jovi then you’d hate the stuff I listen to.”

“And this is why the driver picks the music,” Dean grinned.

“And why you never let any of us drive,” Tori muttered to herself, laying back down on the seat, her shoes abandoned on the floorboard. 

“So, let’s run through what we know.” Tori said, sitting down across from Dean.

“Uh huh,” Dean nodded, eyes skimming the menu in front of him. “Food first.” 

The options at the gas station they stopped at hours ago were lackluster, even for him. And as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t survive off of Jack Links and pretzels for days on end anymore. The taquitos and hot dogs had looked days old, and Dean had decided he wasn’t desperate enough to tempt the fate that would no doubt strike him down if he dared. 

The saloon had a decent variety, something he and his stomach were pleased to see. His mouth salivated at the smell of grilling meat wafting from the kitchen. Delicate lights twinkled above the bar and blue neon softly illuminated the rest, leaving enough light for him to decide what it was he was hungry for. 

He was way past the point of having eyes bigger than his stomach; the hunger gnawed away at his insides. It was a sensation he was more than acquainted with. He’d felt it all through his childhood in the name of making sure Sammy didn’t starve to death. Dean hated to think of the things he’d done—the things that had been done to him—just so that they both could survive the weeks John would leave them alone. 

And now? He could get as much food as he wanted through credit card scams and hustling old truckers at pool, so sue him if he liked to indulge. 

“Dean’s right,” Sam said from beside Dean. “Aren’t you starving?”

Dean glanced up, seeing Tori shrug at Sam’s question. She held the menu in her hand, but it was still closed. 

“We stopped for snacks not that long ago,” she insisted, flipping open the menu.

Well, I guess that’s the end of that conversation. Dean mentally shrugged off the subtle shift in mood, turning back to picking what was going to satiate the monster in his stomach. 

The waitress came and went, taking their drink orders first and Dean had put in an order for wings as an appetizer. 

To her credit, Tori held off bringing up the case until the server had dropped off their drinks and the wings and left with their meal orders: Sam with a sandwich, Tori with chicken tenders and fries, and his double cheese burger with extra onions.

“So,” she said just loud enough Dean and Sam could hear above the music. “3 disappearances. 2 male, 1 female, right?”

Dean saw Sam nod in agreement out of the corner of his eye. “Right. No witnesses either. At least not that we know of.”

“And no bodies?” Tori added. “Two cases with no bodies and no witnesses? What luck.”

Dean snorted a laugh at the thick sarcasm. “Yeah, we know just how to pick ‘em.”

The wings were burning hot, and if it weren’t for the rough pads on his finger tips from hunting, he was sure he’d no longer have fingerprints. Probably freshly made. The bar wasn’t super busy—it was a Wednesday night after all—so the waitress wasn’t swamped with tables. He loaded his plate with a few, dumping a good amount of ranch off to the side. 

“Want some?” He asked Tori, mouth half full, gesturing to the basket.

A small shake of her head. “I’ve got my own chicken coming.”

There was something in the way she talked, an emptiness he couldn’t quite name, and he slowed chewing. “Yeah, but these are here and hot.”

“I’m fine,” Tori said sharply, instantly shutting the topic down. 

Dean held his hands up. “Alright. Jeez, just makin’ sure you’re getting enough to eat.”

“I’m a big girl, Dean. I can assure you I can feed myself just fine.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Sam sat forward like he was trying to put himself between the tension that had been created between Dean and Tori. 

He cleared his throat. “Are we thinking it’s some kind of water spirit?”

Dean tore the rest of the chicken off the bone, tossing the discard onto the extra plate for the refuse. “What, like a sprite or a nymph?”

“Maybe?” Sam replied, taking a drink of the beer the waitress had brought him. 

He and Sam had both ordered beers, but Tori had requested whiskey neat, saying it wasn’t like she was driving anywhere any time soon. Her finger was tracing around the rim of the glass absent-mindedly as they talked, considering their options. 

“They were last seen at a lake, right? I say that’s where we go next,” Tori suggested, bringing the glass of amber liquid to her lips. 

The girl could hold her liquor, Dean noted, a little more impressed then he probably should have been. She’d ordered hundred proof Jack, but she didn’t even flinch when she drank. 

“Makes sense,” he agreed. “You’re coming with us this time, though. No more disappearing acts.”

Tori rolled her eyes, “Whatever. Not my problem you have control issues.”

He scoffed. “I don’t have control issues.”

“You kinda do, Dean.” Sam added.

“Hey!” Dean elbowed his brother, though with little conviction. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“It’s the truth. It doesn't have a side.”

Dean gestured with a finger between his brother and Tori. “You two can fuck right off. Assholes.”

The jesting was easy. Beside him, Sam grinned, snagging a wing from the near empty basket. Tori smirked behind the rim of her glass, and though it wasn’t a full smile like Dean had been hoping for, he’d take it.

It was an expression that never quite reached her eyes, too tight and too practiced; it was just real enough for him to want to see it unabashed. One of these days he hoped she’d stop looking like she expected him or Sam to find an excuse to push her away at any given moment.  

It was like looking into a mirror. He’d seen the same emptiness reflected back in his own eyes. To fake it, to laugh and smile and pretend everything was okay when in reality the darkness that had settled into his bones like an exoskeleton when he was young ate away until nothing but a shell of what he used to be was left? It was exhausting in a way that was unable to be expressed. 

The bluish haze from the lights caught on the dips and curves of her hair, the oil-dark braid tugged over one of her shoulders. How she found time each morning to get the length of it woven back into the neat styles was beyond him. He barely spent the energy to smooth down the rooster’s crown he’d get from sleeping before he was out the door. However she did it, it suited her.

What didn’t suit her were the dark circles he’d seen but never really noticed. Tori sat straight on default, but the line of her shoulders were curved as if she’d like nothing more to slump into herself; the walls Dean knew she kept sky high around herself detested showing even physical vulnerability.

When she’d finally woken up after the encounter with the Snarly Yow, she’d been back on her feet, ready to get back on the road. She had winced through the broken ribs and refused to acknowledge the bandaging he’d wrapped around her torso.

She just kept moving, not one minute of downtime. It wasn’t even a day later when she insisted on taking a case she’d pieced together, which led them here, to Houghton, Michigan where 4 adults had drowned in a nearby lake over the last 6 months. 

The food was hot when it came out and tasted like heaven. Granted, anything tasted good on an empty stomach and Dean had yet to have a burger he didn’t like.

Except those stupid bean or impossible burgers Sam kept buying on the grocery runs for himself. Those tasted like cardboard and broken dreams no matter how many spices and aromatics he added to try and salvage what he could the few times he’d humored his brother.

Nothing would ever beat true, charcoal grilled beef with that waxy American cheese and onions. 

“I’m gonna go for a smoke before we leave,” Tori said to the brothers, standing from the booth. “I’ll meet you both outside when you’re done.”

Sam was still working on his club sandwich, Dean had devoured his burger along with two of the six chicken strips she’d ordered and the rest of her fries that she slipped off her basket into his while ignoring the inquisitive look he’d shot her way when she had. 

She downed the last of the Johnnie Walker from the glass in her parting from the table, already missing the familiar burn while navigating her way through the high top tables and men playing darts to get to the front door. 

Her attempt to quit had been short lived to say the least. Not that she had really put much heart into quitting in the first place. She knew the statistics of people who were successfully able to quit, and knew the likelihood of her cause of death was not going to be related to lung cancer due to tobacco use. 

No, she knew she wouldn’t live long enough to see that happen. 

The first signs of winter were starting to appear. Frost had covered the grass that morning, and the temperatures were supposed to dip well below freezing overnight. The cold stung her face as she stepped outside and Tori instantly missed the overwhelming warmth from the bar. She’d have to check the weather app on her phone, but from the recognizable feel in the air, she would be surprised if they didn’t get snow overnight. 

Slipping an American Spirit between her lips, she fished around into her jacket pocket for her lighter. The first drag alone was enough to waft away the looming cloud of stress. The cherry glowed red in the dim light, and Tori gnawed at her bottom lip. Her ribs still smarted if she moved the wrong way too fast, and the puncture wounds on her bicep were still scabbed to Hell. 

Waking up once to the Winchesters having saved her ass was humiliating enough, but twice was cause for a level of disgust aimed at herself she was far too comfortable with. She didn’t dare voice her thanks; the bandages wrapped tightly around the claw marks on her chest and the shirt she woke up both belonging to Dean were blows to her sense of self that were more devastating than any demonic hound could land. 

She took another drag, leaning forward to brace her forearms on the fence railing, grateful for the water-resistence of her jacket sleeves as they pressed into the thin layer of snow resting atop. Her crystalized breath and smoke mingled in the air and fading out. 

The lake out in front of the restaurant nearly blended into the dark navy sky. The same string lights that were hung inside shone warm light on the deck, warding off the growing dark. There wasn’t as much light out here as in the city, so it was a shame the clouds covered the sky otherwise she would have been able to see the stars. 

Above the music playing from the outdoor speakers the owners hadn’t covered for the winter yet, boots on the wooden deck pulled her back in from her pondering. After spending nearly 2 months living with him, Tori had memorized the cadence of Dean’s steps and every variation of them. 

“Wanna share?” She offered the cigarette, the stick held between her index and middle finger.

To her surprise, he took it from her as he stood beside her, matching her posture.

She watched him skeptically as he lifted it to his lips. And as she predicted, the smoke and his breath caught in his lungs, instigating a coughing fit. Amused, she smiled to herself as Dean hacked and coughed, handing her back her cigarette. 

“Yeah,” he wheezed. “Still don’t like ‘em.”

“Pussy,” Tori snarked, taking a pointedly long inhale. 

“Bite me,” Dean coughed through that grin he always seemed to send her way. 

“You sound like you contracted the plague. Not sure I want my mouth anywhere near you, thank you very much.”

“You make me sound dirty.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Ouch,” Dean said, acting pained. 

“Ah you’ll be fine,” Tori said, flicking the ash from the cigarette into the snow below the deck. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean quieted, matching her shift in tone. “Still finishing. Don’t know how that kid eats that stuff.”

“Wait, why aren’t you still in there with him them?” Surely he hadn’t come out here just to hack on a cigarette and talk shit with her?

He shrugged. “I’ve been watching Sam eat our entire lives. He can eat unsupervised for one night.”

Tori looked at him sidelong, seeing right through the bullshit. “Uh huh. And what’s the real reason?”

Dean stayed silent, the kind she knew meant he was formulating his words carefully. He wasn’t the type to mince words, which she appreciated as she didn’t either.

The only difference was, she knew her own thought process, but she hadn’t quite cracked his yet. Mostly because she was certain he didn’t know half the time either.

“How’re your battle wounds?” He asked finally.  

Another long inhale, smoke curling around her lips and fading into the air. 

“Does it ever get tiring?” She asked in return.

Dean angled his body to further face her. “What?”

“Does it ever get tiring,” she said again. “Sticking your nose into everyone's business?”

He went still, processing her words. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You keep asking me all these questions. Are you alright? How are you feeling? Sam too. All the fucking time,” she said, gesturing with her hands, ash falling from the cigarette like the flurries that had started to drift down from the clouds above. “You need to just lay the fuck off.”

The kindness, or concern if he wanted to call it that, it chafed like a wool sweater in the summer. Why was it any of his business? In honesty, she didn’t think he really cared as much as it was him being customary. She wasn’t sure which option was worse: pity or insincerity.

The hatred was easier, before he knew about most of the skeletons hidden in her closet. Now, it was too soft, and it made her blood boil with every questioning look and overly cautious action like just because she got knocked around a bit she’d become some helpless animal. 

Maybe it was why it felt so good to see Dean’s face twist in frustration. 

“You know you don’t have to be such a bitch all the time?” He said angrily. “Some of us are just trying to help you.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t ask for any of it. And I didn’t ask for you to treat me like I’m fucking fragile.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yes it is,” Tori snapped, snuffing the butt of the cigarette out on the heel of her boot. “Ever since I told you about Alice you keep looking at me like I am going to break if you so much as breathe wrong. So if I’m a bitch, then you’re a fucking pussy.”

“That’s enough,” Dean said quietly, the kind of quiet that came with violence if she kept pushing. 

But it wasn’t enough, not yet. She needed the burn of his ire back on her. To be that angry is to be blinded, and that was exactly what she needed him to be. Tori stood there, toes of her boots inches from his with their eyes locked. 

Her lips pulled up ever so slightly in a mocking smirk. “Or what, pussy?”

Dean’s mouth thinned, and for a second she thought for sure that the tempest of anger growing behind his gaze would burst forth. But then he stepped around her, walking back towards the restaurant. 

Her hands balled into fists as she whirled around, her smirk devolving into a snarl. “You realize you’re proving my point, right? Not fucking man enough to say what you wanna say!”

Tori felt her resolve waver as he just kept walking, disappearing back around the corner of the building. 

Outrage built up in her body like steam trapped in a kettle. Her nails dug harshly into her palms but she could barely feel it. The ache in her knuckles to punch something drowned everything else out, accented by the need to scream against the void that threatened to swallow her whole. 

She didn’t dare aim her fist at the questionably sound siding of the bar. Instead, she slammed the side of her hand into the outside of her thigh.

Dull pain bloomed like colors in the dark, and she brought it down again. The wave of pain lasted longer that time, but it was still not enough.

Her fist made contact with her leg again and again, each punch coming faster than the last until the throbbing in her body trumped the chaos in her head and the pressure of emotions that had built up was released. 

Slumping boneless and shaking into the bench set up to face the lake, not caring about the snow seeping into her pants, the sobering feeling of regret set in. It always followed the wrath like a clean up crew, like maybe it would make up for the destruction she always seemed to leave in her wake, whether it be on someone else or on herself.

And the thing about regret, it always brought shame with it. Between the two, Tori didn’t know how she could stand herself. 

How anyone could stand her. 

How the Impala was still idling in the parking lot when she pulled herself together enough to walk back to the front, ignoring the screaming thigh. How the doors were unlocked for her to climb inside for the silent drive to the motel room. And how the room adjoining theirs was unlocked when they turned in for the night, just in case. 

Dean never really noticed how nothing was ever truly silent.

Even out in the middle of a forest, the place was still alive with sound. The crunch of snow and sticks under their boots, the sounds of birds overhead, setting up the last of their nests for the impending winter.

He’d seen deer tracks in the thick layer of snow not that long ago, rabbits and squirrels or whatever small rodents lived in the Michigan woods scurrying through the dead foliage while he, Sam and Tori made their way towards Backus Lake. 

“Getting major deja vu to Blackwater Ridge,” Sam said, coming up beside Dean.

Dean nodded, “Let’s hope that isn’t what this is. I didn’t pack the flare guns.”

“I’m sure we could probably find some somewhere.”

“Sam, we’re in the middle of the boonies. Ain’t nowhere around here is gonna have flare guns.”

“Theres an army surplus store an hour away.” Tori called out from in front of them. “If anywhere’ll have a couple, it’d be there.”

“Huh,” Sam said, “How’d you know that?”

Dean watched her pause, the hesitation barely noticeable, a boot readjusting on the fallen tree she was climbing over.

“Saw a sign for it on the way in,” she said, hoisting herself up and over. 

“Did you see that?” Dean asked Sam, who shook his head. 

“Coulda just missed it.”

“Right,” he said, not convinced. 

“Dean—”

“Sam,” he cut his brother off. 

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say,” Sam objected, clearing the tree with ease facilitated by his freakishly long legs. 

Dean grunted with effort as he climbed over after him. They should be close to the lake by this point. 

They’d been forced to abandon Baby on the service road. If it weren’t for the road having been plowed to put road blocks up a ways before the lake, they wouldn’t have been able to make it even that far.

He’d had the idea to just trek the shortest course to the shore instead of following the road any further. For all they knew they had cops stationed there in case more people came snooping around.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but hindsight and all of that. 

“It had something to do with her,” Dean said quietly. “And I don’t wanna talk about it.”

He had straight up ignored Sam the night before when his brother had asked about the sudden tension that cropped back up between Dean and Tori. Dean had beelined it for the bathroom, not acknowledging Sam’s inquiry. He wasn’t in the mood then, and he still wasn’t now.

“Ah, fucking finally,” Tori groaned, and Dean could see the glimmer of water ahead of her. 

“You’re gonna have to address it at some point, Dean,” Sam said.

Dean sent a closed lip smile at Sam, patting him on the back. “That’s the thing about free will, Sammy. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Snow and leaf litter turned to snowy, sandy gravel the closer he got to the beach and he could feel the composition of the turf beneath his feet change. The wind whipped against his face harshly, colder from the open body of water stretching out in front of him. 

The lake is smaller than the one in Houghton, but it still took his breath away with just how gorgeous it was. 

A memory popped up in the back of his mind: being on this old dinghy, rod in hand with Bobby sitting beside him. Dean could almost feel the pull of the rod, remembering how that fish had fought. He couldn’t have been more than 6, but he did his best.

The edges were fuzzy, and it was in snapshot-like pictures, but it still maked his heart ache. He couldn't remember the last time he and the old man went fishing, and somehow that doesn’t make the feeling any better. 

“Which way do we wanna walk?” Sam asked, scanning their surroundings, shielding the sun from his eyes with a hand.

Tori glanced around, the only one of them to think to bring a ballcap and sunglasses. “Real question is, are we gonna remember how to get back to find the car?”

Shit, shoulda thought about that sooner. “Uh…” Dean trails off.

Tori was already moving, walking back into the treeline, reemerging a few seconds later, a large branch in hand. 

“Alright, Gandalf. How’s that gonna help?” Dean scoffed.

He can feel the heat from the wordless glare sent his way as she shoved the end of the branch into the snow and the dirt below.

“Not the most conspicuous, but it’s better than relying on any of our senses of direction,” Tori said, brushing her hands off on her jeans. “Why don’t we go to the main drop off? Probably gonna have the best luck finding something up there.”

“Let’s get going then,” Dean said, already walking that way. “We’re losing daylight.”

Tori stuck to the beach, careful of the ice that had started to form on the shore. Dean had diverged further into the treeline and she could hear him crashing around, wholly uncoordinated. Sam had found the happy medium, sticking to where the snow wasn’t as deep. He at least was more sure footed. 

She had barely said a word to the older Winchester that morning. Sam had been the one to receive the breakfast she’d grabbed for them. Embarrassment and self loathing had kept her from confronting Dean about her actions the night before, and when they finally climbed into the Impala, he had seemed too tense for her to even try to broach the subject. 

Stronza idiota, she’d thought to herself in the car. 

It had been a quiet ride, the tension thicker than smoke in the cab. Dean had decided they were going to park the car down from the road closed signs that had been set up by the police and just walk to the lake. He’d said it in such a way she and Sam had exchanged glances and decided not to argue. Somehow she had ended up in front of them both on the way, choosing to ignore their whispering.

The hike into the woods had her sweating and debating stripping off her jacket, but now that there was no tree cover to break the wind coming from the lake, she was glad she hadn’t. She was still warm, but it lingered on that cusp of comfortable and cold.

This time of year, the frigid breath of winter blew down from Canada, showering the entire area with snows on record piling hiring than her head some years.

“So, question,” Tori said after walking a good 20 minutes. “What is it exactly we are looking for?”

“Drag marks, tracks,” Sam answered. “Anything that’s gonna cue us into what this thing is.”

“Well, if it’s a water spirit, are those even gonna leave physical evidence?”

“Some do. Some don’t,” he said. “It kind of just depends.”

“So it’s the Snarly Yow all over again,” she sighed.

Sam shrugged. “Not necessarily. I’d like to think we are a little more prepared this time.”

Tori hummed an absentminded agreement before switching the subject. “You ever go fishing?”

Everything she’d read on Backus lake the night before said it was a decent fishing spot, albeit weedy in spots. Not that anyone would be fishing right now; it was too early for ice fishing, the ice too thin yet. 

“No, not really,” Sam laughed a little. “Bobby would take us when our dad would drop us off, but I always hated it. According to Dean I would cry and throw a fit once it came to actually processing the fish to eat. Plus, now, there really isn’t much time. Besides, Kansas isn’t exactly known for its fishing.”

Tori nodded along, listening to him explain. “That’s actually so adorable.”

“Hmm, it’s embarrassing is what it is.”

“No, it’s sweet. A little ironic though, considering we kill things for a living.”

Sam sighed, the sound bittersweet. “Yeah. Unfortunately the irony is not lost on me with that.”

She quieted, teeth digging into the inside of her cheek. Troppo lontano, Tori. Troppo. 

Somewhere deeper into the forest ahead of them, something darted through the trees, crashing through the foliage. It sounded heavy, too heavy for a deer, which she’d seen the tracks and droppings of. 

“What the hell?” Tori said, head whipping to where the sound had come from. “Dean?”

“I heard it,” he called back. “Didn’t see where it went though.” 

“Fuck,” Tori sped up, moving into the woods towards where it had come from. 

The lake cut inland, creating a lagoon within the forest. The tall trees were thicker together here, their limbs stretching overhead and tangling so only a little sunlight was allowed through. It wasn’t a small space by any means.

Immediately, something felt off. It was only when she slowed to a stop did she realize all the animals around them had quieted. No birdsong, no faint steps of rabbits or squirrels. Even the wind had died, barely creating a breeze. 

What was more, the water of the lagoon wasn’t frozen over. The waves lapped against the shore, thawed all the way to where the stream that connected the lagoon to the lake met open water.

“Well, that’s not creepy at all,” Tori said quietly as Dean came up beside her with Sam barely a step behind him. 

Never in her life had she been someone who needed a man around, but in that moment, she was glad to have some backup. 

“Uh, guys,” Sam said, pointing into the middle of the space. 

Tori followed his finger, her heart dropping when she saw what he did. “Is that…”

Cautiously, she moved forward, mindful of her footsteps. The smell hit her first, that sweet but pungent scent of decay. The closer she got, the worse it became until her eyes started to water. She tucked the collar of her t-shirt over her nose, hoping in vain her perfume would be at least a little help against the stench.

“That’s sick,” Dean coughed, and Tori couldn’t have agreed more.

Because there, on the turf, bleeding crimson into the water, was a pile of entrails. 

“What’re those by it?” Tori asked, the question mostly rhetorical as she was already moving closer. 

“What the Hell are you doing?” Dean snapped, hesitating for a second before following after her. “Fucking be careful.”

“I’m gonna pretend like I didn’t hear you for both our sakes.” Tori responded, carefully sliding down the embankment to the rocky transition to the beach where the remains were. 

“Don’t fucking start this again,” he groaned, the sound turning pained as he followed her down. 

Tori suppressed a gag, the smell overwhelming this close. “I didn’t. You did.”

“Can we just focus on whatever the fuck it is that you’re doing, please?”

“Look,” Tori gestured to the sand. “You know anything around here that makes hoof prints?”

In the sand, hoof prints had left shallow indentations, coming in and out of the dirty water. 

“Uh, yeah. Deer. Moose,” Dean said with more sass than she cared for. 

She glared at him over her shoulder. “Okay, Captain Obvious, do moose or deer tracks look like that?”

Dean was right. Moose and deer did live in this area of Michigan, they’d both seen the tracks and the shit from both animals. But this wasn’t either one of them.

“Aside from the fact that deer and moose avoid areas that smell like rotting meat, deer and moose hooves are cloven. Whatever made these, it had single hooves.”

He stepped closer silently, a fact Tori felt a bit smug about. 

“Shit,” he said quietly. “But wait, look at the indentations.”

Dean knelt down, reaching out to lightly touch the tracks. “See how the weight is distributed? Its all wrong. But that doesn’t make sense.”

He shook his head, pulling his arm back. “For whatever the fuck made those prints, for whatever did that, it’s feet would have had to been backwards.”

“Okay, so we’re thinking that the lagoon is somewhere around here, right?” Tori pointed to the spot on the map that they’d best guessed the lagoon was located. 

Either the map itself was out of date, or the place was bound by whatever spiritual forces used it as its dumping ground. Even now, back at the Impala with the map spread out and John’s journal, the stench clung to her nosehairs, having embedded itself in there no matter how many times she blew her nose. 

The shadows were growing longer, and that deep into the forest there wasn’t a whole lot of sunlight to begin with. The loss of the UV meant it was growing colder by the second, which posed the question they were currently debating: do they try and fly by the seat of their pants again and guess what this thing is now and kill it in the dark, or do they call it and come back out in the morning?

“Yeah, somewhere around there,” Dean agreed, perhaps on the one thing they’d come to an agreement on in the last 48 hours. 

Sam was flipping through the journal, trying to find anything in there that lived near bodies of water, didn’t eat the organs, and had backwards hooved feet. There was incredibly shitty cell reception and not even the hope of WiFi to use his laptop, so in the case they wanted to stay out here, the journal was their only hope. 

“You have a marker?” Tori asked. “I wanna mark it down. Just so we don’t forget it.”

“I won’t forget,” he said with a shrug. 

“Forgive me if I doubt that incredibly self assured statement,” Tori deadpanned, holding out her hand. “Marker. Now.”

Dean muttered something under his breath she chose not to hear as he walked back around to the front seat of the car. A minute later he slapped a pen into her open and awaiting palm. 

“See, was that so hard?” Another string of mumbling she was sure she didn’t want to hear. 

Tori drew a circle around the suspect area, tucking the pen behind her ear when she was done. 

“You finding anything over there, Sammy?” Dean asked his brother. 

“No,” Sam sighed, still working through the worn pages. “I really wish dad had been more organized with this thing. I can’t make sense of it on a good day when I have time to look through it, let alone under a time crunch.”

“Which is why I think we really should go back to the rooms and come back tomorrow,” Tori tried to reason. 

It was the last thing she wanted to admit let alone think about, but she was too uneasy, everything too familiar to the Snarly Yow. The sun was still out, albeit just a warm orange glow split into a million streaks and shards by the tree, but the goosebumps that had materialized on her skin the second she set foot by the lagoon had yet to go away and she had a feeling they wouldn’t until they left. 

“What, so it can kill someone else?” Dean argued. “If we can figure this thing out tonight and we have the stuff, then I say we do it.”

“Yeah, if Sam can find something. If we can’t find anything now, then we are going to have to leave anyway.”

“Guys!” Sam cut in. “Just stop alright? I can’t hear myself think.”

Tori mumbled a quiet apology, choosing to step away from the car to distance herself from Dean. What I wouldn’t do for a smoke right now. Leaning against a tree a few feet from the boys, she picked at her nails.

She’d already picked the nail polish off of them days ago. They weren’t super long; they became a hindrance if they got much longer than the tips of her fingers. When they stopped wherever they went next she’d probably repaint them.

For now, she shoved them into her jacket pockets before they turned blue with frostbite.

“What about that?” Tori heard Dean say, and she looked up to see him pointing at a page on the journal. She couldn’t make out the writing from where she was, though. 

“Kelpies,” Sam read from the journal. “A shape-shifting equine originating from Celtic mythology. They usually live in lochs—or lakes—and rivers. Appearing to passersby as a beautiful white or grey horse with a soaking wet coat and mane, or to some as its human form, its allure is near impossible to ignore. It is only distinguished from a normal horse by its hooves that, according to some accounts of survivors, are twisted backwards.”

Tori came closer then, a mix of hope and dread swirling in her gut. It definitely sounded like the thing they were dealing with. 

Sam continued on.“But beware, as soon as your skin makes contact with it, you will be stuck fast, unable to free yourself as it drags you beneath whatever body of water it calls home, leaving nothing but the organs of its victims to float to the surface for others to find. With the strength of 10 horses its size, it is a formidable creature.”

“Great, so we went from Cujo to a murderous horse?” Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Does Dad say anything about how to kill it, at least?”

“Uh,” Sam stuttered, gloved finger tracing over their dad’s handwriting. “Oh, here. It says that a silver chain stamped with a cross will subdue it, but only a bullet of silver can kill it. It all has to be silver because its a ‘pure’ metal.”

“Okay, so we have silver bullets.” Tori said slowly. “But where are we gonna get a silver chain? Don’t happen to have one tucked away in this Car of Holding?”

Dean’s shoulders slumped, but it was Sam who answered. “Unfortunately, no. We’ll have to add that to the list of things to add to the arsenal.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “The next question is where are we going to find a chain made of pure silver?”

The older Winchester shook his head, holding up his hand. “Wait a damn minute. We don’t need the chain, right? We can just shoot the thing with the bullet as is, no?”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah but—”

“Okay, so we go back, lure this thing out, and pump it full of lead,” he paused. “Or silver…whatever.”

“And what, and end up with a homicidal pony that if we so much as touch one hair will stick to us running amok around?” Tori said incredulously. “Absofuckinglutely not.”

“Yeah, Dean. That may not be the best idea.” Sam pointed out.

Dean gestured to Tori with a hand. “You said it yourself. Where are we going to find a chain that size. And who’s to say that even if we do find one, it won’t just drag us around anyway? Sam, you said it had the strength of 10 of ‘em.”

Tori sighed, yet again hating every moment of hunting alongside them. Here we are again, going in underprepared. Never would she ever get used to staking her life on ‘what-if’ claims, which seemed to be better than the gold standard for these two.

“Fine. But I play bait,” she said, though her heart was going haywire. 

“Tori—” Sam interjected.

“Fuck no,” Dean snapped at the same time as his brother. 

“No. If we’re gonna do this, then I’ll lure it out if it isn’t already there when we get back,” she insisted, looking both of them dead in the eye. 

Tori could point out the moment both brothers realized she was deathly serious. It was a look of defeat she could get used to seeing. Willing her hands to not shake, she folded up the map, tucking it back into the car. As she emerged, Dean was there, pistol in hand. 

He held it out to her, a grim expression on his face. “You a decent shot?’

Tori cocked her head at him, taking her gun and tucking it into the back of her jeans, flinching a bit at the cold steel. “I’d like to think so.”

A curt nod. “We’ll be there if you’re not.”

She loosed a breath, toying with the braid she'd tugged through the back of her worn baseball hat. The words she’d carefully been curating crawled up her throat and to her tongue, demanding to be said. 

“Look, Dean—”

“Let’s just kill this fucking thing, alright?” He said not unharshly. “We can deal with everything else later.”

Tori bit her lip but nodded, following him back out into the woods.

The woods were even creepier at dusk. Only the barest amount of sun left shining through the canopy. They all had grabbed flashlights before they left since they’d for sure be trekking back in the dark.

It was going to be difficult finding their way back, but with the kelpie dead, Tori figured they could take care of anything else that might be out there to stand in the way of getting back to the Impala. 

Silver bullets worked just as well on wolves and bears as they did supernatural beings. 

As planned, the boys halted a little ways away from where they knew the lagoon was. Heart in her throat, Tori kept moving through the trees. The gun in her pants was a small comfort knowing how so many things could go wrong. 

She didn’t know how much of her had to touch the kelpie before she became melded into it, and only whatever powers may be knew how fast the fucker is. Strong, sure, but if it was fast? Then she had to hope the boys were good enough with their guns to hit the thing and not hit her in the process. 

Her heart leapt as she heard splashing from up ahead. Maybe it’s some cute little animal getting something to drink. 

Slowing down further, Tori crept to the line where the trees stopped and the forest floor dropped to the lagoon. Just like before the forest seemed to hold its breath as she approached, every creature saying a silent prayer to a deaf god on her behalf. If she still believed, she might have said one herself.

There was nothing she could do to stop her hands from shaking now, not as she caught a glimpse of grey through the branches. 

Sure enough, a grey horse was standing in the shallows. The journal was right, it looked unsuspecting enough. That was until its head rose from the water, and Tori could see that its muzzle was stained a dark coppery red. 

Oh mio dio. Her blood was ice, and she couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through her body. 

Swallowing thickly, Tori forced her foot forward. Then the other, moving closer and closer until she had to slide down the embankment.

Unsurprisingly, the kelpie twisted its head around, eyeing her as the sound of her approach echoed too loudly through the trees. Its ears swiveled around, and Tori could see its nostrils flaring, smelling her in the gentle breeze. 

“Hi horsey,” Tori said nervously, clenching and unclenching her hands at her sides. “Good horsey. Please don’t kill me.”

God, I sound fucking pathetic. Get your shit together puttana. 

Her left hand slowly drifted behind her, avoiding any sudden movements. She knew horses, normal ones anyway, hated sharp actions and she didn’t want to risk this thing retaining that part of its normalcy. 

The kelpie took a step forward, and Tori’s eyes dropped to its feet. True to the journal, about halfway down its legs, the limbs twisted in a gruesome 180 degrees until its hooves faced the wrong way. It looked…uncomfortable. And uncanny. 

She looked back up, and she could have sworn when it blinked, it had a third eyelid. 

Huh. Have to remind Sam to add that to the entry. 

“Alright, beastia,” Tori said softly, wrapping her hand around the grip, her finger not in the trigger guard yet. “Time to sleep.”

Tori pulled the gun from her jeans and time slowed. 

Her arm lifted, the other coming up to support the gun. Muscle memory kicked in, and the sights were aligned, level with the kelpie's skull. She followed it as it reared, its backwards hooves spraying sand and water into the air. 

For a second, Tori almost felt bad. 

Almost. 

She squeezed the trigger, the recoil immediately traveling down her arms and absorbing into her body. The squeal that emanated from the beast was deafening, almost like a loud clap of thunder. Two more shots rang out, both hitting their mark dead on the side of the kelpie's head. 

Its body splashed lifelessly into the lagoon. Tori kept her gun on it, chest heaving as she waited. For what, she didn’t know. Then, it started to shift and Tori lowered her gun ever so slightly. 

One second, the body of a horse lay half submerged in the water, the next it dissolved into a heap of sand, immediately blending into the existing turf. 

“You can have the front seat, Tori,” Sam said the next morning as Tori was throwing her bag onto the floor in the back of the car. 

She leaned an arm on top of the door. “Wait, why? That’s your spot.”

Sam leaned against the Impala, both of them waiting for Dean while he returned their keys. “You earned it, doing what you did yesterday.”

“I did what any of us would have done,” she tried to reason. 

“Yeah but we didn’t. You did.”

She shrugged, trading spots with him. “Alright then. I don’t wanna hear you complaining about being cramped back there.”

Sam chuckled, patting her shoulder as he passed her. Tori watched him stiffen, a wince forming. 

“Sorry,” he cringed. 

Offering him a reassuring smile, Tori waved him off. “It’s alright. With the way you and Dean are, I need to just get used to it.”

“C’mon nerds,” Dean said, walking up to the car. 

Tori rolled her eyes, climbing into the passenger seat. “Speak of the devil.”

Dean either didn’t hear her or chose not to respond, instead firing up the Impala and pulling out of the motel parking lot. 

Silence filled the car, only the hum of the road beneath them and the purr of the engine. Tori was staring out the window, watching the rows of trees pass by when Dean reached over, turning the radio on. Zeppelin, which had somehow made it back into the cassette player, started to come over the speakers. 

Wordlessly, Tori reached over, turning it back off. 

“You and your fucking music choices,” Dean grumbled, but changed it to the regular stereo.Tori turned back to the window, hiding her grin. Good enough.

You were closing your mailbox a couple days later when Dean walked into the lobby. “Hey you.” You smiled. “How was work?” 

“Well, one of our guys quit. So we’re gonna be short until we can hire someone new.” He sighed, clearly already tired at the thought. “And my parents wanted to know if you’d like to come to Thanksgiving. If you aren’t going to your parents or your brothers.” There was a shyness in how he asked. It was adorable. 

“You want me to go to Thanksgiving at your parents? Isn’t that a big deal?” Your cheeks felt warm at the implication. 

“I do.” Dean nodded. “You’re important to me, and I’d like you to come.” 

After a moment of thinking it over, you nodded. “My brothers are all flying out to England for Mike’s bachelor party that week and my parents are redoing their backyard. So I had just planned to hang out at home. I think spending time with you sounds way better. Can you let me know if I can bring anything?” Showing up empty handed would be rude! 

Dean’s face lit up when you agreed. “I’ll ask my mom, but she’ll probably say just yourself.” He chuckled. “I’ll sleep on the couch in the basement so you can have my room.” He offered easily. “I usually head up a couple days before and head home a couple days after. Does that work for you?” 

“I’m sure I can make it work. I’ll dig out my laptop since I can work remotely.” Your brother had bought it for you the previous Christmas for when you visited them.

“I can’t wait.” 

“Hello, Dean.” Mary smiled as she answered the phone. 

“Hey, ma. Did dad tell you he suggested I bring my friend to Thanksgiving?” 

Mary chuckled. “Actually, he told me ‘some pretty thing’ caught your eye and he hoped to meet her for Thanksgiving.” She really hoped that you made her son happy. Sam she knew was set. Jess was wonderful and Mary knew they’d last. It was Dean that she was worried about. He didn’t seem to have that settling gene, but maybe you could change that. “Just let me know if she has any allergies and what her favorite Thanksgiving food is.” 

Dean was thankful that both his parents seemed so supportive. “As far as I know she doesn’t have any allergies, but I’ll ask her about her favorite dish. She also wanted me to ask what she can bring. I told her you’d probably just say herself, but I’m asking.”

“You’re not wrong.” She agreed. “How about you just tell her whatever she feels like making will be great. I have a feeling she feels the need to bring something. I mean, she’s meeting your parents. That’s usually a big deal.” 

“She said the same thing. I told her that she’s important to me and that I’d like her to come. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before.” There was a softness to his voice as he told her all about you. 

Mary just let him ramble, enjoying how happy her son sounded. “Well, I look forward to meeting her even more now!” Clearly Dean was smitten. 

“I can’t wait for you to meet her, either, mom.” 

You opted to make a pie for Thanksgiving, specifically for Dean. He picked you up in the morning and you were very obviously nervous. There was no missing it. “Hey, it’ll be okay. They’re looking forward to meeting you. I told my mom all about you.” Dean assured you after you’d been on the road for a bit. 

“That’s scarier, De.” You admitted. “Because you’ve probably hyped me up and I can’t live up to whatever you’ve told them.” 

His face lit up at that nickname. “I’ve only told them the truth, I promise.” He wanted to reach over and give your hand a small squeeze but held himself back. “I told them how we met, how easy it is to talk to you, how much I enjoy our movie nights, and that you make a killer cherry pie.” He hoped that you knowing what he’d said helped your nerves. “My mom even understands you’re probably nervous because you’re meeting my parents. She gets it.” 

That did help a bit. “She sounds really nice. But I would expect that. You and Sam are really nice.” Of course some awful parents produced the sweetest kids, but you highly doubted that was the case here. 

“And you’ve been opening up to me more, and that was scary for you. If you can do that you can meet my parents.” He encouraged. “But I’ll make you a promise now: if you get really uncomfortable we’ll leave. Whether you just need some fresh air or you need to get home…I’ll make it happen.” 

You glanced at him, a warm feeling spreading over you. He would never understand how much that meant to you.

Her hands cupped his jaw, fingertips brushing through his beard before she caught his lower lip gently between her teeth, deepening the kiss a moment later in a dizzying mess of lips, tongues, and breathless sighs.

Jensen’s hands settled firmly on her hips, drawing her closer as she shifted against him. Her lips parted on a shaky breath while the kiss deepened, his mouth moving against hers with growing urgency. One large hand cradled the back of her neck while the other held her close, unwilling to leave even an inch of space between them. As he grabbed Irina’s ass with full hands, sinking her hips on his lap, she felt his growing bulge through his jeans, making her hips twist, rubbing her spot warm and needy on it, making her silk pajamas wet and her lips part in a silent moan, while his tongue slid against hers, deep and claiming, one big hand cupping the back of her neck while the other gripped her ass cheek hard enough to bruise.

- ”You sure?” – Irina whispered between gasps, opening her eyes and trying to focus on his features, her thumbs drawing small circles on his beard.

- “I think so..I mean yeah” – Jensen voice came muffed, his lips deep on her cleavage, pulling down her top’ stripes, exposing her breasts. His eager mouth latched on her nipple, his tongue, warm and wet sucking it softly then a bit harder, making her hips involuntary sink and rub her aching clit.

It took all her strength to focus again, placing both hands on the side of his face, lifting it to make their eyes meet. Her long dark hair was messily framing her flushed face, making Jensen smile without noticing, her eyes had that power on him.

- “Look at me big boy” – she held his face a tiny bit far from hers to make him focus on her words, not her lips. – “Are. You. Sure?” – Irina said word by word, taping his face soflty at each one, to make sure he was understanding.

- “I’m very, very sure” – Jensen ran his fingertips around her face, holding her chin up to place a soft kiss on her lips. – “Just a bit tense, I guess..or rusty” - He said grinning, his lips on her neck, sucking and nipping at the skin. His hands kneading her breasts again, tugging at her nipples.

- “Oh, if that’s the case, allow me to help you loosen up a bit”– Irina whispered close to his ear, teasing him, then lifted up from his lap, making Jensen frowning slightly. She placed her hands on his knees, spreading them, and knelled between his legs, on the floor, eyes locked on his while she unbuckled his belt

– “Just close your eyes and relax, I take it from here” - Irina whispered as she released his already hard cock from his boxers, her breath warm, teasing the soft skin of its head, making it twitch.

Jensen hummed in approval, his lips forming into a lopsided smile, his eyes shutting as he rested his head back on couch, exhaling heavily, his voice husky under his breath

– “Alright, it has been a while..” - but he couldn’t finish the sentence, as Irina stroked him slowly, watching the precum spilling out of his tip. She placed her lips on the head of his cock, licking his slit. His fingers threaded through her hair as she took him in her mouth. She swirled her tongue around the head, taking him in inch by inch, until she reached his base.

- “Oh my...fuck, baby” - he grunted, his grip on her hair tightening.

Irina hummed around him, bobbing her head up and down, sucking him hard, moaning at the taste of him. He rolled his hips, thrusting up into her mouth, opening his eyes wide open, pulling her hair a bit tighter, to make her look up

– “Eyes on me sweetheart” - He whispered, as he cupped her jaw with his hand.

- "Mhm," she moaned, taking his tip in her mouth, sucking it gently, then sticking her tongue out, sliding the wide part of it up and down his shaft, licking the underside of his cock, eyes never leaving his. Jensen ran his fingers through her hair, caressing her cheek with his thumb.

- “God, you’re evil” - his breathing got heavier and he smiled – “so fuckin evil” he groaned, moving his hips, slowly pushing himself deeper into her mouth. He released a breathy moan, watching Irina swallow his cock, flattening her tongue along the underside of his shaft. She swirled her tongue around him. Jensen tangled his hand in her hair, his eyes closed, mouth parted in a low grunt.

- "Yeah... Yeah, just like that, sweetheart," - he groaned, releasing his thick load in her throat, as she swallowed everything, and then smiled. Irina placed a soft kiss on his lower abdomen and set on the floor, her breath was short as she cleaned her lips with the back of her hand.

- “More relaxed now?’

Jensen sank on the couch, eyes shut and lips parted, slightly curved in a smile. He raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath, before opening his eyes to look at Irina on the floor. She looked like the most powerful vixen, lying on the floor, propped up on her elbows, wearing only her silk pajamas trousers with her breasts exposed, watching him with an amused smile.

- “I think I’ve never been this relaxed in my whole life” - he murmured, his voice warm, lazy and slightly hoarse, letting out a slow breath, looking as if he'd forgotten every problem he'd ever had.

- “Well, glad I could help” - Irina said with a playful, slightly sarcastic laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes lingering on him sprawled across the couch.

- “Oh believe me baby” – Jensen chuckled, extending his arm toward her, palm up, a silent request for her to come closer. – “Come here, you’re too far”.

Irina grinned and stood up lazily, reaching for his hand, lifting it to her lips, kissing his fingers slowly, as he grabbed her hip with the other, pulling her trousers down, placing wet and warm kisses all over her thighs, her lower abdomen, letting his warm breath tease her already needy and aching mount, sending shivers all over her skin. Jensen dipped his lips and kissed her groin, hooking his fingers inside her lingerie fabric, yanking it down.

- "God, you are gorgeous," - he said as he circled her opening and felt how slicky it was under the lace, feeling the heat of it just radiating outward, her pussy was drenched and open for him. His long middle finger slowly sinking into her soaked cunt, feeling her flutter and grip down on his digit, moving firmly, yet slowly in and out, letting Irina feel every single inch.

She panted, the sensation building as he curled his finger in and out of her, his thumb pressing against her clit and rubbing in small circles. Her legs shook, her mouth dropped open, her back arched as she tried to stop from falling apart, placing both hands on his shoulders.

- “Kiss me” – Irina murmured almost inaudibly, making Jensen lift his gaze to her face with an evil grinning on his lips.

– “Here?” – he teased, placing a soft kiss on her groin – “Or here?” – He ran his nose over her mound and pressed a gentle kiss right above her clit making Irina moan a bit louder with anticipation. He pulled his fingers out and tapped her pussy, cupping it, squeezing the lips with his fingers.

– “I think I’ll stay here..” – and before Irina could answer, he latched his lips on her clit, sucking into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the nub. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her head falling back, a strangled cry leaving her lips. Her legs were shaking, and her thighs tried to close, but he held them open, massaging her ass in his large hands, tugging her cheeks apart, spreading her open, squeezing her flesh.

Jensen was having a feast, lost in a haze of her sweet taste, when a sudden gush of wetness soaked his tongue and lips, dripping down to his chin and neck. Irina’s whole body trembled, his name leaving her lips repeatedly as her release shook her whole body in a loud, messy moan. He moved his tongue to her entrance, slipping it in, licking up the slickness, as he braced her by the waist. Her body softened and he sat her on his lap, gently caressing her flushed face, holding her chin with his fingers.

- “Looks like you’re quite relaxed too” – Jensen smirked as he took a strand of hair from her forehead, kissing her lips softly.

- “I...I just have one question” – Irina said between soft kisses and giggles – “How the hell did you know this was my favorite?”

- “Your favorite..?” – Jensen whispered as his lips moved from her ear to her neck. - “..way to get eaten?” – he smirked, lowering his voice - "I think I'm starting to learn a thing or two about you, Ms. Diplomat."

Irina throw her head back laughing – “And I’m starting to think you're getting a bit cocky, sir.” – pushing lightly his chest, then gasping as Jensen pulled her close and scooped her up, carrying Irina towards the bed. He put her down on the soft, fluffy sheets, giving a step back to get ride of the rest of his clothes.

As he started to strip, Irina’s mouth involuntarily drop open in disbelief, she started laughing and thrown a pillow on him

-“C’mon! This can’t be real. Dude, you’re ridiculous!”

Jensen dodged the pillow and kept unbuttoning his shirt, lifting a brow.

-“What? Were you expecting some Magic Mike performance?”

She propped herself up on her elbows, eyes blazing with lust. Still smiling, she shook her head in disbelief.

- “No man should be allowed to look like this.” She gestured vaguely toward his body.

- “This what?”

His voice came out lower this time. Dangerous.

His eyes never left hers as he pulled his trousers down completely and started walking toward her, like a beast about to catch its prey, a smirk playing on his lips.

Irina felt shivers run all over her naked body, a strange mix of joy, anxiety, and amusement.

Probably the alcohol, and the fact that she was finally having fun again after such a long time, she told herself.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was that deliciously gorgeous man walking in her direction.

Naked.

Hungry.

Looking as though he intended to devour her whole.

Sam shook his head because he knew I was lying but he was somewhat happy for Dean and I - we were actually getting along well and hadn't had any huge fights for a while.

"You boys hungry?"

"I could eat," Dean winked.

"I can heat up the soup I made last night. Soup would be good for ya Sammy," I told him as he coughed.

"Yeah, sure," he answered half-heartedly before leaning in and focusing on his laptop.

His computer had dinged and was probably a case so I rushed to the kitchen hoping I could heat up the soup and get us all fed before we headed out on whatever horrors this case would bring.

Dean came to the kitchen and asked how I was doing.

"I'm good but the churn in my gut tells me you aren't," I replied as I bumped the heat up a smidge.

"Sammy found a case, he went to get his gear around. He said that in multiple states there have been people dying in all kinds of horrible ways - burned eyes, hands and feet. Puncture wounds through their hands and liquefied internal organs."

"That's appetizing," I muttered as I stirred the soup.

"Right," Dean sighed, "Um but I wanted to know if you have noticed anything about Sammy?"

"You mean the bloody coughs?"

"When did you notice?"

"I've felt like something was off for a few weeks now, but I noticed him trying to keep that hidden from you yesterday, maybe the day before. I hadn't seen it until then, its just been a gut feeling. I've just been keeping an eye on him and trying to make sure he eats and drinks properly so he can conserve his energy."

Dean wrapped me in a hug and whispered, "Thank you."

"I'm trying," I assured and stood up on my tiptoes to kiss him.

"If you notice anything or you see something I don't, please let me know."

"I'll try," I smiled sadly at him and turned back to ladle up some soup for all of us. "Go get your brother," I ordered. "We're all eating before we leave for this hunt."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean shot me a mock salute before leaving the kitchen.

We found ourselves paired up with Castiel and Meg again as we raced to beat Crowley to one of Lucifer's crypts. Interactions with Castiel were more awkward than usual and he'd zone out momentarily, it almost felt like he was on a delay during parts of that hunt. His zone out moments were so brief I don't think the boys noticed at first.

After Meg led us to an abandoned warehouse - which was built over the real location of the crypt that housed the angel tablet - we split up. Meg went with Sam, while Dean and I went with Cas. We found the crypt and the tablet. Cas was unable to take the tablet out of the wooden chest because it had been warded against angels. Dean and I got it open but then Cas asked Dean to give it to him but Dean refused.

Dean told Cas that if he tells him how he got out of Purgatory, then he can have the tablet. Cas' angel blade dropped into his hand, and panic filled my body.

Cas struck Dean, but he was able to block the blow with the tablet.

Dean knew something was up and told Cas to fight it. When Cas attacked a second time Dean blocked him with the tablet again.

"What have you done to me, Naomi?" Cas asked.

"Who the hell is Naomi?" I demanded. 

When Cas backhanded Dean, sending him flying across the room, I screamed, "NO!"

Castiel ignored my scream and when Dean tried to escape the room with the tablet he grabbed Dean's forearm, snapping the bone.

"Castiel, stop!" I yelled, as Dean dropped the stone releasing the angel tablet.

Dean then told Cas if he wanted the tablet he'd have to kill him first and Cas took another swing, not noticing that I'd moved in closer to him. I knew I couldn't kill Cas but maybe I could distract him, I thought. I tried to pull Cas' vessel away from Dean but Cas just pulled away and continued to wail on Dean's face.

"Cas this is insane, stop it! You're hurting him!" I shouted as I grabbed at anything I could use as a weapon and threw it at him or tried to hit him with it.

Cas continued to pummel Dean, who kept pleading with Cas to remember that they were family - that the Winchesters needed him.

I rushed Cas one last time, landing a blow to his face but was quickly tossed aside.

I pushed up onto my knees, "Castiel, you must stop. Leave Dean alone!"

He took several more swings at Dean and then raised his angel blade to end Dean, but froze.

Dean groaned, "We're family. We need you. I need you."

The angel blade slipped from Castiel's hand and I rushed forward, scooping it up and standing between him and Dean.

"I'll kill you if I have to."

Cas said nothing, he just picked up the angel tablet, causing a blinding yellow light to fill the room. Then without saying anything he reached out and cupped Dean's face, healing him.

"I'm so sorry, Dean."

"You're sorry?!" I spat, "After what you just did ‘sorry’ doesn't cut it buddy.

Dean's hand landed on my shoulder - his way of silencing me.

I turned to look at him - his handsome face was all put back together but I kept seeing flashes of him all beaten and broken - I truly wanted to end Castiel in that moment. I was so done with it all; I just wanted a little peace and I had this simmering feeling in my gut that whatever was happening now was going to lead to even less peace.

Castiel explained that Naomi was the one who pulled him out of Purgatory and that she'd been controlling him since. That explained the weird blip-outs where he'd pause just a little too long - almost like his brain was firing but at a delay - that's exactly what was happening.

Dean and I wanted to know what broke the "connection", and Cas explained that he wasn't sure. Cas assured us that he was now free of Naomi and that he had to protect the Angel Tablet not only from her, but from us.

Before Dean or I could ask questions Castiel vanished.

Sam came and told us we had to get out of there, we saw Crowley kill Meg as we piled into the Impala and peeled out of there.

On the way back to the bunker Dean told Sam and I that he cannot take anymore lies from anyone. He asked Sam to be honest with him from now on, and Sam wholeheartedly agreed.

I had a feeling in my gut that this was going to just be another sticking point that would cause them to fight. However, I also had no energy to give to this discussion any longer so I curled up into the back seat and went to sleep.

We ended up not making it to the bunker because Dean picked up a case while fueling up and we ended up in a town called Conway Springs in southern Kansas.

"So, what are we looking at again?" Sam asked as Dean parked in the parking lot for the Sheriff station.

Dean handed him the newspaper he'd picked up and Sam read the summary out loud, "Two young women found near highway with their throats ripped out."

"Sounds vampy to me," Dean remarked.

"Yeah, maybe."

" Listen, if you want to take a knee on this one if you're not feeling up to it," Dean told Sam.

"What?" Sam asked looking genuinely confused.

"You know, the trials, what Cas said that you got what he can't cure."

"Hmm, which means what, exactly?" Sam asked.

Dean responded with a question, "Well, I don't know. You tell me. Are you okay?"

"De," I warned.

Sam scoffed, "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

Dean seemed taken aback, "Me?"

"Yeah. Um, Cas dinged you up pretty good."

"Yeah, and?"

"And I just wanted to make sure you're ok?"

"What, like my feelings?" Dean snarked.

Sam replied, "If that's what you want to talk about, sure."

"Okay. I'll tell you what. Why don't I go get some, uh, herbal tea."

"Enough!" I snapped.

Dean went on, "And you can find some Cowboy Junkies on the dial."

"Eat me, Dean," Sam quipped and got out of the car.

"And you know what? We'll just talk it out," Dean snarked.

Sam slammed the door causing me to flinch.

"Dean knock it off," I warned.

"Good talk," Dean quipped as he got out of the car and headed toward the front door behind Sam. "Nay, great talk! Very healthy!"

I caught up to him, "You can take a breath now."

"Are you actually mad at me?"

"No," I paused. "Maybe a little. We could have been at home, resting in our comfy bed but instead we slept in the car, took turns driving - er at least the two of you did and now I'm in this stuffy FBI get up and I just want to be at home, in bed, with a nice glass of wine," I waited a beat, "And no panties on," I added in a whisper.

We were quickly directed to the sheriff - all three of us flashing our FBI badges before being asked, "FBI? You're here about the Lady Killer Murders, aren't you?"

"The Lady Killer Murders?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, coined it myself," the Sheriff answered proudly.

"Congratulations. What can you tell us?" I asked, as we followed the Sheriff to a desk in the midst of the hectic station.

"Well, both victims were female, under 21, and here's the kicker," the Sheriff paused for dramatics, "They were drained of all their blood."

Sam and I both let out a little, "Huh."

"Exactly. We found that strange, also. But then last night, things got even stranger," the Sheriff went on.

"Why what happened last night?" I asked.

"Yeah," the Sheriff turned the monitor on his desk to show us the surveillance video he had. "We set up a security cam on Fuller's Point for safety purposes. It’s where our local young people like to go make out. Last night, things got crazy."

On screen we watched a teen girl being dragged from a car as a teen boy ran up and beheaded him. The absolute lack of blood spray made it very apparent to me that the now dead man was a vamp and not a human.

Not that the sheriff would have understood that, but I was a bit surprised that he didn't seem to take note of how little blood there was. Sure we get some blood spray when we behead a vamp but it's not like what would happen if you took a living being's head off. There's too many arteries you have to go through for a living person, not like a vamp has blood pumping under their skin.

By the time we got to the end of the clip we'd been shown I had recognized one of the three teens - the girl who'd been dragged from the car was none other than Krissy Chambers.

Sam verified, "Have you gotten an ID on any of these people?"

"Well, not yet. Crime scene was empty when we got there. No vic, no nothing," the Sheriff answered.

"Uh -” he continued. “I'm thinking it's some kind of cult or a drug thing. So I put a statewide A.P.B. out on these three about an hour ago."

"I'm gonna need you to call that off. And we're gonna need this footage," Dean barked.

Looking flabbergasted, the Sheriff asked, "What?"

"Sheriff, why do you think we're here? You just crossed streams with a federal investigation," I stated.

Dean added, "Now, I suggest you cooperate, call off your A.P.B., or you're gonna find yourself in a world of hurt."

The Sheriff deflated a bit but he complied and handed over a disk with the surveillance video and their notes on it.

"So, what was that all about, G-man?" Sam taunted Dean as we exited the building.

"Sam, don't you recognize that girl?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow and glanced back to Dean, who asked, "You remember Krissy Chambers?"

"Uh, yeah, the Vetalas case, right? They were working that truck stop by the freeway. She and her dad helped us shut 'em down."

"Yeah, and the dude promised to quit hunting because he didn't want his daughter to grow up to be a hunter," I replied.

"Well, guess who the star of this snuff film is?" Dean added.

"Well, maybe he doesn't know she's doing this," Sam theorized.

"What, sneaking out in the middle of the night to go hunt monsters with the Apple Dumpling gang?" Dean quipped.

"Yeah, isn't that what kids are doing for kicks these days?"

Sam glanced between us as though he was being ganged up on, "Okay. Then maybe he knows, and he's helping her out."

"What, get caught on "Candid Camera"? Let's just go find her before she gets into any more trouble," Dean opened his door and climbed in.

Sam shot both of us frustrated looks once he was in the car too.

Part of me wondered why Sam seemed so off-put - 'it's not like he had sexy fun plans with the hottest guy around,' I thought - a thought that made me snort.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just thought of something dumb," I half lied.

We tracked Krissy and the other two teenie boppers to one of the two motels near town and bribed the sketchy clerk into letting us know what room she was booked in.

Sammy picked the lock and pushed the door open, I hadn't even made it into the room when a click alerted us to where Krissy was.

Dean didn't even have to turn and look; he just said, "Hey Krissy."

"What are you two doing here?" she asked.

I stepped fully into the room around the door, "Actually it's three of us and we're here to save your bacon," I said with a quick little point at her. I knew it was such a mom move to make but it just happened.

Dean gestured at me, "What she said."

"Does it look like my bacon needs saving? Wait. How'd you find me? I paid cash everywhere."

"Only two hotels within a 20-mile radius, and we paid cash, too -- just more," Dean quipped.

"Freaking clerk."

"Krissy, where's your dad?" Sam asked.

"Dead. Well, let's do this again, like, never. Now go. We got this."

"We who?" I asked.

"And got what?" Dean added.

Krissy didn't respond at first, she simply walked back to her laptop to watch the screen, but after a beat she stated, "A vampire."

"Sorry. A what?" Dean nearly shouted as the three of us walked over to see what she was so intent on watching on the screen.

A motel room came into view - a woman strapped to the bed.

"What the fuck is this?" I asked.

A girl's voice came from the speakers, "We're in. The room's clear. Nobody here but a vic."

The door slamming alerted the two teens to the arrival of the vampire, who quickly tossed the girl across the room and began a standoff.

"Stay with her!" Dean ordered as he and Sam rushed from the room.

"I don't need a baby-sitter."

"Clearly you need some type of supervision because what you're doing is incredibly dangerous Krissy,” I berated her. “And you're a kid, you deserve to be hanging out with your friends on the weekend not spending nights hunting monsters."

"Someone has to do it."

"Yeah, let us grown-ups who don't have anything else do it."

When the boys burst into the other motel room the vamp took one look and dashed for the nearest window, diving out of it.

"I got him!" Krissy shouted and ran out the door.

I was so shocked it took me a moment to chase after her.

As I caught up I heard the vamp pleading, "Please! Don't shoot me!"

Krissy shot him in the leg and he fell over continuing to beg, "Don't shoot me! Please, don't - Please it hurts so bad!"

"How did you drop him so quickly?" Dean asked, having caught up to us a moment after I'd gotten there.

"Darts filled with dead man's blood," Krisssy answered proudly.

"Where's the blue van?" Dean asked.

"What blue van?" Krissy and I asked in unison.

"The blue van that he was Usain Bolt-ing to?" he paused seeing that neither Krissy nor I knew what he was talking about. "Never mind."

Dean pulled the knife out of his side holster to kill the vamp, but Krissy freaked out.

"Wait, stop! This is not your kill."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked.

"Three months ago, this blood banger snuck into a house and killed three people in their sleep," answered Josephine - I'd seen her name on something in the room and assumed the boy was Aiden.

"What?! No! I didn't do that!" the vamp whimpered.

"One was a woman --never hurt anyone! The other two, a brother and a sister," Josephine went on.

“What?! No! I didn't do that!” he shouted. "I don't know what you're talking about," the vamp replied.

"I came home from a friend's house, and I found them. They were my family!"

The vamp continued to beg for help,"This isn't happening. I didn't do anything, I swear. Please, help me!"

Josephine raised her machete and took his head off.

Krissy approached her to comfort her, "It's okay, it's over," she told the other girl.

Dean looked disapprovingly at Krissy and hissed, "I need to talk to you privately."

"You know this guy?" Aiden stepped up, puffing his chest.

"Yeah. We have a past."

"Eew," Aiden whispered.

"Not like that you twit," I snarked at him, as we walked a way.

"All right. So, you're gonna have to catch me up. What --did your dad, uh --he couldn't quit the life, could he?"

"No, he did. For a while, it was amazing. We had dinner every night at a table. We watched TV, went on walks," she paused, "Even went to the mall."

"Ok, so what happened?" I asked.

"And then...The past came a-knockin'. I woke up one morning and found him dead.......his throat ripped out."

"Well, I'm sorry.”

"Me too. If it weren't for Josephine and Aiden, I don't know how I would have made it."

"So, they both lost their families, as well?" Dean inquired.

"Yeah, the same vamps we're hunting together --a nest," Krissy explained.

"Well, look, I am sorry to rain on your parade, but you are way too young to be doing this."

"You're never too young to kill monsters, especially the ones that kill your family," she spat at Dean.

"You should have called us," I told her.

"Yeah, because you could have just come and resurrected him?" she snapped.

Dean interrupted me before I could give her a piece of my mind.

"Hunting isn't all about killing and revenge. I thought we had this chat last time. Do you have any, uh -- do you have any family that's still out there?"

Krissy shrugged, "An aunt in Cincinnati. Why?"

"'Cause you're packing a bag, and we're taking you there," Dean snipped.

"I think Victor's gonna have a problem with that."

"Who the fuck is Victor?"

"He took us in, showed us everything we know," she answered vaguely.

"Wait. So, what are we talking about here? Some sort of kid's school for hunters?" Dean asked.

"Don't be such a dweeb, okay? We're not the X-Men. Victor's helping us get revenge," Krissy snipped.

"Yeah, well, I don't care what he is. He sucks. 'Cause you and your little crew here got caught. And if it wasn't for me, your faces would be splattered all over the news."

Krissy snapped back, "Well, you know, so what?! Maybe it's time that people know the truth about what's really going bump in the night."

"Oh, and cause panic? Create mayhem? Yeah, that's a great plan."

"Look, I don't need you to save me, Dean. I'm not a little kid anymore," she turned and walked away.

"Krissy," I called out and she paused for a moment, "You're taking a dangerous path and you really need to think things over," I blurted, but let her go to clean up the mess they'd made.

The boys talked about meeting a Victor once on a hunt in Spokane, Washington. I jotted that info down to see if I could use it to track anything down on him - something felt off and I was going to get to the bottom of it.

I will admit the kids were doing an excellent job of covering their tracks and not leaving any evidence behind - which seemed more serial killer than hunter to me but I was hoping that thought was nothing more than an intrusive one.

When we arrived at Victor's house Dean muttered something about it not being a compound and we followed the kids into the front door. Dean was the most shocked over the normalcy of the home.

Victor Rogers introduced himself.

Sam spoke up, "We met -- a Rougarou hunt in Washington. I'm Sam. This is Dean."

His face lit up with recognition, "Oh, yes. The Winchesters. Right," he looked at me for a moment.

I introduced myself, "I'm with them," I jabbed a thumb at the brothers before crossing my arms and leveling this Victor guy with a look of suspicion.

Josephine walked up slowly and accepted a hug from Victor, who asked her, "Better now?"

She replied, "Much."

"And what do we always say?" he asked, sounding like a great parent.

"Move on, but never forget," Josephine replied.

"Good. Now, don't you have a trig test in the morning?" he asked and she went upstairs to study.

He then directed Aiden to clean his room before turning to Krissy, who promised a full report about the hunt and went to her room.

Sam almost seemed too ok with the set up - the kids went to school in the day and hunted at night. Victor explained it was a balanced approach and Dean argued it wasn't ok because they were children.

"What say you?" Victor asked.

"I think they are children and shouldn't be put in danger like that. I think they deserve the freedom of childhood not to be continuously traumatized by the parental figure in their life sending them to what could be their death each hunt. But I also bet that you don't really care what I think so I'm not going to keep rambling.”

Victor's brow popped when I finished as if he were mulling my words over. "When I found them, they were lost, confused, angry. I gave them family and purpose," he finally replied after a few beats. "And you want to take all that away? Why?"

"So they don't get killed," Sam answered first.

"They know the risks," Victor stated.

"They know the risks?!" I spat - Sam's hand landed on my shoulder as if he knew I was about to pop up from where I had settled on the chair arm and punch this guy in the nose.

"That may be true, but why take them?" Sam asked - far more politely than I would have.

"Because the next generation of hunters has to be better," Victor replied.

"Better than what?" Sam questioned.

"Better than us. Oh, come on, guys. I know your friends. I mean, Martin was insane.

And somebody obviously dropped Garth on his head when he was a baby.

And I know you two loved that Bobby guy, but he was a barely functional alcoholic."

"Watch your fuckin mouth," I growled.

Dean's eyes shot from Victor to me and back, "She's right, watch it."

"No disrespect meant, but Josephine is an all-state athlete and National Merit scholar.

Aiden is so fast he could pick your pocket before you could even blink. And Krissy, oh she's just a natural-born leader and hunter."

"So what?" Dean asked.

Victor reasoned, "So these kids are the cream of the crop. They are the Beatles. They are the dream team. And once they get their revenge......they'll be better hunters than any of us ever dreamed of."

As we left the house Dean remarked that this was all crazy.

"Is it? They got a pretty good life," Sam said.

"Kids aren't supposed to hunt, Sam."

"We did," Sam replied.

"Oh yeah and look where that's gotten you, Sammy. You're both the picture of perfect health and mental stability," I threw my hands in the air and marched to the car.

Dean thought we needed to finish the hunt for them - like that would somehow get them to stop or something. He told Sam to stay at the house and look after "The Brady Bunch," and he and I would talk to the girl from the motel room.

When we asked the girl if she knew the guy who tied her up in the motel, she said yes she did and that everyone knew him - his name was Jimmy and was a war hero who'd gotten a parade when he returned from Afghanistan a few weeks prior.

She said a man in a blue van asked her for directions as she came out of work and then she woke up tied to the bed in the motel. Apparently Jimmy was there and was crying. He kept telling her he was sorry and she thought he was going to kill her but she said he just seemed scared.

"This isn't adding up," Dean grumbled as we left our witness interview.

"I've searched a little and I can't really find much on Victor," I told him.

Dean tugged me close and pressed a kiss to my forehead before rushing back to the Impala, where he pulled his phone out to call Sam.

"Hey. You there?" he asked and after a moment he put the phone on speaker, handing it to me so he could drive a few blocks back to the motel.

"How did it go, with the girl?" Sam asked.

"Strange. Might be that vampire wasn't lying. He was fresh made within the month, but Josephine's family was murdered three months ago," Dean told him.

"So, who killed them, then?" Sam questioned.

"My bet is Victor," I blurted, earning a scowl from Dean.

"Wow," Sam scoffed, "Why do you hate this guy?"

"Hate's a strong word," I quipped, "I don't trust him, my gut says he's sketchy."

Dean cut me off, "I don't know who killed Josephine's family. I'd like to talk to whoever's driving that blue van. Other than that...You?"

Sam admitted, "Something's up. Victor says he has a surveillance photo of the vampire that killed Krissy's father," he paused and added, "But, Dean...I'm not so sure."

"Why's that?" Dean asked.

"There's no time stamp on it."

"Okay. So you think he's lying?"

"Well, that, or he's just wrong. It's hard to say."

"Yeah, I never trust a guy who wears a sweater. You want us to head back there?"

"No, no. I'm good. Let me do some more digging."

"All right. I'm gonna talk to the hotel clerk, see what he knows."

The only clue we got from the motel guy was that a guy wearing a hoodie checked into room 215 and he looked at some brochure for Conway Springs Lodge, which wasn't far away but closed this time of year.

Dean and I headed to the lodge where we found a girl sitting on the bottom of a bunk bed looking distressed.

"Hey! Who the hell are you?!" Dean shouted as she shied away from his flashlight.

"Answer me!" he growled as she sobbed.

"Please make it go away. It hurts so much," she whimpered.

"What?" Dean asked as I noticed a light switch and turned it on.

"No, shut them off!" she cried, "They're too bright!"

"Not shutting them off till you tell us what the hell's going on," I told her.

She brought her hands up to feel her teeth as she vamped out, "What's happening to me?"

"Come here," Dean ordered, moving quickly to yank her off the bed and level his machete ready to swing if needed. "You telling me that's never happened before?"

"No. No, there's something wrong with me. That - that guy, he did something to me."

"What guy?" I asked.

"I don't know," she whimpered. "Some guy in a blue van, he - he grabbed me. He took me here," she doubled over grabbing her stomach. "My stomach, it hurts so much.

I was just starting to put it all together - she was a fresh vamp and could be saved, but then Krissy appeared with a gun and her two besties.

If looks could kill both Dean and vamp girl would have melted as Dean ordered the kids to put their weapons away.

Krissy wanted to know why we were with the vampire that killed her father and Dean told her that wasn't the vamp that killed her dad.

"I don't want to hurt you, Dean, but I will if you don't move," Krissy told him.

"Don't do it kid," I warned, sheathing my machete with one hand and unholstering my gun with the other - a nice skill I'd learned from the boys. "That girl over there is innocent."

"How would you know that?" Josephine spat.

"Because she's fresh made, a day or two at most," Dean answered.

"Yeah and Krissy's dad was killed months ago," I reminded.

"This whole thing stinks. That vamp that was killed last night? Why was he swearing that he didn't do it?" Dean asked, trying to reason with the teens.

Aiden reasoned it was because he was a liar.

"No that's not it. Vampires don't beg for their lives," I told him.

"She's right," Dean confirmed, "Vamps attack, they don't beg or negotiate. Look, last time I'm gonna ask nicely, take your guns off me or somebody's gonna get hurt."

"Big talk," quipped Aiden.

I noticed Dean's eyes flick from me to Krissy and took that as my sign to move, in just a couple of quick moves Dean had disarmed Aiden while I'd gotten Krissy's. Josephine thankfully froze up and just stood there pointing her gun at the vampire girl.

"So, let's say this isn't the vamp who killed my dad. She's still a monster and deserves to die," Krissy growled.

The poor woman was in pain and flinched when Krissy said that.

Dean stated firmly, "Not if we can save her."

Aiden was surprised, glancing about wildly, "What?"

"She hasn't fed yet. We can reverse this if we find her maker and get his blood," Dean stated.

"It's true," I confirmed. "I've seen it work."

"And why should we care about her?" Aiden scoffed.

"Like I said, hunting isn't always about killin'," Dean replied.

"Oh, please. Preach to some other choir. We're not buying it," Aiden snarked.

"You want to kill an innocent girl?!" I shouted, turning to Krissy, "You're really willing to put that on your head?"

Aiden eyed me but kept kis mouth shut.

"I want the blood sucker who killed my dad to pay," Krissy grumbled.

Dean promised her, "And we're gonna find out who that is. But let's not be so bloodthirsty that just anyone will do."

Josephine finally spoke, "But Victor says it's her."

"And I say it ain't! So we're gonna pack her to go, and we're gonna ask Victor ourselves. Okay?"

When we walked back into Victor's house Sam was tied up, and hoodie guy was there, offering a smile full of vampire teeth when the kids walked in.

"What's going on here?" Josephine wanted to know.

"They are not to be trusted," Victor growled. "They're trying to destroy us."

"Do you know this vamp, Victor?" Aiden asked,

"Of course he does!" Sam spat.

"They are working together aren't they Sam?" I asked.

A myriad of emotions crossed Aiden's face, "Is that true?"

"It's complicated," Victor replied.

"No, actually, it's not," Dean told them. "See, blue van here's been turning fresh vamps and setting them up for you guys as easy kills."

"But why?" Josephine looked horrified.

"Because they didn't kill our families did they."

"No," Victor stated simply.

"Well, then who did?" Josephine asked.

"I did. And they all screamed," hoodie vamp answered. "They screamed and begged for mercy, especially the little ones."

"Enough, Seth!" shouted Victor.

"Let me kill him and we won't have to listen to his bullshit," I hissed.

Ignoring me, Victor continued to explain that he was trying to make a better future.

"He killed them off your orders?" Krissy sneered.

"You needed motivation and I scouted each and every one of you," Victor replied before continuing to explain that he knew it was the only way to get them to hunt.

"So in short your families all died because he demanded it. He's lied to you and been using you."

"Don't you see? This is bigger than all of us. We have to learn to put things in perspective. Come with me. We can get past this."

The next few seconds happened in a blur - Victor tossed his gun to the couch and gave the vamp a look which seemed to be his cue.

Seth the vamp grabbed Aiden, hissing and threatening to bite him.

Krissy kept her gun on Victor, stopping him for a moment.

He reminded her that he taught her everything she knew and then he threatened her, "Don't make me hurt you."

"You hurt her, I'll kill you myself," I stated, reminding him I was in the corner not too far away.

"You didn't teach me everything," Krissy quipped and while Victor's attention was split between us, he nearly missed Josephine pulling a knife and lunging at him, Krissy shot past all of it, hitting Seth in the eye and the chest with the darts filled with dead man's blood.

By the time Victor righted himself and realized what she'd done, Krissy had pulled her handgun out.

"Krissy don't," Dean and I ordered.

"If we want revenge for our families' deaths, he gives it to us!"

"We don't kill people," Dean barked.

"Krissy, you don't kill people."

"He's not a person. He's a monster!" she shouted, taking a step toward him.

Victor backed up and dropped to his knees.

"Krissy, this ends bad, no matter what we do," Sam told her.

She pointed the gun directly at Victor's head, "Exactly," before Dean or I could finish taking a step in her direction she cocked her gun and pulled the trigger.

"This is for my dad." she stated.

Victor jumps at the sound, gasping frantically as Krissy pulls the trigger again.

"For Josephine's family."

As she pulled it again, I began to wonder if this was some terrible Russian Roulette and there'd be a round in there at some point.

"For Aiden," she said, pulling it again.

And the fourth time she pulled the trigger she remarked, "For me."

Although each pull was a dry fire Victor appeared more and more distraught. Once she was satisfied she dropped the bullets that weren't in the gun and looked over at Dean.

"So, we just let him live?" Aiden asked.

"Yeah. All alone, with himself," Krissy answered. "No family. No friends. If you ask me. That's not much of anything," she turned back to Dean. "Now, let's go save that girl."

I turned my attention to cutting Sam free and heard Josephine yell, "Gun," about two seconds before the boom of a gun Victor apparently had hidden on himself went off.

I stood up glancing about in horror expecting to see Krissy or Dean bleeding out, instead it was Victor. The thought of being fully alone once again had driven him to take his own life.

I cut Sam free and we worked to help the kids clean up the living-room and make the potion to reverse the vampirism - if the girl was lying about not feeding we'd have a third body to bury and if she was telling the truth - she'd be in pain for a bit longer but would regain her full humanity and be fine.

Sam had cleaned up the necklace that used to be Krissy's dad before handing it off to her and telling us he was going to wait outside.

"Okay. Whenever you're ready, we'll be in the car," Dean said.

Confused Krissy asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Your aunt? Cincinnati? Normal life? We'll be there by lunch tomorrow."

"Yeah, you and I can play music on my phone and sing loudly to annoy Dean," I grinned.

"Yeah, no," she shook her head, "Look, I hate how we were put together, but...I can't deny that it feels right. And why should I let Victor ruin that, too?"

"So, what you're saying is that you like that boy over there and you want to stay?" Dean asked.

"What? Aiden? No. I mean... He's like my brother. It's nothing like that," she replied with all the wrong answers.

"I can see right through you Krissy," I whispered, "I get it if I were your age, he'd probably give me butterflies too, but you gotta be careful."

"Yeah, and you're all still minors."

"Not for long. Josephine will be 18 in a few months. And we all have a life and each other here. As long as we lay low nobody will notice until it's too late to stop us from living alone."

"And hunting?" Dean and I asked in unison.

"We won't go looking for it. But if any monsters show up around here, they better look out."

"Okay. Good," Dean smiled at her.

"Really? I thought I was gonna have to fight you way more on that."

"Oh don't worry, if you go looking for hunts I'll find out and I'll be right back here to haul you to your auntie's house myself," I told her.

"Ditto to what she said," Dean smirked. "You're right. You're not a kid anymore. You can make your own decisions, but if you make dumb ones we'll find out and be back here to deal with it our way."

"Ok," she grinned. "Ya know you're alright for an old guy."

"I'm really not that old," he replied.

"You keep telling yourself that," she quipped and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Huh. All right. Well, I'm gonna have a, uh --a guy come and check on you every once in a while, okay? His name is Garth. He'll make sure that you're all right and you got what you need."

"Garth?" she asked.

"Yeah. He's a little strange at first, but you'll come to love him," I told her.

Dean nodded in agreement, and held up a fist for a fist bump; rather than giving him a fist bump Krissy grabbed his hand and stretched on her tip toes and kissed his cheek.

"Take care, Dean."

Krissy gave me a hug and walked back into the living-room to check on the vampire cure progression.

Aiden, having obviously seen the kiss, jealously called out, "Yeah. Goodbye, Dean."

Before he could duck back into the kitchen we called him over.

"Listen buddy,"

I held up a hand, "I gotta tell you something about Krissy."

He rolled his eyes, "I know. I know," Aiden glanced from Dean to me. "You'll kill me if I ever hurt her. Blah. Blah. Blah."

"No, no. No. She'll kill you," Dean said, glancing at Krissy before patting Aiden on the back and exiting the house.

"Oh, and if for some reason she doesn't finish the job. I will, don't do anything to that girl without her consent and don't you dare hurt her physically or otherwise," I grinned broadly and walked out the door after Dean. 

SPN Fam:

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone  | @lyarr24

@dean-winchester-is-a-warrior  | @nancymcl

@deans-baby-momma

@squirrelnotsam | @leigh70  | @impalaslytherin

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @deans-spinster-witch

@perpetualabsurdity  | @bumbleb10 | @mrswhozeewhatsis | @123passwort | @roseblue373 

@jackles010378 | @hobby27 |  @b3autyfuld1sast3r

Mr. Green-eyes Tags:

@mrsjenniferwinchester | @k-slla |   @jamerlynn | @libby99hb  | @lori19

𓂃 your fights are legendary.

not toxic. not cruel. just loud, competitive, emotionally constipated hunter nonsense.

dean slams a weapon onto the table. you slam one down harder.

sam has absolutely walked into the bunker kitchen, heard both of you arguing over something stupid, and immediately turned around.

𓂃 dean secretly loves when you win against him.

pin him during sparring? his brain short-circuits a little.

patch yourself up after a hunt without complaining? he stares.

pull a knife on a monster before he even reacts? dean looks genuinely impressed.

“remind me never to piss you off,” he says, smiling like he absolutely plans to do it.

𓂃 you steal each other’s moves constantly.

dean teaches you dirty fighting tricks.

you teach him smarter ones.

eventually hunts start looking ridiculous because you move together so naturally it’s almost unfair to the monsters.

𓂃 there’s a mutual respect underneath everything.

dean never treats you as fragile.

never talks down to you.

and because you can hold your own, he actually relaxes around you more than he does with most people.

he trusts you. fully.

that’s rare for him.

𓂃 the flirting is unbearable.

sarcastic comments across motel rooms.

betting on stupid things.

dean leaning against the impala watching you clean blood off your knuckles with this look in his eyes that’s half affection, half holy shit.

𓂃 you call him on his bullshit.

that’s part of why he loves you.

you notice when he’s spiraling before he admits it.

you refuse to let him self-destruct quietly.

and dean hates it a little because nobody’s supposed to see through him that easily.

𓂃 physical affection is rough around the edges.

shoulder bumps.

playful shoving.

dean grabbing your wrist when you walk past just to pull you into him for a second.

kisses that start with smirking and end with someone breathless against the wall.

𓂃 dean gets possessive in a quieter way with you.

not because he doubts you.

honestly, he’s seen you nearly break a vampire’s jaw with a tire iron. he knows you’re fine.

it’s more that he hates watching danger get close to you.

because loving someone this much already scares him enough.

𓂃 everyone else notices the difference in him.

he laughs easier around you.

sleeps better.

looks less alone.

even when you’re both covered in blood and arguing over directions.

𓂃 and the biggest thing?

dean never has to carry everything by himself anymore.

you grab the weight with both hands before he can even ask.

and somewhere along the way, that becomes his favorite part of loving you.

Story tags: Demon!Dean, Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel

A/N: I hope this one won’t be too boring for you.

It took you three weeks to find Dean.

Considering you were tracking Dean Winchester, especially the version of him that did not want to be found, that was almost impressive.

The first week gave you nothing. No trace, no credit cards, no sightings that matched. No motel clerks who remembered him, no bartenders who looked at the picture on your phone and nodded. It was like he had walked out of the bunker and disappeared from the planet completely.

Which made sense, really. Dean knew how hunters tracked people. He knew every method Sam would use, every database you could tap into, every place you would think to check first. He knew how to disappear better than anyone you had ever met, and whatever came back in his body had all that knowledge without any guilt holding him back.

Then the second week started, and the silence broke. The bodies started to show up.

A man beaten half to death behind a bar. A bartender who swore the guy responsible had black eyes and a smile that made her skin crawl. A gas station camera catching the side of Dean’s face for half a second before the feed cut out. A motel room trashed so badly the owner called the cops before he checked the register. Injured strangers. Broken cameras. Bodies left behind with the kind of cold violence that made your stomach turn every time Charlie sent another file.

You learned quickly what became of your husband when his humanity was gone.

You also learned he was enjoying himself.

That was the part you tried not to think about too long, because if you let your mind sit with it, you felt something inside you tear wider. Dean was out there, hurting people, drinking, fighting, moving from place to place with no remorse and no hurry, while you ran on panic and too little sleep, and with the gunshot still echoing in your hands.

Every lead came too late. Every dead end felt like him laughing at you from somewhere far away.

Then he made a mistake.

Or maybe arrogance finally got the better of him. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t be able to follow him that far. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t be stupid enough to go after him after what happened in the bunker. Or maybe he wanted you to find him, because he was bored. Because he wanted to prove, one more time, that you only got close when he let you.

He used his real name.

A low-end motel registration system, two states away from the last bloody mess he left behind. Charlie’s tripwire caught it within minutes.

And that was where you went. Because you were going to get your husband back. No matter what it took.

The car ride was almost completely silent. Sam drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road. You sat beside him with a flask of holy water in one pocket, demon cuffs tucked under your jacket, and your hands folded together in your lap because if you let them move, they started shaking.

Neither of you said much. There was nothing useful to say. This was the mission now. The only mission that mattered. You both knew that.

Your body had gone past fear and into something harder. Colder. This time, you wouldn’t hesitate.

That was what you kept telling yourself.

You would do what you had to do. You would get close enough, burn him if you had to. You would use holy water, cuffs, traps, your magic, anything that stopped him long enough to start the cure. You had done hard things before. You had bled for spells, tortured demons. You had died for Sam. You had shot your husband in the chest.

You could do this.

You had to.

The plan was straightforward. You would wait until Dean was in his room, then go in alone.

Sam hated that part, so much he argued with you for almost an hour in the car. You argued back, because your hands were still your best chance. Dean knew that too, which meant he would be careful, but your touch was still stronger than anything Sam had. And some naive, desperate part of you kept hoping he would be less willing to hurt you than he had been willing to hurt Sam.

You felt stupid for hoping it.

Sam would wait outside the entrance. If Dean bolted, he would be there. If you managed to get the cuffs on him, Sam would come in. If things went bad, he would hear it.

It was a terrible plan, you knew that. But it was the only one you had.

The clerk at the reception desk was more than happy to point you toward the right room for a decent amount of cash. His eyes lingered on you a little too long, probably because you looked like you hadn’t slept in days. You didn’t really care.

The corridor smelled like old carpet, stale smoke, and cheap cleaning products. Your pulse climbed higher with every step.

Room 14.

The number sat crooked on the door.

Your stomach dropped when you reached it. Because the door was open. Just slightly. A thin strip of light waited between the frame and the edge.

Your hand tightened around the flask in your pocket.

‘No need to knock,’ Dean’s voice came from inside. ‘Just come in.’

The entertainment in his voice sent a wave of cold shivers through you.

Arrogant. Relaxed.

Waiting for you.

You felt Sam stop behind you, far enough back to keep to the plan, but you knew every instinct in him was screaming to shove past you.

You didn’t look back at him. There was no point turning around now. You took one breath, pulled the flask free, and stepped inside.

Dean was right there.

He was sprawled in a chair near the small motel table, one boot hooked against the leg, a bottle of beer loose in one hand. His jacket hung over the back of the chair. His hair was a little longer than it had been when he walked out of the bunker. He looked rested. Clean. Alive in a way that made something inside you ache so badly you almost forgot what he was.

His eyes were green when they landed on you. The smirk that welcomed you was easy and cold.

‘Took you long enough,’ he said.

He put the bottle down and stood slowly.

You hated the way your body reacted to that before your mind could stop it. He was tall and broad and so painfully handsome that looking at him still took your breath away, even after everything. Even now. Even knowing what he had done.

You forced yourself to focus. This was not your husband waiting for you in a motel room. This was a predator wearing the face of the man you loved.

‘How did you-’

‘You kiddin’ me?’ Dean huffed a laugh. ‘You think you’d find me if I didn’t want you to, sweetheart?’

The name landed exactly where he wanted it to. You braced yourself and took one step closer.

‘Why?’

Dean shrugged. ‘Figured it was time to finish this game.’

He raised both hands in mock surrender, that smirk still sitting on his mouth.

‘So come on. Show me what you got.’

Then his eyes went black.

Your pulse kicked.

Dean’s grin widened.

‘Oh, unless…’ His gaze dropped deliberately to your hands. ‘You wanna give the gun another go.’

He tapped his chest a few times, right where you had shot him.

Your stomach turned hard.

Your hands remembered the recoil. Your ears remembered the shot. Your body remembered Dean staggering back with blood spreading across his shirt while he smiled like you just handed him a gift.

You knew what he was doing. He was trying to make you nervous.

You couldn’t let him.

You took the flask from your pocket and threw the holy water at him before he could say another word. It hit him across the chest and neck.

Dean snarled.

The sound was rough and furious, almost more animal than human, and steam rose from his skin where the water soaked through his shirt. His body jerked back, one hand slamming against the table hard enough to make the beer bottle tip and roll off the edge. It shattered on the floor.

You moved.

The cuffs were already in your hand as you rushed him. Dean shook off the first wave of pain fast, too fast, and turned on you with black eyes and a terrifying grin.

‘That’s what I’m talkin’ about!’

You didn’t answer.

You grabbed his wrist. His skin burned under your hand immediately, the smell of it cutting through the cheap motel room air. Dean’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t cry out this time. You slapped one cuff around his wrist and heard it click shut.

For half a second, hope punched through you so hard it almost hurt.

One cuff. You had one cuff on him. You just needed the other.

Dean’s free hand caught the chain before you could pull it around.

He stepped in. Too close.

Your back hit the wall beside the bed, and the impact stole the air from your lungs. You tried to pull the second cuff toward his free wrist, but Dean’s cuffed hand shot up fast, dragging the short chain with it.

You couldn’t let go of the other cuff. That was the only reason he didn’t simply tear away from you and run. The metal was still your one piece of control, the one stupid, fragile advantage you had managed to get on him. At least that was what you kept telling yourself.

So when his cuffed hand shot upward, you held on.

Your arm went with it.

The chain snapped tight, yanking your hand above your head hard enough to make your shoulder flare with pain. Your free hand slapped against the wall on instinct, palm flat on the smooth surface to keep yourself upright.

For one second, you were pinned there by your own refusal to let go.

Dean knew better than to touch your skin. But he didn’t need to touch you to trap you. He stepped in until there was almost nothing left between you. His body crowded yours, big and solid, blocking the room, blocking the door, blocking the plan you had barely managed to hold together in your head. He kept his cuffed hand raised while his other hand stayed just out of reach.

You could burn him.

You knew that.

Your free hand was right there, pressed to the wall beside you. You could move it. You could slap it against his throat, his face, his chest, anything. You could make him scream.

But he leaned over you slowly, close enough that your body betrayed you again. Heat rose under your skin, unwanted and humiliating, because your own body did not understand the difference fast enough. For one horrible second, underneath the fear and the adrenaline and the smell of holy water burning through his shirt, there was something else. Something you should not have been capable of feeling right now.

Dean noticed.

His mouth curved.

He dipped his head lower, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek, and took one slow breath in through his nose. He was taking you in.

Your stomach clenched, and not from fear alone. That realization hit hard enough to make you hate yourself for it.

His black eyes stayed on your face, watching every flicker, every little failure of control.

‘That all you brought?’ he asked, voice low. ‘Holy water and some hardware?’

Your grip tightened on the loose cuff until the edge bit into your palm.

You needed to move. Needed to burn him. Needed to throw your knee up, twist free, do anything except stand there with your arm pinned above your head while your husband’s demon leaned over you like that.

But then his gaze dropped.

Lower.

At first, you thought he was looking at your free hand. Then you realized your shirt had shifted during the struggle. The neckline had pulled aside just enough for the top of your scar to show.

The scar. The only one Heaven had left behind. The place where your own knife had gone in when you died in that church so Sam could live.

Dean’s eyes fixed on it and everything in you went still.

His expression changed. Not much. But you saw it because you knew that face better than any face in the world. His mouth loosened, the cruel curve faded. His brows pulled together just a little.

Your breath turned shallow.

The black in his eyes vanished. Green looked back at you.

Dean’s green.

Your whole body forgot the cuff in your hand.

His cuffed hand came down slowly. He didn’t touch you. His fingers hovered over the scar, close enough that you felt the heat of him without contact.

Your eyes burned.

There. There it was.

You felt it so strongly that your knees nearly gave.

This was Dean. Your Dean. Buried somewhere under all of it, trapped under black eyes and cruelty and whatever Hell had done when Ramiel killed him. He remembered. He saw the scar and he remembered the church. He remembered you dying. He remembered what it meant. He was still there.

You had reached him.

You could cure him.

You could bring him home.

His eyes lifted from the scar to your face.

Then he whispered your name. Softly. Just once.

It went straight through you.

For one second, you thought he was going to say something else.

Then the knife hit.

No warning. No draw of weapon you could track. No time to move back or bring your hands up. Just Dean’s arm moving fast and the blade slamming into the place where his eyes had been fixed a second before. Right into your heart.

The pain stole every bit of air from your lungs.

You looked down.

His hand was wrapped around the handle. The scar was gone under fresh blood.

Your fingers closed around his wrist on instinct. His skin burned under your palm, smoke curling between you, but he didn’t pull away. He only leaned closer, close enough that all you could see when your eyes lifted again were his.

Still green. Still Dean’s.

Then his mouth curved again.

And you woke up choking.

You sat up so fast the room spun around you. For one second, you had no idea where you were. Your hand flew to your chest, fingers digging into the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, searching for blood, for the knife, for the open spot where your scar had been split apart again.

There was nothing. No blood. No blade.

Just your bedroom.

The bunker vents hummed quietly overhead and the nightlamp on Dean’s side of the bed painted the room in low yellow light. You hadn’t been able to turn it off since he left. You tried once, lasted maybe ten minutes in the dark before your mind started filling the room with the gun going off, with Dean looking back at you from the top of the stairs, with the sound of the bunker door closing.

So the lamp stayed on. Every night.

Your breathing was loud and ragged in the quiet room. Your shirt clung to your back and chest with cold sweat, and your hands shook so badly that it took you a second to pull them away from the scar and check your palms. Still no blood. You were fine. Dean hadn’t killed you.

Dean wasn’t there…

You grabbed your phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up too bright, making your eyes ache.

6:24 a.m.

You sighed heavily and dropped your elbow to your thigh, forehead falling into your palm. Your hair stuck to the side of your face. Your throat hurt, probably from the way you had woken up choking on a scream that never fully came out.

You sat like that for a moment, forcing air in through your nose and out through your mouth. It didn’t help much, but it gave your body something to do besides shake.

Then you saw the missed call icon on the screen and your breath stopped.

For a second, you just stared at it.

Unknown number.

Your heart, already beating too fast, kicked hard enough to make your chest ache. You unlocked the phone with clumsy fingers and opened the call log.

One missed call. 3:17 a.m.

Of course. Of course it was at night. It was always at night.

Your thumb hovered over the number for half a second before you pressed call back.

The ringing sounded too loud in your ear. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then the line clicked.

Silence.

You sat up straighter, every muscle in your body going tight.

‘Hello?’

Nothing. You swallowed hard.

‘Who is this?’

Still nothing.

You could hear your own breathing now, close to the phone, too uneven. Maybe that was all it was. Maybe the faint sound on the other end was your own panic laughing back at you.

But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like someone listening.

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

‘What do you want?’

Silence.

Your skin prickled. You closed your eyes because you hated yourself for what you were about to say. Hated that hope still found ways to crawl up your throat even after everything. Hated that he knew exactly how easy it was to make you hurt.

‘Dean?’

Your voice broke on his name. You opened your eyes and stared at the empty side of the bed.

‘Dean, is that you?’

The line stayed quiet for two more seconds.

Then it disconnected.

You lowered the phone slowly. For a while, you couldn’t move.

It wasn’t the first call since he disappeared. It was the third. Always a missed call first, always at night, always a different number. You never heard a voice. Never got anything that Sam could trace cleanly or Charlie could lock down fast enough. Just silence, breathing that might not have been breathing, and then nothing.

You knew it was him. You simply knew.

He was messing with you. Tormenting you, letting you know he was still out there, still aware of you, enough to reach into your room through a phone line and pull you apart without saying a single word.

And it worked. Every time. And you despised him for it, so much. Because you missed him so badly you could barely stand it.

You put the phone down on the bed beside you and pressed both hands over your face.

Three weeks. Dean had been gone for three weeks.

You watched him die in Hell, held him while his blood poured through your fingers and his eyes went empty, and you hadn’t even had time to grieve him properly. Because now he was alive somewhere.

Alive, moving, drinking, fighting, hurting people. Doing God knew what with God knew who. You saw his face on security cameras. Read his name in police reports. Your husband was walking through the world without his humanity, while you sat in your bedroom unable to sleep through a full night.

You were exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. Your body felt like it had been running for weeks. Food tasted like cardboard most days. You ate because Sam put something in front of you and watched until you took at least a few bites. You slept because your body finally shut down, then woke up worse than before because the nightmares kept finding new ways to give you Dean back and rip him away again.

At first, you cried all the time.

In the shower, in your lab, in the hallway outside the kitchen because you saw one of Dean’s favorite mugs in the sink and couldn’t breathe. In your bed with face pressed into his pillow, which had stopped smelling like him a little more each day no matter how tightly you held it.

But the tears came less often now. Though that didn’t mean you were better. It only meant your body had started running out of ways to show the damage.

Most days, you felt like a ghost wearing your own clothes. Moving through the bunker, opening laptops, reading files, checking cameras, answering Charlie’s messages, listening to Sam’s updates, nodding when Castiel appeared with another theory or another apology in his eyes. You did the things because the things needed doing. Because stopping meant thinking. Because thinking meant Dean's body on the floor. Dean’s hand over yours. Dean’s smile after the gun went off. Dean at the top of the stairs.

Still, every morning, you got up and looked for him.

And there was one reason you could keep doing that.

Sam.

Sam was going through his own private hell, and you knew that. He had lost Dean too. He had watched his brother die, carried his body through Hell, and then woken up from being knocked unconscious by the person he was trying to save. You saw the toll it took every time you looked at him. The weight loss, the dark circles. The way he went too still whenever someone said Dean’s name.

But Sam kept moving. He kept searching. And somehow, through it all, he kept you upright too.

He checked if you ate, made sure you slept at least a few hours, sat with you when you couldn’t be alone in your room and didn’t make you talk. He never said everything would be okay unless you needed to hear it, and even then, he sounded like he was forcing himself to believe it too.

Eileen helped him the same way.

You were grateful for her in a way you didn’t know how to say out loud. She kept Sam from falling too far into himself. She watched him when he thought no one was looking. She touched his shoulder, his arm, the back of his neck, small practical touches that reminded him he was still breathing, still needed.

Seeing them together hurt sometimes. You hated that too. Because you loved them. You were glad Sam had her. But every time she leaned into Sam, every time his hand found hers without thought, every time they moved around each other with that quiet familiarity, the empty space beside you felt even worse.

You missed Dean’s hand on your back. You missed his knee knocking yours under the table. Missed the way he stood too close in the kitchen because he liked being annoying and touching you all the damn time.

You missed your husband so much it made you feel physically sick.

Castiel stopped by often. Sometimes with information, usually with worry he didn't even try to hide. He had no answers from Heaven, only theories that made your head hurt and your stomach turn. Heaven was still baffled by what happened to Dean. Cas believed it had been some uncanny combination of too many impossible things stacked on top of each other: Dean’s soul having been torn apart in Hell before, his part in breaking the first seal, Ramiel killing him with Michael’s Lance, and Dean dying directly in Hell.

Maybe that was true.

Maybe it wasn’t.

At some point, you stopped wondering. How it happened no longer mattered as much as getting him back. Finding him. And curing him.

That was the only thing that mattered now.

Charlie checked in constantly. She sent leads, camera stills, hacked motel databases, police reports, anything that might help. Benny called more than he ever did, his voice rough and strained over the phone, asking how you were holding up in a way that made you want to lie and cry at the same time.

Everyone was trying. Because everyone loved you. And you knew everyone meant well.

But every question about whether you were okay, every careful encouragement, every promise that you would find him, drained something out of you. Because you had to respond. You had to nod, had to say you knew, or thank you, or we’re close, or we’ll get him. You had to be a person, when most days you barely felt like one.

And you weren’t sure how much more you could take…

Your phone stayed dark on the bed beside you. You stared at it for another moment, then forced yourself to move.

Your morning routine was simple now. Cry if tears came. Wash your face. Brush your teeth. Change clothes. Pretend the shaking in your hands was from exhaustion, not from the nightmares. Leave the bedroom before the walls started feeling too close.

By the time you made it to the bathroom that morning, the tears had come again.

The quiet, annoying ones.

You washed them away with cold water, then stood there with both hands braced on the sink, staring down at the drain until your breathing steadied enough to pass for normal. When you looked up, the woman in the mirror looked pale and tired and older than she had three weeks ago.

You looked away quickly, then changed into clean clothes, pulled your hair back without caring how it looked, and headed toward the library.

You yawned twice on the way there, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand. The bunker was quiet in the early morning, the whole place too big without Dean in it.

Sam was already in the library. He sat behind his laptop with a huge jug of coffee within reach, shoulders hunched, hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. There were open files spread across the table, a map pushed to one side, and a list of towns written in his handwriting on a legal pad. His eyes moved across the screen quickly, scanning whatever database he had pulled up before most people were awake.

He looked up the second you came in.

It only took one look. His face softened, and that almost made you cry again.

‘Another nightmare?’

You stopped beside the table.

For a second, the motel room came back. Dean’s green eyes. His voice saying your name. His gaze dropping to the scar. The knife hitting before you had time to move.

Your hand twitched toward your chest, but you stopped it halfway and let it fall.

Then you nodded.

Sam’s jaw tightened.

You pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

‘And another call,’ you said, voice still rough from sleep and panic.

Sam went completely still. The laptop screen reflected pale light across his face.

‘When?’

You picked up the nearest file because your hands needed something to do.

‘Three seventeen.’

Sam’s forehead creased immediately. He looked down at his screen, pulled his laptop closer, and started typing. You leaned into the chair, eyes burning, chest still tight from the nightmare, and tried not to think about how badly you wanted the next call to come.

Even if it ruined you all over again.

‘Anything new?’ you asked, breaking the silence.

You flipped the file open before Sam could shake his head. It was one of the uglier ones from the last week. A bodyguard at a strip club, beaten nearly to death in front of half the room after trying to throw out a man who matched Dean’s description. According to the witness statements, the guy had put a hand on one of the dancers, the bodyguard stepped in, and Dean beat him down right there beside the stage. Then he apparently downed his drink and walked off.

You stared at the words for a second longer than you needed to.

The strip club part made your stomach twist, even though you were mad at yourself for caring about that right now. People were hurt, that was what mattered. That was what you were supposed to focus on.

But the sting was there anyway.

Because it was Dean.

Dean, who had always enjoyed certain things with his whole body. Music in the car, horror and western marathons, pie, good burgers, whiskey, beer… sex. He loved sex and was not subtle about it. With you, he had been hungry and shameless and playful and intense in ways that made you feel wanted to your core.

Now there was a version of him out there with no guilt, no restraint, no vows that meant what they should have meant, and you had no idea what he had done with that hunger once you were no longer there.

You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t really Dean. That whatever he did, whatever he wanted, whatever he took, he would never have done it if he hadn’t been turned into this.

It didn’t help as much as it should have.

You closed the file a little harder than necessary and pushed it away.

Sam glanced up, but didn’t say anything. You were grateful for that. You didn’t have the energy to explain the ugly, jealous part of your brain that kept making everything worse.

‘Have you eaten, yet? I can make something,’ you said after a moment, rubbing both hands down your face. ‘Toast or eggs or… I don’t know. Something.’

Sam’s eyes softened just a little. ‘You don’t have to.’

‘I know.’

You stood anyway. Cooking would give your hands and mind something normal to do. Maybe you could even force yourself to eat half a toast.

Your phone buzzed on the table.

You froze. Sam did too. For half a second, neither of you moved.

Then you grabbed it.

It was Charlie.

Your thumb almost slipped opening the message.

Sending you an email. It’s definitely him and he’s close.

Your heart kicked so hard nausea rolled through you.

‘Sam.’

‘I know,’ he said, already opening a new window. His voice changed instantly. Tired disappeared under focus. ‘She sent it to me too.’

You moved around the table and stood behind his chair as the email loaded. There was a short message from Charlie at the top, then an attached video file and a location. Sam clicked the file without speaking.

The footage opened in grainy black and white.

Gas-n-Sip security camera. Aisle view. Magazine rack. Counter in the corner.

A tall man in a cap stood near the magazines with his back partly turned to the camera. Your whole body locked before his face was visible. You knew his shoulders. You knew the slight bow of his legs, the lazy set of his stance, the way he stood with his weight mostly on one side, relaxed.

Dean.

He was browsing the magazine section like he had nothing better to do. Then the front door opened. A masked man came in with a gun.

You could not hear anything on the footage, but the body language was clear. The cashier raised both hands immediately. The masked man shouted something, waving the gun toward the register. Dean barely reacted at first. He only lowered the magazine a little, head turning in mild annoyance, like the whole thing had interrupted him.

Your stomach tightened.

He put the magazine back, then he walked over. Completely calm, almost bored. The masked man turned the gun toward him. Dean hit him, just once. The man dropped hard enough that your hand flew to your mouth.

Dean crouched, grabbed the gun, tossed it aside, then pulled a knife from somewhere under his jacket. The rest happened fast and terribly clear, even through the poor-quality footage. Too many movements with too much force. The cashier stumbled back against the wall and stayed there, frozen, hands still raised while Dean finished what he started.

Sam’s jaw went tight.

You couldn’t look away.

Dean stood after a few seconds, wiped the blade on the dead man’s jacket, and went back to the magazine rack. Like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just killed a man on the floor of a gas station.

He picked the magazine up again, glanced toward the counter, then finally looked up.

The camera finally caught his face and your breath stopped.

There he was. Your husband. Cap low, jaw rough with stubble, mouth curved in a lazy little smirk. And his eyes flashed black. Quickly, just a tiny burst of horror.

Then the video ended.

For a second, the library was completely quiet except for the low hum of Sam’s laptop.

‘Where is this?’ you asked. Your voice caught on the last word.

Sam was already checking the location Charlie included. His fingers moved fast over the keyboard.

‘About an hour’s drive.’

Your heart started beating faster.

‘When?’

Sam’s eyes flicked across the email. ‘Two hours ago. Police put out an APB immediately, so it hit the system fast.’

Two hours.

An hour away.

Dean hadn’t been this close since he walked out of the bunker.

You gripped the back of Sam’s chair hard enough for the wood to press into your palms. Your whole body felt suddenly awake in a way that was almost painful.

‘Are we going?’

Sam looked up at you.

There was fear in his face. Exhaustion too. And under both, the same hard determination that had kept him upright for three weeks.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Meet you in the garage in five.’

You were sitting in the Impala, and everything about it felt wrong.

It had felt wrong from the first second you climbed into it again. Sam and Eileen had been the ones to pick it up from the place where you left it before the reaper took you to Purgatory. You couldn’t do it then. You couldn’t sit in Dean’s car after watching him die, after seeing him come back with black eyes, after standing in the war room with his gun still warm in your hand while he walked out of the bunker and left you there.

So Sam brought it back.

And ever since then, every time you had to drive somewhere in it, your body noticed all the wrong things at once.

Sam was too tall behind the wheel. His hands sat differently on it. He adjusted the seat and mirrors to fit him, because this was an emergency and a car was a car, except it wasn’t. Not this car. Not to you. The Impala sounded the same, smelled the same, carried the same worn leather and old music and gun oil under everything else, but Dean wasn’t in it. He wasn’t humming along to his favorite albums, his hand wasn’t on your thigh, his fingers weren’t working the wheel with that casual confidence that always made it look easy.

You had no idea why Dean hadn’t come back for her. That bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

Maybe it meant nothing, maybe he knew you and Sam would watch for it. Maybe he was smart enough to leave behind the most obvious thing anyone could track.

But there was another thought underneath that, uglier and harder to ignore.

What if he just… didn’t care.

What if Baby meant as little to him now as the bunker did. As Sam did. As you did.

The ride was so quiet you were almost relieved when Sam finally parked in front of the Gas-n-Sip.

Patrol cars were still outside. Police tape stretched across the entrance, bright and ugly against the glass doors. A uniformed officer stood near the pumps, talking to another one with a clipboard, and you could see movement inside through the windows. Detectives, techs, people stepping around evidence markers on the floor.

Sam killed the engine, then he reached into his jacket and pulled out the fake badge.

You did the same.

The FBI pretext got you through the door quickly enough. Sam in a blue suit, you in a black pantsuit, both of you tired enough to pass for federal agents who had already seen too much before breakfast. You flashed your badge, said the names, kept your face steady, and stepped into the store.

Your eyes immediately went to the covered body on the floor and your stomach turned.

Not because you had never seen a dead body. You had seen things most people couldn’t even imagine since you came into this world. But this was different.

Because Dean had put that body there. Brutally.

And maybe the man under the sheet had walked in with a gun and threatened the cashier. Maybe he had been a dangerous scumbag. Maybe Dean had technically stopped something worse from happening. But that didn’t matter enough. The man had still been human. And that was the line your Dean had always tried hard not to cross.

Sam’s face tightened beside you, but he said nothing.

A detective met you near the magazine aisle. He looked tired, annoyed, and too wired on adrenaline, which made sense if he had spent the last few hours trying to make sense of a murder that looked insane on camera.

‘Agents,’ he said, giving your badges a quick glance. ‘You’re here about the video?’

‘That’s right,’ Sam said.

The detective led you toward the counter, where a laptop had already been set up with the footage paused. You had seen it in the bunker, but seeing it here, inside the store where it happened, made your skin feel too tight.

The detective hit play.

‘Okay, now, porn guy’s just minding his own business,’ he said, pointing at the screen.

Porn guy. For one stupid second, your brain stopped at that.

Why the hell would they-

Then you looked at the magazine section.

Right.

Of course.

Did you really think Dean Winchester would be reading People magazine in a gas station?

The detective kept talking. ‘And there’s the burglar right there. Now watch this. See how calm he is?’

Dean put the magazine down on the footage.

Your fingers curled at your sides.

‘And he just puts a grown man down with one small punch,’ the detective went on. ‘I don’t know what the hell this is. Problem is, we don’t know if this guy’s a hero or a psychopath.’

Neither, you thought.

He's a fucking demon.

You didn’t say it.

Sam leaned closer to the screen, jaw tight. ‘Can we speak to the witness?’

‘Cashier’s over there,’ the detective said, nodding toward the side of the store. ‘Poor kid’s been repeating himself for three hours.’

You looked over.

The cashier sat on a plastic chair near the far aisle, wrapped in a cheap emergency blanket even though the store wasn’t cold. He was young. His face was pale, eyes too wide, one leg bouncing fast enough to shake the edge of the blanket.

You felt bad for him.

Not only had he been held at gunpoint, he had watched a man stab another man to death a few feet away, and now he was still sitting in the same place under fluorescent lights, probably being asked the same questions over and over again by people who wanted details his brain had every right to forget.

And you were about to ask him the same things.

You and Sam crossed the store together.

‘Hi,’ you said, softening your voice as much as you could while still keeping the agent mask on. You showed the badge again. ‘Agents Currie and Jett. We just have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.’

The cashier blinked at you.

‘I already told them everything.’

‘I know,’ you said. ‘We just need to hear it from you one more time.’

He looked exhausted enough to cry. Then he nodded.

You tucked the badge away. ‘You were the only witness here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can you describe the attack?’

The cashier let out a shaky laugh with no humor in it. ‘Well. Porn guy was an animal.’

Sam’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

The cashier pointed toward the magazine rack with one trembling hand. ‘Bro came in here like, 'get the fuck outta here,' and the other one was all like, 'fuck off, give me all your money'. And then porn guy just-’ He slapped one hand into the other. ‘Dropped him. Like, down. And then there was a lot of blood after that.’

You heard Sam take a careful breath beside you.

‘Right. Um… when the guy, uh-’ Sam’s mouth tightened. ‘When porn guy came in, did he say anything?’

The cashier shrugged. ‘W-where’s the porn.’

You closed your eyes for half a second.

‘That’s all he said?’ you asked, opening them again. ‘Did he buy anything? Did he use a credit card? Did he ask for directions, talk to anyone, mention where he was going?’

The cashier stared blankly.

You weren’t sure if he didn’t remember or if he had been too scared to notice anything beyond the knife and the blood. Either way, you couldn’t blame him.

Sam was less patient.

‘So some guy comes in, kills another guy in your store on your watch, and you just-’ He stopped himself, but not fast enough. ‘You what? Just keep on keepin’ on?’

The cashier looked at him like Sam had lost his mind.

‘You mean when porn guy was stabbing the other guy to death ten feet in front of me, and I was having a total code-brown moment in my favorite freakin’ pants because I thought I was next, did I conduct a field interview?’ He stared at Sam. ‘No.’

You and Sam exchanged a look.

Yeah.

Fair.

You were just about to ask if he had seen what car Dean came in, whether he left alone, anything small that might help, when the cashier shifted under the blanket.

‘But, uh… I did find a phone.’

Sam straightened. ‘A phone?’

‘Yeah. Wedged under the T.P.’ He nodded toward the techs near the counter. ‘I think it’s porn guy’s. I gave it to them.’

Your heartbeat jumped.

Sam looked at you once, then back at the cashier.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

You went to the techs next, asked to look at the phone, and pulled on rubber gloves before handling it because the whole room was watching and you needed to look like you belonged at the crime scene. The phone was cheap. Burner, of course.

You opened the call log.

One outgoing call. Your number.

Your breath caught so hard your chest hurt.

You knew it.

You frickin' knew it.

The missed calls, the silence, the timing. You had known it was him, but seeing your number there, on a phone he had left behind at a crime scene, still rattled you hard enough that for a second the store blurred around the edges.

Sam stepped closer.

You turned the screen toward him.

He looked at it. Said nothing. His face did enough.

You handed the phone back, thanked the tech, and got out of the store before the air inside could choke you.

Outside, the daylight felt too bright. You took one deep breath, then another, standing near the Impala while Sam looked back at the Gas-n-Sip with a hard, closed expression.

‘You think he left it for us?’ you said.

Sam’s jaw flexed. ‘Don't know.’

Neither of you had an answer you wanted, so you got back in the car.

Sam slid behind the wheel, and you sat in the passenger seat with your laptop already open across your knees before he even pulled out of the lot. The Impala rumbled under you and you forced yourself to focus on the screen instead of the space next to you where Dean should have been.

‘So, nearest motels?’ Sam asked.

‘Already looking.’

It was probably pointless. Dean had either moved on already or never stayed anywhere nearby in the first place. But maybe arrogance had really made him that sloppy.

You checked the closest places first.

Two motels.

No luck.

No Dean Winchester. No aliases you recognized. No one matching his description, according to the bored desk clerks Sam talked to while you stayed in the car and checked cameras, registration logs, anything you could reach from your laptop.

By the time you pulled out of the second parking lot, your eyes burned from the screen and your stomach felt hollow in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

Sam glanced at the gas gauge.

‘I need to stop for gas.’

You nodded without looking up, already pulling up the next motel on the map.

‘Okay.’

Sam turned the Impala back toward the main road.

You didn’t really pay attention when he pulled into the gas station. Your eyes stayed fixed on the laptop screen, on the list of places within a twenty-mile radius, on names and distances and reviews that meant absolutely nothing when the man you were looking for could already be gone.

The Impala stopped. Sam got out. The driver’s door closed.

A few seconds later, you heard the dull metallic sound of the gas cap, the pump handle lifting, the low click of it starting.

You kept staring at the screen.

Your mind wouldn’t settle. It kept circling the same useless points again and again until you wanted to slam the laptop shut just to stop seeing motel names. He had been close. He had been an hour away. Just a few hours ago. He had probably left a phone behind with your number on it on purpose because he wanted you to know. Because all of it was a game to him.

And you had no idea how to catch him.

Your fingers hovered over the trackpad, then stopped. The next motel was eleven minutes away. Bad reviews, cash only, no cameras in the parking lot, according to two angry comments from people whose cars had been broken into.

Could be something.

Probably not.

You added it to the list anyway.

The pump clicked outside. A few minutes later, you heard movement. Footsteps on concrete. The familiar creak of the Impala’s driver’s door opening.

You didn’t look up.

Your eyes stayed on the screen while your brain kept working through the search, already lining up the next places to check. Sam slid into the seat beside you. The car shifted slightly with his weight. The door closed.

The engine started.

‘Hey, sweetheart.’

Your whole body went cold.

Not Sam.

Not even close.

Your head shot up so fast pain snapped through your neck.

Dean was sitting behind the wheel.

For one second, you couldn't move. He was right there, close enough that your knee almost touched his, one hand resting on the wheel, the other near the gearshift. The cap was gone. His hair was a little longer than the last time you saw him. A rough scruff darkened his jaw, sharpening his face, making him look dangerous and so goddamn attractive that you barely resisted biting your bottom lip.

You hated yourself for it immediately.

Your hand twitched toward the door handle. Dean’s gaze dropped to the movement.

‘Don’t.’

Just one word. It stopped you anyway.

Your heart slammed hard against your ribs. Sam was outside. Sam had to be right outside. All you had to do was scream, move, throw yourself out of the car, burn Dean, anything.

Your body did none of it.

Because Dean reached over and closed the laptop with two fingers. Slowly. Barely any effort. He didn’t touch you, but his arm passed close enough for you to feel the heat of him, close enough for your body to react.

He looked at you with that easy, awful smirk.

‘How ’bout we go for a ride?’

His eyes stayed on yours.

‘Just you and me.’

A/N: We’re finally getting Demon Dean’s POV in the next chapter, so please wish me luck getting his voice right.

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