La Petite Mort

you should arrest him on principle. still, the laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. “you impersonated law enforcement, obstructed an active investigation, trespassed onto private property, and dragged me into the middle of a cannibal family nightmare without so much as a safety briefing.” you tilt your head. “so no, dean. you have not been a good boy.”

his mouth curves anyway. “yeah, but i did save your ass.”

“you assisted.”

“assisted,” he repeats, offended. “wow.”

“don’t pout. it’s unbecoming.”

“i don’t pout.”

“you’re doing it right now.” that gets him. a quiet huff of laughter leaves his lips, warm and unwilling.

he shifts closer, knee brushing yours, and the air in the car thickens. his hand finds your waist, thumb pressing just under the hem of your shirt. you want to push him away for the lies, for the danger that clings to him. you want him closer. both feelings tangle so tight it’s hard to breathe.

“careful,” you murmur, and it sounds weak even to your own ears.

his thumb presses once beneath the hem of your shirt. “always am.”

“that is the least convincing thing you’ve said all night.”

he leans in slow, giving you time to stop him. that’s the annoying part. the decent part. the part that makes it harder to stay angry, because he’s arrogant, reckless, allergic to the truth, and still somehow waiting for permission with his mouth an inch from your skin. you don’t stop him.

his lips find the side of your neck, hot and open, and your fingers curl against the seat. teeth graze just under your jaw, followed by the slow drag of his tongue, and your breath comes out quieter than you mean it to. “dean—”

“shh. just sayin’ thanks.” another kiss, wetter, right below your ear.

“that’s not how that works.”

“depends who’s sayin’ it.”

you turn your head then, catching his mouth before he can make another smug comment. your fingers fist in his flannel. heat pools low in your belly. the kiss turns filthy quick. his mouth claims yours, tongue sliding deep, tasting like cheap whiskey. dean groans when your hand slides into his hair and pulls. the sound goes straight through you. his grip tightens at your waist, but you’re the one who moves first, throwing one leg over his lap in the cramped backseat, settling your weight against him with enough purpose to wipe that lazy grin off his face.

his hands go to your hips. “well, damn—”

“talk less.”

“yes, ma’am.”

the car’s cramped, windows fogging already, but it doesn’t matter. you kiss him again, rougher this time, and feel him hard beneath you through his jeans. he’s thick, already pressing up against you. not nervous. not uncertain. just want, plain and inconvenient. his hands are everywhere—under your shirt, cupping your tits, thumbs circling your nipples until they tighten into aching peaks.

“fuck, these are perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking just enough to yank your shirt up. his mouth closes over one nipple, hot and greedy, sucking hard while his hand kneads the other. you arch into it, a broken sound escaping you. he hums in approval, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. “that’s it, sweetheart. let me hear you.”

you’re grinding against the thick ridge in his jeans before you realize it. he hums against your skin. smug bastard. you grind down harder, and his smugness cracks into a groan. you do it again, slower this time, watching his jaw clench as pleasure pulls the control right out of his face.

“still feeling grateful?” you tease.

his laugh comes out rough. “you have no idea.”

“then show me.”

dean groans when you reach down to palm him through the denim. “yeah? you want that?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

that does it. his wallet comes out fast. condom between his fingers. jeans shoved down just enough because the backseat gives neither of you space nor dignity, and honestly, that feels about right for him. your pants are worked down one leg, underwear following, your boot catching briefly against the seat until you curse and dean laughs under his breath.

“not a word,” you warn.

“wouldn’t dare.”

“you’re smiling.”

“i’m happy to be alive.”

“you’re happy to be getting laid.”

“also that.”

you almost laugh, but he touches you then, fingers sliding between your thighs, and the sound turns into a breath instead. his expression shifts when he feels how wet you are, the humor thinning into something heavier. he touches you once, then again, watching your face with too much focus.

“dean—”

“yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “i know.”

he rolls the condom on, then grips your hip with one hand and guides himself with the other. the head of his cock nudges against you, thick and hot, and you brace one hand on his shoulder.

“easy,” he breathes as you sink down.

you take him inch by inch, and the stretch burns deep enough to steal the next breath out of you. he’s big. no getting around it. your body has to work for every bit of him, and dean feels it too—his head falling back, throat tight, hands flexing against your hips like he’s trying very hard not to lose his mind.

you start moving. slow at first, because there is barely enough room and because rushing would be a waste. every roll of your hips drags him deep, the angle sharp enough to make your stomach tighten. dean watches you as if he’s trying to commit it to memory: your hands on his shoulders, your hair falling loose, your badge still clipped to your belt somewhere under the mess of clothing.

the whole thing is obscene. the whole thing is exactly what you choose.

“fuck, you’re tight. takin’ me so well.”

his mouth finds your chest again, kissing and sucking wherever he can reach while you ride him, but you keep the rhythm. you keep control. when his hips start to push up too eagerly, you press a hand to his chest and slow him with one look. “behave.”

his breath catches. then he grins, ruined and beautiful and irritating. “yes, officer.”

your body clenches around him before you can help it.

his grin fades. “oh,” he says, voice rough. “you liked that.”

you roll your hips harder, and the joke dies in his throat. his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with an accuracy that makes your nails dig into his shoulder. he rubs tight, steady circles, matching your pace instead of stealing it, and heat rushes through you so quickly it almost makes you angry.

“right there?” he murmurs.

you don’t answer. you ride him harder. the car rocks beneath you, windows fogged white, the night outside reduced to shadows and streetlight. dean’s free hand grips your hip, guiding only when you let him, and his mouth brushes your jaw as his breath starts to break.

he keeps talking—filthy, sweet, messy. “so wet for me… look at you, ridin’ me like you own it. fuck, you feel incredible.”

“i said talk less.”

“can’t help it,” his fingers press firmer, dragging a sharp sound from you. “you feel too good.”

your orgasm builds hot and fast, coiling low, tightening with every deep stroke of his cock and every movement of his fingers. you feel it coming and chase it without shame, hips rolling harder, breath turning uneven. you clench around him, moaning his name, thighs trembling as waves of pleasure rip through you. dean curses, hips snapping up to fuck you through it, but he keeps his hand exactly where you need it until you’re shaking above him.

“that’s it,” he rasps. “fuck, that’s it.”

you’re still pulsing around him when he loses the last of his control. his hands lock on your hips, pulling you down as he thrusts up once, twice, then buries himself deep with a broken groan against your throat. his body goes tense beneath yours, breath hot on your skin as he comes, the condom catching everything.

for a minute, neither of you moves. not because it is romantic. because the car is small, your legs are useless, and dean winchester is still inside you with his arms locked around your waist like he forgot this was supposed to end.

eventually, his hand drifts up your back. gentler than it has any right to be. you glance down at him. his eyes are half-closed, his mouth soft, the cocky mask slipped just enough to show the tired man underneath it. blood at his hairline. bruised knuckles. fake badge somewhere in the front seat.

you shouldn’t want to stay. you do anyway.

his lips brush your shoulder. “stay a little longer?”

the question lands quietly between you. you consider making a joke. you consider reminding him that you still know at least six charges you could bring against him by morning.

instead, you rest your hand against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart. “five minutes.”

dean’s arms tighten around you. “yes, ma’am.”

and the worst part is that you know none of you will count.

sam shuts the trunk with a low metallic thud, glancing between you and dean as if he’s already exhausted by the argument that hasn’t even formed. “he’s saying it because last time you said you were ‘just checking something’, you ended up in a crawlspace with a ghost.”

“that ghost had answers.”

“that ghost threw a wrench at your head,” dean snaps.

“and missed,” you glare, because you’re a winchester, unfortunately, and sometimes survival has less to do with sense and more to do with being unbearable at the right moment.

dean points at you, the gesture sharp in the cold spill of the impala’s trunk light. “not the point.”

but even as he growls it, there’s something different in the way he looks at you tonight. not less protective. dean’s protectiveness sits under his skin, more part of his personality than sarcasm. still, tonight, he’s letting you stand between him and sam with a gun in your hand, a knife under your jacket, and the case file zipped inside your bag because this is your case. the thought warms you in a small, stupid place you try not to show.

you’d been the one who noticed the missing-person reports clustered around old factory roads, the one who caught that everybody found had been drained but not torn apart, the one who connected the witness statements about the pale man in the mechanic’s jacket. dean called it a vampire at first. sam leaned toward rougarou. you found the old lore entry in bobby’s scanned journal pages, the one about a vetala variant that fed slower, cleaner, almost surgical, usually solitary and territorial.

sam double-checked every source. dean grumbled for two hours about ‘off-brand bloodsuckers’. but they listened. they followed your lead. and now you’re here, boots crunching over gravel wet from an afternoon storm, the air cold enough to bite at your knuckles.

you don’t say how much it matters. that would make it too easy for them to take apart.

“all right,” sam says, pulling the flashlight from his jacket pocket. “we clear the main floor first. victim was last seen near the loading bay. if your theory’s right, it’ll have a nest somewhere dry and dark.”

“my theory is right,” you say.

dean gives you a sideways look. “that confidence better come with a return policy.”

“you’re literally confident with no evidence every day of your life.”

“yeah, but i’m charming.”

sam’s mouth twitches.

you hate that it makes you happy. you hate that being trusted by them feels less like being handed a weapon and more like being handed a place at the table. your brothers love you. you know that. they love you so hard it has bruised every corner of your life. but love and trust aren’t the same thing, and winchester love has a way of locking doors from the inside. tonight, for once, they let you pick the lock.

inside, the mill is a long-boned corpse of a building, all rusted railings, broken windows, and old machinery huddled beneath plastic tarps. rainwater drips through holes in the roof, steady and uneven, tapping against metal beams and puddles in the concrete. your flashlight catches strips of old safety tape, faded signs, a smashed vending machine with warped candy wrappers still trapped behind cloudy glass.

“cozy,” dean mutters.

“you say that about every murder building.”

“because murder buildings keep having terrible decor.”

you bite back a smile and move carefully along the wall, watching the dust, the drag marks, the faint wet smear that isn’t water near the base of a staircase. sam sees it at the same time you do. he crouches, touches two fingers close to it without actually dipping into the blood, then looks up at you.

you nod toward the hall on the left. “loading bay.”

dean’s face changes. not much, just that slight tightening in his jaw, that older-brother switch flipping from banter to business. he steps ahead by instinct. you step with him from sheer stubbornness. for a second, his eyes cut to you. you know that look. it means don’t. you stare back. it means try me.

sam exhales behind you. “both of you, focus.”

the thing is in the loading bay, just where you thought it would be. it drops from the upper beams with a wet, ugly hiss, pale limbs bending wrong, mouth peeling open too wide around teeth stained dark at the edges. 

dean fires first. the shot cracks through the hollow space and sends a flock of pigeons bursting from the rafters. sam moves left, clean and fast, silver flashing in his hand. you take right, heart kicking hard enough to make your ribs feel crowded, and for one bright second, everything works exactly the way it should.

you’re scared. obviously, you’re scared. fear’s not the opposite of courage; dean taught you that by accident every time he gripped the steering wheel too tight and still drove toward the thing everyone else ran from. your hands shake once, then steady. you remember the lore. you remember the weak point. you remember the pattern of its attacks.

the monster lunges for sam.

“sam!” you shout, firing into its shoulder.

it shrieks, twists, and dean’s already there. his knife buries under its ribs, one hard upward shove, and the creature spasms against him. its nails scrape down his jacket. he grimaces, drives the blade deeper, and it drops—ugly, knees folding, body hitting the concrete with a sound that turns your stomach.

silence crashes down after it. for a few seconds, nobody moves.

then dean looks at you, breath coming hard, blood speckled across one cheek. “your theory was right.”

you grin before you can stop yourself. “say it again.”

“don’t push it.”

“no, no, i need the full sentence. maybe with eye contact.”

sam straightens, still watching the body. “it was a clean ID. good work.”

that lands softer than you expect. heavier, too. you look at sam and feel your teasing loosen into something awkward and warm. “thanks.”

dean wipes his knife on the creature’s jacket. “yeah, yeah. gold star. everybody happy? let’s torch ugly here and get gone before this place collapses on us.”

you should’ve left then.

that’s the part you’ll think about later, again and again, when the pain has teeth and sleep comes in broken pieces. you should’ve left. the hunt’s done. the monster’s dead. the three of you are alive, damp, tired, and okay.

sam turns toward the exit first. dean bends to grab the duffel with the lighter fluid and salt. you take one step back, looking over the body, already building the story in your head: how dean will pretend he solved the case by ‘superior instinct’, how sam will argue for research credit, how you’ll demand diner pie as tribute for being correct.

then something moves behind dean. not the dead thing. above him. your brain catches pieces, not the whole. the scrape of claws on metal. the shift of shadow along the beam. sam’s flashlight swinging up too late. another pale shape unfolding from the dark with a mouth already open and one arm drawn back.

dean doesn’t see it.

you do.

there’s no time to say his name properly. no time to think through angles or weapons or whether you’re being brave or stupid. your body makes the choice before your mind catches up, and maybe that’s the most winchester thing about you.

you slam into dean’s side with both hands. he stumbles hard, swearing, the duffel dropping from his grip.

the second creature comes down where he was standing.

the pain is immediate, bright, wrong. at first, you don’t understand it. there’s impact, then heat, then a tearing pressure across your side that knocks the breath clean out of you. the floor jumps up. your knees hit concrete. something inside you seems to tilt out of place.

sam yells your name.

dean yells it louder.

you look down because some dumb, childish part of you needs proof, and proof is there under your hand, slick and dark, spreading too fast through torn fabric. the creature’s claw has opened you from the lower ribs down toward your hip, deep enough that your fingers come away red before you can decide whether to press or pull away.

oh. that’s all you can think.

the monster screams again, but it sounds far off now, dragged underwater. sam moves past you in a blur of long limbs and fury, not calm anymore, not careful. dean’s suddenly in front of you, then beside you, then on his knees, his hands catching your shoulders before you can fold all the way down.

“hey, hey, hey. look at me. look at me.”

you try. his face refuses to stay still. the world flickers around the edges, gray chewing at the lights.

“dean—” you say, but your voice is thin and surprised, which scares you more than the pain.

“nope. don’t do that.” he rips his overshirt open so hard one button snaps and skitters across the floor. “don’t use that little voice on me. you’re fine.”

you want to point out that this is a very obvious lie. you want to say something clever because that’s what you do when dean gets scared. you make him mad so he has somewhere to put it. but the words don’t line up. your thoughts have turned slippery. every breath pulls fire through your side, and there’s so much blood.

dean wads the shirt and presses it hard to the wound.

the sound you make is ugly.

“i know,” he says instantly, face twisting. “i know, baby. i’m sorry. i gotta, okay? i gotta stop the bleeding.”

baby. he only calls you that when he forgets you aren’t six anymore.

behind him, there’s a crash, a snarl cut short, sam’s grunt of pain, then the wet punch of a blade sinking. the second monster hits the ground. for one strange second, you feel guilty that you can’t turn your head to check if sam’s okay.

sam appears anyway, breath ragged, hair falling into his face, knife dripping black-red onto the concrete. “how bad?”

dean doesn’t answer fast enough.

sam sees the blood and goes pale in a way you’ve never seen on a hunt. his hand hovers over you, useless for half a heartbeat, then he drops beside dean and starts pulling supplies from the duffel with shaking efficiency. gauze. bandage roll. tape. 

“we need to move,” sam says. his voice cracks insignificantly on the last word, but you hear it. “dean, we can’t fix this here.”

“i know that,” dean snaps.

you blink up at the ceiling. one of the lights is broken. it hums and flickers and makes everything look chopped into pieces. “did we get both?”

sam looks at you as if the question hurts him personally. “yeah. we got both.”

“good.” you swallow, but your mouth is dry. “my case.”

dean lets out something that isn’t a laugh, not even close. “yeah, congratulations. your prize is me kicking your ass when you stop bleeding.”

“mean,” your brain orders your lips to smile, but all you actually manage is a crooked twitch.

“you haven’t seen mean.” his hand presses harder. “stay with me and i’ll show you.”

sam’s jacket goes over you. then his hands are under your knees and behind your shoulders, and dean shifts to keep pressure while they lift. 

the world breaks open.

you do scream then, or maybe you only think you do. the sound tears your throat raw either way. dean curses, sam says sorry over and over, and you hate them a little for moving you, then love them for not stopping, because stopping means dying on a dirty factory floor beside a dead thing with too many teeth, and you’ve always privately hoped your death would be more dramatic than that. more meaningful. less damp.

your boots drag once. dean barks at sam to watch the door. sam barks back that he has it. their voices keep knocking against each other above you, familiar and frantic, and you hold onto the rhythm because the rest of you feels unstitched.

outside, the cold hits your face so sharply that you gasp.

“there she is,” dean says. “keep those eyes open.”

you do. for maybe two seconds.

the path to the car stretches forever. gravel crunches. rain starts again, light and mean, spotting sam’s jacket across your chest. you can see the impala ahead, black and shining under the thin moon, and for some ridiculous reason you think about how dean’s going to be pissed if you bleed all over the backseat.

“sorry,” you mumble.

“for what?” sam asks, breathless.

“car.”

dean makes a sound near your ear. “are you apologizing to the car right now?”

he opens the back door with one hand while sam lowers you in. it’s clumsy. awful. dean slides in after you without hesitation, dragging you half across his lap, one hand jammed against your side. sam takes the driver’s seat. even through the fog, you understand what that means. dean lets sam drive when the world’s ending or when he’s too broken to pretend his hands belong on the wheel.

the engine roars to life. gravel spits under the tires. your head lolls against dean’s shoulder, and he catches your chin with two fingers, forcing your face up. “nuh-uh. you don’t sleep.”

words tumble from your lips that don’t sound like anything at all. bossy, is what you wanted to muster out.

“you think you get to throw yourself in front of me and then take a nap? that’s rude as hell.”

sam’s eyes flash in the rearview mirror. “dean.”

“what? she likes it when i’m mean.”

you’d smile again, now. the muscles don’t move. 

the road sways. streetlights smear gold through the rain-streaked windows. dean keeps talking, each sentence sharper than the last, rough enough that someone else might think he’s angry at you. you know better. dean’s fear has always worn anger as a jacket because anger has pockets. anger can carry a knife. fear just stands there empty-handed.

“you still owe me twenty bucks from that pool game in omaha,” he says. “and don’t think i forgot. you die on me, i’m collecting from your stash.”

sam takes a corner too fast. your stomach rolls. pain flares white, and for a second there’s no car, no rain, no dean. only your body begging to stop.

“sam,” dean barks, suddenly not mean at all.

“i’m going as fast as i can.”

“go faster.”

“i am!”

the motel is only eight minutes away. maybe ten. it feels longer than every year you’ve been alive. 

you listen to dean’s heartbeat because your ear is against his chest now. it pounds too fast. too human. too scared. his hand is warm and wet where it holds you together, and you wonder if he can feel you slipping under his palm.

“dean,” you manage.

“yeah, i’m here.”

“you okay?”

his breath catches.

then his face comes down close to yours, his cheek rough against your temple for one second, and his voice turns wrecked and furious. “you don’t ask me that right now. you hear me? you do not get to ask me that.”

you want to say you pushed him because he’s your brother. because he would’ve done it for you. because sam would’ve done it for either of you. because this family is a series of bodies stepping in front of other bodies, and you learned the choreography before you were old enough to know there was another way to love someone. instead, your eyes close.

dean says your name. sam says it too.

then everything goes quiet.

when you wake, the first thing you notice is the ceiling. not the pain. not at first. just the ceiling with its ugly popcorn texture and the brown water stain shaped vaguely, stupidly. the motel room is dark except for the blue-gray light leaking around the curtains and the dim yellow lamp near the bathroom. rain taps the window in thin little clicks. your mouth tastes awful. copper and stale air. your body feels too heavy. then the pain arrives.

it comes slowly, not the bright slash from before, but a deep, pulsing misery that wraps around your side and digs in with every breath. your fingers twitch against the blanket. the movement is tiny, but it’s enough. dean wakes instantly.

he’s on the floor beside the bed, back against the mattress, one knee bent, gun loose in his hand. his head snaps up so fast you wonder if he ever really slept. his face is rough with exhaustion, eyes red, hair flattened on one side. there’s blood under his fingernails. your blood.

“hey,” he says, and the word falls apart in the middle.

you try to answer. nothing comes out.

he reaches for the glass on the nightstand, then hesitates as if terrified moving too fast will break you. “water. small sip.”

he helps lift your head. the water is warm and tastes faintly of paper cup, and it’s the best thing you’ve ever had. you swallow twice before he pulls it away.

“don’t chug it,” he mutters. “you’ll puke, and i’m not ready for that.”

your mouth moves before sound shows up. “coward.”

dean freezes. then his face crumples for half a second, so quick you might miss it if you weren’t looking right at him. he laughs once under his breath, no joy in it yet. just relief. “there she is.”

across the room, sam’s asleep in a crooked wooden chair, his long body folded badly, head hanging forward at an angle that guarantees a brutal neck ache. one hand still rests on an open first-aid kit on the table. the other is curled around his phone, screen dark. he looks younger in sleep, but not peaceful. never peaceful. his brows are drawn together, his mouth tight, as if worry followed him under.

dean follows your gaze and softens despite himself. “he’s okay. got clipped, nothing bad. he passed out about forty minutes ago. wouldn’t lie down because he’s an idiot.”

“family trait.”

“yeah, apparently.”

you shift again, trying to understand your body, and pain flashes hot enough to make your vision spot. dean’s on his knees in a second, hand hovering over your shoulder, not touching until he knows where it will hurt less.

“don’t move.”

“what happened?”

his jaw flexes. he looks toward your bandaged side, and you follow the glance despite the dread.

your shirt is gone, replaced with one of dean’s old black tees cut open along the side. thick bandages wrap your middle, bulky and clean now, though rusty red has already started to bloom through one layer. beneath that, you can feel the pull of stitches, tight and ugly.

“we patched you up,” dean says.

“hospital?”

“too far. too many questions. wound missed the worst stuff by a miracle.” his voice goes flat at the edges. “sam cleaned it. i stitched.”

you blink at him. “you?”

his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “yeah.”

your throat tightens in a way that has nothing to do with thirst. “dean…”

“don’t start.”

“is it bad?”

“the stitching? yeah. objectively terrible.” he swallows. “scar’s gonna be nasty.”

sam wakes with a sharp inhale before you can say anything. the chair creaks violently under him, and he looks around with wild eyes until he sees you awake. then he’s up too fast, nearly knocking the first-aid kit off the table.

“hey. hey, don’t—” dean starts.

sam ignores him, coming to the other side of the bed and crouching so he can see your face. “how do you feel?”

“amazing,” you whisper. “thinking of taking up jogging.”

sam’s mouth trembles. he presses it into a line, nods as if accepting this medical information with great seriousness. “okay. terrible, then.”

“neck?”

“what?”

“your neck. the chair looks mean.”

for some reason, that breaks him worse than anything else. his eyes go bright, and he looks down, one hand covering his mouth for a second. when he looks back up, he is holding himself together with visible effort. “you almost died,” he manages.

the room goes still. dean looks away. you know it already. you felt it in the car, in the way the dark came for you, soft and patient. but hearing sam say it makes the truth land in the room with all three of you. not as a possibility. as a fact with wet hair and bloody hands.

“but i didn’t,” you say.

“that’s not the point,” dean snaps, too fast.

your eyes move to him. there’s the lecture. the anger he’s been sharpening because terror is too blunt to use. dean gets to his feet, then seems to realize pacing will make him look frantic, so he stops beside the bed and crosses his arms instead. 

“what the hell were you thinking?”

sam exhales. “dean—”

“no, don’t dean me. she shoved me out of the way.”

“because there was a monster above you,” you say, voice thin.

“yeah, i got that part.”

“then maybe say thank you.”

his eyes flash. “thank you? you want a thank you? fine. thank you for taking a claw to the gut. thank you for bleeding out in the back of my car. thank you for scaring ten years off my life. that work for you?”

you flinch. dean’s loud all the time. but you flinch because underneath it, he sounds young. not your older brother. not cocky, leather-jacket, classic-rock pain in your ass. child young. the kind of young he must’ve been the first time your dad handed him a gun and told him you and sam were his job.

your eyes burn. 

dean sees it and looks immediately miserable, which almost makes it worse. “i’m sorry,” he says, voice dropping. “i’m not—i don’t mean…”

“you mean it,” you say quietly.

he rubs a hand over his mouth. “yeah. i mean it. i mean… what the hell, kid?”

sam sits carefully on the edge of the other bed, facing you, hands clasped between his knees. “you saved dean’s life.”

dean makes a sharp sound.

“you did,” sam says, not looking away from you. “and we know why you did it. nobody’s saying you should’ve stood there and watched him get hurt.”

“i’m saying,” dean cuts in, “that i’m supposed to be the one taking hits for you.”

“that’s not a rule.”

“yes, it is.”

the answer is so immediate, so certain, that it knocks the breath out of you.

sam’s expression folds with pain. he reaches for your hand, fingers closing around yours, warm and careful. “you’re our little sister.”

“i’m a hunter too.”

“i know,” sam says. “we know. tonight proved that.”

“then don’t say it like i’m not allowed to choose.”

“you are,” he says, and that gentleness hurts because he means it. “but we’re allowed to hate that choice. we’re allowed to be scared.”

dean lets out a bitter laugh. “scared doesn’t cover it.”

your eyes fill before you can stop them. you’re too tired to swallow it back, too sore to turn your face away with any dignity. the tears slip hot into your hairline, and dean’s anger vanishes so fast it leaves him looking hollow.

“hey,” he says, softer. “no, don’t. you’ll pull something.”

sam squeezes your hand.

“i didn’t want him to die,” you say, and it’s the stupidest, smallest explanation, barely anything, but it’s all you have. “i just saw it and moved. i didn’t think.”

dean sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle you. his shoulders slump. “i know.”

“i’m not sorry.”

his eyes close.

“i’m sorry you got scared,” you add, voice shaking now. “i’m sorry about the blood and the car and the crappy scar. i’m sorry sam had to drive because that means we’re all traumatized forever.”

sam huffs out a laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob.

“but i’m not sorry i pushed you.”

dean opens his eyes. for once, he has no fast answer. no insult. no joke with teeth. just that look he usually buries under bad attitude.

the tears keep coming, quiet and embarrassing. you aren’t even crying neatly. your chin wobbles, your breathing stutters, and every shaky inhale pulls at the stitches until pain glows beneath the bandages. sam reaches up to wipe your cheek with his thumb, and that makes it worse for some reason. dean looks at you for one more second before his face breaks open with helpless affection and fear.

“come here,” you whisper.

both of them freeze.

“what?”

“hug,” you say, because you might die of humiliation if they deny it. “teary hug. now.”

they move slowly. sam climbs onto the bed first, careful around the wounded side, one arm sliding behind your shoulders with the lightest pressure possible. dean takes the other side, awkward as hell, one knee on the mattress, one hand braced near your hip so he doesn’t lean on you. 

it’s barely a hug at first.  then sam presses his face into your hair. dean’s hand curls around the back of your head. and suddenly it’s real.

you cry harder, silently, because making noise hurts too much. sam murmurs nonsense into your hair, low and broken, telling you you’re okay, you’re here, they’ve got you. dean says nothing for a while. he just holds on, his thumb moving once against your temple as if checking that you’re still warm.

“you ever do that again,” he says eventually, voice rough, “i’m grounding you.”

you sniff. “i’m an adult.”

“don’t care.”

“can’t ground a hunter.”

“watch me.”

you close your eyes, tucked between them, pain and relief tangled so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. you’re still scared. you thought waking up would end it, but your body remembers the floor, the blood, dean’s hands pressing hard enough to hurt, sam’s voice cracking when he said your name… you’re safe now, or as safe as a winchester gets.

later, there are fresh bandages. painkillers from a bottle with someone else’s name on it. sam reheats soup in the motel microwave and pretends not to hover while you take four whole bites under threat of dean ‘airplaning the spoon’ like the world’s worst nurse. dean changes his shirt but not before you catch him scrubbing your blood off his hands in the sink for too long. 

for the next few hours, they become unbearable in opposite directions. sam keeps track of your fever, your pulse, your pain level, and the timing of every pill with the grim focus of a medical student. dean pretends he isn’t fussing while absolutely fussing, adjusting the blanket with a scowl, cutting your food into smaller pieces, putting a trash can near the bed in case you get sick, then acting offended when you call him sweet.

“i’m not sweet.”

“you tucked me in.”

“you were shivering.”

“sweet.”

“drugged. you’re drugged and confused.”

“sweetheart, even.”

sam makes a strangled noise into his coffee.

dean points at him. “laugh and you’re the one getting stabbed next.”

but he does not leave the bed for long. neither of them does. sam eventually stretches out on the other mattress, one arm flung over his eyes, but his hand stays near the space between the beds. dean returns to the floor because apparently that’s where he has decided he lives now, back against your mattress, head tilted just enough that you can see the exhaustion pulling at him.

the rain lets up near dawn.

you drift in and out, carried by painkillers and the soft scrape of sam turning pages in a book he isn’t really reading. every time you wake, one of them notices. every time you shift, one of them tells you not to. it makes something tender ache under your ribs, somewhere away from the wound. because being loved by them is heavy. too heavy sometimes. it pins you down, wraps you up, steals the room from your lungs. but it’s also dean sleeping on the floor because he wants to be the first thing danger has to climb over. it’s sam ruining his neck in a motel chair because looking away feels worse than pain. it’s mean jokes in the backseat, shaking stitches, soup from a microwave, and two brothers pretending they aren’t hovering while hovering severely.

you let them fuss. just this once.

outside, morning settles over the motel in thin gold strips, and for a while, nobody asks you to be brave.