𝙳.𝚆.

there's a knock on the door. three sharp raps that make dean immediately reach for his gun under his mattress. another knock. dean moves silently across the room, gun low against his thigh. he checks the peephole.

bela friggin' talbot.

of course.

he opens the door halfway. "wrong motel, sweetheart. hell's two exits down."

he's expectin' that lovely to see you too and the smug little sweep around the room that bela always does.

"whatever you're buyin', sellin', screwin' over, we're not interested."

she knows about their investigation. because of course she does. she's a shark smellin' blood in water, except sharks can be cute, and dean would rather burn in hell than admit bela talbot is anythin' of the sort.

"plus, hirin' backstabbers is really bad for business."

"what's particularly bad for business is dying."

when dean makes the mistake to jerk away, dad's fingers press into the meat of his upper arm so hard dean's sure it'll leave a bruise under his sleeve.

"don't pull that crap with me," dad snaps.

dean swallows his words, stares at the brown and gold swirls weaved into the motel's carpet. there's cigarette burns where it cuts off before the bathroom door.

on one of the beds, sam sits cross-legged with a comic book spread open in his lap.

dad drags a hand over his mouth and turns away. "you wanna tell me why your brother was alone at a bus station at midnight?"

"he wasn't alone."

"really."

"i was gone ten minutes."

"that's all it takes."

dean hates the accusatory finger pointed at him. he hates the way it makes him feel small even more.

ten minutes. that's how long it had taken him. ten minutes to get food from the diner next door while sam stayed inside the bus station, where it was warm and dry. ten minutes, after watchin' sammy for twelve hours straight in a town that dean didn't know while dad chased a lead that apparently turned into an all-day hunt.

but dean knows better than to say that out loud.

sam's ears perk up.

"go wash up, sammy," john says, his voice even but authoritative.

"i'm still reading," sam whines.

"now."

sam looks at dean like he's the one he has to ask for permission. dean nods with his eyes more than his head.

the bathroom doors shuts, the faucet squeaking on. it's then that john exhales through his nose.

he's runnin' on fumes, dean thinks. he knows the signs. dad's crossed over into that place again, the one where every little thing becomes a life or death situation because somewhere in his head, mom is still burning on the ceiling.

"i thought i told you to keep an eye on sam."

dean stares at the floor. "i did."

"you call this doin' it?"

dean swallows hard, still avoiding eye contact. "i said i was sorry."

"that's not the point."

dean forces himself to lift his eyes. dad's gun is still shoved into the back of his jeans because he didn't even take the time to unpack after tearing through the town lookin' for sam. then dean saw it. the fear underneath all of dad's anger. somehow that makes him feel worse.

"i know," dean mumbles, head down.

"you think i like comin' back to find sam gone?"

"he wasn't gone."

"he could've been."

a drifter had started talkin' to sam at the station. that was all. dean saw it through the diner window while payin' for the burgers and crossed the street before the guy could get comfortable. no big deal. except the guy grabbed sammy's shoulder when dean pulled him away, and dean shoved back. suddenly there were cops askin' questions and sam was cryin' because he thought dean was getting arrested. by the time dad came, dean knew how bad it looked.

"you can't leave him alone," dad says, soundin' more tired than furious this time.

dean nods. "okay."

dad looks at him for one long moment, then unexpectedly asks, "you hurt?"

dean blinks. "no."

the bathroom fauce shuts off. tiny feet pad against tile. when sammy comes out with red-rimmed eyes, dean straightens automatically. dad notices, dean notices him noticin', and in dad's eyes there's a brief flicker of somethin' guilty and gone too fast to name.

"dean."

"yeah?"

"you did good getting to him before anything happened."

dean looks up too quickly. by that time dad's already reachin' for the takeout bag on the dresser.

"food's cold," he mutters.

stalled out case means research. which means they're spending all day in stale motel room air, surrounded by strewn out papers, empty coffee cups, and fast food wrappers. in short: sam's heaven, dean's nightmare.

and while sam is hunched over lore books, dean sits slumped in a chair, headphones in, eyes flicking over a laptop screen like he's deep in research.

"hey. so get this—" when dean doesn't respond, sam glances over, eyes narrowing. "dean? dean."

he walks over, taps dean's shoulder. nothing.

the second tap is firm enough to startle him. dean yanks the headphones off and, unfortunately, out of the port. he freezes at first, then almost violently snaps the laptop shut.

"dude." sam's grin gets wider by the second. "was that—"

dean glares. "do not say a word."

"it was taylor swift."

he considers retaliating by mentioning sam's kylie minogue obsession, but then sam would mock him for knowing who that even is. "it was research, okay? i'm researchin'."

"you were nodding in time with the beat."

"you're makin' it weird. don't make it weird."

sam lets out a breathy chuckle. while he's crossing over to his side of the room, still wearing that punchable toothy grin, dean shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

five seconds and the silence has worn him down.

"some of her stuff's not bad," dean says, verbally scrambling to defend himself. he points at sam's smug face. "off the record."

"you have to say 'off the record' beforehand, not afterward."

"seriously? what is this, court?"

sam shrugs.

"oh, screw you."

if the sun wasn't scorching enough to convince him they'd made a pit stop in satan's crack, then the smell of his own sweat mixed with the fuel and dust comin' from the highway sure as hell does.

exhausted, dean leans against the hood of his impala; one boot on the bumper, the other on the sun-baked asphalt. he's halfway through his gas station pastry when elena decides to act like the nutrition police.

the tennis ball dean has been throwing for the past twenty minutes falls snug into his palm. he delays the next throw if only to ponder cassie's words and, with a mouth shrug, aims at the ceiling again. the ball thumps. dean shifts as it's coming down. the whole time he's thinking how much he prefers cassie's dorm bed to the stained, worn out motel mattress.

"really?" he flicks his wrist a bit more forcefully this time and mumbles an apology at the look cassie throws his way. "huh."

the songs in his music catalogue speak of epic heroism, lust and desire, and the glorification of the rockstar lifestyle. the closest he's come to hearin' a song about loving someone in difficult circumstances is zepp's since i've been loving you. and even then, that's not entirely what cassie means.

ghosts, shapeshifters, skinwalkers, hell, even sirens, and dean winchester's most elusive enemy turns out to be a thieving seagull.

"come here, you feathery little psycho!" he yells, lunging for the seagull as it darts under the impala. "you think you can outrun me? i've ganked vamps faster than you."

sam steps out of the motel room just in time to see dean on all fours, reaching under the car, feathers flying. he blinks once. "what the hell, dude?"

"it stole my burger, sam!" dean pops up, hair disheveled and holding a half-squashed paper bag. "look at this! pecked right through the wrapper like it was possessed."

as if on cue, the seagull struts out from behind the impala, swallows the fry in its beak, then starts squawking triumphantly.

"that's not a normal bird," dean says, pointing at it. normal birds don't just steal your lunch and taunt you with it.

sam crosses his arms. "you sure it's not just smarter than you?"

the seagull takes off, letting dean have half a minute respite before it perches on the impala's hood and starts pecking the windshield wipers.

dean gasps. offense, disbelief and shock all flash across his eyes. "oh no, you didn't." his hand hovers near the trunk. sam's voice cuts through his focus briefly—you're not gonna shoot a seagull, right?

not only is he gonna shoot the thieving son of a beak, he's gonna string it up for all its friends to see. because nobody touches baby. nobody.

the bird squawks again. dean waves in its direction, jaw tight. "it's friggin' laughin' at me. and now it's— oh, no. no, no, no, no. it did not just take a dump on my car."

sam laughs, hands snug in the pockets of his hoodie. "i'm not cleaning that."

but dean's too preoccupied with staring down the winged rat. he readies himself, shifting his weight, then lunges forward—

the seagull takes off effortlessly, flapping away with one last mocking squawk.

𖤐 my activity is inspiration based and therefore sporadic. mutuals are welcome to ask for my discord — it's your best bet if you want more consistent responses. i also have a multi (side)blog that's even lower activity for anyone interested. both blogs are heavily affiliated with @unpunish.

𖤐 i prefer the monster-of-the-week trope for non-established interactions, so i default to seasons 1-3 with 4-5 being plot or character dependent. post-kripke era interactions require plotting and will most likely be part of my default verse.

𖤐 memes are there to be sent, doesn't matter if it's been 2 days or 2 months. send several, i like having options. also feel free to turn them into threads.

𖤐 i'm open to shipping, but as far as canon ships go, this is a dean/cassie haven. controversially, i write dean as straight. i know >:(