Chibs:

If anyone looks at you too long, he stares them down until they leave you alone.

He will always have his hands on you in some way in public, hands on your waist, lower back or arm slung around your shoulder.

He always refers to you as “my old lady” emphasis on my .

He always lingers close by. Like a protective shadow.

He gets jealous easily, if he sees you talking to some guy, even if they’re just a friend, laughing too easily at their jokes he gets jealous. When he gets you alone he pushes you against the closest wall, kissing your neck and whispering in your ear “mine.”

He leaves marks on you. Somewhere easily spotted. Like your neck. Even your cleavage, because you often have your cleavage on show. (Mostly because you know it drives him wild when he sees you in low cut tops)

Softer possessive moments at night when you’re alone. He holds you close kissing you softly still saying “mine” but in a softer voice

Tig:

Anyone looks at you too long and he’s by your side. Arm sliding around your waist. He glares at the guy and says “stay away from my girl or I’ll cut your dick off.” The guy clearly gets the message

He has a special stare that he gives people if they get too close to you. A lot of the time he doesn’t even need to open his mouth before they run away.

If he still needs to make it clear to others that you belong to him, he will grab you by the back of the neck, fingers in your hair roughly kissing you to send the message.

He will have his hand in yours or hand on your thigh whenever you’re sat at the clubhouse together.

He constantly tells you that you’re “stuck with him”

When he’s not with you he constantly checks in on you, texting you, making sure you’re ok. If you ever need him he will drop everything and be there immediately.

He leaves marks, hickeys and teeth marks all over your body. Huge hickeys too. That way when someone sees them they know you’re taken.

He always whispers “mine” as he’s fucking you.

Rare vulnerable moments where he holds you close and begs you to “never leave him”

Happy:

Happy doesn’t need words. Anyone gets too close he glares at them making them feel uncomfortable.

Or if they know him and what he’s capable of, he will lift his shirt showing the smiley faces tattooed over his torso.

He always lingers nearby. Making sure you’re in his eye line. Ready to step in if need be.

There’s always a physical reminder of who you belong to. A firm hand grasping the back of your neck as he kisses you. Teeth grazing your skin as he kisses your neck. He gets rough during sex. Pulling your hair. But he also has a softer side where he holds you close. Fingers tracing your skin.

When you’re around others he always kisses your forehead.

If you get hurt he doesn’t leave your bedside until you’re better. He doesn’t show much emotion but inside he dying.

He pulls you into his lap when you’re at home alone. Running his fingers through your hair as you rest your head against his chest.

Jax:

He pulls you into his lap at club parties, wrap his arm tightly around your waist, and kisses you in front of anyone.

Whenever he’s around everyone knows you belong to him.

If someone didn’t realise and tried hitting on you, he will punch them in the face saying “back off she’s mine” before kissing you passionately.

Always touching you, hand around your waist, kissing your temple. Finger hooked in your belt loops, pulling you closer.

Behind closed doors his possessiveness turns hungry. Fucking you so hard that you remember you’re his. Not that you could ever forget it.

He shows a softer side too. Telling you “I can’t lose you.”

Opie:

He’s quietly possessive. If someone hits on you, he will stand behind you, glaring until the man runs away.

His hand is always on your lower back or around your shoulders, holding you close to him.

Opie always calls you “my woman”

He gets jealous easily but tends to keep quiet. His jaw clenches, but later he will pull you close and whisper “mine”. His large hands cup your face before kissing you passionately. A gentle reminder that you’re his.

He leaves subtle marks on you. Mostly beard burn on your neck from when he kisses your neck. even though he doesn’t intentionally leave the marks he’s happy when it makes people realise you’re taken.

Protective giant. He will linger close by you at all times. Ready to step in if need be.

In private he’s softer. Pulling you close saying “I’d do anything for you”

David Hale:

He’s quietly intense. He’s not loud about it, but if someone flirts with you, his jaw clenches, and his posture changes. He is used to control and the only thing he needs is to make sure you’re safe.

He becomes your protective shield. Always standing between you and any potential threat.

If anyone flirts with you. He will glare at them intensely. But pull you close later telling you “I don’t share”

Any chance he gets he introduces you as his girl. The badge usually scares people off.

He leaves soft but deliberate hickeys over your neck, he also grips your waist firmly as he’s kissing you goodbye.

Frequent check in texts to make sure you’re ok and safe. Even if he’s busy with work if anything goes wrong, and you need him he will drop everything to rescue you.

In quiet he pulls you close, constantly reminding you “I will always protect you.” He also tells you how much he loves you and can’t lose you.

He will bend the rules if it means keeping you safe.

Kozik:

He is never subtle about anything. He will throw an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close. Kissing your temple.

He will always tell anyone and everyone “she’s mine” whenever he gets the chance.

Anyone gets too close or flirty he will crack his knuckles, clench his jaw, before stepping in their face and warning them.

Always touching you in some way. Hand on your thigh. Hand in yours. Or just holding you close to him.

He will kiss you roughly in front of everyone. Hand on the back of your neck, other hand gripping your waist firming. “Mine” he will mutter against your lips.

Marking during sex. Lots of biting. Scratches, hickeys. Later he admires them with that cheeky smirk on his face. Proud of his work.

Soft vulnerability where he admits he’s scared of losing you.

Juice:

He is quiet but intense. Lingering close by at all times. When someone gets too close his smile is gone. He slides an arm around your waist pulling you close to him and kissing your temple.

He gets jealous easily. He’s also terrified of losing you. The only reasurance he has is when you kiss him, and promise you’ll never leave him.

He often tracks your location (with permission of course). He just needs to know you’re safe.

He pulls you onto his lap, at the clubhouse. Kissing your forehead or temple. Holding your hand.

He always calls you “my girl”.

Soft vulberability where he tells you “you’re the only one who keeps me grounded. And begs you to never leave”

He leaves hickeys on your neck, a subtle reminder to everyone that you’re his.

He will always defend and protect you no matter what.

Nero Padilla:

Nero is possessive in a calm but protective way. He pulls you close and tells anyone “she’s with me.”

His hand will protectively nestle on your lower back or waist, as he holds you close.

He always stays close to you. Making sure he can step in if you need protecting.

He will get jealous if someone flirts with you. But he quickly steps in, pulling you close and warning the person to stay away because you’re with him.

He loves leaving subtle love bites along your jawline, neck and collar bone.

Farrah was doing a small piece of her own but she was mainly helping Rami, “You can use your hands, yes, but try and use the brushes.”

Salacia was painting a gift for Greta. She wasn’t exactly most skilled when it came to creating realistic paintings, but she could put her feelings into whatever she painted. She didn’t know what König was painting but he was certainly concentrating on it.

“Auntie Sally, this is for you!” Rami exclaimed from across the table.

Salacia giggled, “Ooh, I’m so excited to see it.” Salacia said, smiling at her nephew.

Farrah smiled, “Salacia, you said you invited your ex, right?” She asked.

“Yes, he and his wife.” The redhead confirmed, “He’s honestly become a good friend after everything that happened.”

“What is his wife like?” Farrah asked.

Salacia thought for a moment, how could she describe Sprite? Tall and tanned, with long, straight, dark brown hair with the ends often dyed in a myriad of colors (she had even dyed them teal for the wedding), deep amber eyes. She had a few tattoos as well, of course, that is what she did for a living. But she was the sweetest person Salacia had ever met.

She had even given Salacia the tattoo on her wrist.

It was a small, full color image of an Atlas Moth with the date of her accident below it. She had survived. Her aunts had always told her that moths were symbols of survival. She had fallen in love with moths growing up. And Atlas Moths were one of her favorites.

She hadn’t known that Sprite was dating her ex when she got the tattoo done. It was in their conversation afterward that they realized it. Salacia explaining more of her story, why she got the tattoo she had and Sprite asked if she knew someone named Phillip...

—

“Yeah, actually, my ex was named Phillip, but that’s a really common name.” Salacia said, incredulously.

“Yeah, but not someone who has a story of their ex getting crushed under a building.” Sprite exclaimed, “He told me that as the story of what made him start to have some introspection on his life.”

“Blond?” Salacia asked.

Sprite nodded.

“Blue eyes?”

Again Sprite nodded.

“Military?”

Even more nodding.

“Country but with an edge?”

“That is exactly how I describe him too!” Sprite laughed.

“Holy shit, you are dating Phillip Graves?” Salacia laughed.

“Yes!” Sprite exclaimed.

She took a moment and gushed about how sweet and understanding he was. And how he had helped her through some hard times and supported her when she was dealing with some immense personal issues. Salacia smiled the entire time. She didn’t hold any hard feelings towards him anymore, she had grown a lot as she healed mentally and physically from her accident.

“Sorry...just...it’s kinda funny, right?” Sprite said after a moment.

“Yeah, I am so happy that you two are happy. I’m glad he found someone like you, maybe you can help remind him to lighten up.” Salacia teased.

Sprite giggled, “He does like to lose himself in work.” She said with a roll of her eyes.

—

“She’s perfect for him.” Was all Salacia could say to answer her sister in law’s question.

That seemed to satiate Farrah’s curiosity for now. Phillip and Sprite would be arriving the evening before the wedding so they all could enjoy dinner together. She was excited to have her entire world together. All those that she cared about in one home for a meal to celebrate her upcoming nuptials.

She looked at what König was painting and it was a cute calico kitten sitting in a field of edelweiss flowers. She smiled softly at it, the eyes were gray, similar to her own. He blushed and looked up at her when he noticed where she was looking.

“You’re so cute.” She murmured and pecked his cheek.

“Only for you.” He murmured.

—

The day wore on and König was even more worried, he got a message that his mother's plane had landed and she was on her way to the farm. He was nervous and excited. Salacia was doing her best to keep him calm. They had painted for most of the morning and then in the early afternoon she took him for a walk in the small patch of woodlands on the property, showing him her favorite walking path.

“The second I was able to walk without help again I walked this path every afternoon for hours. It was my safe place.” She said as they came upon a tree she had carved into, she traced her fingers on the words she had carved there what felt like forever ago, one word...LIVE, “I carved this to encourage me.” She said with a sad smile.

“I can guess that the star below it was slowly carved every day.” König said, tracing it with his large fingers.

“Ja. Each day I could make it here I carved more of the star out. And when I knew I could live on my own again I added that date to the center. I lived and will continue to do so.” She said.

König reached into his pocket and pulled out his smaller utility knife that he carried with him everywhere. Beside her carving he worked tometch something new and meaningful into her tree. It was simple but when he stepped away he knew that he had achieved his goal.

lieben

K + S

21/06/2021 -> 22/10/2023 -> für immer

She leaned over and kissed his cheek, “Ich liebe dich, meine geliebte.” She breathed.

“Ich liebe dich auch, mein Katzchen.” He murmured and kissed her lips.

—

When Salcia and König returned to the farmhouse the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky and his phone held a message that his mother was ten minutes out. He was relieved. He hated when the nerves that filled him were obvious to everyone. His young fiancé held his hand tightly.

“I love you.” She said smiling.

“I love you too.” He murmured.

They were very vocal about their affection for each other. Salacia was unashamed of her feelings, she had been raised to be open and honest...and after the accident...she was even more open. Because he had nearly died she was never going to hide or diminish herself.

She held his hand tightly and led him back to the house. “You should probably wash up, don’t want your mother to hug you while you are sweaty.” She teased.

“Nein, I don’t need to be scolded in German by my mother in front of everyone.” He chuckled, “Bad enough when she does it in front of you.”

Salacia giggled, “At least you know it comes from a place of love.”

“Ja,” he easily agreed.

—

König had taken a quick shower and was drying his hair when the bell rang from the front door. Even up in Salacia’s old bedroom the sound was clear as day. His heart pounded, he needed to get dressed and hurry down to greet his mother.

Salacia called out that she would get it and he smiled in relief, at least Salacia would be the one to greet her.

—

Salacia was stunned when she opened the door, aside from her future mother in law who she expected, there was a grinning Korean man, his facial scars barely noticeable to her. She laughed and hugged Greta first before hugging him.

“I’m so glad you made it safe.” She said to the older Austrian woman.

“Oh, it was easy, I arrived at the airport early and found this young man waiting for me.” Greta laughed.

Salacia giggled, “Horangi you soft-hearted idiot.” She said hugging her fiancé’s best man.

“I wanted to be sure Mama Müller got here safe.” He chuckled.

Salacia let them in calling for her aunts to come meet her soon to be mother in law. Kate and Hazel were both excited to meet the woman who made the young man who made their Salacia so happy.

“Does König know you escorted his mother here?” Salacia asked as she walked beside the Korean man.

“No, it was a surprise since he was so worried about the American airport making her get all turned around.” Horangi explained.

Salacia smiled and nodded, he truly was the best friend her fiancé could ever ask for.

“Oh, um, yeah...my Dad showed up with his own team...and I recently learned that you probably know each other.” Salacia began knowing her father, brother, and the other three were catching up on the guest house where her father and his team would be staying...along with Horangi now.

“Oh?” He asked.

“Yeah...Captain John Price?” She poses it as a question but she knew the answer.

Horangi cursed in Korean while laughing, “You’re kidding?” He exclaimed.

“I couldn’t make this up.” She laughed.

Horangi shook his head, this world certainly seemed small sometimes. She

left Horangi in the kitchen to go and retrieve her fiancé.

Thankfully König was dried off and dressed when she got back upstairs, “Your mom is in one piece.” Salacia assured him while wrapping her arms around his waist.

He chuckled and hugged back before they walked down into the den where König enveloped his mother in a warm hug. Salacia smiled at the pair. He was truly a family man. He loved his mother. And he loved his late father. Greta once told her that König was a lot like his father.

Soft and tender with those he cared for. But as ferocious as a bear when he needed to defend those he loves.

König stepped back and smiled at his mother, “I’m so glad you made it here safe.” He said with a relieved smile.

“Well, your nice Korean friend made sure of that.” Great assured him, chuckling.

She sat down and opened her handbag and began to dig through it, muttering to herself in German. König looked at his fiancée who just giggled.

“There is a tiger in the kitchen.” She teased.

“I heard that.” Horangi called with a laugh as König hurried to greet his friend.

He was such a sweetheart. The bride-to- be sat on the couch beside her future mother in law who finally managed to pull out two small packages. They were gift wrapped nicely, but not as perfectly as she usually wrapped boxes. It was obvious that it was fabric wrapped directly in the paper. Hazel had to comment about how pretty it was.

A pastel green background printed with a dozen fields worth of wildflowers.

It was the current paper Greta used for non-holiday or other occasion gifts. She had a closet filled to the brim with wrapping paper of all varieties. She was always giving gifts and had a paper for every conceivable reason. Salacia admired that. It was also a habit of hers that reminded her of her late mother, who had also been an avid giver of gifts.

“Ah, here they are.” She said and quickly checked the color of the thin plastic ribbon that was tied around them, a shipping bow rather than her usual fluffy, flower-esque bow that she tied on other gifts.

Salacia still remembered fondly the time that Greta took to teach her how to tie those bows. Which she now proudly did at every opportunity. The Austrian woman presented the gifts to Salacia’s aunts.

“I wasn’t sure exactly what you would each like, but Salacia said it gets cold here, so I decided this would be good.” Greta said sweetly.

Kate and Hazel opened their gifts to find that Greta had knit them each a scarf. The colors flowed easily together in a beautiful gradient. The same range of shades on each in a slightly varied pattern, and she even managed to knit their initials on the ends of the scarves.

“These are beautiful.” Hazel said with a wide smile.

“Hold them up beside each other, the ends without the initial.” Greta said with a proud smile.

The gradient pattern flowed from one to the other smoothly. Greta smiled proudly. Salacia had tried to learn to knit before...she could only imagine the years it took to master it to that level.

“I also knit some special gifts for the little ones.” Greta said, “Your nephew and the little girl from Mexico.”

Salacia smiled and hugged Greta before realizing that she didn’t know her father was there either.

“Oh, you will never believe this, Mama!” Salacia said, referring to the older woman as affectionately as if she were her own mother, willingly and insistence as well.

“What is it, Schatz?” Greta said, the younger woman’s excitement palpable.

“My Aunt Kate found mein vater!” Salcia squealed excitedly. .

“Was?!” Greta exclaimed and hugged Salacia tightly, kissing her cheek.

She stood up and hugged her aunts as well. The joy that her future daughter in law was going to have all of her important family members at her wedding was overwhelming. Her own father wasn’t at her wedding. He had been sick with cancer and recovering from surgery in the hospital.

She showed up, in her dress, husband in his tuxedo, in his room, so he could see her.

He died while she was on her honeymoon.

She was glad that he at least got to see her.

“I’ll send König and Horangi to go grab my dad and brother.” Salacia sand and hurried into the kitchen, a joyful grin on her face.

“Hey Horangi, wanna go surprise my Dad and Brother?” She asked the Korean man, a wicked grin winding its way onto her face.

“Look, I’m going out for food, what the fuck does your new freind want for breakfast?” Someone called from the other side of the door.

She didn’t recognize the voice but it wasn’t the gruff British one. Before Soldier Boy could answer that he had no clue she decided to put her order in.

“A monster energy…mega can…and a pack of Marlboro reds,” she called out.

“What about food?” The voice asked incredulously.

“I don’t care…fuck it just…Hashbrowns…and bacon.:.” she curled back in on herself and huffed.

She knew that she should be polite, the were bringing her food. But she was mentally exhausted. Soldier Boy chucked and gave her a squeeze.

“You know how to give orders, huh?” He teased.

“I’ve learned to be assertive,” she yawned, no longer struggling to get out of his hold, it was comfortable.

“Your dad?” He asked.

“Aunt actually, she and her husband ran a roadhouse, catered to hunters, Ellen was a badass,” (Name) said with a soft smile, "I miss her…”

“She died?” Ben asked.

“Yeah…few years back…taking out a pack of hellhounds…her and my best friend, her daughter…” she murmured.

The reality of what had happened making the pain twist in her gut like a knife again. She buried her face into the pillow and choked back the pain. Forcing it down. This man did not need or deserve to see her that weak.

She didn’t even cry like that in front of the Winchesters more than once for any specific trauma. Well, except for when Bobby died. When the man she considered her father was gone. She had cried for weeks. Thankfully they were there for her.

Understanding why she wanted to stay in the motels rather than actively participate in hunts for a few weeks. Why she cried when certain songs came on.

Dean even let her play her music that she wanted on the anniversary of his death. On his birthday. And hers.

It was one of the exceptions to the music rule of Baby. Birthdays. Even Sam got to change the music on his. Dean giving him a bit of a harder time for his choices than he gave (Name). Bobby’s birthday became a day where they played his favorite music.

It was a way of feeling close to the man who had been so important to all three of them. She took a deep breath as her heart rate calmed down.

She felt lips softer than they had any right to be press against the nape of her neck, exposed by the baggy t-shirt she had worn to sleep. She jumped a bit at the tender affection.

“What was that for?” She asked.

“Distraction, I can hear your heart,” he explained, “I can tell the difference in heartbeats between being upset or excited…”

He chuckled at the spike that revelation gave her heart. He actually cuddled her closer. Holding her like she was his favorite teddy bear. She wasn’t trying to get out of his hold though.

She was doing her best to convince herself that it was due to recognizing how strong he was compared to her. And that was probably partially true. The other part of it was the understanding and comfort he had offered her the night before.

He hadn’t tried to convince her to get close to him. To have sex with him. He seemed confident he would have to. That she would fall for his charms eventually.

If she was honest with herself…if she was here for too long…he was probably right.

He may have Dean’s face, but that wasn’t it. He was so different from Dean…but still so charismatic. She couldn’t help but feel comfortable with him. To trust him partially.

She was still keeping him metaphorically at arms length.

“They’re gonna think I fucked you last night…” she murmured.

“Probably,” he said, “That gonna be a problem for you?”

(Name) shrugged, “I don’t know…I don’t know these guys…don’t trust them…don’t wanna deal with getting crap for you deciding I was interesting.” She added a joke to keep herself calmer.

“I mean…we could always give them a reason to think we fucked…” Ben suggested his one of his hands moving to grope her hips, his mouth on the nape of her neck again, planting lazy kisses on the tender skin.

She squeaked and tried to wiggle away, only for him to hold her firmly.

“Ben,” she said, appealing to him by using his actual name, “No.”

Shockingly to many she was certain Soldier Boy stopped the second the firm ‘no’ left her lips. Sure he liked rough and dirty sex that could get a little intense and towards cnc (though he didn’t know that it had a name) he respected a woman’s no.

His hand moved back to just holding her. “Hey, it was just a suggestion, I’ve got more patience than you think.” He joked.

She was anxious due to being in a world that was not her own. Where she had no one she could properly trust. And was only trusting him due to his understanding of monsters. And his honest danger.

It was like dealing with Crowley.

He was honest about how she shouldn’t put all of her trust in him. She was just doing her best to keep her sanity. She wouldn’t be here for that much longer. She was certain.

She had to be certain.

— Meanwhile with the Winchesters —-

Sam and Dean made it back to the bunker and were both tearing through books in the Men of Letters library. They kept looking for new information on Djinns. How could one do this? Was it a different species of Djinn?

Or was a Djinn a cover for another monster targeting (Name) specifically?

Dean didn’t want to think about that possibility. He was doing more reading than he probably ever had. Was paying attention to even the smallest of details.

He was a skilled hunter, knew how to research monsters. But this was different. His best friend was in danger.

Castiel was asking around different angels he trusted if they’d heard of such things. Garth, the friendly neighborhood werewolf, was on alert, his wife and pack sending out feelers to see if they could catch any information to rescue their mutual friend.

“Dammit…nothing about Djinn’s makes sense with this…it’s almost like a Djinn was being used as a weapon…” Dean cursed, slamming the book he had been scouring closed, "Did you find anything?”

Sam jumped and looked at his brother, "So get this, for decades in the fifteenth century certain witches would make pacts with other monsters, ones they had abilities to control or disarm hunters who were seeking out their covens…mostly wraiths and vampires…even shifters…creatures that could be reasoned with and offered food and like buffs to their abilities for their being essentially guard dogs…I’ve never heard of it with a Djinn…but it makes sense…” he explained.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean cursed, “There’s no telling what a witch could have done to boost a Djinn’s power!”

“Well, one person could tell us…” Sam began.

Dean didn’t speak, just huffed in resignation. Sam was right. But how were they supposed to explain what happened to her? She adored (Name) in a weird way.

He just nodded while Sam grabbed his phone and called the last being on earth they wanted to tell they lost (Name).

“Well, it’s about time you called Samuel,” came the sultry Scottish accent of a redheaded witch the Winchesters and (Name) knew oh so well.

—Back with The Boys—

(Name) was sat at a rickety kitchen table, with yet another stolen flannel on over an old band t-shirt she’d stolen from Ash, scrawny as he was he liked to buy extra large t-shirts so (Name) could steal them. Love or not, there had still been an attraction there. She was back in her jeans as well. Not wanting to give anyone the ammo of seeing her in Soldier Boy’s boxers.

Everyone was watching her, as she first finished her energy drink. All 24oz of it while smoking a cigarette. Then lighting second.

“Breakfast of champions?” The one everyone called Butcher joked.

“I only smoke twice a day and I prefer cold drinks to hot, and I don’t know you so I don’t trust you with my iced coffee order,” she did her best to joke, “And since my spare pack wasn’t in my bag I didn’t get my bedtime smoke…I need it.”

“Those things’ll kill ya,” the guy she’d been told was named Hughie said, he the one who had asked about food.

“If I live long enough for the smokes to be what kills me…then they can have me…” she shook her head.

“Okay, have to ask why the fuck’d you keep calling Soldier Boy here Dean?” Butcher asked as she finally began to nibble a strip of bacon.

She’d brought her bag down with her, her album at the top of its contents. She sighed, couldn’t even let her finish her food before interrogating her. She opened her bag and grabbed the album before looking to Ben.

“Do they know about what we talked about?” She asked.

“The monster eradication protocols…they should, it’s a widely known myth,” Ben chuckled, “Most people don’t believe it happened…that monsters ever existed. Claiming they were a creation of Vaught’s propaganda machine.”

“Let’s circle back to that later…cause you said words that I think are supposed to make sense but…Latin incantations make more sense…” she said.

Soldier Boy laughed, “Not surprised.” He joked, the ease at which he spoke to (Name) unnerved the others in the room.

But (Name) did her best to ignore it. She’d been in more intensely awkward situations. They usually ended in bloodshed and her making a run for the impala. She didn’t have that option here and now. So she would have to keep her cool.

Soldier Boy explained about the full eradication of monsters. Going into gory detail that the others were extremely bothered by while (Name) just continued to eat her bacon and what she expected to be hashbrowns.

“These are home fries, by the way,” she commented, interrupting Soldier Boy explaining how shifters worked, and how gross it was to see them shed their skin and grow new skin.

“What?” Hughie asked her.

Soldier Boy just chuckled, “You really are the real deal huh?”

“Once you’ve eaten fried rice while covered in viscera or pizza after you’ve dug up a grave in the middle of the night you don’t really get grossed out by the descriptions,” she said before looking back at Hughie, "I said these are home fries, not hashbrowns, still good, but not the same thing.”

“What the fuck does it matter?” Butcher asked.

“Expectations,” she said, then looked at Soldier Boy, “I think they get the idea…besides…that just barely explains things.”

He chuckled, “She got her ass dropped here from a world where Supes like me didn’t kill every fucking monster,” he laughed.

“Bullshit!” Butcher exclaimed.

“That’s why I kept calling him Dean to start with,” she said and pulled out her photo book, quickly flipping open to the photo she had shown Ben the night before, “Cause where I’m from…that face belongs to one of my best friends and hunting partners…Dean Winchester.” She had a firm grip on the book and when Butcher went to reach for it like most would she leveled him with a shockingly intimidating glare, “I will take your hands.”

Or maybe it was only intimidating due to the shock of her reality. She quickly explained what had happened the day before as she tucked the book back into her bag. She took a deep breath. Just trying to calm herself down. She would not show any of these people weakness.

“So you’re stuck,” Hughie said.

“Yep,” she sighed.

She didn’t have anything but her backpack. But she’d made it further with less. All she needed to do was get ahold of a computer and she could work on getting a credit card and start running scams again. She would have to just to eat and survive when Soldier Boy’s good graces ran out.

Something she was certain would happen. Relying on the kindness strangers never worked out for a hunter.

She looked at Ben, whose eyes seemed to be permanently roaming her body. Why did those eyes have to still make her feel the same even when they belonged to the complete opposite of the man she knew.

“So what are you planning on doing here?” Hughie asked her.

She shrugged, “I’ll figure it out.” She said.

“She’s with me,” Soldier Boy said, “You want my help. She stays with me.”

Everyone stared at him in shock. No one was more shocked than (Name). What did he want from her? And was she willing to give it to him?

The clubhouse exists in that strange hour suspended between night and dawn, when time itself seems uncertain whether to keep moving or simply wait.

Most of Santo Padre is asleep.

The clubhouse never really is.

The ice machine rattles every few minutes before settling again with a tired groan. A ceiling fan turns lazily overhead, pushing warm desert air through the room without accomplishing very much.

Outside, the parking lot sits beneath pale security lights.

Motorcycles rest in long shadows.

Inside, paperwork has conquered nearly every inch of the table in front of him.

He flips another page.

Notes something in the margin.

Reaches automatically for the next folder.

Then he hears bare footsteps in the hallway.

He doesn't look up immediately.

Doesn't need to.

He's already learned the sounds.

Hank walks heavy.

Angel never seems capable of simply walking anywhere.

Gilly somehow stomps even when he's actively trying not to.

Lex...

Lex is different.

Not silent.

Just...

Careful.

The quiet footsteps of someone who's trying not to attract attention.

His eyes lift as she appears in the doorway.

Oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame.

Sleep-mussed hair falling across one side of her face.

Still waking up.

For a second she simply stands there.

Not frozen.

Observing.

Her eyes drift around the room almost automatically.

The front door.

The windows.

The hallway.

The kitchen.

The television.

Then she moves.

Toward the coffee pot.

Bishop lowers his gaze back to the paperwork.

Not watching….Definitely not watching.

…A complete lie.

He hears the cupboard open.

The ceramic scrape of a mug being pulled from the shelf.

Coffee pouring.

Then a quiet muttered curse followed by the tear of a paper towel. 

He almost smiles.

The footsteps begin again.

Approaching.

Bishop keeps reading the same paragraph for nearly thirty seconds without absorbing a single word.

He expects her to continue toward her usual table.

The one tucked into the far corner.

The one against the wall.

The one with clear sightlines to every entrance.

The one she'd claimed weeks ago without ever consciously claiming it.

The one that had quietly become her fortress.

The footsteps don't go that direction.

His pen pauses.

Only slightly.

Then continues moving.

The footsteps keep coming.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Finally he looks up.

Lex lowers herself into a chair two seats away.

Not directly beside him.

Not across the room.

Just...

Close.

Close enough to share the same pool of warm light spilling from the hanging fixture overhead.

Close enough to hear pages turning.

Close enough that conversation is possible.

Close enough that silence doesn't feel lonely.

She doesn't seem to realize she's done anything unusual.

Too busy blowing cautiously across the surface of her coffee before taking the first sip.

Bishop understands immediately.

His heart has absolutely no business reacting the way it does.

Jesus Christ.

Three weeks ago she'd barely make eye contact with anyone.

Now she's choosing proximity without even thinking about it.

Not because she has to.

Because somewhere, without either of them noticing exactly when it happened, sitting near him has quietly become... comfortable.

The realization nearly steals the breath from his lungs.

He says nothing.

Because saying anything would make her aware of it.

And awareness might send her right back to the corner.

So he lets the moment exist.

Quietly.

The way healing usually does.

Not in dramatic breakthroughs.

In tiny decisions nobody notices until they're already part of everyday life.

Five minutes pass.

Maybe ten.

The silence never becomes awkward.

Lex studies the steam curling from her mug.

He pretends to study invoices.

She takes another sip.

Immediately regrets it.

Her face says everything.

Bishop never looks up.

"You know..."

His voice breaks the silence almost lazily.

"The coffee gets less offensive eventually."

A snort escapes before she can stop it.

The sound echoes softly through the nearly empty clubhouse.

"No it doesn't."

"Fair."  His answer comes immediately.  "Still terrible."

"Absolutely terrible."  She studies the mug suspiciously.  "I'm pretty sure it's violating at least three human rights conventions."

One corner of Bishop's mouth twitches despite himself.  "The secret ingredient is neglect."

"I believe it."

"Been sitting on that burner since sometime during the Clinton administration."

Lex stares into the cup.  "...That actually explains a lot."

The laugh escapes him before he can catch it.

Short.

Sharp.

Entirely genuine.

It surprises both of them.

His own reaction surprises him most.

The conversation comes easier now.

Not because either of them are trying.

Because they aren't.

Nobody is carefully measuring every sentence anymore.

Nobody is afraid of saying the wrong thing.

The awkwardness disappeared somewhere along the way.

Quietly.

The same way Lex moved tables.

Without either of them noticing until after it had already happened.

Eventually she nods toward the mountain of paperwork spread across the table.

"So this is it?"

Bishop glances up.

"What?"

She gestures broadly.

"The mysterious life of El Presidente."

His expression becomes appropriately miserable.

"You're looking’ at it."

Lex glances briefly at the paperwork before looking back at him.

"I thought there'd be more motorcycle crime."

"There is."

She waits.

"...After the paperwork."

The look she gives him is devastating.

Pure disappointment.

"The least intimidating sentence I've ever heard."

"Don't tell anybody."

"I absolutely will."  She smirks.

He points his pen toward her.

"Traitor."

The word comes automatically.

Easy.

Comfortable.

Normal.

And for one brief, fragile moment...

It simply feels like two people sharing terrible coffee at two in the morning.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Then...

Lex goes still.

Not frightened.

Not triggered.

Just...

Still.

Bishop notices immediately.

"You okay?"

Lex blinks.

Looks slowly around the clubhouse.

The front door.

The hallway.

The windows.

The back entrance.

Then back at him.

Something shifts behind her eyes.

Recognition.

Wonder.

Almost disbelief.

"I didn't check."

Bishop frowns.

"What?"

"My exits."

The words come quietly.

Almost embarrassed.

Like she's admitting something deeply private.

A pause.

"I didn't watch the doors."

The clubhouse suddenly feels impossibly quiet.

Not because anything changed.

Because Bishop understands exactly what she means.

For nearly an hour...

She hadn't checked a single exit.

Hadn't catalogued every possible threat.

Her mind...

Had simply rested.

Lex stares into her coffee.

Almost smiling.

Almost confused by it.

Then she shakes her head slightly.

"I just..."

Her voice softens.

"I forgot."

The words settle somewhere deep inside Bishop's chest.

Not because they're dramatic.

Because they aren't.

Because three weeks ago forgetting would've been impossible.

Three weeks ago forgetting might have felt dangerous.

Now...

For one ordinary hour in the middle of the night...

She'd simply been drinking terrible coffee.

Nothing more.

Bishop closes the folder in front of him.

The paperwork suddenly feels very far away.

He nods once.

Just once.

"Good."

Lex smiles.

Small.

Fragile.

Completely real.

Bishop immediately looks back down at the paperwork.

Because if he doesn't…

He's liable to look entirely too proud about a girl forgetting to count exits.

......

PART 22

Not continuously.

She'd looked away.

Made coffee.

Walked to the window.

Watched Gilly and Angel argue over something completely insignificant in the yard.

Looked back.

It was still there.

Waiting.

The bag from the art store sat beside it.

Untouched.

Nobody had rushed her.

Not at the store.

Not afterward.

Nobody had asked if she'd drawn anything yet.

Nobody had asked if she'd opened it.

For reasons she couldn't quite explain...

She appreciated that.

Pressure had a way of making possible things feel absolutely impossible.

This...

This had to be hers.

Eventually she crossed the room.

Slowly.

Like the sketchbook might disappear if she moved too quickly.

Her fingertips brushed the cover.

Black.

Simple.

New.

It smelled like paper.

Fresh paper.

Fresh possibilities.

The thought should have been comforting.

Instead it made her stomach tighten.

She sat.

The chair creaked beneath her.

Outside, motorcycles rumbled somewhere beyond the clubhouse.

Someone laughed.

A television played faintly in another room.

Life.

Normal life.

The kind that kept happening whether people were ready or not.

She rested both hands on the cover.

Took a slow breath.

Opened it.

The first page stared back at her.

Blank.

Perfectly blank.

Too blank.

She'd filled hundreds of pages before.

Sketchbooks stacked beneath her bed.

Loose sheets tucked inside textbooks.

Coffee shop napkins when inspiration arrived faster than common sense.

Once upon a time she'd never worried about ruining a page.

There had always been another one.

Another sketch.

Another idea.

Another tomorrow.

Now...

The emptiness felt fragile.

Like one wrong line would prove something she wasn't ready to admit.

That maybe she'd forgotten.

That maybe the artist hadn't survived...

Even if she had.

She turned the page.

Another blank sheet.

Then another.

Every page looked impossibly white.

Impossibly untouched.

Like they were waiting for someone better.

Someone who hadn't spent weeks surviving instead of creating.

Her throat tightened.

Maybe she'd been wrong.

Maybe buying supplies and being an artist weren't the same thing.

Maybe Erik had taken this too.

Not intentionally.

Not because he'd cared about art.

Because monsters didn't have to understand what they destroyed.

Sometimes they broke things simply by breaking the person holding them.

The thought settled heavily in her chest.

Slowly, she reached into the bag.

The pencils rested inside their metal tin.

Waiting.

She opened it.

The faint scent of cedar drifted upward.

For just a second…

She wasn't in Santo Padre.

She was nineteen.

Sitting in a university studio.

Hands already stained gray before nine in the morning.

Complaining about perspective assignments.

Laughing with classmates.

Planning exhibitions she'd never gotten to have.

Professor Nolan walking between easels reminding everyone not to choke the pencil.

"The tighter you grip it," he'd say, "the stiffer your lines become."

She hadn't thought about him in years.

Hadn't thought about that classroom.

The windows.

The smell of charcoal.

The quiet scratch of thirty students drawing at once.

She wondered if anyone still sat in her favorite seat.

Wondered how she'd managed to lose entire pieces of her life without realizing they'd disappeared.

The memory hurt.

Not because it was gone.

Because she'd forgotten it existed.

Her fingers closed around a graphite pencil.

It settled naturally into her hand.

Muscle memory.

Her thumb shifted.

Her wrist relaxed.

The grip adjusted before she consciously thought about it.

Like her hands remembered something her heart wasn't convinced was still true.

She rolled the pencil between her fingers.

The weight felt familiar.

So familiar.

Like shaking hands with someone she hadn't seen in years.

She lowered the point toward the paper.

Stopped.

Nothing happened.

Her hand simply hovered.

Frozen.

Where do I start?

The question felt enormous.

Ridiculous.

She knew how to draw.

Didn't you?

The thought arrived quietly.

What if it's gone?

Her stomach tightened.

What if he took this?

Art had never simply been something she did.

It had been who she was.

Before she became somebody's girlfriend.

Before she became somebody's victim.

She'd been an artist.

If that part was gone...

Who was left?

Her grip tightened.

The pencil touched the page.

A single line.

Crooked.

Too dark.

Wrong.

She stared at it.

Reached for the eraser.

The graphite disappeared.

Mostly.

A pale gray ghost lingered behind.

Wonderful.

She'd ruined the first page.

Fantastic.

She almost laughed.

Almost cried.

Instead she flipped to the next page.

Fresh.

Clean.

Untouched.

One more try.

The pencil lowered again.

This time she drew a circle.

Not a very good one.

Then another.

Construction lines.

Soft.

Light.

Nothing recognizable.

Nothing worth keeping.

She frowned.

Tilted her head.

Adjusted one curve.

Added another.

Without thinking...

Her hand kept moving.

The hesitation disappeared.

Not completely.

Just enough.

A curve became a handle.

The handle became ceramic.

A shadow appeared beneath it.

Steam.

A coffee mug.

She blinked.

The mug sitting beside her elbow.

The one Bishop had handed her that morning without asking whether she wanted coffee because he already knew the answer.

Her lips twitched.

The drawing wasn't remarkable.

The perspective was slightly off.

The ellipse at the rim needed work.

The shadow was too heavy.

She noticed every flaw immediately.

Which, oddly enough...

Felt normal.

Artists always noticed the flaws first.

Maybe...

Maybe she was still an artist.

Her hand moved again.

A table appearing beneath the mug.

A window frame behind it.

Light spilling across old wood.

The familiar kitchen.

The clubhouse.

Home.

She stopped only when the pencil finally lifted on its own.

Silence settled around her.

She looked down at the page.

Not perfect.

Not portfolio worthy.

Not something she'd frame.

Just...

A drawing.

Her drawing.

The first thing she'd created since the basement.

A slow breath left her lungs.

Her thumb brushed against the side of her hand.

Gray.

Graphite dust coated the edge of her palm.

Her fingertips.

Beneath one fingernail.

She stared.

For weeks her hands had carried bruises.

Cuts.

Scars.

Evidence of survival.

Now.. 

They were dirty.

Not from blood.

Not from concrete.

Not from chains…

From graphite.

From creating.

The realization stole something heavy from her chest.

A quiet knock sounded at the open doorway.

She looked up.

Bishop.

Coffee mug in one hand.

He'd clearly been there long enough to realize what she was doing.

The sketchbook shifted ever so slightly.

Just enough for him to glimpse the corner of the coffee mug she'd drawn.

His eyes lingered for half a heartbeat.

Then deliberately moved back to her.

He didn't ask to see.

Didn't compliment it.

Didn't make the moment about himself.

He understood.

This wasn't hers to share until she decided it was.

His smile deepened.

Small.

Warm.

Proud.

Like he'd just witnessed something important.

Because he had.

"You hungry?"

That was all he asked.

No pressure.

No celebration.

Just...

Lunch.

Lex looked down at the graphite dust staining her fingertips.

Then back at him.

A smile answered before words did.

"Yeah."

Bishop nodded once.

"I'll make you a plate."

He disappeared down the hallway.

The room fell quiet again.

Lex rested one hand against the cover before closing the sketchbook.

Not because she was finished.

Because tomorrow there would be another page.

Another line.

Another chance.

Once, she'd measured her days by scratches on a basement wall.

Today...

She'd measured one in pencil lines.

Somehow...

That felt like living.

......

PART 21