faye :)

sam sits twisted halfway around in the passenger seat, watching you instead of the road.

you keep your face turned toward the window. the glass is cold against your temple.

beneath your jacket, the flower near your collarbone shifts again. one petal presses outward beneath your skin, dragging slowly against the flesh as though searching for somewhere to bloom.

you bite the inside of your cheek until you taste blood beneath the strawberries.

sam says your name quietly, and you look at him. "how bad is it?"

"same as before."

dean's eyes flick toward you in the rearview mirror. he knows that isn't true.

sam does too. "that's not an answer."

"it's the only one i have."

his jaw tightens, but he turns forward again. his hand closes around the witch-killing gun resting across his thigh.

dean catches your gaze in the mirror. his eyes drop briefly toward the collar of your jacket.

you give the smallest shake of your head, and he looks back at the road.

the candy shop appears at the end of the block. every other storefront is dark, but sweet surrender glows.

warm golden light spills through the front windows, illuminating the rows of glass jars inside. from a distance, it could still be welcoming, safe. the kind of place children would beg their parents to stop.

dean pulls the impala against the curb and kills the engine.

the three of you sit in silence.

the bell above the shop door rings, but none of you have moved yet.

sam checks the gun before opening his door.

"stay between us."

you climb out after him. "you already told me."

"i'm telling you again."

"sam."

he stops beside the hood. under the amber streetlight, the fear in his face is impossible to hide.

"please."

the word steals whatever argument you were going to make.

you nod once. "...okay."

dean opens the trunk. he passes sam a shotgun loaded with iron rounds, then pulls out the gasoline and a canvas bag of salt.

"witch-killing bullets first," he says. "bones if that doesn't work."

"we don't know what killing her does to the curse," sam says.

"we don't know what anything does to the curse." dean shuts the trunk. "but she's not getting another seventy years."

you look toward the bright windows. a woman's silhouette passes behind the counter.

the flower beneath your skin shifts, and you flinch.

sam notices. "what?"

"nothing."

his expression hardens.

dean steps between you before sam can push.

"save it for the witch."

sam looks like he wants to argue, but the bell above the door rings again. softly. invitingly.

dean pulls his gun.

"after you."

—

the door is unlocked.

dean pushes it open with the barrel of his gun, and the bell chimes overhead.

warm air rolls over you, thick with melted sugar and strawberries. the sweetness settles against the back of your throat, so strong that you nearly gag.

nothing inside appears disturbed. the broken jars have been replaced. the jawbreakers are back in their display. even the wallpaper the pixy stix had melted away is whole again, covered in cheerful pink flowers.

sam enters behind you and immediately positions himself close enough that his arm brushes yours.

dean closes the door. the lock clicks by itself.

"cute," he mutters.

old music crackles through the unseen speakers. a woman hums along from somewhere beyond the aisles.

"evelyn bell," sam calls.

the humming stops. for several seconds, there is no response.

then—

"you've been busy." evelyn steps from behind the counter.

she looks exactly as she had the first time you saw her. not a single strand of hair out of place. her dress is pressed, her smile patient.

only her eyes are different. they settle on the folder tucked beneath dean's arm.

"county archives?" she asks. "such tedious little places."

dean raises the gun. "hands where i can see 'em."

evelyn's smile grows. "you brought gasoline into my store."

"yeah, well, your return policy sucks." sam keeps his shotgun trained on her.

"where is lucy?"

the name tears through the room. evelyn's smile disappears instantly. the jars lining the walls begin to rattle.

you feel the magic before you see it. pressure builds behind your eyes, and the veins beneath your skin flare hot.

evelyn looks at sam, then dean, and finally, you.

"what did you say?"

you force yourself to hold her gaze. "lucy bell."

a jar cracks somewhere behind her. a thin fracture crawls across the glass.

"you shouldn't know that name."

"but i do."

the enchantress studies your face. for the first time, there is uncertainty in hers.

"you saw her." you don't answer. her eyes drop toward your hands, toward the gauze wrapped around your wrist. "how much?"

dean shifts toward the aisle leading to the back room. evelyn notices.

the jar behind her explodes.

sam moves before the glass reaches you, one arm wrapping around your shoulders as he pulls you down behind a shelf.

shards rain over the hardwood.

dean fires.

the bullet strikes evelyn in the shoulder.

she staggers back with a scream, black smoke curling from the wound.

"guess they work," dean says.

evelyn's head snaps toward him. every piece of candy in the store lifts from its display, hundreds of wrapped sweets hover in the air.

"dean," sam warns.

the candy launches.

dean dives behind the counter as hard candies tear through the shelves like bullets. sam covers your head with one arm, shielding you beneath his body while lollipops shatter against the floor around you.

one strikes his shoulder, and he grunts.

"sam."

"i'm fine."

blood is already darkening his flannel.

he raises the shotgun and fires over the shelf. the iron round catches evelyn across the ribs. she stumbles, but doesn't fall.

the wound smokes then closes.

"that's annoying," dean calls from behind the counter.

"the bones," sam shouts. "we need the bones."

dean crawls toward the back doorway, but evelyn sees him. the floorboards beneath his hands turn soft and sticky. caramel surges through the cracks, winding around his wrists.

"oh, come on." he yanks one hand free, leaving a strip of skin behind.

evelyn lifts her fingers. the caramel climbs toward his throat.

you push away from sam.

"evelyn." her gaze cuts toward you. "lucy knew."

the caramel stops. dean freezes beneath it.

evelyn's face goes still. you step into the aisle, but sam grabs the back of your jacket.

"what are you doing?"

you pull free.

"she knew you were magic," you tell evelyn.

the enchantress's expression fractures. "stop."

"she promised she wouldn't tell anyone."

"you weren't there."

"she was proud of herself for keeping it secret."

the lights flicker overhead. evelyn's eyes shine with something that looks almost human.

almost.

"she thought she was protecting you."

"shut your mouth."

the shelves tremble violently, but you take another step.

the whisper winds around your thoughts.

tell him.

you ignore it.

"she didn't know the gum was cursed."

evelyn raises one hand, but sam moves in front of you. a blast of pink powder strikes him across the chest and throws him into the nearest display, the wood splintering.

"sam!"

he hits the floor hard, and the shotgun slides out of reach. you run toward him, but evelyn flicks her fingers again. something coils around your ankle. a length of red licorice tightens like a rope and jerks your feet from beneath you.

you crash onto the hardwood. the impact drives the air from your lungs. the flower near your collarbone tears upward, and pain explodes across your chest.

you scream.

sam pushes himself onto one elbow. his eyes find you, then the torn collar of your jacket.

the flower is visible now.

a small pink bloom pushes halfway through the skin near your collarbone, slick with blood.

sam goes white. he says your name, but not loudly. the terror in it is worse than a scream.

you clap one hand over the wound. "don't look."

he crawls toward you.

evelyn laughs softly. "beautiful, isn't it?"

sam grabs the licorice binding your ankle and tears at it with both hands.

"you did this."

"no," evelyn watches him struggle. "she did."

rage transforms his face. he reaches for the handgun beneath his jacket.

evelyn lifts her palm. a glass jar tears free from the wall and slams into his wrist. the gun fires harmlessly into the ceiling.

"sam!" dean finally rips himself free of the caramel and disappears through the back doorway.

evelyn turns toward the sound, and you seize the distraction.

"she swallowed it because she trusted you."

the enchantress stops. you force yourself onto your knees despite the pain ripping through your chest.

"you made the curse." evelyn looks back at you. "you filled the bowl."

"you know nothing about what happened."

"you came back too late."

the words strike harder than the bullet had. evelyn's face crumples. for one brief second, the candy shop disappears from her eyes. she is somewhere else, kneeling on the floor, holding her daughter.

"she told me," you whisper. "she said she was good at keeping secrets."

"stop."

"she was eight years old."

"stop."

"and the last thing she ever thought she'd done wrong was eat candy before dinner."

evelyn screams. every light in the shop shatters, and darkness swallows the room.

sam reaches you by touch. his hands find your shoulders, then your face.

"i've got you."

behind the counter, something heavy crashes. dean curses.

the enchantress's voice echoes from every direction.

"you think seeing her makes you special?"

sam pulls you closer against him as powdered sugar begins falling from the ceiling like snow.

"you think the dead chose you?"

the whisper in your mind becomes a chorus.

tell him.

tell him.

tell him.

you press both hands over your ears, but it doesn't help.

"she showed me because you erased her," you say.

a shape moves through the darkness. sam fires toward it.

the muzzle flash illuminates evelyn for a fraction of a second, her face twisted with fury. 

the bullet misses.

"i protected her."

"you used her."

"i kept her with me."

"you buried her beneath the place that killed her."

silence.

then the floor beneath the stockroom groans. 

dean shouts from the back. "found something!"

evelyn turns, panic replacing fury. "no."

she runs toward the doorway. sam fires again.

the iron round catches her in the leg, dropping her to one knee. she hisses and throws one hand toward him. a ribbon of molten sugar lashes across the room. you see it before he does.

"sam, down!" you shove him.

the magic catches you across the side instead. heat burns through your jacket, and you hit the floor.

sam's voice breaks around your name. he drops beside you, pressing one hand to your ribs.

"look at me."

you can't. the ceiling spins overhead.

the whisper laughs inside your skull.

he's right here.

sam's hand comes away wet with blood.

"dean!"

"little busy!"

wood cracks in the stockroom. evelyn claws her way forward, dragging her injured leg behind her.

"you don't touch her."

dean appears in the doorway. dust covers his jacket. blood runs down one side of his face. beneath one arm, he carries a small bundle wrapped in the remains of a white dress. pink flowers are still embroidered across the fabric.

evelyn makes a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. "put her down."

dean's expression hardens. "lucy?"

"put her down!"

the shelves split apart. glass jars explode in rapid succession.

sam throws himself over you as shards tear through the room.

dean ducks behind the counter, clutching the bundle against his chest.

evelyn crawls toward him. "she is mine."

"she was your daughter," you gasp. evelyn's eyes snap toward you. sam tries to keep you down, but you push against him. "and you turned her into a weapon."

"i kept her alive!"

"this isn't alive."

the ghost of a child appears behind evelyn. lucy stands barefoot in the powdered sugar. her white dress is clean. her pigtails are tied with pink ribbons.

evelyn doesn't see her, but you do.

lucy looks toward the bundle in dean's arms, then at you.

her lips form one word.

please.

you look at dean. "burn her."

evelyn spins around. "no!"

dean empties the bag of salt over the remains. evelyn lunges.

sam raises the gun from the floor and fires. the witch-killing bullet enters beneath her shoulder blade.

she collapses inches from dean. black veins spread outward from the wound, racing beneath her skin.

dean unscrews the gasoline.

evelyn reaches toward the bundle. her fingers shake. "lucy."

dean hesitates, only for a second, then he pours.

the sharp smell of fuel cuts through the sugar.

evelyn looks at you. her face is no longer ageless. wrinkles carve themselves across her skin. her dark hair fades to grey, then white.

"you think this saves you?" you press one hand to the flower protruding from your chest. evelyn smiles through blackened teeth. 

"she was only the root." 

dean strikes the match.

"your secret is already blooming."

the match falls.

fire races across the white dress. 

evelyn screams, the sound tearing through the shop, through the walls, through the bones beneath the floor. every remaining jar bursts at once. the windows blow outward.

sam pulls you against him and turns his back to the explosion.

heat rolls over the three of you.

evelyn's body ignites from the inside. bright pink light burns through the cracks in her skin as she claws toward the flames consuming her daughter's remains.

"lucy!" the little girl stands beside her. for the first time, evelyn looks up. she sees her. all of the rage drains from her face. "baby."

lucy watches her mother with solemn eyes. evelyn reaches toward her. the child steps back.

the fire surges, and both of them disappear.

—

the silence afterward is absolute.

no music, no whisper, no sound except the fire consuming the stockroom.

sam slowly lifts his head. "you okay?"

you don't know. the sweetness is gone.

for the first time in two days, there are no strawberries coating your tongue.

you breathe through your mouth. smoke, gasoline, blood, but no candy.

a broken laugh escapes you. "i can taste the smoke."

sam stares at you, then relief breaks across his face so suddenly it almost looks like pain.

"dean."

dean steps around the burning counter, one arm held against his ribs.

"what?"

"the taste is gone."

dean looks at you. hope flickers in his eyes. he kneels and reaches for the gauze around your wrist.

"let me see."

sam carefully unwinds it.

the pink veins beneath your skin have faded. not disappeared, but dimmed to pale lines.

sam lets out a shaking breath. "it worked."

you want to believe him. you want to close your eyes and let the relief carry you somewhere the curse can't follow.

sam's hand closes around yours. warm, steady.

the flower protruding from your collarbone trembles.

your breath catches.

sam looks up. "what?"

pain tears through your chest, and you double over.

the cough comes from somewhere deep inside you, wet and violent. sam catches you as blood spills between your fingers. 

a full pink flower falls into his open palm. its petals unfold slowly, fresh and alive.

the sweetness floods back over your tongue stronger than before.

sam stares at the flower in his hand.

"no."

another cough shakes you, and he pulls you against his chest.

"no, no, no. it worked."

dean stands perfectly still. his earlier hope is gone. he understands before sam does.

burning lucy's remains had destroyed the anchor. it had ended evelyn and stopped the erasure, but the spell inside you was no longer attached to either of them.

sam looks up at his brother.

"why didn't it work?"

dean's gaze moves to you. you can see the answer sitting behind his eyes. 

the secret.

your secret.

the one he promised not to tell.

you curl your fingers into sam's jacket as the flowers shift beneath your skin.

"because..." your voice cracks.

sam looks down at you. 

the whisper returns beside your ear, soft and patient.

tell him.

you close your eyes.

"...because it isn't over."

behind you, sweet surrender burns.

the enchantress is dead, lucy is finally free, and the curse is still alive inside you.

sam doesn't wait for you to answer. one arm slips beneath your knees while the other braces across your back, lifting you from the ruined floor before another cough can tear through you.

"sam—"

"don't." his voice is low and shaking.

you don't have enough air to argue.

dean kicks what remains of the front door open. cold night air rushes into the shop, cutting through the smoke and scorched sugar.

sirens wail somewhere in the distance.

"we've got maybe two minutes before the whole town shows up," dean says.

sam carries you through the doorway. the bell above it gives one final, broken chime before the ceiling collapses behind you. sparks climb into the night sky.

you twist weakly in sam's arms, watching the flames swallow the pink awning and blacken the gold lettering across the windows.

sweet surrender disappears behind smoke.

the strawberries remain.

—

dean drives faster than you've ever seen him drive.

sam sits with you in the back seat, one arm holding you upright against his chest. his other hand presses a folded strip of cloth against the wound in your side.

every bump in the road sends pain through your ribs.

"sorry," dean mutters after hitting another pothole.

"just drive," sam says. 

the sharpness in his voice makes dean glance into the mirror. he doesn't answer.

you rest your head against sam's shoulder. his heartbeat pounds beneath your cheek, much too fast to be hidden by the rumble of the impala.

"you're bleeding," you murmur.

sam looks down at you. "what?"

"your shoulder."

the lollipop had torn through the flannel, leaving a dark stain along his sleeve.

"it's nothing."

"you always say that."

"so do you."

you try to smile. another cough catches before it can form.

sam tightens his hold as your body folds inward. petals spill against the front of his shirt, followed by one long, delicate stem.

he stares at it. the blossom is darker than the others, almost red.

"dean."

"i see it."

"drive faster."

dean presses harder on the gas.

the phone begins vibrating in the cupholder. bobby.

dean answers and immediately puts him on speaker.

"tell me you found something."

"tell me you didn't burn those bones yet."

the brothers exchange a look.

dean grips the wheel more tightly. "about that."

"dammit, dean."

"the witch was trying to kill us. seemed like a now-or-never situation."

papers rustle through the speaker. 

“how is she?" bobby asks. 

sam's arm tightens around you. "the curse is still there."

bobby goes quiet.

"the taste came back," sam says. "the veins too. she's coughing up flowers faster than before."

"because you cut it loose."

dean looks toward the phone. "you wanna explain that in a way that doesn't make me turn this car around and burn the ashes?"

"lucy's remains anchored evelyn's spell to the shop. destroying them stopped the spell from spreading and broke whatever was erasing the victims."

"but it didn't cure her," sam says.

"no. once she swallowed the gum, the curse took root inside her. it doesn't need the witch anymore."

you close your eyes. sam's thumb moves against your arm in slow, distracted strokes.

"then how do we get it out?" he asks.

"i found the missing passage."

your eyes open. dean catches your gaze in the mirror. neither of you breathes.

bobby clears his throat. "'when root and hand are severed, the hidden bloom shall remain until the bearer lays the guarded truth before the heart from which it was withheld.'"

sam's hand stills. "the person affected by the secret."

"yeah."

"and then what?"

"then the curse dies."

the silence inside the impala becomes absolute. even the road seems to disappear beneath the tires.

sam looks down at you. hope breaks across his face, fragile and immediate.

"that's it?"

"that's it," bobby says. "but it has to come from her. freely given. no tricks, no coercion, and nobody else can say it for her."

dean looks away from the mirror. you can feel his promise sitting between you.

"how much time does she have?" sam asks.

bobby hesitates.

"with the anchor gone, the curse has nowhere else to draw from. it'll burn through what's left of her fast."

"how fast?"

"i don't know."

"bobby."

"hours, maybe. could be less."

sam's breath leaves him.

"then she tells it now."

the whisper curls beside your ear.

tell him.

you turn your face toward the window.

"i can't."

sam goes still behind you. "what?"

"i can't tell you."

pain moves through your chest, slow and deep. the flowers beneath your skin press outward in answer.

sam shifts you carefully until he can see your face.

"you heard him. it'll break the curse."

"he said it should."

"no, he said it will."

"sam—"

"tell me."

the desperation in his voice makes the whisper laugh.

dean's eyes close for half a second.

"don't push her," bobby warns through the phone. "if she only says it because you force it out of her, it might not take."

sam stares at you.

"i'm not forcing anything."

"you're ordering her to confess while she's dying. sounds pretty damn close."

sam looks away, dragging one bloodstained hand through his hair.

"then what am i supposed to do?"

bobby's answer is quiet.

"make her believe she can tell you."

the call ends.

dean keeps driving. sam doesn't move.

you can feel him thinking behind you, turning over every conversation, every lie, every time you pulled away from a question he thought was harmless.

eventually, his eyes lift toward the front seat.

"you know." dean's hands tighten around the wheel. sam's voice hardens. "you know what the secret is."

dean says nothing.

"dean."

"yeah." the word lands heavily.

sam stares at the back of his brother's head. "how long?"

"long enough."

"and you didn't tell me?"

"couldn't."

"you just heard bobby. i'm the one who needs to know."

"and you just heard him say it has to come from her."

"you knew before that."

dean's eyes flash toward the mirror. "she asked me not to."

sam lets out a short, disbelieving breath. "she's dying."

"i'm aware."

"then tell me."

"no."

"dean—"

"it's not my secret."

anger flashes across sam's face. "you're really gonna hide behind that right now?"

"i'm not hiding behind anything. she trusted me."

"and if keeping that trust kills her?"

dean looks into the mirror again. this time, he looks at you. 

"that's her decision."

sam's expression twists. "you don't believe that."

"doesn't matter what i believe."

"bullshit."

"sam."

"what could possibly be so bad that she would rather die than let me know?"

dean's jaw tightens. "that's the wrong question."

sam goes quiet.

dean turns off the highway and pulls into the motel parking lot.

"then what's the right one?"

dean parks outside the room but doesn't kill the engine immediately. his eyes find sam's in the mirror.

"what does she think she's protecting you from?"

your stomach drops. "dean."

he looks away. "that's all you're getting from me."

sam's gaze lowers slowly to your face. you can see the question beginning to change behind his eyes.

before he can ask it, another cough tears through you.

this one doesn't stop.

—

sam carries you into the motel room.

dean sweeps the research from one bed with his forearm, sending papers and books sliding onto the floor.

"put her down."

sam lowers you onto the mattress.

the moment your back touches the sheets, pain explodes beneath your collarbone. you cry out.

sam reaches for the torn edge of your jacket. "i need to see."

"don't."

"please."

you don't have the strength to stop him. he pulls the fabric aside.

the flower near your collarbone has opened completely.

its petals rise from the wound, delicate and pink, while thin roots branch beneath your skin. more raised shapes surround it, small buds pressing upward along your chest and throat.

sam's face empties. dean turns away, swearing beneath his breath.

"we need to pull them out," sam says.

"no," dean answers immediately.

"they're choking her."

"you don't know what happens if you tear them out."

"and you do?"

"i know roots bleed."

sam looks back at you. his hands hover uselessly over your chest.

"tell me what to do."

your vision blurs.

"sam—"

"anything." he says your name, and his voice breaks. "please."

the whisper surrounds you.

tell him.

you close your eyes.

"i'm sorry."

"stop apologizing."

"i need you to listen."

"i'm listening."

you force yourself to breathe through the pressure building in your throat.

"whatever happens, this isn't your fault."

sam freezes. dean's head drops.

"why would it be my fault?"

"because you'll find a way."

"that doesn't answer me."

"you blame yourself for everything."

"so you're protecting me."

you open your eyes. sam is staring at you with an expression you can't name. fear, confusion, and something softer beneath both.

"that's what dean meant," he says. "you think keeping this from me is protecting me."

"it is."

"from what?"

you shake your head. the flower beneath your throat opens another fraction. air catches behind it.

sam notices and leans closer. "from knowing you died because of something that involved me?"

your silence answers for you.

his breathing changes.

"the secret is about me."

you look away.

"i already knew that much," he says. "the curse reacts every time i get close. you get sick every time i ask."

"then stop asking."

"i can't."

"you have to."

"why?"

tears burn behind your eyes. "because if i tell you and this doesn't work, you'll spend the rest of your life thinking you could've saved me sooner."

sam stares at you. "so that's it."

"what?"

"you're not afraid of what i'll think of you." your lips part. "you're afraid of what i'll think of myself."

you don't answer. sam looks toward dean who remains near the door with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

he gives his brother nothing.

sam turns back to you.

"you think i'll blame myself because you didn't tell me something."

"sam—"

"something that's been true for a long time." your heartbeat stutters. "something you thought would change things between us."

the whisper becomes louder.

tell him.

sam's eyes move across your face. every hidden moment seems to pass through his expression at once.

the music box.

the motel.

the way you'd touched the sugar on his shoulder.

the vision you refused to explain.

the way you always looked away first.

his voice drops. "...oh."

"don't." terror rushes through you. 

sam's eyes shine.

"it's not something you did."

"stop."

"it's something you feel."

"sam, please."

"about me."

you try to push yourself upright, but another wave of pain forces you back against the mattress. sam catches you.

"don't say it," you gasp.

his expression crumples. "why?"

"because you don't mean it."

he goes perfectly still. you hear dean inhale near the door.

sam's voice is barely audible. "you think you know what i'm going to say."

"you're scared."

"yeah."

"you'll say anything if you think it'll save me."

"that's not—"

"and then if i die anyway, you'll think saying it wasn't enough. you'll think you should've said it before, or meant it more, or noticed sooner." your breath breaks. "i won't let you do that."

sam stares at you for a long moment. then his hand closes around yours.

"you don't get to decide what i mean."

the words are quiet, steady.

"sam—"

"you don't get to decide what i feel because you're scared of hearing it."

"i'm not scared."

"you're terrified." you try to pull your hand away. he holds on. not tightly, just enough to keep you from disappearing. "i've spent the last two days watching you die and wondering what you could possibly be hiding from me." his thumb brushes against your knuckles. "i thought maybe you'd made a deal. maybe you saw something about me in a vision. maybe you were leaving."

his voice catches on the last word. "i never thought..." he looks down at your joined hands. "maybe i should have."

hope presses painfully against your ribs. you shake your head.

"don't do this."

"i have to."

"no."

"you're not the only one with a secret."

the whisper stops.

the motel room goes so quiet that you can hear the buzz of the light above the bathroom sink.

sam looks directly into your eyes.

"i'm in love with you."

pain splits through your chest. you gasp as every pink vein beneath your skin ignites at once.

sam catches your face between his hands.

"i love you," he repeats. "and i'm not saying it because of the curse."

you can't breathe.

"i'm saying it because i should've said it months ago."

"sam—"

"because every time you walk into a room, i look for you before i look for anything else. because when you get hurt, i can't think straight. because i keep finding reasons to sleep beside you when there's another empty bed."

a broken sound escapes you.

"because i know how you take your coffee. because i know when you're lying, even when i let you do it. because every motel feels a little less temporary when you're in it."

tears spill down your face. "don't."

"why?"

"because i believe you."

his expression softens. "good."

"that makes it worse."

"no, it doesn't."

"if i die—"

"you're not going to."

"you don't know that."

"neither do you." his forehead lowers against yours. "but you're willing to die to keep me from feeling guilty." his voice trembles. "you think that won't destroy me?"

you close your eyes. 

"i was trying to protect you."

"i know." his thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks. "but i don't want this kind of protection."

another bud shifts beneath your throat. your breath turns thin and whistling.

sam's face goes pale. "tell me."

you shake your head weakly.

"please."

"i can't."

"you can."

"what if it doesn't work?"

"then i'll still know."

"that's what i'm afraid of."

"and i'm afraid of losing you without ever hearing it." his voice breaks completely. "don't make me live with that instead."

you look at him, really look.

at the fear he isn't hiding anymore.

at the tears caught in his lashes.

at the love you had convinced yourself couldn't possibly belong to you.

dean's words return.

you don't get to decide that for him.

the whisper curls beside your ear one final time.

tell him.

your throat closes around the truth.

sam waits. he doesn't order you. he doesn't beg again. he only holds your hand and gives you the choice.

you draw in one shallow, painful breath.

"sam..."

his fingers tighten around yours.

"i'm in love with you."

the words leave you barely louder than air.

for one heartbeat, nothing happens.

then the curse screams, and every flower beneath your skin blooms at once.

the first flower tears through the skin beneath your throat.

then another.

and another.

pain rips across your chest as every hidden bud forces itself into the open at once. pink petals burst through the thin roots beneath your skin, unfolding in the hollow of your throat, along your collarbone, across your wrists.

you scream. sam catches you as your body arches away from the mattress.

"dean!" he shouts his brother's name without looking away from you.

dean is already moving. "hold her down."

"i'm not hurting her."

"then keep her from falling."

sam pulls you against his chest instead, one arm locked around your waist while his other hand cradles the back of your head.

the roots writhe beneath your skin. they move toward your throat. toward your mouth.

your lungs seize. you try to breathe, but something soft and living presses behind your teeth.

sam feels you choke.

"open your mouth." you can't. his hand shakes against your jaw. "come on. look at me."

your eyes find his. his face is inches from yours, terrified.

"stay with me."

a violent cough tears through you. sam turns you onto your side just as flowers spill from your mouth. not petals or broken stems. whole blossoms.

dozens of them tumble across the sheets, bright pink and slick with blood. they keep coming until the mattress disappears beneath them.

dean stares.

"holy—"

"help me." sam's voice snaps him back into motion.

dean grabs the wastebasket and sweeps the flowers away from your face while sam keeps one hand between your shoulders.

another convulsion shakes you. the blossoms growing through your skin open wider.

then, one by one, they begin to blacken. the color drains from the petals. pink turns to grey. the stems shrivel. the roots beneath your skin tighten so sharply that your vision flashes white.

you claw at sam's sleeve. "it hurts."

"i know." his voice breaks. "i know. i've got you."

the whisper screams inside your skull. not words anymore, only rage.

the sound tears through every memory you had kept hidden.

sam smiling across a diner table.

sam asleep beside you in the impala.

sam's hand at the small of your back.

sam saying your name like it was something worth protecting.

the curse tries to close around each moment, tries to drag them back into silence, but the truth is no longer hidden.

sam knows. his forehead presses against yours.

"you told me."

you struggle to focus on him. "what?"

"you told me," he repeats. "it doesn't belong to this thing anymore."

the last word catches in his throat.

"it's ours."

something inside you breaks. not bone, not flesh, but something deeper.

the roots release all at once. the flowers protruding from your skin collapse into ash.

grey dust spills across sam's hands and gathers in the folds of the sheets. the pink veins beneath your skin flare so brightly that the entire room fills with a soft, unnatural light.

then they vanish. every single one.

your body goes limp.

the room falls silent.

sam freezes. your head rests against the crook of his arm, your face turned toward his chest.

your eyes remain closed.

"hey." he brushes the ash from your cheek, gently saying your name. "look at me."

you don't move. dean steps closer.

sam presses two fingers against your neck. nothing.

his expression empties. "no."

dean reaches for you. sam jerks away from him.

"don't."

"sam, i need to check—"

"she's fine."

the words are too fast. too certain.

he presses his fingers harder against your throat, searching for something that isn't there.

"she's fine."

dean's face crumples, "sam."

"no."

sam lowers you onto the mattress and places his ear near your mouth.

no breath touches his cheek.

"come on." he tilts your head back. "come on, breathe."

dean moves to the other side of the bed.

"i'll do compressions."

"i've got it."

"sam—"

"i said i've got it."

his hands settle over the center of your chest. the first compression forces a grey petal from between your lips. then another.

sam stares at them for half a second before continuing.

one.

two.

three.

his arms remain locked even as his hands begin to shake.

dean counts beside him. "twenty-eight. twenty-nine. thirty."

sam lowers his mouth to yours.

the breath he gives you carries coffee, smoke, and the faint metallic taste of blood.

nothing happens.

he breathes for you again.

"come on."

another thirty compressions.

another breath.

"you said it." his voice cracks between counts. "you told me. that was supposed to be enough."

dean reaches for his shoulder. sam throws him off. "don't."

"you have to keep going."

"i know."

"then keep the rhythm."

sam's hands return to your chest.

one.

two.

three.

the mattress creaks beneath the force.

"i should've said it."

another compression.

"i should've told you before any of this."

another.

"i knew."

his tears fall onto your shirt.

"i knew every time you looked at me, and i kept telling myself i was imagining it because—"

his breath catches.

dean keeps counting for him.

"twenty-five. twenty-six."

"because everybody i love dies."

twenty-seven.

"and i thought if i didn't say it—"

twenty-eight.

"if i didn't ask for more—"

twenty-nine.

"maybe i could keep you."

thirty.

sam gives you another breath. nothing.

his forehead drops against yours. "please." the word is barely sound.

dean looks away. sam's fingers curl into your shirt.

"you don't get to tell me you love me and then leave."

silence answers him. he lifts his head.

rage pushes through the grief.

"do you hear me?"

he resumes compressions.

"you don't get to make me believe we could have this and then—"

your body jerks beneath his hands.

sam stops, and dean leans closer.

a wet cough tears through your chest. air rushes into your lungs with a sharp, broken gasp.

sam moves instantly, rolling you onto your side as a final tangle of blackened roots spills from your mouth.

they hit the sheets and crumble into dust.

you cough again.

this time, there are no flowers.

only air. painful, ragged, and alive.

sam says your name. you blink slowly. the motel ceiling swims into focus above his shoulder.

"...ow."

a laugh breaks out of dean, short and disbelieving. 

he drags both hands over his face and turns away.

"yeah," he mutters. "that's generally how chest compressions feel."

sam doesn't laugh. he stares down at you as if moving might make you disappear again.

his hand touches your cheek, then your neck, then your wrist.

"you weren't breathing." his voice sounds hollow.

you try to swallow. your throat is raw, but the motion comes easily.

nothing blocks it.

"i'm breathing now."

his eyes close. for one second, his face crumples completely. then he pulls you against him.

the movement sends pain through your chest, but you don't complain. your arms barely manage to lift, yet you wrap them around him anyway.

sam buries his face against your hair, his entire body shaking.

"i thought..." he can't finish.

you close your eyes, "i know."

"no," his hold tightens. "you don't."

dean quietly moves around the room, giving sam the privacy of pretending not to watch.

he picks up the phone from the floor and dials.

"bobby? she's breathing."

bobby's answer is loud enough to hear from the bed.

"took you idjits long enough to say so."

dean's shoulders lower. "curse looks dead."

"looks?"

dean glances at the ash covering the mattress.

"flowers turned black. veins are gone. she coughed up something that looked like the world's worst salad."

"taste?"

sam finally pulls back enough to look at you. "what do you taste?"

your tongue brushes against the back of your teeth.

for the first time since the shop, there's nothing sweet waiting there. only blood.

you smell smoke clinging to sam's flannel and the stale motel air.

you draw in another cautious breath. "...nothing."

sam's face tightens. you manage a weak smile.

"nothing strawberry."

relief passes through him so visibly that his shoulders sag.

dean repeats it into the phone.

bobby lets out a long breath.

"then it's broken."

the words settle across the room.

broken.

not waiting or weakened. gone.

dean ends the call after promising to check in later. he drops the phone onto the table and surveys the motel room.

the bed is covered in blood, ash, and dead flowers.

the carpet is ruined.

one lamp is broken.

"we are definitely not getting the deposit back."

a laugh catches in your throat. it hurts, but you do it anyway.

dean points toward you.

"don't laugh. i'm serious."

"fake credit card," sam says quietly.

dean considers it. "fair."

he grabs the first-aid kit and sets it on the bed.

"alright. let's make sure sleeping beauty isn't about to bleed out from one of the fifty holes in her."

sam carefully eases your jacket from your shoulders.

the flowers are gone. small wounds remain where the blossoms had broken through, but the skin around them is no longer pink. no roots move beneath the surface.

dean cleans the wound at your collarbone while sam keeps his hand wrapped around yours.

neither of you speak. you don't know what to say.

the secret that had occupied every quiet space between you is gone.

the silence left behind feels different and new.

dean tapes the final piece of gauze over your ribs and begins gathering the ruined sheets.

"i'm gonna get another room."

sam looks up. "dean—"

"this one looks like somebody murdered a very angry florist." he picks up his jacket. "and before either of you starts, no, i'm not leaving because this is awkward."

you raise an eyebrow. "it's a little awkward."

"okay, it's incredibly awkward."

sam gives him a tired look and dean points toward the door.

"but mostly, the mattress is full of blood, and she needs somewhere clean to sleep."

his hand closes around the doorknob. before leaving, he glances toward you.

the humor fades. "you good?"

you look at sam. his fingers remain intertwined with yours.

"yeah." this time, it isn't a lie.

dean nods once. "good."

the door closes behind him. the motel room becomes quiet.

sam watches it for several seconds before turning back to you. you become painfully aware of everything at once.

his hand around yours.

the dried blood on his mouth.

the fact that he had kissed air into your lungs.

the fact that he had said he loved you.

the fact that you had said it back.

you look down at your joined hands.

"so..."

sam lets out something between a laugh and a breath. "so."

"you meant it?"

his expression shifts. "all of it."

"even the part about sleeping beside me when there's another bed?"

a faint flush rises along his neck.

"especially that part."

you smile, then wince as the movement pulls at your split lip.

sam reaches up, brushing his thumb carefully beneath it.

"easy."

"you keep saying that."

"you keep almost dying."

"fair."

his hand lingers against your face. the room seems to shrink around the two of you.

"i'm sorry," you whisper.

sam's brow furrows. "for what?"

"not telling you."

he looks down. "i'm sorry i made you think you couldn't."

"you didn't."

"i could've said something."

"so could i."

"yeah."

another quiet settles between you. this one is softer.

sam's thumb moves over your knuckles.

"you really thought i didn't feel the same way."

you give him a tired look. "you're a hard person to read."

"you're clairvoyant."

"apparently that doesn't help with emotionally constipated hunters."

a laugh escapes him, quiet and warm. the sound you had loved long before you understood what loving him would cost.

you look at him. this time, you don't force yourself to look away.

his smile fades into something gentler.

"what?"

"nothing."

he gives you a look, and you squeeze his hand.

"i just like hearing you laugh."

sam's eyes soften. "yeah?"

"yeah."

he leans closer, slowly enough that you could stop him.

you don't.

his forehead brushes yours first. then the tip of his nose. his breath warms your lips.

"can i kiss you?"

you almost laugh again.

"after you already performed mouth-to-mouth?"

"that wasn't a kiss."

"felt pretty personal."

he pulls back slightly, embarrassed. you catch the front of his shirt before he can retreat.

"sam."

his eyes meet yours.

"yes."

the kiss is gentle and careful. nothing like the impossible flash you had seen when you first touched the music box.

that vision had been brief and disorienting. this is real.

sam's hand cups the side of your face while his lips move softly against yours. there is no strawberry sweetness. no whisper. no curse waiting beneath your skin.

only him.

when he pulls away, he remains close enough that your breaths mingle.

you smile.

"i saw that."

his brow furrows.

"what?"

"at the shop. when i touched the music box."

understanding slowly crosses his face.

"that was the vision you lied about."

"one of them."

"there were more?"

"maybe."

"you gonna tell me?"

you pretend to think. sam's expression falls, and you laugh quietly.

"yes."

his smile returns.

"good."

the motel door swings open. dean steps inside carrying a new room key and immediately stops. his eyes move from sam's hand against your cheek to the space between your faces.

"wow." sam closes his eyes, and dean looks toward the ceiling. "i leave for five minutes."

"dean," sam warns.

"no, it's fine. great, actually. love won. curse is dead. hallmark would be proud."

you smile despite the ache in your ribs. dean tosses the room key onto the bed.

"new room's next door." he picks up the weapons bag. "and since apparently i'm the only professional here, i'm gonna go make sure the flaming candy store doesn't lead the cops directly back to us."

sam gives him a look.

dean pauses at the door. "also, for the record..." he looks toward you. "you two were painful to watch."

"get out," sam says.

dean grins. "gladly."

the door closes again. 

sam looks at you. "he's never going to let this go."

"probably not."

"we could leave him here."

"tempting."

he carefully slips one arm behind your back and another beneath your knees. 

you tense.

"sam, i can walk."

"you stopped breathing ten minutes ago."

"briefly."

"not helping."

he lifts you from the ruined bed, and you loop your arms around his neck.

"you're bleeding too."

"i'll let you patch me up next door."

"deal."

he carries you toward the door.

your gaze falls across the motel room one last time. pink petals cover the floor, and grey ash darkens the sheets.

among the remains, one flower is still intact. small and soft pink, no blood staining its petals. you reach down as sam passes the edge of the bed and pluck it from the sheets.

he watches you turn it between your fingers.

"you sure that's a good idea?"

the flower is cool, ordinary. when your thumb brushes across the petals, no vision comes. no whisper follows.

you open the journal and press the flower between two blank pages. this time, sam is beside you when you close it.

"yeah."

sam opens the door, and cool night air touches your face.

for the first time since walking into sweet surrender, you breathe without tasting strawberries. 

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to find your voice, before squeaking out a yes.

the brass doorknob turns with a quiet click. sam steps inside, easing the door shut behind him to keep the world out. his gaze finds yours instantly, searching for any sign of okay.

then his eyes drift downward.

he sees the bright pink blossoms swirling in the water. the color drains from his face.

"oh," he whispers your name.

you immediately turn your head away, hiding the map of veins.

"don't," the single word cracks in your throat. "sam, don't look."

he doesn't listen. instead, he crosses the small space toward you.

his movements are slow and deliberate, like he's approaching a wounded animal.

"what did you see in the journal?"

"i..." you swallow hard, the sweetness turning to ash. "i saw the same girl i've been seeing."

sam gives a single, grave nod. "what happened?"

"she'd already swallowed the bubble gum."

he pulls back slightly, brow knitting together. "what do you mean?"

"i tried to warn her, sam. i tried to make her spit it out." you shake your head as the memory flashes. "she just laughed at me."

another sob threatens to break free.

"she thought she was keeping a secret from her mother. she didn't know."

sam's jaw sets as he stares at the floor. "no one ever told her."

you nod, the grief heavy in your chest.

"she had no clue it was a death sentence."

a suffocating silence fills the room. then his eyes drift back to you. they fix on your jawline and his whole frame goes rigid.

your stomach drops into a cold abyss.

he can see the marks.

"they're showing." his voice is a ragged whisper.

you don't need to ask what he's seeing.

you've already felt them crawling.

his hand rises instinctively, pausing in the air between you. 

"can i..?"

you give a small, broken nod.

his fingers are gentle as they brush the side of your neck. the pink veins leap and thrum against his skin.

the connection is undeniable.

sam pulls back as if he's been burned.

for the first time in a year of hunting together, you see genuine terror in his hazel eyes. he looks directly into yours.

your name falls from his lips again, "...the secret she mentioned."

your heart stutters. you know what he means, but you don't want to tell him—to burden him with what you keep hidden in your heart behind a steel lock.

sam still picks at the lock.

"the enchantress back at the shop," he speaks with a low, urgent tone. "she claimed you were hiding something from us."

you quickly shake your head, the lie rising to your lips by habit.

"sam, she was just trying to mess with us..."

"every single person who died had a secret."

he doesn't let you look away.

"is there something you're keeping from me?"

the ghostly whisper from the shadows returns, sweet and cloying.

"you have a secret."

you close your eyes tight against the voice. "sam, please."

he takes another step, closing the distance until you can feel the heat radiating from him.

"if this thing is feedin' on it, if that's why it picked you..." his voice wavers, thick with an emotion he usually keeps buried. "...i have to know what it is."

you look up at him. at the raw worry etched into the lines around his eyes. at the sheer desperation he's failing to mask.

the truth burns in your throat, fighting to be said.

i love you.

but instead of the words, only a jagged sob escapes.

“i can't tell you."

the admission is barely a whisper before another ragged sob hitches in your chest.

sam only stares at you.

his hazel eyes search your face, desperate to find a truth that remains hidden.

"why not?"

you give a small, broken shake of your head.

"because i can't."

"or is it that you won't?"

another shake.

"sam, please..."

he drags a trembling hand over his face, looking exhausted.

"i don't care what it is." his voice wavers, thick with emotion. "even if you killed someone," you stare at him, your heart hammering. "if you made some kind of deal. if you're the one dying" he swallows hard against the silence. "no matter what it is..." he takes a slow step closer. "...i'm staying right here."

the cloying whisper slithers through the bathroom again.

"you have a secret."

you squeeze your eyes shut tight.

don't.

"please." sam's voice is a low, desperate murmur. he says your name again. "just tell me the truth."

your mouth opens instinctively. the forbidden words reach the back of your teeth.

i love you.

your stomach lurches with sickening force. you double over as another spray of pink blossoms tumbles into the toilet.

sam is beside you instantly, steadying your frame. one hand gently gathers your hair away from your neck. the other rubs slow, comforting circles between your shoulder blades. he doesn't say a word, but simply remains there in the quiet, waiting for the violent shaking to finally subside.

when you can finally draw breath, you whisper—

"i'm so sorry."

sam's hand stills against your back. "don't ever apologize for this." his voice sounds hollow and tired. "just please, don't shut me out."

you nod because you can't offer any other promise.

after a long, heavy silence, sam slowly pushes himself up. he reaches for a clean towel, wets it under the faucet, and hands it to you. you murmur a soft word of thanks. he gives a single, somber nod.

his hand lingers on the brass doorknob.

"i'm going to fix this." he doesn't turn back to look at you. "i'm not letting this curse take you."

the bathroom door clicks shut behind him.

you are alone once more. almost.

the ghostly whisper returns one last time. it sounds closer than ever before, right beside your ear.

"he has a secret too."

—

the drive back to the motel is swallowed by a heavy, suffocating silence.

dean reaches for the radio, letting a classic rock station hum softly through the speakers for a few miles.

he clicks it off five minutes later, the quiet returning with a vengeance.

nobody says a word.

sam keeps his gaze anchored to his laptop, though the screen has long since faded to black. every few minutes his eyes flicker upward, searching the rearview mirror for a sign of anything.

each time he looks, you're still staring blankly out the window as the world blurs past.

your tongue still carries the artificial taste of strawberries.

—

the motel room falls into a familiar, jagged rhythm the second the door clicks shut.

dean tosses their dad's journal onto the table with a quiet thud.

sam is already opening his laptop before his duffel bag even touches the carpeted floor.

stacks of old newspaper clippings begin to pile up beside several half-empty coffee cups. under any other circumstances, this would have felt exactly like every other hunt you'd survived together.

every few minutes, sam's gaze drifts toward you.

"you okay?"

you manage a quiet nod. it's the same answer every time.

dean notices the pattern by the third exchange.

sam notices the way your answers don't quite reach your eyes.

dean, however, is watching sam. he doesn't say anything yet.

"bobby's not picking up his phone," sam mutters, letting his phone hit the table with a soft rattle.

"he'll call us back when he can."

sam waves his brother off and is already clicking through another digital archive. another victim to catalog, another obituary to scan for clues, another dead end to file away.

you sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed with your journal open in your lap. the same paragraph has been staring back at you for nearly ten minutes.

"anything?" you ask, your voice barely audible over the hum of the AC.

sam doesn't look up from the screen. "not yet."

click.

another article opens.

click.

another grainy photograph loads.

click.

"nothing."

the room sinks back into a heavy silence. your stomach does a slow, sickening twist.

it isn't painful yet. it's just enough to make your breath catch for a second.

your hand instinctively rises toward your neck before you can stop it.

too late.

sam notices the movement immediately.

"is it getting worse?"

you freeze, your fingers stilled against your skin. "a little."

he's out of his chair before the words have fully left your mouth.

"can i see?"

you hesitate for a long heartbeat. 

then, you slowly brush your hair over your shoulder, exposing the skin. sam crouches down directly in front of you.

his face is only inches from yours now. his eyes anchor to the side of your neck. what little color was left in his face drains away instantly.

"they've spread." his voice is a ragged whisper that barely carries through the quiet room.

dean looks up from the journal immediately. "what?"

sam doesn't give him an answer. he's still staring at the marks. dean walks over to join him.

"son of a bitch."

the veins are impossible to ignore now. thin, bright pink branches snake down toward the collar of your shirt. they hadn't reached that far before. 

sam reaches out, his hand hovering for a second. "can i?"

you give a small nod. his fingertips brush the skin with a touch that's lighter than air. the pink veins thrum and pulse beneath his touch. his hand goes perfectly still. for just a single, fragile second, he completely forgets how to breathe.

then he pulls his hand back as if burned.

his jaw clenches, a flicker of something dark crossing his eyes.

"they're getting worse."

you don't offer an answer. you don't have to.

dean is quiet as he watches the entire exchange. the way sam's hand seems to linger on your skin, the way your shoulders relax just a fraction when he touches you, the way neither of you seems to notice you're even doing it.

something unreadable flickers across dean's face. it isn't just realization, it's recognition.

like he's seen a pattern before, but he just can't quite place where.

dean is the first to look away.

"okay." his voice shifts into that familiar hunter mode, sharp and focused. "what do we know for certain?"

sam stands up, his frame tense.

"every victim was hiding a secret."

"the nightmares started before they ever stepped foot in the shop," dean adds.

"and the bubble gum is what finishes the curse," you finish quietly.

dean gives a short, grim nod. "good." he begins to pace the narrow space between the beds. "what else have we got?"

sam's response is automatic. he says your name, then adds, "the enchantress singled her out from the moment we walked in."

"she knew something."

"yeah."

dean doesn't stop pacing. "and she couldn't stop talking about secrets." he stops and looks directly at you. "yours specifically."

your heart drops into your stomach. 

sam follows the line of dean's thinking before you can. "...dean."

"i'm just saying what we're all thinking." he raises his hands, palms out. "if this curse is feeding on secrets, we can't just ignore it."

sam falls silent. the silence is heavy and much too loud. his gaze drifts back to yours, searching.

"...is there something she doesn't know you know?"

you blink, your throat tight. "...what?"

"the enchantress." his voice is low and carefully gentle. "she knew about your visions, but not necessarily what you saw. is there anything she couldn't know you learned?"

you shake your head much too quickly. "no." 

it's another lie. sam hears it in the tremor of your voice. dean hears it in the way you won't meet his eyes.

"is there something i'm missing?" sam asks quietly.

before you can even find an answer, your stomach lurches with a sickening intensity. it's a violent force, enough to steal the very breath from your lungs. the cloying whisper slithers back into your thoughts.

tell him.

you suck in a jagged breath, your chest tight.

sam notices the shift immediately. "hey."

you give a small, broken shake of your head. "i'm okay." 

another lie, thin and fragile. another sharp, internal twist. the motel room blurs at the edges of your vision.

dean quietly watches the way sam is already closing the distance, moving toward you before he even realizes he's doing it. 

the way his hand reaches instinctively for your arm. the way you let him, refusing to pull away.

"easy," sam's voice is a low murmur. his fingers settle gently against your elbow, steadying you. "sit down."

you force your legs to move. the second you hit the worn mattress, another wave of nausea crashes through your frame. you double over with a sharp gasp.

sam is kneeling on the carpeted floor before dean can even blink. "look at me." you can't find the strength to obey. all you can hear is that melodic secret—

tell him.

"...breathe." sam's voice cuts through the mental static. you anchor yourself to the sound of it.

one shallow breath. then another. the sickness ebbs just enough that you don't have to bolt for the bathroom door.

sam doesn't pull back. "better?"

you nod weakly, feeling paper-thin. "a little."

he exhales a slow breath he'd been holding in his chest.

dean studies the exchange from the shadows of the room. his eyes flicker toward sam, then to you, then back to his brother.

something persistent nags at him. it isn't quite a confirmation. just...a feeling.

every time the curse strikes, sam is already there. every time the symptoms sharpen, your gaze is anchored on sam.

he files it away for later. it's another piece of a much larger puzzle.

sam finally stands, though he doesn't retreat to his chair. he remains at the edge of the bed instead. close enough to catch your weight again if he has to.

dean clears his throat, breaking the heavy quiet. "alright." both of you turn toward him. "we're definitely missing something."

sam gives a single, somber nod. "i know."

"no." dean shakes his head, thinking. "i mean we're looking in the wrong direction entirely."

sam's brow furrows. "how so?"

dean begins to pace the narrow room again. "every victim was hiding something."

"right."

"every victim swallowed the witch's candy."

"right."

"but she..." he gestures broadly toward you. "...it's moving faster."

the room falls into a sudden silence. sam's expression shifts into something more serious.

"you're right."

dean continues, the gears turning. "those newspaper archives?" he taps the edge of the laptop. "they all lived for a week." he studies your face. "you've had the nightmares," he raises one finger. "the sweet taste," another finger rises. "the pink veins," another. "and now these flowers," one more. "all in less than twenty-four hours."

sam slowly lowers his gaze to the table. "but why?"

the question hangs unanswered because nobody has the truth yet. the whisper returns, haunting and sweet. so quiet you almost believe it's an echo.

he's right there.

your heart lurches painfully. sam is. he's standing barely two feet from where you sit.

you keep your eyes anchored to the cheap motel carpet.

don't look at him.

don't think of him.

don't—

sam breaks you out of it, whispering your name. his voice is impossibly gentle.

the sound of your name nearly breaks you. you squeeze your eyes shut against the room.

the whisper chuckles.

tell him.

dean studies every detail of your face. the way your breathing hitches and changes, how your fingers curl into the fabric of the blanket. 

he shifts his focus to sam, still hovering and still completely blind to it.

dean's brow furrows deeply. the gears in his head turn just a little faster now.

"sam."

"yeah?"

dean doesn't answer him right away. he only watches the two of you in the quiet. "come here and help me with something."

sam blinks, confused.

"what?"

"just…" dean jerks his head toward the table. "come over here."

sam hesitantly steps away from the side of the bed.

the second he does, the whisper recedes into the background.

you blink several times. the nausea begins to ease. not entirely, but enough for you take your first full breath in nearly a minute.

dean sees the change. he doesn't say another word, but something in his mind finally clicks into place.

it isn't the final answer, just enough to know he's finally asking the right question.

sam turns a confused look toward his brother, his brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of the request. "what exactly do you need help with?"

dean looks across the table, his expression briefly blank as if the question had already slipped his mind. his gaze eventually settles on the open duffel bag resting on the floor. 

"the red book."

sam follows his brother's line of sight, his hazel eyes narrowing. "what red book, dean?"

"the one with the brass clasp," dean says firmly.

"we don't own a red book with a brass clasp."

"pretty sure we do," dean mutters, giving a short nod toward the window. "check the trunk of the impala."

sam stares at him for a long, heavy second, searching for the joke. "you want me to head out into the parking lot to look for a book that doesn't exist?"

"just humor me, sammy."

sam's gaze sharpens, but dean doesn't look away. after a moment, sam lets out a quiet sigh and looks over at you.

you manage a small, tired nod.

"i'll be right back," he says softly, his hand lingering on the doorframe.

the motel door swings shut, the latch clicking with a finality that echoes through the room.

the second sam is gone, the suffocating pressure inside your skull ceases. the sugary weight crushing your chest suddenly begins to lifts.

the whisper falls quiet.

your stomach slowly unclenches, finally allowing you to pull a deep, unobstructed breath into your lungs. the relief is so sudden that your shoulders sag beneath it.

dean sees it. he always sees everything.

he doesn't move from the table. he only watches from across the room as the ghostly pale color begins to recede from your face.

"better?"

you look up sharply, your heart stuttering. "what?"

"the shaking," he says, gesturing vaguely. "it stopped."

you glance down at your hands. only seconds ago, they had been trembling so badly that the journal pages had rattled. now, they are perfectly still.

"it just... passed," you lie.

"right at the same time sam walked out the door."

your gaze snaps back to his face.

dean leans against the edge of the wooden table, his arms crossed over his flannel shirt. there's no accusation in his eyes, only that sharp, calculating focus he gets when a hunt finally starts to reveal its teeth.

"that doesn't mean anything, dean."

"didn't say it did."

"but you're thinking it."

"thinking is free."

you look toward the motel door, waiting for the sound of the impala's trunk. the whisper remains silent. the pink veins beneath your skin still thrum, but the nausea has faded into something manageable.

dean follows the direction of your stare.

"the witch said you had a secret," he says, his voice low and carefully chosen. "not that you were dangerous or that you'd done something wrong. just that you were keeping something to yourself."

you tighten your grip on the motel blanket. "dean, don't."

"and every time sam starts asking about it, you get sick."

your heart hammers against your ribs. "that's not true."

"you were nearly doubling over back at the old woman's house when he brought it up."

"i'd just had a vision, dean. they're draining."

"and what about five minutes ago?"

you don't answer. you can't.

dean's jaw shifts as he turns the pieces of the curse over in his mind, fitting them together.

"whatever this is..." he pauses, looking at you with a rare kind of pity. "it has something to do with him."

"you don't know that."

"no," dean agrees, his voice dropping an octave. "not yet."

the motel door opens before another word can be shared between you. sam steps back inside, empty-handed and looking frustrated. he shuts the door with more force than necessary.

"there's no red book, dean."

dean gives a simple, non-committal nod. "huh."

"'huh'? that's all you have to say?"

"must've left it back at bobby's place."

sam stares at his brother, his brow knitting together. "you have never owned the book you just described."

"guess that explains why it wasn't in the trunk then."

sam opens his mouth, likely to argue, but his attention shifts toward you as you shift on the bed.

the moment his hazel eyes meet yours, the cloying whisper returns with a vengeance.

he's back.

your stomach contracts with a sickening, violent force.

you grip the edge of the worn mattress, trying to keep your expression neutral, but dean sees the way your breath catches. he watches the way your fingers white-knuckle the bedding as sam approaches.

"you okay?" sam asks, his voice thick with concern as he moves toward you.

the whisper laughs, a melodic, haunting sound.

he's right there.

you nod much too quickly. "yeah. fine."

the lie sends a sharp, burning pain beneath your ribs.

sam stops at the foot of the bed, his shoulders tense. "you don't look fine."

"she said she's okay, sam," dean says, his voice flat. 

sam looks over, surprised by the sudden interruption from his brother.

dean keeps his tone casual, but his eyes never leave you. "give her a second to breathe."

"she can barely sit up, dean."

"and hovering isn't helping her."

sam's expression hardens into something protective. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"it means you're six-foot-four and standing over her like a storm cloud. back off."

sam steps back, but only by half a pace. "i'm trying to help her."

"i know you are."

dean's eyes flicker toward you, noting the subtle change. the nausea recedes slightly with the added distance. the pressure in your chest eases.

there it is again. the connection.

dean looks away before either of you can catch him watching. 

sam returns to the laptop, though every rigid line of his frame makes it clear he's still on edge. he sits down and opens another digital archive, his hazel eyes constantly darting between the screen and you.

the phone buzzes before anyone can speak again, the sharp sound making everyone jump.

sam grabs it on the first vibration.

"bobby?"

dean crosses the room as sam puts the call on speaker, his expression turning serious.

"tell me you found something useful."

"maybe." bobby's voice crackles through the phone, the sound of shuffling papers loud in the background. "either of you ever heard of a candied tongue curse?"

dean thinks of the pink petals still caught in the bathroom sink. "can't say i have."

"because it ain't common. found it in a seventeenth-century grimoire written by a woman who clearly thought punctuation was a personal insult."

sam pulls his notebook closer, his pen poised. "what does it say, bobby?"

"curse starts with a secret," bobby explains, his voice gravelly. "something the victim hasn't told a soul. the witch marks 'em, then binds the spell to something sweet."

"the bubble gum," you whisper, the strawberry taste turning to ash in your mouth.

"exactly. once the victim swallows it, the secret and the curse become one and the same."

dean leans over the table, his shoulders tense. "how do we break it?"

"that's where it gets fuzzy."

"of course it does," dean mutters under his breath.

sam ignores him, focused on the phone. "what do you mean by fuzzy, bobby?"

"part of the page is missing. but there's a line here..." more pages turn before bobby clears his throat. "'with every silence freely chosen, the hidden truth shall bloom within the bearer.'"

the room goes perfectly still. the only sound is the hum of the air conditioner. dean looks toward you, his eyes searching.

sam's pen stops moving. "every time she chooses not to tell the secret, the curse gets stronger."

"that's how i'm reading it," bobby says. "every opportunity she has to speak and doesn't, the spell digs in deeper."

the melodic whisper slithers through your thoughts again.

tell him.

the veins beneath your collar pulse with a sudden, sharp heat. you flinch, bringing a hand to your neck as the skin burns.

sam notices instantly. "it's happening again, isn't it?"

"what is?" bobby asks.

"the veins," sam says quickly, his voice rising in panic. "they're spreading faster."

"then you better stop asking questions that make her lie to you."

sam freezes, his frame going rigid. dean's eyes shift toward his brother, watching him carefully.

"the lies are feeding it?" sam asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"not exactly. sounds like the silence is. every time she gets close to the truth and backs away, she's just giving the curse another meal."

you stare down at the journal in your lap, the pages blurring. 

how many opportunities had there been?  

the long hours in the impala, the quiet motel rooms, the diner booths where he'd watched you with such focus, midnight research sessions when it was only the two of you.

every time sam had smiled at you with that quiet, hazel-eyed warmth.

every time he'd asked what you were thinking and you'd forced a smile.

every time the words had risen into your throat like a secret before fear forced them back down into the dark. 

more times than you could count.

"does the book say who she has to tell?" dean asks, his voice cutting through your thoughts.

bobby goes quiet on the other end of the line.

"there's another line," he says eventually. "'truth given without consequence remains secret still.'"

dean frowns at the phone. "english, bobby. we're a little short on time."

"it means telling just anybody won't work. it has to be the person the truth affects. the one who's been kept in the dark this whole time."

your heart stops. the room seems to tilt on its axis.

dean slowly turns his head toward sam.

sam doesn't notice. he's staring down at his notes, his brow furrowed as he works through the implications of bobby's words.

"so if she tells the wrong person..." he says, his voice trailing off.

"nothing changes," bobby answers. "the curse just keeps going until it finishes her."

"and if she tells the right one?"

another long, heavy silence comes through the speaker.

"that's the part somebody tore out of the book."

sam's head snaps up, his eyes wide. "you don't know if it breaks the curse or not?"

"could break it," bobby says. "could finish it. curses like this usually want something. confession might starve the spell, or it might be the final ingredient that makes those flowers bloom."

dean drags a hand over his mouth, looking between the two of you. "great. so she either talks and dies or stays quiet and dies. hell of a choice."

"didn't say that, dean. i said i don't know yet. i'm looking for another source."

"keep looking, bobby," sam tells him, his tone sharp.

"already am."

the line disconnects with a quiet beep.

the room remains perfectly still, the tension thick enough to taste. sam closes his notebook slowly, his expression shifting into something fierce and determined.

"okay."

dean watches him, his posture tense. "'okay'?"

"we know the curse wants her to confess."

"yeah, sam. we got that part."

"then she doesn't do it."

your gaze lifts sharply to meet his.

sam turns toward you, his eyes anchored on yours. "not yet."

the whisper curls around the inside of your skull, mocking and sweet.

no.

sam moves closer, crouching in front of the bed again so he's level with you. his voice is impossibly gentle, but there is no uncertainty behind the words.

"whatever you're hiding from me... don't tell us."

your chest tightens painfully.

"sam—"

"we don't know what happens if you speak the truth." he shakes his head, his fingers twitching as if wanting to reach for you. "until bobby finds the rest of that spell, you don't say a single word about it."

the curse shrieks inside your thoughts.

tell him. tell him now.

sam finally reaches for your hand, his voice a low command. "i mean it." his fingers close around yours, warm and protective.

he says your name. "don't tell me."

the words hollow something out inside your chest. he doesn't know what he's asking of you. he doesn't know that the secret is sitting right between you, alive and breathing in every place his skin touches yours. 

he doesn't know that all you can hear is don't love me.

you force a jagged nod, your throat burning. "...okay."

dean watches your face crumple for the briefest second before you manage to mask it with a forced smile. then he looks down at your joined hands.

sam's thumb brushes once across your knuckles in a gesture of comfort.

the pink veins beneath your skin flare to a bright, angry neon. pain tears through your arm like a physical blade.

you gasp and pull away, but it's already too late. the branches race over the back of your hand, winding around your wrist like roots searching for soil in the dark.

sam goes deathly pale. "what happened? what did i do?"

you stare at the new marks in horror. "i don't know, sam."

dean knows. not the whole truth, not yet, but he knows sam told you not to speak the words and the curse immediately punished you for agreeing to the silence.

he knows the symptoms ease when sam leaves the room and worsen the second he comes close. he knows the secret must be confessed to the one person it actually affects.

his eyes move from your terrified face to his brother's desperate one.

sam is already reaching for you again, the panic finally breaking through the calm he's been trying so hard to maintain.

dean finally sees the jagged outline of the answer, and for the first time since this hunt began, he knows it has absolutely nothing to do with magic.

"sam, stop." dean's voice cuts through the panic.

sam freezes with his hand still suspended between you. he looks over his shoulder, confusion sharpening into irritation.

"what?"

"back up."

sam stares at him. "she's hurt."

"i can see that."

"then why the hell would i—"

"because every time you get close to her, it gets worse."

the words silence the room. sam's expression empties.

you shake your head immediately. "dean, that's not—"

"i'm not saying he's doing it." dean keeps his eyes on his brother. "i'm saying we need to know if there's a connection."

sam looks down at the veins winding across your wrist. guilt settles over his face so quickly it makes your chest ache.

"sam," you whisper. "this isn't your fault."

the whisper stirs inside your skull.

isn't it?

sam slowly lowers his hand, then he steps back.

one pace. the burning beneath your skin eases.

another. the pink veins remain, but their violent pulsing slows until they only throb in time with your heartbeat.

dean sees it.

sam does too, and his face goes pale.

"...it's me."

"no." you try to stand, but dizziness forces you back against the mattress. "it's the curse."

"it reacts to me."

"because you're here." the moment the words leave your mouth, you realize how little sense they make.

sam hears it too. his brow furrows. "what does that mean?"

you look away. 

dean answers before you can invent another lie.

"it means you're standing in front of whatever she can't say."

sam turns toward him. "you think the secret is about me?"

the whisper curls around your thoughts, pleased.

he knows.

your stomach twists.

dean watches your reaction, and another piece falls into place.

"i think we need more information before we keep testing it."

sam's jaw tightens. "then call bobby back."

"he's already looking."

"so we look too."

dean gestures toward the laptop. "the shop's been operating under the same name for nearly seventy years, except we know that's a lie. somebody changed the records."

sam glances toward the screen, reluctantly following his brother's train of thought.

"county archives."

"historical society closes in an hour," dean says. "find out who owned the building before it became sweet surrender. deeds, business licenses, birth records—anything that gives us the enchantress's real name."

sam looks at you.

"i'm not leaving her."

"i'll stay."

"dean—"

"you wanna help her?" dean steps closer to his brother, lowering his voice. "then find us something we can use against the witch who did this."

sam's eyes return to the veins spreading over your hand. every instinct in him is telling him not to leave. you can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers curl uselessly at his sides.

you force a small smile and say hoarsely, "go." his gaze snaps to yours. "i'll be okay with dean."

neither of you believes that.

still, sam gives a reluctant nod. he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, then hesitates beside the bed.

"i won't be long."

the whisper breathes against your ear.

tell him before he goes.

your throat tightens. this is another opportunity. another open door.

sam is standing right in front of you, waiting as though some part of him expects you to stop him.

all you have to do is say three words.

instead, you nod.

"be careful."

pain blooms beneath your ribs. you manage not to react until sam turns away.

the motel door closes behind him, and you gasp in pain.

silence follows.

real silence.

the whisper vanishes so completely that your ears ring in its absence. the pressure around your lungs loosens, and you drag in a breath that doesn't taste like sugar or blood.

dean locks the door, and you don't look at him.

neither of you speaks for several seconds.

then—

"it's him."

your eyes squeeze shut. "dean, don't."

"the secret," dean says. "it's about sam."

"you don't know that."

"you got sick when he asked what you were hiding. you got better when i sent him outside. he came back, and it started all over again."

"that doesn't prove anything."

"bobby said the curse cares about who the secret affects."

you stare down at your hands. the veins have faded from neon to a softer, bruised pink.

dean moves into your line of sight.

"and the second sam told you not to confess, those things damn near crawled out of your skin."

you swallow hard.

"dean, please."

his expression changes. the sharp focus remains, but something gentler settles beneath it. something almost apologetic.

"...you're in love with my brother."

the room doesn't change.

there's no clap of thunder. no sudden burst of flowers beneath your skin.

the curse doesn't break because dean said it.

not you.

your face crumples, and a sob catches in your throat.

dean lets out a slow breath and sits on the edge of the opposite bed.

"son of a bitch."

you press the heels of your hands against your eyes.

"don't tell him."

dean says your name, his tone pleading. "you have to."

"no."

"you heard bobby."

"i also heard him say confessing could finish the curse."

"that's not why you're refusing."

you lower your hands.

dean's expression is painfully certain.

"you were already refusing before we knew that."

your throat tightens. "he doesn't feel that way about me."

dean leans back slightly. "you sure about that?"

a broken laugh escapes you.

"sam cares about everyone."

"not like this."

"you don't know that."

"i know my brother."

"so do i."

"apparently not as well as you think."

you look toward the door, terrified that sam might return in time to hear even part of the conversation.

"he deserves someone normal."

dean's mouth twists. "have you met us?"

"you know what i mean."

"yeah." his voice softens. "i do."

you pull your knees toward your chest, wrapping your arms around them.

"what happens if i tell him and he doesn't love me?"

dean is silent for a moment, then he gives you the only answer he can.

"then he doesn't."

the honesty hurts more than reassurance would have. you nod, blinking against the tears gathering in your eyes.

"i could survive that." dean's brow furrows. "if this wasn't happening," you clarify. "i could tell him. he could say he doesn't feel the same, and maybe things would be awful for a while, but eventually..." your voice breaks. "eventually, i'd be okay."

dean looks toward the pink veins marking your skin. "but you don't think you're gonna get an eventually."

you shake your head. the silence that follows is heavy.

"and what if you're wrong?" he asks. "what if he does love you?"

your chest aches so sharply that you almost mistake it for the curse.

you remember the whisper in the old woman's bathroom.

he has a secret too.

you hadn't believed it. you still don't.

"then it's worse."

dean stares at you. "how is that worse?"

"because he would blame himself."

the answer comes too quickly and too easily.

dean's expression falters. 

you look down at your hands.

"he'd spend the rest of his life thinking that if he'd said something sooner, i would've told him. that if he'd noticed, or asked the right question, or..." your voice thins. "or loved me better, i might still be alive."

dean looks away because he knows you're right.

sam would carry it.

he would turn every moment over until he found a way to sharpen it into a weapon against himself.

"i won't do that to him," you whisper.

"so you're just gonna die instead?"

the bluntness of the question makes you flinch. dean immediately regrets it, but he doesn't take it back. 

you stare at the door. "i'd rather he be angry with me."

"he won't be angry."

"then i'd rather he think i was scared."

"you are scared."

"not of dying." your eyes burn. "i'm scared of leaving him with one more thing he thinks was his fault."

dean drags both hands over his face. for once, he doesn't have an immediate answer. when he finally looks at you again, the anger has drained out of him. what's left is something sadder.

"you know what your problem is?"

you let out a watery laugh. "you'll have to narrow it down."

"you're exactly like him." your smile disappears. "you both decide what's best for everybody else, then call it protecting them."

"that's not fair."

"no, it isn't." dean leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "neither is dying without giving him a choice."

you shake your head. "it's my secret."

"yeah."

"my life."

"yeah."

"then it's my choice."

dean holds your gaze. "and what about his? you don't get to decide he can't handle the truth," dean continues. "you don't get to choose what he does with it before he even knows what it is."

"you just admitted he'd blame himself."

"of course he would. sam blames himself when it rains."

a weak laugh catches in your throat despite everything.

dean's expression softens.

"but he'd blame himself if you died without telling him too."

the laugh vanishes.

"maybe more."

you look away.

"for what it's worth..." dean pauses, choosing the words with unusual care. "i don't think you know him as well as you think you do."

your heart stutters.

"don't."

"i see the way he looks at you."

"sam looks at everyone like that."

"no, he doesn't."

"the curse is messing with my head. i can't trust—"

"i'm not the curse." dean's voice is quiet. certain. "and i'm not blind."

the motel room blurs through your tears.

you want to believe him. that might be the cruelest part.

hope feels more dangerous than the flowers, more poisonous than the strawberry sweetness coating your tongue.

because hope might make you tell sam, and if dean is wrong—

you don't know whether the truth will save you or finish what the enchantress started.

the doorknob rattles. both of you look toward it.

dean rises quickly, every trace of the conversation disappearing behind his usual expression.

before he reaches the door, he glances back at you.

"i won't tell him."

relief and disappointment twist together inside your chest.

"thank you."

"but i'm not helping you hide that you love him either."

the lock turns beneath his hand, and the door swings open.

sam stands on the other side, windblown and carrying a stack of photocopied records beneath one arm.

his eyes go straight to you.

always you.

"i found her."

the whisper returns with him, soft and delighted.

tell him.

sam steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him. the stack of records lands on the table hard enough to disturb the loose newspaper clippings scattered across it.

"her name is evelyn bell."

dean joins him at the table while you remain frozen on the bed, staring at the photograph resting on top of the pile.

the image is old. black and white, faded around the edges.

the woman standing beneath the striped awning is younger than the one you met, but not by much. her dark dress falls below her knees, and one hand rests lightly against the shoulder of the little girl beside her.

the girl wears white with tiny flowers covering the skirt.

your breath catches, and sam notices immediately.

"you recognize them."

it isn't a question.

you force yourself off the bed and cross the room. the whisper grows louder with every step toward him.

tell him.

you ignore it and pick up the photograph. the paper trembles between your fingers.

"that's her."

dean points at the woman. "the witch?"

you nod. your focus shifts to the smiling child standing beside her. "...and that's the little girl."

sam's expression changes. "the one from your visions?"

"yeah."

her hair is tied into two neat pigtails. one hand grips her mother's skirt while the other is hidden behind her back, as if she had been caught concealing something seconds before the camera flashed.

sam slides the next page toward you.

"lucy bell. born nineteen thirty-four."

your eyes fall to the line beneath her name.

died april seventeenth, nineteen forty-two.

eight years old.

dean reads over your shoulder. "cause of death says respiratory obstruction."

"keep reading," sam says.

dean's eyes move farther down the photocopy. his jaw slowly tightens.

"'unidentified botanical matter discovered within the mouth and upper airway.'"

the motel room goes silent.

sam pulls another sheet free.

"the coroner requested an autopsy, but evelyn refused. she took the body before he could get a court order."

"where'd she bury her?" dean asks.

"officially, she didn't." sam places an old property record on top of the death certificate. a hand-drawn survey of the candy shop fills most of the page. "there's no cemetery record. no church burial. no plot registered anywhere in the county."

dean studies the survey. "so she kept the body."

"looks that way."

sam points toward a small square drawn behind the original building.

"this was listed as a private family garden when evelyn owned the property. three weeks after lucy died, she filed for permission to build an extension over it."

dean leans closer.

"what kind of extension?"

"a stockroom."

your gaze moves toward the marked section of the map. the back room of the newly renamed sweet surrender.

the doorway the enchantress had repeatedly disappeared through.

"she's under the shop," you whisper.

sam nods. "bobby thinks so too. i called him from the archives."

dean looks up. "and?"

"he thinks lucy was the first victim."

"we already knew that."

"not just the first person who died." sam taps the property record. "the anchor."

dean's expression sharpens. "the curse started with her."

"and evelyn bound it to whatever was left behind."

you stare at the little girl's photograph.

"she didn't mean to curse her."

both brothers look at you.

sam speaks first. "how do you know?"

you swallow against the sweetness coating your throat.

"the gum was already in the bowl when lucy found it. evelyn came back and saw the wrapper."

the vision returns in fragments. evelyn's shaking hands and lucy's confused smile. the way her mother had pulled her close, already knowing there was nothing she could do.

"she asked when lucy swallowed it," you continue. "and then she started apologizing."

dean glances toward the death certificate.

"so evelyn made the curse for somebody else."

"yeah."

"and her kid got into it."

your fingers tighten around the photograph.

"lucy thought the only thing she'd done wrong was eat candy before dinner."

sam's face softens.

"what was her secret?"

you hesitate. the whisper curls around your thoughts.

he has one too.

"she knew her mother was magic."

dean exhales. "that's it?"

"she promised not to tell anyone." your eyes remain fixed on lucy's face. "she was proud of how well she kept it."

something sick and heavy settles over the room.

dean looks toward sam. "the witch created a curse that kills people for keeping secrets, and then her own daughter became the first victim because she protected hers."

sam shakes his head faintly. "that's why it chose lucy."

"and instead of destroying the spell after she died..." dean's mouth twists with disgust. "...evelyn kept using it."

"maybe she couldn't destroy it," you say.

dean looks at you. "she's had nearly seventy years."

"i didn't say she was innocent."

you lower the photograph onto the table.

"but this didn't start because she wanted lucy dead."

"doesn't change the bodies she left behind," sam says quietly.

"i know."

your vision blurs suddenly. for one impossible moment, lucy is sitting on the floor beside the table. her white dress fans around her knees. a piece of pink bubble gum rests in her open palm.

she looks up at you. "ask him."

you blink, and she's gone.

sam moves toward you. "what happened?"

"nothing."

dean's gaze flicks between you and his brother. the lie makes the veins beneath your collar flare hot.

sam reaches for your arm, but you instinctively pull away. hurt flashes across his face before he can hide it.

"i'm fine," you whisper. the curse tightens beneath your ribs.

you barely have time to turn before a violent cough tears through your chest. sam catches your shoulders as you double over. something soft lands on the carpet. then another. bright pink petals collect around your boots.

a thin streak of red runs through the center of one.

"that's blood," sam says. his voice sounds distant.

you bring a shaking hand to your mouth. your fingertips come away red.

dean immediately grabs the wastebasket from beneath the table and pushes it toward you before another cough wracks your body. this time, an entire flower falls from your lips, its stem wet with blood.

sam goes completely still.

"we're going now."

dean looks at him. "to the shop?"

"we burn the bones, break the anchor."

"we don't know if that'll work."

"it's more than we had ten minutes ago." sam grabs his jacket before turning toward you. "you're staying here."

you straighten slowly. "no."

his expression hardens. "you're coughing up blood."

"and fucking flowers, sam! this is already insane."

"that's not helping your argument."

"you need me."

"we need you alive."

the words hit harder than they should.

the whisper laughs softly.

tell him why.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. "the stockroom could've been rebuilt five times since that map was drawn. you don't know exactly where she is."

"we'll find her."

"before evelyn finds you?"

dean watches the two of you in silence.

sam steps closer. "you can barely stand."

"i can still see."

"that's exactly what she wants." you freeze as sam gestures toward the scattered records. "she knew what you were before we entered the store. the dreams started before you swallowed the gum."

dean's brow furrows. "you think the witch chose her because she's clairvoyant?"

"i think the secret gave evelyn a way to curse her," sam says. "but it wasn't the reason she wanted her dead."

the room falls quiet. you look down at lucy's photograph.

the pieces settle into place with a cold certainty.

"she knew i could find this."

sam nods. "the altered records. the erased memories. the hidden body." his jaw clenches. "she spent decades making sure nobody could trace the curse back to her daughter."

"and then a psychic hunter came to town," dean finishes.

the enchantress's smile flashes through your mind. you already ate it. not surprised. satisfied.

"she was waiting for me," you whisper.

sam's expression darkens. "which is why you're not going anywhere near her again."

you look at the photograph. lucy's small hand remains hidden behind her back.

"she doesn't know."

dean studies you. "doesn't know what?"

"that i saw lucy."

sam shakes his head. "you touched the journal in front of her victim's sister. evelyn could've been watching."

"she knew i had a vision. she doesn't know what was in it."

you remember the enchantress rushing toward her daughter, terror breaking through the careful mask she wears in the present. the guilt in her voice. i couldn't save her.

"she doesn't know i know lucy was her daughter," you continue. "or that lucy died because she got into the curse evelyn created."

dean glances toward sam. "that's leverage."

"that's bait," sam corrects.

"could be both."

"no." sam's answer is immediate.

dean raises his hands. "i'm not suggesting we hand her over with a bow on her head."

"good, because it's not happening."

you step between them. "evelyn thinks i'm dying before i can uncover anything useful."

"you are dying," sam says. the bluntness of it stops you. regret crosses his face instantly, but the words remain between you.

your voice comes out quieter. "then leaving me here doesn't change anything."

sam looks away. you know you've hurt him. you hate yourself for using that hurt, but there isn't time to take it back.

"i can find lucy," you say. "even if the stockroom isn't where it used to be. even if evelyn moved her. i'll know when we're close."

"and every vision makes you worse."

"everything makes me worse." your gaze meets his. "especially waiting."

sam holds your eyes for a long moment. you wonder if dean's words are true.

i see the way he looks at you.

hope presses dangerously against the truth in your throat. the veins beneath your skin pulse.

sam notices. his expression changes from anger to fear.

"don't."

your breath catches.

he steps toward you, lowering his voice. "whatever you're thinking about saying, don't."

the man you love is standing inches away, begging you not to tell him.

you force your face to remain still.

"...i wasn't."

another lie. another sharp pain spreads through your chest.

dean looks away, his jaw tight.

sam reaches into the open duffel and pulls out a roll of gauze. he takes your injured hand carefully, wrapping the cloth around your wrist to conceal the veins.

his fingers tremble. only slightly, but you feel it.

"you stay behind me," he says.

you watch his hands move around yours. "sam—"

"the entire time." he ties the gauze securely before looking up. "if i tell you to run, you run."

you manage a faint smile. "you know i'm terrible at following orders."

"then pretend it wasn't an order."

"what was it?"

his thumb brushes against your palm.

"a favor."

the whisper slides between you.

tell him.

you close your fingers around the bandage instead.

"okay."

sam releases your hand reluctantly.

dean gathers the records, slipping lucy's photograph into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"silver, iron, salt, gasoline," dean says. 

sam reaches for the weapons bag. "and the witch-killing bullets," he adds.

dean gives him a grim nod. you pick up your jacket.

the moment your fingers close around it, another flower shifts beneath the skin in your chest. the petals press upward, forming a small, raised shape beneath the flesh.

you pull the jacket on before either brother can see it.

the enchantress believes she has already won.

she knows you're clairvoyant. she knows you're cursed. she knows the secret is killing you.

but she doesn't know you have seen the one memory she buried beneath almost seventy years of blood.

lucy.

for the first time since swallowing the bubble gum, the sweetness in your mouth tastes less like fear and more like something you can use.

rows of colorful glass jars line every wall. lollipops, chocolates, taffy, licorice—just about every kind of candy imaginable fills the shelves from floor to ceiling. old music plays quietly through unseen speakers.

"well," dean says, looking around. "this definitely beats the abandoned warehouse i was expecting."

sam smiles to himself as he shuts the door behind you. "it's a candy store, dean."

"exactly."

you laugh quietly.

the hunt had started two days ago after six people across three counties had mysteriously died. each victim had suffered the same symptoms—hallucinations, coughing blood, and strange pink flowers blooming beneath their skin shortly before they died.

every single one had visited the same candy shop, sweet surrender.

dean flashes a fake badge as an older woman emerges from a doorway behind the register. "fbi."

"agents. how can i help you?" the woman smiles politely.

while dean begins asking about the recent customers, sam nods toward the aisles.

"let's look around."

you follow him deeper into the store, your boots clicking softly against the polished wood floor. your fingertips brush along old shelves out of habit. sometimes touching objects brought nothing.

sometimes they brought everything.

today… nothing. which somehow feels worse.

"anything?" sam asks quietly.

you shake your head. "too many people have handled everything."

he nods in understanding.

you've hunted together long enough that he knows how your abilities work. older objects usually carry stronger impressions, but somewhere like this... dozens of hands touched everything every day.

a teenage boy behind the register barely glances up from a comic book. "free samples are over there," he says lazily, pointing toward a crystal bowl. wrapped pieces of bright pink bubble gum fill it almost to the top.

sam immediately shakes his head. "i'm good."

you shrug. "free's free." you grab one and slip it into your jacket pocket. 

"hungry?" sam notices.

"a little."

he reaches into his own pocket. "i've got a granola bar."

you wrinkle your nose. who knows how long that's been in there. "i said hungry, not desperate."

sam laughs under his breath. "fair."

his laugh is quiet. it always is, but every time you hear it, you have to remind yourself to keep walking instead of looking at him.

you'd been hunting together for over a year. somewhere along the way, feelings had stopped being hypothetical. they'd become something you carried around every day. this was something you refused to tell him because sam deserved normal, and nothing about you had ever been normal.

you stop in front of an antique music box displayed on a shelf behind glass. it looks decades older than everything else in the store. your stomach tightens.

"sam." he immediately walks over.

"what?"

"that." he notices your expression before looking at the music box.

"want me to open it?"

you hesitate. "...yeah."

he unlocks the small display case with a key hanging beside it and carefully lifts the music box into your waiting hands.

the vision hits instantly. 

a little girl crying. sticky fingers. pink wrappers scattered across a hardwood floor. someone laughing. 

petals. pink flowers pushing beneath ghostly pale skin.

you suck in a sharp breath and the music box slips. sam catches it before it reaches the floor, and his other hand steadies your elbow.

"hey." his voice sounds distant. "what'd you see?"

you blink several times before the shop comes back into focus. your breathing steadies.

"...flowers."

"like the victims?"

you nod. "and..." you hesitate. there had been something else.

someone else's hand, warm fingers intertwined with yours. 

a flannel sleeve, hazel eyes. sam.

your cheeks warm. "...that's all." you lie.

sam studies your face for another second. he knows, but he doesn't push. he never does. 

instead, he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"come on."

still trying to shake the lingering feeling of the vision, you absentmindedly reach into your pocket. you unwrap the piece of bubble gum and pop it into your mouth, barely registering the sweet strawberry flavor as you chew.

your mind is still stuck on the image of sam. his hand.

the impossible feeling of his lips against yours.

it hadn't happened. it was only a vision.

wasn't it?

"guys!" dean's voice suddenly echoes through the aisle.

you jump, your teeth clamp down instinctively, and you inhale sharply.

the bubble gum slips to the back of your throat. your eyes widen.

before you can stop it, you swallow. you cough immediately, bringing a hand to your chest.

sam is beside you in an instant, rubbing your back.

"hey, easy."

you manage a few more coughs before catching your breath.

"...i swallowed it."

dean stops dead. "please tell me you're kidding."

you look between the brothers, still trying to clear your throat.

"it was an accident."

"of course it was." dean lets out a slow breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

you frown. "...what's going on?"

"that woman?" dean says. "i barely got two questions in before she realized we were hunters. she smiled at me, offered me something sweet, then threw a handful of fun dip in my face."

sam's eyebrows knit together.

"fun dip?"

dean reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled blue packet.

"left this behind."

sam looks between the packet and you.

"...she attacked you with candy?"

"yeah," dean says flatly. "welcome to the weirdest hunt we've had all month."

despite the knot forming in your stomach, a small laugh escapes you.

"that's... kind of funny."

"it would've been if you hadn't just swallowed the witch's bubble gum."

the smile falls from your face. 

"...right."

before anyone can say another word, the bell above the front door rings. all three of you turn.

the owner stands just inside the entrance, one hand resting on the brass doorknob. she smiles as pleasantly as she had when you first walked in, like dean hadn't just accused her of murder minutes earlier.

“such serious faces," she says. “you're frightening away my customers."

dean takes a step forward.

“you're not going anywhere."

“am i not?" she tilts her head. there's something unsettling about the movement. almost birdlike.

sam subtly moves in front of you. it isn't enough to completely block your view of her, but enough that his shoulder brushes yours. his hand hangs loosely by his side, close enough that he could reach for you if something happened.

you aren't sure if he realizes he's doing it.

the woman glances between the three of you before her eyes settle on yours. they immediately drift downward to your throat. her smile grows.

“…oh." her tone makes your stomach drop. “you already ate it."

sam stiffens. dean's hand slowly moves toward the knife hidden beneath his jacket.

“what did you do to her?"

the woman only laughs.

“i didn't do anything." her eyes never leave yours. “she did."

without breaking eye contact, she reaches beneath the counter and pulls out another packet of fun dip.

dean notices first.

“sam."

sam follows his gaze.

“don't—"

she tears the packet open. instead of dumping the sugar into the air, she blows across her palm.

the colorful powder scatters toward you like glitter caught in a breeze.

sam grabs your wrist. 

“move."

he pulls you sideways just as dean ducks behind a display of chocolate bars. the sugar passes through the space you'd occupied only a second earlier. where it lands, bright pink flowers erupt through the hardwood floor. tiny blossoms spread across the planks before withering into grey dust.

“…holy shit."

“language," dean mutters automatically before pulling his knife free.

“seriously?"

“habit."

the enchantress sighs. “hunters." she shakes her head as though disappointed. “always making a mess."

dean lunges first. she smiles.

he's only halfway across the room when she grabs a handful of colorful jawbreakers from a nearby display and throws them across the floor. they bounce like marbles, and dean's boots slide out from under him.

“whoa—" he crashes shoulder-first into a shelf. glass jars rattle violently before several tumble onto the floor, exploding into showers of hard candy.

“dean!"

sam rushes toward him. the enchantress only chuckles.

“so clumsy."

sam helps dean back to his feet.

“you okay?"

“my dignity isn't." he rubs his shoulder. “she threw jawbreakers at me."

a laugh slips out of you like a reflex. you can't help it.

dean points at you.

“don't encourage her."

the enchantress laughs too. the sound echoes strangely through the tiny shop.

“you'll be laughing for another few hours." her gaze settles on you again. “then…" her smile softens in an eerily motherly manner. “…you'll start crying."

your chest tightens.

“what does that mean?"

she ignores the question. instead, she studies you like she's admiring a finished painting.

“you've been keeping such a lovely secret."

sam looks at you. “what secret?"

before you can answer, she reaches for another packet. 

dean swears. “she's got an endless supply."

“i do own a candy store."

she tears open a bright green package this time. a pixy stix. the colored powder explodes into the air.

sam reacts instantly.

“down!"

his hand finds the small of your back, hurriedly guiding you behind a display of caramel apples as dean dives in the opposite direction. the powder bursts against the wall.

for a heartbeat, nothing happens. 

then the wallpaper begins dissolving. the pink floral pattern melts away like paper dropped into acid, exposing blackened wood beneath.

“that's… new," dean says from somewhere behind the shelves.

“she's using different candies for different spells," sam says.

you peek over the display.

the enchantress is gone. again.

the bell above the door swings gently. its soft chime echoes through the now silent shop.

dean slowly stands.

“i officially hate candy."

sam exhales before looking over at you.

“are you okay?"

you nod automatically.

“…yeah." it isn't entirely a lie. physically, you feel fine. 

however, there's something different. your tongue still tastes like strawberries. sweeter than before, almost sickeningly so.

you swallow, but the taste doesn't go away.

your gaze drifts toward the nearest mirror hanging beside a shelf of chocolate. for just a second, you swear pink veins crawl beneath the skin of your neck.

you blink and they're gone.

sam says your name, his voice pulling you back. he's looking at you with the same concern he'd worn since you'd swallowed the gum. you force a smile.

“i'm okay." another lie.

somewhere, though you can't tell where, a woman laughs.

dean stuffs the knife back into his jacket.

"let's get out of here before she decides to weaponize gummy bears."

sam huffs a quiet laugh. "don't give her ideas."

dean looks around the destroyed shop one last time.

"i'm serious. we've got what we came for."

"which is?" you ask.

he gestures broadly.

"confirmation."

you raise an eyebrow.

"confirmation that she's insane?"

"confirmation that she's the witch."

sam carefully steps over the broken glass, stopping beside the display case you'd touched earlier. he studies the antique music box for another moment before closing the glass door.

"she wanted us to know she'd cursed you."

"yeah," dean says. "which means she's confident."

"or she's trying to scare us."

"it worked." dean shrugs.

you quietly trail behind them toward the exit. your fingertips brush against the edge of a shelf as you pass.

another vision flashes.

the enchantress laughing. a pink lollipop spins between her fingers.

"...secrets are the sweetest."

your breath catches and the vision disappears as quickly as it came.

sam says your name he has already noticed you'd stopped walking. he always notices.

"i'm okay."

dean gives you a look over his shoulder. 

"that's the third time you've said that."

"because i am."

sam doesn't look convinced.

"what did you see?"

you hesitate, "...her."

both brothers stop.

"what about her?" dean asks.

"she..." you frown, trying to remember every detail. visions always slipped away the harder you tried to hold onto them. "she was holding a lollipop."

dean waits, "...that's it?"

"no." you close your eyes. "she said..." the words come back clearly. "'secrets are the sweetest.'"

the three of you fall silent. dean is the first to speak.

"well, that's cryptic."

sam's expression is more thoughtful.

sam looks at dean. "the victims. they were all hiding something."

dean nods slowly. "the husband was having an affair."

"the college student stole money," sam continues. "the waitress was planning on leaving town without telling her family." sam's gaze drifts to you. "all secrets."

a knot forms in your stomach. "you think that's why she cursed them?"

"maybe."

dean opens the impala's trunk and tosses a duffel bag inside.

"or maybe it's how she chooses them," dean adds.

sam leans against the open trunk.

"either way, every victim was keeping something to themselves." his eyes find yours again. "if she's telling the truth..." he looks away from you. "you've been keeping a secret."

your heartbeat stutters for a second. you force yourself to keep your expression neutral.

"haven't we all?"

dean snorts. "i mean, i've got, like, seventeen fake credit cards."

"i don't think that's what she meant." sam pushes off the trunk.

"worth a shot." dean shrugs and enters the impala.

sam watches you for another moment before climbing into the passenger seat. he doesn't ask again.

you almost wish he would.

—

the motel room is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner. dean flips through their dad's journal while sam opens his laptop across the table.

you sit cross-legged on one of the beds with your own journal resting in your lap.

you flip page after page. hex bags, love spells, curses, but nothing about enchanted candy.

"found something," sam says. you and dean immediately look over. he turns the laptop so both of you can see.

an old newspaper article from the nineteen-eighties describes three children from the same town entered the same candy shop. all three were dead within a week.

your stomach sinks.

"i thought the first victims were two years ago."

"so did i." sam scrolls farther. "looks like the deaths were ruled accidental."

"how do three kids accidentally die at the same candy store?" dean asks.

sam shakes his head. "they didn't." he points to one sentence buried near the bottom. "'each child complained of a persistent sweet taste before developing an unexplained illness.'"

your mouth goes dry. without thinking, your tongue brushes against your teeth. the sickly sweet taste of strawberries is still there.

sam notices the change in your expression. "you still taste it." it isn't a question.

you nod once.

dean quietly closes the journal. "then we've got less time than i hoped."

silence settles heavily over the room. for the first time since leaving the candy shop no one has a joke.

dean is the first to break it. "i'm getting coffee."

sam glances up from the laptop. "it's almost ten."

"your point?"

"you're not gonna sleep tonight, are you?"

dean grabs the impala keys from the table. his eyes flicker to yours for a second.

"not a chance."

he points between the two of you.

"don't do anything stupid while i'm gone."

"that usually applies to you," sam says.

"exactly."

dean flashes a grin before heading out the door.

the motel door clicks shut behind him, and the room falls quiet again. sam turns back to the laptop, clicking through another article.

you stare blankly at the page in your journal. the words blur together.

"anything?" you ask.

sam sighs. "nothing useful." he closes another tab. "same symptoms. same timeline."

you nod.

"how long?"

he knows what you're asking, and he hesitates.

"the longest any of them lived was seven days."

you look down at your hands. "today's day one."

"yeah."

another silence. 

sam rubs a hand over his face before standing from the chair.

"you hungry?"

you almost laugh. 

"after everything that's happened today?"

"you still have to eat." he gives a small shrug.

"i don't think i could."

he walks over to the small kitchenette anyway, opening one of the cabinets.

"there's crackers."

"those have probably been here longer than dean's fake credit cards."

sam smiles. "probably." he pulls the sleeve out anyway, checking the expiration date. "they expired six months ago."

"see?"

he quietly tosses them into the trash. you watch him move around the room. opening cabinets, checking drawers, finding absolutely nothing.

"guess dean was right."

"about what?"

"we should've stopped for food."

another smile tugs at your lips.

"he'll never let us live that down."

sam leans against the counter.

"probably not."

you study him for a moment. his hair is still slightly messy from the fight in the candy store. there's a streak of colored sugar across the shoulder of his flannel.

without thinking, you stand.

"hold still."

"what?" he looks confused. you step closer.

"you've got..." you gesture vaguely toward his shoulder. "fun dip."

"oh."

he twists awkwardly, trying to look.

"where?"

"here." you reach up and brush the colorful sugar from the fabric. your fingers linger for only a second.

still, you freeze.

the vision comes without warning. sam sitting on the edge of a motel bed, his face buried in his hands. your journal lying open beside him. a pressed pink flower falls from between the pages.

"i should've told her." his voice breaks.

the image disappears, and you stumble back.

sam catches your elbow before you lose your balance.

"hey." his voice sounds distant. "what'd you see?"

you blink several times before the motel room comes back into focus.

"...nothing."

he doesn't let go of your arm, squeezing gently before saying your name

"it was just a flash."

"about what?"

you hesitate.

if visions were difficult to explain before, how were you supposed to explain one where sam was grieving you? if it meant anything at all.

"i couldn't make it out." another lie.

sam studies your face. he always knows, but after a long moment, he nods.

"okay."

he lets go of your arm.

you immediately miss the warmth of his hand.

before either of you can say anything else, the motel door opens.

dean walks in carrying a cardboard drink tray and a brown paper bag.

"good news." he sets everything on the table. "i found coffee."

he lifts the paper bag and grins. "better news. i found pie."

dean sets a coffee in front of sam before sliding the brown paper bag across the table toward you.

"eat."

you look up from your journal. "...what?"

"pie."

"i can see that."

"then eat it."

you glance over at sam, silently asking for help. he only gives you a small shrug.

"he's not gonna stop until you do," sam says.

"damn right," dean adds, taking a sip of his coffee. "you haven't eaten since breakfast."

you sigh dramatically before opening the bag. the smell of warm apple pie fills the motel room.

"you drove across town for pie?"

"there was a diner next to the coffee shop," dean says with another shrug. "figured you should eat something."

you pull off a small piece of the crust.

"thanks."

"don't make it weird."

despite yourself, you smile. dean settles into the chair across from sam, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"alright," he says. "what'd i miss?"

sam closes the laptop partway.

"she had another vision."

dean immediately looks at you.

"what'd you see?"

you stare down at the pie in your hands.

"the enchantress."

"again?"

you nod. "she was holding a lollipop." dean waits for you to continue. "...and she said, 'secrets are the sweetest.'"

he leans back in the chair, thinking for a moment.

"that's twice now she's brought up secrets."

"the victims were all hiding something," sam says, opening the laptop again. "the adulterous husband, the thieving college student, the waitress pulling an irish goodbye—everybody."

"yeah, but everybody's hiding something," dean says. he gestures toward sam. "stanford." sam rolls his eyes. dean gestures toward himself. "i've got fake credit cards in, like, seventeen different names." his hand moves toward you before stopping. "...you get my point."

you quietly nod. sam's fingers pause over the keyboard.

"either the secret is how she chooses her victims..."

"...or it's part of the curse," you finish.

"exactly." dean flips open their dad's journal again. "witches love symbolism."

"if that's true," sam says, scanning another article, "then figuring out what the secret does might tell us how to break the curse."

you finally take a bite of the pie.

the crust flakes apart perfectly. the filling is warm, and weirdly sweet.

you stop chewing. 

dean notices first.

"what?"

you swallow.

"it tastes like strawberries."

sam looks up from the laptop.

"the pie?"

you nod once. "that's all i can taste."

without saying anything, dean reaches over and tears off a piece of the crust. he chews thoughtfully before swallowing.

"apple."

sam reaches for your fork.

"you mind?"

you shake your head and slide the plate toward him. he takes a bite before setting the fork back down.

"that's definitely apple." his eyes meet yours. "you can't taste anything else?"

you shake your head.

sam slowly pushes the plate back toward you.

"that's not good," dean says, leaning back in his chair.

sam is already typing again, clicking through article after article as the taste of artificial strawberries refuses to leave your mouth.

sam clicks through another newspaper archive while dean flips absentmindedly through his dad's journal. the room is quiet except for the tapping of computer keys.

you try another bite of the pie. still strawberries. you set the fork down and huff.

sam notices.

"still?"

"...yeah."

he nods once before returning to the laptop.

"found another one."

dean looks up. "another victim?"

"sort of." sam scrolls farther down the page. "same shop. different decade."

he turns the laptop toward both of you. a faded newspaper clipping fills the screen.

local woman dies after weeklong illness.

dean leans closer. "cause of death?"

"'unknown,'" sam reads. "'family reported sudden changes in mood and behavior in the days leading up to her death.'"

you look at the grainy black-and-white photograph beneath the headline.

the woman couldn't be older than thirty, and something about her smile feels familiar.

sam scrolls farther. "'according to her husband, she repeatedly complained that every meal tasted like cherry candy.'"

dean points toward you. "okay. i officially don't like that."

sam keeps reading. "'neighbors reported hearing prolonged laughter followed by inconsolable crying in the hours before her death.'"

the motel room falls silent and dean slowly closes his journal.

"that's exactly what the witch said."

you nod absentmindedly, still looking at the picture.

"can you zoom in?"

sam does without asking why.

the photograph grows larger. you stare at the woman's face, then her neck.

"...sam."

he looks over. "what?"

you point at the screen.

"there."

both brothers lean closer.

at first, you think it's just damage from the old newspaper.

then sam's expression changes.

beneath the woman's jaw, thin veins snake beneath her skin.

not blue or pronounced like normal veins, but bright pepto-bismol pink.

dean exhales quietly.

"those weren't on the other victims."

"their bodies were examined after they died," sam says. "this picture was taken while she was still alive."

your fingers tighten around the edge of the motel blanket.

"...they're getting worse."

sam looks at you.

"what?"

you don't answer. instead, you stand and walk over to the bathroom.

the light flickers as you switch it on. you stare at your reflection.

for a moment, nothing.

then, just beneath your jaw, a faint pink vein.

you blink and it disappears. 

your hand instinctively rises to your neck. the motel bathroom suddenly feels much too small.

"you alright?" dean calls from the other room.

you keep staring at the mirror.

"...yeah."

the lie comes easier this time.

when you return, sam is already watching you. he doesn't ask. he just quietly slides a cup of coffee across the table toward you.

"careful," he says. "it's hot."

you wrap both hands around the paper cup. the warmth settles into your palms.

for the first time since leaving the candy shop, the taste of strawberries fades if only for a second.

you take another sip of the coffee. the bitterness cuts through the sweetness for only a moment before strawberries settle over your tongue again.

"did it help?" sam asks.

"a little."

"for how long?"

you think about it. "a second."

sam quietly hums before typing something into the search bar.

dean glances between the two of you. "what?"

"heat," sam says.

"what about it?"

"the coffee." he points toward the cup in your hands. "it's the first thing that's changed the taste."

dean leans forward.

"you thinking magic?"

"i'm thinking patterns."

another article loads, and sam scrolls silently for nearly a minute.

then he stops.

"dean."

"what?"

"get this." he clears his throat before reading aloud. "'family members reported the victim became increasingly withdrawn, refusing to discuss a recurring dream she experienced each night.'"

dean frowns. "dream?"

sam nods. "'the victim insisted she couldn't remember the details upon waking but claimed it always involved flowers.'"

your grip tightens around the coffee cup.

flowers.

"what?" sam notices.

"nothing."

he gives you a look.

you sigh. "...i dreamed about flowers last night."

both brothers stare at you.

dean is the first to speak. "last night?"

you nod. "before we even found the shop."

sam slowly closes the laptop.

"...why didn't you say anything?"

you shrug.

"i didn't remember it until now."

that much is true.

the dream had vanished the second you woke up. all you'd remembered was the lingering feeling that someone had been calling your name.

sam looks away, thinking.

dean breaks the silence. "well, that's definitely not creepy."

"dean."

"what? i'm coping."

sam shakes his head before reopening the article.

"the dreams started before the physical symptoms."

"...which means the curse might've begun before she swallowed the gum," dean says.

you blink.

"that's impossible."

sam doesn't answer immediately. instead, he rereads the article.

"...unless swallowing it wasn't the beginning."

you look between them. "what do you mean?"

sam keeps his eyes on the article. "every victim reported the dreams before they ever ate the candy."

dean frowns. "or before they admitted eating it."

sam shakes his head. "the little girl." he scrolls back to the article from the eighties. "her parents packed her lunch every day. according to this, she started having nightmares almost a week before she ever went into the candy shop."

dean leans over his shoulder. "...so the candy isn't the curse."

"no." sam rubs the back of his neck. "i think it's just how she finishes it."

the room falls quiet. you glance down at the coffee in your hands.

the strawberries are back.

"...then why me?"

sam looks up. "what?"

"why would she pick me?"

dean answers before sam can.

"wrong place. wrong time."

you nod, but something about that answer doesn't sit right. the enchantress hadn't looked surprised when she'd seen you.

she'd smiled. she didn't say you swallowed it. she said you already ate it.

as though she'd been expecting you.

your fingers tighten around the paper cup.

another flash. pink. your own hands sticky with melted candy. a little girl's laugh.

"...don't tell."

the vision disappears as quickly as it came, and the coffee cup slips in your grip.

sam catches it before it spills.

"hey." his hand brushes yours as he steadies the cup. "you alright?"

you blink a few times.

"...yeah."

he doesn't move his hand right away.

"another vision?"

you nod. "just a flash."

"of what?"

you hesitate. "a kid."

sam waits.

"...that's all i got."

he studies your face for a second before nodding.

"okay."

dean tosses the journal on the table with a quiet thud.

"then tomorrow morning we go back."

sam looks at him. "to the shop?"

"no." dean points at the newspaper clipping still open on the laptop. "to the first victim's house." he leans back further in his chair. "if this thing starts before the candy..." his eyes drift to you. "...then we're looking in the wrong place."

—

the drive the next morning is quieter than usual.

dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel while classic rock hums softly through the speakers. sam sits beside him with the printed newspaper article folded across his lap, reading over the same paragraph for what has to be the tenth time.

you stare out the window.

every passing billboard advertises candy.

or maybe it doesn't.

you blink.

the billboard becomes an ad for a mattress store.

"you okay?"

you look over at sam. he's already folded the newspaper shut.

"yeah."

he doesn't look convinced.

"you've been silently staring out the window for twenty minutes."

"have i?"

dean glances at you in the rearview mirror.

"this is getting creepy. you haven't commented on my driving once."

"thanks."

"you're welcome."

the impala slows as dean turns into an older neighborhood.

small houses line both sides of the street, each with neatly trimmed hedges and fading paint.

dean parks along the curb.

"this is it."

sam unfolds the newspaper again. "miss madeline parker."

"the first recorded victim," dean says.

"that we know of," you add.

he nods. "that we know of."

the three of you climb out of the impala. the house looks lived in despite its age. wind chimes sway gently on the front porch. flower boxes sit beneath every window.

pink flowers.

your steps falter and sam notices immediately.

"what?" you point toward the porch. he follows your gaze. "they're just flowers."

"i know."

but they aren't, not really. they're the same ones from your visions.

the same ones blooming beneath skin. the same ones scattered across the floor of the candy shop.

you don't know how you know, you just do.

dean walks up the porch steps and knocks twice.

a few seconds later, the door opens. an elderly woman peers out through the screen door.

she studies each of you carefully before her eyes settle on sam's badge.

"fbi?"

dean offers an easy smile.

"ma'am. we're hoping to ask you a few questions about your sister."

the woman's expression changes into something wistful. "...madeline."

sam nods.

"yes."

she looks past the three of you toward the street then back again.

"you'd better come inside."

dean and sam exchange a quick glance before following her into the house.

you linger on the porch for just a second longer. the flower box sits inches from your hand. without thinking, your fingertips brush one of the petals.

everything disappears. a little girl laughs. sticky fingers wrap around yours. a pink piece of bubble gum is pressed into your palm.

"don't tell," she whispers. "it's our secret."

the front door slams somewhere in the distance and the vision shatters.

"hey." sam's voice cuts through the ringing in your ears. he's standing in the doorway now, watching you. "you coming?"

you look down at your hand. it's empty.

"yeah," you mutter, forcing your feet to move.

inside, the house smells faintly of lavender. underneath it—strawberries.

the older woman shuts the front door behind you, the latch clicking softly in the quiet house.

it's a small place, but kept tidy. rows of framed family photos cover the walls, and hand-knitted blankets are draped over the backs of sagging armchairs. the scent of lavender lingers in the air, though underneath it, you can still catch that same cloying smell of strawberries.

"please," she says, gesturing toward the living room with a trembling hand. "have a seat."

dean gives her a small, reassuring smile. "thank you, ma'am."

sam waits for her to settle into a worn recliner before he pulls out a notebook.

"you mentioned that madeline was your sister?"

she nods slowly. "older by six years."

"we're sorry for your loss," sam says, his voice softening.

she offers a sad, distant smile. "it's been a very long time."

dean glances around the room, taking in the old figurines and floral wallpaper. "mind if we ask you a few questions about what happened back then?"

"i suppose that's why you're here."

sam opens his notebook to a fresh page. "the old newspaper articles said she became ill very suddenly."

the woman lets out a heavy sigh, her fingers picking at the fabric of her chair. "that's what the doctors believed."

you stay near the doorway, your gaze drifting over the porcelain figurines and an old grandfather clock that ticks steadily in the corner. you brush your fingers against the doorframe, searching for a flash, an impression. nothing.

"it wasn't sudden," she continues, her voice dropping an octave. "not really."

sam looks up, pen poised. "what do you mean?"

"she changed."

dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "how so?"

the woman folds her hands in her lap, her knuckles white. "it was little things at first."

"like what?" sam asks quietly.

"she stopped liking her coffee."

your head snaps toward her. "coffee?"

she nods, looking at you for the first time. "she said it tasted too sweet. like sugar and fruit."

sam and dean exchange a quick, sharp glance.

"was there anything else?" sam prompts.

"she stopped sleeping." she smiles faintly, but the expression doesn't reach her eyes. "i'd hear her walking through the house at all hours. creaking floorboards, whispers in the dark."

"did she ever explain why?" dean asks.

"she said if she fell asleep..." her voice hitches, a small tremor in her throat. "...the little girl would come back."

the room falls into a heavy silence. even the grandfather clock seems to slow down.

sam's pen remains still on the paper. "...what little girl?"

the woman shakes her head slowly. "she never knew her name."

your stomach does a slow roll. "what did she look like?"

dean and sam both turn to look at you, but the woman just studies your face with a piercing, hollow gaze.

"why would you ask that?"

you hesitate, the strawberry taste turning bitter on your tongue. "...i've seen her."

sam stands up halfway, saying your name. "what?"

"it's just flashes," you say, looking back at the woman. "sticky fingers. the smell of sugar."

the woman's face goes ghostly pale.

"a piece of pink bubble gum," you continue, your voice barely a whisper. "pressed into a palm."

she grips the armrests of her chair so hard her hands shake.

"...and she told me that we had to keep it a secret."

the woman stares at you, her eyes wide and terrified. for a long heartbeat, the only sound is the grandfather clock. then she whispers, her voice cracking, "that's exactly what madeline told me."

the clock chimes in the hallway.

one.

two.

three.

the old woman leans forward, her eyes locked onto yours, searching. "tell me," she says, her voice low and haunting. "have you started tasting the strawberries yet?"

the silence in the room stretches thin.

the older woman doesn't break eye contact, her gaze anchored on yours with an intensity that makes your pulse jump. she lets out a ragged, trembling breath before her strength seems to fail, and she collapses back into the worn fabric of her chair.

"...then it's already started."

dean leans in, his expression sharpening.

"started?"

she nods vaguely, her eyes still tracing the lines of your face as if looking for something she recognizes.

"that's exactly how it began with madeline."

sam quietly flips to a clean page in his notebook, pen ready.

"can you tell us everything?"

she gives a small, weary nod.

"i've tried to push it all away." her eyes wander toward a faded photograph resting on the mantle. "but i don't think you ever truly lose the memory of something like that."

the grandfather clock continues its steady, rhythmic ticking behind you.

"it began with the dreams," she says softly. "she'd wake up in tears, but the reasons always slipped away. she could only ever tell me about a little girl."

"the same one?" sam asks, his voice low.

"i believe so." she twists her hands together in her lap. "every morning she'd say she was on the verge of remembering her face."

you swallow hard against the sweet dryness in your throat. 

"and then?"

"then the sleep stopped altogether."

dean cuts a glance toward sam before focusing back on the woman.

"because she was afraid to dream?"

"she was terrified of them." the old woman lets out a short, hollow laugh. "she was convinced that if she just stayed awake..." her voice trails off into the quiet of the room. "...the little girl wouldn't be able to find her."

sam's pen stops moving. "did it work?"

"...no."

a heavy, suffocating silence settles over the living room.

"after that," she continues, her voice growing distant, "everything she ate or drank tasted wrong."

your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the coffee table.

"she claimed her coffee tasted like candy. dinner tasted like candy. even a glass of water..." the woman shakes her head slowly. "...she said it was sickeningly sweet."

dean leans back, his shoulders tense. "just like—"

"yeah." the woman cuts him off.

his thought hangs unfinished in the air. sam notices the way you've suddenly gone rigid.

without a word, he reaches out and slides a glass of water toward you, the base clicking softly against the wood.

you hadn't even realized you were staring at it with such focus.

"...thanks."

he gives a single, serious nod. "give it a try."

you lift the glass, the condensation chilling your palm. the water is biting and cold.

you take a hesitant sip.

strawberries.

you swallow hard, the sweetness lingering like a physical weight. 

you can only bring yourself to shake your head.

sam's jaw sets, a flicker of something dark crossing his eyes before he turns back to the woman.

"what happened next?"

she doesn't answer immediately.

instead, her gaze returns to the photograph on the mantle.

it shows two sisters. one tall and protective, the other small and smiling. they're standing together in front of a candy shop.

your stomach drops, a cold knot forming deep inside.

"is that..."

she follows the direction of your stare. "that was taken the day before."

sam looks up, alert.

"the day before what?"

"...the day before the sickness took her."

dean stands, crossing the room to get a better look at the frame.

"that's sweet surrender."

"it went by a different name back then."

the room goes perfectly still.

sam slowly lowers his notebook, his brow furrowed.

"...what?"

"it wasn't called sweet surrender." she offers a sad, paper-thin smile. "not in those days."

dean looks between her and the grainy image.

"well, what was it called?"

the old woman's eyes drift toward the window, looking at something far away.

"...bubble gum."

the words seem to echo in the small space.

for a long heartbeat, no one says a word.

you don't know why your heart begins to hammer against your ribs. only that it does, loud and frantic.

sam is the one to finally break the quiet.

"...that's impossible."

"why do you say that?" dean asks.

sam stands up, reaching for the framed photo with careful hands.

"because the county records are clear..." he studies the image as he lifts it. "...sweet surrender has used that same name for nearly seventy years."

the old woman just shakes her head slowly.

"...then the records have it wrong."

dean returns the photograph to its place on the mantle with practiced care.

"how do records just end up wrong?"

the woman studies him, her gaze lingering in the heavy quiet.

"because someone made sure they were."

sam's pen stops its movement across the page.

"who?"

she merely shakes her head, a tired movement.

"i couldn't tell you."

"did madeline ever mention who ran the shop?" dean asks.

"once. only once."

sam shifts closer, leaning into the conversation.

"what did she tell you about them?"

the woman pauses, as if weighing the cost of bringing the memory back into the light.

"she spoke of a woman."

dean cuts a glance toward sam.

"just a woman."

"she was there, behind the counter."

"what did she look like?" sam prompts.

the woman lets her eyes drift shut.

"she was pretty." a soft, breathless laugh escapes her. "it's a peculiar thing to hold onto after all this time, isn't it?"

"not at all," dean says. "faces tend to stick with you."

"not hers." her eyes open, looking at nothing in particular. "that's the trouble."

"what does that mean?" sam's brow knits together.

"i can recall thinking she was lovely." she brushes a thumb over the wedding band on her finger. "i remember her smile. the sound of her voice."

she stares down at her own hands.

"...but if you asked me the color of her hair, i couldn't give you an answer."

the room falls into a sudden, deep silence.

sam lowers his notebook slowly.

"you can't actually see her."

"no."

"any idea how old she was?" dean asks.

"she was young."

"roughly how young?"

"...older than i was."

"and how old were you then?"

"ten years old."

dean and sam trade another significant look.

the woman notices the unspoken exchange.

"why do you look at each other like that?"

sam is the first to respond.

"the woman we met yesterday, she appeared..."

he lets the sentence hang, thinking. her appearance is foggy in your memories too, even with your abilities.

"forty, maybe?" dean finishes for him.

sam nods in agreement.

the woman offers a faint, melancholy smile.

"then she remains unchanged."

your eyes drift back toward the photograph on the mantle.

two sisters posing in front of a sweet shop background. the sign hanging above the entrance.

you move in closer.

"sam."

he steps up beside you in an instant.

"what do you see?"

you gesture toward the corner of the image.

"right there."

he narrows his eyes, focusing.

"i'm not sure what i'm looking for."

"look behind them."

the photograph is washed out and worn thin, bleached by decades of sun. but in the lower corner, nearly lost to the film grain, a small girl hovers.

she isn't watching the photographer. her gaze is fixed entirely on the sisters. one of her hands is raised. she's offering something tiny and bright pink.

your heart begins to race.

"...can you take it out of the frame?"

sam looks from you to the picture and back again.

"you think it'll..?" his sentence trails off, leaving the woman unaware of what might happen when you touch the photo.

"...it's possible."

he works carefully to remove the backing, easing the photograph out.

"you don't have to do this," he reminds you quietly.

you give a small nod.

"...i know."

you reach for it.

your fingers brush the surface of the aged paper and the world dissolves.

sounds of laughter, children at play. jars of glass brimming with sugar. a bell chiming softly above.

the little girl is smiling. she looks no more than eight, with her hair in pigtails and a white-and-pink dress.

she extends her hand. a square of bubble gum, vibrant pink, sits in her palm.

"you can have some," she whispers. her smile broadens, like she's revealing a secret. "...if you promise not to tell."

the vision ends so sharply your legs nearly give out.

before you can fall, sam is there to catch you. one arm hooks around your waist while his other hand finds your shoulder.

"hey." his voice feels like it's coming from miles away. "look at me."

you blink, trying to clear the haze.

the room gradually returns to focus. the woman has already started to weep.

dean looks from your face to the photo, his eyes searching.

sam doesn't pull away.

"what'd you see?"

you look down at the picture still in your grasp. the girl has vanished.

there are only the two sisters left.

sam keeps his hands on you, steadying your weight until he's certain you won't collapse again. only then does he let go, though the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin.

dean takes a slow, cautious step toward you. "...what'd you see?"

your eyes remain fixed on the aged photograph, the image burned into your mind. 

"there was a girl. a little girl."

the older woman sucks in a jagged breath, her eyes widening.

"what did she look like?"

you squeeze your eyes shut, desperately grasping at the flickering fragments of the vision. 

"she was young. maybe seven or eight."

sam reaches for his notebook, clicking his pen with a quiet sound. 

"anything else?"

"brown hair," you murmur, shaking your head to clear the static. "tied back in pigtails."

the woman's hand flies to her mouth, her fingers trembling against her lips.

"she was wearing a white dress."

"...covered in pink flowers," you finish, the memory of those petals making your stomach churn.

tears begin to spill down the woman's weathered cheeks.

"yes."

dean looks between your pale face and the weeping woman.

"you recognize her. you know who she's describing."

she gives a slow, heartbreaking nod.

“we all knew her."

sam's pen hovers over the paper, his expression sharpening.

"who was she?"

the silence that follows is heavy and suffocating.

instead of answering, the old woman reaches out for the photograph. her fingertips brush the surface of the bleached paper with a ghost of a touch.

the living room is perfectly quiet.

sam remains silent, his expression unreadable. he only watches the woman, waiting for the pieces to fit together.

"i can't recall her name," she murmurs, her voice trailing off into the stillness. "a strange thing to lose, isn't it?"

dean's brow furrows. "but you said you played together."

"...i did."

"you can still see her face."

she gives a slow nod. "and the bubble gum." another nod, more hesitant this time. 

"the white dress."

"...yes," she answers with her eyes screwed shut, trying to remember.

"but the name is just... gone?"

her face collapses into a mask of grief.

"i've searched for it." she presses her shaking fingers against her temple as if to force the memory out. "for so many years."

sam quietly shuts his notebook.

"did madeline ever speak of her?"

the woman lets out a jagged breath.

"she knew it once."

"once?"

"after her death..." her voice hitches, sounding paper-thin. "i tried to explain about the girl." she swallows hard. "but every time i opened my mouth..." she trails off.

"what then?" sam prompts softly.

she looks directly at him, her eyes wide. "...it was gone. i couldn't remember what i wanted to say."

the words hang heavy and cold in the air. 

dean is the first one to find his voice. "that definitely isn't natural."

"no."

the woman lets out a short, hollow laugh.

"it was terrifying."

she stares down at her lap, her knuckles white.

"so i began to collect what i could."

sam straightens his posture instantly.

"you kept a record?"

"...as best i could."

"is it still here?"

she doesn't give an answer. instead, she slowly pushes herself up from the recliner. her movements are careful and fragile, one hand steadying herself against the chair arm.

"don't go anywhere."

she disappears down the dark hallway without looking back. 

the grandfather clock fills the void with its steady rhythm.

tick.

tick.

tick.

dean waits until her footsteps fade before glancing at sam.

"tell me we're thinking the same thing."

sam gives a grim nod.

"if the victims are being erased from memory..."

"...there are probably others we don't know about."

"maybe a lot more."

you look toward the hallway where she went, a knot forming in your gut.

"she managed to hold onto something."

sam nods thoughtfully.

"something in her was fighting the erasure."

dean crosses his arms over his chest.

"or someone else was."

a floorboard groans somewhere in the back of the house.

the woman returns, a small wooden box clutched tightly against her cardigan.

a layer of dust coats the lid.

she brushes it off with her sleeve before placing it gently onto the coffee table.

"it's been a long time since i looked at this."

she pauses, her hand trembling.

"every time i tried..." her fingers hover over the latch. "...i felt a deep wrongness."

sam remains patient.

"it's okay. take your time."

she nods once and clicks the brass latch open.

inside are yellowed photographs, weathered birthday cards, scraps of newspaper, envelopes bound by a piece of frayed pink ribbon, and a small leather journal.

your breath hitches in your chest.

the cover is etched with tiny pink flowers.

the woman goes perfectly still.

"...i have no memory of putting that here."

sam's eyes find yours, questioning.

"what is it?"

she reaches for the journal with a shaking hand. her fingers stop inches from the leather.

"...i can't do it."

dean notices her reaction. "can't?"

she shakes her head slowly. "every time i get close." her face drains of color. "it feels like eyes are on me."

the room falls into a heavy silence. sam looks at the journal for a beat before turning to you. he doesn't need to ask the question. he knows.

you already know, too.

you take a step toward the table. the air grows thicker, sweeter with every inch.

strawberries, bubble gum, pure sugar.

sam moves with you, shadowing your steps. he's close enough that his flannel sleeve brushes your shoulder.

"you don't have to do this," he says quietly.

you look up at him for a second.

"i know." your focus shifts back to the leather cover. "but i think it needs to be me."

you reach out for the book. your fingers linger in the air for a heartbeat. 

then, you make contact.

the leather feels warm against your fingertips.

the living room vanishes instantly.

—

warm sunlight streams through the front windows of the sweet shop.

children weave between old shelves crowded with glass jars while parents laugh somewhere near the front counter.

the air feels lighter here. the shop is decades older, but vibrant.

the little girl sits cross-legged on the polished wood floor. she smiles the moment she notices you.

"you're back."

you drop to a kneel beside her.

"do i know you?"

"not yet," she giggles softly.

she turns a piece of pink bubble gum over between her sticky fingers. the wrapper is long gone.

your stomach does a slow twist.

"where'd you get that?"

she gives a small shrug. "it's only gum."

"don't eat it." the warning leaves your mouth before you can even think to stop it.

she laughs. "too late."

she sticks her tongue out. the bright pink color has already begun to fade. your heart drops into your stomach. the bubble gum that was in her hand is gone.

"mama says no candy before dinner." she grins mischievously. "don't tell her."

the candy shop seems to tilt on its axis.

"listen to me." you reach out and grab her shoulders. "you need to spit it out."

she looks at you with wide, confused eyes. "i swallowed it."

the world stops moving. not because of her words, but because you know exactly what comes next. you've lived through it before.

you stare at her, your breathing shallow. "when?"

"a little bit ago." she smiles at you again. she has no idea. "i forgot to chew it."

your chest tightens painfully. you're much too late.

she was cursed long before your fingers touched the journal, before the music box was ever opened, before the flowers on the porch, before all of it.

this isn't something you can change. you can't save her.

the little girl reaches out for your hand. "can i tell you a secret?"

you give a small nod because your voice is gone. she leans in closer.

"my mama's magic," she whispers, as though she's sharing the greatest mystery in the world. "she says people get scared if they find out."

your stomach sinks further.

"so i made a promise." her smile softens in the sunlight. "i'm very good at keeping secrets."

hot tears sting your eyes.

"i know."

she tilts her head, studying you.

"why are you crying?"

before you can find an answer, the front door of the shop swings open.

the little girl turns toward the sound instantly.

"mama!"

the enchantress rushes inside the store. her hair is windblown and messy, and her breathing is uneven and fast. she sees her daughter sitting on the floor and smiles in relief.

then her eyes find the empty pink wrapper lying on the wood planks.

everything in the room changes.

"...where'd you get that?"

“i got it from the bowl." the little girl points toward a crystal bowl on the front counter—the same one that you took yours from.

the enchantress drops to her knees in front of the girl, taking her daughter's face in both of her hands.

"did you eat it?"

the little girl nods slowly. "...i swallowed it."

the enchantress goes perfectly still.

"when?"

"a little while ago."

her hands begin to shake violently.

"...no."

the word is barely a whisper in the quiet store.

"no, no, no..."

she pulls her daughter against her so hard the girl lets out a tiny squeak.

"mama?"

the enchantress buries her face in her daughter's hair, her shoulders trembling.

"...i'm so sorry."

you don't understand what's happening.

not until she finally looks up, not at the girl in her arms, but directly at you.

it's as if she can actually see you standing there in the vision.

tears stream down her face, making her eyes look bright and wild.

"...i couldn't save her."

—

the vision shatters into a thousand pieces.

the world returns with a violent rush, and your legs give out instantly.

sam is there before you can fall, his arm hooking around your waist while his other hand steadies your elbow.

"hey." his voice feels like it's coming from miles away. "look at me."

your breath comes in shallow, ragged hitches.

the living room gradually bleeds back into focus—the steady tick of the clock, the faded photos, the journal still clutched in your trembling fingers.

dean is beside you both in a heartbeat.

"what'd you see?"

you blink hard, trying to clear the static.

"she—" the words catch in your throat.

sam doesn't push. "it's okay. just breathe."

you look between the brothers, searching for the strength to describe it.

"the little girl," you swallow against the sweet dryness. "she'd already..."

a cold knot twists violently in your stomach. you go rigid.

sam notices the change instantly, whispering your name.

another wave of nausea crashes through you. your mouth floods with a cloying, sugary taste, and you clap a hand over your lips.

the old woman is already moving, pointing with her round-knuckled finger.

"down the hall," she says, her voice low and urgent. "the second door on the right."

you don't wait for a second invitation. you bolt from the room.the bathroom door slams shut  just as you collapse onto the tiled floor.

your stomach heaves with a sickening intensity. nothing happens for a long heartbeat.

then, the first petals appear.

it isn't sickness. it isn't anything human. bright pink blossoms spill into the bowl, soaking into the water until it looks like ink. they're the exact shade of the bubble gum from the shop. a sickeningly pepto-bismol pink.

you stare at them, your heart hammering.

"...no."

your stomach convulses again, harder this time. more flowers. whole, perfect blooms tumble out of you.

your breathing is jagged and loud. your fingers ache from how tightly you're gripping the porcelain.

"...no... please..."

you force yourself to stand, using the sink to steady your shaking frame, and look in the mirror.

the vision hadn't been a warning. pink veins crawl across the skin of your neck, tracing a map toward your jaw. they pulse faintly under the flickering light before sinking back into the shadows of your skin.

you stumble back until your shoulders hit the cold wall.

tears begin to sting your eyes.

it's really happening. the curse has taken root. your chest tightens painfully. not from the flowers, but from the memory of that little girl's laughter.

she'd smiled at you. she'd been so proud of her secret. she had no idea she was already gone.

a sob catches in your throat, sharp and bitter.

a whisper echoes through the small bathroom. it's soft, almost melodic, like a secret being shared in the dark.

"you have a secret."

you spin around, your heart in your throat.

nothing.

the room is empty. only your own terrified reflection stares back.

"you have a secret."

the voice comes again, closer this time.

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out.

don't.

not right now.

but the truth remains, heavy and sweet. you know exactly what it's referring to. it's a weight you've carried for over a year.

it had started with the quiet moments between hunts.

the way a few cases turned into a life on the road, the months bleeding together into a blur of neon signs and highway lines.

late nights in motel rooms, sharing cold fries and bad jokes over a map.

spending hours researching until the sun started to rise.

the way he'd slide a coffee your way without you ever having to ask.

the way sam always positioned himself between you and the things that go bump in the night.

how he always knew when you were trying to be brave.

the small furrow in his brow when he was thinking too hard.

that rare, quiet laugh that only ever seemed to come out when it was just the two of you.

the fiercely protective look he gave dean.

the look he gave you that you couldn't quite name.

you loved every piece of him.

you loved him, and it was going to kill you.

another violent convulsion wracks your body. pink petals swirl in the water, mocking you. your hands pulse with bright pink veins again. unlike the visions, however, they don't disappear when you touch them. they are feverishly warm and real.

there is a soft, hesitant knock on the door.

it is gentle. behind it, a whisper of your name.

sam.

his voice is a low murmur, meant only for you.

"...can i come in?"

one of the guards places their large hands on your shoulder, pushing you to lie on your stomach. you see the legs and shoes of the guards around you as metal encloses your wrists. they pull you up, tugging you along up the stairs and through the maze of the castle. in your delirious state, the doors of the aplenty hallways blend together into one shade of brown. when they tug you outside, you are blinded by the sun, deprived of light.

the horizon of sherwood forest is the first thing that you see past the rush of light. the tops of the trees are barely visibly behind the tops of the buildings housing the people you helped. the guards only pause for a heartbeat before continuing their lugging. there is a guard in front of you and two beside you as they escort you in a practiced manner. the gallows are in the center of town, a reminder to all citizens to keep in line. though, only the top of the wooden structure is visible past the crowd standing around. some are unfamiliar, but others are recognizable allies. there are tears in some of their eyes when they meet your defeated gaze, forming a pit in you. ashamed, you look down at the ground, the shackles around your wrists digging into your back. you follow the guard leading you up the wooden stairs and stand before the grand audience. the king stands on a platform on the other side of the crowd, a horrid smile blessing his wrinkled face. the sheriff is already on the platform next to the box to be stood on. you can’t bare to look at him.

most of the guards that led you to the gallows leave to maintain the crowd, allowing the next guest to climb the stairs of death. little john steps onto the platform. he has noticeable bruising on his face and he looks as if he was torn apart and tortured. you look down, seeing some drops fall from your eyes and dampen planks of the floor. you feel his presence next to you and you face him; he’s already looking at you, two guards surrounding the both of you. sniffling quietly, you mouth, “i’m sorry.”

little john shakes his head faintly. “i’m not,” he mouths back, and your eyebrows furrow. “i’m thankful, kit.”

you mouth purses as tears line john’s cheeks, and you have to look away to prevent yourself from breaking fully.

the crowd silences as the king forces their attention onto him. “welcome, taxpayers of nottingham!” you scoff lightly at his title for his people. “today, we’re gathered to witness the execution of two of nottingham’s most… determined criminals.” he looks directly into your eyes from across the crowd. “robin hood and john the giant. they are being charged with countless crimes, of which there is theft on grand scales and the kidnapping and torturing of my son, prince timothée chalamet.”

the king waits a beat for an applause that never comes. the audience is unreactive to the king’s pleasures, but he continues nonetheless. “let’s commence! first, the hanging of the outlaw known as robin hood.”

with the king’s gesture, the sheriff approaches you as the guard to your left unshackles you and grips your wrists. they escort you to the box, the sheriff putting the loop of the noose over your head. “goodbye, robin hood.” he whispers before smugly standing next to you. he gets to kick the box from under your feet as soon as the king gives word.

the word doesn’t come right away; however, as the king revels in the suspense. how you stand helplessly, waiting for his mercy to release you. as he is about to announce your death, there is a lone voice in the silent crowd, “stop!”

the audience part to reveal the voice. timothée stands, breathing heavily and bruised. you can’t help but gasp, the rope scratching at your neck and tears pricking. timothée steps closer to the platform, raising his hands. “they’ve done nothing wrong, they only look out for the people of nottingham. how can you charge someone with death for only helping people?”

timothée turns his head to face his father, who hides his surprise with a cool expression. “robin hood is being charged with grand theft and the kidnapping and torturing of you! my son,” the king eases into a gentle look as if he put on a mask. “you’re suffering. you’re the victim.” there are quiet murmurs amongst the king’s supporters, calling timothée ‘brainwashed’ and the nickname ‘stockholm nut.’

timothée takes in a shaky breath when he realizes that no speech would change his father’s mind. he faces you once again, biting his lip before lowering his hands. without a second beat, he unsheaths a hidden dagger from the waistband of his pants, throwing it at the gallows. the dagger digs into the wood just above you, tearing the rope and freeing you. “RUN!” he yells before the crowd swallows him.

you stand for a moment, trying to look for timothée, but you don’t see him. you quickly turn to your right, seeing the sheriff stunned. you hop off the box and kick the sheriff in the stomach, knocking him off the platform. the guard that escorted you aims his crossbow, but you duck before it hits you, the arrow whistling in the air. you straighten again, approaching the guard as he reloads his weapon. before he can load the next dart, you rip the crossbow from his hands and throw it off the platform in the opposite direction from where the sheriff landed. the guard looks for help before you swipe his legs and he plummets on the planks. the guard next to john holds him by the collar with his crossbow aimed at his temple, but you approach him with adrenaline rushing through your body, dismissing any fear you might have felt before. you punch the guard square in the nose, hearing the cartilage crack. you shake your hand and smile at little john, but the rope that’s still around your neck is tugged. your hands fly to the noose, trying to provide oxygen to your body again. the guard drags you by the neck to the ground and chokes you. you try kicking him with the heel of your boot, but you can’t reach.

the pressure around your neck is suddenly alleviated, accompanied by a groan from behind you. you turn, seeing little john standing over the guard. “we have to go now,” you remove the noose from around your neck, running down the stairs after little john. his hands are stuck behind his back, as he is still handcuffed, but he runs to straight in the direction of sherwood. “(y/n)!” he calls when he realizes that you’re lingering by the crowd.

“we can’t leave timothée! he saved us!” you begin to yell his name.

“we can’t stay here! they’ll catch us again!” little john walks in front of you. “please.”

your breathing becomes frantic. little john can’t be more right, you can’t afford to stay in nottingham after the stunt that timothée pulled. but, timothée can’t stay either. “TIMOTHÉE!” you screech before little john nudges your shoulder. you run to sherwood, but not before screeching his name repeatedly.

your voice is raw by the time you reach the edge of sherwood. little john weaved through town to lose the trail of guards, and you followed him. once you’re in the safety of sherwood, paces from the edge of the woods, you collapse onto the grass. john sits on the ground, bending his legs to loop his arms through so they are in front of him. you notice the red around his wrists as he inches closer to you, hugging you by placing his arms over your head and pulling you close. with the first comfort you’ve felt in what seems like years, you begin to sob into little john’s shirt.

“shh, kit,” little john whispers, slightly rocking you. “it’s okay. we can’t let them know we’re here. we’re in the forest, you’re safe in sherwood.” you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to suppress the sobs coming out. your tears don’t cease to stream, and your shaking hand becomes wet. “kit, look at me.” little john straightens, restrained hands still wrapped around you. you look up to meet his eyes, a conflicted look in them. “breathe with me, count to three.” john takes in a dramatically deep breath, gesturing for you to breathe with him. he developed this breathing method for whenever you got overwhelmed.

you let a small smile form on your face as you mimic his breathing, pulling yourself together for a moment. repeating the breathing exercise, you look around for a rock to break john out of his shackles. john lifts his hands from where they rested by your back and places them on the ground, separating his hands to reveal the chain between them. you find a suitable rock and, still breathing in the emphasized steady pattern, hit the chain with the rock until john is able to separate his hands. “thank you.” he hugs you properly.

you nod, unable to speak through your breaths, and john stands. you try to stand as well, but you nearly collapse, john barely catching you by the shoulders. your breathing quickens and you panic. “let’s go home, yeah?” you nod rapidly, letting little john pick you up. your arms wrap around his neck and he supports your legs. the metal of his shackles digs into your thighs, but you’re too exhausted to care. with your head nuzzled in little john’s neck, you fall asleep.

“(y/n),” a whisper wakes you, causing you to mumble. “we’re at the camp.” you drowsily lift your head to look around. lit by the setting sun, the camp is just as you left it. firepit containing hints of ash, john’s clothing line still between the trees, the chest of your belongings still lined with moss.

john sets you down by the logs, starting the fire. he places pre-cut logs on the fire and begins working on lighting it. you close your eyes, focusing on your breathing until you feel the warmth of the flames and little john next to you. “some berries from the bush. please eat, kit.”

little john places a handful of berries in your tremoring palm, and you slowly place one in your mouth. the juices pop as you chew, and the taste feels too sweet for how you feel. you fall into a fetal position, head landing on little john’s lap. you glumly place another berry into your mouth as john strokes your hair. you stay like this as you eat your berries.

once all of the berries are gone, you’re left to watch the fire crackle. you think back to nottingham, to timothée. “john,” you think aloud. little john hums. “why did he do it?” you ask, thinking about the dagger.

there is silence as he thinks of an answer. “i don’t know. tim put us before himself, though. i respect him.”

you sniffle, rubbing your eye with your sleeve. suddenly, you’re cold. you reach to cuddle into your cloak, but realize that you no longer have it. “bear,” you let out before breaking. “you’re all i have left.” your cloak was taken from you, your bow was broken, your purpose is now impossible, and timothée is gone. “what are we going to do?”

little john sourly attempts a laugh, but it sounds more like he is choking on his words. “i’m not going anywhere, (y/n). i’ll take care of you, we’ll take care of each other together. we can run away, leave nottingham and travel. we can get jobs, and i can whittle you a new bow, greater than the one you had before.” you cry into john’s pant leg until you hear a sound in the distance.

you immediately silence, pressing your palm over your mouth and nose as you look up at john. his face is alert, looking in the direction of the noise. he soundlessly stands, grabbing your hand gently and leading you to the overgrown shrubs that line your camp. john’s grounding grip on your hand doesn’t falter as you both crouch in the grass, listening to the noise.

“(y/n)? john?” the noise grows into a voice. immediately, you jump from the shrubs, recognizing the voice. standing in the amber light of the fire is timothée.

he’s still dressed in the oversized white long sleeve that he had on when he saved you, but it now is littered with holes. his pants have patches of mud, and his hair is disheveled. there is a trail of blood from his head and down his temple, but he smiles nonetheless.

“timothée!” you yell, running towards where he stands, but you trip and fall hard onto the grass. you sit up as timothée falls to the ground in front of you, pulling you into an embrace. your face presses into his chest and you can feel his face in your hair. you hug him like you’re holding on for dear life, as if timothée is the antidote to the deadliest poison. “i thought i lost you,” you hiccup against the cloth of his shirt.

timothée holds you impossibly tighter. “i couldn’t lose you, cupid. i saw you at the gallows, and i didn’t know what to do. days ago, a woman visited the castle saying that she was my new tailor. the guards allowed her into my room, and she said that she knew you. she had john’s knife and gave it to me. whenever i was alone, i’d practice throwing the dagger. i only had one chance to cut the rope, or else–”

“but you did it.” little john cuts timothée off. “thank you, tim. from the bottom of my heart.”

timothée airily laughs. “i couldn’t lose you two. you’re so important to me.” you feel timothée’s hands move, rubbing your back soothingly. “(y/n),” timothée pulls away. you look up to his face, seeing the tears that trail on his cheeks. timothée gently places his hands on the sides of your face, waiting for you to pull away, but you don’t. you lean into him, and he meets you halfway.

when little john described what his first kiss was like with a girl in school, you thought he was ridiculous. he said that kisses were magical, that they could cheer you up instantly from any sour mood. you didn’t believe him until you were kissing timothée. you’re the first to pull away for air, nudging his nose with yours. a genuine smile appears on your face, cheeks straining from your exhaustion. timothée takes in a deep breath, hands still on the sides of your face. you can see his eyes shifting, looking all over your face with a smile. “you hit me with an arrow.” your face contorts in confusion. “cupid, i’ve fallen for you. hard.” the confusion instantly falls as you realize what he is saying, eyes widening in surprise. “you have a heart of gold, always putting everyone before you. when you had the chance to run and save yourself, guaranteeing that you’d be free, you didn’t. you saved john. you saved me.” your lips purse, tears continuing to fall at his confession. timothée wipes away your tears, whispering, “you don’t have to say anything, i just–”

you cut him off with a gleeful laugh. “oh, timmy. i love you. oh, god, i love you.” timothée’s smile widens, any wider would have cracked his lips. he whispers how he loves you before pulling you in again, arms holding you close by the waist. you wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. he pulls away with a laugh of pure joy, kissing your nose before embracing you, kissing the top of your head.

little john cheers, laughing and clapping. “i called it! i knew you were flirting with him!”

“oh, shut it, beanstalk.” you turn your head to face little john, your cheek on timothée’s chest. john has a bright smile on his face, happy for you.

you eventually sit on the logs around the fire between the two most important people in your life. you watch the ambers of the fire dance in the night sky, resting your head on timothée’s arm. his head rests on yours while your hand scratches and twirls the hair at the nape of his neck. “where are we going to go next?” little john asks. “we can’t go back to nottingham.”

“a place where none of us would be recognized, i guess.”

“i’m not the popular prince in my family, so i’m not the problem with that idea.” you snort. “little miss notorious outlaw here is the problem.”

“hey!” you teasingly poke the back of timothée’s neck, making him laugh. “you’re the famous prince, notorious for succumbing to stockholm syndrome.”

“who’s fault is that? you’re the one with the powers, cupid.”

you laugh, a silence falling over you. though timothée tries to lighten the mood, you can’t help but think about the seriousness of his actions. “timmy, you threw away your life to save us.’

“there was nothing to throw away.” he kisses the top of your head. “the best moments of my life all were in the months i spent in sherwood with the two of you. i was never happy in nottingham, and i never would be. there is nothing for me there except a life of wishing for more.”

you lift your head, resting your chin on his shoulder. “then let’s find us a home, my love.”

—

you wake up, stretching and cracking your limbs underneath the warmth of the covers. who knew that sleeping on a mattress was better for your back than sleeping on the forest floor? you lift the duvet off of you, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread. you sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the sleeve of your lightweight shirt. you stand up from the bed, slipping on a pair of pants before you pad out of the room and into the connected store in just your socks.

“morning, cupid.” you yawn, meeting the eyes of your partner. timothée smiles brightly, wearing an apron. his brown curls are freshly trimmed, but still wild in nature. you notice a streak of flour on his cheek. you walk up to him, pulling him into a hug. “not a shoe day?” you laugh, pulling away to brush the flour from his cheek before you kiss him.

“morning, my love.”

timothée hums contently, squinting with joy. “i love your accent, mon ange.”

“i know.” you hold his cheek, pecking him with another kiss. you walk to the hanger in the hallway, pulling a light overcoat off of the hook. the coat is green, but with personal designs mirroring the nature of sherwood identically. the coat was a gift from timothée made by marian. the coat purposely has no hood, as it doesn’t need to conceal you. you’re happy, helping people legally.

“timmy, have you opened yet?” you yell from the hall. timothée answers with a no. you walk across the floor of your store to the entrance, flipping the open sign and unlocking the door of your bakery. “i’ll take care of the muffins, darling. we still have the premade batter, right?”

you walk to the counter, but your mission to bake the best muffins is interrupted by the bell of the entrance door. you turn around to see little john and marian walk into the bakery. you scoff playfully, “of course you walk in just as we open.”

little john throws his hands up in mock offense. “well, we have to get the freshest bread! look at tim, hard at work to bake just for us!” you laugh, pulling little john in for a hug. “how are you, kit?”

“why are you acting so sentimental? you two were just here last week!” you pull away to hug marian, timothée coming from around the counter to hug little john.

“we do have a reason to come in so early though. john just likes to tease,” marian’s tone is sweeter than usual. her pregnant stomach pokes you as you hug.

“well, i’d like to hear it.” you play along with little john’s bit.

“we’ve thought of a name.” john’s tone is happy, no longer joking. marian holds her stomach.

you clap excitedly. “finally! tell us!” you jump up and down, timothée laughing at your anticipation. marian has been pregnant for a while, but they hadn’t decided on any names until now.

john and marian look at each other before looking back at you two. “robin,” they say simultaneously.

your hand flies to your mouth, timothée’s arm wrapping around your waist. you coo, “john, marian. i’m so honored.”

marian looks down at her belly. “well, after everything robin hood has done for us, there was no other name that felt quite right for our little bean.”

marian and little john stay in the bakery as you and timothée work behind the counter. “any news from nottingham?” you ask, curious. you no longer have ties to the town, but marian briefly visits once in a while. she no longer owns the boutique in nottingham, but opened one in this town. little john works there as her assistant.

“nothing much, except that the sheriff was demoted.” you look up from the muffin tray.

“since marian got the townspeople the gold we kept in that river cave, the people turned against the sheriff. the guard that i gave the insider information to started the revolt against the sheriff, and the king had no choice but to listen to the people.”

you laugh at the sheriff’s loss. “doesn’t deserve to be a sheriff, he’s a cruel person.”

“speaking of cruel people, how’s my father?” timothée leans against the counter with his arms crossed.

“alright, i guess.” marian shrugs. “there aren’t that many people who listen to him anymore, not after the day at the gallows. his guardsmen slowly turned against him, starting with the one who helped little john relay information to me.”

the wind-up kitchen timer interrupts the conversation. timothée silences the alarm and pulls the loaf of bread from the oven, aroma filling the store. little john’s stomach groans. “we did also come for bread.” you shake your head, reaching under the counter and wrapping a loaf, handing it to them.

marian reaches for her coin purse, but you shake your head, pushing the loaf into little john’s hands. “free of charge, i insist.”

you drop your bow to the ground without a second thought, as you’d rather save your best friend than your treasured engraved bow. your hands slowly rise up in surrender, though your eyes flicker undetectably to the boy who trailed you. timothée is nearly undetectable, blended with the shadows of nature.

“don’t hurt him” is all that can escape your hidden mouth. your mind races with thoughts and potential outcomes of being caught, but your mouth is too slow to match pace. the sheriff sickeningly smiles, nodding his head towards you. a guard approaches you, roughly gripping your shoulder and pushing you down until your knees buckle. the impact and the brushing of the tainted grass burns your skin.

with you on the ground, but against your wishes, timothée emerges from the shadows. “let them go, i’m not hurt.” timothée’s attempt at civility is accompanied by his raised hands—a sign of peace. “i don’t want them to get hurt.”

“your highness, we’re under orders to capture robin hood and the giant,” the guard holding you addresses timothée sourly.

“i am of royal blood, and i release you from your orders. i’m not hurt,” he repeats, but his attempt is met with the unsettling laugh of the sheriff. his grip on little john did not loosen with your surrender, and the blade of his knife dangerously shifts with his joyful movement.

“the king, your father, gave us these orders. they can’t be overridden.” his face scrunches into a snarl as he removes the blade from john’s neck. a light mist of relief flutters, but fruitlessly. the sheriff turns the dagger and strikes little john in the perfect spot with the hilt. john’s large figure falls to the ground, unconscious.

you struggle to get to your feet, but the guard presses you further into the ground, the cloth covering your knees beginning to moisten through contact with the hidden dirt. “you said you wouldn’t hurt him if i cooperate! it’s me you want!”

the struggle of robin hood widens his cruel smirk. “i only said i wouldn’t kill him.” his gut-wrenching words are followed by a gesture with his knife—a signal aimed at timothée.

the second guard wastes no time as he pushes timothée to the ground, no remorse for abusing the prince. timothée tries to fight back against him, and seeing john’s body with the grass and timothée’s struggles, your veins rush with adrenaline. “don’t touch him!” you throw your head backwards with all your might, causing the guard to fold. you kick him to the ground once you’re free and launch yourself from the ground toward timothée’s flailing body. screaming fills the air as you reach for him, but your arm is crushed into the dirt with a stomp before you can touch his outstretched hand. timothée is pulled away by the second guard.

you retract your arm, pain coursing as you’re pressed into the ground with a boot to your back. the arrows in your quiver snap. you turn your head to see the sheriff standing over you. the guard who was meant to restrain you raises his shoe and stomps into the ground, followed by the sound of wood cracking—your bow. the sheriff tears your hood from your head, bandana falling soon after. your face has been revealed. “didn’t expect robin hood to be a girl.” you fight tears as you look in front of you.

the last thing that you see is timothée’s hand reaching for you.

you regain consciousness before your eyes open, a cold and itchy material pressing into your temple. your eyes open, fueling the pounding in your head, and you’re met with dark concrete lit only with a distant candle by a staircase. the shadows of the barred entrance lines the floor with streaks of black. you sit up, feeling colder than normal. they stripped you of your cloak, leaving you only in your undershirt and pants.

the cell is grimey and decrepit. the imposingly dark stone of the cell is far from livable, no warmth whatsoever. the view between the bars of the door provides a feeble view of outside. you take in a shaky breath before speaking, “john?” your voice is raspy, making you jump. your call is only followed by silence. you are alone.

you press your hands into what seems to be a thin mattress, but it’s just a cloth strewn over a pile of straw. you lift yourself to your feet, but your bruised arm and the pain in your calf cause you to fall back onto the mattress. your arm isn’t broken, but a patch of purple and yellow bruising decorates your skin. your fingers lift your pant leg, seeing that the guards didn’t strip you of timothée’s tie. it is still wrapped around the cut, dry blood surrounding it.

the pressure around your calf is almost comforting as your mind races through the events that led you to this cell. little john was caught and knocked unconscious. timothée was taken by the guards. there is no doubt that you’d be executed, most likely followed by little john’s, but timothée’s fate is unknown to you.

for the first time in years, you begin to cry. frustrated with yourself, you wipe the tears from your eyes with your sleeve-covered palm, but the salty tears continue to fall. you shake with a sob, pressing your eyes into your dirty knees, failure sinking into your soul.

“you’ve caused me plenty of trouble, but i’ve finally caught you. i won, robin hood.” the sudden voice startles you, head whipping to the figure standing at the barred door. you wipe your face as the sheriff laughs. “crying at your loss?”

you sniffle. “you’ll never win.” your statement was meant to be intimidating, but your voice is shaky and he laughs again. you take a deep breath before continuing, “you torture the people of nottingham. you’ll run out of support and gold.” some confidence snakes back and you stand, walking to the bars despite the dull pain and pressure of timothée’s tie. “then what will you do? go into debt and starve alone.”

“shut up!” the sheriff yells and pounds the bars with his rough palms; you flinch slightly at his outburst. “i’ve won! i caught you! you’re in a cell!” he jabs a finger at you through the bars with every exclamation. “no more escaping into the forest for robin hood, only the gallows at high noon! you and the giant will hang for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”

your sore face scrunches into a scowl before you step slightly closer to the bars. the sheriff’s eyes are mad with anger and power, and you spit in his face. “you little–”

“enough, sheriff.” his outburst is interrupted by a cooling voice. the king steps from the staircase and places a threatening hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “leave us. i wish to speak to the outlaw alone.” the sheriff stares at you, huffing, before he turns on his heel and ascends the stairs.

the king stands in front of your cell calmly, hands clasped behind his back and jeweled crown glittering in candlelight on his greying head. his cold eyes; however, are the most intimidating feature of his wrinkled face. the portrait from the masquerade does not do them justice. all your confidence from facing the sheriff flees at his glare and you back away, sitting on the mattress and pulling your knees up, arms wrapped around your shins. timothée’s tie presses into your chest.

“robin hood.” his tone is laced with venom as he addresses you by nickname. “i hope you find your accommodations fitting.”

“doing just peachy, your highness,” the sarcastic comment escapes from your lips sooner than you can think. the king represses a snarl.

“the giant is in another part of the dungeon. we made sure to put you two far apart.” his comment jabs at your heart—you likely won’t see john until you’re hanging by the neck.

a cold silence blankets the cell as the king observes you, unsteady breaths and huddled figure—a pathetic form of the great robin hood. the king smiles.

your fingers absentmindedly reach for your calf, touching the tightness of timothée’s tie. you think of him, “is timothée okay?”

the king’s smile falls into a scoff. “physically, yes.” you let out a gentle sigh of relief, your worries somewhat answered. “you don’t deserve to be concerned, you brainwashed him.” he steps closer to the bars of the cell, furs of his expensive cloak lit by the distant candle. “what did you do to my son?” his voice is nearly as freezing as his eyes. “did you torture him? starve him?”

you place a hand on the shin of your injured leg. “i showed him how to live. he feels trapped here, all alone. i showed him companionship.”

“you showed him no such thing. you corrupted him!” his suave mask cracks with anger, making his icy eyes momentarily flare with his frenzy. “he doesn’t listen to me anymore. he fights back. i was forced to post guards at his room to prevent him from coming down here and releasing you. he’s gone mad because of you.”

“he was unhappy here!” your voice cracks with a raised tone. “he told me himself.”

“timothée is a prince.” the king takes in a calming, strained breath. “he’s happy with his privileged life. you couldn’t understand him; you’re a criminal that lives in the woods. you kidnapped my son from my castle, from the masquerade i held in his honor, and you ruined him.” the king lines his words with practiced emphasis—a tactic that keeps him with power clenched in his fists.

though, you deflect his deceit, “timothée is miserable here, can’t you see? he thrived in the forest. you just admitted to forcing him to stay here—he wants to leave! don’t you want your son to be happy?”

the king only stares at you. his eyes gaze into you, fear coursing through you. he turns away from you unprompted, but his wrinkled face looks over his shoulder to meet your eyes. “it brings me great joy to know that your body will be hanging tomorrow. good riddance.”

you grip timothée’s tie. “see you in hell,” you hiss. the king looks forward, extinguishing the candlelight and leaving the dungeon in complete darkness, save for a dark blue hue from a small barred window.

it’s impossible to know how long you were unconscious, and how long you will be left in darkness. the only thing that is certain is that you will be escorted to the gallows when the sun blesses the sky. the warmth of the sun now feels like a curse, a ticking bomb.

if this is your fate, would you take back your actions? you shake your head at the question, pressing the clothed heel of your hand into your temple. no, you would still do it again. you not only helped people, but experienced adventures that filled you with joy. little john.

your eyes prick with tears as you think of him, guilt forming a stone in your stomach. he had the potential to move on from the woods, to live a life and writhe in the domestication of a household. now, because of you, he’ll never be able to move on. he’ll never own a house. he’ll never marry marian. he’ll never raise a family.

you fall on your side, landing roughly on the pathetic excuse for a mattress. your calf momentarily sears with the cursed dull pain. you think of timothée. what will happen to him once you’re hanged? will he ever be free? or will he be isolated for the rest of his years? a sob wracks your body as you curl on the hay. the thought of not seeing him tears at you. you spent everyday with him, and the sudden deprivation pounds your head further.

the thought of him is the sole comfort that leads you to an uncomfortable, sobbing slumber.

the three of you wait by the river, occasionally drinking from the clear stream. a dull pain suddenly attracts your attention, pinpointed on your calf. you lift your leg from where it rests on the gravel. the brown of your pants had splotches of dirt, but you notice drips of blood dying the small pebbles, it coming from a red hole in your pants. you lift your pants to reveal a cut on your calf, dripping blood down into your boot. you gently touch the cut, swearing under your breath as pain shoots through you. the adrenaline of the chase fades, replaced by pain from your bleeding wound.

“you’re hurt.” timothée’s voice invades your thoughts.

“i’m okay,” you try to dismiss him.

“no, you’re bleeding. let me help.” you look at little john quickly, seeing his smirk. you huff at his expression, turning away from the stream and facing timothée and seeing his worried expression.

“just a cut, timmy,” you reassure as he cups water to wash your wound. you don’t outwardly express your pain, but your nails dig into your palms as he touches the cut.

timothée reaches for your pouch, hesitating to wait for your permission. you nod, and he opens it from where it’s attached to your waist. he takes out his old tie and wraps it around your calf, finishing the pseudo-bandage with a tight knot. “good as new,” he smiles, placing his chin on your knee.

you mirror his smile, ruffling his wild curls. “thank you, timmy.”

you sit for hours by the stream. though, it’s hard for you to keep track of time without the sun. the one indicator of time; however, is the rumbling of your stomachs. “we didn’t have breakfast,” murmurs little john.

dread settles in your stomach as your hand presses to your pouch around your waist. “and we left the food at the camp.” your groan is followed by timothée’s stomach.

“i’ll go gather some fruit.” before you can protest against john’s offer, he put a hand on your shoulder. “i’ll be okay, kit. it’s been a while since we escaped, and they don’t know the woods as well as we do.”

“then i’ll go with you!” you shift, placing your palms into the gravel of the cave to push yourself up, but the weight of john’s hand doesn’t give.

“not with your calf. it’s better if i go alone anyway. if they’re even still around here, it’ll be harder for them to catch me alone. they’ll follow your bloody trail back here, and there’s no way i’m bringing timothée.” little john adds the part about timothée with a playful grin.

you loudly exhale from your nose, protesting with your eyes. though timothée wrapped your wound, your calf is still burning with a dull pain. “fine. but i swear, if you get caught or–”

“i won’t. promise.” he smiles, patting your shoulder before standing and walking towards the entrance. “i’ll be back with food quickly.”

“i’ll look after robin!’ timothée cheerfully adds, attempting to lighten the anxious mood.

“more like she’ll look after you, little guy,” john remarks before entering the cave tunnel.

you sit next to timothée in silence, listening to the rushing waterfall. the gravel next to you rustles, caused by timothée standing. he mutters about the cave being chilly and walks to where little john hid the sacks. you watch as he pulls his jacket from one of them, walking back. only then does he notice that you’re watching, and he smirks. you look back at the water, hugging yourself with the sleeves of your cloak. timothée rejoins you on the gravel, sitting noticeably closer. “to preserve warmth.” his arm touches yours, and you feel somehow warmer.

“sure,” you whisper coyly. you rest your head on his shoulder. “so, a prince?” timothée groans, moving your head with a shrug.

“only by blood.”

“by what else would you be a prince?”

“leadership.” timothée sighs lightly. “i’m no leader. i’m the king’s youngest son.” he digs his fingers into the gravel, forming small holes in the ground. “because i’m the youngest of three sons, i’ve got no chance of ever leading. but, since i’ve got their precious blood, i,” he lifts his hands to form air quotes. “must be protected.” his arms drop back down defeatedly. “i’m hardly allowed to leave the castle, pa only lets me go on a chaperoned walk every other week. i’ve got no friends, my family treats me like an accessory, and i have no power whatsoever. i never asked for a life surrounded by castle walls and rare, empty conversations.”

you sense a pause in his speech and you lift your head from his shoulder to look him in the eyes. he has a pained expression as he looks at the ground, and his hand runs through his curls absentmindedly. “i’m sorry that they’ve isolated you, that’s completely unfair. i truly believe you deserve happiness, you’ve got a good heart, timmy.” you smile, poking at his shoulder.

“i,” he looks up from the ground and meets your eyes, flitting across your face. “i feel so free in the woods.” you see his expression lighten as if this confession is releasing a weight. “i’m happy here. i’m not alone, i’m not pressured to be the perfect prince, and i’m not reminded that i’ll never be more. i’m not prince timothée chalamet here, i’m just timothée.” his smile reaches his eyes, the corners crinkling with joy. “just timmy.”

you chuckle at his acknowledgment of your nickname for him. “i don’t like running from the law constantly, especially since death is always so close.” you rub the front of your calf, reminded of the dull pain. “sherwood is really special to me, though. i know it like the back of my hand, and with little john, the forest is home. it makes me happy that sherwood brings you the joy that you deserve.” timothée’s head tilts affectionately, and you feel the familiar—the annoying—feeling flutter in your stomach.

the water of the river splashes closer with an aggressive current. you reach forward and submerge your hands in the cold water, washing the dirt and traces of blood off. you sneak a glance back at timothée and see him already looking at you. anxiety swirls in your gut as you look back at the crystal waters. you exhale through your nose before talking, “(y/n).”

he is silent, so you turn to face him. timothée’s eyebrows are furrowed slightly. “my name,” you clarify, mirroring his introduction. “it isn’t robin. it’s (y/n). i want you to know my name, and i trust you.”

a smile that rivals the sun in brightness forms on his face. “(y/n).” his american tone speaking your name makes your heart jump, and your smile brightens. “the prettiest name for the prettiest outlaw.” you cover your face with the sleeve of your green cloak to block your reddening face from view. with your other hand, you flick some water at timothée before settling back next to him, enjoying the rush of warmth that he radiates.

“if you weren’t an outlaw, what would you want to do?” timothée asks, fueling the fire of conversation to battle the chilling silence.

you laugh airily. “i know it’s kind of ridiculous, but i’d want to own a bakery.” you feel timothée’s head rest on yours. “wake up to the smell of freshly baked bread, greet regulars and talk about their days, get to help people legally.” your chest shakes with laughter at the last part.

“that does sound nice. it suits you.”

“what would you be doing in you weren’t a prince?”

timothée stays silent for a beat. “i’d have a life.” he lifts his head from yours and you place your chin on his shoulder, looking at his side profile. “i wouldn’t be kept in the castle, i’d have things to do with my endless time, i’d have friends, i’d find–” he cuts himself off, as his eyes meet yours.

“well,” you rest your head back on his shoulder. “i know it’s not the best situation, but you’ve got little john,” you place your hand on top of where his rests on the gravel. “and you’ve got me.” you feel his breath catch before his head leans on yours again. his hand turns underneath yours, intertwining your fingers.

“and i’m happy i’ve got you, (y/n). i like being able to say your name.”

you lift your intertwined hands and kiss the back of his hand. “i like hearing you say my name.”

a comfortable silence washes over you, a constant warmth provided by timothée. “hey,” timothée’s head moves. “where’s lj? he’s taking a while, don’t you think?”

your head shoots up from where it rested. “we should find him.”

“with your leg?” timothée asks concerningly.

you stand, ignoring the pain in your calf. “‘s fine.” you miss a step, overcome with pain, but timothée catches you by the shoulders. you can tell by his expression that he knows he can’t stop you, so he offers his hand. you take it, intertwining your fingers once again.

with your free hand, you pull your hood and bandana up, walking with timothée through the tunnel and to the entrance of the cave. “he wouldn’t have gone far, there aren’t that many berry bushes around this area either.” you part the ferns that block the entrance, the green of the forest illuminated by the afternoon sun. timothée walks beside you, not daring to let go of your hand, as you guide him through the shrubs and around the thorny bushes.

the sounds of nature are interrupted by a muffled yell.

you and timothée stop simultaneously and your heart drops. “john,” you mumble, reaching behind you for your ever-equipped bow and nock an arrow. because you armed yourself, you let go of timothée’s hand and he falls slightly behind your panicked pace.

“hello, robin hood.” a familiar voice greets you. your blood runs cold as you realize who addressed you. your head whips around, and you reluctantly meet the eyes of the sheriff.

you aim at him, but something pulls your eyes from your target. at his legs, lj is forced on his knees. the sheriff holds him by his shaggy hair, bycocket gone. the sheriff holds a dagger to his throat. two guards stand on either side of him, pointing crossbows at you.

“don’t shoot or the giant dies.”