Riz's Reading Room

A labored breath escaped him, along with another rivulet seeping through his shirt. His free hand itched for the cell phone lying beside him on the cement. Backup was on the way, taking a bit long though.

Time was always the question and the challenge. The decisions in between were what he was usually good at, even in moments like these.

He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.

The line rang so long, he was losing hope that you’d answer.

Until your voice finally greeted him, with a raspy clearing of your throat and sleep-laden confusion.

“Hello?”

His lips raised toward a smile. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”

“Russ? Hey…what’s this number you’re calling me from? You okay?” you asked. He heard the shifting of fabric.

He could imagine you sitting up in bed, leaning on your elbow as the sheets slid down your body a little. He closed his eyes. He could pretend he was there with you, sliding in from behind and burying his face in the familiar hollow of your neck and shoulder. Your hair would tickle his forehead, but he’d get the flowery mix of your soap and body lotion stuck in his nose, rather than the copper tang of blood.

“Yeah, everything’s cool,” Russell said. He bit the inside of his lip as the gray ceiling momentarily turned charcoal in his vision. There was numbness in his fingertips. “Just had a minute, wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m good,” you said. “Miss you though.”

He was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but he needed a deeper one then.

“Miss you too, baby.”

“When will you be home?”

“Soon as I can,” he said, stifling another pained grunt as he shifted against the wall. “Keep the lights on for me.”

“Yeah? Last time you said that, you were held up for three weeks," you said wryly. "Think I need to collab with Dory and invent a virtual lie detector."

“You know what, maybe you should just tell me what you’re wearing. Give me some ideas on how to make it up to you when I get home,” he teased, though it ended on a shallow cough.

His gaze wandered the warehouse. It looked like it hadn’t been in use for a while, but he could smell the remnants of sawdust and mildew in the air. The only light came from the slivers filtering in through the closed exit doors, and a small window for ventilation near the ceiling.

He didn’t think he’d go out in a fucking backwoods middle of nowhere place like this, but it was as decent as any he could expect in this line of work. Good enough, if he got to talk to you first.

But you didn’t laugh like he expected.

“Baby,” you said. Concern crept back in. “For real, are you okay? You don’t sound right.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little tired. Waiting on someone to get here, so we can get this show on the damn road.”

Just then, he heard the sound of wide tires pulling to a stop outside the warehouse. Russell didn’t relax just yet. That could've either been his backup, or his target's delayed reinforcements. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder on his right side, wincing at the pain the movement caused as he reached for his gun.

“Actually, they just got here. Gotta let you go,” he said.

“Russ, wait.”

“I love the sound of your voice, you know that?” he said, flickering at a smile. “And I love you.”

“…I love you too,” you said, on a slightly unsteady breath.

He knew he hadn’t convinced you that everything was fine. You were too smart, knew him too well by now.

Regardless, he had to hang up. Then he raised his gun at an angle that still kept his elbow steady, resting against his side.

The door scraped against the ground as it opened. The man’s tall gait came in swiftly, then picked up speed. Russell’s vision might've been blurring on the edges, but he recognized that blonde head. He was able to relax, lowering his gun.

“Russ,” Colter said, grabbing his brother’s shoulder that didn’t have a hole shot through it, just inches below. “Hey, you with me?”

“Mhmm,” Russell said, as his eyes closed on him for a second. He forced himself to stay awake through sheer willpower. “Not goin’ anywhere, little brother.”

“That’s right,” Colter said more firmly. The worry was clear in his brown eyes, but he smiled anyway, digging into the small duffel he brought with him. He went for the antiseptic and the bandages first, then the pliers. “You’re lucky I wasn’t too far.”

He moved back Russell’s jacket, then tore at the collar of his grimy, blood-stained shirt.

“Who me? I’m fine,” Russell said. “I’ve had way worse than this.”

“You don’t look fine,” Colter said, trying to gently pry Russell’s hand away from the wound. “Here, let me see.”

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not. Move your hand so I can see?”

Russell smirked. “So bossy.”

Despite himself, Colter shook his head in amusement.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.”

“Right. That’s why you called me, because you have this all handled.”

Russell’s body seized up with a flinch at Colter’s pliers seeking the fat piece of bullet still lodged inside his chest.

“Hey, have a heart, huh?" Russell complained. "Some anesthetic, please.”

It was another 18 hours before Russell’s Chevelle Malibu crossed the threshold of Wyoming’s state line, and another two before he stopped in the driveway outside the modest house he now called home.

He was slow moving as he hefted his duffel bag. Every step was a calculated trudge up the wide, white stones of the pathway. The neighborhood was quiet after dark, but the porch light was on. It was his target, and his beacon.

He unlocked the front door with his keys and found mostly darkness, except for the warm glow of the hallway light. He didn’t have time to make it there though—not when you were already hurrying out from the master bedroom to meet him.

He smiled at the sight of you in a tank-top and your most well-worn sweatpants, but you looked more relieved than happy. The kind of relief that wasn’t calm, even when your hands were on him, gripping his leather jacket like you were making sure he was actually there. He let his duffel fall those few inches to the hardwood floor.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, though he stiffened and grunted in pain when your hands landed on his shoulders. Specifically, his left.

You pulled back on reflex, gasping softly. You stared up at him in worry. He looked so pale...

“It’s okay,” he said, holding you by your waist. “It’s just—”

You didn’t wait for his inevitable lie. You were verging on angry as you carefully pulled down the zipper of his jacket.

“Uh, wait a minute,” Russell said, but you couldn’t be placated. You wouldn’t let him stop you from finding whatever he didn’t want you to see.

Soon, you almost wish you had.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, though it was choked by tears as you took in the blood covering the entire left side of his gray plaid.

He had a red-tinged bandage covering the area just above his heart. It was held in place by medical tape and stretchy gauze that wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm. His chest and stomach were stained with crimson blotches leading from the wound. He smelled like rust and antiseptic, grime and sweat.

He watched every shade of your reaction, from shock to dismay. In hindsight, he should've at least tossed the shirt.

“Russell, what the fuck?” you said shakily.

His hand raised to cradle your cheek, earning your attention back up to his face rather than his body. His thumb caressed your skin, brushed away some tears.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said.

You shook your head. “You need to go to a hospital."

“I already got patched up. It’s okay, just need to sleep it off,” he replied. Colter had stabilized him enough to take him to the closest ER for the stitches. Colt even stuck with him until the doctor was done, probably to make sure Russell actually sat through the whole process.

“It’s not okay,” you snapped. “It’s not fucking okay.”

You stepped away from him and retreated back into the bedroom, holding a trembling hand to your mouth as you went.

He didn’t exactly know if he was welcome, but he really needed a shower and a solid night’s sleep, and he never slept better than when he was beside you.

But you avoided looking at him as you got ready for bed, haphazardly ripping off throw pillows and pulling back the comforter. Russell noticed your laptop on the nightstand, no less than three half-drunk mugs of coffee pushed back by the lamp, as well as a small hoard of candy wrappers and a bowl of popcorn on the floor. It was near four in the morning, and you hadn’t even tried to go to sleep. Or more likely, you couldn’t.

Russell carried the weight of that guilt into the adjoining bathroom, where he started by slowly trying to take off his jacket. He got halfway through peeling the sleeve off his left shoulder before the sharp pull of his wound forced a hiss from between his teeth.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. There were more grunts and struggles, though he tried to keep it quiet. Once the jacket was a useless pile on the floor, he got a better look at his tattered shirt and released a steadying breath, almost shrugging at himself. All right, here goes.

He pulled back the collar of his shirt, but dried blood had adhered the fabric to the sensitive skin around his wound.

“Goddamn it,” he said lowly.

The bathroom door slid open. You paused in the entryway and crossed your arms, taking in every ridiculous part of this.

For once, Russell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to upset you (anymore), and he had a feeling you’d appreciate a you should see the other guy joke even less than Colter had.

“Sit,” you said, pointing at the closed toilet lid.

“I got this,” Russell said. But you pinned him with a sharp look.

“Russell, sit down.”

He quirked his head. “Okay. Yes, ma’am.”

Your lips almost curved upward, but you remained firm. Your hands were gentle though; they grasped his arm and helped him sit. You started with the easiest part, kneeling down on the tile floor to unlace his boots.

Russell wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to do it, but he also didn’t want to rile you up again. Instead, he steadied himself by grabbing the edge of the counter. Guilt twinged more heavily in his heart as he watched you slide off his left boot. He tried to help you with the right one, hooking his foot behind the heel, but you laid a hand on his knee.

“I’ll do it,” you said, your gaze flicking up to his. “Just stay still.”

Russell paused, but he conceded. Soon you’d worked off his boots and socks, then slowly, his shirt. He held you to him afterward, by your hips. You saw that even his hands were stained pink. Either he’d scrubbed them raw or hadn’t scrubbed them hard enough.

“What happened?” you asked.

“Just…you know, got clipped,” he said. “It’s no big deal. As you can see, I’m fine.”

You shot him a flat look. “How did it happen?”

He sighed. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

That you did, but you hated it anyway. Your gaze once again drew to the web of bandages wrapped around his right shoulder. Your fingertips landed just beside the thickest padding above his heart. Russell’s hand covered yours.

“Thank you...and I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

Your lips pursed. You took his face in your hands, a touch softer as you stroked his bearded cheeks. He was still too pale, but nonetheless, unfairly handsome.

“Please don’t do this to yourself anymore,” you said. “Don’t do this to me. You promised you’d be done with Horizon by now.”

Russell nodded. “I know.”

“You know?” Your brows rose. “Do you know what the past 24 hours were like for me since you called me in the middle of the night like that? I could hear it in your voice. You weren’t sure you were going to make it home.”

Your voice wavered as tears welled up in your eyes again, despite your attempts to blink them away with a sniff.

Russell didn’t have a clever retort this time. No way to downplay or tease. He had come back with a few scrapes and sprains before, but this was different. That look on your face when you opened his jacket, saw the blood and bandages, probably picturing a horror show underneath...

He wasn't ever going to forget that look. And it was better he didn't. He had to remind himself that you were a civilian. You weren't used to all this shit, the hazards of the job.

“You’re right. It’s not fair to you,” he said. “Just uh…give me a month or so to wrap things up. I already signed on for a couple more contracts.”

“You better mean it, Russ,” you said. You tilted his face upward, making sure he met your eyes. “You gave me your word.”

“I know, and I’m gonna keep it,” he said, squeezing your hips. He smiled. “To prove it, how about we reseal the deal, huh?”

You stared down at him, heaving a more exasperated sigh.

“Come on,” he said, biting his lip on a smirk. “We both know you wanna kiss the hell out of me.”

You wanted to slap him, more like.

You shook your head and pressed his face between your hands, grunting in sheer annoyance. But you still bowed your head and kissed him.

He smiled against your lips. His arms slid around your waist and trapped you against his body. He hummed at the feeling of you, of every soft curve that fit just right against him.

Your fingers slipped through his hair, gently at first. But you reminded him of your resolve with a tighter grip.

“I'm serious,” you warned, between kisses. Each one meant something different—relief, fear, yearning, passion, love, and long-suffering all at once.

He nodded, though he groaned, palming your ass as your tongue slipped against his.

“I got it, sweetheart,” he said. "Not happening again."

His hands then wandered down your back, dipping under the waistband of your sweatpants. He found you bare underneath, no panties. He was pleased at the thought as he pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, earning your soft moan. His fingers trailed under your tank top next, pushing the fabric up higher and raising goosebumps in his wake.

“Take a shower with me?” he asked, with lips pressed to your skin.

“Hmph. You definitely need a shower,” you said through slightly panting breaths. You helped him stand so you both could work on getting off his jeans.

He grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

Your lips threatened a smile in return.

“That’s a, get your ass in there,” you said, but you grabbed his elbows to steady him when his broad frame teetered on his feet. “Be careful.”

His hand fell to your shoulder gratefully.

“Yes, ma’am.”

AN: lol what are we gonna do with him? 😅 I think this helps make even more sense why reader's so mad at him in Part 1 of Breaking Point.

And I seriously hope Russell comes back more regularly for season 4. That twist at the end of 3x22 is more interesting than any other episode/arc in S3 imo. Until then, hope you enjoy some angsty hurt/comfort!

Let me know what you think in the reblogs/comments! 💙🩵💛

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“You wanna tell me what the hell that was back there?”

Not looking up, you expel a breath. “I had to try.”

“Yeah?” He barks a laugh with no humor in it. “You almost got yourself killed.”

It was supposed to be a simple case. A milk run. Then you heard crying from somewhere below and charged in before there was a plan.

His hands fist with your shrug.

“You went in alone.”

“I knew you'd follow.”

“Seriously?” his voice cracks like a gunshot.

Giving up on the bandage, you finally raise your head to take him in. Tired eyes, flannel shredded to the point he'll have to throw it out. Drying blood, your blood, stains his neck and collar from when he half-dragged, half-carried you out. Beneath the anger, there's fear. Visible only in the slight twitch of his lip.

“Hunting things, saving people, the family business,” he bitterly mutters. “What if I couldn't save you?”

Your jaw tightens. “That’s your family creed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pain flashes white-hot through your ribs as you quickly stand, but you ignore it. “It means I’m not leaving people behind!”

“Nobody said that.”

“You did when you pulled me away.”

“Because the damn building was collapsing.”

“There were still people down there!”

“And there would’ve been one more if I hadn’t dragged you out!”

He looks sick at the thought. Silence breathes, furious and contemplative.

Swallowing your own anger, you take a moment to compose your thoughts. “My m …before every hunt, my mom would say, 'Save everyone you can, avenge the ones you can’t'.” Briefly closing your eyes, you heavily sigh. “She believed if somebody died while you stood by doing nothing, their blood stained your hands forever.”

“And what?” Dean shot back. “Yours gets clean if you die trying?”

Ready to fire back, your mind fails to provide the words, and he rages on.

“You run into every hunt like you’ve got something to prove.”

He's right. You've been ignoring the fact that somewhere along the line, you stopped caring if you made it out. “I’m trying to save people," you weakly reply.

He steps closer, voice deceptively calm, but still tight. “You’re trying to punish yourself.”

“That’s not true.”

“I know what it looks like when somebody’s got one foot off the cliff already.”

Feeling too seen under his scrutiny, you drop your gaze.

“You think I don’t get it? You think I don't have the same thoughts?” Voice cracking slightly, features hard, watery eyes seemingly stare into your soul, as he breathes, "If I just bleed enough, hurt enough, maybe it balances the scales.”

“It never balances. It’s never enough," you softly reply.

“No, it’s not, but we fight like hell to save the ones we can."

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.” Rough fingers tentatively caress your uninjured arm. “My entire life has been one long horror movie, watching people die. I can’t... I can’t lose you, too.”

It feels like a gut punch. The words hit too deep. Your chest tightens, squeezing your heart.

The anger is gone. Pain and uncertainty remain, filling the space between you. Dean's hand falls as he turns, but you quickly grab it, moving forward to hold it against your heart.

"What if we promise to save each other?"

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With an admiring gaze and a slight lisp, the man offers, “She’s beautiful.”

Dean turns, puffing his chest as he straightens, “Damn right she is.”

The mechanic—'Gary' according to the name tag stitched to his shirt—slowly circles the Impala, nodding and humming approval while, thankfully, keeping his hands to himself.

Gary mentions his appreciation for the classics, and you sigh as Dean gets looped into the fanboying, discussing craftsmanship, performance, and the dedication and devotion it takes to keep them running. It's easy to see the moment Dean decides he likes the guy.

“Original wheels too."

Dean nods, "Yep," grinning widely as if he’d made them himself.

“That’s rare. Most people modernize them.”

“Not this one.” He lovingly pats the Impala's roof.

Sighing, you look over your shoulder. Sam is now leaning on the counter, face turned enough that you see his smile. Not interested in being involved in either conversation, you decide you're going to take an extended walk around the hotel, when Gary pipes up.

“Well, sure, but you could make a few improvements.”

Oh, shit.

You know exactly how this is going to turn out. A quick glance at Dean finds him open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and momentarily speechless. Deciding this will be much more entertaining than a walk, you take a couple of steps closer to the front of the car.

Dean blinks, finally muttering, “Improvements?”

Gary gestures toward the tires, “Yeah, you could swap those for some nice alloys.”

Dean stares, body stiff. The mechanic smiles, looking to you when you mumble, “Oh no.”

Gary's smile fades seeing you shake your head. “What?”

“Did you say alloy?”

“Yeah,” he stretches the syllable out with uncertainty, looking between you and Dean. "What's wrong with that?

“You want me,” Dean slowly utters, “to replace her rims?”

“Well ...”

“Factory rims.”

“Sure. Why not?” Gary laughs, but with nervous hesitation.

Dean looks personally wounded. “On purpose?”

“Dean,” you caution.

“No." He shakes his head and wags a finger at you. "No. I wanna make sure I understand.”

Gary shrugs as he looks to you and daringly pushes on. “You know, better performance, less weight.”

“You think she needs to lose weight?!” Dean shrieks, horrified.

Okay, now it's getting funny, and you have to bite your lip to hide your grin.

“What? It’s just a car. All I'm saying is, you'd get better handling, and if you made some additional modifications …” Gary lifts a hand as if to run it along the hood, and you quickly clear your throat to get his attention and vehemently shake your head. Finally realizing that he may have stepped into a minefield, he weakly finishes, "You could turn her into a show car."

“Just a car!” Dean gestures wildly toward Baby. “She’s perfect!”

You snort, quickly putting a hand over your mouth to hold back the laugh that wants to follow.

“I’m just saying alloys have advantages.” The smile that tugs at his lips hints that Gary knows that he's riling Dean up, and he's getting a kick out of it now.

“Her rims are awesome!" Dean looks like he's ready to throw fists as he huffs, "And …and they have the advantage of character!”

You lose the battle and laugh out loud.

“Actually, Dean,” unable to stop yourself, you tease, “Dude has a point. Chrome alloys might look nice.”

His head whips around so fast, you're afraid he might have given himself whiplash. “SERIOUSLY?”

“I’m just saying.”

“NO!”

“Maybe lower the suspension a little.”

“Stop. Talking.”

Voice deadly calm, he wears the same demeanor as when he's plotting something's demise. You hesitate for a second, thinking that you pushed him a bit too far. After all, you'd stopped early because you had all reached your limit of exhaustion and polite, confined coexistence.

Then Gary, who looks delighted that you agree with him, tosses another log on the fire. “Exactly. Maybe some racing stripes.”

Screw it. This is the most fun you've had in weeks. “Or …” holding out your hands like you're framing Baby for a photo shoot, "a Velvet Purple Pearl Mica paint job.”

Dean clutches his chest and croaks out, "You people are sick."

You're about ready to toss out another one, but see Dean's chest heaving. He looks like he's about to hyperventilate or have a stroke. You've definitely gone too far now, but Gary hasn't caught up yet.

“We’re just…what do you kids call it…" he looks to you questioningly, then snaps his fingers, "brainstorming.”

“You’re committing crimes! People have been killed for less,” Dean spits.

Lightly touching Gary's forearm, you grab his attention and shake your head with a conspiratorial smile. He gives another glance to Dean and then turns back to you with a knowing wink. "Well, I'll let you folks get back to your evening.

You walk over to Dean as Gary walks back into his garage. "Hey."

He jerks away when you reach for him. "Leave me alone."

"Dean, come on," you plead. "We were just joking."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't funny."

Turning his back on you, he runs a hand over the Impala's roof, murmuring reassurances that she's perfect, and no one is going to change anything about her.

Putting on your best pout, you whine his name, "Deeeeeeean," but he ignores you.

Sam steps out of the lobby a moment later, two keys dangling from his fingers, "Hey, is it okay if you two share a room tonight?" His grin is hopeful, but quickly fades as he assesses the situation. Dean is bent over the hood, arms spread wide, cheek resting on the now-cooled metal. You stand a couple of feet away, hands on your hips, and a sad frown on your lips.

"What'd I miss?"

You and Dean simultaneously huff…

"Ask her!"

"Ask him!"

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Your eyes shift downward, hips rolling with the clench of your pussy. Pride triggers a wave of endorphins and heat pools in your core, certain in the knowledge that you chose well, and this one will earn the twist of your knife to mark his time here.

His smile is smug as he puts a knee on the mattress. “I think,” resting his weight on his forearms, he settles above you, “I’m going to be a notch on your bedpost.”

“Mmmm, well, that” he’s suckling the pulse in your neck, but not hard enough to leave a mark, “depends on how good you are.”

“Oh, yeah?” He kisses along your collarbone, fingers gently gliding down your side.

“Y-yeah.” You feel him smile against your skin when he hits a ticklish spot, and your body reacts. “Only the good ones earn a notch.”

“What if,” a tiny nip at the top of your breast, a quick flick of his tongue over a taut nipple, “I’m better than good?”

Your body instinctively arches, craving to have that perfect mouth latch onto you, teeth scraping your flesh. Instead, his fingers knead your thigh, holding you down as he places kisses across your stomach. “Then you get a place on the headboard. Or, if you’re really, really good, I'll let you carve it yourself …wherever you want.”

The answer distracts him from his descent. He pushes up enough to scan the unmarked panel behind you. Tilting his head, he searches the nightstands and the frame above. “Really?”

His shocked demeanor makes you chuckle, but there is also something akin to sadness in his expression. Like he’s displeased for you. Shaking your head, you sigh, “Sadly, no. I have very high standards.”

Lips pursed, he seems to mull that over for a moment. Lying on his stomach, he nudges a shoulder against your leg, urging you to rest it across his back as he wraps his arm around to hold it there. Face hovering over your mound, he lifts his gaze, and a lethal smirk slowly forms on plump, ruddy lips. “Challenge accepted,” he states, burying his gorgeous face in the wet heat between your legs.

You wake with a groan, muscles protesting as you stretch, but it’s a good ache. Memories of last night make you smile as you snuggle back into the pillow. Calloused fingers ghost over your shoulder and down your arm.

“Sleep well?”

“Mhmm,” Eyes still closed, not wanting to face reality quite yet, you ask, “You?”

“Best I have in a while.”

“Good,” you mumble, and pat his chest, feeling the laugh before you hear it.

You’re drifting off again when he clears his throat. “Uhm, so.”

“No.”

“No?”

Burrowing deeper into the covers, you whine, “Don't want to get up yet.”

“That’s not-“

“What?”

“Sorry. Never-”

Blinking your eyes open at the rustle of sheets and the shift in weight, you grip his arm before he can stand. “Wait. I’m sorry.” Shifting to a more upright position, you run a hand over your mouth to quickly check for drool and, thankfully, find none. “I’m not a cheery morning person.”

“No worries.” Turning to place a knee on the bed, he leaves the other foot planted on the floor, and you realize he’s already half-dressed. “I get it.” He smiles, his demeanor seems expectant.

You smile back, giving a weird little shrug, not sure what to say. Why is this so awkward?

Oh, right. They usually don’t stay.

Then it clicks. None of the others had noticed the marks. Or if they did, they didn’t bother to ask. He’s the first one you discussed it with. He woke you to see how he did. A laugh bubbles in your throat, but then he pats the bed.

“Well, I should probably go.”

“Wait.” The word is pushed out on a frantic exhale, louder than you intended. “Sorry. Just …hold on, I have something for you.”

He arches a brow, feigning surprise, but you can tell he knows what’s coming and expected this outcome. This time, you do laugh and tease, “Ass.”

A hand goes to his chest in mock offense, but the laugh he shares is genuine.

Reaching behind the wood frame next to your head, you pull the knife from its hidden sheath and hold it out to him.

“Wow.”

You’re not quite sure if he’s scared or impressed; maybe it’s both. “Safety first, right?” you unapologetically state.

“Uh, yeah. I’m a little frightened now, but that’s badass.”

He carefully grips the hilt, testing its weight before thoroughly inspecting it. “This is a good knife.”

“Thanks,” you say cheerfully, unsure why you’re elated by his approval. “Alright, I’m gonna,” sliding from the bed, you tilt your head toward the bathroom, “while you, uh, do your thing.”

“Headboard?” he calls out as you reach the doorway.

Peering over your shoulder, you match his cheeky grin. “Anywhere you’d like.”

You’ve never seen a more brilliant smile in your entire life.

Though expected, you’re disappointed to find him gone when you exit the bathroom. You’d taken a few minutes to make yourself more presentable just in case, or to give him a little extra time if he wanted to leave without further conversation.

His mark is easy to find, and your smile grows as you draw closer. He scarred the headboard, right above your pillow. Not with a simple notch, but two distinct letters—D.W.

Fingers tracing the freshly carved wood, you’re reminded that this is where you flattened your hand to protect your head and to give you leverage as he railed into you. Pressing your hand against the carving, you find that the letters fit perfectly within the space of your palm.

Impressed by his attention to detail, you check behind the headboard to find your knife safely back in its hiding place. Yep, you chose well. He’s going to be a hard act to follow. Too bad you couldn’t have more time with him.

Heading downstairs after getting dressed, you hear him before you see him. He turns, phone to his ear, as you hover in the doorway.

He holds up a finger and quickly finishes his conversation, “I gotta go. Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll see ya then.” Stuffing the phone back in his pocket, he gives you a sheepish grin. “Sorry. That was my brother. I was gonna make you some coffee before I left,” he gestures to the pot and bag of coffee grounds on the counter, “but then he called.”

“You were going to make me coffee?” Sexy and sweet.

Grimacing, he rubs the side of his neck. “That’s, uh …yeah, that’s not weird at all. OK, right,” he gives a clipped nod and points toward the door, “I’m gonna go.”

As he’s about to pass by you, you ask, “Would you like a cup?”

“What?”

Walking toward the coffee maker, you repeat, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Uh. Yeah, that …that would be awesome.”

“Great. Have a seat.” He offers to make it for you, but when you decline, he sits, fingers fidgeting with a dish towel you'd left on the countertop. Checking the carton in the fridge, you find the cream is only two days past expiration, but give it a sniff test to be sure and find it passable. “Cream or sugar?”

“Black.”

Nodding, you pull two cups from the cupboard, and though it’s not done brewing, you fill one nearly to the brim, adding cream to the other as an escaped drop sizzles on the base plate.

"Thank you." Dragging his bottom lip between his teeth as you set the steaming mug in front of him, he states, “You don’t have to be polite. I’ll leave if you want me to go.”

“Huh?”He lifts his chin toward the machine behind you as another drip falls to bubble and burn away. “Oh. No.” You wave off his concern with a laugh as you replace the glass decanter. “I’m impatient. I always have at least one cup before it finishes.”

You’re also horrible at small talk, and wonder if he is too, or if he's sensing the same surreal tension as you. You can hear the soft rattle of the metal barstool as his leg bounces while you stand across from him, each silently drinking your coffee. Should you ask his name? Or would that make it even more awkward at this point? The faint clanking stops with the thud of his foot hitting the floor.

“So," you say simultaneously, then chuckle in unison.

With a lopsided grin, he raises a hand, indicating for you to go ahead.

"You have plans today?” It feels like a strange thing to ask, but it's the first thing that popped into your head that seemed appropriate to say aloud.

“Actually,” setting his cup down, he runs his hands over his thighs, “my brother and I just finished up a job, and he decided to go visit his girlfriend. So I have a couple of days free.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s not?”

“Well, it’d be more fun if I had someone to spend it with.” Lips pursed, he waggles his eyebrows, nearly causing you to choke on the coffee you just slurped down. “What’dya think?”

“Are you actually asking, or testing the waters?”

Color tinges his cheeks, but then the confidence that drew you to him decides to shine. “I’m asking if you’d like to put a couple more notches on that bed, with me.”

Laughing, you set your cup aside and lean on the counter in front of him, giving him a nice view of your cleavage. “That’s not how that works, but I’d love to spend more time with you …”

“Dean.”

Love Me Some Pie tag list:

@123passwort // @akshi8278 // @asgoodasdancingqueen // @calaofnoldor // @cleighwrites

@compresshischest09 // @deaneverafter // @deans-baby-momma // @deans-spinster-witch // @deanwanddamons

@globetrotter28 // @iamsapphine // @idreamofplaid // @impala-dreamer // @iprobablyshipit91

@irgendwas122 // @jerkbitchidjitassbutt // @justagirlinafandomworld // @justrealizedimmascifygurl // @ladysparkles78

@lyarr24 // @mimaria420 // @mrswhozeewhatsits // @musicissmylife // @mvdeanw

@pallographsunspot // @princessmisery666 // @raisinggray // @shawnie74 // @solsborg

@thinkinghardhardlythinking // @thoughts-and-funnies // @waynes-multiverse // @wayward-and-worn // @waywardbaby

@weepingwillowphoenix // @yvonneeeee // @globetrotter28 // @suckitands33

Nominated by @autisticandroids

Plausible Deniability by timetravelingconman

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Word count: 9k

Fic Type: Smut, PWP

Trigger warnings: This fic is a CNC scene. No actual rapes takes place, but there is rape kink, and it's pretty under-negotiated

Dean and Cas doing undernegotiated CNC because Dean needs to be forced due to his internalized homophobia is insane. I'm obsessed with Dean getting mad at Cas for not just "taking what he wants." This fic is cashing checks I've seen written in many other fics, which makes it all the more satisfying. (Not meant to diss other fics, they just don't typically explore this angle.) The Cas characterization, how nervous and confused he is, is also primo.

Nominated by @flanneledfae

The Red Means I Love You by @spnbabe67

Pairing: Sam x Reader x Ruby

Word Count: 5,1 K

Fic Type: fluff, smut, dark fic, PWP

Trigger Warnings: period sex, somnophilia, blood kink, praise, degradation, pet names

Spnbabe's ability to pull me and place me right in the middle of a scene is outstanding! She can make me feel and see things perfectly. And this fic is no exception. The closeness, the intimacy, the raw heat between these characters are very well written and believable. Plus, it's really freakin HOT!!

The hunt is over, but Sam’s hands are still shaking by @thefriendlypigeon

Pairing: Sam/Cas

Word Count: 775

Fic Type: fluff, hurt/comfort, mutual pining

Trigger Warnings: no

This drabble is so sweet, so cute, and the characterizations are 100% on point. I am so glad I stumbled upon this little gem; it put a smile on my face and warmed my heart. Plus, the art is amazing!!

Nominated by @kazsrm67

Dad Bod Conundrum by @supernotnatural2005

Pairing. Dean/reader

Word count: 7.8K

Fic Type: fluff, smut

Trigger Warnings: body image insecurity

First off, I am a sucker for a good dad Dean fic. This fic is just so sweet and it takes a look at a post baby body but from a different perspective than we usually get or think of. I just loved it.

Nominated by @leatafandom

Stairway To Demons by @walkingaline

Pairing: Gen, Crowley & Castiel

Word Count: 2036

Fic type: canon divergent, Crossover

Trigger Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Insert Creepy gentleman clap here. I flippin' loved this story and the dynamic between them is so well written here. This is one of my favourite Buffy episodes and it was handled so well in a crossover setting! It is just a delightful short story and crossover. The characterization for both the Gentleman and Cas and Crowely are so well done In can not recommend this story enough. It was such a fun treat to read.

Green Bracelets by @crowleysmistress

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

Word Count: 5839

Fic Type: canon divergent, Case fic, weirdcest

Trigger Warnings: Incest

This is such a fun concept and idea for a case fic with a lovely opening. The brother's dymic is so well written and so much wonderful characterization between them and utilization of body language is just wonderful. I dont want to spoil the tail but really you just don't see enough monster sex clubs fics in this fandom. It has filled my monster loving heart with th need for more. Fantastic read highly recommend it if you love monsters and wincest.

Starstruck by @breakaway71

Pairing: Castiel/Gabriel

Word Count: 718

Fic Type: fluff, AU

Trigger Warnings: No

Oh, this was so emotional and moving. It just builds so well so quickly until it just all culminates into that big moment. Just a fantastic story and truly a gem!

Nominated by @mrswhozeewhatsis

That’s What Friends Are For by @rizlowwritessortof

Pairing: Dean x OFC

Word Count: 2409 words

Fic Type: fluff, angst

Trigger Warnings: No

As always, Riz delivers a Dean that is what we all want: kind, caring, protective, sweet, and absolutely swoon-worthy!! No matter how hard she fights him, he fights for her harder. Y'all gotta read this one, guys!

Nominated by @trevelies

The Abyss Gazes Back by @old-man-ghost

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: 37,535

Fic Type: angst, canon divergent

Trigger Warnings: no

This is actually 100% an attempt at cyber-bullying: but I am obsessed with this story and have been trying to astral project my will directly into the brain of @old-man-ghost for years to finish this. A super incredible s14 canon divergence where Dean/Michael go into the Ma'lak box, only to accidentally be found and released by a team of deep sea researchers... angst, super punchy writing, OBSESSED with the time jump. Just plain obsessed.

So what, you’re saying the Easter Bunny did it? by @floralxcay

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: 15578

Fic Type: canon compliant, case fic

Trigger Warnings: no

Seriously one of the most fun case fics I've read in a long time! It has EVERYTHING: fight scenes, humor, great pacing, great characterization - I seriously felt like I was watching an episode of the show. It's a crack fic until it's decidedly NOT a crack fic, and the tone shift is SO Supernatural and Cay did SERIOUSLY SUCH AN AMAZING JOB. There was one scene where I was laughing out loud alone in my house. So seriously good.

Nominated by @walkingaline

Time To Release The Hounds by @hectatess

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: 5K

Fic Type: Canon compliant

Trigger Warnings: Grief/mourning, animal death

I love Hectatess' tales about Crowley and his hounds, a lot! She never fails to fill them with so much heart and fun.

Bad Habits by @additionaladdams

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: 7K

Fic Type: canon divergent

Trigger Warnings: no

I love Jade's stories about Crowley. This time, putting together Crowley and Rowena for a common goal, I knew we'd be in for top tier shenanigans!

A Day With The Fitzgeralds - IATEMYTWININTHEWOMB (AO3)

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: >1K

Fic Type: fluff, crack, canon divergent

Trigger Warnings: No

It's just too fun to see Cas handling toddlers, and the fact that it's done to give Garth some time to shine... chef's kiss. Quick read that's guaranteed to leave you smiling!

Lost by @awakenthemusic

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: 310

Fic type: canon compliant, Character Study

Trigger Warnings: No

It's a little, short gem that focuses on Benny. Fantastic read!

Nominated by @xpurdyglambertx

Down The Rabbit Hole by @samanddean76

Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki

Word Count: 5.7k

Fic type: smut, AU, RPF

Trigger Warnings: No

The author, Sal, claimed my Mad Hatter Jared art in a reverse bang, and took the fic in an entirely original and surprising direction from what I would've ever thought of! And as usual, she knocked it out of the park. If you enjoy smutty J2, definitely give this fic some love!

Heaven And Hell Be Damned by @jld71

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

Word Count: 27k

Fic type: angst, smut, canon divergent

Trigger Warnings: MCD

This is a beautiful omegaverse fix it fic by one of my friends, Jen! We get a cool twist on the boy's late season characters with Angel Dean, and more demon blood Sam. It's hard for me to put into words just how well written this one is! Definitely give it a read and some love!

Venomous Tongues by @entropic-saudade

Pairing: Gen, Implied John/Dean but not really

Word Count: 22k

Fic type: angst, dark fic, hurt no comfort, AU

Trigger Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence This beautifully dark, religious horror fic is a result of Saudade's and my collab over in the @spneldritchbang!

This was a reverse bang, so I made the art, and the lovely @entropic-saudade claimed it and breathed life into my art with their story! I really had no ideas for plot when I made this piece other than symbolic factors (i.e. the scorpion communion), but Saudade took the art and absolutely NAILED this story! Definitely give it a read, and show it some love! It has all the angst and religious symbolism you could ever want!

Midnight Cowboy by @entropic-saudade

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Word Count: 40k

Fic type: AU

Trigger Warnings: No

This fic encapsulates MANY of my fan fic faves: stripper Dean, age gap, mafia Cas, some angst, bottom Dean, Dean being Sam's guardian... etc. It's just perfection, and Saudade's writing is always amazing!

(Divider by @glygriffe)

THANK YOU ALL, KEEP UP THE AMAZING WORK, AND AS ALWAYS, HAPPY WRITING!

- From your Admins and Manta Rays:

Michelle - @mrswhozeewhatsis

He climbed into the dingy motel bed, slow and groaning. You could see the exhaustion in the darkness under his eyes, and in the dull green of his irises. You saw the evidence of his lack of sleep pulling at his limbs, because he hadn’t truly rested since he got “topside.”

Since he showed up at your apartment with Bobby in tow, scaring the shit out of you with his half-cocked smile before he proved he wasn’t a shapeshifter or a demon.

The way Dean held you then had been so strong and fragile at the same time; you felt the shake in his arms, the tension embedded in his frame, even while he was burying his face in your hair. You’d blinked hot tears that clung to your lashes, cupped his face between your hands and kissed him just as hard and desperate.

He was alive, so you were alive. That was what that day felt like for you: coming back to life.

But this was a different kind of living.

When you slid into bed beside him, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t welcome you against his side or wrap his arm around you. He didn’t even pretend to meet your eyes, let alone kiss you goodnight. He just mumbled the empty word, like he already knew it wouldn’t be one.

Sam was still out by himself. He was doing that more often lately, ducking out and taking the car or walking into town by himself. His excuses were always valid on the surface, like getting breakfast at the diner early, or doing some research at a café, or getting an early morning run in before you or Dean rolled out of bed. Still, you had half a mind to call bullshit.

Dean had stopped trying, even though he’d noticed too, sometimes with lips pursing, jaw clenching.

Tonight, he didn’t seem to care about his brother’s nighttime habits or your soft frown as he turned onto his side, away from you.

“You okay?” you asked, despite knowing what it would get you.

“‘M fine,” he said. “Just tired.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. You wished he wouldn’t bury it all so deep. You wished he would let you help him. But Dean had always carried layers behind that stupid devil-may-care attitude, behind that cocky grin on just the right side of charming, and the old leather that draped his shoulders like a second skin of bravado.

You’d noticed that his father’s jacket was still folded up somewhere in the trunk of the Impala. Dean hadn’t been wearing it since he got back.

You couldn’t help but think that mattered, even as you laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss near his neck.

“’Kay, goodnight,” you said.

You felt slightly raised flesh under the thin fabric of his shirt, and you realized then that you were accidentally touching the handprint burned into his skin—the mark of Castiel, the angel who rescued him.

You quickly let your hand slip away, feeling the tension in Dean’s body.

Your heart clenched, and you had to blink the sting out of your eyes when you turned onto your side and tried to get comfortable.

The first jolt stirred the mattress, then tugged at your subconscious.

The second one, and his painful groan, made your lashes flutter. Your eyes slid open as you fought through the dregs of sleep, but his fingers clawing against your arm finally yanked you out of it. 

You sucked in a confused, pained hiss, looking over at Dean. You realized that he hadn’t meant to hurt you. He had a desperate grip twisting in the sheets, his brows tightly knitted, jaw clenching so hard you could almost hear his teeth grinding. But the sounds that were escaping his barely parted lips were too heartbreaking, like a wounded animal unwilling to let their whimpers escape, afraid for something worse to follow.

“Dean,” you rasped, reaching for his shoulder cautiously. You were wary of him trying to knock your hand away, or worse, but he just flinched harder.

It did manage to wake him up though.

His eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, following by more labored ones as he struggled to take you in, to realize where he was.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.

“Dean?” you prompted gently. You were slow in the way you slid closer, smoothing a comforting hand up his arm.

He looked over at you, tired of lying, but still unwilling to answer you.

But in that moment, you knew the truth. You knew what he was hiding, deep and dark behind his eyes when they met yours.

He couldn’t hold it for long though. His own self-loathing won out. Even just having you beside him with love and concern in your eyes was too much for him to handle.

He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, but that was where he hesitated. He either lacked the strength to get up and leave you, or he was just that shaken. His eyes closed and an uneasy sigh fell from his lips, making his shoulders sag.

You crawled over to his side of the bed and bent a knee underneath you as you sat just behind him, just barely keeping yourself from touching him. You didn’t want to smother him, but you wouldn’t leave him alone either.

“You do remember everything, don’t you,” you said. The heartbreak was in your throat, but you thought it might help him to say it out loud.

Dean shook his head slowly, but this time, it wasn’t a denial. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he still forced himself to speak, his voice thick and rasping.

“Not just…what happened to me,” he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. “What I did.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. You didn’t understand, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to you—why he hadn’t been able to let you in. Why he couldn’t allow himself to touch you with his hands. Every time he looked at them, they were drenched in blood.

And when he tried to look at you, the words died in his throat. It felt selfish to try.

His lips trembled. His shoulders heaved. He covered his face as his eyes burned, and the first sob shuddered through him.

You didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Once the first tear drew down your cheek, you couldn’t let yourself do anything else but hold him from behind. Your lips pressed to his shoulder, and you held onto him as tightly as you dared.

He held you back, his hand clasping over your arm to keep you there. It gave you the encouragement you needed to slide closer, your hand cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his chin. His glassy eyes met yours.

“I love you,” you reminded him. “That doesn’t change.”

Again, Dean shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t know what I…”

“Right now, I don’t need to know,” you said.

Just then, he was desperate to believe you.

He bowed into your kiss, desperate for your warmth too.

One touch couldn’t make him forget. It wouldn’t heal him either.

All you could do was stay.

AN: My heart gets ripped out every time I watch that ep where he tells Sam about his experience in Hell. 🥲💔 But let me know what you thought of this hurt/comfort snack!

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Dean wipes his dirtied face with a grease-caked palm, sweat trickling from his forehead down to his neck as he wields a wrench under the Impala, fleeing into the cooler shadows, although the black metal seems to attract the blistering sun even more. His jeans, shirt, and skin are stained with grime. His back is already sore from working for hours – days even – on Baby. But he wears his aches like a badge of honor. All that matters to him these days is restoring her to her former glory. 

And maybe fixing her fixes him, too. At least, that is the hope. 

Sam has left him alone for the most part after their last case a week ago, hauling himself up in the coolness of Bobby’s house with boxes of their dad’s stuff – John’s research, old burner phones, and even family photos. The only sore reminder of the brothers’ heated discussion last week is the smashed trunk of the Impala.

Dean winces when he thinks about it again. He’s been cursing himself for the past three days for taking out his frustrations with a crowbar. Baby deserves better. 

“Dammit!” Dean huffs as the wrench slips from his hand and clatters to the gravel. “Son of a bitch…”

The heat of the pavement burns through his shirt, but he doesn’t care. All his mind is willing to focus on is the car. Whenever he stops, his thoughts wander, and he can’t let that happen, so he never stops. 

It’s simple. 

He doesn’t want to think about his father’s death, the weirdness of it all, the strange and hollow feeling in his gut like a black pit, Sam’s sudden drive for revenge, the mystery box full of family secrets, or the burden John’s laid on his shoulders with his dying breath. 

Dean’s been doing the same dance for close to three weeks now, but it’s been working so far – although Sam would probably disagree with that assessment. Who’s asking him, though? God knows the kid’s head hasn’t been screwed on right either since their dad’s passing. 

Granted, they both have said some regretful things over the last few weeks. But why does Sam have to be so goddamn pushy all the time? 

Avoiding Sam is the best option for now. Luckily, his little brother has received the message, too. 

However, Dean’s stomach is growling as he slowly pushes out from under the car. His green eyes narrow when the blinding sun hits them, already feeling more drops of sweat bead along his hairline as he wipes the oil on his hands into his worn jeans. His gaze then flickers to the empty cooler. He’s out of beer, too. His stomach roars once more. 

Great. 

Dean sighs. He supposes he has to face the music now, doesn’t he? 

But approaching the house causes his stomach to twist with more than hunger. What surprise would await him in there on this beautiful, sunny day? Has Sam found even more fun souvenirs in their father’s pandora box?

As Dean finally drags his feet into the house, Sam is sitting by Bobby’s small dining table, still deeply lost in the contents of one of said boxes. Dean almost sighs out loud when he steals a glance at his little brother, strolling straight to the fridge to retrieve a beer and some ingredients for a sandwich. 

Dean still doesn’t know how to ever repay Bobby for his kindness and hospitality over the last few weeks – feeding the boys, lending them working cars, and ensuring Dean’s alcohol level never drops entirely to zero. As soon as the Impala is fixed, Dean plans to finally get out of the old man’s hair. They’ve been staying long enough – some might even say overstaying their welcome – but Bobby never says a thing to them about it. 

He doesn’t dare to glimpse at Sam while he’s fixing his meal on the counter, but he certainly can feel his little brother’s hazel eyes burning a hole into the back of his head. 

“What?” Dean sighs exhaustively and finally spins around to face Sam, stuffing the first bite of his sandwich into his mouth. He has to occupy it with something before losing his temper again. He masks his discomfort with a sarcastic smile. “Found more burner phones?”

One would think Sam stopped his quest after the last one led the brothers to a killer clown – a rakshasa. But Dean doesn’t seem to be so lucky, judging by the twinkling determination in his little brother’s eyes. 

“Uh, no.” Sam shakes his head, a gleam of confusion in his gaze. But it’s not geared toward Dean, a stack of papers in front of his scrunched nose. “Just going through some more of Dad’s research.”

The way Sam says it, Dean knows his little brother surely found something worth discussing. Dean also knows he can’t avoid it forever. Sam will push eventually, so he prefers to get ahead of the problem. 

“Anything interesting?” Dean asks, washing the sour nature of the question down with a gulp of beer. 

“Maybe,” Sam replies, but Dean knows there’s more. There always is. Sam’s just ramping up for the big guns. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week – how we can’t kill the demon without the Colt, even if we do find it.”

“So?” Dean gives a shrug of his shoulders and keeps nursing his beer. He’s going to need a second one soon if this conversation goes on any longer.

Sam exhales a small sigh of frustration. Dean’s careless attitude has been annoying him as much as Dean’s annoyed by Sam’s relentless agenda to find the demon who killed their entire family and one college girlfriend. What’s so hard to understand about that?

“So,” Sam parrots with strained patience and continues, “I’ve been looking through Dad’s stuff to see if there’s something else. He wouldn’t have given up the Colt if he didn’t have a plan B, right?”

“We don’t know if he gave up the Colt,” Dean mutters, even though he knows it’s all bullshit. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how the gun suddenly went missing after his miraculous recovery in the hospital. Not to mention, their father died practically five minutes later.  

Sam quirks a brow. “Don’t we, though?”

Dean only shakes his head and takes a seat next to Sam. He doesn’t want to have this conversation all over again, so he relents. “Alright, what did you find, huh?” he entertains his little brother’s idea, hoping it’s enough to pacify any revenge plans for the moment.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t want the demon dead. It killed his mother. It killed Jess. And it killed his father and a bunch of other innocent people too. But what if it kills Sam next? What’s he supposed to do then? His dad and brother were the most important people in his life, the only family he had left, and now there’s only Sammy. 

Dean’s not scared of a lot of things, but he’s scared of being alone in this world. 

Lately, it feels like no matter what he does, the demon’s winning. If they go after it and it kills Sam, the thing wins. And if Dean does nothing and lets the bastard keep breathing, it’s still winning. Either way, Dean’s losing, and he doesn’t like those odds. 

Sam doesn’t answer right away. It’s not the thoughtful kind of silence, however. It’s the kind that means Sam is deciding how much truth to unload at once. He gathers a few loose papers and straightens the stack like he needs the extra second to decide how hard he wants to push. That alone puts Dean on edge. He already regrets sitting down. 

“Dad kept circling back to the same handful of things,” Sam says finally. “Symbols. Locations. Names.” 

Dean takes another sip, eyes skimming briefly over the papers before looking away again. “Hunters write stuff down. Shocking.” 

“I’m serious, Dean.” Sam slides one of the notebooks closer, flipping it open. Their dad’s handwriting fills the pages. Dean can recognize it in his sleep at this point – tight, angular, relentless. It still stings a little to see it, another reminder that he’s gone and not coming back this time. “There are patterns here. He wasn’t just cataloging. He was narrowing something down.”

Dean leans back in his chair, stretching his sore shoulders. “And this is where you tell me you’ve cracked the code and we ride off into the sunset together like Thelma and Louise?”

Sam ignores that skillfully. “Dad kept his research on the demon all together in the same box. He even demon-proofed the thing. It’s all in there. Weather patterns, crop failures…”

“Yeah, we already handed all that stuff over to Ash,” Dean points out. 

“I know,” Sam grits, patience wearing thinner, and slides over a ripped and crumpled piece of yellowing paper. “But I found something else in there, too.”

“Looks like he ripped a page out of the journal.” Dean frowns as he takes the piece of flimsy paper into his hands and stares at the few words on the page. 

Sugar Hill, NH

Traced lineage briefly. Potential anomaly. Historically cooperative. Protective alignment. Asset.

Left key in Salem – MO. Not time. Contingency only.

“That’s it?” Dean looks up from the page and stares at Sam, brow raised. “This is what got you all worked up?” 

There aren’t many notes, and that’s what bothers him. John Winchester never shut up on paper. When he wrote less, it meant their dad was being careful.

“You see that symbol in the margin?” Sam asks, moving his finger on the page to a small, angular letter in the right corner. 

ᛒ

Dean squints his eyes at it. The symbol looks familiar, even though he has no idea what it means. It almost feels like he’s seen it before, a vague memory coming to mind of his father explaining it to him when he was just a kid. But Dean can’t remember for sure, which is odd. He usually never forgets the things his dad taught him, so maybe it’s just one of those false memories – his own personal Mandela effect. Most times, all those weird symbols he comes across this job blur together eventually and tend to look pretty much the same. 

“It’s a rune,” Sam adds. “From the Elder Futhark.”

“Fu–what?”

“The Elder Futhark,” Sam repeats with a sigh. “It’s an old-school writing system.”

“What’s it mean?”

“I think it literally translates to ‘birch,’” Sam replies, crinkling his nose slightly. 

Dean cocks a brow. “Like the tree?”

“Yeah, like the tree.” Sam nods, flipping through loose pages. “In older traditions, it’s tied to growth, birth, uh… lineage. Maternal stuff.”

Dean grimaces. “Maternal?”

Sam chuckles a little. “Yeah, but not soft, exactly. See, birch was seen as kind of protective. It’s the first tree to grow back after a fire,” he explains. “It’s about renewal, shelter, quiet protection.”

“Huh. Fire,” Dean breathes and then looks at Sam. “You think it’s got something to do with us?”

Sam considers this for a moment before answering. “Maybe. I think Dad thought so, or he wouldn’t have written it down and put it into that box.”

Dean peeks at his father’s notes again, a few words standing out that definitely (and unfortunately) sound like a plan B according to John Winchester. 

Protective alignment. Asset. Not time. Contingency only.

“What does MO mean?” Dean asks then. “Missouri again? Should we call her?”

But Sam shakes his head, frowning at the page. “I don’t think so. Maybe he meant ‘modus operandi.’ There’s also a Salem in Missouri.”

“You think he put the key thingy there?” Dean looks at his brother and hates that he feels himself getting invested in this nonsense. Leave it to Sam to drag him into even more shit. “What d’you think it is? A weapon like the Colt?”

Sam stares blankly at the pages in front of him, clearly trying to make sense of his father’s research. “I don’t know.”

At that, Dean smiles a little to himself and rises from his seat, patting Sam on the back. “Well, you go have fun figuring it out. I’m going back to work on the car.”

Sam exhales a frustrated sigh but doesn’t bother arguing, returning to the stack of paperwork in front of him. 

Crisis averted, Dean thinks, satisfied. 

For now, at least. 

It takes Sam less than two days to figure out part of the mystery before he plants himself in front of Dean and announces they’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, adding the usual “I’ll fill you in on the way,” which is Sam-code for you’re not backing out of this, so buckle up. 

Luckily, that was just enough time for Dean to get the Impala running right again. God knows he wasn’t borrowing another soccer-mom minivan from Bobby. He still has nightmares about the damn cup holders.

And for a while then, the two of them just drive, and Dean’s happy about the silence, the only sounds coming from classic rock tunes through the stereo and Baby’s steady hum under his boots. Sam keeps his nose buried in a stack of papers while Dean keeps his eyes on the road. It gives him something to focus on – lines, distance, direction. But as they pass Chicago, Dean feels himself getting antsy, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a rhythm that doesn’t match the music anymore. 

“Alright,” he caves finally, shooting a glance at Sam in the passenger seat. “What did you find? Enlighten me.”

Sam draws an amused smile and arches a brow, but he keeps his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly interested.”

“Just spit it out, alright? Least you can do after dragging me all the way out here,” Dean grumbles, although driving is still better than sitting still at Bobby’s, twiddling his thumbs.

“Alright,” Sam chuckles, but Dean doesn’t miss that little hint of triumph in his brother’s voice. “I started with Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. Small town. Nothing out of the ordinary. But there was a house fire in 1995.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “A fire?” 

“It was ruled accidental, but there were three fatalities,” Sam says. “A grandmother, a mother, and an eleven-year-old girl.”

Dean scrunches his brow slightly. “Not exactly the usual play…” 

The one and only case so far that they’ve tracked connected to the yellow-eyed demon started the same way their nightmare did – a baby in a crib, six months old, and a mother burning on the ceiling. All of it happened in 1983. That’s the pattern. 

“I know,” Sam replies. “That’s actually what caught my attention.”

Dean throws him a sideways look. “You sure this isn’t just some random fire?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits and flips a page. “But I’m pretty sure Dad was there because the responding officer on scene was a deputy called Mia Owens.”

“MO,” Dean repeats quietly. 

“Yeah, and get this,” Sam continues, “Mia Owens moved to Salem a few days after the accident and adopted an eleven-year-old girl.”

Dean blinks at that. Alright, that certainly doesn’t sound like a coincidence anymore. He can admit as much. 

“You think it’s the same girl that supposedly died in the fire?” 

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “I don’t think she died, Dean. I think Dad was there, faked her death, and gave her to Mia Owens to hide. There’s a birth certificate for the girl she adopted, but it’s under a different name. But I couldn’t find any school transcripts, medical records, or anything before the age of eleven. Nothing.”

Dean thinks it through carefully. A house fire in 1995. An eleven-year-old girl that may or may not have survived. Shady adoption records and name changes. His father’s notes. 

Asset.  

Dean hates to admit that it does fit his father’s style. John wouldn’t go through the trouble of hiding a girl if he didn’t think she was important. 

“You think Dad meant a little girl with the key?” Dean asks, raising a brow. “A key to what?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I wanna find out,” Sam says pensively, his hazel eyes drifting out the window. “Maybe she’s like me.”

“You think so?” Dean questions skeptically, although he might be biased here. He just really doesn’t want to deal with more freak kids and Sam’s ESP. “I mean, if she was eleven in ’95, she’d be even a year younger than you. Did you have one of your premonition things about her?”

“No.” Sam shakes his head, and Dean feels the relief flooding his body almost immediately. “But maybe she wasn’t part of the original group.”

“You think there were more kids?”

Sam gives a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Dad did.”

“That’s a lot of maybes, Sam,” Dean mutters. “Please tell me we’re not about to harass that poor girl. We don’t even know if she’s the real deal. Maybe that deputy adopting and moving away after the fire was just a coincidence. I mean, seeing a dead kid probably does something to normal people.”

Sam shoots him a raised look at that. “Dean, there are no coincidences in our line of work. And if there were, this would be a pretty big one.”

“Alright, fine. We’ll talk to her,” Dean caves with a sigh. “But if this girl turns out to be completely normal, promise me you’re gonna leave her alone and not drag her into our mess.”

Sam purses his lips and shrugs. “Sure, promise.”

Dean hears the words, but he’s not entirely convinced Sam actually means them. 

“I couldn’t find anything on the girl or where she is now, but Mia Owens works at Salem PD,” Sam says. “I figure we start there.”

Dean only gives him a nod at that and focuses his eyes back on the gray stretch of highway ahead. 

Salem, Massachusetts

This town might be Dean’s worst nightmare. It’s when his everyday life of horror suddenly turns to an amusing tourist attraction. Witch-themed shop windows, plastic broomsticks, and neon pentagrams litter the cobblestone streets. There’s even someone selling “authentic cursed candles” next to a goddamn coffee shop. 

It’s history turned into fucking merch. The town’s darkness is apparently just part of the decor.

“Oh, look, they’re offering ghost tours. Maybe we should take one,” Dean says with a wry grin and kills the engine a block away from the police station. 

“Yeah, maybe another time.” Sam chuckles, shaking his head, and smooths out the wrinkles in his suit before grabbing his FBI badge from the glove compartment. Then he glances at Dean. “You coming?”

“Nah, you go ahead. I’ll wait here. Maybe take a nap,” Dean says casually, already leaning back in his seat. After all, he did just drive for close to twenty-four hours straight with barely a break between. He deserves some shuteye, considering Sam dragged him out of bed before sunrise. 

Sam gives him a look but heads inside without arguing. Dean’s sleeping plans, however, don’t last for too long before his eyes catch on a flyer stuck to a lamppost, gently fluttering in the ocean breeze. It’s a missing person poster of a young woman, late twenties, last seen three months ago. 

As Dean’s gaze then drifts further down the sidewalk, he spots another one on a bulletin board outside a convenience store. Different face but similar age. And then his eyes land on a third one, partially covered by an ad for a harbor cruise. This one’s also female, early thirties, and was last seen a year ago. 

Three missing women are cause enough to step out of the car and take a closer look. The air smells like salt and rusted metal as tourists and shoppers pass him on the sidewalk. Dean then studies the nearest flyer – no signs of struggle, no suspects, and no vehicles found. As he looks at the other two then as well, he notices the same pattern there. All disappeared without a trace within one year. If he didn’t know any better, he would think all these women vanished into thin air. 

But Dean does know better. His gut is already screaming that there’s more than just answers about lost family secrets in this town. 

There’s a case here. 

When Sam finally strolls out of the police station, Dean’s leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed. His little brother looks thoughtful, which Dean learned a long time ago means complicated. 

“Well?” Dean asks as Sam reaches the car. 

“Mia Owens checks out. Moved here eleven years ago with her daughter,” Sam informs him and then flashes a smile. “And get this – the daughter also works for Salem PD. Apparently, she’s a CSI.”

“CSI, huh?” Dean’s brows shoot up with interest. “She working today?”

“Yeah, but the detective inside said they’re at a crime scene right now.”

“You know where?”

“Yup.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Dean says and already opens the driver’s door before stopping. “Hey, uh, you noticed these?” He gestures with his chin toward the missing person posters. 

Sam follows his gaze to the closest flyer. “Missing persons?”

“Yeah, plural,” Dean notes. “At least three within a year. All women. Similar age range.”

Sam frowns slightly. “It’s a tourist town, Dean. People pass through. Stuff happens.”

“Not like this.”

“I think you’re getting influenced by the merch here,” Sam retorts, laughing it off. “We’re not here for a case. We’re here to get answers.”

“Oh, and since when are we in the business of ignoring cases, huh? You just wanna let more women die?” Dean argues. 

“You don’t know they’re dead,” Sam points out. “You barely even have a case here.”

“We barely ever do, man.”

“Alright,” Sam plays along, leveling with him, which honestly feels really patronizing. Dean knows he’s right about this. His gut is never wrong. It’s the one instinct he can always rely on. “And what do you think killed them, huh?”

Dean gives a defiant shrug. “I don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out.”

The house sits too far back from the road to feel even remotely welcoming. The white siding looks harmless enough from a distance, neat windows and trimmed hedges included. It’s one of those places that probably has matching towels in the bathroom as well. However, there’s a stillness to it that feels strange and anything but peaceful. 

Dean slows the Impala as the gravel path turns to mud beneath the tires, the big oaks crowding in on either side like they’re trying to pass judgment. As he cuts the engine, all he hears is the ticking of metal cooling under Baby’s hood and the faint buzz of insects in the woods. For a moment, he just studies the place through the windshield and can’t help the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach of being watched. 

“Found her,” Sam says from the passenger seat, snapping him from his stupor, and turns the laptop toward him. “She’s been with Salem PD for about a year now. She graduated early from Boston University with a master’s in biomedical forensic sciences.”

“So she’s smart?” 

Dean doesn’t know why he asked that. Of course the girl must be smart if she graduated college early. He couldn’t even swing high school, so he imagines someone who can use the word “biomedical” correctly in a sentence must be genius-level smart. At least, they’d be definitely smarter than him, but even Sam seems to be impressed, and he’s smart, too. 

Sam huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’d say.”

Dean sort of admires that. Maybe it’s even jealousy. Because if it’s the girl they’re looking for and not some random coincidence, then it means this girl lost everything, survived unimaginable and unbearable trauma, and still made something of herself. What happened to her didn’t define her, so that’s pretty admirable in Dean’s book. 

“That her?” Dean squints at the personnel photo on the screen. 

He halfway expects the usual washed-out ID photo – bad lighting, stiff posture, grainy DMV quality, maybe even mid-blink. But instead, the picture makes him pause, not just his breath but his heart, too. 

Because even flattened by fluorescent lighting and a bland gray background, the girl on the photo shines and illuminates the whole scene without the need for good angles or straining effort. There’s a natural curve to her mouth that makes even the most neutral facial expression seem like a secret smile. It causes him to wonder what it looks like when she actually smiles. 

Her eyes are somehow soft and sharp at the same time, a steadiness gleaming in them that challenges to hold contact for longer than necessary just to see who breaks it first. He gets the sense that, despite the way she looks – innocent, warm, pretty – this girl doesn’t spook easily. 

“Huh.” Dean shuts the laptop slower than usual and licks his lips. He tells himself it’s just that she’s hot. That’s all. He’s allowed to notice when someone’s hot. But something about the photo persists in his head a heartbeat longer than it should, and he can’t help that now he kind of wants to see her in person – or the smile. 

He wants to see the smile. 

“What?” Sam’s already scowling like he knows what’s coming. He probably does.

“Well,” Dean says and pushes the car door open, stepping out onto the gravel as a smirk begins to form on his lips, “here’s hoping your theory’s wrong.”

Sam halts mid-exit before he slams the passenger door shut. “Excuse me?” 

Dean closes his door and adjusts the lapel of his suit jacket. “‘Cause if this is just a paperwork mix-up and not demon-adjacent, I might actually get a decent night out of it.”

He smirks broad and full then, even though he can tell Sam wants to either smack or throttle him right now. 

Sam stops in his tracks halfway of rounding the hood. “Dude. Are you serious right now?”

He shrugs his shoulders, grin widening. “What? Just saying. She’s cute.” 

“Dean, she might be connected to a house fire tied to the same thing that killed Mom,” Sam points out all righteously. 

Dean’s smirk softens, but it doesn’t disappear. “Yeah,” he says. “And if she’s not, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”

“Unbelievable.” Sam exhales sharply through his nose, already turning toward the house with a shake of his head. 

Dean chuckles and follows, hands slipping into his pockets. The two of them then stroll past uniforms and patrol cars, ducking under yellow tape, badges already out as Dean approaches an officer stationed by the door.

“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”

The cop, however, doesn’t even get a chance to answer before an older woman steps up. She’s somewhere in her forties, maybe a little past it, and definitely looks like she doesn’t startle easily. There are crinkles around her eyes that aren’t from laughing but probably from squinting at bad situations way too often. Years of experience have settled into her posture, knowing exactly how much force to use without wasting it. She also probably knows when to talk and when to let silence do the work. 

She gives seasoned cop energy, and Dean sighs internally. This won’t be easy as pie. 

“Right here. Sergeant Owens.” She doesn’t extend a hand but already squares her shoulders instead. 

“FBI, ma’am.” Dean swallows subtly and quickly flashes his badge before she can notice they’re super fucking fake. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

Sergeant Owens cocks an eyebrow and places her hands challengingly on her hips. “And what exactly does the FBI want with me?”

God, Dean feels a slight buckle in his knees at the firm tone of her voice. It feels like she’s scolding him for something he hasn’t even thought about doing yet. 

“We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction,” Sam jumps in, more fearless than Dean, but that’s probably because Sam’s still driven by his need for answers. Dean doesn’t really want answers. He just wants peace and maybe a burger. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.” 

“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Dean gets straight to the point, not wasting another minute tiptoeing around the subject. He knows jumping into it will probably shake something loose, even if it’s just a defense mechanism. That would already tell him a lot, and that’s all he really needs. 

“My adoptive daughter, yes,” the sergeant confirms and crosses her arms. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Apparently, Sergeant Owens likes getting straight to the point as well. Dean interprets this as a good sign because he’s certainly intimidated by her glare. 

“We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire,” Sam says carefully. “You were the first responder on scene?”

“I was,” Owens confirms, but her eyes never loose their sternness. “It was ruled an accident.” 

“Three dead. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Dean adds. 

She nods once. “That’s right.”

Dean tilts his head slightly at that. “Except here’s the thing,” he continues calmly, wetting his lips. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”

Her gaze expectedly darkens. “What are you implying, agent?”

“I think you know,” is all Dean says, not backing down till Sam cuts in to dissolve the tension. 

“We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”

But the sergeant steps forward, bristling. “Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”

“Mia, it’s okay,” a soft and sweet voice pipes up suddenly, and there’s movement behind Owens.

Dean notices because the air changes in an instant, like someone opened a window and let a gentle breeze in. And before he can blink, you step up beside the sergeant. 

You’re different from the photo. Somehow, in a worse way, which really means better, and that automatically means worse for him. Because in person, there’s even more warmth. It’s almost heat, like the hottest day in July, causing him to sweat in his suit by just looking at you. There’s a barely detectable trace of something electric crackling underneath the surface, under your skin, that the dull picture didn’t capture. A stream of light seeps through the windows and catches in your eyes as if even the sun herself is seeking you out. 

For a heartbeat, Dean forgets what he wanted to say till Sam elbows him in the ribs. 

Right. Words. FBI. Fire. Focus. 

“You don’t have to–” Sergeant Owens turns toward you instantly, protective instinct written all over her face, and Dean recognizes that one from his own father. Maybe even from himself when he looks in the mirror whenever Sam’s concerned. But if the story is true, Dean thinks he understands why their dad picked Mia Owens to keep a secret. 

“It’s fine,” you assure her with a small nod, completely calm in a way that makes Dean nervous. 

His eyes move before his brain catches up, tracing the line of your shoulders beneath the CSI jacket, the shape of your waist, and the quiet confidence in the way you stand. He can tell you’re not reckless or naïve. You know exactly what’s happening here. You’re not scared or confused. You’re measuring, careful, calculated. 

His stomach tightens imperceptibly. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” Your gaze drifts back and forth between him and Sam, assessing. A swallow gets stuck in Dean’s throat, lump thickening. 

“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. Smooth, Winchester. Smooth. He then nods and pulls out his badge with a smidge more confidence. “Special Agent Hetfield. This is Special Agent Sambora.”

You step closer to look – really look – and Dean feels the sweat begin to gather in the back of his neck again, probably soon flushing like a waterfall down his spine. You examine his credentials with far more attention than most people ever do. There’s no rush as your eyes scan over the name, the seal, and even the goddamn laminate. 

Please don’t be a Metallica fan. Please don’t be a Metallica fan…

In his periphery, he can see even Sam shift his weight, sees the tension creeping into his shoulders. Dean resists the urge to yank the ID back like a guilty teenager in a liquor store. He wonders if you’ve already figured it out. You’re smart, he reminds himself and watches your expression for recognition. For amusement. For the moment you call him out.

But instead, you smile. And shit, it’s so much more striking than the photo hinted at. It’s even warmer and brighter, like staring directly into the goddamn sun. 

“Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”

Dean licks his lips, studying you for a moment longer, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s long enough that it causes you to straighten your posture just the slightest bit, bracing for whatever comes next. He can already tell you’re not expecting it to be good news. 

“Are you the girl from the fire?” Dean asks you bluntly, but you don’t stump or jolt back like he expected you would. Like most people would.

Instead, your eyes flicker from him to Sam and then back to him again, seemingly weighing both danger and options. “Am I in trouble?”

It’s not a clear yes, but it’s definitely not a no either. An innocent person would never ask that question. A guilty one would. You are the eleven-year-old girl who survived a fire. Who lost her entire family and is now being forced to talk to two strangers about it. Dean suddenly feels incredibly repentant about that, enough to seek out a church. He won’t, but the urge is there. God, he should’ve never let Sam convince him to come here, poke around, and disrupt a life that’s not theirs to disturb. 

“No,” Sam assures you quickly, shaking his head and giving you that soft smile he always reserves for calming victims. “You’re not in any trouble, I promise. We just want to ask you a few questions about that fire. What you remember…”

You grind your jaw, glancing at Dean again as if you know he’s the weak link here, suspicion clear as day in your eyes. “Why does the FBI care? It was ruled an accident.”

Dean lifts a brow at that, smiling cleverly. Gotcha. “Then why were you declared dead and adopted under a different name?”

You narrow your eyes to a little glare at him, which he finds more adorable than threatening. Then you exhale a sigh of defeat, and Dean almost wants to grin at that but bites it back. 

“Fine,” you huff, your eyes darting around the house that’s currently bustling with cops before you lower your voice. “But not here,” you say. “Besides, I don’t have time right now. I’m still on the clock, and I have a ton of evidence to process. You can come by my lab later. My shift ends at six.”

You pull out a business card and hold it out to him. As Dean takes it, his fingers briefly brush yours, and he swears a jolt of electricity travels straight up his arm and slithers down his spine to places it shouldn’t go. 

“We’ll be there,” Dean promises and can’t really control the slight upward twitch of his lips. 

Without another word, you then turn back toward the rest of the crime scene, already slipping your gloves on, the conversation dismissed without being rude. Dean watches you walk away, gaze unapologetically following the curve of your hips down to your ass before dragging back up again.

When he whistles lowly, Sam kicks his leg pretty damn hard, forcing Dean’s eyes away from you. 

“Dean.” Sam glowers and scolds him like a dog who peed on the new carpet. Sometimes, Dean wonders if his little brother ever wishes to bring a spray bottle of water to these things. “Can you not?”

Sure, Dean could try. But the unnameable restlessness that buzzes in his blood when he thinks about you probably won’t let him. There’s something about you that can’t be stuffed neatly into any labeled box he has, but for the sake of finding something to put you in, he chalks it off to simple attraction. Lust. Chemistry. 

Yeah, that’s probably it. Nothing more to it.

As Dean swings the motel room door open, the smell of old carpet and bleach hits him instantly. The TV is on mute, some local news anchor gesturing dramatically about weekend tourism, but Sam’s attention is nowhere near it. 

His little brother is hunched over the small table by the window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie abandoned, the yellow legal pad beside him filled edge to edge with tight handwriting. There’s also a stack of photocopies scattered in front of him, ranging from birth certificates and property records to archived newspaper clippings and police reports.

“You’re back early.” Sam doesn’t even look up when Dean enters, shutting the door behind him.

“Dude, I’ve been gone six hours. It’s almost five,” he notes. Good thing his own investigation didn’t get him kidnapped or shot this time. Otherwise, he’d probably be dead till Sam noticed he was even gone that long.

Sam lifts his head, brows pinched, and checks his watch like he just surfaced from underwater. “Huh.”

“So, you find anything?” Dean asks and tosses the keys onto the dresser. 

Sam exhaustively leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. “Define anything.”

“Anything weird. Anything cult-y. Any reason a dead kid suddenly isn’t dead anymore.”

“Nope.” Sam exhales hard. “The adoption paperwork is messy but not illegal. Name change’s clean, too. I found the death certificates for her mother and grandmother but not for her.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly. “So she’s… not officially dead.”

Sam shakes his head slowly with a frustrated look gleaming in his brown eyes. “No, uh, it’s not even in the official police report. I mean, hell, there’s not even a mention of her. Like she never existed. The only thing that mentions three deaths during the fire is a local newspaper, but that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Dean’s brow lifts. 

“That’s it.”

“That’s… weird,” Dean says for lack of better words. 

“Tell me about it,” Sam huffs.

“And Dad?”

“Well, if we assume Dad was involved that night, I think he probably is the ‘civilian’ who ‘assisted in the rescue.’ He disappeared before he could give a full account,” Sam states with a tight smile, reading off the report. “If there’s something supernatural in her background, it’s definitely not on paper.”

That’s not necessarily unusual, especially if their father was part of the coverup. The brothers learned early how to erase their tracks properly.   

“I did look into the property records of the house, though,” Sam adds. “It’s got a lot of history. Been in her family for practically centuries. It’s still in her name – her real name. It’s never been sold to anyone else.”

Dean bobs his head, then smacks his lips. “Alright, so let’s say your theory is right and the fire wasn’t an accident and Dad was really there that night, the worst case scenario is that he saved a little girl and then hid her from the evil thing that was probably still after her to finish the job. Is that what you’re saying?”

Sam sighs. “Yes.” 

“Huh.” Dean purses his lips, nodding. “So basically, you’ve got nothing.”

Sam lets out a breath through his nose, drawing his lips into a tight line. “Yup,” he admits somewhat bitterly. “But she’s still gotta be connected to the demon somehow. Why else would Dad have gone through all that trouble to hide a small piece of paper in a demon-proof lockbox?”

“Look, I hear ya, alright? But not everything the old man did always made a whole lotta sense,” Dean reasons. 

Sam’s brow scrunches significantly at that. “Since when are you saying that? You worshipped the man.”

“Since now,” Dean replies without missing a beat, although he really wants to say since Dad idiotically sacrificed his soul for poor little me. “Maybe a demon was involved. Maybe there wasn’t. Hell, doesn’t even mean the fire ties back to the yellow-eyed demon. There’s other demons around, you know? You forgot Meg? Maybe Dad just tracked it out of habit, and it’s your fault for reading too much into three lines on an old note.”

Sam stares at him for a long moment then, hazel eyes completely stern, and Dean knows his little brother pretty much wants to strangle him right now – because he’s right. For once, Dean’s right and Sam’s wrong. Dean can almost feel the universe losing its balance over it. 

He smirks annoyingly wide at that. “Guess that means the CSI hottie is fair game.”

“I think she already has enough trauma in her life without needing your help, Dean,” Sam mutters, amused. 

“No better cure than Vitamin D for that.”

“Dude!”

Yeah, Dean almost wants to slap himself, but he’s too busy grinning shamelessly. 

“Maybe wait till we’ve talked to her and make sure she’s not connected somehow before you hit on her again,” Sam scolds and then checks his watch once more. “Speaking of, we need to leave soon or we’re gonna be late.”

“Yeah, hang on. Got something, too,” Dean says, victory already curving his lips. “Drove around town and looked into the missing women cases. Dug a little deeper.”

A corner of Sam’s mouth lifts wryly. “Oh, good. This should be interesting.” 

Dean shoots him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Sam shrugs lightly, then leans forward on the table. “Just curious what kind of deep investigative journalism you conducted today. Talk to any conspiracy bloggers? Interrogate a barista?”

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs the room’s only other chair, dragging it across the carpet so it faces Sam directly. “You’re hilarious. Really. You should take that on the road.”

“Dean–”

“Eight,” Dean cuts in.

His little brother’s brow furrows. “Eight what?”

“Eight missing women. Not three,” Dean states and watches Sam at least straighten at that. “Five more in the last twelve months. All married. All reported missing by their husbands. And all had domestic disturbance calls logged at some point before they disappeared. You know, neighbors calling in yelling, one shattered window, one ‘accidental fall’ down the porch steps that didn’t quite line up with the bruises. And then all of them just vanished without a trace.”

Sam frowns then, shoulders slumping. “Dean, they probably just left their husbands. Doesn’t mean there’s anything weird going on.”

“Sure.” Dean nods, feeling quite clever. “See, that’s what I thought too at first. But then I talked to a few of the husbands.”

Sam arches a brow. “And?”

“And,” Dean continues, “all of them had accidents after their wives’ disappearances.”

“What kinda accidents?”

Dean exhales slowly through his nose. Boy, that one’s a loaded question. He’s heard some weird shit over the years in this job. Seen worse. But this one surely took the cake. He’s never sat across a red-faced contractor in a living room before, who muttered something about a “freak bedroom thing.” The guy turned purple by the time Dean finally got him to say the words “fracture” and “penis” together in the same sentence. 

That was new territory.

Salem – witch capital of America. He almost laughs at that. If there were ever a town for something old and vindictive to take root, it’d be this one. God, he hates witches. Of course some bitch hauled up here of all places and sprinkles hex bags around like it’s fucking confetti.

“You know, shower slips, stair falls, gym injuries,” Dean replies, coughing up the lump in his throat. 

“That’s vague. Could still be unrelated.”

“Could be.” Dean bobs his head, lips pursed, then looks dryly at his brother. “They all broke their dick, Sam.”

“What?” Sam’s brows pinch together. Hard. 

“Yeah, that got your attention, huh?” Dean slumps back in his chair and lets out a sigh. 

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times before finding the right words. “Did any of them die?”

“No, Sam, they all just had an itchy cast for a few weeks,” Dean deadpans. “I mean, one guy thinks he might have permanent damage, but that’s only ‘cause he was too freaked out and embarrassed to go to the ER.”

Dean doesn’t mention that the last victim’s husband was still wearing a cast, which he kept repeatedly scratching right in front of him. For an entirety of thirty minutes, Dean didn’t know where to look and kept staring at the ceiling fan. 

Sam muses, head nodding. “So let me get this straight – the women are all probably alive and just left, and the husbands are alive too and got away with minor injuries.”

“Minor?”

“You know what I mean. We’ve seen a lot worse,” Sam clarifies, which Dean can hardly deny. This is basically bush league – no pun intended. “What are you thinking? Witch?”

Dean shrugs. “Probably. Fits the M.O.”  

“Look, it still might be a coincidence,” Sam argues, which frustrates Dean greatly. 

He knew Sam was going to call it a stretch, even with all the evidence laid out in front of him. He knew Sam would say correlation isn’t causation. And he knew Sam would point out that injured men don’t automatically equal hex bags and covens.

And Dean knows that, too. But he also knows eight women just don’t evaporate into thin air and husbands don’t shatter things like that by accident. At least not eight fucking times. 

“Dude, c’mon,” Dean counters. “Eight guys having those kinds of injuries is not nothing. I mean, they’re dicks to their wives and then they get injured in the most ironic way possible? When’s the last time you’ve ever heard of something like that, especially in a town this size?”

Sam doesn’t respond, which Dean takes as admission.

“Exactly.”

Sam studies him for a long moment. “Alright, let’s say you’re right–”

“I am.” 

“Even if it’s witchcraft,” Sam continues, “it sounds like a vigilante and not something purely evil.”

“So? What, you wanna give that bitch a free pass just ‘cause she’s got some weird moral compass?” Dean questions.

“So do we,” Sam points out. 

“It’s different.” 

“How so?”

“‘Cause it just is. ‘Cause I said so, alright?” Dean snaps. “Witches are evil. We kill evil things. End of story. I mean, hell, you love all those serial killer docs. You’ve never heard of escalation before? Whoever’s doing this maybe isn’t killing people right now, which is why we have to stop them before they do.”

Sam exhales a long breath at that, caving slightly. “You find any weird symbols? Hex bags?”

“Nope, not yet. But I’ll find something,” Dean assures his little brother. “I’m telling you, man. There’s something weird going on in this town.”

Your lab is a sanctuary of steel counters and fluorescent lights, humming with the quiet efficiency you’ve come to rely on. The evidence board glows behind you in blue, crime scene photos pinned in neat rows, your notes scrawled in the margin. The faint tang of chemicals keeps everything clinical and contained, and the chaos of magic stays locked away here – no tarot deck in sight, no spell books on the shelves, no runes scratched under the desk. It’s just science doing the heavy lifting while you sort fibers and catalog blood spatter.

A knock on the doorframe a few minutes past six then snaps you out of your peaceful routine, announcing Metallica and Bon Jovi right on schedule. 

Metallica leans one broad shoulder against the frame with a smirk in place, suit jacket already unbuttoned, golden freckles and evergreen eyes sparkling under the bright lights. Bon Jovi stands a half-step behind, posture more careful but no less intense. 

Their auras roll into the room ahead of their bodies, brushing against your senses like a breeze through leaves. 

A while ago, you made your own science out of describing auras. Bland names like yellow usually don’t say a whole lot about a person, do they now? Has anyone ever looked at a color wheel properly? There’s more options than just six. Is it a warm yellow? Or does it have more of a blue-ish tint to it? Brighter? Darker? That already says a lot about someone. So, you grabbed a Pantone color catalog from the hardware store not too long ago and got more creative. 

After all, who doesn’t like a little more sparkle and fun in their life?

Well, judging by Metallica’s aura, he might not. His aura is dense and close to his skin like armor. There’s a deep brick red at the core, steady and restrained. It’s the color of adrenaline held on a leash. Of survival mode that never quite switches off. But hunter green (ironic, yes) glimmers through the red. Big caretaker energy a guy like him probably even denies having. There’s also gunmetal gray that spiderwebs around the red and green, locking them up like chainmail. It speaks of grief he clearly hasn’t let himself feel yet. Maybe even survivor’s guilt chewing at the corners.

That one’s definitely your knight, but not in the sense that you’re the princess he needs to rescue. You’re the dragon he’s convinced himself to slay. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Bon Jovi’s aura, on the other hand, is larger, more diffuse, and a lot harder to pin down. His primary color is a bright buttercup yellow, which pulses unevenly. He’s intelligent, anxious, and probably has a mind that overthinks practically everything. A deep Moroccan blue pools heavily around his center, however, telling of grief, emotional depth, and moral restraint. But the most interesting part about this guy? It’s the flickers of mulberry purple striking through the others like lightning. Uninvited and unpredictable. It feels like something is watching back. Psychic potential, maybe? Or maybe it’s just good intuition.

Their colors aren’t what give you pause, though. It’s how their auras interact with each other, which is certainly a rarity. They’re symbiotic. Not many people have that.

Metallica’s red steadies Bon Jovi’s erratic yellow when their gazes meet. In turn, Bon Jovi’s blue cools the heat in Metallica’s red just enough to keep it from boiling over. Metallica’s gray also thins in the other’s presence, like shadows retreating from light, while the purple in Bon Jovi calms as if Metallica’s grounding him.  

Which tells you one thing: they’re more than just hunting partners. Brothers is your best guess. Either that, or they’re super gay for each other with a soulmate-deep bond. You probably shouldn’t ask them to clarify. That never works out well for you. 

What’s important for you, though, is that they’re clearly stronger together. Dangerous even. But they’re also more vulnerable when separated. 

You strip off your gloves and rise from your swivel chair with a deceptively bright smile. “Agents, right on time. I was just finishing up. Come on in.”

They do. The door clicks shut behind them, which feels threatening enough, considering you’re pretty sure they want to kill you or do God knows what else with you. Did they already bring the matches and lighter fluid? 

But even with the pressure on your shoulders, you gesture to the chairs across your workstation. “Have a seat. Thirsty? I’ve got some water I can offer you.”

You spin to the mini-fridge and pull out two chilled bottles of water – holy water, to be exact. Quietly blessed last week by the local Catholic priest. If they’re demons, it’ll sizzle on contact. If not, well, hydration is key.

“Thanks,” Bon Jovi says, accepting one bottle with a polite nod. He twists the cap, takes a sip. 

Nothing. 

Metallica does the same, gulping half of it down without so much as a blink. Still nothing.

Clean. Human. Hunters. Still dangerous. Still lethal. Especially to someone like you. But they’re not the obvious kind of monster that hides under beds and in closets.

Slightly more relieved, you settle back in your chair, folding your hands on the desk. Warm enough to disarm but cool enough to maintain distance. The goal is to seem professional, helpful, harmless, which is easy because you are. 

“So, the fire. What do you want to know, agents?”

Bon Jovi leans forward first, the buttercup yellow flaring with that anxious intelligence. “We’re looking into some old cases that might connect to similar incidents. The Sugar Hill fire – was there anything unusual about it? Anything you remember that maybe didn’t make the official report?”

You let your expression soften just enough, playing the role of the cooperative survivor. You’ve rehearsed this story a thousand times by now – ever since Mia took you in. You’ve kept it simple, tragic, human. 

“I was only eleven. I don’t remember a whole lot,” you start, swallowing, a hint of old pain creeping into your voice. It’s not an act for their benefit, though. The loss of that night still aches like a root pulled from soil. “I woke up to smoke and flames. My mom and grandma… They didn’t make it out.”  

“How did you survive?” Metallica asks, but it doesn’t sound accusing. It sounds like he’s angling for something specific. 

Are they curious about the demon? Is that why they’re here and sought you out?

“A man pulled me out of the house, carried me to safety, and handed me over to Mia. She adopted me a few days later,” you explain.  

“Did–, uh, did this stranger say what his name was?” Bon Jovi asks. 

You give them a shrug of your shoulders, then shake your head slightly, brow creased. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Maybe Jim? Jonathan? It was a long time ago. I’m sorry,” you say – or lie. “The cops ruled it an accident back then. Blamed it on faulty wiring.”

Metallica’s brick red holds steady as he watches you the whole time, juniper eyes calm but attentive. “This guy, uhm… did he say why he was there? Anything about your family? Why he was in the right place at the right time?”

You shake your head, offering a sad smile. “Not that I remember. He just… helped. Kind stranger, you know? I mean, I was a traumatized kid. Mia handled the paperwork. I had nothing to do with that. She just changed my name and moved with me here to give me a fresh start. Sugar Hill is a small community. She didn’t want me to live with this my whole life. That’s really all there is to it.”

Bon Jovi’s blue deepens significantly, disappointment glimmering through his yellow. He was hoping for more – something about patterns, maybe, or why your family might have been targeted. But you can’t give him anything to grab onto. Even if they’re here for the demon, trust is earned and not simply given. The cards warned you for a reason.

Metallica, on the other hand, visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop, and the red aura settles as if he internally exhaled. Then a sly, almost triumphant glint crosses his face. He’s clearly decided you’re normal, which brings you relief for the moment. The knight’s armor has been dismantled. Tragic backstory, smart girl who turned pain into a forensics career, no red flags, case closed, you can practically hear him think.

Your own expression stays neutral, but on the inside, you’re smirking wide. Gotcha. Now, you just have to get rid of them and hope they leave town soon without poking around too much. But another knock on the door foils your plans. 

Shit, Paige, you realize as you look up, past the two fake FBI agents in your lab, and see your best friend strolling through the door with her usual cheerful smile. 

As Paige pokes her head in, her curls bounce and her grin widens. “Yo, evidence queen, you better not still be buried in blood. Drinks wait for no woman. I will personally drag you out of here if I have to–”

She stops dead in her tracks when she spots the two men in suits in front of you, her brow knitting more and more with each second that passes by. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions. 

“Shit.” Her eyes widen and her teeth clench before she grimaces fully. “Am I interrupting something?”

Before you can reply, Metallica already twists around with a smirk in place. The guy really goes for anything with boobs and two legs, huh? Makes a girl feel real special. Not that you blame him. Paige has always been pretty and bubbly enough to wrap guys around her little finger. But she’s also been your biggest confidante – the Willow to your Buffy, so to speak. 

“No, not all,” Metallica says with a charm that could be easily mistaken for gentleness if you didn’t see the gun poking out under his suit jacket. “Me and my partner were just finishing up here.”

Paige frowns a little more at that and tilts her head. You already know what she’s thinking. “Partner? As in…”

Do not say gay, you warn her with a sharp look because you can already see Metallica latching onto the implication, shoulders tensing and drawing back, eyes crinkling in bewilderment, like his ego is a physical thing that just got wounded. He’s gotten that accusation before. You can tell and try your hardest not to laugh out loud. 

“FBI,” you provide quickly, shooting her another look. You hope it’s enough to alleviate the sting in Metallica’s ego and keep him from proving his virility by overcompensating in the stupidest way possible as boys often tend to do. You then glance back at Paige. “I’m almost done, alright? Just wait at Clancy’s. I’ll be out in five.”

Paige nods slowly but tosses you a worried look as if she can feel the tension in your muscles. You don’t want her to get hurt. If hunters are poking around in your life and even remotely suspect you’re a witch, they will look at any woman close to you and automatically assume it’s a coven. 

To clarify, it’s not. 

Sure, you’ve taught her a spell or two, mostly for self-defense. Like a father teaching his daughter how to knee a douche in his crown jewels. Not that you have any first-hand experience with that since you don’t know your dad, but you imagine that’s probably a pretty similar reason. However, you’ve never ever sat around a cauldron before and cackled like a maniac.

God, you hate most witch movies. They really give your kind a bad rep. Melissa Joan Hart gets a pass, though. Whoever made Hocus Pocus, on the other hand, should be burned at the stake, especially the person responsible for casting Sarah Jessica Parker. Carrie was fucking annoying in Sex and the City, too.   

“You know, me and my partner could use a drink,” Metallica suddenly chimes in, charismatic grin shaping into form. Fucking hell. He still needs to mend his ego and lick his wounds in front you, it seems. You steel your expression as you meet his expectant eyes. “Mind if we crash girls’ night? Tag along? Off duty, promise.”

Yes, I’d mind, dickhead, you think bitterly. Read the fucking room.

Even Bon Jovi shoots him a look of clear disapproval, blue cooling the flare in Metallica’s red. But his partner skillfully ignores it, undeterred, gaze locked on you. The interest is obvious now that he’s apparently decided you’re safe. You wonder how a guy with those instincts is still alive, considering tricking him only required a smile, a sad story, and a little cleavage from you. You guess Bon Jovi’s intelligence is mostly keeping him out of greater trouble. 

You keep the smile trained on your face, but your frustration spikes. You want them fucking gone, out of this town, and not embedding themselves in your normal life. But refusing outright might ping suspicion. 

Play along. Survive. Make sure no one else gets hurt.

“Sure,” you say and clear your throat slightly. “The more the merrier. The bar’s called Clancy’s. It’s on Church Street. Meet you there at seven?”

“Great.” Metallica gives you a nod, satisfied. In his head, the gears are shifting, already planning the night. “See you, ladies.”

You watch them go, exhaling slowly once the door shuts. Harmless? Hardly. But they’ve bought the act. For now, you’re just the normal girl with the sad story and the cute friend, and Metallica thinks he’s got a shot at taking you back to whatever roach-infested motel they’re crashing in.

You almost laugh out loud at the irony. Keep dreaming, hunter.

“Hey, what’s going on? Why was the FBI here?” Paige whisper-asks as she hurries over to you, even though the door is firmly shut again and the men in black are long gone.

“They’re not really FBI,” you explain. “I think they’re hunters.”

“Shit,” it slips out of her, brow scrunching. “Really? Do they know you’re, like, you know…”

“No, obviously not, or I would be dead by now,” you hiss and start to pace your desk to free yourself of some of the nervous energy buzzing in your veins. 

“Why would you invite them to drinks, then?”

“Dude! What was I supposed to say? I didn’t wanna raise suspicion by trying too hard to get rid of them.”

“Right. Smart.” Paige nods, purses her lips, and then looks back at you. “So, what now? What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, feeling somewhat helpless. “Act normal? Hope they leave again? Get ‘em drunk enough to miss their aim?”

“Good plan.”

When the door suddenly swings back open, you already brace yourself for a bullet flying your way before recognizing Mia and exhaling another breath of relief. She shuts the door quickly and quietly and then instantly finds your eyes. 

“Just saw those two agents leave the precinct. Are they hunters?” she asks, her voice sterner than usual, but you’ve learned over the years that just means she’s concerned. 

You nod. “I think so, yeah. They asked about the fire. And they wanted to know about John Winchester.”

“Did you tell them anything?”

You shake your head, swallowing. 

“Good. Keep it that way,” she tells you, and you know it’s more than just a command. “Are they leaving town again?”

Another head shake from you. “No, they invited themselves to Clancy’s with me and Paige tonight.” 

Mia takes that in with a pensive bob of her head, then lets out a sigh. “Alright, go, but be careful. Don’t say too much. We don’t need them poking their noses into our business,” she says. “I spoke to Amy at the hospital again. She says she already wants to leave tonight if possible. Try to get rid of them by then, yeah?”

You nod quickly and share another look with Paige. You’ve played normal all your life. You can do it again tonight. 

As Dean slides behind Baby’s wheel, the familiar creak of the door and the distinct scent of old leather and gun oil instantly envelope him like a second skin. The engine rumbles to life with that low, satisfying growl he never gets damn tired of hearing as he lets his head tip back against the seat for half a second and grins like he just won a bet against Sam he never actually made out loud.

“See?” he says, throwing the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. “Hate to say I told you so. Normal girl. Sad story, smart as hell, works with gross stuff dead people leave behind for a living. No demon deals, no witchy vibes, no nothing. Just a hot CSI with a tragic backstory and killer legs.”

Sam slumps in the passenger seat and crosses his long arms, staring straight ahead with a sour look. “She gave us holy water, Dean.”

Dean snorts loudly at that, one hand drumming the steering wheel to the tail end of Zeppelin. “Dude, she gave us water. Cold water. From a fridge. In July. In a lab and a building full of cops. You’re reaching, Sammy.”

“She watched us drink it. Didn’t take her eyes off us once. That’s not casual hospitality. She was testing us,” Sam counters. 

Dean rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out the window. “Or she’s polite and didn’t want us dying of dehydration while she answered our invasive questions about her dead family. Either way, you’re projecting. You want her to be part of Dad’s puzzle so bad you’re inventing clues.”

Sam’s jaw flexes. “I think she was playing us. Don’t you think she answered every question too perfectly? She was too calm. She gave us exactly what we wanted to hear and nothing more. No slip-ups, no emotions, nothing. People who’ve been through that kind of trauma usually crack a little when you bring it up. She didn’t.”

Dean’s grin fades a fraction, grip tightening imperceptibly on the wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, though, but the image of you flickers behind his lids. You’ve learned early to lock your pain down tightly, carrying it without letting it spill. Dean remembers being four. He remembers the smell of smoke, the heat, his mother’s scream cut off like someone snuffed a candle. Sam was only a baby. He got the blank slate version. Dean got the full-color replay that still shows up in nightmares, the taste of ash on his tongue when he wakes up gasping.

An eleven-year-old girl watching her whole world burn? Pulling herself out of that hell – or being pulled – only to have strangers poke at the scars years later?

Yeah, he gets why you’ve built walls. Hell, he respects it.

“She’s allowed to be guarded,” he mutters, quieter than the usual bravado he serves Sam in these instances. “Doesn’t make her a monster. Makes her smart. You’d do the same.”

Sam shoots him a sideways look, surprised. “You’re defending her now?”

“I’m saying she’s human, Sam,” Dean snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it. “And humans who’ve been through hell learn how to smile through the questions. Doesn’t mean she’s hiding a cauldron in her basement. Although, in this town, she just might. But probably only for Halloween decorations.”

He flicks the turn signal, changes lanes, and tries to shake the weird tug in his gut when he thinks about you standing there in that white lab coat, all competence and quiet steel. It felt familiar – like déjà vu he can’t place. Not in a creepy way, though. It’s more like recognizing a song one hasn’t heard since their childhood. But he shoves the feeling aside. After all, what’s the point in chasing something when the facts are clear?

You’re clean. Case closed. And maybe legs open?

Dean knows better than to say that last thought out loud, however. Sam would only smack him again. Nevertheless, there’s something really satisfying about the possibility of ending the night with company that isn’t his little brother or a poltergeist for once. 

“You should go for the friend,” he suggests then, smirk molding back in place. “Paige. She’s got that bubbly energy. Balances out your brooding. You two could talk about feelings or whatever while I handle the grown-up stuff with the Crime Scene Siren. Maybe offer up my body for some scientific research.”

Dean wiggles his brows. Sam snorts, finally cracking a genuine smile. 

“I’m not looking to ‘go for’ anything tonight,” Sam states as expected, however. “I’m going back to the motel. There’s still Dad’s notes, the rune, the adoption records. Something’s off, Dean. I can feel it.”

Dean sighs – internally at first, then out loud for effect. “Yeah, yeah, you and your feelings. Suit yourself. Means more drinks and girls for me. And hey, if things go well, maybe I won’t even come back tonight.” 

The mental image already flashes shamelessly behind his eyes – you laughing at all his jokes across the table, maybe leaning in close enough that he catches whatever shampoo or perfume you use, maybe letting him walk you to your car, maybe–

He cuts the thought off before it gets too detailed (or his jeans become too tight).

But the grin creeps right back a second later. Sam can sulk in a motel room with yellowed journal pages all he wants. But Dean? He’s got plans. And for the first time since his father died, those plans don’t involve a shovel or a shotgun.

He turns up the volume of the stereo as Ramble On kicks in, letting the guitar fill the silence. Even if Sam’s right – and Dean’s pretty damn sure he isn’t – tonight’s not about answers for once. Tonight’s all about forgetting the damn questions for a couple of hours.

Dean’s elbows lean casually on the scarred wood of a high-top table at a cozy little dive bar called Clancy’s, a beer bottle dangling loosely between his fingers while his grin is shamelessly wide as you lean close and hold his gaze in such an easy way that the whole damn room feels a size smaller. 

The bar’s got that lived-in feel as classic rock fills the air in the mid-evening buzz, people chatting and clinking glasses. It’s got just enough grit to keep things lively. Your friend Paige went for a refill a while ago but never made her way back, which Dean doesn’t mind even a little. He’s got you right where he wants you – smiling, leaning in, batting your lashes, and some time ago, you even touched his forearm for several seconds, which is the universal signal for getting laid tonight. He’s three beers in already while you’re only on your second one, so he’s got to watch it a little. 

“By the way, apologies for my partner earlier. Sambora's got that whole, you know, brooding-genius thing locked down. Thinks every loose end’s hiding a conspiracy,” Dean says, takes a sip of beer, and leans an inch closer. “Me? I’m the approachable one. The fun one. The guy who closes cases and still has time for a drink with a sharp forensics expert like you.”

You quirk a brow, lips curving in amusement. “Approachable, huh? Is that what we’re calling ‘the fed who shows up unannounced and asks personal questions’ these days?”

He chuckles, leaning forward a fraction more. “Guilty. But in my defense, it’s hard not to be curious when the CSI on scene is this smart. And easy on the eyes. And funny. Triple threat.”

Your laugh softly, teeth rolling over your bottom lip. “Careful with the flattery, or I might just think you’re after more than just case details here,” you quip and take a sip of beer without breaking eye contact. “So is that your pitch? You’re the cool agent who doesn't let the job eat him alive?” 

“Something like that.” Dean shrugs casually, chuckling. “Gotta balance out the gloom. Life’s too short for all work, no play, right? Otherwise, it’s all stakeouts and bad coffee. Though I’d take bad coffee any day if it came with company like this.” 

Your eyes narrow, but there’s a spark in them that sharpens your smile. “C’mon, Agent Hetfield–”

“Dean,” he offers. 

“Dean,” you repeat, and he shivers a little when you do because it feels like your voice learned its own melody just to say his name. “What’s really on your mind, huh? I’m sure you didn’t tag along just to charm me out of my crime scene stories.” 

He licks his lips, chuckling softly. “Uh, not entirely, no,” he admits and nurses his beer, knuckles lightly tapping the wooden table. “You know, uhm, actually, can I ask you about some other cases?”

You purse your lips, brow pinching slightly. “Uhm, sure.”

“You, uhm, ever seen the missing women posters outside the station?”

“Yeah, sure, I have,” you reply. “Hard to just walk by something like that.”

“Right, uhm, well, I looked into it a little and saw they had all domestic disturbance calls prior to their disappearances,” he says and watches you nod along. “You were the CSI on some of those scenes when things went south, right?”

“Yeah, it’s really sad what happened to them. I hope they’re okay,” you note sympathetically. “Are you suspecting any of the husbands? Because I didn’t find any relations or other things connecting each victim.”

“Uh, no,” he says at first but then quickly shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “When you were at those scenes, you ever notice anything off? You know, weird vibes, anything that screamed ‘not just a runaway’?” 

You pause mid-sip and lower your beer again, brow furrowing slightly as it often does with people whenever he asks those kinds of questions. He may have just ruined his chances for sex, but a case always comes first. Well, most times it does. 

“Vibes?” You arch a brow, amusement sneaking back into your smile. “Didn’t know the FBI was regarding crime scene vibes as cold, hard proof.”

Dean just smirks. “Humor me a little. You’ve seen any symbols? Felt anything off? You know, small things that don’t make the report but stick with you.”

“Off? Symbols? In Salem? Half the town’s built on weird vibes,” you quip, laughing. 

“Right, yeah,” he chuckles. Stupid witch capital of America. 

“Listen, those women mostly came from broken homes, you know? To be quite honest with you, I think they just finally snapped and left without a forwarding address,” you say. “There never was any blood or fingerprints that didn’t match. No ransom notes. If there’s a pattern, it’s probably human nature and not some X-Files twist. In my lab, it’s DNA and fibers only. Sorry to disappoint.”

Dean nods, taking it in. “Human nature, huh? Guess you’re probably right. Still, eight in a year. No trace. Makes a guy wonder.” 

“Oh, wonder all you want, agent,” you say with a sly smile. “But if it was a monster under the bed, I’d have found the claw marks by now. Promise.”

Dean barks a laugh at that because he’d love to tell you how wrong you are, but he only ever steals people’s innocence and shatters their illusions about the real world when he absolutely has to – when their lives depend on it. But for a moment, the FBI mask and bravado still slip. His eyes study you for a beat – not just skimming the surface, but how you’ve constructed your life. You’ve got friends who drag you out, a job that keeps you grounded, and routines that surely don’t involve salt rounds or devil’s traps. 

He envies it more than he wants to admit. Wonders what it would’ve felt like to grow up without the road and without the weight of revenge. If he hadn’t been dragged from one monster to the next. If he’d stayed in one place long enough to finish school, date someone normal – maybe even have a girl like you laugh at his dumb jokes over cheap beer on a Wednesday night without having to lie about his entire existence.

He understands your quiet armor. Admires it even. You’ve turned fire into focus, loss into logic. He carries his own version of it every day. 

“Why?” you ask then, a hint of concern lacing your tone. “You think there’s something more to these cases?”

“Nah.” Dean shakes his head, gulping his beer. “Just covering bases. Town like this – tourists, history, all the ghost-tour crap. Can make someone wonder if the stories ever bleed into real life sometimes.”

“Only on the brochures,” you tease, grinning.

He smirks, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “To keeping it boring, then.”

You clink your bottle with his, the conversation then drifting to bar stories, bad cases, and the sort of small talk that feels bigger because neither of you is pretending to be someone else. Well, at least, not entirely. 

Admittedly, Dean likes how you match him – quick, dry, and never flinching. He likes how you don’t shrink when he leans in or when the flirting edges closer to reality. It feels… natural.

“Paige is a force of nature. Keeps me from turning into a hermit,” you tell him after drink number three, while he switched the beer for a whiskey on the rocks. You’re a little warmer and looser now, but there’s still that silent steel underneath around your heart he clocked back at the lab. “Someone has to drag me out when I start talking to evidence bags like they’re people, you know?”

“I hear ya,” he says, nodding. “And hey, no judgement. I talk to my car.”

“Well, it’s a nice car,” you note and smirk, sharp eyes seeing right past the FBI suit and charm. “Although, you do strike me as the type who’d name it something ridiculous like… I don’t know – Betsy.”

“First of all, it’s a she,” he starts, only halfway serious. Well, seventy-five percent serious. “And her name’s Baby. She’s a ’67 Chevy Impala. Show some respect, alright?”

A laugh bubbles out of you at that, and Dean has to laugh, too. For a second, the tension between him and you sharpens and transforms into electricity. It’s the kind that makes him want to lean across the table and see how far that smile of yours goes. And fuck, he almost does. It’s so fucking easy how you fit – like you’ve done this before, even though Dean knows damn well you haven’t. 

He takes another swig from his beer, lets the cold bite chase away the softer thought. He’s not here for feelings. He’s here for a night that doesn’t end with blood or sulfur or another stained motel ceiling staring back at him. 

One night – that’s the deal he makes with himself every damn time.

Your phone then suddenly vibrates on the table. You glance at the screen for a second before your face shifts into professional calm. “Uh, sorry, it’s work. One sec,” you excuse yourself and turn toward a quieter corner of the bar. 

Dean stays put, but as you move, your bag on the table falls open. He doesn’t mean to snoop. He really, really doesn’t. But it’s almost impossible to keep his eyes away from its contents. 

He spies a small velvet pouch inside, a bundle of herbs that smell too sharply of sage, a notebook with that same angular B-rune on it, and a deck of tarot cards fanning out just enough for him to catch the intricate backs and one visible face – something with swords and a charging knight.

Dean’s gut twists.

Tarot. Herbs. A spell book. Holy water. The flawless deflections. Eight women vanishing clean after scenes you processed.

Goddammit. Was Sam fucking right? He’s never going to let Dean live that down.

But you’re a witch, aren’t you? And not just any witch – you’re the one he’s been hunting. 

When you finish the call, you hurry back to the table and scoop up your bag without noticing his stare. You then spin to him with a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Lab emergency. Gotta run. Rain check?”

He forces the charm back into place. “Sure. No worries. Duty calls. Work never sleeps, right?”

“Yeah, something like that.” You flash a quick smile, nod, and sling the bag over your shoulder, heading for the door.

You’re gone a moment later, Dean’s eyes following you until the door swings shut behind you. Then the flirtatious warmth in his chest sours into hunter focus.

He downs the rest of his whiskey in one go, sets the glass down hard, tosses some cash on the table, and heads for the door as well. 

Game on, witch.

▶️ Chapter 2: Every Bait and Switch – June 5

Oh my, we might've pushed Dean a little too far here lol. You guys think he's more salty that she's a witch or that she got one over on him? 😂 Don't be fooled by the feelings and flirting in this first one, though. That boy's gonna switch quite fast now 🙈

What did you think of this rather rough start? Leave your thoughts and theories below, friends!

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“Don’t move.” His deep voice carries across the courtyard like a blade, the barrel of his gun smoothly trained on your back. 

The familiar click that follows is loud in the quiet night, clean and unmistakable. You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch, eyes going wide the second you see the weapon in his hands. 

“It’s not what it looks like!” 

Dean huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in a different situation and steps closer. “Yeah? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you found your next victim.”

“Dean–” Sam already hisses behind him, but Dean skillfully ignores the protest. 

“I got it,” he mutters under his breath and doesn’t lower the gun even for a second, dark green eyes fixed on you. “Step away from them. Now.”

But instead of following his order, you do the opposite and step right in front of them, shielding both mother and son behind your back. The woman lets out a startled sound, pulling her son with her as they tuck tighter behind you. The boy whimpers once, muffled against his mother’s thigh as he clutches a stuffed fox to his body. His eyes are wide and fixed on Dean, but he’s not curious or confused. He’s scared. 

Scared of him.

For a moment, that throws Dean off his game because that’s not usually how it goes. Usually, fear is pointed in the right direction. Usually, it tells him exactly who the monster is. 

Not in this case, though. 

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When Carole King sings that she feels the Earth move under her feet, that’s what you feel when you set foot onto a crime scene. It’s hard to put into words, but there’s something in the air, in the earth, in the water. And that something always tells a story – one only meant for you. It’s like having a sixth sense. And no, luckily you don’t see dead people. 

Well, usually, you don’t…

You mostly try to stay away from ghosts and ghouls and everything that goes bump in the night. What you do have is a natural gift, however, passed down by your ancestors for generations.

You call Salem your home. 

Some might find that slightly ironic or odd or even reckless for a witch to settle here, considering the town’s well-documented and long, rich history of witch hunts. They do have a lot of museums and tourist attractions here to commemorate the joyous event…

Living here may get you hanged or burned at the stake, yes – or it may be the smartest cover of all time. Who, in their right mind, would ever expect a witch to choose this as her home and come looking for her here, after all? 

Exactly. 

You perfectly blend in with all the other pointed hats they sell at souvenir shops around here. Aside from that, the choice was never truly yours. 

John Winchester had once picked this place for you many moons ago. 

You exhale a sigh and glance up at the small family home in front of you, the white siding dulled by cloud coverage. It looks pleasantly innocent, but the earth underneath it knows what happened here. It’s restless beneath your feet, the roots threading through the moist soil pulled tight like they braced for an enormous impact. 

The trees around the property crowd close and whisper, feelings caught in bark and giving their secrets away to the wind. The woods always remember everything, but they’re downright awful storytellers. It’s usually up to you to translate.

Anger. Fear. Pain. 

You can feel it in the air all around you. Each emotion has a different aura and comes in different shades. But your grandmother once taught you how to read them before you’d even learned how to tie your shoes. 

Sometimes, gathering evidence isn’t just about what you can see with your own eyes. It’s not just about fingerprints and blood spatter and bodily fluids lighting up under UV light. Emotions, especially strong ones, leave imprints behind, too. 

Magic and a cosmic bond with the universe certainly doesn’t replace forensics, but it is its own kind of science. When people think of magic, they tend to assume it’s something supernatural that science can’t touch – an invisible, surreal force. But it’s very much tangible and real to you. Just because the average human can’t see it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Magic is part of this world like everything else – like gravity, space, time, motion, and light.

What? Because some fancy scientists at CERN haven’t found the atom for magic yet automatically means it doesn’t exist at all? Two millennia ago, humans also thought the Earth was flat until Aristotle proved them wrong. 

You’re Aristotle in this scenario. 

So, when you investigate a crime scene, you let the official science tell you the how, when, where, and, if you’re lucky, even the who. But magic provides the why.

Try telling that to the cops, though. 

The house itself is tucked just far enough from the main road that the gravel path leading up to it disappears into mud after the last summer storm, surrounded by scrub brush and scattered oaks. Even the grass seems uneasy, slick and bent under the weight of water, each blade vibrating faintly in the unsettled air. Summers in Salem are sticky, heavy with heat and humidity as the wind carries a richness from the land and sea alike. But even on the sunniest day, this town doesn’t feel harmless. 

Neither does this house.

You duck under the yellow tape, nodding at the uniform stationed by the front door. He gives you the usual look – half curiosity and half skepticism. Everyone at the station has a look they specifically reserve just for you.

The frown. The raised brow. An eye roll here or there. A challenging scoff. A glare. 

You’ve learned to ignore them, though, and even started to collect them over the years like trading cards.

Inside the house, the place still tries its damn hardest to look normal. And normal is usually the fucking problem. 

A few things are immediately obvious upon entry: the coffee table is pushed back an inch too far, a picture frame hangs crookedly on the wall – the glass not broken but spiderwebbed – and the couch cushions don’t line up like they should. The living room is already bustling with cops, techs, and a photographer trying to take pictures from an angle that will never tell the whole truth. 

Then there are the things only you can see. 

The threshold is smeared with the tiniest trace of something that doesn’t belong there – panic. It clings to the doorway like humidity, thick enough that you hesitate before stepping inside. Your aura brushes the frame, and the house responds like a startled animal. 

Fear leaves residue. Pain sinks deep. Violence doesn’t vanish just because someone cleaned the floor. 

You close your eyes for half a second and breathe it in. The ground exhales with you, relieved to be noticed. Then you pull gloves from your pocket and slip them on, mostly because it makes everyone else feel better, your mind already scanning and sorting.

Blood doesn’t shout, but it pulls at your attention like the tide, clinging to fibers and cracks and the places people forget to scrub. You crouch near the edge of the rug, your fingers hovering just above the fabric, and feel resistance there – the ghost of something wiped away but not erased.

“You gonna tell us what you’re seeing, kid?” a detective asks, his tone suggesting he already regrets the question. It’s Murphy, one of the older and more seasoned ones at the station. 

The other cops at the precinct never take you seriously, no matter how many times you prove them wrong. You’re always too young. You’re always too weird. Brilliant, thorough, impossible to fluster – but weird. 

You talk to yourself. You notice things no one else does. You correct people mid-sentence and don’t always apologize. The fact that you graduated early with a forensic science degree and solve cases faster than anyone else tends to buy you forgiveness, however. 

Most times, at least.

You rise smoothly to your feet and humor the man with a smile. “There’s trace under the sink. He washed up there. And check the stair railing. Skin cells should be under the varnish.”

Another detective, this one younger and nameless to you, squints at you from across the room. “You get all that from vibes or what?” 

“From paying attention,” you quip without bothering to turn around. “Highly recommend it.”

“She does this every time,” another one mutters under his breath. That’s Kaminski. He smokes a pack a day in the parking lot, which is why you recognize him by the rasp in his voice. 

“And I’m right every time,” you retort. “It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.”

“Educated guess,” Murphy scoffs, skeptical as ever. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks, you suppose. Especially the Irish ones. 

You ignore the comments and laughter that follow till the chatter suddenly dies down when Sergeant Mia Owens sets foot onto the crime scene. Years on the force have given her a presence that rearranges rooms without raising her voice. She’s been doing this too long to waste energy on theatrics.

“She’s not guessing,” Mia says, calm and firm all at once. “So if you’d like this wrapped up before next week, let her work, hm?” 

Mia meets your eyes, her expression sharp but warm, the way it’s always been ever since a hunter dropped you on her doorstep at eleven, feral with grief and too much truth in your blood. She never asked for explanations you weren’t ready to give. She just decided you were worth the trouble, opened her door for you, and told you to take your shoes off. 

Somewhere along the way, she became your anchor – your advocate, your shield, and the person who showed you how to exist in places that didn’t quite want you. She taught you how to stand your ground in a world that doesn’t like things it can’t categorize. 

She’s been defending you ever since.

Mia steps closer to you, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “Victim’s alive. Kid wasn’t hurt.”

“Good.”

“But his lawyer is already pushing an accident. Claims she fell,” she adds quietly and then studies you for a moment. “She doesn’t have anywhere to go. If this falls apart…”

She doesn’t need to finish. You understand without words.

“She still in the hospital?”

Mia nods. 

“I’ll finish up here and then stop by to talk to her,” you say softly. “Can you make sure no one goes into the bedroom? I wanna do a reading.”

Mia doesn’t hesitate, putting two fingers into her mouth, whistling loud enough for the entire room to turn their heads in her direction. “Alright, gentlemen, how about we clear out and let forensics do their job before you’re dragging mud all over the evidence, huh?”

The room clears quickly after that as you hurry into the main bedroom of the house. The air is more chill here, no warmth or love left inside these four walls. You carefully close the door behind you and settle down on the bed, pulling a deck of tarot cards from your shoulder bag. 

God, you can already imagine the raised eyebrows if one of those heathens outside could see you right now. 

You then shuffle the cards once before cutting the deck. The first question you always ask is: 

What happened here?

The Five of Wands is the first card you pull. It tells a story of conflict, chaos, and escalation. Violence was born out of anger here and not strategy. It wasn’t an accident. It was an argument that boiled over. 

The King of Cups shows up next, but it’s reversed. It’s meant for the perpetrator – the husband. It’s the usual card that comes up for an abusive drunk. It’s emotional manipulation and rage behind closed doors. It’s a man who knows how to cry alligator tears on cue and tells everyone how much he loves his wife while his emotions rot under the surface and ferment there. 

The Nine of Pentacles is reversed, too. It’s the wife. Her independence has been stripped away. She can’t leave easily. It’s a cage that disguises itself as a home, but this house isn’t safe anymore. 

But what happens next? That’s the most important question and decides her fate. 

Ten of Wands.

You swallow thickly. The card is a warning. Next time, it won’t be an ambulance. She’ll leave this house in a body bag. 

You gather the cards together again, your fingers steady even when your heart feels hollow and aches with sympathy. One card, however, slips free and lands right in front of you. 

Uh-oh. 

You hate when they do that because you know this one’s solely meant for you. You flip it around and place it down on the mattress in front of you. 

Knight of Swords.

Your whole body goes still, your brow furrowing. Ugh, not this guy…

Look at this dude, riding into battle on his high horse. It’s a man on a mission. He wants to succeed in his quest no matter what, blind to everything else around him. Once he charges forth, he can’t be stopped. It’s action before thought, justified by righteous certainty. 

After all, the world is simple if you hit it hard enough, right?

But what does that mean for you? 

Well, you suppose someone is coming, and they’re not riding gently into the night, either. On the contrary, they’re bringing an agenda with them. The knight won’t ask if he’s right because he has already decided that he is. 

Your skin creeps with goosebumps all the way up your arms, your eyes flicking to the closed door, the murmurs of cops barely audible outside. Did someone out there finally discover you’re a witch and is coming to burn you at the stake?

Your gaze lands back on the deck of cards. Why are you coming for me?

You pick up another card and flip it around. Your heart stops. Shit, it’s a big one, which means this isn’t good. 

The Judgment.

Oh, someone definitely caught your scent, seeing you for who you truly are. It doesn’t automatically mean death, though. It just announces a reckoning in some shape or form. There’s an outstanding score to be settled. 

God, who did you piss off this time?

As you gather the cards carefully again, tucking them back into your bag, you hear the deep rumble of a car outside. It surely doesn’t sound like any cop car you’ve ever heard, and it can’t be the owners of this home, either. 

Slowly, you rise from the bed and peek past the yellowed curtains out the window, spotting an old but classic, sleek-black Impala pulling up the muddy drive. 

Your skin tingles. The blood prickles in your veins. 

It’s not exactly a white horse, but you have a feeling your knight has just arrived. You curse the damn cards for warning you so late. Couldn’t they have already told you that last night when you still had time to pack a stupid bag?

A minute later, the car doors rattle open, two young men stepping out almost simultaneously like they practiced their exit. They don’t look like cops. They’re too clean for local law enforcement and too sharp for state boys. Their worn suits are ironed enough to pass but look more like costumes. 

One of them is obnoxiously tall and broad-shouldered with a mop of hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in a while. The other is shorter with a solid build that suggests he knows exactly how to throw a punch. The tall one tilts his head and mumbles something, brows pinched tightly. The shorter one then smirks and says something that makes the other huff a breath in response. 

Frustration. 

You don’t need to read auras or tarot to understand that. 

As they start their march toward the house, you peel away from the window and force yourself into motion. You hurry back into the living room, where Mia is speaking to some of the remaining techs. You grab your kit, crouch near the rug again, photograph fibers, bag samples, and jot down notes you won’t ever submit. You let your hands stay busy so your ears can do the real work.

“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”

It’s the short one. His voice is raspy and smooth like a bourbon, an undercurrent of authority lacing his tone. 

Mia’s voice rings out immediately. “Right here. Sergeant Owens.”

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, already irritated and suspicious enough to make the two young men shake in their boots. 

“FBI, ma’am,” the shorter one says and flashes his badge quickly. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

You frown a little at the names. Is it really a coincidence that one of them carries the same name as Metallica’s lead singer while the other shares one with a band member of Bon Jovi?

Your gut instinct says no. Again, you don’t even need magic to spot a liar.

“And what exactly does the FBI want with me?” Mia asks and raises an eyebrow, hands on her hips. It’s the same look and tone she’s used on you when you were a teen and tried to sneak out through the first-floor window of your bedroom. 

And where exactly do you think you’re going, young lady?

There’s a brief pause before the taller one, Bon Jovi, speaks this time, his tone lower and more careful. “We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.”

“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Metallica asks more gruffly. 

“My adoptive daughter, yes.” Mia crosses her arms, nodding. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Metallica’s mouth opens for a second, swallowing heavily before Bon Jovi steps in for the rescue. “We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. You were the first responder on scene?”

Your breath catches in your throat. So that’s what they’re here for. You haven’t expected that. It’s been a while since you thought about the worst night of your life. 

“I was,” Mia replies sternly, not budging as her protective instincts take over. “It was ruled an accident.”

“Three fatalities. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Metallica notes.

Mia gives him a nod. “That’s right.”

Metallica cocks his head slightly. “Except here’s the thing,” he says cleverly, a false sense of confidence oozing from every pore. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”

Mia’s glare could probably burn those boys to dust at this point. “What are you implying, agent?”

To your surprise, Metallica doesn’t budge. But he doesn’t know Mia as well as you do, which is why he doesn’t know that he really, really, really should back off when she’s got that look in her eyes. Again, you know that one all too well from your teenage years, and you definitely wouldn’t want to be in Metallica’s big boots right now. 

“I think you know,” he says with a stern little crease in his brow, just right above his freckle-dusted nose. 

You think those two are about to jump each other’s throats when Bon Jovi luckily steps in. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”

Unfortunately, they don’t know that placating doesn’t work with Mia either. That woman is an excellent hostage negotiator. 

“Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”

“Mia, it’s okay,” you cut in gently and step up beside her. Someone has to save those boys, although you don’t know exactly why you’re the one who's volunteering for that particular job. The cards already warned you, so you’re pretty sure those two aren’t coming in peace and mean you harm. 

“You don’t have to–” Mia starts, but you stop her with a wave of your hand. 

“It’s fine,” you assure her.

Mia shoots you a look, searching your face for doubt or fear, but you give her a steady nod instead. She doesn’t like it, but she trusts you. She exhales slowly, retreating just enough to signal that this is your call now, though her sharp eyes never fully leave the men.

The shorter agent’s attention, meanwhile, has fully latched onto you. His posture loosens, shoulders rolling back like he’s settling into a role he enjoys way too much. His eyes, greener than the lush, wet moss in the woods outside, drag over your face, your stance, the CSI jacket, and the badge clipped to your belt. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” you prompt, forcing Metallica to clear his throat and refocus. 

“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” He nods and reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a badge and showing it to you. “Special Agent Hetfield,” he says and motions to his partner. “This is Special Agent Sambora.”

You step closer and glance at the ID for longer than necessary – so much so their auras grow nervous. But you don’t need to read them to know they’re lying. You already know they’re not FBI or any other kind of official law enforcement. 

Hunters. 

You exhale a breath and school your expression into something professional and harmless. If they’re really here for you, the worst thing you can do is panic. 

You offer them a bright and easy smile, tilting your head just enough to look curious instead of threatened. “Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”

▶️ Chapter 1: Rough on the Surface – May 29

Well, well, the knight has arrived, it seems lol. I've had a lot of fun figuring out tarot cards for this series. Consider this a little taste-test. In Chapter 1, we're then gonna dive into the boys' side of things and find out how they even ended up there.

PS: As a teen I was obsessed with Charmed, Sabrina, and Practical Magic, so you may encounter a few of those elements in this series. I've developed my own witch lore and weekly monster cases covering local myths etc. for this one, and we'll also slowly uncover reader's whole family mystery in due time 😉🔮

Ready for the big one on Friday? Leave your first impressions and theories in the comments, my witches 💜

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“Well,” Dean says and pushes the car door open, stepping out onto the gravel as a smirk begins to form on his lips, “here’s hoping your theory’s wrong.”

Sam halts mid-exit before he slams the passenger door shut. “Excuse me?”

Dean closes his door and adjusts the lapel of his suit jacket. “‘Cause if this is just a paperwork mix-up and not demon-adjacent, I might actually get a decent night out of it.”

He smirks broad and full then, even though he can tell Sam wants to either smack or throttle him right now.

Sam stops in his tracks halfway of rounding the hood. “Dude. Are you serious right now?”

He shrugs his shoulders, grin widening. “What? Just saying. She’s cute.”

“Dean, she might be connected to a house fire tied to the same thing that killed Mom,” Sam points out all righteously.

Dean’s smirk softens, but it doesn’t disappear. “Yeah,” he says. “And if she’s not, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”

“Unbelievable.” Sam exhales sharply through his nose, already turning toward the house with a shake of his head.

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