Haley

Summary (of this chapter): After leaving Dean’s office shaken and more confused than ever, she and Sam can no longer ignore the terrifying feeling that their entire lives have been built on lies. Back at home, with emotions running high and questions neither of them can answer, buried truths begin clawing their way to the surface, revealing the reason she feels so drawn to Dean and why nothing around them feels real anymore. Pairing: Supernatural AU | Dean Winchester x female!reader Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Original Female Character, Supporting SPN Characters Warnings: Language | Drinking | Emotional Vulnerability | Use Of (y/n) Series Masterlist Author's Note: Comments, likes, and reposts are always welcome.🖤 Previous | Next ⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧ Bonus Chapter: Unraveling

There were no buses running this late.

So we walked.

Three miles through the dark streets, past closed storefronts and empty sidewalks.

Sam didn't say anything for the first mile.

Neither did I.

I was upset. Not just because of Dean's reaction, though that stung more than I wanted to admit, but because of what Sam had said.

We were friends. More like brothers, really.

Brothers.

He'd invited Dean to leave. To quit their jobs and hunt monsters together.

Not me.

I knew it was stupid. I knew Sam's dreams were about Dean, that they were supposed to be connected in some way I didn't understand.

But it still hurt.

"You okay?" Sam asked finally.

"Are you?" I shot back.

He sighed. "Not really."

We walked another block.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said all that. I just… I couldn't keep it in anymore."

"I know."

"Do you believe me?" he asked quietly. "About the dreams? About us not being who we think we are?"

I stopped walking.

Sam stopped too, turning to face me.

"Yeah," I said. "I do."

He blinked. "Really?"

"Nothing about this life fits right, Sam. I hate my job. I hate this city. I hate the person I'm supposed to be. And when I look at Dean…" I trailed off, not sure how to finish.

"What?" Sam pressed.

"It feels like coming home," I said quietly. "Like I've known him forever. Like he's supposed to be there, and I'm supposed to be with him, and none of this—" I gestured around us, at the empty streets and dark buildings, "—none of this is real."

Sam stared at me.

"So what do we do?" he asked.

I took a breath.

"We leave," I said.

"What?"

"We quit our jobs. We walk away from this fake life. And we hunt monsters. Together."

Sam's eyes widened. "(y/n)—"

"You were right," I said. "This isn't who we're supposed to be. I don't know what we are, or what we're supposed to do, but I know it's not this."

"What about Dean?"

I looked away. "He made his choice."

"He's scared," Sam said. "He'll come around."

"Maybe," I said. "But we're not waiting for him."

Sam nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "Let's do it."

We started walking again.

By the time we reached our apartment, my feet were aching and my head was spinning.

We sat on the couch together, side by side, staring at the blank TV screen.

"We're really doing this," Sam said.

"Yeah," I said. "We are."

He looked at me. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For believing me. For choosing this. For choosing me."

I leaned my head on his shoulder. "You're my best friend, Sam. Of course I believe in you."

He put his arm around me, and we sat there in the dark, processing the weight of what we'd just decided.

Tomorrow, we'd quit our jobs.

Tomorrow, we'd walk away from everything we thought we knew.

Tomorrow, we'd start hunting.

But tonight, we just sat together, holding on to each other, and let ourselves feel the enormity of it all.

Later, after Sam had gone to bed, I sat alone in the living room, staring out at the city lights.

I thought about Dean, alone in his pristine apartment, clinging to a life that wasn't real.

I must have fallen asleep on the couch.

I woke to the sound of Sam's voice calling my name and the disorientation hit me like a freight train.

"(y/n). (y/n), wake up."

I opened my eyes.

The apartment looked the same. Same couch, same coffee table, same dim light filtering through the blinds.

But everything felt different.

Wrong.

No—not wrong. Right.

I sat up, my head spinning, and looked at Sam. He was standing over me, his expression a mixture of relief and confusion and something that looked like barely-contained panic.

"Sam?" I said, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears. "What—"

And then it hit me.

The memories.

Not the apartment. Not tech support. Not the cubicles or the fluorescent lights or the endless phone calls from people who couldn't figure out how to restart their computers.

The real memories.

The Impala. The motel rooms. The hunts.

Dean in the hospital, broken and bleeding, telling me he'd started the apocalypse.

Dean kissing me.

Dean loving me.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice rough. "Yeah, I know."

I looked at him and saw the same recognition in his eyes. The same dawning horror and relief and confusion all tangled together.

"What the hell just happened?" I asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing in front of the couch. "One second I was—I was sitting here with you, and we were talking about quitting our jobs and hunting, and then—"

"And then you remembered," I finished.

"Yeah." He stopped pacing and looked at me. "Did you—do you remember all of it?"

"I think so." I pressed my hands to my temples, trying to sort through the flood of images and sensations. "The warehouse. Ruby. Dean in the hospital. Castiel telling him he broke the first seal."

"The office," Sam said. "The ghost. P.T. Sandover."

"Dean rejecting us," I added quietly.

Sam's jaw tightened. "That wasn't real."

"It felt real."

"But it wasn't." He sat down next to me, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. "(y/n), none of that was real. The office, the jobs, the—the lives we thought we had. It was all fake."

"How?" I asked. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "But I remember—God, I remember thinking something was wrong. Like I was living someone else's life. And the dreams—"

"The dreams were real," I said.

"Yeah." He looked at me. "They were memories. Our actual memories, trying to break through."

I felt sick.

"So we were just—what? Trapped in some kind of illusion? Living fake lives while our real lives were just—"

"Paused," Sam said. "Or hidden. I don't know."

I stood up, needing to move, needing to do something. "This is insane. This is—who would do this? Who has the power to just—to just rewrite our memories and make us think we're different people?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, his phone rang.

We both froze.

Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

"It's Dean," he said.

"Answer it," I said.

Sam answered. "Dean?"

I couldn't hear what Dean was saying, but I watched Sam's face shift, relief, then confusion, then something that looked like barely-restrained anger.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, I remember. Do you—okay. Okay, good." He paused. "Where are you?"

Another pause.

"We're at the apartment. I'll text you the address." He looked at me. "Yeah, she's here. She remembers too."

My chest tightened.

"Okay," Sam said. "Yeah. See you soon."

He hung up.

"He's coming," Sam said.

"Is he—" I couldn't finish the sentence.

"He remembers," Sam said. "Everything. He said he'll explain when he gets here."

I nodded, my throat tight.

Thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes until I saw him again.

Thirty minutes until I knew if the Dean I loved was still in there, or if the corporate shell had taken something from him that we couldn't get back.

The knock on the door came exactly twenty-eight minutes later.

I was standing by the window, staring out at the street, when I heard it.

Sam moved to answer, but I got there first.

I opened the door.

And there he was.

Dean.

Not Dean Smith in his pressed suit and polished shoes.

Dean Winchester.

His eyes met mine, and I saw everything I needed to see.

Relief. Recognition. Love.

"Blondie," he said, his voice rough.

I didn't say anything.

I just stepped forward, grabbed the front of his jacket, and pulled him into the apartment.

And then I kissed him.

He made a sound, something between a groan and a sigh, and his arms came around me, pulling me close, holding me like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.

I kissed him like I was drowning and he was air.

Like the last three days, or however long it had been, had been a nightmare I was finally waking up from.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathing hard, my hands still fisted in his jacket.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," he said.

"Okay," Sam said from somewhere behind us. "Glad we got that out of the way. Now can someone please explain what the hell just happened?"

Dean's smile faded, and he looked past me to Sam.

"Zachariah," he said.

"Who?" I asked.

"Angel," Dean said. "Works with Castiel. Total dick."

Sam's expression darkened. "What did he do?"

Dean stepped fully into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He looked exhausted, like he'd been running on fumes for days.

"He wanted to teach me a lesson," Dean said. "About my 'destiny.' About how I should be grateful for the life I have as a hunter, because the alternative is—" He gestured vaguely. "—that. Corporate drone. Soulless. Empty."

"So he just—what?" I asked. "Rewrote our memories? Made us think we were different people?"

"Pretty much," Dean said. "He created a whole fake reality. Fake jobs, fake lives, fake identities. He suppressed our real memories and replaced them with—with that."

"The office," Sam said.

"Yeah." Dean's jaw tightened. "He made me think I was some corporate executive who gave a shit about quarterly reports and Master Cleanses. Made you guys think you were tech support. Made us all think we didn't know each other."

"But we did," I said. "I mean—we felt it, right? That something was wrong?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "That's the thing. He couldn't completely erase who we are. The connection was still there. You guys kept feeling like something was off. I kept—" He looked at me. "I kept feeling like I knew you. Like I'd known you forever."

"And Sam's dreams," I said.

"Those were your real memories trying to break through," Dean said. "Zachariah couldn't completely suppress them. They kept leaking through."

"So what happened?" Sam asked. "Why did it end?"

"Because I got the point," Dean said bitterly. "I told him I understood. That I'd rather be a hunter than—than that. And once he was satisfied that he'd made his point, he just—" He snapped his fingers. "—ended it. Pulled the plug. Gave us our memories back and sent us back to our real lives."

"Just like that," I said.

"Just like that."

"So we were just—what? Puppets? Lab rats in some twisted angel experiment?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Pretty much."

Sam's hands clenched into fists. "I'm gonna kill him."

"Get in line," Dean said.

We stood there in silence for a moment, processing.

"So what now?" I asked.

Dean looked at me. "Now we get the hell out of here. Get Baby back. Get back to our lives."

"Where is she?" Sam asked.

"Zachariah had her stashed in some parking garage downtown," Dean said. "I already got the location."

"Then let's go," I said.

Dean nodded. He looked at me, then at Sam, and something in his expression softened.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?" Sam asked.

"For—" Dean gestured vaguely. "For rejecting you. In the office. I know it wasn't real, but—"

"Dean," Sam said. "It's fine. You didn't know."

"I should have," Dean said. "I should have trusted you."

"You were scared," I said. "We all were."

Dean looked at me, and I saw the guilt in his eyes.

"Come on," I said, reaching for his hand. "Let's go get Baby."

He squeezed my hand, and we headed for the door.

The parking garage was six blocks away.

We walked in silence, the three of us side by side, and I felt the weight of the last few days settling over me like a heavy blanket.

"How long were we in there?" I asked.

"Three days," Dean said. "Give or take."

"It felt longer," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "It did."

We turned a corner, and I saw the garage ahead, a concrete monstrosity that looked like it had been built in the seventies and never updated.

"She's on the third level," Dean said.

We took the stairs.

And there she was.

The Impala.

Black and gleaming and real.

Dean walked up to her, running his hand along the hood, and I saw the tension leave his shoulders.

"Hey, Baby," he said softly. "Missed you."

Sam smiled. "You're such a sap."

"Shut up," Dean said, but he was smiling too.

He unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. Sam took shotgun. I climbed into the back.

And just like that, we were home.

Dean started the engine, and the rumble of the Impala's motor filled the garage.

"Where to?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at him, then glanced back at me in the rearview mirror.

"Anywhere but here," he said.

Summary (of this chapter): What begins as another exhausting week at a dead-end office job quickly turns unsettling when she notices her best friend Sam becoming fixated on a mysterious executive named Dean Smith after a brief elevator encounter. At first, she dismisses Sam’s strange dreams and growing obsession as stress, but when coworkers begin acting unlike themselves and shocking events unfold inside the building, she can no longer ignore the feeling that something is deeply wrong. Caught between Sam’s determination to uncover the truth and Dean’s guarded yet strangely familiar presence, she is pulled into a bizarre mystery that forces her to question everything she thought she knew about her life, blending humor, suspense, and the unsettling sense that nothing around her is what it seems. Pairing: Supernatural AU | Dean Winchester x female!reader Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Original Female Character, Supporting SPN Characters Warnings: Language | Drinking | Emotional Vulnerability | Use Of (y/n) Series Masterlist Author's Note: As always, thank you for reading, supporting, liking, commenting, and screaming with me along the way. It means more than you know.

Now come clock in… things are about to get strange 🖤 Previous | Next ⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧ Chapter Nine: It's a Terrible Life

"—and then, then, this guy has the audacity to tell me that turning it off and on again is 'not a real solution.' Like, sir, I'm sorry, but have you tried literally anything before calling tech support? Anything at all?"

I was on a roll, gesturing wildly as Sam and I made our way down the hallway toward the elevators. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting everything in that particular shade of corporate beige that made you want to claw your eyes out.

Sam laughed, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'Sir, I understand your frustration, but I'm going to need you to restart your computer.' Very politely. Very professionally." I paused for effect. "And then I muted myself and called him an idiot."

"(y/n)," Sam said, but he was grinning.

"What? He couldn't hear me. That's what the mute button is for."

We reached the elevator bank, and I jabbed the down button with more force than strictly necessary. The button lit up, and I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall.

"I'm just saying," I continued, "if I have to explain one more time that 'the cloud' is not an actual cloud in the sky, I'm going to lose it. Like, completely lose it. I'm talking full breakdown. Crying in the break room. The works."

Sam shook his head, still smiling. "You've been saying that for three months."

"And I've been this close for three months." I held up my thumb and forefinger, barely a centimeter apart. "One more 'I didn't know I needed to plug it in' call, Sam. One more."

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. We stepped inside, and I hit the button for the ground floor.

"At least it's Friday," Sam offered.

"Thank god for small mercies." I leaned back against the elevator wall, closing my eyes. "I swear, this job is going to kill me. Death by a thousand tech support calls."

"Could be worse," Sam said.

"How? How could it possibly be worse?"

"We could be working weekends."

I opened one eye to glare at him. "Don't even joke about that. Don't put that energy into the universe."

Sam laughed again, and I felt some of the tension from the day start to ease. This was our routine—end of the day, elevator ride down, complaining about work until we made it to the bus stop. It was mundane. Predictable.

Safe.

The elevator descended smoothly, the numbers ticking down on the display above the doors. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.

And then it stopped.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open on the twentieth floor.

A man stepped inside, his attention focused entirely on his phone. He was tall, wearing a sharp charcoal suit that probably cost more than my rent. His tie was perfectly knotted, his hair styled just so, and he carried himself with the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was important.

Executive. Definitely executive.

He didn't look up as he entered, just moved to the side and continued scrolling through whatever was on his screen.

I glanced at Sam, ready to continue our conversation, but he wasn't looking at me.

He was staring at the man.

Not just looking. Staring. Like he'd seen a ghost.

The man finally glanced up from his phone, his eyes sweeping over the other occupants of the elevator with the kind of detached assessment that said he didn't really care who we were.

His gaze landed on Sam.

And Sam just kept staring.

"Do I know you?" Sam asked.

The man's expression didn't change. "I don't think so."

"I'm sorry, man," Sam said, and there was something almost desperate in his voice. "You just look really familiar."

The man's jaw tightened slightly, and he looked back down at his phone. "Save it for the health club, pal."

The elevator dinged again—ground floor—and the man stepped out without another word, his attention already back on his phone.

The doors slid shut.

Sam stood there, staring at the closed doors like they held the answers to the universe.

"Do you know him?" I asked.

Sam blinked, seeming to come back to himself. "I—I don't know."

"You don't know, or you don't remember?"

"I don't know," Sam repeated, running a hand through his hair. "But I swear, I've seen him before. I know him. I just—I can't remember from where."

I frowned, glancing back at the elevator doors. "That's Dean Smith."

Sam's head snapped toward me. "Who?"

"Dean Smith. He's one of the corporate executives. Works on the twenty-second floor, I think. Sales and marketing, maybe? I don't know, I've never actually talked to him."

"You know him?"

"Not personally. I've just heard people talk about him."

"What do people say?"

I shrugged. "That he's kind of a jerk. Confident. Maybe a little arrogant. The kind of guy who thinks he's better than everyone else because he wears expensive suits and has an office with a view."

Sam was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Huh."

"Why?" I asked. "What's with the weird staring?"

"I don't know," Sam said again, and he sounded frustrated. "I just—when I looked at him, I had this weird feeling. Like I might know him from somewhere. But I can't figure out where."

"Maybe you've just seen him around the building," I suggested. "It's not that big. We probably pass him in the lobby all the time."

"Maybe," Sam said, but he didn't sound convinced.

The elevator dinged again, and the doors opened onto the ground floor. We stepped out into the lobby, weaving through the crowd of people heading home for the weekend.

"Seriously, though," I said as we pushed through the glass doors and out into the cool evening air. "Don't let it bother you. Dean Smith is just some corporate guy. Probably not worth the mental energy."

Sam nodded, but I could tell he wasn't really listening.

The bus was crowded, as usual for a Friday evening. Sam and I managed to snag two seats near the back, and I collapsed into mine with a sigh of relief.

"My feet are killing me," I muttered, toeing off one of my flats and rubbing my arch. "I swear, sitting at that desk all day is worse than actual torture."

Sam didn't respond.

I glanced over at him. He was staring out the window, his expression distant.

"Sam?"

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, but he still wasn't looking at me. "Just thinking."

"About Dean Smith?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously? You're still on that?"

"I can't help it. It's driving me crazy. I know I've seen him before. I just can't figure out where."

"Maybe you haven't," I said. "Maybe he just has one of those faces. You know, generic corporate guy. They all kind of look the same after a while."

Sam finally looked at me, and there was something almost pleading in his expression. "What else do you know about him?"

"About Dean Smith?" I shrugged. "Not much. Like I said, I've just heard people talk. He's apparently really good at his job. Confident. Some people think he's charming, but most people think he's kind of a dick."

"What department is he in?"

"I don't know. Sales, maybe? Or marketing? Something on the twenty-second floor."

"How long has he worked here?"

"Sam, I have no idea. Why does it matter?"

"I don't know," Sam said, running a hand through his hair again. "I just—I need to figure this out. It's like an itch I can't scratch."

I studied him for a moment. Sam was a lot of things—smart, kind, a little awkward—but he wasn't usually obsessive. Not like this.

"Okay," I said slowly. "So what are you going to do? March up to the twenty-second floor on Monday and demand to know if you've met before?"

"Maybe," Sam said, and he sounded serious.

"Sam."

"What?"

"That's insane. You can't just—" I broke off, shaking my head. "You know what? Fine. Do whatever you want. But don't be surprised if he calls security."

Sam didn't respond, just went back to staring out the window.

I sighed and leaned back in my seat, watching the city blur past outside.

This is weird, I thought. Sam doesn't get like this. Not over some random guy in an elevator.

But even as I thought it, I couldn't shake the feeling that something about the whole encounter had been… off.

Not wrong, exactly. Just—

Strange.

Like a word on the tip of your tongue that you can't quite remember.

I glanced at Sam again. He was still staring out the window, his jaw tight, his expression troubled.

"Hey," I said quietly.

He looked at me.

"If it's really bothering you that much, we can try to figure it out. Okay? Maybe ask around on Monday. See if anyone knows anything about him."

Sam's expression softened slightly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I said. "I mean, it's probably nothing. But if it'll make you feel better, we can look into it."

"Thanks, (y/n)."

I shrugged. "What are friends for?"

The bus lurched to a stop at our corner, and we stood, making our way toward the doors.

As we stepped off onto the sidewalk, I glanced back at Sam one more time.

He was still frowning, still lost in thought.

Weird, I thought again.

But I didn't say anything.

We walked the rest of the way to our apartment in silence. [...] The weekend passed in a blur of comfortable routine.

Friday evening, Sam and I grabbed dinner at our favorite Thai place. The one two blocks from our apartment with the faded awning and the owner who always remembered our usual orders. Pad see ew for Sam, drunken noodles for me, spring rolls to share. We sat in our regular booth by the window and talked about nothing important: the latest office gossip, the new coffee shop that opened down the street, whether or not we should finally get a TV that wasn't from 2005.

It was easy. Comfortable.

Safe.

Saturday, we caught a matinee showing of some action movie Sam had been wanting to see—lots of explosions, minimal plot, the kind of thing you could watch without thinking too hard. I spent most of the runtime stealing popcorn from Sam's bucket and making sarcastic commentary under my breath until he elbowed me in the ribs and told me to shut up.

Sunday, we ordered Chinese takeout and sprawled on the couch in our pajamas, cartons of lo mein and fried rice spread across the coffee table like a feast.

That's when Sam brought up the dreams again.

"I had another one last night," he said, poking at his noodles with a plastic fork.

I glanced over at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He set the carton down, running a hand through his hair. "It was… weird. Like the others."

"Weird how?"

Sam hesitated, like he was trying to figure out how to explain it. "I was fighting something. I don't know what. It was dark, and there was this… thing. With yellow eyes."

I frowned. "Yellow eyes?"

"Yeah. And I was—I don't know. I was killing it. Like, actually killing it. With my bare hands." He looked at me, his expression troubled. "And it felt real. Like I'd done it before."

I didn't say anything for a moment, just watched him. Sam had been having these dreams for months now—vivid, violent dreams about monsters and demons and things that didn't exist. At first, I'd chalked it up to stress. Too many late nights at the office, too much caffeine, not enough sleep.

But they kept happening. And they kept getting more detailed.

"What else?" I asked quietly.

Sam exhaled, leaning back against the couch. "There were these… creatures. Vampires, I think. And I was hunting them. With—" He broke off, shaking his head. "This is gonna sound insane."

"Try me."

"With that guy. Dean Smith."

I blinked. "The corporate guy from the elevator?"

"Yeah." Sam looked at me, and there was something almost desperate in his expression. "I know it doesn't make sense. I know I've never met him before Friday. But in the dream, we were… I don't know. Partners? Brothers, maybe? And we were hunting these things together. Like it was the most natural thing in the world."

I set my own carton down, suddenly not hungry. "Sam…"

"I know," he said quickly. "I know how it sounds. But I can't shake it. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. Fighting. Killing. Saving people from things that shouldn't exist."

I studied him for a long moment. Sam wasn't the type to make things up. He was logical, grounded, the kind of person who needed evidence before he believed anything. But right now, he looked genuinely shaken.

"Maybe you should talk to someone," I said carefully. "Like a therapist or something."

Sam laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And say what? 'Hi, I keep dreaming about killing vampires with a guy I've never met'? They'd lock me up."

"They wouldn't lock you up."

"You don't know that."

I sighed, reaching over to steal a spring roll from his plate. "Okay. So what do you want to do about it?"

Sam was quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't know. But I feel like… like I need to figure it out. Like there's something I'm missing."

"About the dreams?"

"About everything."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded and went back to my noodles, letting the conversation drift to safer topics.

But later that night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, I couldn't stop thinking about what Sam had said.

Like there's something I'm missing.

I felt it too. That nagging sense that something was off. Like I was living someone else's life, going through the motions of a routine that didn't quite fit.

But that was ridiculous.

This was my life. My apartment, my job, my best friend.

Wasn't it?

Monday morning arrived with all the enthusiasm of a root canal.

I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30, stumbled into the shower, and spent the next twenty minutes trying to convince myself that another week of tech support calls wouldn't actually kill me.

Spoiler alert: I wasn't convinced.

Sam was already in the kitchen when I emerged, dressed in his yellow polo and khakis, pouring coffee into two travel mugs.

"Morning," he said, handing me one.

"Is it?" I muttered, taking a long sip. "Feels more like purgatory."

Sam smiled faintly. "That bad, huh?"

"Sam, I have to explain to people how to use a mouse. A mouse. It's 2009. How do people not know how to use a mouse?"

"Maybe they're just really committed to the whole 'willful ignorance' thing."

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

I glared at him over the rim of my mug, but I couldn't quite suppress the smile tugging at my lips.

We caught the bus at 7:15, the same route we took every weekday. The city was already awake, people rushing to work, cars honking, the faint smell of exhaust and coffee in the air.

By the time we reached Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc., I was already mentally preparing myself for the onslaught of incompetence that awaited me.

The building loomed ahead, all glass and steel and corporate ambition. We swiped our badges at the front desk, nodded at the security guard, and made our way to the elevator bank.

"Another day, another dollar," I muttered as we stepped inside.

Sam pressed the button for our floor. "You say that every day."

"Because it's true every day."

The elevator dinged, and we stepped out onto our floor. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of beige that made you want to claw your eyes out. The carpet was industrial gray, the walls were off-white, and the air smelled faintly of stale coffee and desperation.

Home sweet hell.

We made our way down the hallway, past rows of identical cubicles, until we reached our little corner of hell. My cubicle was directly next to Sam's, separated by a thin partition that did absolutely nothing to block sound.

I dropped my bag on my desk, logged into my computer, and put on my headset.

Here we go, I thought.

The morning passed in a haze of phone calls and incompetence.

"No, sir, you can't download more RAM."

"Ma'am, turning off your monitor is not the same as turning off your computer."

"I understand you're frustrated, but I'm going to need you to restart your computer. Yes, again."

By the time I finished my latest call, I was seriously considering a career change. Maybe something less soul-crushing. Like coal mining. Or professional alligator wrestling.

I pulled off my headset and leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples.

Next to me, I could hear Sam on a call, his voice calm and patient despite the fact that he was probably dealing with someone just as clueless as my last caller.

"Tech support, this is Sam Wesson. Okay. Uh, well, did you try turning it off and then on?"

I glanced over at him. He was doodling on a notepad while he talked, his pen moving in quick, precise strokes.

I squinted at the drawing.

It was a vampire.

Not a cartoon vampire. Not a Twilight vampire. A full-on, fangs-bared, nightmare-fuel vampire.

What the hell?

"Okay, go ahead and turn it off," Sam continued, oblivious to my staring. "No no no, just, just off. All right, give it a second. Turn it back on. Okay, is it printing now? Great. Anytime."

He hung up, pulled off his headset, and poked at a vampire bobblehead sitting on his desk.

Before I could ask him about the drawing, a chair rolled up behind him.

"Hey."

Sam turned. "Yo."

Ian, our coworker and the only person on the floor who didn't have to wear the yellow uniform shirt, grinned at him. "What do you think of Mimi?"

Sam glanced over at the receptionist's desk and shrugged. "She's okay."

Ian leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. "Might have to hit that."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "Dude, EW! She's like—old enough to be your mother!"

Ian just grinned wider. "Experience."

Sam shook his head. "Trifocals."

"There's a MILF there, Sam. I just know it. Maybe a GMILF."

"You're a weird man, Ian," I said flatly.

Sam sighed. "Come on."

Ian stood, stretching. "Coffee break?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, for sure."

I grabbed my mug and followed them out of the cubicle maze, grateful for any excuse to escape my desk.

We passed Paul's cubicle on the way to the break room. He was hunched over his keyboard, typing furiously, his expression tense.

"Paul," Ian called. "Time for a refuel, buddy."

Paul didn't even look up. "Sorry, no time."

Ian frowned. "Since when? Dude, we get paid by the hour."

"Working."

Ian exchanged a glance with Sam and me, then shrugged. "Okay."

As we continued down the hallway, Sam leaned closer to me. "He seems stressed."

"Freaked because he got busted surfing porn on the Internet," Ian said casually.

I nearly tripped over my own feet. "Oh my…"

Sam's eyes widened. "No, no, no way. When?"

"Got sent up to HR yesterday. Guess they put the fear of God in him."

We reached the break room just as the microwave dinged. Someone pulled out a bag of popcorn and left, the smell of butter lingering in the air.

Sam headed straight for the coffeepot, pouring a cup for me first.

"Thanks," I said, taking it from him.

He poured himself a cup, then turned to Ian, who was already at the supply cabinet, pocketing packets of pencils.

"Ian, dude," Sam said, shaking his head.

Ian grinned. "Just doing a little shopping. Running low at home."

Sam handed him a cup of coffee, and Ian took it with a nod of thanks.

"So, Sam," Ian said, his grin widening. "Had any of those dreams lately?"

Sam turned away, his jaw tightening.

"What?" Ian pressed. "Don't be like that. Come on. It's the highlight of my day."

"I never should have told you in the first place," Sam muttered.

"They're genius. Don't hold out on me, dude. Share with the class."

"You're just gonna be a dick about it."

I set my coffee down and fixed Ian with a deadly stare. "No he won't. If he does I'll punch him in the face."

Ian held up his hands in mock surrender. "What? No way. I won't say a word. Total respect. Go."

Sam sighed, clearly regretting this already. "I dreamt that I saved a Grim Reaper named Tessa from demons."

Ian burst out laughing, nearly spilling his coffee. "Classic! How much D\&D did you play when you were a kid? Oh, my—okay, so you—rescuing the Grim Reaper. That's—you're a hero. I mean, thank God we got Harry Potter here to save us all from the apocalypse."

I punched Ian in the arm. Hard.

"Ouch! Dude, for such a small girl you are really strong!"

Sam shook his head. "Dick."

Ian rubbed his arm, still grinning. "Wizard."

I rolled my eyes. "Weirdos."

I grabbed my coffee and left the break room, heading back to my cubicle.

A few moments later, Ian and Sam followed, still bickering.

The afternoon dragged on.

I was halfway through another call, something about a printer that wouldn't print because the user hadn't plugged it in, when I glanced over at Sam's cubicle.

He was asleep.

His head was resting on his folded arms, his breathing slow and even.

I finished my call, pulled off my headset, and leaned over the partition. "Hey!"

Sam jerked awake, looking around in confusion. "What—"

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

He blinked, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, it's just…"

"One of those dreams?"

"Yeah, it is."

I frowned. "You sure you don't wanna talk with someone about those?"

Sam hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm fine, (y/n). Really."

I didn't believe him, but I let it go.

We went back to work.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was ready to gnaw my own arm off.

"Let's go to that place across the street," I said, grabbing my bag. "I need real food. Not vending machine garbage."

Sam nodded, standing. "Yeah, sounds good."

We made our way to the elevator, and while we waited, Sam started talking.

"I had another dream," he said quietly. "During my break. It was… intense."

"Intense how?"

"I was fighting something. A demon, I think. And then I was with—" He broke off, shaking his head. "With Dean Smith. We were hunting something together. A striga, maybe? I don't even know what that is, but in the dream, I knew. And then there were vampires, and Dean was staking one, and—"

The elevator dinged, cutting him off.

The doors slid open.

Dean Smith was already inside.

Sam and I stepped in, along with a few other people from our floor. The elevator was crowded, and I ended up pressed against the back wall, Sam beside me.

Dean was standing near the front, his attention on his phone. He looked every bit the corporate executive—sharp suit, perfectly styled hair, the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was important.

Sam was staring at him.

I elbowed him gently. "Dude, stop staring," I whispered.

Sam glanced at me, then looked down at the floor.

For about twenty seconds.

Then he went right back to staring.

"Oh for fuck's sake," I muttered under my breath.

The elevator dinged. Most of the other passengers got out.

The doors closed.

Now it was just the three of us.

Sam cleared his throat. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Dude…" I started, but Dean cut me off.

"Look, man, I told you, I'm not into the, uh—"

"Oh dude, come on, I'm not either," Sam said quickly. "I just wanna ask you one question."

Dean looked around, his gaze landing on me for a brief moment. His eyebrows furrowed, like he was trying to place me, trying to remember something just out of reach.

Then he looked back at Sam, clearly realizing there was no escape.

"Sure," he said, his tone resigned.

"What do you think about ghosts?"

Dean blinked. "Ghosts?"

"Do you believe in them?"

Dean laughed, shaking his head. "Uh, tell you the truth, I've never given it much thought."

"Vampires?"

"What? Why?"

"Because I've been having some weird dreams lately. You know what I mean?"

Dean's expression shifted, something unreadable flickering across his face. "No. Not really."

"So you've never had any… weird dreams?"

Dean's jaw tightened. "All right, look, man, I don't know you, okay? But I'm gonna do a public service and, uh, let you know that—that you overshare."

He pressed a button on the elevator panel.

The doors dinged open, and Dean stepped out without another word.

The doors closed.

I turned to Sam. "Dude! What the hell was that?"

Sam just stared at the closed doors, his expression troubled.

Lunch was awkward.

I spent most of it ranting about the elevator encounter, about how Sam had made me a participant in whatever weird interrogation that was, about how Dean Smith probably thought we were both insane now.

Sam barely said a word. He just picked at his sandwich, his mind clearly elsewhere.

By the time we got back to the office, I was exhausted.

I collapsed into my chair, put my headset back on, and tried to forget the whole thing.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

That nagging sense that I was missing something important.

Something just out of reach.

The rest of the afternoon dragged.

Every call blurred into the next—password resets, printer jams, someone asking if they could "download more memory" for their computer. I answered on autopilot, my voice sweet and patient while my brain screamed into the void.

Sam was quiet at his desk. Too quiet.

I glanced over a few times and caught him staring at his monitor, not really seeing it. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense. Whatever was going on in his head, it wasn't good.

By the time five o'clock rolled around, I was ready to crawl out of my skin.

"Let's get out of here," I said, pulling off my headset.

Sam nodded without a word.

The bus ride home was silent.

We sat near the back, the vinyl seats cracked and peeling, the smell of exhaust and stale coffee thick in the air. Outside, the city blurred past. Gray buildings, gray streets, gray sky. Everything felt muted, like someone had turned down the saturation on the world.

Sam stared out the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass.

I wanted to say something. Wanted to ask if he was okay, if he wanted to talk about the elevator thing, if he wanted to talk about anything.

But I didn't.

Because I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.

Something is wrong, I thought, watching the city slide past. Something is fundamentally, deeply wrong, and I don't know what it is.

The bus lurched to a stop. We got off and walked the three blocks to our apartment in silence.

Inside, Sam dropped his bag by the door and headed straight for his room.

"Sam—"

"I'm fine," he said without turning around. "Just tired."

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

I stood in the living room, staring at the closed door, feeling the weight of the silence pressing down on me.

He's not fine, I thought. And neither am I.

I tried to sleep that night. I really did.

But every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dean Smith's face in the elevator. The way he'd looked at Sam. The way he'd dismissed him.

You overshare.

I rolled over, staring at the ceiling.

What if Sam's right? I thought. What if there is something wrong? What if we're not supposed to be here?

The thought settled in my chest like a stone.

I didn't sleep.

Tuesday morning arrived with all the enthusiasm of a funeral procession.

Sam and I rode the bus in silence again. He looked like he hadn't slept either—dark circles under his eyes, his hair messier than usual, his expression distant.

"You okay?" I asked quietly.

"Yeah," he said. "Fine."

He wasn't fine.

Neither was I.

We got off at our stop and walked toward the Sandover building, the glass and steel monolith looming ahead of us like a corporate tombstone.

And that's when we saw them.

There was a crowd gathered at the front entrance.

Employees in suits and some in those weird yellow polo shirts stood in a loose semicircle, watching as two people in coroner outfits wheeled a body bag out of the building toward a white van parked at the curb.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

Sam stopped beside me, his face pale.

The body bag was zipped all the way up. Whoever was inside wasn't coming back.

I scanned the crowd, looking for...I don't know. Answers, maybe. Some explanation for why there was a dead body being wheeled out of our office building on a Tuesday morning.

And that's when I saw him.

Dean Smith.

He stood near the edge of the crowd, arms crossed over his chest, watching the van with an expression I couldn't quite read. Troubled, maybe. Or suspicious.

And then he turned his head and looked directly at me.

His eyes locked on mine, and for a second I saw something flicker across his face. Confusion. Recognition. Like he was trying to place me and couldn't quite figure out where I fit.

I stared back, frozen.

And then he turned away, his jaw tightening, and said something sharp to a man in a suit standing next to him. The suited man replied, and Dean's expression darkened. He looked displeased.

The body bag was loaded into the van. The doors slammed shut.

The van pulled away.

"He was looking at you," Sam said quietly.

I blinked, pulling my gaze away from Dean. "Who?"

"That Dean guy."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Huh." I swallowed hard, trying to sound casual. "I didn't notice."

Sam gave me a look that said he didn't believe me for a second.

But he didn't push it.

We walked into the building together, the weight of the morning pressing down on both of us.

When we got to our cubicles, Ian was already there.

And something was wrong.

He was wearing the yellow polo shirt.

I stopped in my tracks, staring at him.

Ian, Ian, who wore band t-shirts and made inappropriate jokes and never took anything seriously, was sitting at his desk in a crisp yellow polo, his hair neatly combed, his face clean-shaven, working with an intensity I'd never seen from him before.

He didn't look up when we arrived. Didn't crack a joke. Didn't even acknowledge us.

I turned to Sam and tilted my head toward Ian, my eyebrows raised.

Sam looked at him, then shrugged back at me, equally confused.

We sat down at our desks in silence.

About an hour later, Sam rolled his chair over to Ian's cubicle.

I had just finished a call and turned my chair to face them, curious.

"Hey," Sam said. "Why would someone kill themselves two weeks before they were supposed to retire? I mean, Paul was two weeks from freedom. He should have been happy, right?"

Ian didn't look up from his screen. "I don't have time for this, Sam."

Sam laughed, like he thought Ian was joking.

"That's very funny."

He glanced at me, and we shared a that's weird face.

"What's with you?" Sam asked, turning back to Ian.

"I'm working," Ian said flatly. "It's important."

Sam frowned. "HR bust your balls or something? You're wearing the shirt. Did you shave?"

A phone rang.

Ian picked up his headset. "Tech support, this is Ian." He paused, listening. "Be right up. Gotta go up to twenty-two, speak to a manager."

He took off the headset, grabbed a tablet, and stood up.

Sam and I watched him leave, both of us too stunned to say anything.

"What's that about?" Sam finally asked.

I shook my head slowly. "Don't look at me. I never quite got this guy." I leaned closer and whispered, "Weird little fella."

Sam laughed despite himself.

Then his expression shifted, thoughtful. "Hey, who do you think called him?"

I glanced at Ian's desk, then back at Sam. "Don't know... but maybe we could find that out."

"How?"

I got up and moved to Ian's cubicle, scanning his phone's caller ID.

"Of course it was him," I muttered under my breath.

"Who was it?" Sam asked, leaning over my shoulder.

I turned to look at him. "Your dear friend, Dean."

"Oh really?"

Sam moved closer to see the caller ID for himself.

We stared at the screen in silence.

"Why would Dean call Ian?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know," Sam said. "But I don't like it."

A few minutes later, we heard a commotion in the hallway.

Sam and I exchanged a glance, then got up and made our way toward the noise with the rest of the staff.

The coroner people were back.

They rolled another body bag past us, the wheels squeaking against the polished floor.

No.

I looked at Sam. His face had gone white.

"Is that—" I started.

And then I saw Dean.

He was standing near the end of the hallway, talking to a police officer. His expression was grim, his arms crossed, his jaw tight.

The body bag disappeared around the corner.

Ian.

It was Ian.

Oh my God.

We went back to our desks in a daze.

I sat down, put my headset on, and stared at my computer screen without really seeing it.

The printer whirred behind me, spitting out paper.

The fax machine whirred, sucking in documents.

Someone's automatic pencil sharpener whirred in the distance.

Everything felt surreal. Like I was watching the world through a pane of glass.

Ian is dead, I thought numbly. Ian is dead, and Paul is dead, and something is very, very wrong.

Sam's phone rang.

I heard him answer. "Tech support, this is Sam."

A pause.

"Yeah. Okay. We'll be right up."

He hung up and turned to me, his expression unreadable.

"Dean wants to see us in his office."

I blinked. "Us? Why us? Together?"

"Don't know. He didn't say and I didn't ask."

"Well you should've asked," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

Sam just looked at me.

I sighed and stood up. "Fine. Let's go."

We took the elevator to the tenth floor in silence.

My heart was pounding. My palms were sweating.

Why does he want to see us? What does he know? What did he see?

The elevator dinged.

We stepped out and made our way down the hall to Dean's office.

Sam knocked.

"Come on in," Dean's voice called from inside. "Shut the door."

We entered.

Dean was standing near his desk, buttoning up a fresh shirt. He looked up as we walked in, and for just a second, his eyes met mine.

There it was again. That flicker of recognition. That sense of knowing without understanding.

I looked away quickly, my cheeks flushing.

Dean finished buttoning his shirt and gestured for us to sit.

Sam closed the door behind us.

"Who the hell are you two?" Dean asked, his voice low and serious.

I opened my mouth to answer. "I'm (y/n) and this is Sa—"

Sam cut me off. "I'm not sure I know."

I turned to stare at him, my eyebrows raised. What?

Dean frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I'm Sam Wesson," Sam said slowly. "And this is my friend (y/n) Hanson. We both started here three weeks ago."

Dean's jaw tightened. "All right. You cornered me in the elevator talking about ghosts. And now..."

"Now what?" Sam asked.

A pause.

Dean looked at me again, and I felt my breath catch.

Then he looked away and unscrewed the top of a bottle on his desk.

"It's the Master Cleanse," he said, his tone lighter now. "You tried it? Phenomenal. Detoxes you like nobody's business."

He took a drink.

Then he looked at me again.

And this time, he didn't look away.

His expression was troubled. Confused. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle and couldn't find the missing piece.

I know you, his eyes seemed to say. I know you, but I don't know how.

"When you were in that bathroom with Ian," Sam said, breaking the silence. "Did you see something?"

Dean turned to look at him. "I don't know. I don't know what I saw."

"Wait," Sam said, leaning forward. "Are you saying that—did you see a ghost?"

"Sam maybe you shouldn't—" I started.

Dean cut me off. "I was freaking out. The guy penciled his damn neck."

Penciled his neck.

I felt sick.

"You did, didn't you?" Sam said, his voice rising with excitement. "Okay, listen. What if these suicides aren't suicides? I mean, what if they're something not natural?"

Dean stared at him. "So, what, ghosts are real? And they're responsible for all the dead bodies around here? Is that what you're telling me?"

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Are you guys for real right now?" I said, my voice sharp. "Ghosts?"

Both of them turned to stare at me.

I sighed and rubbed my temples. "Okay. I need to sit down."

I sank into one of the chairs in front of Dean's desk.

Dean and Sam sat down too, in perfect unison.

It would've been funny if I wasn't so freaked out.

"I know it sounds crazy," Sam said, looking at Dean. "But yes. That's what I'm telling you."

"Uh-huh," Dean said slowly. "Based on what?"

Sam hesitated. "Instinct."

Dean looked down, shaking his head. Then he looked back up.

"I've got the same instinct."

Oh no.

"Seriously?" Sam said, his eyes lighting up. "You know those dreams I was telling you about? I was dreaming about ghosts."

"Yeah."

"And then it turns out that there's a real ghost."

Dean leaned back in his chair. "So you're telling me that your dreams are special visions and you're some kind of psychic?"

"No," Sam said quickly. "I mean, that would be nuts. I'm just saying something weird is definitely going on around here, right? So I've been digging around a little."

He pulled some papers out of his bag.

I stared at him. When did he have time to do that?

"I think I found a connection between the two guys," Sam said, passing the papers to Dean.

Dean looked at them, his eyebrows rising. "You broke into their email accounts?"

Sam shrugged. "I used some skills that I happen to have to satisfy my curiosity."

Dean's lips twitched. "Nice."

"Yeah. Okay. So it turns out Ian and Paul both got this same email telling them to report to HR, room fourteen forty-four."

Dean frowned. "HR's on seven."

"Exactly."

A pause.

"Should we go check this out?" Dean asked.

"Like right now?" Sam said.

"No. No, it's getting late. You're right."

"I am dying to check this out right now."

"Right?"

They both stood up.

I stayed seated, staring at them. "Are you serious?"

They looked at me.

"We're going to investigate a mysterious room in our office building because you think ghosts are killing people?"

"Yes," Sam said simply.

I groaned and stood up. "This is a terrible idea."

"Probably," Dean said. "But we're doing it anyway."

We made our way down the hallway toward the stairwell.

"This is not a good idea," I said again, my voice rising slightly. "This is a really not good idea."

"Relax, Blondie," Dean said over his shoulder. "Nothing's gonna happen."

I stopped in my tracks. "What did you call me?"

He turned around, looking confused. "Blondie…?"

"Don't," I said, my voice sharp. "Don't ever call me that. Ever again."

Dean blinked, clearly taken aback. "Oh. Sorry."

We continued walking.

Sam glanced at me, his eyebrows raised, but he didn't say anything.

Room 1444 was at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting strange shadows on the walls.

This is insane, I thought. This is absolutely insane.

Sam stopped in front of the door and looked at Dean.

Dean nodded.

Sam kicked the door open.

"Whoa," Dean said.

"What the fu—" I started, but the words died in my throat.

The room was a mess.

Shelves had toppled over, papers were scattered everywhere, and in the middle of it all, a man was pinned beneath a fallen shelf, struggling to breathe.

"Help me!" he gasped.

Dean and Sam rushed forward, grabbing the shelf and trying to lift it.

And that's when I saw him.

The old man from the bathroom.

He appeared behind Dean, his form flickering like a bad TV signal, his eyes hollow and black.

His hands sparked with electricity—bright, crackling bolts of lightning that lit up the room.

"Dean!" I screamed.

The ghost flung Dean into the wall with a flick of his wrist.

Dean hit the concrete hard and crumpled to the floor.

"Sam!" I shouted.

But the ghost was already moving.

He shoved Sam backward, sending him sprawling across the floor.

The lights flickered. The monitors on the shelves sparked and hissed.

Dean staggered to his feet, grabbed a wrench from the floor, and swung at the ghost.

The wrench passed through the old man's head like he was made of smoke.

The ghost dissipated.

The lights stopped flickering. The monitors went dark.

Everything went still.

Dean and Sam stood there, breathing hard, staring at the spot where the ghost had been.

Then they moved to the shelf and lifted it together, freeing the man underneath.

He scrambled out, gasping for air, and ran from the room without a word.

Sam turned to Dean, his eyes wide. "How'd you know how to do that?"

Dean looked down at the wrench in his hand, then back at Sam.

"I have no idea."

I stood frozen in the doorway, my heart racing, my hands shaking.

That was real, I thought. That was real. That was real. That was real.

Ghosts were real.

[...]

Dean suggested we go to his apartment to do some research.

Because apparently, when you've just witnessed a ghost try to murder someone with telekinetic rage, the logical next step is research.

Not therapy. Not a stiff drink. Not running screaming into the night.

Research.

I didn't argue. Mostly because I didn't have a better plan, and also because my brain was still trying to process the fact that ghosts were real.

We piled into Dean's car. A Prius, because of course it was. And drove through the dark streets in silence. The car was pristine. Leather seats, not a speck of dust, everything sleek and minimalist and expensive-looking. It smelled like new car and some kind of citrus air freshener.

It was the kind of car that screamed I have my life together.

Which, given what we'd just experienced, felt like the world's biggest lie.

Dean's apartment was exactly what I expected: upper-class, minimalist, sterile. Everything was white or gray or black. Clean lines. Expensive furniture. A kitchen that looked like it had never been used for actual cooking.

There was a framed motivational poster on the wall that said EXCELLENCE in bold letters.

I hated it immediately.

Dean went straight to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of something green and viscous.

"Holy crap, dude," he said, taking a sip.

Sam looked like he'd just run a marathon. "Yeah. I could use a beer."

Dean glanced at him apologetically. "Oh, sorry, man. I'm on the Cleanse. I got rid of all the carbs in the house."

Of course you did, I thought.

Sam looked like he wanted to cry.

Dean handed him a water bottle, then turned to me and offered one as well.

"Thanks," I said, taking it.

He nodded, then gestured toward the living room. "Let's figure this out."

We set up camp in Dean's living room. He had two laptops and we split up: Dean at the corner desk, Sam and me at the table.

I sat next to Sam, close enough that our shoulders brushed, and tried to focus on the screen in front of me instead of the fact that my entire understanding of reality had just been shattered.

"Okay," Sam said, typing rapidly. "Let's start with the building. Sandover Bridge and Iron Inc. History, deaths, anything unusual."

I nodded, pulling up a search engine.

For a while, the only sound was the clicking of keys and the occasional sip of Dean's Master Cleanse.

Then Dean's voice cut through the silence.

"Oh, jackpot."

Sam and I both looked up.

"What you got?" Sam asked.

Dean grinned, gesturing to his screen. "I just found the best site ever. Real, actual ghost hunters."

Sam and I got up and went over to see.

Dean was on a website called Ghostfacers.com. The design was aggressively amateur—neon green text on a black background, flashing GIFs, the works.

"These guys are genius," Dean said, clicking on a link. "Check it out."

He pulled up a video.

Two guys in white lab coats appeared on screen. One was tall and lanky with dark hair; the other was shorter, stockier, with a goofy grin.

"We know why you're watching," the tall one said.

"You've got a problem," the shorter one added.

"A ghost problem."

"A ghost-related problem. A ghost—it's like a ghost-adjacent pr—it's like a problem that's—and the ghost is—"

"Whatever. You've come to the right place. The only decent place, really, because the Ghostfacers know how to solve it."

"Period."

"Watch and learn."

I stared at the screen, my mouth slightly open.

"Are you kidding me?" I said.

Dean looked at me, confused. "What?"

"These guys look like they film this in their mom's basement."

"They're experts," Dean said defensively.

"They're wearing lab coats," I said. "Do ghosts respect lab coats? Is that a thing?"

Sam snorted.

Dean ignored me and kept watching.

The Ghostfacers launched into an explanation of how to identify and fight ghosts. Salt. Iron. Shotgun shells packed with rock salt.

"That's why the wrench worked," Sam said quietly.

I looked at him. He was staring at the screen like it held the answers to the universe.

Dean paused the video and turned back to his laptop. "Okay, so we know how to fight ghosts. Now we need to figure out what we're fighting."

Sam and I went back to the table.

A few minutes later, Sam pulled up an article.

"Got it," he said.

I leaned over to look.

There was a black-and-white photograph of an old man in a suit, stern-faced and unsmiling. The caption read: P. T. Sandover, Founder of Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc.

"That's him," Dean said, coming over. "That's the ghost."

Sam scrolled down, reading aloud. "P. T. Sandover. Died 1916. Devoted his life to his work. No wife, no kids."

The article went on to describe Sandover's obsessive dedication to the company. How he used to march onto construction sites and halt all work until he personally inspected every detail. How he believed the company's blood pumped through the building itself.

"Wow, okay," Dean said. "So slight workaholic. Maybe he's still here, you know, watching over the company, even killing for it."

Sam kept scrolling. "Plus, turns out this isn't the first time people started killing themselves in the building. 1929."

"Yeah, but lots of guys jumped off lots of high rises that year," Dean said.

"How many companies had seventeen suicides?" Sam asked.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Phew. Okay, so P. T. Sandover, protector of the company. His ghost wakes up and becomes active during times of grave economic distress."

"Well, I mean, the worst time we've seen since the Great Depression—"

"Is now," Dean finished. "Yeah, now sucks. My portfolio's in the sewer. I don't even wanna talk about it."

I blinked at him.

Your portfolio? I thought. We just fought a ghost and you're worried about your portfolio?

Sam continued, unfazed. "So Sandover's helping the bottom line—"

"By zapping some model employees," Dean said.

"Yeah. I mean, Ian and Paul. It was like he turned them into different people."

"Perfect worker bees, exactly. So devoted to the company that they would commit hara-kiri if they failed it."

Sam scrolled down further. "One more interesting fact. The building wasn't always that high. Used to be fourteen floors. And the room where the ghost attacked, fourteen forty-four? Once upon a time, that was the old man's office."

Dean, Sam, and I all looked at each other.

Then we turned back to the Ghostfacers video.

The two guys were back on screen, still wearing their ridiculous lab coats.

"Once you've got that thing in your sights—"

"You kill it."

"Using special ghost-hunting weapons."

"First, salt. It's like acid to ghosts."

"Burny acid."

"Not LSD."

"No. It's a bad trip for ghosts. Next up, iron."

"Pure power in your hand."

"Dissipates ghosts instantly."

"Next little trick. We learned this from those useless douchebags—"

"That we hate."

"The Winchesters."

I frowned. The Winchesters?

"Gun."

"Shotgun shell. Pack it up with fresh rock salt."

"Very effective."

"Very effective."

"Winchesters still suck ass, though."

"Affirmative. Suckage major."

Dean started packing a duffel bag. He pulled out two fireplace pokers, a salt shaker, and a few other items I couldn't identify.

"Where do we even get a gun?" he asked.

"Gun store?" Sam suggested.

"Isn't there like some kind of waiting period or something?"

"I think so."

"Well, how in the hell—"

"I don't know. Seems pretty impossible, honestly."

"Right."

I watched them, my arms crossed.

"Hold on a second, Ghostbusters," I said. "Are we really gonna listen to these… I don't even know what to call them."

Sam turned to me. "Look, (y/n), I know it's not that simple, but what else are we supposed to do?"

I looked at him. He gave me his c'mon face—the one that was impossible to say no to.

I sighed. "Fine. But if we die because of two guys in lab coats, I'm haunting you."

Sam grinned.

We turned back to the video.

The Ghostfacers were explaining how to deal with cremated remains.

"Now, if the deceased has been cremated—"

"Don't panic."

"Don't panic."

"Just gotta look for some other remains."

"A hair in a locket, maybe. Fingernails. Baby teeth."

"Milk teeth."

"Genetic material. You know what we're talking about."

"Go find it."

"Fight well, young lions."

"Godspeed."

Sam pulled up another article. "Sandover was cremated."

Dean frowned. "What? So what do we do now?"

I looked at the screen, then at the duffel bag, then at Dean and Sam.

"We go back," I said. "And we find something he left behind."

We spent the next twenty minutes getting ready.

Dean packed the duffel bag with methodical precision—salt, pokers, flashlights. He moved like he'd done this before, even though he couldn't have.

I stood by the window, watching the city lights, trying to steady my breathing.

"You okay?" Dean's voice came from behind me.

I turned. He was standing a few feet away, holding the duffel bag.

"Define okay," I said.

He smiled faintly. "Fair point."

"I just…" I trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence. I just watched a ghost try to kill someone. I just realized my entire life might be a lie. I just agreed to go back into a haunted building with two guys I barely know.

Dean stepped closer. "You don't have to come, you know. Sam and I can handle this."

I looked at him.

There was something in his eyes...something familiar, something that made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand.

"I'm coming," I said.

He nodded. "Okay."

For a moment, we just stood there, looking at each other.

Then Sam called from the other room, and the moment broke.

We drove back to Sandover in silence.

The building loomed ahead of us, dark and imposing against the night sky.

Dean parked in the underground garage, and we made our way to the elevator.

"Set your cell phone to walkie-talkie in case we get separated," Dean said, pulling out his phone.

Sam and I did the same.

"How the hell are we gonna find some ancient speck of DNA in a skyscraper?" Sam asked.

"Well, that creepy storeroom used to be Sandover's office, right?" Dean said.

He pressed the button for floor 14.

The elevator doors slid shut.

Room 1444 was even creepier at night.

The overhead lights flickered as we stepped inside, casting long shadows across the shelves and boxes.

Dean went behind some shelves on the left. I moved to the right, rifling through dusty files and forgotten office supplies. Sam stayed near the desk by the door, searching through drawers.

It was quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Then I heard footsteps.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

I froze.

A security guard stood in the doorway, glaring at Sam.

"Nothing. I just—" Sam started.

"Come with me."

The guard grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him toward the door.

Dean ducked out of sight behind the shelves. I did the same, pressing myself against the wall, my heart pounding.

The door slammed shut.

I waited a beat, then whispered, "Should we go after him?"

Dean shook his head. "He'll be fine. We need to keep looking."

I wanted to argue, but he was already moving, pulling open drawers and rifling through boxes.

I went back to searching.

A few minutes later, Dean made a noise.

"Hey, look at this."

I turned.

He was holding a framed picture—a black-and-white photograph of a bridge under construction. The plaque at the bottom read Sandover Bridge, 1910.

I moved closer, close enough that I could feel his breath.

"Is that—" I started.

"Yeah," Dean said, cutting me off.

I turned to face him.

He was right there. Close enough that I could see the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

He was looking at me like he was trying to remember something. Like I was a word on the tip of his tongue.

"Dean—" I started.

But he spoke first.

"Do I know you?"

My breath caught.

"What?"

"I just…" He frowned, his eyes searching mine. "I feel like I know you. Like I've known you for a long time."

My heart was racing.

"I don't—"

"Never mind," he said quickly, shaking his head. "Forget it. That was weird."

He looked at me again, and for a moment, I thought he was going to say something else. Something important.

But then I broke.

"We should call Sam," I said, stepping back. "See if he's okay."

Dean blinked, the moment shattering.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you're right."

He pulled out his phone and dialed.

"Hey. You okay?" Dean said.

There was a pause.

"Call you back," Sam's voice came through the speaker.

Dean hung up.

A few moments later, the phone rang again.

Dean answered, putting it on speaker.

"Hey, you guys there?" Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Listen, I think we got it. Meet us on twenty-two."

"Okay, yeah. Just, uh, you guys should take the stairs."

I frowned. "Why?"

"You don't wanna know why."

The line went dead.

Dean and I looked at each other.

"Stairs it is," he said.

The stairwell was cold and echoing, our footsteps loud against the concrete.

We climbed in silence for a few floors.

Then Dean spoke.

"So," he said. "Tell me about yourself."

I glanced at him. "What?"

"I don't know anything about you," he said. "Except that you work in tech support and you're friends with Sam."

"That's pretty much all there is to know," I said.

"I don't believe that."

I looked at him. He was watching me, his expression open and curious.

"What do you want to know?" I asked.

"I don't know. Where are you from? What do you do for fun? What's your story?"

I hesitated.

"I'm from Seattle," I said finally. "I moved here a few years ago for work. I don't really do much for fun. I read, I guess. Watch TV. Nothing exciting."

"What kind of books?"

"Mostly fiction. Classics, contemporary, whatever."

"Favorite?"

"The Stranger by Camus."

He smiled. "The guy who doesn't cry at his mom's funeral."

"You know it?"

"I must have read it at some point," he said. "I don't remember much about it, but I do remember that."

We climbed a few more floors.

"What about you?" I asked. "What's your story?"

"I don't know," he said. "I went to Stanford. Got a job at Sandover. Worked my way up. It's not very interesting."

"Do you like it?"

He paused. "I'm good at it."

"That's not what I asked."

He looked at me, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Doubt, maybe. Or uncertainty.

"No," he said quietly. "I don't think I do."

We reached the next landing and kept climbing.

"You're not what I expected," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"People talk about you at the office. Dean Smith, the corporate shark. The guy who only cares about the bottom line."

"And?"

"And you're nothing like that," I said. "You're kind. You're protective. You care about people, even if you pretend you don't."

He stopped walking.

I stopped too, turning to face him.

"You don't know me," he said, but there was no bite to it. Just confusion.

"Maybe not," I said. "But I know what I see."

He looked at me for a long moment.

"I feel like I know you," he said again. "Like I've known you forever. And I don't understand why."

The air between us felt electric, charged with something I couldn't name.

"We should keep going," I said, breaking the moment. "Sam's waiting."

Dean nodded, and we started climbing again.

But the feeling didn't go away.

We were in the lobby, standing by a glass display case, when Sam appeared by the end of the hall. He was covered in blood.

"What the hell happened to you, man?" I said, rushing over.

"Yeah, that's a lot of blood," Dean added.

"I know," Sam said grimly.

Dean pointed to the display case. "Right. So, uh, in there."

Inside the case was a pair of old leather gloves, worn and cracked with age.

"P. T. Sandover's gloves," Sam said.

"Yeah, how much you wanna bet there's a little smidge of DNA in there? You know, like a fingernail clipping or a hair or two? Something."

Sam looked at Dean. "So you ready?"

"I have no idea."

"Me neither."

Sam and Dean both grabbed pokers from the duffel bag. Sam took the container of salt.

"Go for it," Sam said.

Dean smashed the glass.

The temperature dropped instantly. My breath came out in a visible puff.

Sandover appeared behind Dean, his form flickering and translucent, electricity crackling from his hands.

He flung Dean into the wall with a flick of his wrist.

"Dean!" I shouted.

Sandover turned to Sam and threw him across the lobby.

Sam hit the ground hard, then scrambled for the salt. He flung a handful through the ghost.

Sandover dissipated.

Dean staggered to his feet, breathing hard.

"Nice," he said.

Sandover reappeared behind him.

"DEAN!" Sam and I shouted at the same time.

Sam threw Dean the poker. Dean caught it mid-swing and turned, slamming it through Sandover's chest.

The ghost dissipated again.

"Nice catch," Sam said, getting to his feet.

"Right?" Dean grinned.

Sam grabbed the other poker.

Sandover appeared between them.

They hit him simultaneously from both sides. He dissipated.

He appeared behind Dean. Dean spun and got him.

Then behind Sam. Sam did the same.

Then between them again.

This time, Sandover threw them both into opposite walls.

Dean hit the ground hard. Sam crumpled against a pillar.

Sandover's hands sparked as he moved toward Dean, reaching for him.

I saw the gloves.

Without thinking, I ran to the display case, grabbed them, and pulled out my lighter.

The gloves caught fire instantly.

Sandover screamed—a horrible, inhuman sound—and burst into flames.

He burned into nothing, leaving only smoke and the smell of charred leather.

I dropped the burning gloves, my hands shaking.

Sam stared at me. "That was amazing."

Dean got to his feet, grinning. "Right? Right?"

For a moment, we just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

Then Dean laughed.

It was a real laugh, full and unguarded, and it made something in my chest ache.

"Come on," Sam said, still grinning. "Let's get out of here."

We made our way to Dean's office.

Dean pulled a first-aid kit out of his desk and handed gauze pads to Sam and me.

"Man, I gotta tell you," Dean said, "I've never had so much fun in my life."

"Me neither," Sam said.

"Was a hell of a workout too, wasn't it?"

"We should keep doing this," Sam said.

Dean looked at him. "I know."

Sam leaned forward. "I mean it. There gotta be other ghosts out there. We could help a lot of people."

"Right, we'd be like the Ghostfacers," Dean said.

"Scratch that," I said. "We'd be better than them."

Dean laughed.

"No, really," Sam said. "I mean, for real."

Dean's smile faded. "What? Like, quit our jobs and hit the road?"

"Exactly."

"How would we live?"

Sam hesitated. "Uh…"

"You gotta be kidding me. How would we get by? With stolen credit cards? Huh? Eating diner food drenched in saturated fats? Sharing a crap motel room every night?"

"That's all just details," Sam said.

"Details are everything. You don't wanna go fighting ghosts without any health insurance."

Sam took a breath. "All right. Um. Confession."

"What?"

"Remember those dreams I told you about with the ghosts?"

"Yeah?"

"Sam…" I said quietly.

He looked at me. I shook my head slightly, but he ignored me.

"I was fighting them," Sam said. "With you. We were these, like, hunters, and we were friends. More like brothers, really. I mean, what if that's who we really are? I mean, you saw us back there, working together. The ghost was scrambling people's brains. What if it scrambled ours?"

Dean stared at him. "That's insane."

"Is it? Think about it for just one second. What if we think this is our life, but it's not?"

"Hey, man, the ghost is dead and we're still standing. I mean, I'm sorry, but—"

"Look, all I know is this isn't who we're supposed to be."

"No," Dean said, his voice rising. "I'm Dean Smith, okay? Director of Sales and Marketing. I went to Stanford. My father's name is Bob, my mother's name is Ellen, and my sister's name is Jo."

"When was the last time you talked to them? To any of them?"

"Okay, you're upset. You're upset, you're confused—"

"Yeah, 'cause I only moved here 'cause I just broke up with my fiancée, Madison. But I called her number and I got a damn animal hospital."

Dean's face went pale. "Okay. What are you saying? Are you trying to say that my family isn't real? Huh? That we've been injected with fake memories? Come on."

"All I know is, I got this feeling in my gut. And I know—I know that deep down, you gotta be feeling it too. We're supposed to be something else. You're not just some corporate douchebag. This isn't you. I know you."

Dean's expression hardened. "Know me? You don't know me, pal. You should go."

I looked at Dean.

He turned to me, and I saw the panic in his eyes. The fear.

I wanted to say something. To tell him it was okay. That we'd figure it out.

But I couldn't.

Because I was disappointed.

And he saw it.

"(y/n)—" he started.

Summary (of this chapter): When celestial orders collide with demonic stakes, (y/n) faces a choice between staying safe and fighting for the people she's come to love. As forces beyond her control intervene and unexpected alliances form, she discovers that some rescues require crossing lines she never thought she'd cross. And that sometimes the aftermath of saving someone is harder than the fight itself.

The chapter explores what happens when the people you care about are in danger and you're powerless to stop it... until you're not. Series Masterlist Pairing: Supernatural AU | Dean Winchester x female!reader Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Original Female Character, Supporting SPN Characters Warnings: Language | Drinking | Emotional Vulnerability | Use of (y/n) Author's Note: I hope you guys like this one. Please feel free to like, comment, or share. 💕 Previous | Next ⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧ Chapter Eight: On the Head of a Pin

The highway stretched out ahead of us like a promise that couldn't be kept. Four hours to Cheyenne. Four hours of asphalt and silence and the kind of tension that settles in your chest and refuses to leave.

People say the road is freedom, I thought, watching the landscape blur past the window. But sometimes the road is just the space between one disaster to another.

I was in the backseat again. My usual spot, the place where I could observe without being observed. Sam's hands were steady on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead like he was trying to will the miles to pass faster. Dean sat in the passenger seat, his body angled slightly toward the window, one arm resting on the door, the other in his lap.

They hadn't spoken in twenty minutes.

The silence was the kind that had weight to it, the kind that pressed down on your shoulders and made it hard to breathe. I could feel the argument building between them, the words neither of them wanted to say but both of them were thinking.

This is what family does, I thought. They love each other and they hurt each other and they can't figure out how to stop doing both at the same time.

Sam finally broke the silence, his voice careful. "Ruby will meet us outside Cheyenne. She's been tracking some leads. I know she's not exactly on your Christmas list, but if she can help us get to Lilith—"

"Hey, man, work with Ruby, don't," Dean interrupted, his tone flat. "I don't really give a rat's ass."

Sam gave Dean a look, like he was thinking about saying a few things, but he didn't say anything. Just turned his head back to the road ahead.

The tension thickened.

Okay, I thought. Time to be the bridge. Time to ease this before it gets worse.

I leaned forward, resting my hand on Dean's right shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. He didn't flinch, didn't pull away. If anything, his shoulders dropped just a fraction, some of the rigidity easing.

"So, Sam," I said, breaking the silence with the kind of forced cheerfulness. "I've been thinking about The Stranger again. You know, Camus."

Sam's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, meeting mine. There was a hint of surprise there, then interest. "Yeah? What about it?"

"Well, I was thinking about Meursault at the trial," I said. "The way he's condemned not because he killed a man, but because he didn't cry at his mother's funeral. Because he didn't perform grief the way society expected him to."

Sam's expression shifted, some of the tension leaving his face. "The absurdity of moral judgment."

"Exactly," I said. "Society creates these arbitrary rules about how we're supposed to feel, how we're supposed to act. And when someone doesn't follow the script, they're labeled as monstrous. Even if the script itself is meaningless."

"Camus was arguing that we're all just performing," Sam said, warming to the topic. "That we create meaning where there isn't any, and then we punish people who refuse to play along."

"Right. But here's the thing—" I paused, my thumb brushing against Dean's shoulder. "Meursault accepts his fate. He embraces the absurdity. He finds a kind of freedom in acknowledging that nothing matters. But is that really freedom? Or is it just another form of giving up?"

Sam was quiet for a moment, thinking. "I think Camus would say it's freedom. That once you accept the universe doesn't care, you're free to create your own meaning. To live authentically instead of according to someone else's rules."

"But what if the meaning you create is the struggle itself?" I asked. "What if the point isn't to accept that nothing matters, but to fight for what matters to you, even knowing the universe doesn't care?"

"Sisyphus," Sam said, a small smile crossing his face. "We have to imagine Sisyphus happy."

"Exactly. The boulder doesn't matter. The hill doesn't matter. But the act of pushing—the choice to keep going—that's what makes us human."

Dean's hand came up suddenly, covering mine on his shoulder. His fingers wrapped around my hand, warm and solid, and he held on.

He didn't say anything. Didn't interrupt. Just held my hand like it was an anchor.

Oh, I thought, my chest tightening.

Sam glanced at Dean, then back at the road, and I could see the corner of his mouth quirk up slightly.

"You know," Sam said, his voice lighter now, "I forgot how much I missed talking about books. About ideas. It's been a while."

"Well, lucky for you, I'm a walking library," I said, keeping my voice steady even though my heart was hammering. "Complete with late fees and judgmental librarians."

"Do you charge late fees for existential crises?" Sam asked.

"Double rate," I replied. "Triple if you have an existential crisis about having an existential crisis."

Sam actually laughed. A real laugh, the kind that reached his eyes. The tension in the car shifted, softened, became something breathable again.

This is what I can do, I thought, feeling Dean's thumb brush against my knuckles. I can't stop the apocalypse. I can't bring back the dead. But I can ease the tension between two brothers who love each other too much to know how to say it.

Dean still hadn't said a word. But he kept holding my hand, his grip steady and sure, like he needed the reminder that someone was there.

That someone was staying.

"So what's the verdict?" Sam asked after a moment. "Is Meursault a hero or a cautionary tale?"

"Both," I said. "He's a man who refuses to lie, even when lying would save him. That's admirable. But he's also a man who's so detached from his own emotions that he can't connect with anyone. And that's tragic."

"Sounds familiar," Dean muttered, so quietly I almost didn't hear him.

Sam's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again, meeting mine. There was understanding there, and something that looked like gratitude.

"The thing about Camus," I continued, my fingers tightening slightly around Dean's, "is that he's asking us to find meaning in a meaningless world. To create our own purpose. To choose what matters, even knowing it's all absurd."

"And what matters to you?" Sam asked.

I looked at the back of Dean's head, at the way his shoulders had finally relaxed, at the hand still holding mine.

"This," I said quietly. "Right now. This matters."

Dean's grip tightened, just for a second, and I felt something settle in my chest. Something that felt like certainty.

We're going to Cheyenne, I thought. We're going to meet a demon in a motel room. We're going to try to stop the apocalypse with incomplete information and borrowed power and sheer stubborn will.

It's absurd.

But it matters.

Because they matter.

Sam drove on, the highway stretching out ahead of us, and Dean kept holding my hand. A silent acknowledgment. A quiet promise.

I leaned back in my seat, my hand still resting on Dean's shoulder, his hand still covering mine, and for the first time in hours, the silence didn't feel heavy.

It felt like breathing.

The motel in Cheyenne was nicer than the one in Greybull. Which wasn't saying much, but at least the neon sign didn't flicker like it was having a seizure.

Sam pulled the Impala into a parking spot near the office, killing the engine. The sudden silence felt heavy, weighted with everything we weren't saying.

We all exited the car, the cool night air hitting my skin. Sam was already heading toward the office when Dean caught my wrist gently, pulling me back.

"Hey," he said quietly.

I turned to look at him, and his expression was soft. Vulnerable in a way that made my chest tight.

He pulled me closer, his arm sliding around my shoulders, drawing me in until I was pressed against his side. His hand settled at my waist, warm and solid, and I could feel his heartbeat against my shoulder.

Sam glanced back at us from a few feet away, and I saw the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile. Not teasing. Just…pleased. Like he was happy to see his brother happy.

"Come on," Sam said, gesturing toward the office. "Let's get checked in."

We walked together, Dean's arm still around me, his hand resting possessively on my hip. The clerk barely looked up as Sam requested a room, just slid a key across the counter and went back to his magazine.

Waiting for Ruby, I thought as we made our way down the exterior hallway. Waiting for a demon. Waiting for the next disaster.

Dean unlocked the door to room 14 and pushed it open.

"Ah, home crappy home," he said, his tone dry.

I laughed despite myself, the sound surprising me. "You say that about every motel room."

"Because it's true about every motel room," Dean replied, stepping inside.

Sam flipped on the lights.

And that's when I saw them.

Two figures standing in the middle of the room like they'd been waiting for us. Like they'd materialized out of thin air.

Because they had.

Uriel stood near the window, his arms crossed, his expression cold and disdainful. Castiel was closer to the door, his trench coat rumpled, his tie slightly askew, his face as unreadable as ever.

"Winchester and Winchester," Uriel said, his voice flat. His gaze shifted to me. "And the blonde girl."

Oh no, I thought. Oh hell no.

Dean's arm dropped from my shoulders, his hand going immediately to the knife at his belt. "Oh, come on."

"You are needed," Uriel said.

"Needed?" Dean's voice was sharp. "We just got back from needed."

"Now, you mind your tone with me," Uriel said, his eyes narrowing.

"No, you mind your damn tone with us," Dean shot back.

Sam stepped forward, his body tense. "We just got back from the case in Greybull. We had to call Pamela for help 'cause you guys didn't mind giving us a hand—"

"Yeah," Dean interrupted, his voice rising. "Then (y/n) almost died saving one of your precious seals. So maybe you can stop pushing us around like chess pieces for five freaking minutes!"

He's defending me, I thought distantly. He's standing up to angels because of me.

Uriel's expression didn't change. "We raised you out of hell for our purposes."

"Yeah, what were those again?" Dean demanded. "What exactly did you want from me?"

"Start with gratitude," Uriel said coldly.

"Oh."

Castiel stepped forward, his voice quieter than Uriel's but no less firm. "Dean, we know this is difficult to understand."

"And we—" Uriel gave Castiel a significant look. "—don't care. Now, seven angels have been murdered, all of them from our garrison. The last one was killed tonight."

Dean's expression shifted, some of the anger giving way to confusion. "Demons? How they doing it?"

"We don't know," Uriel said.

Sam's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry, but what do you want us to do about it? I mean, a demon with the juice to ice angels has to be out of our league, right?"

"We can handle the demons, thank you very much," Uriel said dismissively.

"Once we find whoever it is," Castiel added.

Dean's jaw tightened. "So you need our help hunting a demon?"

"Not quite," Castiel said. "We have Alastair."

Oh god, here it comes. I thought.

"Great," Dean said, his voice carefully neutral. "He should be able to name your trigger man."

"But he won't talk," Castiel said. "Alastair's will is very strong. We've arrived at an impasse."

Dean's expression hardened. "Yeah, well, he's like a black belt in torture. I mean, you guys are out of your league."

Uriel's gaze was cold. "That's why we've come to his student. You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we've got."

The room went very, very still.

Dean looked down, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

No, I thought. No, they can't ask him to do this. They can't—

I was trying to figure out how to stop this. Trying to think of something, anything, I could say or do to change the course of this conversation.

I stopped Pamela from dying, I thought desperately. I changed that. Maybe I can change this too. Maybe—

"Dean," Castiel said quietly. "You are our best hope."

"No," Dean said, his voice breaking slightly. "No way. You can't ask me to do this, Cas. Not this."

Uriel walked up to Dean, his expression implacable. "Who said anything about asking?"

I lunged forward, my hand reaching for Dean's arm. "Wait—"

But I was too late.

Castiel touched two fingers to Dean's forehead, and Dean's eyes went wide.

And then he was gone.

Just…gone.

Vanished like he'd never been there at all.

"Dean!" I spun around, searching the empty space where he'd been standing. "No! Bring him back!"

Sam and I looked around the room. The angels were gone too.

The room was empty.

"Damn it!" Sam's voice was raw with fury and fear.

"Sam, we need to do something," I said, my voice shaking. "We need to find Dean."

"I know," Sam said, running a hand through his hair. "But how? How could we find them?"

"Ruby," I said immediately. "You need to call her right now!"

Sam looked at me, conflict written across his face. Then he sighed. "Alright. Give me a minute."

He stepped out of the room, pulling his phone from his pocket.

I stood in the middle of the empty motel room, my hands shaking, my chest tight.

Panic is a funny thing, I thought distantly. It starts in your chest, this tight, hot feeling, and then it spreads. To your throat. Your hands. Your brain. Until you can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything except stand there and feel it.

They took him.

The angels took Dean, and they're going to make him torture Alastair, which would lead to Alastair beating the shit out of him, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

I knew this was coming. I knew what was going to happen. And I didn't stop it.

The guilt was crushing, a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders.

I could have warned him. I could have told him what the angels were planning. I could have—

But what? What could I have done?

Nothing, I thought bitterly. I could have done nothing. Because I'm not strong enough, not smart enough, not fast enough to change this.

The door opened, and Sam stepped back inside. His face was pale, his jaw tight.

"She's coming," he said.

I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself. The motel room felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in.

Sam closed the door behind him and leaned against it, running a hand through his hair. "(y/n/n)—"

"Don't," I said quietly. "Don't tell me it's going to be okay."

He looked at me, and I could see the same fear in his eyes that I felt in my chest. "I wasn't going to."

We stood there for a moment, the silence heavy between us.

"Do you think he can do it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Sam's jaw tightened. "I don't know. But him alone with Alastair? Nothing good can come from that."

I closed my eyes, trying to push away the images that were flooding my mind.

Stop it, I told myself. Stop thinking about it.

But I couldn't.

"He's strong," Sam said, and I could hear the desperation in his voice. The need to believe it. "Dean's strong. He'll be okay."

"Will he?" I opened my eyes and looked at Sam. "You heard what Castiel said. They want him to torture Alastair. They want him to go back to being—to being what he was in Hell."

Sam flinched. "I know."

"And what if he can't?" My voice cracked. "What if he tries and he can't do it, and then—what if he's not what they want him to be?"

"Then we get him out," Sam said firmly. "We find him, and we get him out, and we deal with the consequences later."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that it was that simple.

But nothing was ever that simple. Not here. Not in this universe.

"Sam," I said quietly. "I'm scared."

His expression softened. "Yeah. Me too."

"I know we just—I know this thing with Dean and me is new, and I know I shouldn't be this terrified already, but—" I broke off, shaking my head. "I can't lose him, Sam. I can't."

Sam crossed the room and put his hand on my shoulder. "You're not going to lose him. I promise."

"You can't promise that."

"No," he admitted. "But I can promise that I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure it doesn't happen."

A knock on the door made us both jump.

Sam moved to answer it, and I stepped back.

Ruby stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. "I can still smell them. Seriously, Sam, I'm not exactly dying to tangle with angels again."

"We need you to find out where they took Dean," Sam said.

Ruby stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Not sure I see the problem. You know they have Alastair strung up six ways from Sunday. Dean cuts himself a slice, Al's reduced to a quivering heap, and the good guys get the goods. What's wrong with that?"

"He can't do it," Sam said.

Ruby raised an eyebrow. "Look, I get it. You don't want him going all torture master again."

"No, he can't do it," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "Dean is not…he can't—"

I trailed off, unable to find the right words. How did you explain that Dean Winchester, the man who'd survived forty years in Hell, who'd broken under Alastair's knife and become something monstrous, couldn't go back to that? That he'd rather die than become that person again?

Ruby looked at me, her eyebrows raised, something almost like curiosity in her expression.

Sam took the lead. "He can't get the job done. Something happened to him downstairs, Ruby. He's not what he used to be. He's not strong enough."

Ruby's gaze shifted back to Sam. "And you are?"

"I will be," Sam said, his voice hard.

There was a beat of silence.

Ruby studied Sam for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "All right. So we find him. But breaking into an angel's hideout isn't exactly a walk in the park."

"Can you do a locator spell?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, but it's going to take some prep work. And even if we find him, you're going to have a bigger problem."

"What problem?" I asked.

"The wards," Ruby said. "Angels don't exactly leave the door unlocked. You're going to need serious power to break through Enochian warding."

Sam's jaw tightened. "How much power?"

Ruby looked at him, and I saw something pass between them. An understanding. A terrible, unspoken agreement.

"More than you've got on your own," she said quietly.

Oh god, I thought, my stomach twisting. She's talking about her blood. She's talking about Sam drinking demon blood.

Sam didn't flinch. "Then we do what we have to do."

"Sam—" I started, but he cut me off.

"(y/n/n), I know what you're going to say. But Dean is in there, and if this is what it takes to get him out, then I'm doing it."

I looked at him, and I saw the determination in his eyes. The same determination I'd seen a hundred times before, the same stubborn refusal to back down that ran in the Winchester blood.

He's going to do this, I thought. He's going to drink demon blood, and there's nothing I can say that will stop him.

And the worst part?

I didn't want to stop him.

Because Dean was in that warehouse, and if Sam drinking demon blood was what it took to save him, then I would swallow my horror and my fear and my disgust and I would let it happen.

What does that make me? I thought distantly. What does it say about me that I'm willing to let Sam damn himself to save Dean?

But I already knew the answer.

It made me someone who loved Dean Winchester.

And that was terrifying.

Ruby pulled a map from her jacket and spread it out on the small table by the window. "All right. Let's find your brother."

She pulled a candle from her pocket, one of those small white emergency candles, and lit it with a lighter. The flame flickered in the dim light of the motel room.

"This is going to get messy," she said, holding the candle over the map. "But it'll work."

She began to chant, low and guttural, words in a language I didn't recognize. The air around us seemed to thicken, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The candle flame grew brighter, hotter, and Ruby touched it to the corner of the map.

The paper caught fire immediately, the flames spreading along the edges in a perfect circle.

"Relax," Ruby said, glancing at me. "The fire is our friend. Besides, the only part of the map we need is the 'where's Dean?' part."

The flames crept inward, consuming the map, until only a small circle in the center remained untouched.

"Out," Ruby said.

The flames vanished.

The map was charred to unreadability, blackened and curled at the edges. But in the center, perfectly preserved, was a small section showing a warehouse district on the outskirts of Cheyenne.

Ruby pointed to it. "There. Your brother's there. It's a good thing angels aren't concerned with hiding their dirty business. Not used to being spied on. I mean, who'd be stupid enough to try?"

Sam leaned over the map, studying the location. "How do we break the wards?"

Ruby looked at him, and there was something almost like sympathy in her eyes. "You know how."

Sam's jaw tightened. "Yeah. I do."

This is it, I thought. This is the moment. This is when Sam crosses the line again.

And I couldn't watch it.

I didn't want to see it. Didn't want to witness Sam drinking demon blood, didn't want to see the darkness settle over him like a cloak.

I'm a coward, I thought bitterly. I'm willing to let him do it, but I can't even watch.

"Sam," I said quietly. "I need the keys."

He looked at me, confused. "What?"

"The Impala keys," I said. "I'm going to wait in the car. Give you guys some space."

Sam's expression shifted to something like panic. "(y/n), you don't need to—"

"Yeah, I do," I said firmly.

Sam hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys. He held them out to me, and I could see the conflict in his eyes. The fear that if he let me drive Dean's car, Dean would kill him.

"Relax, Sam," I said, taking the keys. "I'm not gonna drive her. I just want to give you guys some space."

Sam looked at me for a long moment, and I saw the understanding dawn in his eyes. He knew what I was doing. He knew I was running.

But he didn't call me on it.

He just handed me the keys.

I walked out of the motel room, closing the door behind me, and headed toward the Impala.

The driver's seat of the Impala felt wrong.

Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just…wrong. Like I was sitting in a space that wasn't meant for me, that belonged to someone else so completely that even being here felt like trespassing.

This is Dean's seat, I thought, my hands resting on the steering wheel. This is where he sits. Where he drives. Where he controls everything.

The leather was worn smooth under my palms, shaped by years of Dean's hands gripping it. The seat was adjusted for someone taller than me, and I had to scoot it forward before my feet could reach the pedals.

The whole car smelled like him. Leather and gunpowder and that faint hint of whiskey and motor oil that clung to everything Dean touched.

This is his most prized possession, I thought, my chest tight. The thing he loves more than anything. The thing he won't let anyone else touch.

And I'm sitting in the driver's seat.

I ran my hands over the steering wheel, feeling the grooves worn into the leather, the places where Dean's fingers had gripped it thousands of times.

This is his soul, I thought suddenly. This car. This is what he loves. What he protects. What he trusts.

I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against the steering wheel.

The motel room door opened, and I looked up to see Sam walking toward the car. Alone.

I slid over to the passenger seat as he approached.

Sam climbed into the driver's side, his face pale, his hands still shaking slightly. He didn't say anything, just started the engine.

The Impala roared to life, and Sam pulled out of the parking lot.

We drove in silence for a few minutes, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

He drank demon blood, I thought, watching Sam's profile. He drank Ruby's blood, and now he's got this dark power running through him, and I don't know what it's doing to him.

I don't know if he knows what it's doing to him. What she's doing to him.

"(y/n)," Sam said finally, his voice quiet.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For coming. For—for not asking questions."

I looked at him, at the guilt written across his face, at the fear in his eyes.

"You're welcome," I said.

But I have questions, I thought. So many questions. Like how much demon blood have you drunk? Do you know what it's doing to you? Do you care?

But I didn't ask.

Because Dean was in that warehouse, and that was all that mattered right now.

The rest...the demon blood, the lies, the secrets...that could wait.

"We're going to get him back," I said instead.

Sam nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

Almost an hour later, forty-five minutes of driving through dark highways and empty roads, the warehouse came into view.

It loomed ahead of us, a dark silhouette against the night sky. Industrial. Abandoned. The kind of place that had been left to rot for years.

Perfect place to torture someone, I thought grimly.

Sam's hands tightened on the wheel as we got closer. He barely slowed down before pulling into the lot, the Impala's tires skidding slightly as he hit the brakes hard. The car was still rolling forward when I unbuckled my seatbelt.

"(y/n)—" Sam started, but I was already moving.

I shoved the door open and ran toward the warehouse. The night air was cold, sharp, cutting into my lungs as I sprinted toward the main doors.

"(y/n)! Wait!"

Sam's voice came from behind me, urgent and panicked. I heard the Impala's door slam, heard his footsteps pounding against the asphalt as he ran after me.

He caught up to me just as I reached the warehouse entrance, his hand grabbing my arm gently but firmly.

"We need to be smart about this," he said, breathing hard.

I nodded, forcing myself to slow down, to think. Sam was right. Running in blind would get us both killed.

Sam stepped in front of the main door, his hand outstretched. I could see the symbols carved into the wood. Enochian, the language of angels.

He closed his eyes, and I felt the air around us shift.

Power surged through him, dark and terrible and wrong, and the symbols on the door began to glow. Brighter and brighter, until I had to look away.

And then they shattered.

The door swung open, and Sam stumbled back, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead.

"You okay?" I asked.

He nodded, but he didn't look okay. He looked like he'd just run a marathon. Or fought a war.

"Let's go," he said.

We stepped inside.

The warehouse was dark and cold and smelled like blood.

We moved through the space carefully, our footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. The warehouse was mostly empty. Just old machinery and rusted metal and shadows that seemed to move in the corners of my vision.

And then I heard it.

Voices. Low and chanting and familiar.

Latin.

Sam and I exchanged a glance, then moved toward the sound.

We found them in the back of the warehouse, in a space that had been prepared for Alastair. To torture him.

Dean was on the ground, his body bloody and broken, barely conscious.

Alastair stood over him, chanting in Latin, his hands raised. Blue light was pouring from Castiel's eyes and mouth as the demon exorcised him.

Sam stepped into the light, his hand outstretched.

Alastair stopped chanting abruptly, choking, and was slammed against the wall. Castiel slumped to the ground.

"Stupid pet tricks," Alastair said, his voice mocking.

Sam's expression was cold. "Who's murdering the angels? How are they doing it?"

"You think I'm gonna tell you?" Alastair sneered.

"Yeah, I do," Sam said.

He twisted his hand. Alastair's eyes rolled white and he choked.

I ran to Dean, dropping to my knees beside him. His face was bruised and swollen, his shirt torn and bloody. There was so much blood—

"Dean," I whispered, my hands shaking as I pressed them against one of the wounds on his chest. "It's okay, Dean. You're gonna be okay."

I felt something rolling down my cheeks. That's when I realized I was crying.

"How are the demons killing angels?" Sam demanded.

"I don't know," Alastair choked out.

"Right."

"It's not us. We're not doing it."

"I don't believe you."

"Lilith is not behind this. She wouldn't kill seven angels. Oh, she'd kill a hundred, a thousand."

Sam stopped, his expression shifting.

"Oh, go ahead," Alastair said, smiling despite the pain. "Send me back, if you can."

Sam's voice was quiet. Deadly. "I'm stronger than that now. Now I can kill."

He held out his hand. Gold light flared inside Alastair as he screamed. The demon's host collapsed, dead.

Castiel was standing now, looking at me. At Dean in my arms.

"Are you gonna just stand there or are you gonna help him?" I demanded, my voice breaking.

Castiel's expression was unreadable. "I—"

"Oh forget it," I said. "Come on, Sam, help me put him in the car."

Sam helped me lift Dean…though Sam bore most of the weight. Dean's head lolled against my shoulder, and I could feel his blood soaking through my shirt.

Please, I thought. Please let him be okay.

Sam drove while I sat in the backseat with Dean's head on my lap. One of my hands was keeping pressure on one of his wounds while the other stroked his hair and face.

"You're gonna be okay," I whispered, even though I wasn't sure he could hear me. "You're gonna be fine, Dean. We're almost there."

His breathing was shallow and labored, and I could feel his blood warm and sticky on my hands.

Don't you dare die on me, I thought fiercely. Don't you dare do this to me.

The hospital appeared ahead of us, bright and sterile against the darkness.

Sam pulled up to the emergency entrance, barely stopping the car before I was out, calling for help.

"We need help!" I shouted. "Please, he's—he's hurt bad—"

Doctors and nurses rushed out with a gurney. They lifted Dean from the backseat, and I watched as they wheeled him inside.

"What happened?" one of the doctors asked.

"Car accident," Sam said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. "He was—he wasn't wearing a seatbelt."

The doctor nodded, already moving toward the trauma bay. "We'll do everything we can."

And then they were gone, disappearing through the double doors, and Sam and I were left standing in the parking lot.

Covered in Dean's blood.

The waiting room was bright and sterile and smelled like antiseptic.

I hated it.

Hospitals are where people go to die, I thought, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair with my hands clenched in my lap. Where they go to be saved, or to be gone forever. Like my parents.

Dean had been rushed into surgery the moment we arrived. Internal bleeding, broken ribs, punctured lung. The list went on and on, each injury worse than the last.

Now we were waiting.

Sam sat next to me, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He hadn't said a word since we got here.

He's blaming himself, I thought. For not getting there sooner. For not stopping the angels. For not being enough.

I wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault. That there was nothing he could have done.

But I didn't.

Because I was blaming myself too.

I knew this was coming, I thought, staring at the white tile floor. I knew the angels would take him. I knew what they'd make him do. What Alastair was gonna do to him. And I didn't stop it.

The guilt was a living thing, coiled in my chest, squeezing tighter with every breath.

Hours passed. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Nurses came and went. The coffee in the vending machine tasted like burnt rubber.

And we waited.

Dean was in a private room when they finally let us see him.

He looked small in the hospital bed. Which was wrong, because Dean Winchester was not supposed to look small.

He was hooked up to machines. Monitors beeping steadily, IV lines running into his arms, a breathing tube down his throat. His face was bruised and swollen, his chest wrapped in bandages.

But he was alive.

He's alive, I thought, and the relief was so overwhelming I had to sit down.

I moved to the right side of the bed, taking his hand in mine. His skin was warm, his pulse steady under my fingers.

Sam stood near the door, his hands gripping the rail at the foot of the bed, his face pale.

Castiel appeared in the doorway, pausing for a moment before continuing down the hallway.

Sam followed him out.

I could hear their voices in the hallway, low and tense.

"Sam—" Castiel began.

"Get in there and heal him," Sam said, his voice hard. "Miracle. Now."

"I can't."

"You and Uriel put him in there—"

"No."

"—because you can't keep a simple devil's trap together."

"I don't know what happened," Castiel said, and there was something in his voice that sounded almost like regret. "That trap… it shouldn't have broken. I am sorry."

"This whole thing was pointless," Sam said. "You understand that? The demons aren't doing the hits. Something else is killing your soldiers."

"Perhaps Alastair was lying."

"No, he wasn't."

Silence.

I looked down at Dean, at his bruised face, at the breathing tube, at the bandages.

This is my fault, I thought. I let this happen. I knew it was coming and I didn't stop it. I didn't do anything to help him.

Sam came back into the room, his expression tight.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Are you okay?"

I looked up at him. "I've been better."

Sam sat down in the chair on the other side of the bed. "He will be okay. He's had worse. Trust me."

I wanted to believe him.

But I'd seen Dean's face when the angels took him. Seen the fear. The resignation.

"Sam," I said quietly. "What if—what if he's not okay? What if this—what if it breaks him even more?"

Sam was quiet for a long moment. "Then we'll be there to put him back together."

We, I thought. Not just me. Not just Sam. We.

We sat in silence, watching the monitors, listening to the steady beep of Dean's heartbeat.

And we waited.

I was still holding Dean's hand when I felt it.

A slight pressure. His fingers tightening around mine.

I looked up, and his eyes were open.

Green and unfocused and beautiful.

"Sam," I said, my voice breaking. "Sam, he's awake."

Sam was on his feet immediately, moving to the other side of the bed.

Dean tried to talk, but the breathing tube wouldn't let him. His eyes went wide with panic.

"It's okay, Dean," I said, standing up and leaning over him. "Sam is getting the doctors. They're gonna take this off of you. You're gonna be fine."

Sam left the room, calling for the nurses.

I took my left hand and placed it on Dean's left cheek, caressing it gently.

Dean closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly into my touch.

He's okay, I thought. He's going to be okay.

The doctors removed the breathing tube, and Dean coughed, his face contorting in pain.

"Easy," one of the doctors said. "Take it slow."

Dean's eyes found mine, and I could see the question there.

"You're in the hospital," I said quietly. "You're going to be okay."

The doctors checked his vitals, asked him questions, made notes on their charts. And then they left, promising to check back in an hour.

Sam pulled a chair closer to the bed. "How you feeling?"

Dean's voice was rough. "Like I got hit by a truck."

"Close enough," Sam said, a small smile crossing his face.

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"We found you," I said. "Sam broke the wards. We got you out."

Dean's expression shifted, something dark crossing his face. "Alastair—"

"Dead," Sam said. "I killed him."

Dean looked at his brother, and I could see the conflict in his eyes. Relief. Guilt. Fear.

"You shouldn't have come," Dean said finally.

"Yeah, well," Sam said. "We did."

Dean looked at me, and his expression softened. "You okay?"

He's asking if I'm okay, I thought. He's lying in a hospital bed, barely able to breathe, and he's asking if I'm okay.

"I'm fine," I said. "You're the one who—"

"I'm okay," Dean said, but his voice was weak.

Sam's phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna take this outside. Give you guys a minute."

He left the room, and I was alone with Dean.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Dean said, "Come here."

I moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Dean's hand found mine, his fingers lacing through mine.

"You scared the hell out of me," I said quietly.

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

"Don't be sorry," I said. "Just—don't do it again."

Dean's mouth quirked up in a small smile. "I'll try."

We talked for a while. About the hospital food (terrible), about the nurses (efficient but cold), about sitting in the driver's seat of Baby for the first time (Dean winced at that).

"You drove my car?" Dean asked, his eyes widening.

"Sam drove," I corrected. "I just sat in the driver's seat. For like, two minutes."

Dean looked like he wanted to say something, but then he just shook his head. "Okay."

"Okay?" I repeated. "That's it? Just okay?"

"You were trying to save my life," Dean said. "I think I can let it slide."

I laughed, and it felt good. Normal.

But then Dean's expression shifted, the lightness fading.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," Dean said. "It's nothing."

"Dean, you can talk to me," I said. "You know that. I won't judge you. I will never do that."

"I know, I know, it's just—" Dean stopped, looking away.

"Dean," I said firmly. "Tell me what's wrong."

Dean was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Alastair told me something."

He stopped, watching my reaction.

I tilted my head, waiting.

"He told me that—that I broke the first seal," Dean said, his voice breaking. "That I started the apocalypse when I said yes to him in hell."

I know, I thought. I know, and I can't tell you that I know.

"It's all my fault," Dean continued. "I wasn't man enough to handle it."

"What!?" I said, shaking my head. "No! Dean, it is not your fault—"

"But it is!" Dean said, his voice rising. "I started all this!"

I shook my head again. "Dean… even if it is true… how could you know?"

Dean looked at me, and his eyes were filled with so much pain it made my chest ache.

"If it is true," he said quietly. "Would you not lo—would it change how you feel about me?"

He was looking at me with hope and fear, like my answer was the only thing that mattered.

I shook my head. "Nothing can change how I feel about you, Dean."

Dean's hand came up to the back of my neck, pulling me down. He kissed me, and I could taste the salt of his tears.

When we broke apart, I rested my forehead against his.

"So how did you find me?" Dean asked after a moment.

I told him about Ruby's spell, about the map and the blood and the way the fire had traced the roads.

We were still talking when I noticed Castiel standing near the door.

I looked at Dean, and he was already looking at the angel with displeasure written across his face.

"Are you all right?" Castiel asked.

"No thanks to you," Dean said, his voice hard.

"You need to be more careful," Castiel said.

"You need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap," Dean shot back.

"That's not what I mean," Castiel said. "Uriel is dead."

Dean's expression shifted. "Was it the demons?"

"It was disobedience," Castiel said. "He was working against us."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Is it true? Did I break the first seal? Did I start all this?"

Castiel's expression didn't change. "Yes. When we discovered Lilith's plan for you, we laid siege to hell and we fought our way to get to you before you—"

"Jump-started the apocalypse," Dean finished.

"And we were too late."

"Why didn't you just leave me there, then?" Dean asked.

"It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate," Castiel said. "The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it."

"Lucifer?" Dean said. "The apocalypse? What does that mean? Hey! Don't you go disappearing on me, you son of a bitch. What does that mean!"

"I don't know," Castiel said.

"Bull."

"I don't. Dean, they don't tell me much. I know our fate rests with you."

Dean's voice broke. "Well, then you guys are screwed. I can't do it, Cas. It's too big. Alastair was right. I'm not all here. I'm not—I'm not strong enough. Well, I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It's not me."

Castiel vanished into thin air. And then Dean began to cry.

I moved immediately, climbing onto the hospital bed beside him. Dean pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my shoulder, and he cried.

This is what I can do, I thought, holding him as tightly as I dared. I can't undo what's been done. But I can be here. I can hold him. I can remind him that he's not alone.

"It's okay," I whispered, running my fingers through his hair. "It's okay, Dean. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean's arms tightened around me, and I could feel his tears soaking through my shirt.

"I'm scared," he whispered.

"I know," I said. "Me too."

"What if I can't stop it? What if I can't fix this?"

"Then we'll figure it out together," I said. "But you're not doing this alone. Not anymore."

Dean held onto me like I was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Summary (of this chapter): After a strange case leads them to a town where no one seems to die, the group heads out to investigate, but underlying tension, both emotional and supernatural, quickly surfaces. While Sam and Dean chase answers tied to something deeply unnatural, things escalate dangerously, forcing an unexpected confrontation. Amid the chaos, bonds are tested, secrets linger, and a quiet but powerful shift happens between (y/n) and Dean. One that changes everything moving forward. Series Masterlist Pairing: Supernatural AU | Dean Winchester x female!reader Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Original Female Character, Supporting SPN Characters Warnings: Language | Drinking | Emotional Vulnerability Word Count: 74.421 Previous | Next

⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧Chapter Seven: Death Takes A Holiday

The diner was one of those classic roadside places. Red vinyl booths, checkered floors, and a jukebox in the corner playing something that sounded like it hadn't been updated since 1985. The smell of grease and coffee hung in the air, comforting in its familiarity.

I was wedged into the corner booth beside Dean, close enough that our shoulders kept brushing whenever one of us moved. Sam sat across from us, his laptop open, fingers moving across the keyboard with the kind of focus that suggested he was deliberately tuning us out.

"—and I'm telling you," I said, gesturing with my fork for emphasis, "I know the difference between a carburetor and a fuel injector. I'm not completely clueless."

Dean snorted, reaching for his coffee. "Knowing the difference and actually being able to work on one are two very different things, Blondie."

"You've been teaching me for months now," I pointed out. "At some point, you're going to have to admit I'm a decent student."

"Oh, you're a great student," Dean said, and there was something warm in his voice that made my stomach flip. "Doesn't mean I'm letting you anywhere near Baby's engine."

"I don't want to work on her engine," I said. "I want to drive her."

Dean's expression shifted immediately. "Absolutely not."

"Come on—"

"Not happening."

"Dean, I'm a good driver—"

"I don't care if you're Dale Earnhardt Jr. You're not driving my car."

I stole a french fry from his plate, popping it into my mouth with a satisfied smile. "You're being ridiculous."

He made a face at me, half annoyed, half amused, but he didn't actually stop me. Just shifted his plate slightly closer to himself in a gesture that was more performative than protective.

"I'm being protective of a classic American muscle car," Dean corrected. "There's a difference."

"It's a car, Dean. Not a Fabergé egg."

"She's not just a car," Dean said, his tone taking on that particular edge he got whenever someone insulted the Impala. "She's a 1967 Chevrolet Impala with a 327 V8 engine and—"

"—and I know all of this already because you've told me approximately forty-seven times," I finished. "Which is exactly my point. I know how to handle her. I know she pulls slightly to the left. I know the clutch is sensitive. I know you have to pump the brakes twice before—"

"Knowing and doing are not the same thing."

"Then let me do it so I can prove I know what I'm doing."

"No."

"Dean—"

"Blondie, I said no." But there wasn't any real heat in it. Just that stubborn Winchester determination that I'd come to recognize as his default setting whenever he thought he was protecting something, or someone, he cared about.

I opened my mouth to argue further when Sam's phone started ringing.

Sam glanced at the screen, then answered. "Hey, Bobby."

I leaned back in the booth, watching as Sam's expression shifted from casual to focused. Dean took another bite of his burger, his attention still half on me, half on his brother.

"Yeah, we're good," Sam said into the phone. "Just finished up in Illinois." A pause. "No, everything's fine. We're fine."

I reached over and stole another french fry from Dean's plate.

He shot me a look, eyebrows raised, mouth quirking at the corner, but he didn't say anything. Just shifted the plate even closer to me, like he was giving me permission without actually admitting it.

My chest did that stupid fluttery thing it had been doing a lot lately whenever Dean did something unexpectedly sweet.

"Wyoming?" Sam was saying. "What's in Wyoming?"

Dean's attention shifted fully to Sam now, his burger temporarily forgotten.

"Uh-huh," Sam said, nodding even though Bobby couldn't see him. "Yeah, that does sound weird." Another pause. "No, no, no, you're right, it's definitely weird. …Okay, Bobby, thanks."

Sam hung up and set his phone down on the table.

Dean swallowed his bite of burger. "What's up?"

Sam started typing, pulling up what looked like a news website. "Bobby found something in Wyoming."

"A job?" Dean asked.

"Maybe."

Dean took another bite of his burger. I reached over and stole yet another french fry. This time he didn't even acknowledge it, just kept chewing and watching Sam.

"Small town," Sam said, his eyes scanning the screen. "No one's died in the past week and a half."

Dean frowned. "That so unusual?"

"Well," Sam said, glancing up, "it's how they're not dying."

I leaned forward slightly, my interest piqued despite myself.

Sam continued, "One guy with terminal cancer strolls right out of hospice. Another guy gets capped by a mugger and walks away without a scratch."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Capped in the ass?"

Sam's browser had two tabs open to something called the Greybull Gazette. The top tab showed an article with the headline "Shooting victim walks away unharmed" and a subheading that read "Man miraculously survives after direct shot to heart."

"Police say Mr. Jenkins was shot in the heart at point-blank range by a nine-millimeter," Sam said, his tone clinical.

Dean kept eating, speaking with his mouth full. "And he's not a doughnut?"

I was finishing the last bite of my burger, but I nearly choked on it at Dean's phrasing.

"Locals are saying it's a miracle," Sam said.

Dean swallowed, considering this. "Okay."

"It's got to be something nasty, right?" Sam said, his fingers still moving across the keyboard. "I mean, people making deals or something."

Dean was quiet for a moment, his jaw working as he chewed. Then: "You think?"

"What else would it be?"

"I don't know."

Sam closed his laptop with a decisive click and started packing it into his bag. "All right. Get that to go."

I immediately started gathering my things—napkins, the remnants of my burger wrapper, my jacket from where I'd draped it over the back of the booth.

But Dean didn't move.

He just sat there, chewing slowly, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance.

"Come on," Sam said, standing up and swinging his bag over his shoulder.

Dean still didn't move except to chew.

Sam looked at him. Then at me. Then back at Dean.

"What?" Sam asked.

Both Sam and I were looking at Dean now. He looked up, still chewing, then glanced away and back again.

"Sure you want me going with you?" Dean asked quietly.

The question hung in the air like a weight.

Sam's expression shifted—confusion, then understanding, then something that looked a lot like hurt. "Why wouldn't I?"

Dean put down his burger, brushing his hands together to get rid of the grease. "I don't want to be holding you back or nothing."

"Dude," Sam said, and there was an edge of frustration in his voice now, "I've told you a hundred times, that was the siren talking, not me."

I made a face, the kind of expression that clearly said here we go again, and looked down at my hands.

This conversation had happened at least three times since we'd left Illinois. Dean kept circling back to it, kept poking at the wound like he couldn't help himself.

"Can we get past this?" Sam asked, and there was genuine pleading in his voice now.

Dean picked up a napkin, wiping his hands with more focus than the task required. "Yeah, we're past it."

He brushed off his hands one more time, then slid out of the booth.

They were clearly not over it.

I could see it in the careful way they moved around each other. In the things they weren't saying. In the space between them that felt wider than it should.

The siren had forced them to say things they'd been thinking but never would have voiced. And now they were both trying to pretend those words didn't matter, that they could just move on like nothing had happened.

But you can't unhear something like that.

You can't unknow what someone really thinks of you.

While Sam headed toward the door, already making his way back to the Impala, I walked with Dean to the cashier.

The woman behind the register, her nametag read DORIS, smiled at us as Dean pulled out his wallet.

I stepped closer to him, close enough that I could speak quietly without anyone overhearing.

"You okay?" I asked.

Dean didn't look at me, just handed Doris the money. "Yeah, sure."

I looked at him and I could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.

"Dean," I said, my voice soft but firm. "I'm serious. You can talk to me. You know that, right?"

He glanced at me then, and for just a second, I saw something raw in his expression. Something vulnerable.

Then he smiled. That easy, deflective Dean Winchester smile that he used like armor.

"I know, Blondie," he said, and his voice was warm despite the deflection. "And I appreciate it. But I'm good. Really."

He took his change from Doris, stuffing it into his pocket without counting it.

"Besides," he added, his tone lighter now, "someone's gotta keep you from stealing all my fries."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "You literally moved the plate closer to me."

"Did I?" Dean said innocently. "Huh. Must've been an accident."

"Right. An accident."

We started making our way toward the door, and Dean's hand came to rest briefly on the small of my back, just for a second, just to guide me through the narrow space between tables, but it was enough to make my heart stutter.

Just before we reached the Impala, Dean turned to me and pulled something out of his jacket pocket.

A Snickers bar.

My favorite.

"Here," he said, holding it out to me.

I stared at it for a moment, then at him. "When did you—"

"Grabbed it when I paid," he said with a shrug. "Figured you'd want something sweet for the road."

My throat felt tight. It was such a small thing, just a candy bar, but it was the fact that he'd thought of it. That he'd remembered.

That he'd wanted to do something nice for me even when he was clearly struggling with his own stuff.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"It's no biggie," Dean said, but there was something soft in his expression. Something that made my chest ache.

I took the Snickers, our fingers brushing for just a second, and then Dean was already moving toward the driver's side door.

Sam was already in the passenger seat, his laptop open again, his attention focused on the screen.

I slid into the backseat, tucking the Snickers into my jacket pocket for later.

Dean started the engine, and the Impala roared to life with that familiar rumble that I'd come to associate with safety. With home.

"Wyoming, here we come," Dean said, pulling out of the parking lot.

Sam didn't respond, just kept typing.

I leaned back in my seat, watching the diner disappear in the rearview mirror.

The tension between the brothers was still there. Thick and uncomfortable and unresolved.

The Impala's engine hummed as we merged onto the highway, the road stretching out ahead of us like a promise.

Wyoming.

A town where no one was dying.

Which meant, of course, that something was very, very wrong.

I unwrapped the Snickers bar, breaking off a piece and letting the chocolate melt on my tongue.

In the front seat, Dean's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, meeting mine for just a second.

He smiled. Small, barely there, but real.

And I smiled back.

Whatever was waiting for us in Wyoming, we'd face it together.

The three of us.

Broken and complicated and still figuring out how to be okay.

[…]

The highway stretched out endlessly, flat and gray under an overcast sky. We'd been driving for about an hour when Sam finally looked up from his laptop and turned slightly in his seat to face me.

"So," he said, and there was something almost eager in his tone. "Did you finish it?"

I knew immediately what he was talking about. The book. The one he'd lent me three weeks ago when I was still recovering at Bobby's, the one I'd been reading in stolen moments between research sessions and Dean's daily texts.

The Stranger by Albert Camus.

"I did," I said, shifting forward so I could hear him better over the engine. "Last night, actually."

Sam's face lit up in that way it did when he got to talk about something he actually cared about. "And? What did you think?"

"Honestly?" I paused, trying to find the right words. "It was… unsettling. In a good way, I think. The whole concept of existential absurdism—the idea that life has no inherent meaning and we're all just kind of… floating through it, trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense."

"Right?" Sam leaned his elbow on the back of his seat, fully engaged now. "That's exactly it. Meursault's detachment from everything, even his own mother's death—it's like he's the only honest person in the whole book because he refuses to pretend things matter when they don't."

"Except they do matter," I countered. "That's the whole point, isn't it? He kills a man because the sun was in his eyes. Because he was uncomfortable. And then he's executed for not crying at his mother's funeral, not for the actual murder."

"Society's obsession with emotional performance over actual morality," Sam said, nodding. "The prosecutor literally says Meursault has no soul because he didn't cry."

"Which is insane," I said. "Grief doesn't look the same for everyone. Some people shut down. Some people—"

"Oh my god," Dean's voice cut through our conversation like a knife. "Are you two seriously doing this right now?"

I glanced at the rearview mirror and caught Dean's eyes. They were narrowed, annoyed.

"Doing what?" Sam asked, genuinely confused.

"This." Dean gestured vaguely with one hand, the other still on the wheel. "This whole… book club thing. We're on our way to a case, and you're talking about some French guy who doesn't cry at funerals."

"It's existential philosophy," Sam said, defensive. "It's actually really relevant to—"

"I don't care if it's the meaning of life, Sam. We've got people not dying when they should be dying, and you two are over here having a literature seminar."

I bit back a smile. "You know, for someone who just bought me a Snickers bar, you're being remarkably grumpy."

Dean's eyes flicked to mine in the mirror again. "I'm not grumpy."

"You're totally grumpy," I said. "What, you don't like Camus? Or is it just the French in general?"

"I don't like nerds," Dean said flatly. "And right now, I'm stuck in a car with two of them."

Sam scoffed. "Dean, you literally made a reference to Casa Blanca last week."

"That's different. That's a classic film. You're talking about a book where a guy kills someone because he's hot."

"That's an oversimplification—"

"Focus," Dean interrupted, his voice taking on that authoritative edge he used when he was done with a conversation. "Case. Wyoming. People not dying. That's what we should be talking about."

I leaned back in my seat, catching Sam's eye. He looked like he wanted to argue, but I just shook my head slightly. Not worth it.

"Fine," I said, injecting just enough sweetness into my voice to make it clear I was teasing. "We'll stop talking about books and philosophy and anything remotely interesting. Wouldn't want to strain your brain with all that thinking, Dean."

"Careful, Blondie," Dean said, but I could hear the hint of amusement underneath the warning. "I can still make you walk to Wyoming."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Sam was grinning now, shaking his head as he turned back to his laptop. "You two are ridiculous."

"He started it," I said.

"She's encouraging it," Dean shot back.

And just like that, some of the tension in the car eased. Not all of it. The weight of what had happened with the siren still hung between the brothers like a ghost, but enough that I could breathe a little easier.

The miles passed. Fields gave way to small towns, then back to fields again. The sky stayed gray, threatening rain but never quite delivering.

Eventually, Dean took an exit, and we found ourselves driving through Greybull, Wyoming. A town that looked like every other small American town I'd ever seen. Main Street with a few shops, a diner, a gas station. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and strangers stood out.

"Jim Jenkins' place should be just up here," Sam said, reading off his laptop. "2247 Oakwood Drive."

Dean turned onto a residential street lined with modest houses, neat lawns, the occasional tricycle left out in a driveway. Normal. Suburban. The kind of place where miracles weren't supposed to happen.

He pulled up in front of a pale yellow house with white trim and a small front porch. A bird feeder hung from a tree in the yard, and I could hear birds chirping even through the closed windows of the Impala.

"Showtime," Dean said, cutting the engine.

We all climbed out. The air was cool, crisp, with that particular smell of impending rain. I smoothed down my jacket. One of the nicer ones I'd picked up during a supply run, professional enough to pass as a blogger but not so formal that it screamed FBI.

Sam was already in character, his posture shifting into something more earnest and approachable. Dean just looked like Dean, but with that particular smile he used when he was about to lie to someone's face.

We walked up to the front door. Dean knocked.

A moment later, the door opened, and a man in his forties stood there. Average height, thinning hair, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. Jim Jenkins, I assumed.

"Can I help you?" he asked, polite but cautious.

"Mr. Jenkins?" Sam said, extending his hand. "I'm Sam Raimi, this is my colleague Dean Craven, and this is (y/n) Carpenter. We're bloggers—we run a site called Floored by the Lord dot com. We heard about what happened to you, and we were hoping we could ask you a few questions?"

Jim's expression shifted from cautious to something warmer. "Oh. Yeah, sure. Come on in."

He stepped aside, and we filed into the house. It was clean, comfortable. Family photos on the walls, a couch with throw pillows, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air.

Jim led us to the dining room, where a wooden table sat beneath a simple chandelier. Through the doorway to the next room, I could see a woman. Jim's wife, probably, and a young girl, maybe eight or nine, watching TV.

We sat down in order, Sam, me, then Dean, across from Jim, who settled into his chair with the ease of someone who'd told this story before.

"Now," Jim said, folding his hands on the table. "You said you guys were bloggers?"

"Yes, sir," Sam said, his voice warm and genuine. "Floored by the Lord dot com."

Dean leaned forward slightly, that easy grin on his face. "All of God's glory fit to blog."

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Sam shot Dean a look, really?, and cleared his throat.

"Um," Sam continued, trying to regain his composure. "Some of the people around town are saying what happened to you was a miracle."

Jim nodded slowly. "It was. Plain as day."

"How can you be so sure?" Sam asked.

"How else do you explain it?" Jim's voice was steady, certain. "The doctors can't."

He paused, then leaned forward, his expression earnest. "There's a bullet in my heart, and it's pumping like a piston."

Dean's eyebrows rose slightly. "Well, how do you explain it?"

Jim hesitated. He glanced over at his daughter in the next room, and something in his face softened.

"Look, honestly," he said, his voice dropping. "I was nobody's saint—not exactly father of the year, either."

"Okay," Dean said, his tone neutral.

"But when that guy shot me and I didn't bleed a drop?" Jim shook his head, wonder in his eyes. "I just knew the Lord was giving me a second chance."

"That so?" Dean's voice was carefully blank.

"I had this feeling," Jim continued, and there was something almost reverent in the way he spoke. "Like angels were watching over me."

He paused, looking at each of us in turn.

"I wouldn't expect you guys to understand."

Dean nodded slowly. "Well, we'll just have to try."

Sam leaned forward slightly. "You wouldn't have happened to have swung by a crossroads in the past week or so?"

Jim blinked, confused. "No."

"Maybe you met someone?" Sam pressed gently. "With black eyes? Or red?"

Jim's expression shifted from confusion to suspicion. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Who'd you guys say you were again?"

Dean looked over at Sam, and I could see the silent communication passing between them. Time to go.

"Never mind," Dean said, standing up smoothly. "Thank you for your time."

Sam and I followed suit, and Jim stood as well, still looking suspicious but too polite to push further.

"Thanks for talking with us," Sam said as we headed toward the door.

Jim just nodded, watching us leave with that same wary expression.

The second we were outside and the door closed behind us, I let out the laugh I'd been holding in.

"All of God's glory fit to blog?" I said, looking at Dean. "Really?"

Dean shrugged, completely unapologetic. "What? It's catchy."

"It's terrible," Sam said, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

We climbed back into the Impala, and Dean started the engine.

"So," I said from the backseat. "No deal, no demon signs. Just a guy with a bullet in his heart who thinks angels saved him."

"Which means either he's delusional," Dean said, pulling away from the curb, "or something else is going on."

Sam was already typing on his laptop again. "I'm gonna go talk to the cancer patient. See if his story matches up."

Dean nodded. "Alright. Blondie and I will get us checked into a motel, get settled."

The drive to the motel was short. Just a few blocks from Jim's house. It was one of those classic roadside places, single-story, rooms in a row, parking spaces right in front of each door. The sign out front read "Greybull Inn" in faded letters.

Dean parked, and we all got out. He popped the trunk and grabbed our bags—his worn duffel, Sam's messenger bag, and my smaller backpack.

"Keys," Sam said, holding out his hand.

Dean tossed them over, and Sam caught them easily. "Don't scratch her."

"I know how to drive, Dean."

"That's not what I said."

Sam just shook his head and climbed into the driver's seat. A moment later, the Impala pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Dean and me standing there with our bags.

"Come on," Dean said, jerking his head toward the motel office.

The front desk was small, cramped, with faded wallpaper and a bell that dinged when we walked in. Behind the counter sat a woman in her fifties with graying hair pulled back in a bun and reading glasses perched on her nose. She looked up when we entered, and her face broke into a warm smile.

"Well, hello there," she said, her voice friendly. "What can I do for you folks?"

"We need a room," Dean said, setting our bags down. "Two beds, if you've got it."

The woman's eyes flicked between Dean and me, and something knowing passed over her face. "Oh, so you two aren't together?"

Dean blinked. "Oh, no. We're just friends."

The woman's smile widened. "Oh, that's too bad. You two would make a beautiful couple."

I felt heat creep up my neck and into my cheeks. Dean just smiled awkwardly, clearly not sure how to respond to that.

"Here's your key, sweetheart," the woman said, sliding it across the counter.

Dean reached for it, and the moment his fingers touched hers, she pulled him closer, not forcefully, but enough that he had to lean in.

"You should definitely do something to change that, young man," she said, her voice low but not quite low enough.

I heard every word.

My cheeks burned hotter.

Dean pulled back, the key in his hand, his expression somewhere between amused and mortified. "Uh. Thanks."

We grabbed our bags and headed out, neither of us saying a word. The silence wasn't awkward, exactly, it was more like we both knew that acknowledging what had just happened would make it worse.

The room was number seven, near the end of the row. Dean unlocked the door and pushed it open, and we stepped inside.

It was… exactly what I expected. Generic motel room. Two twin beds with floral bedspreads, a small TV on a dresser, a bathroom visible through an open door, a table with two chairs by the window.

I did what I always did. Scanned the room. Checked the corners, the closet, under the beds. Old habits from weeks of hunting, of learning that you never knew what might be hiding.

But this time, something else caught my attention.

There was no sofa bed.

Just the two twin beds.

I turned to face Dean, who was setting our bags down by the door. "There's no sofa bed in this room."

Dean looked around, finally noticing what I was talking about. "Oh."

"I'll go back to the front desk," I said, already moving toward the door. "See if she's got another room available. One with a sofa bed, or at least a couch—"

Dean's hand caught my arm gently, stopping me. "We could just… you know. Share the bed."

I turned to look at him.

He was doing that thing where he rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting my eyes. "I mean, if you don't mind. 'Cause I certainly don't."

A pause.

"Not that I want to sleep with yo—in the same bed as you, I—" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly. "I'm just gonna stop talking right now."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

The tension broke, just a little, and Dean opened his eyes, looking at me with something between relief and embarrassment.

"Dean," I said, still smiling. "Don't worry. I understand what you meant." I took a breath, then continued. "You sure you wouldn't mind? I don't want to overstep."

"No, it's okay," Dean said quickly. "Really."

"Alright then," I said. "Thanks."

Dean just nodded.

We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and I had absolutely no idea what to do or say. The air felt thick, charged with something I didn't want to name.

Dean cleared his throat. "Well, I'm gonna do some research for the case. You can take a shower or whatever if you want to."

"Yeah," I said, grateful for the escape. "I really need one."

I grabbed my bag and headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

The second I was alone, I looked at myself in the mirror.

My reflection stared back, flushed cheeks, wide eyes, hair still a little messy from the car ride.

What the hell are you doing? I thought. You were supposed to keep your distance. Now look at you… sharing a bed with him.

I closed my eyes, pressing my palms against the sink.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. I'd spent weeks trying to maintain boundaries, trying to protect myself from the inevitable pain of caring too much about someone whose story I knew ended in suffering.

And now I was going to sleep in the same bed as him.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

I turned on the shower, letting the water heat up while I undressed. The shower was quick, ten minutes, tops. Just long enough to wash away the road grime and try to clear my head.

It didn't work.

I dried off, then pulled on my pajama, an old band t-shirt I'd stolen from Dean weeks ago (he hadn't asked for it back, so I was claiming it) and a pair of loose cotton pants.

As I was drying my hair with the towel, I heard the motel room door open.

Sam's voice, muffled through the bathroom door. "Hey."

Dean's response. "Anything?"

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, hairbrush in hand, Sam was standing by the table where Dean sat with his laptop open.

"That cancer survivor?" Sam was saying. "He was clinically dead. His wife pulled the plug, and now he's taking her out for their twentieth anniversary."

I made my way to the bed, my bed, I guess, though the thought of sharing it with Dean later made my stomach flip, and sat down, starting to brush through my damp hair.

Dean looked up from the laptop. "Any sign of a deal?"

"No," Sam said. "What about you? Found anyone dying around here?"

"Not since Cole Griffith." Dean clicked something on the screen, and I could see him reading an obituary. He clicked on a photo to enlarge it. "He dropped ten days ago. It was the last death I could find."

Sam leaned over Dean's shoulder, reading. "So, what are you thinking?"

Dean stood up, moving toward the small coffee maker on the dresser. "Eh, maybe it is what the people say it is."

Sam scoffed, moving to take Dean's place at the laptop. "Miracles? Dean, in our experience, when do miracles just happen?"

"Well, there's no deals," Dean said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He glanced at me, and our eyes met for just a second before he looked away. "There's, uh, no skeevy faith healers. I mean, these souls just ain't getting dragged into the light."

I kept brushing my hair, watching them, trying to piece together what they were talking about. I'd walked in mid-conversation, and my brain was still trying to catch up.

Sam was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then: "Maybe 'cause there's no one around to carry them."

Dean came back over, coffee in hand. "What do you mean?"

"Well, grim reapers—that's what they do, right?" Sam said. "Schlep souls? So, if death ain't in town—"

"Then nobody's dying," Dean finished. He took a sip of his coffee. "So what? The local reaper's on strike? Playing the back nine? I don't know, Sam."

"Well, then, let's talk to somebody who might," Sam said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Well, last I checked, huggy bear ain't available."

"No, dude. The kid."

"The kid?" Dean's voice was flat. "The kid's a doornail."

"Exactly," Sam said, and I could hear the excitement in his voice, that particular tone he got when he was onto something. "Look, if he was the last person to die around here, then maybe he's seen something. We should talk to him."

Dean took another drink of his coffee. "I love how matter-of-fact you are about that. Strange lives."

I set down my hairbrush, finally feeling like I had enough context to contribute. "So what are we doing about the case? What's our next move?"

Sam turned to look at me, opening his mouth to answer, but Dean cut him off.

"We—" Dean pointed to himself, then Sam, then me, "—don't do anything. We—" he pointed to himself and Sam, "—will do something about it."

I blinked. "Hey, why can't I help?"

Sam looked just as surprised as I felt. "Yeah, man, why can't she come? We've trained her. She's no pro, but she's getting there."

"Hey!" I protested.

Sam winced. "Sorry, (y/n/n), but it's the truth."

"Yeah, but still," I said. "Cheap shot, dude."

Dean set his coffee down on the table. "I'm not saying she can't come 'cause she's a goofy—" I made a sound of protest, "—although she kind of is. But she's already taken a shower, and what we're about to go do involves us getting dirty."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it.

He… actually had a point.

Damn it.

"Fine," I said, crossing my arms. "But I want a full report when you get back."

"Deal," Sam said.

Dean just grabbed his jacket. "Come on, Sam."

And then they were gone, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

I sat there on the bed for a moment, alone in the motel room, listening to the Impala's engine roar to life and fade into the distance.

Well, I thought. This is fun.

I grabbed my phone and pulled up the number for the nearest pizza place, because if I was going to be stuck here alone, I was at least going to eat something good.

"Yeah, hi," I said when someone answered. "I'd like to order a large pepperoni pizza for delivery…"

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, pizza box open beside me, flipping through channels on the TV.

Some cop drama. A rerun of Friends. A nature documentary about wolves.

I settled on the nature documentary, because why not.

The narrator's voice droned on about pack dynamics and hunting strategies, and I ate my pizza and tried not to think about the fact that in a few hours, Dean would be back.

And we'd be sharing a bed.

You're an adult, I told myself firmly. You can handle this.

But as I sat there, alone in that motel room, I wasn't entirely sure I believed it.

Outside, the sky was darkening, clouds rolling in with the promise of rain.

And somewhere out there, Dean and Sam were talking to a dead kid.

Strange lives, indeed.

The thing about waiting is that it gives you too much time to think.

I'd finished three slices of pizza and learned more about wolf pack hierarchies than I ever needed to know when I heard the Impala's engine rumble into the parking lot.

My stomach did that stupid flip thing it always did when I knew Dean was nearby.

Stop it, I told myself. You're being pathetic again.

I heard car doors slam, then footsteps approaching. The key turned in the lock, and Sam walked in first, his expression tight with concern.

Then Dean followed.

And immediately, I knew something was wrong.

His hand was pressed against the left side of his head, his jaw clenched in that way that meant he was in pain but trying not to show it.

"Hey," I said, sitting up straighter. "What happened?"

Sam glanced at Dean, then back at me. "Alastair."

The name hit me like a punch to the gut.

Alastair.

The demon who'd tortured Dean in Hell. The one who'd broken him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but screaming and blood and—

"What?" I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

Dean lowered himself onto the edge of my bed, our bed, my brain helpfully supplied, and winced. "Yeah. Good times."

Sam moved to the small table, setting down his bag. "We were at the cemetery, trying to summon Cole Griffith's spirit. We had the ritual set up, candles, the whole deal."

"And?" I prompted, my eyes still on Dean.

"And some guy showed up," Sam continued. "Thought we were vandals or something. Except…" He paused, his expression darkening. "His eyes went white."

White eyes meant one thing. One very specific, very terrifying thing.

"Alastair," I said quietly.

Dean nodded, his hand still pressed to his head. "He threw me at a gravestone. Hence the—" He gestured vaguely at his head. "—concussion I probably have."

I was already moving, grabbing the ice bucket from the small counter. "I'll get you some ice."

"You don't have to—"

"Dean." I looked at him, and whatever he saw in my expression made him stop arguing.

I stepped out into the hallway, the cool night air hitting my face as I made my way to the ice machine at the end of the building. My hands were shaking as I filled the bucket.

Alastair.

Of all the demons they could have run into, it had to be him.

I wrapped some ice in the thin motel towel and headed back to the room, my mind racing.

When I walked back in, Dean was still sitting on the bed, looking like he was trying very hard not to throw up.

"Here," I said, handing him the makeshift ice pack. "Press it to your head."

"Thanks, Blondie," he said, his voice rough.

I sat down next to him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, and tried to ignore the way my heart was hammering in my chest.

"Where's Sam?" I asked, realizing the room was quieter than it should be.

"He went back," Dean said, adjusting the ice pack with a wince. "To try and talk to the dead kid."

Of course he did.

I reached for the pizza box, pulling out a slice in a paper plate and handing it to Dean. "You should eat something."

He looked at the pizza, then at me, and something in his expression softened. "You saved me some?"

"Don't let it go to your head," I said, but I couldn't quite keep the smile out of my voice. "I just didn't want to eat the whole thing by myself."

"Liar."

"Shut up and eat your pizza, Winchester."

He took the slice, and for a few minutes, we just sat there in companionable silence. The nature documentary was still playing on the TV, something about migration patterns now, and Dean made a face at the screen.

"You're watching a nature documentary?" he said, his mouth half-full of pizza. "Seriously?"

"Shut up, Dean."

He laughed and the sound made something in my chest loosen.

We settled into the rhythm of it. Him eating pizza, me sitting next to him, both of us pretending to watch wolves hunt elk across a frozen tundra.

It was almost normal.

Sam came back about forty-five minutes later, looking grim but determined.

"How you doing?" he asked Dean, setting his bag down by the door.

Dean shifted the ice pack. "I'm in pain, that's how I'm doing. I think I have a concussion."

"You want some aspirin?"

Dean sat up a little straighter, wincing. "No thanks, House."

I bit back a smile.

"So," Dean continued, "demons, huh?"

Sam nodded, moving toward the small table. "Yeah. So much for miracles."

"And what the hell happened with Alastair again?" Dean's voice was casual, but I could hear the edge underneath. The need to know exactly what had gone down.

Sam paused, just for a second, before answering. "I told you, he tried to fling me or whatever."

He flicked his hand in demonstration, and I watched the gesture with growing unease.

"And it didn't work," Sam continued, turning to the coffeemaker. "So he bailed."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Well, how come he couldn't fling you? He chucked you pretty good last time."

Sam turned back to face Dean, and I could feel the tension in the room ratchet up several notches.

"Got no idea," Sam said.

It was a lie.

I didn't know how I knew, but I knew. The way he said it, the way he wouldn't quite meet Dean's eyes—

Dean knew it too.

"Sam," Dean said, his voice low and dangerous. "Do me a favor. If you're gonna keep your little secrets, I can't really stop you, but just don't treat me like an idiot, okay?"

"What?" Sam's voice went defensive. "Dean, I'm not keeping secrets."

"Mm-hm. Whatever."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I sat very still, trying to make myself as small as possible. This wasn't my fight. This was between them, and I had no right to—

"So," Dean said, breaking the tension with visible effort. "Did you go back and q-and-a the dead kid?"

Sam pulled out a thin notebook from his jacket pocket. "Didn't have to. Bobby called. He did some digging."

"And?"

Sam came over to the other bed, holding up the notebook. "He thinks I'm right. Local reaper's gone. Not just gone—kidnapped."

Reaper.

Oh god. I knew this. I knew this. God, why can't I remember this…

"By demons?" Dean asked. "Why?"

"Listen to this," Sam said, flipping through the notebook.

I kept very quiet, my mind racing, trying to remember…

"'And he bloodied death under the newborn sky—sweet to taste, but bitter when once devoured.'"

Dean made a face. "Swanky. What the hell's that mean?"

"Well, it's from a very obscure, very arcane version of Revelations," Sam explained.

"Which means what I think it means?"

Sam nodded grimly. "Basically, you kill a reaper under the solstice moon—tomorrow night, by the way—you got yourself a broken seal."

Broken seal.

Another one. Another step closer to the apocalypse, to the end of everything.

"How do you ice a reaper?" Dean asked. "You can't kill death."

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "Maybe demons can. Where the hell are the angels is what I want to know. We could use their help for once."

Dean shifted the ice pack again. "It looks like we're gonna have to take care of this one ourselves."

"What are we gonna do," Sam said, "just swing in and save the friendly neighborhood reaper?"

"You got a better idea, I'm all ears."

Sam sat down on his bed, running a hand through his hair. "Dean, reapers are invisible. The only people that can see them are the dead and the dying."

Dean was quiet for a moment, and I could practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"Well," he said slowly, "if ghosts are the only ones that can see them…"

"Yeah?"

"Then we become ghosts."

He put the ice pack back to his head, smirking like he'd just solved world hunger.

Sam stared at him. "You do have a concussion."

"Sounds crazy, I know."

"It is crazy."

Dean's smirk widened. "How?"

Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I—what?"

"Pamela," Dean said simply.

And just like that, everything clicked into place.

Pamela.

The psychic who'd helped them with Anna. The one who'd lost her eyes looking at Castiel's true form.

The one who was going to die in this episode.

I knew this. I knew this. This was the episode where Pamela got killed by a demon.

No.

I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't just sit here and let her walk into a death trap when I knew what was coming.

But what could I do?

If I said something, if I warned them, they'd want to know how I knew. And I couldn't tell them. I couldn't.

"(y/n/n)?"

I looked up to find both brothers staring at me.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," I said, my voice not quite steady. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just—tired."

Dean's eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn't quite believe me, but he didn't push.

Sam pulled out his phone. "I'll call her. See if she's available."

He stepped out into the hallway, and I was left alone with Dean and the crushing weight of knowledge I couldn't share.

"You sure you're okay?" Dean asked quietly.

I forced a smile. "Concussion boy is asking me if I'm okay?"

"Deflection. Nice."

"I learned from the best."

He studied me for another moment, then seemed to decide to let it go. "We should probably get some sleep. We're waking up early tomorrow."

Tomorrow.

When Pamela would come. When she'd help them astral project or whatever the hell they were planning.

When she'd die.

I swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

Sam came back in a few minutes later, pocketing his phone. "She's in. Says you can pick her up by morning."

"Good," Dean said, standing up slowly. "Then we should definitely get some sleep."

He started pulling off his jacket, and I realized with a jolt that we were about to go through the whole getting-ready-for-bed routine.

With Sam in the room.

Sam, who was currently looking between the two beds with a confused expression.

"Wait," he said slowly. "You guys are sleeping together?"

I nearly choked on my own spit.

"WHAT?" I said, my voice coming out about three octaves higher than normal. "NO!"

Both Sam and Dean looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"Oh," I said, feeling my face burn. "You meant sharing the bed?"

Sam's mouth twitched. "Yeah…"

"Then yeah," I said quickly. "We are. Sharing the bed, I mean. Just—just the bed. Nothing else. Just sleeping. In the same bed. Platonically."

Dean was trying very hard not to laugh.

"There weren't any rooms with sofa beds available," he explained to Sam, his voice admirably steady. "So we're making do."

Sam looked between us, and I could see him trying to decide whether or not to comment further.

Apparently, he decided against it.

"Okay," he said simply, turning to his own bed. "Just—keep it down, would you?"

"SAM!" I said, mortified.

Dean actually laughed at that, the bastard.

"We're not—there's nothing to keep down!" I protested. "We're literally just sleeping!"

"Uh-huh," Sam said, but he was grinning now.

I grabbed the things I needed to brush my teeth and fled to the bathroom, my face burning.

This is fine, I told myself as I changed. Everything is fine. You're just going to sleep in the same bed as Dean Winchester, the man you're definitely not in love with, while trying not to think about the fact that Pamela Barnes is going to die tomorrow and there's nothing you can do about it.

Totally fine.

When I came back out, Dean was already in bed, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, the covers pulled up to his waist. Sam was in his own bed, his back to us, already settling in.

I turned off the main light, leaving just the small lamp by Sam's bed on, and climbed into bed next to Dean.

The mattress dipped under my weight, and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how close we were.

"Night, Blondie," Dean said quietly.

"Night," I managed to say.

I turned to face the wall, keeping my back to him, and tried to slow my racing heart.

Behind me, I felt Dean shift, turning away as well.

Sam reached over and turned off the last light, plunging the room into darkness.

And despite everything, despite the fear and the dread and the knowledge of what was coming, I felt myself starting to drift off.

The bed was warm. The room was quiet except for the sound of breathing.

And for just a moment, I let myself pretend that everything was going to be just fine.

[…]

I woke up to warmth.

Not the ambient warmth of blankets or the heater humming in the corner.

No, this was different.

This was body warmth.

There was something heavy across my ribs, an arm, I realized with a jolt, and hot breath on the back of my neck.

Dean.

Dean was cuddling me.

His chest was pressed against my back, his arm wrapped around my waist, his face buried in my hair.

I froze.

Every muscle in my body went rigid as my brain tried to process what was happening.

He's asleep, I told myself. He doesn't know he's doing this. He's just—this is just—

I should move. I should carefully extract myself from his grip and put some distance between us before this got any more complicated than it already was.

I should—

But I didn't.

Because the truth was, it felt good.

It felt safe and warm and right in a way that terrified me.

His arm was solid and reassuring across my ribs. His breathing was slow and even against my neck. And the weight of him against my back made me feel anchored in a way I hadn't felt since…

Since before my parents died.

Since before I woke up in those woods.

Since before my entire life got turned upside down.

I closed my eyes, torn between the urge to stay exactly where I was and the knowledge that this was a terrible, terrible idea.

Move, I told myself. You need to move.

But I was so tired.

And it felt so good.

And just for tonight, just for a few more hours, I wanted to pretend that this was real. That this meant something. That I wasn't going to lose him to Hell and Heaven and the apocalypse and everything else that was coming.

So I didn't move.

I just lay there, Dean's arm around me, his breath warm on my neck, and let myself drift back to sleep.

And let me tell you: it was the best sleep I'd had in years.

The thing about knowing the future, I thought as consciousness slowly returned, is that it doesn't actually help you change it.

It just means you get to watch the train wreck in slow motion.

And there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it.

[…]

I woke to the smell of cheap motel coffee and the absence of warmth.

The bed beside me was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the water-stained ceiling, trying to reconcile the memory of Dean's arm around me with the reality of waking up alone.

Of course he left, I thought. What did you expect? A good morning kiss and breakfast in bed?

I sat up slowly, running a hand through my tangled hair, and looked around the room.

Sam was sitting at the small table in the corner, laptop open, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand. He glanced up when I moved, and a slow smile spread across his face.

"Morning," he said, his tone just a little too knowing for comfort.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Morning."

There was something in his expression, amusement, maybe, or satisfaction, that made my stomach twist with apprehension. I was about to ask where Dean was when Sam beat me to it.

"Your lover boy already left to pick up Pamela."

I blinked. "Oh. Okay."

I paused, processing that information, then added quickly, "He's not my lover boy, Sam."

Sam's grin widened. "Sure he isn't."

"He's not," I insisted, pulling the blanket up around my shoulders like it could somehow shield me from this conversation.

"Uh-huh." Sam took a sip of his coffee, clearly enjoying himself. "He was cuddling you and everything when I woke up."

My face went hot. "What? He wasn't—you saw that?"

"Sure did."

I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. No words came out. What was I supposed to say to that? Oh, yeah, I totally woke up with your brother's arm around me, but it doesn't mean anything, we're just two people who accidentally spooned in our sleep, no big deal?

Sam set his coffee down, his expression softening slightly. "Look, (y/n/n)…I'm not saying this to make you uncomfortable. It's just…I've never seen Dean like this before."

"Like what?" I managed, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.

"The way he is with you, I mean." Sam leaned back in his chair, studying me. "And I don't know…I guess what I'm trying to say is—"

A knock on the door cut him off.

Sam stood, crossing the room in a few long strides, and pulled the door open.

Pamela Barnes stood on the other side, dark sunglasses covering her eyes, a confident smile on her face. Behind her, Dean hovered, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"I can't even begin to tell you how crazy you two are," Pamela said as she stepped inside, one hand trailing along the doorframe, then the wall, orienting herself to the space.

Sam closed the door behind them. "Well, Pamela, you're a sight for sore eyes."

Pamela turned toward him, lowering her sunglasses just enough to reveal the white plastic prosthetics where her eyes used to be. "Aw, that's sweet, grumpy."

She pushed the sunglasses back up. "What do you say to deaf people?"

Dean looked down at his boots. Sam shifted uncomfortably.

I stayed where I was on the bed, watching the scene unfold exactly as I remembered it from the show. The dialogue was the same. The beats were the same. And in a few hours, if I didn't do something, Pamela would be dead.

"Which one of you brainiacs came up with astral projection?" Pamela asked.

Dean raised one hand. "Yo."

"Of course. Chachi."

Dean turned to Sam, mouthing 'Chachi?' Sam just shrugged.

Then Pamela turned in my direction, her head tilting slightly as she oriented on me. "(y/n), hey sweety! How are you? Are these two boys treating you right?"

I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, suddenly very aware that I was still in Dean's t-shirt and my sleep pants. "Pamela, hi! I'm good. Yeah, they sure are."

Pamela's smile turned wicked. "I bet they are…especially the older one, right?"

My face went nuclear. "What…?"

"Oh honey, I can smell Dean's scent all over you."

"Oh no, no. It's not like that—"

"Sure it is."

Sam laughed from his position by the door. I shot him a glare that could have melted steel, but he just grinned back at me, completely unrepentant.

I made the mistake of glancing at Dean. He was already looking at me, his expression unreadable, and for a moment our eyes locked. Heat crawled up my neck. I looked away first, focusing very intently on a stain on the bedspread.

Smooth. Real smooth.

Pamela, apparently satisfied with the chaos she'd created, folded her arms across her chest. "So, let's be clear. You want to rip your souls out of your bodies and take a little stroll through the spirit world?"

"Mm-hm," Dean confirmed.

"Do you have any idea how heavy-duty insane that is?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe, but that's where the reaper is, so…"

"So, it's nuts."

"Not if you know what you're doing."

Pamela's expression turned flat. "You don't know what you're doing."

"No," Dean admitted, "but you do."

"Yeah, I do. And guess what? I'm sick of being hauled back into your angel-demon, Soc-Greaser crap."

Dean's jaw tightened. "Look, I'd love to be kicking back with a cold one, watching Judge Judy, too."

"Nice. More blind jokes?"

"You know what I mean." Dean's voice took on an edge of desperation. "We're talking the end of the world here, okay? No more tasseled leather pants, no more Ramones CDs, no more nothing. We need your help."

Pamela was quiet for a long moment. Then she sighed. "Fine. But you owe me. Big time."

They spent the next twenty minutes going over the details, how the astral projection would work, what they'd need to do, what could go wrong. I listened with half an ear, already knowing how this was supposed to play out.

Except I wasn't going to let it play out that way.

When they got to the part about who would be projecting, I spoke up. "I'm staying awake."

All three of them turned to look at me.

"What?" Dean said.

I shrugged, trying to look casual. "I don't want to die. Even temporarily. So I'll just…stay here. Keep watch or whatever."

Dean frowned. "Blondie—"

"I'm not doing it," I said firmly. "You guys go play ghost. I'll hold down the fort."

Sam looked like he wanted to argue, but Pamela just nodded. "Fair enough. More room for the boys to work anyway."

And more importantly, I thought, someone to protect you when the demon shows up.

Because I knew it was coming. I knew the demon would attack while Sam and Dean were in the astral plane, vulnerable and unreachable. I knew it would go after Pamela, try to kill her before she could bring them back.

In the show, she didn't survived. I had spent the last few hours trying to figure out if there was any way to prevent it.

Now, at least, I'd be here. Awake. Ready.

Please let that be enough.

Sam started closing the curtains, moving methodically around the room. Dean lit candles, the small flames casting flickering shadows on the walls. The smell of wax and smoke filled the air, mixing with the lingering scent of coffee and the faint mustiness of the motel room.

Pamela settled into a chair positioned between the two beds, her hands resting lightly on her knees. "Tell me something, geniuses. Even if you do break into the veil and you find the reaper, how you gonna save it?"

"With style and class," Dean said, setting a candle on the bedside table.

Pamela snorted. "You're gonna be two walking pieces of fog who can't touch or move anything. You'll be defenseless, hotshot."

Sam closed the last curtain, plunging the room into candlelit dimness. "I seem to recall a bunch of ghosts beating the crap out of us."

"Yeah, well, they had plenty of time to practice."

Dean shrugged. "Well, then, I guess we got to start cramming."

Pamela shook her head, but she was smiling. "Wow, couple of heroes. All right." She patted one of the beds. "Lie down. Close your eyes."

Sam stretched out on one bed, lying diagonally. Dean took the other, settling onto his back with his hands folded on his chest like a corpse. The image sent a chill down my spine.

He's fine, I told myself. He's going to be fine.

Pamela began the incantation, her voice low and rhythmic. "Animum vult decipi, ergo decipiatur. Vis, vis, vis." She paused, then added, "Okay, guys. That's it. Showtime."

I pressed my back against the wall behind Pamela, watching as Sam's and Dean's breathing slowed, deepened. Their faces went slack, peaceful in a way they never were when they were awake.

Pamela stood, moving to Sam's bedside with the confidence of someone who'd long since learned to navigate without sight. "All right, so, I'm assuming you're somewhere over the rainbow. Remember I have to bring you back."

She leaned over Sam, close enough that her hair brushed his shoulder. "I'll whisper the incantation in your ear."

Her lips moved close to Sam's ear, and though I couldn't hear what she said, I knew. I remembered from the show. You have got a great ass.

I bit my lip to keep from laughing despite the tension coiling in my stomach. Dean, still lying motionless on the other bed, had no idea what Pamela had just said. Neither did he react. Only Sam had heard her.

[…]

Pamela straightened, turning in my direction. "All right, I think it's safe to say they're probably already with the death kid." She tilted her head. "So, (y/n)…how are things with Dean?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Oh please, don't give me that. It's obvious something is going on between you two. So, tell me about it."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Looked at the door like I might make a run for it.

Pamela waited, patient and knowing.

Finally, I sighed. "Well, how do I start…"

"We usually start from the beginning, honey."

"I just—I—" I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself. "Well, I know I have feelings for him, but—I—I don't know how to handle this. How to…whatever."

I sighed again, then looked around the room, my gaze landing on Dean's unconscious form. "Dean, if you're listening to this…butt out."

Pamela laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Relax, the boys are long gone from the room. It's just us."

"Right." I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest. "It's just…complicated."

"Feelings usually are."

"Yeah, but this is…" I trailed off, trying to find words for something I couldn't fully explain. How could I tell her that I knew Dean's future? That I knew he'd say yes to Michael, that he'd die and come back and die again and keep repeating that over and over, that he'd spend eternity fighting and suffering and never getting the peace he deserved?

How could I tell her that every time I looked at him, I saw all of that, and it broke my heart?

"He's been through a lot," I said finally. "And I don't want to be another thing he has to worry about."

Pamela was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "You know what Dean told me in the car on the way here?"

I looked up. "What?"

"He said you make him feel like maybe things could be okay. Like maybe there's something worth fighting for besides just…not dying."

My throat tightened. "He said that?"

"Not in those exact words. You know Dean—he'd rather eat glass than talk about his feelings. But yeah. That's what he meant."

I pressed my forehead against my knees, trying to process that. "I don't know what to do with that information."

"You don't have to do anything with it. Just…don't run from it, okay? Don't push him away because you're scared."

"I'm not scared," I lied.

Pamela smiled. "Sure you're not."

Before I could respond, something creaked in the room.

I froze, every muscle in my body going tense. Pamela's head turned toward the sound, her expression sharpening.

Another creak. The curtain by the window billowed, and I realized with a jolt of adrenaline that the window was open.

I hadn't opened it. And Pamela definitely hadn't opened it.

Which meant—

I stood quickly, crossing to the window and slamming it shut. My hands were shaking. "Get ready," I said, my voice low and urgent. "Something's coming for us."

Pamela stood, her posture shifting into something alert and ready. "I know. I can feel it."

I moved to the center of the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Pamela joined me, and we stood back-to-back, both of us scanning the space.

This is it, I thought. This is where everything goes wrong.

Unless I can stop it.

Pamela's voice rang out, sharp and challenging. "I know you're here. What's the matter, you reeking son of a bitch? You afraid of a couple of skirts?"

She moved toward the bathroom, her hand trailing along the wall. She grabbed the shower curtain and ripped it back.

Empty.

I turned, my eyes sweeping the room, and that's when I saw him.

The demon was standing right behind me, his eyes black as pitch, his smile cold and cruel.

"Pamela!" I shouted. "He's here! Watch out—"

The demon flicked his wrist, and I went flying.

I hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs, then crumpled to the floor. Pain exploded through my shoulder, my ribs, my head. I tried to get up, but my body wouldn't cooperate.

Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Pamela running back into the room. She dropped to her knees beside Sam's bed, her hands finding his face.

"Vis, vis, vis!" she chanted, her voice desperate.

The demon grabbed her by the hair and hauled her up. Pamela kicked at him, her fist connecting with his jaw, but he was stronger. He grabbed her ankle and yanked, sending her sprawling.

"Son of a bitch!" Pamela spat.

She scrambled back to Sam, leaning over him. "Animum vult decipi, ergo—"

The demon started toward her, his hand outstretched.

No.

I forced myself to my feet, ignoring the way my vision swam, and threw myself at the demon. I hit him from the side, my momentum carrying us both into the dresser. The TV rocked dangerously.

The demon snarled, his hand closing around my throat.

I clawed at his wrist, gasping for air, but his grip was like iron. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. My lungs burned.

This is how I die, I thought distantly. Choked to death by a demon in a crappy motel room.

At least Pamela's okay.

Then Sam was there.

He sat up in bed, his eyes snapping open, and raised one hand toward the demon.

The demon released me, his body flying backward and slamming into the wall. I collapsed to the floor, coughing and gasping, my throat on fire.

Sam stood, his face set in grim determination, and began the exorcism.

Not with words.

With his mind.

I watched through watering eyes as the demon convulsed, black smoke pouring from his mouth in a thick, roiling cloud. It swirled in the air for a moment, then dissipated, sucked down into nothing.

The host body slumped to the floor, unconscious but alive.

Pamela was at my side in an instant, her hands finding my shoulders. "Just breathe, sweety, just breathe. You're okay, you're alright."

I tried to answer, but all that came out was a ragged cough.

Sam crouched down beside me, his face creased with concern. "(y/n/n), are you alright?"

"Yeah," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Peachy."

Pamela squeezed my shoulder, then stood and moved to Dean's bed. She leaned over him, her lips close to his ear.

"Animum vult decipi, ergo decipiatur. Vis, vis, vis."

She straightened, then came back to me, helping me to my feet with Sam's assistance. They guided me to Sam's bed, and I sank onto the edge of it, still trying to catch my breath.

Dean gasped and sat up, his eyes wild and disoriented. It took him a moment to focus, and when he did, his gaze landed on me.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"A demon," Sam said.

"What?"

Dean was already moving, crossing the room in three long strides. He sat down beside me on the bed, his hand coming up to cup the side of my face.

"I'm okay," I whispered. "I'm okay."

But Dean wasn't looking at my face. He was looking at my neck.

I didn't need a mirror to know what he was seeing. I could feel the bruises forming, the tender, swollen skin where the demon's fingers had dug in.

Dean's jaw clenched, his eyes going hard and dangerous. "I'm gonna kill him."

"Already dead," Sam said quietly. "I exorcised him."

Dean didn't seem to hear him. His thumb brushed gently over my cheekbone, his touch so careful it made my chest ache.

"I'm okay," I said again, my voice a little stronger this time.

Dean's eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw everything he was feeling…the fear, the anger, the guilt. The same emotions I'd been drowning in since I woke up in this world.

Then I looked past him, and I saw Pamela.

Standing by the door. Whole. Unharmed. Alive.

The demon hadn't stabbed her. Hadn't hurt her at all.

Because I'd been here. Because I'd thrown myself at the demon, given Pamela the time she needed to bring Sam back.

I'd changed it.

I'd actually changed it.

The realization hit me like a freight train. My breath caught, and for a moment, I couldn't think, couldn't process anything beyond the single, overwhelming truth:

If I could save Pamela…

Maybe I could save Dean, too.

Maybe I could change his fate.

Maybe—

"Well," Sam said, breaking the silence, "I should probably take Pamela back to her house."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Dean said, his eyes still on me. "You do that."

Pamela moved closer, her hand finding my arm and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Bye, sweety. Thanks for having my back."

"Anytime," I managed, my voice still rough.

Pamela turned toward Dean. "See you around, Chachi."

Dean grunted something that might have been a goodbye, but he didn't look away from me.

Pamela smiled, squeezed my arm one more time, then followed Sam out the door.

The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly it was just me and Dean.

Alone.

Again.

Dean's hand was still on my face, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on my cheekbone. His eyes searched mine, looking for something I wasn't sure I could give him.

"You scared the hell out of me," he said finally, his voice low and rough.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just…don't do it again."

I almost laughed. "I'll try."

Dean's hand slid down to my neck, his fingers ghosting over the bruises there. I winced, and he pulled back immediately.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's okay."

We sat there in silence, the candlelight flickering around us, the smell of smoke and wax still heavy in the air.

And all I could think was:

I changed it.

I saved her.

Maybe I can save him, too.

Maybe there's hope after all.

But the hope felt fragile. Breakable. Like if I held it too tightly, it would shatter in my hands.

Dean stood, moving to the table where the candles were still burning. He started blowing them out one by one, the room growing darker with each extinguished flame.

"You should get some rest," he said, not looking at me. "You got thrown around pretty good."

I watched him move through the room, methodical and controlled, like if he just kept moving, he wouldn't have to think about what had just happened.

About Pamela.

About me nearly dying.

About any of it.

"Dean."

He paused, his hand hovering over another candle.

"I'm fine," I said, even though my throat hurt and my ribs ached and I could still feel the demon's hand around my neck. "You don't have to—"

"You're not fine." He turned to face me, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. "You could've died, Blondie. That demon could've—" He stopped, his jaw clenching. "You should've stayed out of it."

"Pamela needed help."

"And you almost got yourself killed."

"But I didn't." I stood up from the bed, ignoring the way my body protested. "I'm still here. Pamela's still here. We're both—"

"This time." Dean's voice was sharp, cutting. "This time you got lucky. Next time—"

"There's always a next time, Dean. That's the job."

"Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't be doing this job."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and wrong.

I stared at him. "You don't mean that."

Dean looked away, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what I mean."

Yes, you do, I thought. You're just too scared to say it.

The silence stretched out, uncomfortable and thick. Dean went back to the candles, blowing out the last few until only one remained on the bedside table, casting long shadows across the walls.

I should've let it go. Should've just gone to bed, let him retreat behind his walls, let us both pretend this conversation never happened.

But I was tired of pretending.

Tired of keeping my distance.

Tired of being safe.

"She told me what you said," I said quietly.

Dean froze. "What?"

"Pamela. In the car. She told me what you said about me."

He turned slowly, his expression guarded. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do."

Dean's jaw worked. "(y/n)—"

"She said I make you feel like maybe things could be okay." The words came out softer than I intended. "Like maybe there's something worth fighting for besides just…not dying."

Dean looked at me for a long moment, and I could see him weighing his options. Deflect with a joke. Deny it. Change the subject.

Instead, he said, "She had no right to tell you that."

"Maybe not. But I'm glad she did."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because I needed to hear it."

Dean's expression shifted, something vulnerable flickering across his face before he could hide it. "Why?"

Because I'm falling for you, you idiot and it terrifies me. Because I know what's coming and I can't stop it. Because every time I look at you, I see all the pain you're going to endure and it breaks my heart.

But I couldn't say any of that.

So instead, I just said, "Because I've been trying really hard not to feel anything for you, and it's not working."

The confession hung in the air between us.

Dean stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a breath that might've been a laugh. "Yeah, well. Join the club."

"Dean—"

"I can't lose you too, Blondie." The words came out rough, almost angry. "I can't—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Everyone I care about, everyone I let get close, they either die or they leave or they—" He gestured vaguely. "I can't do that again. I can't watch another person I—" He stopped again, the sentence unfinished.

Another person I love.

He didn't say it, but I heard it anyway.

"You're not going to lose me."

"You don't know that." He said

"No," I admitted. "I don't. But Dean, that's—that's life. That's just how it works. People leave. People die. You can't control it."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because it seems like you're so busy trying to protect yourself from getting hurt that you're not actually living."

Dean's eyes flashed. "That's rich, coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've been keeping me at arm's length since the day we met. Every time I get close, you pull away. Every time something happens between us, you shut down." He took a step toward me. "So don't stand there and lecture me about not living when you're doing the exact same thing."

He was right.

God, he was right.

I'd been so focused on protecting myself, on not getting too attached, on keeping my distance so it wouldn't hurt when the inevitable happened.

But watching Pamela survive tonight, watching her stand there alive and breathing despite what I knew was supposed to happen, made me realize something:

I could change things.

I'd saved her. Me. Not some cosmic force, not fate, not the predetermined script of the universe. Me. I'd fought that demon, protected her, and she was still here. Which meant the story wasn't written in stone. Which meant…

Which meant maybe I could save them too. Save him too.

Maybe I could change Dean's fate the same way I'd changed Pamela's. Maybe I didn't have to just accept the tragedy I'd been dreading. Maybe I could actually do something about it.

The realization hit me like a physical force: I wasn't powerless. I never had been.

And if I wasn't powerless, then I didn't have to protect myself from loss by refusing to live. I could choose differently. I could choose him.

"You're right."

Dean blinked. "What?"

"You're right. I have been pulling away. I've been scared."

"Of what?"

Of losing you. Of seeing you broken and suffering and not being able to stop it. Of you dying.

"Of this," I said instead, gesturing between us. "Of caring about you. Of letting myself feel something real and then—"

"Then what?"

"Then losing it."

Dean's expression softened. He took another step toward me, close enough now that I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. "(y/n)—"

"But I realized something tonight," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "I realized that I'm going to lose things no matter what I do. I can't control it. I can't stop it. So maybe—maybe I should just stop trying to protect myself from it and just…let myself have this. Have you. Even if it's temporary. Even if it hurts later."

Dean was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine.

Then he said, "It's not temporary."

"Dean—"

"I don't do temporary, (y/n). Not with this. Not with you."

My breath caught.

"I know this life is—" He gestured vaguely. "I know it's dangerous and unpredictable and there's no guarantees. But I'm not looking for temporary. I'm not looking for something to pass the time." He reached up, his hand cupping my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "I'm looking for something real. And I think—maybe you are too."

I couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

All I could do was stare at him, at this man who'd been through hell, literally, and was still standing here, still fighting, still trying to find something worth holding onto.

"I am," I whispered.

Dean's eyes darkened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then stop running from me."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

And then I kissed him.

I didn't think about it. Didn't second-guess it. Didn't let my fear or my anxiety or my knowledge of what was coming stop me.

I just reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him down to me.

Dean made a sound, surprise, maybe, or relief, and then his arms were around me, pulling me closer, one hand tangling in my hair while the other pressed against the small of my back.

The kiss was everything I'd been afraid of and everything I'd been wanting.

It was desperate and tender and fierce all at once. It tasted like coffee and something uniquely Dean, and I couldn't get enough of it.

His lips moved against mine, demanding and giving at the same time, and I matched his intensity, pouring everything I couldn't say into the kiss. All my fear and hope and longing and grief.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard, Dean rested his forehead against mine.

"Took you long enough," he murmured.

I laughed, the sound shaky and breathless. "Yeah, well. I'm a slow learner."

"Clearly."

I pulled back just enough to look at him, at the way his eyes had gone soft and warm, at the small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm still scared," I admitted.

"Yeah. Me too."

"But I don't want to run anymore."

Dean's hand came up to cup my face again, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Good. Because I wasn't gonna let you."

And then he kissed me again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the feel of me against him.

I let myself sink into it, let myself stop thinking about tomorrow or next week or next year. Let myself just be here, in this moment, with him.

Maybe I can't save everyone, I thought as Dean's lips moved to my neck, pressing gentle kisses along the bruises there. Maybe I can't change everything.

But maybe I can change some things.

Maybe I can save him.

And maybe he can save me too.

Dean pulled back, his eyes searching mine. "You okay?"

I nodded, my hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my palm.

"Yeah," I said softly. "I think I am."

Dean smiled, a real smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made my heart skip a beat.

"Good," he said. Then, quieter: "You're staying with me again tonight, right?"

It wasn't really a question. More like a plea.

"I'm not going anywhere," I promised.

And for the first time since I'd woken up in this world, I meant it.

Dean kissed me again, soft and sweet, and I let myself believe that we could have this.

Even if it was dangerous.

Even if it was complicated.

Even if the world was ending and demons were rising and seals were breaking.

We could have this.

We could have each other.

heyyy baby 💞 girl the amount of messages I get like this—I can’t even 😭 but I get you, I really do. Ruin the Friendship is definitely a bit of a tough read… but I guess that’s life sometimes, you know?

I kinda wanted to write something that didn’t have a traditional “happy” ending (even though I did give one in the “what if” chapter 👀)

thank you baby, I really appreciate that 🥹✨ it honestly means so much to me that you’re enjoying my work 💞

hey girly!! 💞 I love this message so much because you explained both sides so beautifully 😭

And I completely agree with you...both of their feelings are super valid. From the reader’s perspective, it makes total sense why she feels hurt, confused, and even a little resentful. Like… suddenly having someone come back into your life after so many years? That’s not something you can just accept overnight, especially when there are so many unanswered questions and emotions involved.

But at the same time, Madeleine’s side is just as complex. Like you said, we don’t fully know what she went through, but giving a child up is never an easy or careless decision. It comes from a place of pain too, and I do think she genuinely loves the reader and wanted the best for her, even if it meant stepping away.

That’s kind of what I wanted to explore in their dynamic. How love can exist with hurt, and how complicated those reunions can be. And by the end, even if everything isn’t perfect, they finally understand each other a little more and meet somewhere in the middle.

Please tag me in this series and any of other Jensen adjacent stories? You write home so beautifully 💞

hi honey!! 💞 I see you in my notifications all the time and it honestly makes me so happy!! Thank you baby, I really appreciate it 🥹

About Invisible String: I actually wrote the next chapter but ended up deleting it because it felt a little forced, you know? So I’m currently rewriting chapter four. But don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about it at all. It’s actually one of my favorites 🫶

And I’ll definitely be tagging you from now on in any Jensen stories (and his characters too 👀)

hey babyy! I definitely did not just hear that… must’ve been the wind fr 😌

But no, I haven’t forgotten about you at all and I will absolutely write something like that. I’ve actually already started 👀 I think I’ll be posting the first chapter in a couple of weeks.

I’ll definitely tag you when it’s up!

First of all, thank you sooo much 🥹 I really appreciate that, it genuinely means a lot!!

And honestly, I get what you mean about preferring his characters...that makes total sense. I actually have written a few things with Soldier Boy, Beau Arlen, and Mark Meachum, I just haven’t posted them yet 👀

For now, I’ve mostly posted stories with Jensen himself or Dean. If you’re interested, here’s what I have up so far:

Waves Between Us (Dean Winchester) [finished]

Nothing Safe Is Worth the Drive (Dean Winchester) [ongoing]

Just Friends, Right 18+ only (Dean Winchester) [oneshot]

Ruin the Friendship (Jensen Ackles) [three-part series]

Summary: Adopted as a baby, she grew up never knowing anything about her biological family. Until she turned seventeen.

After all those years, her biological mother finally reaches out, hoping to explain the past and the reasons that forced her to give her up. She travels to Santa Cruz in search of answers about her family-especially about her father.

Santa Cruz, known for its beaches and surf culture, brings an unexpected twist into her life: a great love story. In this series he is NOT a hunter. Pairing: surfer!Dean Winchester x female!reader Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Supporting SPN Characters Warnings: Sad | Emotional Vulnerability | Language Series Masterlist Song: In the Wind by Lord Huron Previous | Next ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Six months later "That's not fair, you're cheating!" I said, pointing accusingly at Dean as he advanced his game piece three squares ahead.

"Yeah, you're cheating!" Luke echoed, his seven-year-old face scrunched up in indignation.

Dean leaned back against the couch, that familiar cocky grin spreading across his face—though it didn't quite reach his eyes the way it used to. "I can't help it if I'm good at the game, kids. Maybe you should step up your strategy."

"That's it," I declared, exchanging a conspiratorial look with Zoe. "Tickle attack!"

Both kids launched themselves at Dean, their small hands finding every ticklish spot they could reach. Dean's laughter filled the living room—genuine, unguarded, beautiful—as he tried to fend them off.

"Is that how it is then?" he said, managing to grab both kids and pull them close, his fingers dancing across their sides. They shrieked with laughter, squirming in his arms. Then he reached out and snagged me too, pulling me into the pile. "You too, troublemaker."

"Dean!" I laughed, trying to escape his grip, but he was relentless, his fingers finding that spot just below my ribs that made me dissolve into giggles.

We ended up in a heap on the floor, all four of us breathless and laughing, the board game completely forgotten. Dean's arm was around my shoulders, Zoe was sprawled across his lap, and Luke had claimed the spot next to him, still giggling.

This had become our routine over the past six months. Every evening, we'd gather in Mary and John's living room—me, Dean, and his young cousins Zoe and Luke—playing board games while we waited for his parents to come home from work. It was normal. It was domestic. It was everything I'd dreamed of, even if the circumstances were far from ideal.

The doorbell rang, cutting through our laughter.

"Pizza's here!" I announced, carefully extracting myself from the tangle of limbs.

"Pizza!" Zoe and Luke shouted in unison, scrambling to their feet.

I paid the delivery guy and brought the boxes back to the living room, where the kids were already bouncing with excitement. We settled on the floor in a circle, the pizza boxes open between us.

"Wait," I said, holding up a hand before Zoe and Luke could grab their slices. "First, you need to do the pizza ritual."

Dean burst out laughing—that same laugh from our first pizza together, the one that made my heart skip—and I couldn't help but smile at the memory.

Zoe and Luke looked at each other, confused, then at Dean, who was trying to compose himself.

"What's the pizza ritual?" Luke asked.

"First," I said seriously, picking up my slice and holding it up like a precious artifact, "you have to admire it."

Both kids immediately fixed their eyes on their pizza slices, their expressions solemn and focused. Dean lost it completely, doubling over with laughter.

"Why is Dean laughing?" Zoe asked, looking worried that she'd done something wrong.

"Nothing, nothing," Dean managed between laughs, wiping his eyes. "You're doing great, kiddo."

"Now comes the second step," I continued, fighting my own laughter. "Smelling the pizza. Come on, everyone take a really good sniff."

Zoe and Luke leaned in and inhaled deeply, their noses practically touching the cheese. Dean and I both cracked up, the sound of our combined laughter filling the room.

"You're laughing at us!" Zoe said, her bottom lip jutting out.

"Sorry, honey," Dean said, still chuckling. "But it was pretty funny."

"Now eat it all," I said, giving them permission, and they dove in like they'd been starving.

Dean caught my eye across the pizza boxes, and the look he gave me was so full of warmth and love that my chest ached. These moments—these simple, ordinary, perfect moments—were what we were fighting for.

After we finished eating, I gathered up the pizza boxes and headed to the kitchen. I'd barely set them on the counter when I heard Zoe's panicked voice.

"(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Dean's throwing up!"

My heart stopped. I ran back to the living room to find Dean hunched over, his hand pressed to his mouth, his body heaving. A small puddle of vomit was on the floor in front of him.

"Hey, babe," I said softly, kneeling beside him. I grabbed some paper towels from the kitchen and gently wiped his mouth. He looked up at me with tired, apologetic eyes, and I tried to smile reassuringly. "It's okay. You're okay."

But he wasn't okay. I could see it now—really see it. His face was thinner than it had been even a week ago, his cheekbones more pronounced, his eyes sunken. He'd been losing weight steadily, and I'd been trying not to notice, trying to pretend everything was fine.

"Did you feel sick from the pizza?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

He gave me a weak smile. "Just the usual nausea. Nothing to worry about. And it was just a little vomit, Zoe—no need for all the drama."

"But it's disgusting," Zoe said, making an exaggerated face, and despite everything, we all laughed.

"Okay, bedtime for you two," I said, helping Dean sit back against the couch. "It's way past your bedtime anyway."

"Aww," Luke protested, but he was already yawning.

They said their goodnights, giving Dean careful hugs before heading upstairs. Once they were gone, the room felt too quiet, too heavy.

"Are you really okay?" I asked, sitting beside him.

Dean stared at nothing for a long moment, his jaw tight. Then he took a deep breath and looked at me with those tired, beautiful eyes.

"Do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Take me to the ocean?"

It was one in the morning when I pulled Dean's Impala up to his house. The car had been mine for months now—Dean couldn't drive anymore, and it made more sense for me to have it since I was always coming and going at odd hours.

I walked quietly through the yard to Dean's window. He was already there, waiting, his silhouette visible in the moonlight.

"I'm here," I whispered. "Ready?"

He nodded, and I helped him climb out. He moved slowly, carefully, like every movement cost him something. My heart broke a little more with each step.

We made it to the Impala, and Dean's face lit up when he slid into the passenger seat.

"Hi Baby," he said softly, running his hand over the dashboard. "Missed you."

"It's exactly the same," he continued, looking around the interior, "except for the feminine scent." He glanced at me with a teasing smile, and I laughed despite the heaviness in my chest.

"I don't know if this is the right thing to do," I admitted as I started the engine. "Your parents might kill me for sneaking you out."

"I need to feel the sea," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Even if it's for the last time. Please?"

I hesitated, my hands gripping the steering wheel. But then I looked at him—really looked at him—and I couldn't say no. What wouldn't I do for him? What wouldn't I give him if he asked?

"Okay," I whispered.

We drove to the beach in comfortable silence, the kind of silence that only comes when you know someone so completely that words aren't necessary. I parked the Impala facing the ocean, which looked dark and mysterious under the night sky, the waves catching glints of moonlight.

"Take me there?" Dean asked, looking at the water with such longing it made my throat tight.

"Dean, we've already come this far. Do you really want to go all the way to the water?"

He turned to me with those sad, pleading eyes, and I was lost.

"Okay," I sighed.

I got out and helped him from the car, letting him lean on me as we walked slowly toward the shore. His arm was heavy around my shoulders, and I could feel how much effort each step took him. But when the water finally touched our feet—cold and alive and eternal—Dean closed his eyes and smiled.

It was the most peaceful I'd seen him look in months.

He spread his free arm wide, as if he could embrace the entire ocean, as if he could fly. The wind whipped around us, carrying the salt spray and the sound of the waves, and for a moment, we just stood there, breathing it in.

"(Y/N)," he said after several minutes of silence, his voice barely audible over the waves. "I want you to be prepared for the next few days."

My stomach dropped. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say that I know I won't last much longer." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact, like he was commenting on the weather. "Maybe days?"

"No," I said, my voice breaking. "Stop. Don't say that. You're undergoing treatment—"

"That I'm not responding to," he interrupted, looking at me with those knowing eyes. "You didn't tell me, but I heard. I'm not responding, am I?"

A tear escaped down my cheek. I couldn't speak, couldn't lie to him.

"Yes," he said softly, reading my silence. "As I suspected."

A few weeks ago, we'd gotten the news. After six months of treatment, Dean's body had stopped responding. The leukemia was winning. Dean was going to die.

I realized I was crying when I heard my own sobs—harsh, broken sounds that I couldn't control.

"Hey, don't cry," Dean said, pulling me against his chest despite how much effort it took. "Please, don't cry."

"This isn't fair," I choked out, my hands fisting in his shirt. "This is all so unfair. I can't live without you. Please." I looked up at him through my tears, my vision blurred. "Please, Dean, don't leave me. Don't leave me here."

He held me tighter, and I felt something wet hit my forehead. At first, I thought it was rain, but when I looked up, I saw tears streaming down Dean's face.

"Look at me," he said, his voice rough with emotion. He lifted my chin so I had to meet his eyes—those beautiful green eyes that I'd fallen in love with. "Pay attention, okay? Maybe we weren't born to be together in this life. But I believe we've been together in other lives, and we'll meet again. Because our love is too strong to be something only for this life."

"But how will I know it's you?" I sobbed. "When I find you again, how will I know?"

He smiled through his tears. "Look at the ocean."

I frowned, confused, but I turned to face the water.

"Now close your eyes," he said softly.

"Dean—"

"Trust me."

I sighed and did as he asked, closing my eyes while facing the endless expanse of ocean. The water lapped at my feet, cold and constant. I could feel Dean close behind me, his breath warm against my ear.

"Now," he whispered, "just listen to everything around you."

I tried to understand what he wanted, but I couldn't make sense of it.

"I don't understand how this will answer my question," I said, opening my eyes to look at him.

"Close your eyes and relax," he said gently. "Tell me what you hear."

I sighed again but obeyed. I closed my eyes and let myself feel everything. The cold water on my feet. The wind against my face. The salt in the air.

And then I heard it. All of it.

The birds calling to each other in the darkness. The fish moving through the water. The waves crashing against the shore in their eternal rhythm. The wind rushing past my ears, tangling my hair.

"Yes," I breathed, a smile spreading across my face despite my tears. "Now I can feel it."

"That's how we'll know," Dean said, his voice full of certainty. "In another life, when we meet again—we'll feel it. Just like this."

I opened my eyes and turned to face him. He was smiling at me with such love, such absolute faith, that I almost believed him.

"When we look at each other again," he continued, reaching up to cup my face, "we'll feel it. The same way you feel the ocean—constant, undeniable, eternal. That's how you'll know it's me."

I pressed my hand over his, holding it against my cheek, and nodded. Because what else could I do? What else could I say?

We stood there for a long time, the ocean at our feet, the stars above us, holding onto each other like we could stop time if we just held on tight enough.

But time doesn't stop for anyone.

Not even for love.

I was sleeping peacefully when my phone rang, jarring me awake. I fumbled for it in the darkness, squinting at the screen. 5:47 AM. Dean's name glowed on the display.

A smile spread across my face. He'd only left a few hours ago, and he was already missing me. That was so like him—

I answered the call. "Hey, babe, already missing me?"

But the voice that came through wasn't Dean's. It was a sob—raw and broken and devastating.

"Mary?" My heart stopped. "Mary, what's wrong?"

Another sob, and then: "I'm so sorry."

The world tilted. Everything went cold.

"Please tell me he has a chance," I whispered, even though I already knew. "Please—"

"He's gone," Mary said, her voice breaking completely. "He's gone, (Y/N). He's gone."

The phone slipped from my hand. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process what I'd just heard.

Gone.

Dean was gone.

We stayed on the line, both of us crying, neither of us able to speak. What was there to say? What words existed for this kind of loss?

Finally, I managed to hang up, promising to call her back later. But I couldn't stay in my room. I couldn't be alone. I needed—

"Mommy!" I heard myself cry out, my voice breaking on the word. I ran to Madelaine's room, pounding on her door. "Mommy! Mommy, open the door!"

She opened it immediately, her face creased with sleep and worry, and I collapsed into her arms.

"(Y/N)? Honey, what happened?"

"He's gone," I sobbed into her shoulder. "He's gone, Mommy. He's gone."

"Oh, my love," she whispered, pulling me close. She guided me to her bed and sat down, pulling me into her lap like I was a small child. I curled into her, my face pressed against her chest, and cried like my heart was breaking.

Because it was.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured, rocking me gently. "I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart."

I don't know how long we stayed like that. Long enough for the sun to rise. Long enough for my tears to run dry, leaving me hollow and aching.

"The last time we were together was just a few hours ago," I finally managed to say, my voice hoarse. "I took him to the beach in the middle of the night. I think... I think he knew he was going to leave tonight."

Madelaine's hand stroked my hair, soothing and maternal. "At least you had that special moment together. Your last memory with him was beautiful, wasn't it?"

I nodded against her chest.

"Madelaine," I said after a moment, remembering something Dean had told me months ago. "A while back, Dean told me to ask you about your past. About my father. Did you two talk?"

She sighed, her hand stilling in my hair. "Yes. When he was still coming here in the beginning, before he got too sick, he asked me to tell him about my past. About you."

"He asked me to ask you," I said. "But I was never ready. Now..." I took a shaky breath. "Now I want to know. I need to know. I promised him I would ask."

"Are you sure?" Madelaine asked gently. "You're already in so much pain—"

"I need to know," I insisted. "Please."

She was quiet for a long moment, and then she began to speak.

"Your father was always difficult," she said softly. "We were so young when we met—too young, really. We fell in love fast, the way young people do. But Chris... he wasn't ready for the responsibility of a family. He was young, he liked to have fun, he liked his freedom. When you came along, he should have stepped up. But instead, he fell apart."

I listened, barely breathing, as she continued.

"He got into drugs. Heavy stuff. And he became aggressive—violent, even. He would threaten me, threaten you. He said..." Her voice broke. "He said he would kill you if I tried to leave. That he'd make sure I never saw you again."

My blood ran cold.

"When Christy and George said they wanted to adopt you, I knew it was the only way to keep you safe. They could give you a new name, a new identity. They could move somewhere far away where Chris would never find you. So I let them take you, even though it killed me. And then I ran."

"You ran?" I whispered.

"I had to. It was the only way to protect both of us. If I'd stayed, if I'd tried to keep you... we both would have ended up dead, (Y/N). I know it. So I disappeared. I changed my name, moved to California, started over. And I've thought about you every single day since."

Tears were streaming down her face now, and mine too.

"I wanted to come back for you," she continued. "God, I wanted to so badly. But it wouldn't have been fair—not to Christy and George, who loved you so much, and not to you. You had a family. You had a life. Who was I to disrupt that?"

"You were my mother," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

"I was the woman who gave birth to you," she corrected gently. "But Christy was your mother. She raised you, loved you, gave you everything I couldn't. I had no right to take that away from you."

I understood then—really understood—what she'd sacrificed. She'd given me up not because she didn't want me, but because she loved me too much to let me die.

"I don't blame you," I said, looking up at her. "I understand why you did it. And I'm grateful. You saved my life."

Her face crumpled, and she pulled me close again, both of us crying—but this time, they were tears of healing, of understanding, of forgiveness.

"Our bond will grow stronger every day," I promised her. "I'll always be around."

She smiled through her tears—a real smile, bright and hopeful. "You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that."

We held each other as the morning light filled the room, two women bound by blood and love and sacrifice, finding comfort in each other's arms.

Madelaine called Mary later that morning to get the details about the funeral. It would be that afternoon—a small, private service followed by burial.

I called my parents in Nashville. My mom cried. My dad cried. They both said they wished they could be there, but there wasn't enough time to fly out. I told them I understood, that I loved them, that I'd be home soon.

And then I made a decision.

I would leave Santa Cruz the next day. I couldn't stay here anymore—not where everything reminded me of Dean. Not where I could see the beach where we'd spent our last night together, or the house where we'd played board games with his cousins, or the surf shop where he used to work.

It was too much. Too painful.

I also decided I wouldn't go to the wake. I wouldn't see Dean in a coffin, pale and still and wrong. That wasn't how I wanted to remember him.

The last image I had of him was perfect: standing at the edge of the ocean, his arm spread wide, his face peaceful and full of wonder as he gazed at the waves. That look of sweetness and tenderness that made me feel loved, cherished, seen.

That's how I wanted to remember him. That's how he'd want to be remembered.

So when I arrived at the cemetery that afternoon, the coffin was already closed. They were preparing to carry it to the burial site.

I found Mary immediately. She looked devastated—her eyes red and swollen, her face pale, her whole body seeming to sag under the weight of her grief. When she saw me, she opened her arms, and I walked into them.

We held each other and cried. No words—just tears and shared pain and the understanding that only comes from loving the same person with your whole heart.

Jo appeared beside us, wrapping her arms around both of us, and the three of us stood there together—three women who had loved Dean Winchester, who had fought for him, who had lost him anyway.

The pallbearers gathered around the coffin: Ash, Sam, Cas, Bobby, John, and one of Dean's cousins. They lifted it carefully, reverently, and began the slow walk toward the burial site.

Mary, Jo, and I followed behind, our arms linked, supporting each other.

Sam looked destroyed. His face was blotchy and tear-stained, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He was only fourteen—too young to lose his best friend, his brother, his hero.

John walked stiffly, his face a mask of control, but I could see the devastation in his eyes. He'd lost his boy, the boy he'd watched grow up, the young man who'd had so much potential.

The service was short. The pastor said some words about Dean's life, his love of the ocean, his talent for surfing, his bright spirit. But the words felt hollow, inadequate. How do you sum up a person's life in a few sentences? How do you capture the essence of someone who burned so bright?

When they lowered the coffin into the ground, Mary broke down completely. Jo and I held her up, all three of us crying, as they began to shovel dirt over the coffin.

I kept waiting for Dean to sit up, to push open the lid, to grin at us and say, "Gotcha! You should see your faces!" in that cocky, playful way he had.

But he didn't.

Because he was really gone.

After the burial, I said my goodbyes.

Mary hugged me tight, whispering that Dean had loved me, that he'd always loved me, that I'd made his last months the happiest of his life. She thanked me for staying with him until the end, for not giving up on him even when he'd tried to push me away.

I promised to send her new drawings every month—designs for surfboards that Dean would have loved.

John hugged me too, brief and awkward but genuine. He didn't say much, but I could see the gratitude in his eyes.

Sam clung to me, sobbing into my shoulder, and I held him and told him it was okay to cry, that Dean would want him to cry, that it meant he'd loved him.

Jo hugged me fiercely. "You were good for him," she said. "You made him happy. Don't ever forget that."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

And then I left.

I still had Dean's Impala—his Baby, his pride and joy. I knew I needed to return it to John before I left Santa Cruz, but first, I had one more stop to make.

I drove to the beach—our beach, the one where we'd spent our last night together.

It was a cloudy day, gray and somber, and the beach was empty. I parked in the same spot I'd parked that night and sat there for a long moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to gather the courage to get out.

Finally, I opened the door and stepped onto the sand.

The walk to the water's edge felt like miles. Every step was heavy, weighted with grief and memory and loss.

When I reached the shore, I stopped. The water lapped at my feet, cold and familiar, and I closed my eyes.

And I felt.

I felt the cold water on my skin. I felt the waves crashing against the shore. I felt the wind tangling my hair. I felt the salt spray on my face.

And I felt him.

Dean.

He was here. In the water, in the wind, in the eternal rhythm of the waves. He hadn't died—not really. Not completely.

Because Dean and the ocean were one. They always had been. And as long as there was water in the sea, as long as there were waves crashing against the shore, he would exist.

He would live forever.

My heart started racing, and tears streamed down my face—but this time, they weren't just tears of grief. They were tears of understanding, of acceptance, of peace.

"I feel you," I whispered to the ocean, to the wind, to Dean. "I feel you, and I always will."

The wind picked up, wrapping around me like an embrace, and I smiled through my tears.

This wasn't goodbye. It couldn't be.

Because love like ours doesn't end. It transforms. It becomes part of the world around us—in the crash of the waves, in the call of the birds, in the endless expanse of the ocean.

Dean was gone from this life. But he wasn't gone from me.

He never would be.

I stood there for a long time, feeling the ocean, feeling him, letting the grief and the love wash over me in equal measure.

And when I finally turned to leave, I carried him with me—in my heart, in my memories, in the sound of the waves that would follow me wherever I went.

Because some loves are too strong to be contained by a single lifetime.

Some loves are eternal.

And ours was one of them.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── Author's note: So… this is it. Thank you for being here and for giving this story a chance. I know the ending isn’t what most of you were hoping for, and I get it—it hurts me too. But this was the ending that felt true to the story and to the characters, even if it’s a little heartbreaking.

Please don’t be mad at me 🖤✨

I might still come back and share a few extra chapters or scenes that didn’t make it into the final version, because there are moments I’m not quite ready to let go of yet.

Summary: Adopted as a baby, she grew up never knowing anything about her biological family. Until she turned seventeen.

After all those years, her biological mother finally reaches out, hoping to explain the past and the reasons that forced her to give her up. She travels to Santa Cruz in search of answers about her family-especially about her father.

Santa Cruz, known for its beaches and surf culture, brings an unexpected twist into her life: a great love story. In this series he is NOT a hunter. Pairing: surfer!Dean Winchester x female!reader Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Supporting SPN Characters Warnings: Sad | Emotional Vulnerability | Language Series Masterlist Song: The Downtown Lights by The Blue Nile Previous | Next ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The drive home was silent.

Madelaine didn't ask questions. She didn't try to fill the space with meaningless reassurances or empty platitudes. She just drove, her hands steady on the wheel, occasionally glancing at me in the passenger seat where I sat curled into myself, staring out the window without really seeing anything.

I was grateful for the silence. I didn't have words for what had just happened. I didn't have the energy to explain how it felt to have your heart ripped out of your chest while you were still conscious, still breathing, still somehow expected to keep living.

When we pulled into the driveway, Madelaine turned off the engine but didn't move to get out.

"(Y/N)," she said softly.

I didn't respond. I couldn't.

"Take all the time you need," she continued. "I'm here if you want to talk. Or if you don't. Whatever you need."

I nodded once, mechanically, and opened the car door.

The house felt too bright when we entered, too cheerful with its coastal colors and open windows letting in the late afternoon sun. Everything looked exactly the same as when I'd left this morning—a lifetime ago—but nothing would ever be the same again.

I went straight to my room, closed the door behind me, and collapsed onto the bed.

And then I cried.

I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes were swollen and my chest ached from the force of the sobs. I cried for Dean, for the future we'd never have, for the children we'd never make, for the life we'd planned in whispered conversations and stolen moments. I cried for myself, for being stupid enough to fall so completely in love with someone who was dying. For letting myself believe that love could be enough.

For being abandoned. Again.

The sun moved across the sky outside my window, the light shifting from gold to orange to purple, and still I cried. My pillow was soaked. My face felt hot and tight. My whole body hurt.

I heard Madelaine moving around downstairs—the soft sounds of dinner being made, dishes clinking, the television turning on and then off again. Normal sounds. Life continuing as if mine hadn't just ended.

Eventually, the tears stopped. Not because I felt better, but because I had nothing left to cry. I was empty. Hollowed out. A shell of a person lying face-down on a bed in a house that wasn't really home, in a city I'd only come to because of a woman who'd given me up, mourning a man who'd just done the same thing.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

I rolled onto my side, staring at the wall, watching the last of the daylight fade into darkness. My phone buzzed a few times—probably my mom checking in, or maybe Jo—but I didn't reach for it. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to explain. I didn't want their sympathy or their advice or their well-meaning attempts to make me feel better.

There was no making this better.

Dean was dying, and he didn't want me there.

That was the reality I had to live with now.

I don't know how long I lay there in the dark. Time had lost all meaning. It could have been minutes or hours. All I knew was the ache in my chest and the emptiness spreading through me like ice.

Then I heard a soft knock on my door.

"Honey?" Madelaine's voice was gentle. "Can I come in?"

I didn't answer, but the door opened anyway, a sliver of light from the hallway cutting across the floor. I heard her footsteps, soft on the carpet, and then the bed dipped as she sat down beside me.

For a long moment, she didn't say anything. She just sat there, her presence warm and solid in the darkness.

"I wish I could help," she finally said. "I think there's more to your suffering, isn't there?"

I nodded, still lying motionless, staring at nothing. Tears leaked from my eyes again—I didn't think I had any left, but apparently I was wrong.

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

Asking Madelaine for support wasn't one of my preferred intentions. We were still finding our way with each other, still learning how to be mother and daughter after twenty-three years apart. But I had no one else here. And I didn't want to call my mom in Nashville—she'd worry, she'd want to fix it, and there was nothing to fix. This was unfixable.

"Dean ended everything," I said, my voice hoarse and broken.

Madelaine was quiet for a moment, and I could feel her shock even in the darkness.

"Oh, honey," she said softly. "I'm so sorry." She reached out and placed her hand on my back, a tentative gesture of comfort. "But why would he do that?"

"Because of the illness." I was sobbing now, the words coming out in gasps. "He's already certain he's going to die."

"Oh, sweetheart." Madelaine's hand moved in slow circles on my back, the way my mom used to do when I was little and couldn't sleep. "He can't think like that. He's wrong. You two are perfect together. He'll realize that."

"He doesn't want me to be stuck with someone who has nothing to offer me." I turned my face into the pillow, my voice muffled. "I can't just force him to stay with me."

"I know," Madelaine said, and her voice was firm now, more certain. "But you can change his mind. He's acting wrongly, (Y/N). Show him that. He'll see, I'm sure of it. It's all new to him. He's scared."

I lifted my head slightly, looking at her in the dim light from the hallway. Her face was kind, understanding, but there was something else there too—a strength, a conviction.

"Just give him some time," she continued. "He'll realize he's acting wrongly."

"You think so?" I said, sniffing, wanting desperately to believe her.

"I'm sure of it. He's just scared. Suddenly everything was taken from him. He won't be able to compete and achieve what he's most longed for in his life. Everything has changed for him. Give him space. Just give him some time." She squeezed my shoulder gently. "He'll realize he was an idiot soon, and he'll change his mind. You'll see."

I hadn't really thought of it that way. Dean was scared. Suddenly his whole life had changed—he wouldn't be able to fulfill his dreams anymore. The internationals were in a week, and he'd been training for years, and now it was all gone. And yes, he could get better, but this illness was complicated. Some people took years in treatment. He would have to stay away from the sea for a long time, maybe forever.

I knew this was disturbing for him. Surfing wasn't just what he did—it was who he was. And now that had been taken away, along with his future, his health, his certainty about tomorrow.

So maybe Madelaine was right. Maybe he just needed space to process, to grieve, to get used to his new reality.

Maybe he would realize his mistake.

"I think you're right," I said, and I felt something loosen in my chest—not hope, exactly, but something close to it.

Madelaine looked relieved. "I'm glad I could help. You know you can always count on me, right, (Y/N)?"

I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the sincerity in her eyes. We exchanged silent glances, a moment of understanding passing between us—mother and daughter, finally connecting in the way we should have years ago.

I nodded.

"Now I'll let you rest," she said, standing up. "It was a turbulent day."

I nodded again, and she left, closing the door softly behind her.

The room fell back into darkness, and I lay there, staring at the ceiling.

It was a matter of seconds before I sank back into deep sadness.

Because even if Madelaine was right—even if Dean was just scared and would eventually come around—that didn't change the fact that he was dying. That didn't change the six months to a year the doctor had given him. That didn't change the reality that I might lose him anyway, no matter what I did.

But at least if he let me stay, I could be there. I could hold his hand through the treatments. I could make him laugh when he felt like shit. I could love him for whatever time we had left.

That had to count for something.

I rolled over, pulled my sketchbook from the nightstand, and opened it to a blank page. My hand was shaking, but I picked up a pencil anyway.

And I started to draw.

[...]

The next morning, I woke up with a plan.

I took a shower, letting the hot water wash away the dried tears and the exhaustion, and got dressed in jeans and a simple t-shirt. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked like hell—my eyes were puffy and red, my face pale—but I didn't care.

I had something to do.

Downstairs, Madelaine was making coffee. She looked up when I entered, concern flickering across her face.

"Good morning," she said carefully. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," I said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. I felt more determined, at least. More focused. "I'm going to the hospital."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I have to try," I said. "I can't just give up."

Madelaine studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, I'll be fine. Thank you, though."

I grabbed a piece of toast, ate it quickly, and headed out the door before I could lose my nerve.

The hospital was busy when I arrived, the waiting room full of people with various ailments and anxieties. I made my way to the nurses' station on Dean's floor, my heart pounding.

"Hi," I said to the nurse behind the desk—a different one from yesterday, thank God. "I'm here to see Dean Winchester."

She checked her computer, then looked up at me with an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Winchester has requested no visitors except immediate family."

My stomach dropped. "I'm his girlfriend."

"I understand, but those are his instructions. I can't let you in."

I wanted to argue, to push, to demand to see him. But what good would that do? He'd made his choice clear yesterday.

"Okay," I said quietly. "Can you... can you give him something for me?"

"Of course."

I pulled out the drawing I'd made last night—Dean on his surfboard, smiling at me with that cocky grin, the sun setting behind him, the ocean stretching out forever.

I handed it to the nurse. "Please make sure he gets this."

She took it gently, looking at the drawing with a soft smile. "This is beautiful. I'll make sure he gets it."

"Thank you."

I left the hospital feeling both defeated and determined. He wouldn't see me, but he'd see the drawing. He'd know I was still here. Still fighting for us.

The next day, I went back.

Same nurse, same answer. No visitors.

I left another drawing—this one of the two of us at the lake on that perfect night, fireflies glowing around us, our bodies intertwined in the water, the moonlight making everything look magical.

Day three. Still no visitors allowed.

I left a drawing of Dean teaching me to surf, me falling off the board with my arms flailing, Dean laughing so hard he was doubled over.

Day four. Same story.

This time, the drawing was of us at the carnival, Dean winning me the stuffed elephant, his face lit up with pride.

Day five. No change.

The drawing was of Dean playing guitar in his garage, surrounded by his friends, his face relaxed and happy.

Day six. Still nothing.

This drawing was of the scavenger hunt he'd created for me, the path of sheet music leading to him on the cliff.

Day seven. A full week had passed.

I drew us lying on the beach, watching the sunset, his arm around me, both of us smiling.

"Calm down, (Y/N)," Madelaine said one evening as I pushed food around my plate, too anxious to eat. "He'll change his mind."

I sighed but nodded, wanting to believe her.

The following week, I kept up the routine. Every day, I went to the hospital. Every day, I was turned away. Every day, I left a drawing.

Dean surfing a massive wave, fearless and free.

Dean and his family at dinner, everyone laughing.

Dean and me on his car, the wind in our hair.

Dean sleeping peacefully, his face soft and unguarded.

Dean looking at me with those green eyes that saw straight through to my soul.

Each drawing was a memory, a moment, a piece of my heart that I was giving him even though he'd told me to leave.

Mary saw me at the hospital one day during the second week. She pulled me aside, her eyes red-rimmed and tired.

"(Y/N)," she said, hugging me tightly. "I'm so sorry about all this."

"It's not your fault," I said, hugging her back.

"I've been trying to talk to him," she said. "John and I both have. But he's so stubborn. He thinks he's protecting you."

"I know."

"He's wrong, though. You know that, right? He's making a mistake."

"I know that too." I pulled back, wiping my eyes. "But I can't force him to see it. I can only keep showing up."

Mary squeezed my hands. "You're a good woman, (Y/N). Dean's lucky to have you, even if he's too stupid to realize it right now."

I managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Mary."

"I'll keep trying," she promised. "I'll make him see sense."

But another week passed, and nothing changed.

A month after Dean's diagnosis, I was still making the daily pilgrimage to the hospital, still leaving drawings, still being turned away.

I was starting to lose hope.

Maybe Madelaine was wrong. Maybe Dean wouldn't change his mind. Maybe this was really it—the end of us before we'd barely begun.

Then, on a Tuesday afternoon, I arrived at the hospital to find Dean's room empty.

My heart stopped. For one terrible moment, I thought—

"He was discharged this morning," the nurse said, seeing my panic. "He's continuing treatment at home."

Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by a new determination.

If he was home, maybe I could see him. Maybe being out of the hospital would change things.

I had to try.

I drove to Dean's house, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. I'd been here so many times before—for dinners, for movie nights, for lazy afternoons in the garage. But now it felt different. Foreign. Like I was approaching enemy territory.

When I pulled up, I saw several cars in the driveway—Jo's beat-up Jeep, Bobby's truck, what looked like Ash's van. The whole crew was here.

I took a deep breath, grabbed the latest drawing from my passenger seat, and got out of the car.

Before I could even knock, the door flew open and Jo appeared, her face lighting up when she saw me.

"(Y/N)!" She pulled me into a tight hug. "Oh my God, I've been wanting to call you but I didn't know if you wanted space or—"

"It's okay," I said, hugging her back. "How are you doing with that stubborn Dean?"

She pulled back, her expression turning sympathetic. "You know?"

I nodded. "Things aren't going very well, but I'm trying."

"Yeah, I noticed." She smiled sadly. "He showed me all your drawings."

My heart skipped. "He did?"

"Yeah. They're beautiful, (Y/N). Really beautiful. And he stares at them all the time, even though he pretends he doesn't care."

"What did he say about them?"

"Not much. You know Dean—he keeps everything locked up tight. But I can tell he's upset. He's really upset about all this. He doesn't want to hurt you, so he thinks pushing you away is the right decision. Don't blame him. You two will work things out."

"Do you think he'll see me?"

Jo bit her lip. "We can try. Come on."

She took my hand and led me inside. The house was full of noise—I could hear the guys in the living room, their voices carrying down the hallway. Sam was saying something about a new video game, and Ash was arguing about the best pizza toppings, and underneath it all, I could hear Dean's voice.

That voice I'd missed so much it physically hurt.

My heart started racing, doing somersaults in my chest. Jo squeezed my hand reassuringly as we approached Dean's room.

She knocked three times, then opened the door without waiting for an answer.

"Dean, I brought a special guest," she said, pulling me into the room with her.

Dean was sitting up in bed, looking better than he had in the hospital—his color was back, his hair was clean and styled in that messy way I loved, he was wearing a faded band t-shirt instead of a hospital gown. He was laughing at something Cas had just said, his face relaxed and happy.

Then he saw me, and his smile vanished.

"(Y/N)?"

We stared at each other across the room, and the air felt thick with everything unsaid. I could see the conflict in his eyes—the want and the fear and the stubborn determination to push me away.

"Hey," I managed to say.

The room had gone silent. Sam, Cas, Bobby, and Ash were all looking between us with varying expressions of discomfort and sympathy.

"Well," Sam said, standing up quickly. "I think we should go."

"Yeah, man, we'll catch you later," Ash added, already heading for the door.

They filed past me one by one, each of them greeting me quietly—Sam with an awkward pat on the shoulder, Cas with a solemn nod, Bobby with a gruff "Good to see ya, kid," and Ash with a supportive fist bump.

"Well, I'm going too," Jo said, but she hesitated, looking at Dean with something like disappointment.

"No, nobody leave," Dean said, his voice hard. "(Y/N), I already said—go away."

My heart shattered. Even Jo looked shocked by his rudeness.

"Dean," I said, my voice shaking. "I know you're going through a difficult time, but I just want to be by your side. To help you."

"I don't need your piety."

"This isn't piety, Dean." I was crying now, unable to hold back the tears. "Your parents love you, so what they're doing for you is piety?"

"This is different."

"No, it's not." I took a step toward him, my hands clenched into fists. "You're being rude and stupid to someone who loves you. I spent a month trying to reach you, and I always got a door slammed in my face, and even then I didn't give up. Is that piety? No. That's someone who cares about you, and you're making the wrong decision."

He just stared at me, his jaw tight, his eyes hard. But I could see something underneath—pain, fear, longing.

"But if that's your decision, fine." The words tasted like poison, but I forced them out. "I'm leaving, Dean. And I really hope you recover. Just don't come after me. Start your life over."

I turned and walked out, slamming the door behind me hard enough to rattle the frame.

Tears were streaming down my face, and I could barely see where I was going. Jo caught up with me in the hallway, grabbing my arm.

"(Y/N), wait—"

"I can't," I sobbed. "I can't do this anymore, Jo. I tried. I really tried. But he doesn't want me there."

"He's an idiot," Jo said fiercely. "He's a complete idiot, and I'm going to tell him that."

"It won't matter." I wiped my face with my hands, trying to pull myself together. "He's made his choice. I have to respect that, even if it's killing me."

I pulled away from her and walked out of the house, past the guys who were lingering awkwardly in the living room, past Mary who was coming in from the kitchen with a concerned expression, out into the bright California sunshine that felt like a mockery of my devastation.

I got in Madelaine's car and drove away, watching Dean's house disappear in my rearview mirror.

This was it. This was really the end.

I went home and cried some more.

Madelaine tried to comfort me, but there was nothing she could say. I'd tried everything. I'd given him space, I'd shown him I loved him, I'd been patient and persistent and understanding.

And it hadn't been enough.

He didn't want me there. He'd made that abundantly clear.

So I had to accept it. I had to let go.

That night, I made a decision.

I was going home. Back to Nashville, back to my parents, back to my old life. There was nothing left for me here except pain and memories of what could have been.

I started packing around midnight, moving quietly through the room, folding clothes and gathering my art supplies. My sketchbook sat on the nightstand, full of drawings of Dean—Dean smiling, Dean surfing, Dean sleeping, Dean looking at me like I was the only person in the world.

I couldn't bring myself to look at them.

By 5:30 in the morning, I was ready. My suitcase was packed, my room was clean, and I'd written a note for Madelaine thanking her for everything.

I crept downstairs, trying not to wake her up, and called a taxi.

Madelaine appeared in the kitchen doorway just as I was about to leave, her hair messy from sleep, her face creased with concern.

"(Y/N)? What are you doing?"

"I'm going home," I said quietly. "I'm sorry. I can't stay here anymore."

"Please don't go," she said, moving toward me. "Give him more time. He'll come around, I know he will."

"It's been a month, Madelaine. If he was going to change his mind, he would have done it by now."

"But—"

"I have to go," I said, my voice breaking. "I'm sorry. Thank you for everything. Really. But I can't do this anymore."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but something in my expression must have stopped her. Instead, she pulled me into a hug.

"I understand," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry this happened."

I hugged her back, letting myself take comfort in her warmth for just a moment. Then I pulled away, grabbed my suitcase, and headed out to the waiting taxi.

"Wait," I said to the driver as we pulled away from the house. "Can we make a stop first?"

"Sure, where to?"

I gave him Dean's address.

I had one more thing to do.

Dean's street was quiet in the early morning light, the houses still dark, everyone asleep. I asked the driver to wait and got out of the car, pulling a small envelope from my pocket.

I'd written the letter last night, when I couldn't sleep, when the pain was so overwhelming I thought I might drown in it.

I walked up to Dean's front door and placed the envelope on the doormat, right where he'd see it when he came out.

Then I got back in the taxi and we drove away.

I didn't look back.

The letter said:

Dean,

You were the one I thought would stay forever. The love of my life—that's what I called you in my head, in my heart, in every quiet moment when I let myself imagine our future. I saw it all so clearly: mornings waking up next to you, afternoons teaching our kids to surf, evenings growing old together on some porch overlooking the ocean.

I thought we were writing the greatest love story ever told.

But you're right. You were right to push me away. I understand now—you were trying to protect me from watching you fade, from tying my life to someone who's dying. You told me to leave, to go back to Nashville, to start over.

So I'm doing what you asked.

I'm leaving Santa Cruz. I'm going home. I'm letting you go, even though it's killing me, even though every part of me is screaming to stay and fight for us.

But here's what you need to know:

You'll always be the loss of my life. The one that got away. The one I'll think about when I'm old and gray, wondering what could have been if we'd had more time. If cancer hadn't stolen our future. If you'd let me love you through the hard parts instead of facing them alone.

I'll carry you with me everywhere I go. In every sunset that reminds me of the beach. In every song that sounds like your laugh. In every moment of beauty that makes me wish you were there to see it too.

You changed me, Dean. You made me believe in love again. You made me feel safe enough to let my walls down. You made me brave.

And even though now you're breaking my heart, even though now you're sending me away. I don't regret a single moment. Not the first time you made me laugh. Not the night at the lake when everything felt infinite. Not the way you looked at me like I was your whole world.

I would do it all again, even knowing how it ends.

Because you were mine for a little while. And I was yours. And that has to be enough.

I hope someday you'll understand that pushing me away didn't protect me. It just meant we both have to hurt alone instead of together. I hope you'll forgive yourself for being scared. I hope you'll let people love you, even when it's hard.

And I hope, when you think of me years from now, you'll remember that I loved you. Completely. Unconditionally. With everything I had.

You'll always be the love of my life, Dean Winchester. Even if I'm not yours anymore.

Goodbye, (Y/N) [...]

The airport was busy even at this early hour, full of business travelers and families starting vacations and people like me—running away from heartbreak.

I checked in at the counter, got my boarding pass, and made my way through security. My flight to Nashville was scheduled to depart at 6:30, but when I checked the board, I saw it had been delayed.

Delayed until 7:45 AM.

I sighed. Of course. Even the universe was conspiring to drag this out.

I found a coffee shop, bought a large latte and some cookies, and sat down at a small table near my gate. The coffee was too hot and the cookies were stale, but I didn't care. I wasn't really tasting anything anyway.

I pulled out my phone and looked at the photos I'd taken over the summer—me and Dean at the beach, at the carnival, at his house, at the lake. We looked so happy. So in love. So completely unaware that it would all fall apart.

I was about to put my phone away when I heard it.

A voice over the airport loudspeaker, crackling slightly with static.

"Attention, everyone. At the request of my friend Dean, I'm going to play the song 'The Downtown Lights' by The Blue Nile. (Y/N), this is for you."

My heart stopped.

Then the music started—that distinctive opening, all glowing keys and distant rhythm, Paul Buchanan’s voice filling the terminal.

Sometimes I walk away

When all I really wanna do

Is love and hold you right

There is just one thing I can say

Nobody loves you this way

I stood up so fast my chair scraped against the floor, my coffee forgotten, my heart hammering against my ribs.

This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.

I looked around wildly, scanning the terminal—the business travelers with their laptops, the families with their luggage, the couples saying goodbye. Everyone was looking around too, confused, curious, some of them smiling at the unexpected soundtrack to their morning.

It's alright, can't you see?

The downtown lights

I turned slowly, my breath catching in my throat, searching the crowd for—I didn't even know what. A sign. An explanation. Something to tell me I wasn't losing my mind.

And then I saw him.

Dean.

He was walking toward me through the terminal, weaving between travelers and luggage carts, and he looked—God, he looked terrible. His face was pale, his green eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and he was moving carefully, like every step took effort. He was wearing jeans and a faded Zeppelin t-shirt, his hair messy like he'd just rolled out of bed, and in his hands he held a bouquet of wildflowers—daisies and sunflowers and something purple I couldn't name.

He shouldn't be here. He should be home, resting, recovering. He'd just been discharged from the hospital yesterday.

But he was here. He'd come for me.

In love we're all the same

We're walking down an empty street

And with nobody, call your name Empty streets, empty nights

The downtown lights

Our eyes met across the terminal, and everything else fell away. The music, the people, the announcements over the loudspeaker—it all faded into background noise. There was only him, walking toward me with flowers in his hands and desperation in his eyes.

I started moving too, my feet carrying me forward without conscious thought. We met in the middle of the terminal, in the space between gates, surrounded by strangers who had stopped to watch.

"What are you doing here?" I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. Tears were already streaming down my face, and I didn't bother to wipe them away.

Dean looked at me, and I could see everything in his expression—the fear, the regret, the love, the desperate hope that he wasn't too late.

"(Y/N)..." He said my name like a prayer, like an apology, like the most important word he'd ever spoken. He took a shaky breath. "I went crazy when I realized you were leaving."

"But wasn't that what you wanted?" The words came out broken, hurt still raw in my voice.

"Yes. No. I mean—" He ran his free hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. "I thought it was the right decision, but it wasn't." He stepped closer, and I could see the exhaustion etched into his face, the way he was swaying slightly on his feet. "I was wrong, (Y/N). I was so fucking wrong."

How do I know you'll feel it?

How do I know you'll feel it?

How do I know you'll feel it?

How do I know it's true?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, it's alright

"Dean—" I started, but he shook his head.

"Please, just—let me say this. I need to say this before I lose my nerve." His voice cracked, and he took another breath, steadying himself. "I thought all I wanted was to fulfill my dream. Professional surfing, the internationals, making a name for myself—that was supposed to be everything. That was supposed to be my whole life."

He looked down at the flowers in his hands, then back up at me, his green eyes shining with unshed tears.

"But then you appeared and changed everything." His voice dropped lower, more intimate, like we were the only two people in the entire airport. "You walked into my life with your sketchbook and your walls and your beautiful, guarded heart, and suddenly surfing didn't matter anymore. The competition didn't matter. None of it mattered."

Tonight and every night

Let's go walking down this empty street

Let's walk in the cool evening light

Wrong or right, be at my side

The downtown lights

"Now my dream is you," he said, and a tear finally escaped, rolling down his cheek. "You're all I want, (Y/N). You're all I need. And I was too much of a coward to admit it because I was scared."

"Scared of what?" I whispered, my own tears falling faster now.

"Scared of depending on you more than you depend on me. Scared of becoming a burden. Scared of watching you waste your life taking care of someone who's dying." He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Jo called me out on it. She said it was my pride—that I couldn't stand the thought of needing you more than you need me. And she was right."

He stepped even closer, close enough that I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the way his hands were trembling around the flower stems.

"I was so focused on protecting you from my death that I didn't stop to think about what I was doing to you by pushing you away. I thought I was being noble, being selfless, but really I was just being a selfish asshole who couldn't handle losing control."

It will be alright

It will be alright

The downtown lights

Yeah, yeah

"Your letter," he continued, his voice breaking completely now. "When I read your letter this morning, it destroyed me. How could you still love me after everything I put you through? How could you still want to be by my side?"

"Because I do love you," I said, the words tumbling out through my sobs. "I love you so much it terrifies me."

"I know I might not have much time left," Dean said, and his voice was raw with emotion. "Six months, a year, maybe less. But I can't lose you. I can't spend whatever time I have left without you. You're all I have now, (Y/N). You're everything."

He held out the flowers with shaking hands. "I know I don't deserve another chance. I know I hurt you. But I'm asking anyway—please don't get on that plane. Please don't leave me. I need you. I love you. And I'm done pretending I don't."

The song swelled around us, Paul's voice crying out the chorus one more time, and I couldn't hold back anymore.

"You idiot," I said, laughing and crying at the same time. "You beautiful, stubborn, impossible idiot."

I took the flowers from his hands and set them carefully on a nearby chair, then turned back to him.

"I never wanted you to give up your dreams for me," I said, my voice shaking. "I never wanted to be the reason you stopped chasing what you love. But Dean—" I reached up and cupped his face in my hands, feeling the stubble on his jaw, the warmth of his skin. "You're my dream too. You're everything I never knew I always wanted."

His eyes closed at my touch, and he leaned into my hands like he was starving for contact.

"I'm not leaving you," I said firmly, making sure he heard every word. "Not now, not ever. I don't care about the diagnosis. I don't care about the six months or the year or whatever time we have. I'm staying. I'm fighting. I'm loving you through all of it."

"(Y/N)—" he started, but I shook my head.

"No, it's my turn. You don't get to decide what's best for me. You don't get to push me away to 'protect' me. I'm a grown woman, and I'm choosing you. I'm choosing us. I'm choosing whatever time we have together, even if it's not enough. Even if it breaks my heart in the end."

How do I know you'll feel it?

How do I know you'll feel it?

How do I know you'll feel it?

How do I know it's true?

"I love you," I said, my voice breaking but steady, certain. "I love you, Dean Winchester. Full stop. No conditions, no limits, no protection clauses. Just you and me and whatever comes next."

His eyes opened, and I saw everything in them—the fear, the hope, the overwhelming love, the gratitude. A tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, and I caught it with my thumb, wiping it away gently.

"I love you too," he whispered, his voice raw and broken and beautiful. "God, I love you so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for pushing you away. I was an idiot. I was scared and stupid and—"

"Shh," I said, pressing my finger to his lips. "You're here now. That's all that matters."

He let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob, and then he was pulling me into his arms, wrapping them around my waist and holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. I didn't care. I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face against his shoulder, feeling his heart racing against my chest, feeling the warmth of him, the solidness of him, the realness of him.

He was here. He'd come for me. He'd chosen us.

My tears soaked into his t-shirt, hot and fast and unstoppable, but they weren't tears of sadness anymore. They were relief, joy, overwhelming gratitude that we'd found our way back to each other.

"I thought I'd lost you," I whispered against his neck. "I thought you were really gone."

"Never," he said fiercely, his arms tightening around me. "I'm not going anywhere. Not without you. Not ever again."

His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair, and I felt him press a kiss to my temple, then another to my cheek, then another to the corner of my jaw. Like he was trying to memorize me through touch, through taste, through the simple act of being close.

"I missed you," he said, his voice muffled against my hair. "Every single day. Every single hour. I looked at those drawings you left and I missed you so much I couldn't breathe."

"I'm here now," I said, pulling back just enough to look at him. "I'm right here."

Our eyes met, and the world fell away again. There was only him—his green eyes red-rimmed and exhausted but full of love, his face pale but beautiful, his lips slightly parted as he looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.

Maybe I was.

He leaned down slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to, but I didn't want to. I never wanted to pull away from him again.

When his lips met mine, it was like coming home.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like we were both afraid this was a dream we'd wake up from. But then his hand cupped my face and my fingers tightened in his hair and the kiss deepened, became more urgent, more desperate, more real.

I poured everything into that kiss—all my love, all my fear, all my hope for whatever future we could build together. And he kissed me back with the same intensity, the same desperation, the same overwhelming need to be close, to be connected, to be together.

It's alright

It's alright

The downtown lights

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, yeah

Around us, I was dimly aware of the terminal coming back into focus. People were watching—some with hands over their hearts, some with tears in their eyes, some with wide smiles. A few were applauding, the sound building like a wave. Someone was definitely filming this on their phone, probably already uploading it to social media with some caption about true love or airport reunions or fate.

I didn't care. Let them watch. Let them film. Let the whole world see that I loved this man, that I was choosing him, that nothing—not cancer, not death, not time itself—was going to keep us apart.

An older woman near us was crying openly, clutching her husband's arm. A young couple was holding hands and smiling at each other like they'd just witnessed something sacred. Even the airport workers—the gate agents and the janitors and the TSA officers—were watching with soft expressions, like they'd forgotten for a moment about delays and security checks and the mundane reality of their jobs.

The song swelled around us, Paul’s voice crying out the final chorus, the sound building to a shimmering crescendo and we kept kissing, kept holding each other, kept existing in this perfect bubble where nothing else mattered.

How do I know you'll feel it? How do I know you'll feel it? How do I know you'll feel it? How do I know it's true? Yeah, yeah, yeah The downtown lights

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless, both crying, both smiling so wide it hurt.

Dean rested his forehead against mine, his hands still cupping my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks.

"Does this mean you're staying?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "We're really doing this?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation. "Yes, we're doing this. We're doing all of it."

"Even the hard parts?"

"Especially the hard parts."

He let out a shaky laugh, relief flooding his features. "Thank God. Because I don't know how to do this without you."

"You don't have to," I said, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "You'll never have to do anything without me again. We're a team now. You and me against the world."

"You and me against the world," he repeated, like he was testing the words, savoring them. Then he smiled—that cocky, beautiful smile I'd fallen in love with—and said, "I like the sound of that."

"Me too."

The neon's and the cigarettes

Rented rooms or rented cars

The crowded streets, the empty bars

Chimney tops and trumpets

The golden lights, the loving prayers

The colored shoes, the empty trains

I'm tired of crying on the stairs

The downtown lights

Yeah, yeah Yeah, yeah

The song faded out, the final notes hanging in the air for a moment before disappearing completely. The spell broke, and the terminal came fully back to life—announcements over the loudspeaker, people rushing to their gates, the normal chaos of an airport morning.

But we stayed where we were, wrapped in each other's arms, unwilling to let go just yet.

"Take me home," I said softly, looking up at him. "Let's go home."

His smile widened, and he pressed one more kiss to my forehead before stepping back and taking my hand.

"Let's go home," he agreed.

We walked through the terminal together, hand in hand, past the people who were still watching us with romantic expressions, past the gate where my flight to Nashville would be leaving without me, past the coffee shop where I'd been sitting just minutes ago thinking my life was over.

But my life wasn't over. It was just beginning.

As we stepped out into the California sunshine, I thought about how life doesn't always give you the ending you expect. Some love stories are measured in years—decades of growing old together, of building a life brick by brick, of watching children grow and grandchildren arrive.

Some love stories are measured in months.

Ours would be measured in moments.