The Voice says I'm Almost out of Minutes

She was walking out of the tack room. 

That’s the last thing Tori remembered clearly before everything became blurry. The stench of decay wrapped around her like the steel-strong arms banding across her chest, pinning her hands from reaching to grab her machete. 

Then the coppery tang of blood, the scent strong enough to make her gag. That was her downfall, cause when she did, the vampire pressed his bleeding wrist between her open lips. Her eyes flared wide, a scream ripping from her lungs, lifting herself up to kick blindly at the monster's legs, his crotch, anything to free herself while she resisted the urge to swallow. 

Terror quivered through her muscles, knowing what was going to happen when she inevitably ingested the vampire's blood. It’d kill the Winchesters next. 

Even if it didn’t, there was no such thing as a cure. She knew, she looked for years to no avail. 

There’d be no salvation for her. Her tongue pulled away from the weeping cut, but it was too late. Her body’s subconscious reflex kicked in, and the penny-taste was sent down her throat. 

Tori’s eyes flew open, her body shooting up ramrod straight. She coughed, then gagged at the memory of blood trickling into her throat. Her body convulsed, stomach churning as she keeled over to the side. Bile and a disgusting mixture of she didn’t even know what splattered to the floor beside the bed she sat upon.

Wait. A. Fucking. Minute. 

Tori blinked. Then she slowly straightened, taking in her surroundings. 

Well, if this is Hell, this is nowhere near what I was expecting. Instead of a fiery pit or some non-stop torture, she was sitting in a hospital bed in what looked to be an infirmary from circa 1957. The occasional modern medical supplies were placed around the room, but otherwise you could have told her she was on a set of a period drama and she would have believed it. 

And, more importantly, she was alone. The fold-away dividers were pulled back against the wall, and the few other beds were empty. Some weren’t even made with sheets. 

“Whaaaat the fuck?” Tori muttered to herself. 

Glancing down, she noted she was in the same clothes she had been wearing prior to being attacked, sans the jacket; her jeans and t-shirt were still intact. Noticing an IV was taped to the crook of her arm, she went to reach up to look at what, was being fed into her veins—which if she had to guess was saline—but her arm didn’t go very far.

Tori narrowed her eyes at the soft cuffs that encircled her wrists, anchoring her to the bed. Great. I didn’t die. I just ended up in some creepy serial killer lair. 

“Uh, hey!” She called out, trying the strength of the cuffs with a harsh yank of her arm. “Anybody there? I promise to be good if you don’t kill me!”

Her voice sounded hollow as it was sent into the empty room. 

After a second of no response, Tori groaned. “Great. Just great.”

She looked around the room a second time, trying to find anything within arms reach she could use to free herself. The lack of pressure on her calf meant whoever brought her here had removed the knife she had strapped there. Her quiver and machete were also notably missing, though considering her situation, she wasn’t really expecting them to be there anyway. 

The blood. 

Tori knew she had swallowed it, felt whatever supernatural forces that drove the transformation from human to vampire bully her into unconsciousness. 

I-I don’t feel any different. Her movements stilled, the horror of possibilities washing over her and all of a sudden she wasn’t itching to get out of the cuffs anymore. An abyss opened in her stomach, making it do somersaults to the point she leaned back over the edge of the bed, more bile joining the rest of her vomit on the floor. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” a voice said softly, and Tori felt a hand on her back. 

It was instinct to flinch, her balled fist rocketing up as she leaned away from the foreign individual. She scooted as far back on the bed as the restraints would allow, eyes wild she assessed the person who’d walked in. 

“Sam?” Tori’s brows furrowed, her voice hoarse from the vomiting.

The younger Winchester held his hands up, palms out in defense. 

“Hey, yeah—sorry I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said softly. “I heard you yell from down the hall, then I saw you puke.”

Tori felt her cheeks burn. “I woulda tried to make it to a bathroom, but, uh.” 

She held her wrists up. 

“Precautions,” Sam responded. 

“Yeah, about that,” Tori trailed off, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. “Why am I not, you know?”

“Thirsting for my blood?” Sam smiled.

“Yeah. That,” Tori nodded. “I swallowed the vamps' blood. I felt it go down my throat. Felt the change start.”

“May I?” Sam jerked his chin towards the end of the bed.

Tori considered it, tucking the inside of her lower lip between her teeth, nodding. 

“Long story short, we have a cure,” he explained.

A harsh bark of laughter slipped out of her before Tori could stop it. “I’m sorry. What kind of weed have you been smoking? And more importantly, where can I get some?” 

The man’s lips tugged up in a crooked grin. “Yeah. We didn’t believe it at first either.”

“Believe what, Sam? There is no cure for vampirism, just like there isn’t one for lycanthropy. Every hunter knows this. I looked for years.”

“That’s because you didn’t have the family recipe.” Sam set his hands on his jean-clad thighs. “Our mom’s family found a cure. Or made it. We’re not exactly sure but all we know is it works. Counting you, we’ve changed four people back. Only works if you haven’t fed yet, though.”

Tori’s jaw went slack, and she couldn’t even bring herself to care. It didn’t sound possible. But, here she sat, not wanting to suck the blood from Sam who sat not 2 feet from her. 

“So, I’m not gonna go full Cullen on anyone when I leave? I’m normal?” Tori mentally chuckled at the second question. Definitely not normal. But not a vampire.

“Nope,” Sam replied. “You are not a vampire.”

Tori nodded slowly, unable to fully wrap her head around the fact that she had come so close to death—or, death adjacent—and had managed to escape it. Taking a deep breath, she brought her arm up to run her palm down her face in relief, but was stopped by the soft restraints. 

“Well, since I am no longer a danger to myself or others, can I be unrestrained?” Tori raised her wrist up pointedly. 

Sam huffed a laugh. “I suppose that could be arranged.”

He reached over, undoing the buckle of the first one.

“What was the point of these anyway? Couldn’t I have just, I don’t know, ripped them off the bed if I had turned?”

Sam shrugged, moving onto the other. “Probably. But since we’d seen the cure work before, we weren’t too worried about it. I didn’t want to put them on, period, but Dean insisted.”

Annoyance flared and Tori rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.”

Sam pulled back out of her personal space, standing up off the bed. “He means well.”

Tori watched Sam grab what looked to be some cleaning supplies from one of the cabinets. The whole room piqued her interest. Antique beds, trays, and fixtures, but modern tools and supplies. “If by that you mean he’s an asshole, then yeah. Sure.”

“Can’t say you’re much of a delight yourself, sweetheart,” the eldest Winchester snarked from the doorway.

Tori’s head snapped over to where Dean stood. Her lip curled in disdain. “Nobody asked for the Peanut Gallery’s opinion.”

“Well, my ears were burning and lo and behold, you’re talking shit about me with my little brother.”

Sam pointedly remained silent, kneeling down with the cleaning supplies next to the pile of her vomit. 

“If you weren’t such an asshole, then I wouldn’t have to talk shit about you,” she countered, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “Sam, I can do that. I made the mess.”

“It’s alright, Tori. I got it.” Sam insisted, throwing a soiled paper towel into a plastic bag.

“Wow, calling me an asshole twice. Really gotta be more creative,” Dean started to move in. 

Tori’s fingers curled into the sheets, addressing Dean. “Give me some new material and I’ll see what I can do.”

Dean sneered at her, but broke his attention to bark at Sam. “Let her do it, she made the mess.”

Sam craned his head over his shoulder. “Dean. She has an IV and nearly fucking got turned into a vampire. Give it a rest.”

“I got turned and look how well I turned out. I’m sure Robin Hood over here will be fine.”

Eyebrows raised, Tori tucked that tidbit of information away for future reference. Sam had said they’d turned three people prior to her, but somehow the idea that the great Dean Winchester managed to get caught with his pants far enough down to be turned into a fledgling bloodsucker. 

Well, kids, this is why you never meet your heroes.

“Look,” Tori interjected. “I’m fine, the IV can come out and I can get gone.” She sent a dark look towards Dean. “Clearly I’m intruding and that’s the last thing I wanted to come out of this whole thing. I’ll get my things and hitch a ride.”

Sam rose from the floor. “About that—”

“We don’t have your stuff.” Dean interrupted. “Besides. You aren’t going anywhere until we get some answers.”

Tori scoffed. “Huh, yeah. Good luck with that.”

She didn’t hesitate, grabbing the IV lines to give them a good yank. The tape stung like a bitch, tearing away from her skin, but Tori just set her jaw against the pain, sliding off the bed.

No sooner had her feet hit the floor did a hand grab her arm in an attempt to steady her.

With a sharp inhale, Tori tugged her arm from Sam’s aid, going so far as to take a step back. She tried to ignore the faint look of dejection. 

He was just trying to help, her subconscious nagged. And I don’t give a fuck, she thought to herself. 

“Look, can I at least use the fucking bathroom before the two’a you start playing good cop bad cop? Interrogation on a full bladder is not fun.”

After a second, Dean nodded and Sam took a step to her right, allowing her to pass. Annoyance coursed through her, the urge to scream sitting heavy in her lungs. This was exactly what she was trying to avoid, and it was the last place she wanted to be. 

Patience, she tried to tell herself, a balm to serve her frayed nerves. Get them to let their guard down, then get the hell outta dodge. 

The hallway outside the infirmary kept the same architecture, all light brickwork and tile. Tori craned her neck while they walked, noting the antique lighting. Amidst it all, curiously enough, there were no windows. 

“What is this place?” She asked, keeping a good distance between Dean in front of her. 

Silence, then, “A bunker. Just outside Lebanon.”

Tori hummed in response, following him to the end of the hall where a section was inlaid into the t-intersection, a sign hung on the outside with the women’s restroom icon. 

“Am I allowed to use the bathroom by myself or are you gonna hold it for me too?” Tori snarked at Dean as he stopped in the intersection.

That comment earned her an eyeroll, a reaction that elicited a sense of well earned joy through her nervous system. “Just come right back to the infirmary. Don’t go snooping around.”

“Scouts honor.” Tori held up three fingers, and just as Dean went to turn around she flipped her hand around, dropping her index and ring finger. 

Dean held up his own, “Oh look, I can do that too.”

Tori said sweetly. “Congratulations, you have basic fine motor skills.”

“Go fucking piss.”

“Gladly.”

The wooden door shut heavily behind her with a bang that echoed, and just like she expected, the bathroom matched the rest of the place, looking like something out of a movie like The Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Clearly, it was not constructed with women in mind, only two stalls with powder blue walls sat upon one wall and, curiously enough, two urinals. A small walkway leading behind the toilet stalls presented a row of showers, none with curtains hanging on the rods.

While the excuse had been just that—she had no intention of being subjected to an interrogation of any capacity—she really did need to pee. The saline did its job a little too well. 

The toilets were clean at least, she noticed as she relieved herself, so were the sinks when she washed her hands after. 

Wiping her hands on her jeans in the absence of paper towels in the dispenser, Tori’s mind raced with how she was gonna do this. She had no idea what the layout of the bunker would even look like, let alone how to get to the exit. 

Pensa, Tori. Think. 

Heart thundering in her chest, Tori eased the door open. The wall in the way meant she didn’t have a direct eyeline to the hallway, so, letting the door shut gently behind her she crept out to press her back against it. 

She shivered, bare arms brushing against the tile, she peered around the edge. Tori breathed a sigh of relief, seeing the hallway was empty. 

Well, for now at least. 

She was sure Dean wasn’t gonna wait forever, which meant she needed to act fast. 

Fearful of the noise her boots would make, Tori moved as quickly as she dared through the hallways. Instead of taking the hallway back past the infirmary, she took a different path, hoping to god that it would eventually lead her to an exit. 

More heavy looking wooden doors, all in similar fashion to the bathroom ones, lined the corridor at varying intervals. Numbers were nailed to the doors, the metal shining in the light by either meticulous care or dumb luck. 

Some curious instinct wanted to know what was behind them, what secrets the place the Winchester brothers apparently called home. 

Once, a long time ago, she’d been told, by someone she considered a reliable source, that the boys rarely put down roots; the practice was a ghost left behind after years of moving around with John.

Which, for all she knew, they could be squatting here, but Sam’s familiarity with where the supplies in the infirmary were suggested that maybe they had finally chosen a home base.

It’s none of your business, and it’s not like you are gonna be here ever again anyway, Tori reminded herself, continuing on her way. 

With the lack of windows and the same architecture no matter what way she turned, the bunker grew dizzying. She didn’t know which way was left or right, up or down; the place was a fucking labrynth of hallways. The boys were gonna come looking for her soon, and she needed to gone when they did

Tori huffed a breath, following the curve once more just to see it end with a door. Jesus christ this place doesn’t end!

Care abandoned, she stomped down the short corridor. Reaching out, she grabbed at the handle, fully expecting it to be locked. The knob gave way as she rotated her wrist, the door swinging open towards her. 

It cannot be that easy. 

Swinging the door open, she was met with a stairwell leading up into yawning darkness. Hair standing on end, she balked, not exactly jumping at the opportunity to climb a flight of stairs leading into complete darkness. She’d seen enough horror movies in her life, imagining a chainsaw wielding maniac just waiting to jump out at her from the shadows.

Shaking her body, Tori took a deep breath in through her nose. It didn’t help much, but it was enough to get her to take that first step, ascending into the darkness.

Her entire body flinched, automatic lights clicking on above her with an electric hum. What they illuminated though, made her jaw drop.

Two neat rows of beautiful antique cars lined a garage that must have been at least a hundred feet deep. Cement columns ran the length of the space, the lights hung from beams bolted to the ceiling held the same dated design found in the hallways. Other fixtures hung on the walls, drawing her eye to an oddly familiar emblem hung on the end.

Stunned, Tori wandered down the center, eyeing the vehicles. Her eyes narrowed, noticing the same black, 1967 Chevy Impala from the diner. 

“Damn,” she muttered to herself, her fingers just hovering over the hood. “Gotta admit, he’s got taste.”

All of the cars were well kept, the chrome and metal reflecting the light. But the Impala, it was practically glowing. Not a speck of dust, nor a scratch, every part polished so finely she could see her reflection better than any mirror. 

What I would do to get a look under your hood Tori thought, reluctantly moving on.

Okay, a garage has got to have an exit to the outside, right? Just gotta find it. 

“Getting real sick of all the fucking doors.” Tori whispered in an exasperated tone, approaching another person-sized service door positioned next to a standard roller garage door. Whipping it open, Tori sighed. “And all the fucking stairs.”

She hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The door burst open, fresh air all but smacking her in the face. Gravel crunched under her boots, a long driveway spanning out in front of her leading to a road. 

“Good luck, boys,” Tori smiled, relieved. “And good fucking riddance.”

“So she's…interesting.” 

Dean could hear the amusement in his brother's voice when he walked back into the infirmary. Tori’s smug expression was burnt into his brain, the flippant nature in which she regarded him. He knew she didn’t owe him anything—if anything, he owed her for saving Sam’s life—but boy did she grate on his nerves. 

The secrecy most of all, and okay, maybe it annoyed him that she seemed to know more about him and Sam than they knew about her, but that was normal, right?

“Sam. Don’t.”

Sam leaned back against one of the cabinets, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, all I’m saying is that, clearly, she’s a good hunter. And whether you want to admit it or not, she could be a good back up.”

“When have we ever needed back up?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Garth, the Banes, Jody, Donna. Need I go on?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “That’s different. We’ve known them for years. We know we can count on them.”

“How is that different? At one point we didn’t know any of them either, let alone count on them to have our backs.”

“It just is!” Dean snapped. “I don’t know Sam, there's something…off about her. I don’t like it.”

From the second they showed up at the crime scene, there’d been something not right. At first it was because he thought she was a demon, but after that, the way she couldn’t get away from them fast enough and after dropping some vague background with Bobby, it just seemed too much all at once. Too many blanks, too much left in the dark.

“Nothing has felt right, not since all this bullshit with Crowley—”

“And that’s another thing!” Dean cut Sam off. “How come we’ve never heard of this chick, only for her to show up right when we are out doing that fucking demon’s dirty work. For all we know she’s one of his, sent to spy on us.”

“Dean,” Sam placated. “She’s not a demon. I tested her skin with holy water when she was out. No response. No reaction to silver either, so she's not a skin walker.”

“Okay, so she’s not one of Crowley’s lackeys, but that still doesn’t explain where she came from.”

“Look, Dean, looking for Belial is clearly a tougher job than we anticipated, and it’s not like Crowley is being of any help as usual. We need a capable hunter on our side right now. Besides, we’ll get answers whenever she comes back from the bathroom.”

Shit. 

Dean checked his watch. It’d been nearly 15 minutes since he’d walked Tori to the bathroom and she hadn’t come back yet. He pushed off the wall, bee-lining it to the bathrooms. There wasn’t a fuck left to give, he decided, shoving open the women’s bathroom door so hard the wooden panel slammed violently into the wall.

“Dean?” Sam came up behind him.

“Let’s get the car.”

Tori rubbed her hands up and down her arms for the third time in the last five minutes, thoroughly regretting not sparing an extra five minutes to search for her coat in her escape. It wasn’t snowy yet in mid-October, but the wind was wicked, yanking strands of her hair loose despite how tight she’d woven it into the singular braid. 

Leaves scraped across the road, her eyes following the rumble strip along the side of the road. She kept to the shoulder, wandering over the line where the blacktop met gravel. Angry grey clouds threatened a late season rain, and it was late enough in the day for the oncoming traffic to be blinding her with their headlights. 

So far not one traveller had stopped for her outstretched thumb when she heard them coming up behind her. Too many people in too much of a hurry to get home for Miller Time. 

It’d been a hot minute since she had to do this. Usually she could find a car to hotwire, but the bunker was out in the middle of nowhere. She wasn’t able to bring herself to break into one of the cars that had been in the garage. It felt too much like vandalism and those babies deserved better.

The part that worried her, the part that made her grow increasingly desperate to find a ride with each car that came up on her, was that she truly had no idea where she was. She could be in another state for all she knew, though it was unlikely considering they would have had to move her from the barn to the bunker and administer the cure prior to her waking up. 

The hope she had that some good samaritan would stop and give her a ride or at least some direction to where she needed to go dwindled with every minute that stretched between the last car that had passed her. 

The highway loneliness was a different drug when walking along it rather than riding on top of it. 

In the driver's seat, she could count the road signs, sing her lungs out, or get lost in the highway hypnosis until she needed to get off on an exit. But walking alongside it she was all too aware of how the road stretched for miles with nothing cornfields and cows as far as the eye could see; she could feel the wind off the car whipping past her with no steel and glass barrier to shield her. It felt way too exposed. 

The deep roar of an engine had Tori whirling around, arm already halfway out with her thumb up when she recognized the chrome grill and the sleek black car it was attached to. She could not drop her hand fast enough, nor turn on her heel to continue walking.

“Dannazione!” Tori threw her head back, wrapping one arm over the other. Goddamn it!

The Impala slowed, rolling alongside her. She kept her eyes forward, refusing to acknowledge them more than she already had. 

“Hey!” Sam called out from her left. 

She ignored him, quickening her pace.

“Tori!” 

These boys will not give up! Just as she was about to turn and tell them off, something rough but cushioned smacked into her side. 

Tori’s mouth dropped open, scrambling to grab the item. Her enraged expression melted into shock, realizing Sam had thrown her coat at her through the open passenger side window. Tugging it on, Tori nearly melted into the warmth the jacket provided, heated from the interior of the car. She knew she was chilly, but it didn’t really register how cold she actually was until she wasn’t.

“Peace offering, alright?” Sam said. Tori presumed Dean was behind the wheel keeping the car rolling at a snail's pace to keep up with her. “Just, get in the car and we’ll drive you to the motel.”

She laughed incredulously. “Wow, you are one free candy sign away from sounding like a kidnapper, Sam.”

“Tori, please. It’s a three hour drive and it’s gonna rain soon.”

There was no way this was happening. She shook her head. “Nah, you guys lost your fucking chance when you threatened to keep me hostage.”

Sam said something, his voice muffled. Probably talking to Dean. Tori just kept on walking, putting one boot in front of the other, another track that would get lost when the rain came, washing away any evidence she had walked here.

“Look,” Sam addressed her again. “We realized that maybe it could have been handled much, much better. And we wanna make up for it, if you’ll let us.”

The regret was genuine, from Sam at least. Considering it all though, he wasn’t the one she wanted an apology from.

She turned her head, but continued on walking. “I wanna hear him say it.” Tori pointed into the Impala where Dean sat, keeping his head forward, eyes on the road. “He’s the one who threatened to hold me hostage.”

Through the window, she could see him scoff. At the end of the outburst, though, there was something softer akin to remorse. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled and the first scant drops of rain hit the blacktop. 

“I’m sorry, alright. I was an asshole and I should have tried to talk things out better.” It was forced, but it was an apology. “Just get in the damn car before we get rear ended or worse.”

Tori loosed a long slow breath, every part of her was apprehensive at the whole thing. It just seemed that no matter what she did, all the roads kept leading back to them. 

Mother Nature, if you are fucking with me, so help me. Her feet slowed, coming to a stop, the Impala doing the same. 

“I swear to God if you guys try to take me anywhere but the motel I will jump out. I do not care how fast we are going.”

She reached out, gently grabbing the door handle. Climbing inside, she gingerly closed the door behind her, the latches engaging with a soft click. 

As she slid to sit behind Dean, she caught his eye in the rearview mirror. Appreciation clouded his gaze, but it was gone with a blink, his attention back on the road as he peeled away from the shoulder.

“So,” Dean started as he and Sam approached the large barn where they’d tracked the four vamps. “What’s the plan here?”

Both of them had machetes on their person.

Paying careful mind to the underbrush, they’d abandoned Baby on a service road in favor of moving in on foot. They had tracked the vampires here last night, finding their way to the motel room to regroup afterwards and prepared for the hunt. After a wrong turn, they managed to find the service road, park the car, and had made it to the treeline where they were now.

“I’ll take left, you take right?” Sam offered, voice low and cautious.

Dean shrugged in response. Emerging from the treeline, the warm sun beat down on them. The sunlight wouldn’t be fatal to the vamps, but any advantage they had was better than nothing, especially since they had no idea how many were in the nest. A nasty sunburn, Dad had equated it to, once what seemed a lifetime ago. 

The rust-riddled hinges creaked softly as Dean eased the door open for them to slip through. Light filtered through the gaps of the wooden paneling, illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air. It was clear the animals that would have been housed here at one point were long gone, but despite that, the musty smell of animal, hay, and wood was near smothering.

But among the earthy aromas, that dare he say smelled pretty good, was the sharp and coppery tang of blood which clung to the air alongside it.

Ears straining to their limits, his senses heightened like they always did on a hunt. The adrenaline tensed his muscles, causing him to flinch at the smallest things; eyes shifting and fingers twitching to grab the handle of his machete, he was ready.

No matter how many times he walked into the veritable lion’s den, acting on muscle memory, he still couldn’t shake the feeling of unease, the lingering feeling of self doubt; was he quiet enough, were the weapons they packed the most effective, was Sam prepared? He didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing—if it made him a better hunter, or just a liability.

His boots on the ground were too loud. Or maybe it was just the paranoia. Either way, Dean winced at every creak and groan and whisper of the barn as he and Sam advanced.

The barn was mostly open, stalls lining either side of an alley running the length of the structure, a half wall with support pillars bifurcating it into equal parts. As agreed upon, Dean took the right and Sam continued on the left side of the half wall. 

They’d fought enough vamps, infiltrated enough nests to know—generally—what to expect in one. 5 to 15 vamps, bedding and spoils from their victims, and usually one or two unfortunate individuals kept to be used for live blood bags until they were killed or turned into vampires themselves. 

Dean ran the checklist through his head. They had vamps, the paramedic imposters from the previous night proved that. He doubted there were only 4 of them, which meant he and Sam didn’t know the true amount they were up against.

That little nugget of not so fun information sat heavy, the danger and fear coiling like a serpent ready to strike.

The not knowing was the worst. Did they underprepare? Were there other things here? Vaguely, he recognized his breathing speeding up, the panic threatening to set in. 

Shaking his head, Dean continued on, passing the first stall. His nose crinkled, the smell of blood intensifying here. He was sure he knew what he would find beyond the half door, the top swung inward. He looked anyway.

Lifeless eyes stared back at him, a sight he knew wouldn’t be leaving his dreams for a while. His heart sank as he observed two bodies, unmoving, necks ripped open. They’d been tossed in carelessly, limbs splayed haphazardly amongst other lifeless forms.

Judging by the dark stains climbing up the sides of the stall long since soaked into and staining the wood, they were nowhere near the first that had been deposited here. 

Too late. That little voice nagged like a gnat. He was too late to save them. The smell of blood and the state of the wounds said they hadn’t been dead very long, 48 hours at most. If he hadn’t been caught up in Crowley’s bullshit, if he had driven faster, if they found the nest sooner, maybe they’d still be alive. Traumatized, but alive. 

Now wasn’t the time, he told himself as he stepped back from the stall. Dragging a hand down his face he continued onward, the need to gank the vamps only more unrelenting.

Soft snoring coming from one of the decrepit stalls further up had Dean carefully unsheathing his machete. The sound was too muffled to determine how many there were on that fact alone.

He spared a look at Sam who was on the other side of the alley, his brother catching his eye to hold up a hand, fingers spread wide. 5 on his side and an unknown number on this side. 

Maybe they should have thought this through further. Or tried harder to convince that woman—Tori—to stay and help.

He visibly recoiled at that notion. They’d taken down bigger nests just the two of them. They didn’t need the help of some no-name hunter who would probably just throw a wrench in the well oiled machine he and Sam had created.

Dean got as close as he dared, keeping his bootsteps light to peer over the stall. 4 figures, split into pairs, were laying in the stall, old horse blankets thrown over them. Thankfully, all seemed to be sleeping deeply, none the wiser to him or Sam.

Good.

So long as things kept going to plan, everything would be fine. A little chaotic, given there were 9 vampires in the immediate vicinity and only two of them, but fine nonetheless. 

But, of course nothing was that easy.

It started with a rotted-out floorboard.

Whatever rancher or farmer had built the barn had decided to lay wooden planks across the dirt instead of laying concrete. Or maybe it was just that old that concrete and bricks hadn’t been that mainstream yet at the time of construction.

Dean didn’t care to know that.

Despite his careful footwork, as he prepared to enter the stall with his machete in hand, the plank of wood suspending his weight snapped. 

In the silence, it was no better than a gunshot. 

Chaos erupted around him. One moment the vampires were sleeping peacefully, perfect targets to be dispatched, the next he was staring 4 pissed off vampires in the face. On muscle memory alone, Dean lashed out in a wide arc. Blood splattered across the wall and with a wet thud, the first vampire’s head hit the floor. 

The female who had been laying next to the recently re-departed bared her teeth at him, an unholy wail that almost sounded sad ripped from her throat as she lunged at him. Dean barely had enough time to lift his machete up, blocking her grapple. Even with that barrier, he was shoved back a few feet, boots catching on the uneven planks. 

“Dean!” He heard Sam call out from the other side, his brother sounding breathless in his own fight. 

“I’m fine, Sammy!” Dean called back, advancing on the female once again. 

The lithe female dodged his first attempt, ducking under his arm and landing a shove to his chest with full force. He coughed, the air from his lungs violently expelled when his back met one of the wooden supports.

Ice plummeted his heart into his stomach when he spared a glance to the side and saw a piece of rebar sticking out from the beam not three inches from his neck. 

He didn’t get a chance to contemplate his luck, the female keeping him on the ropes. The defensive was not his preferred position. It felt too much like running. Using the support beam to push off of, Dean exploded forward, side-stepping her arm as she lashed out.

His retaliating backhanded swing was sloppy, but he felt resistance sing up the blade and into his elbow and shoulder anyway. Her body crumpled to the floor, head no longer attached. 

Panic exploded through him when corded arms wrapped around him, wresting him off the ground. Briefly he was airborne, stomach rising into his throat. But his venture into aviation didn’t last long, his body slamming into the ground, splintering the boards underneath him.

A groan clawed its way out, and Dean felt the telltale pin pricks of wood shards slicing into his torso, no doubt some of them lodging into the skin even through his t-shirt and flannel. 

Eyes frantically scanning the immediate area, he spotted his machete not ten feet from him. The only problem was the two very large, very pissed off, vampires standing between him and the blade. From the thuds followed closely by disturbing squelching, Sam was still working on his side of things. Which meant it was up to him to fence a distraction. Of course, because what else am I good for?

“Don’t suppose we could all talk this out?” Dean quipped, rolling onto his back. 

“Shut the fuck up.” The smaller of the two snapped, smaller being relative to the behemoth he was standing next to, and Dean could see the second set of teeth descended over the blunt, human, ones. “We like it when our lunch is quiet.”

“Well, you should definitely let me go then.” He slowly pushed himself up into a crouch, the adrenaline muting the aches and pains. “Cause I never shut up.”

“You killed Marceline.” The bigger one growled.

Dean tilted his head. “Marceline?”

“You got hearing problems or somethin?”

“No,” Dean shook his head, a ghost of a laugh skirting past his lips despite the imminent death awaiting him in about two seconds. “It’s…it’s a cartoon. There's this…vampire queen. Her name is…you know what nevermind.”

“Got us a fuckin’ joker over here. Once we’re done with you, you won’t have a tongue to joke with.”

He should be dead. Dead as a doornail, six-feet-under-in-a-pine-box dead. The larger man lunged, his form little more than a blur. Dean remembered moving too slow, the edge of his boot catching on the shattered floor beneath him and sending him off kilter to what should have been the vamps clutches. 

But it never came, the pain of claws and teeth and the swift darkness of death. 

He blinked. Once. Twice. 

The vamp was face down, the shaft of an arrow clean through his neck. Blood had started to bubble up and froth around the wound. The shaft of the arrow was dark, and not in a way that made him think it was simply made from a dark grained wood. 

Deadman’s blood. 

He knew the arrow wouldn’t keep it down for so long, but just enough to maybe buy him some time. Scrambling to his feet once more, Dean made a mad dash for his machete. The smaller vamp stood there, buffering at the site of his nest-mate with an arrow through the jugular. But that period of recalibration didn’t last long. 

No sooner had Dean snatched the machete back up, it had its hands on him. Again, his back was slammed against a stall, the machete knocked loose from his grip, clattering to the floor. Dean grunted in pain, the vamps' nails piercing through his shirts into the flesh below, digging into his shoulders. 

Mouth open wide, needle-like teeth glistening, the vamp lunged. He wasn't sure how, dumb luck, divine intervention, or just sheer self preservation, he managed to get his arms up and braced against the vamp's chest. It gnashed its teeth, growling like a rabid dog. Once again he was between a rock and a hard place. The side of a stall at his back, the shark-like mouth of the vamp in front of him, Dean had run out of options and places to run. 

No, it couldn't end like this. Not with Sam here. He knew his claim that he would die like this, by the hands of something monstrous, had some level of truth.

He didn't think that day would be today, but he also knew what they say about a profession with no old men.

The oldest man he knew still in the life was Bobby, and by all accounts that man should be dead but he thanked whatever cosmic being there was that the old man hadn't bought the farm. 

Despite his seemingly nonchalance surrounding his theoretical demise, he was anything but at ease with the situation. Every thud of his heart that echoed through his ears was a shout at him to stay alive. And by God, he was trying, using every bit of muscle and steel-strong stubbornness that had all but been beaten into him to push the vamp back. 

But having just fed, the vamp was strong, and regardless of what he might believe and posture, he wasn't without his limits. And an angry vampire hell bent on revenge just might be one of them. 

The vamps' lips pulled back into a snarl, showing off the row of needle-like teeth descended over the set of human ones. The stench permeating from his mouth—blood and decay—had bile rising to the back of his throat. Dean had smelled his fair share of less than savory scents in his lifetime, but this had to be one of the worst.

Forearms starting to tremble, Dean roared in defiance, his strength beginning to waver. His heart was a war drum, drowning out every other sense until his vision narrowed to a pinpoint. Everything faded away—Sam’s shouts, the growling of the monsters. 

All that was left was him and the yawning maw of death.

Just when Dean was sure his hold would give, the head of another arrow pierced straight through the Adams apple of the vamp. The vampire reared back, clawing at his neck with an inhuman screech, the sound gurgling and faded from what he could only assume was a severed windpipe. 

Nothing short of a beheading would kill them, but the distraction was all Dean needed to have his machete back in his grasp. He didn’t stop to track where the arrow had come from. He simply lined up the swing and chopped the fuckers head clean off. It bounced once, then rolled to a stop, the body slumping down beside it. 

Dean didn’t stay long enough to see where it landed, dashing to kill the other arrow-struck vampire before immediately heading to the other side of the aisle. More headless bodies littered the floor around Sam who was locked between two just like Dean had been. 

A shout strangled him, fear clogging his throat when Sam whirled around to slice at one, just to leave his flank exposed to the second. He was too far away, his legs couldn’t carry him fast enough to stop the slow motion execution happening right in front of him. 

The pain and terror clawed through his chest worse than anything he’d ever felt. He was going to watch his little brother be killed in front of him. 

Again.

Then, the vamp stumbled, the swing of his knife falling short by near invisible momentum. Sam’s blade came down clean, dispatching the first vamp. Before Sam could even wheel around to see what’d happened, Dean was there, sinking his own blade into the neck of the vamp that nearly sliced into Sam’s side. 

Dean grunted with effort, the feel of metal on bone zinging up his forearms. The vampire screamed when blood started to pour in buckets from the severed artery. Warm liquid sprayed across Dean’s face and he pinched his lips closed just in time to avoid vampire blood from getting into his mouth.

Yanking the machete from the bone, Dean swung it up over his head, bringing it down once more. This time, the cut went through with the squelch and ripping of tearing tendons and muscle. The sound sent a shiver down his spine, akin to nails on a chalkboard.

Yet another thing he’d never been able to get used to. Gore coated his machete and his hands, and he was sure it was stuck to his clothes and in his hair. 

Glancing down, he noticed the shaft and butt-end of an arrow poking out from this vampire’s chest, just under his arm. The count was right, all 9 they had noted were dead. With that tidbit resolved, Dean whipped around, eyes scanning the darkened barn for the archer. 

“That wasn’t you, was it?” Dean asked Sam, gesturing to the arrow. He hadn’t seen his little brother haul any equipment inside beyond their respective machetes. 

“No. I don’t know where those came from.” Sam muttered back, also scanning the building. Well, that’s reassuring. “Was gonna figure that out once I wasn’t three seconds from death.”

There. A figure darted in front of one of the skinny beams of light through the cracks in the walls. 

“Hey!” Dean called out in a gruff tone.

No answer, just the muffled thuds of boots on wood. 

He frantically searched the rafters, some blocked off for storage of hay. Just because they killed the vamps, don’t mean they aren’t gonna kill you too. That thought sent ice through his veins, and on muscle memory Dean took a half step in front of Sam.

The footsteps weren’t coming towards them though. His eyes snapped to the far end of the barn, the loud thud of a person dropping to the floor echoing through the empty space. 

His feet were moving before Dean realized he’d started running. No longer needing to be quiet, he made a beeline for the other end. Whoever, whatever, it was, it was fast. Cardio had always been Sam’s thing, but high off adrenaline, Dean made up the ground quick enough to surprise himself. 

Bales of hay and boxes that Dean could only imagine contained grain and other resources at one point, were stacked at the end. The wall laid adjacent to a door that, when he came up to it, was swinging shut. 

There was no hesitation before he burst through it. The sickly sweet smell of decaying leather and sweat greeted him on the other side. Long forgotten tack still adorned the walls; yokes, halters, and even saddles were strewn about haphazardly. 

Dean didn’t spend much time admiring the craftsmanship, though. He was too busy paying attention to the figure swathed in a dark work jacket and jeans standing in front of the wall that marked a dead end to their escape. A wooden recurve bow was held loosely in their hand, a waist quiver holding arrows at their hip.

“Nowhere left to run,” He said, adjusting his grip on his machete. “Guess you didn’t think this one through.”

Their hand lifted from their side, and the clattering of wood on wood followed as they dropped the bow to mirror the action on the other side. 

“Look,” the person said and something familiar about it creeped down Dean’s spine. “If I’da known you were gonna go full Friday the 13th on me, I wouldn’t have saved your sorry asses.”

The recognition hit just as the person turned all the way around. The woman from the diner, Tori, stared back at him, an unreadable expression on her face.

Shock rippled through him, along with the small burn of embarrassment at the truth of her statement. That fire quickly shifted to anger and frustration, though. 

“You?!” Dean exclaimed, lowering his machete. “What the actual fuck? I-I thought you were leaving?”

His jaw clenched at her casual shrug. “Was gonna. Bet you’re glad I didn’t though.”

This woman. Dean huffed, shoving his machete back into its sheath. “If you’re lookin’ for thanks, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

His brows furrowed ever so slightly when some of the tension in her shoulders faded when he sheathed the blade. She bent down to grab her bow back from off the ground. 

“Wasn’t expecting any.” Tori brushed the saw dust off the weapon. “I know your type better than that.”

“And what exactly is my type?”

“The kind of man who thinks way too highly of himself and has too much pride to ask for help to the point it gets him killed,” she said sweetly.

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “Well you sure got me all figured out there.”

Tori walked towards him, bow held loosely in her left hand. “Am I free to go or are you gonna chase me down again?”

Dean gestured behind him. “By all fucking means. Thought that was the plan to begin with.”

Tori rolled her eyes, continuing on her path past him. Dean’s teeth clenched, her shoulder slamming into his on her way by. Internally, he winced, still sore from hitting the ground, but his pride wouldn’t let him show it outwardly. Not when she could pop back in and see. 

Instead, he dragged a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. A drink. I need a drink…and probably some Ibuprofin. 

“Dude, was that—” Sam’s voice came from the door behind him.

“Tori? You bet your ass it was,” Dean finished, turning to face his brother.

Sam looked as confused as Dean felt. He was too tired to care, ready to hit the road back to the Bunker. Too much road food, too much violence. 

“I thought she was leaving?” Sam questioned, following Dean out of the tack room. 

“So did I Sam. And no, I don’t know why she came back.”

His brother was quiet as they rounded the wall of hay and boxes. “Kinda lucky she was, though.”

“Sam,” he grumbled in warning to not press the matter further. “It’s none of our business. And I don’t give a rat's ass about what happened.”

It was a lie. 

A bad one. 

This hunt, he was sure, was gonna haunt him for many nights to come. The stench of the vamps breath, its mouth so close to his face and throat. What might be worse, was the oppressive weight of helplessness sinking like a fishing weight to sit hollow in his stomach. He couldn’t push the vamp off. He’d come so close to buying the farm he could smell the cows. 

And then almost losing Sam because he was too slow? Yeah, that was gonna stick around for a while.

Sam, thankfully, didn’t press the issue. Not that he got the chance to.

A scream greeted them around the corner of the wall, and Dean felt his stomach drop to his shoes when he saw Tori struggling against a vamp who had her pinned against his chest. Dean recognized the face as one he saw in the pit of what he thought were victims. 

That one, apparently, wasn’t quite dead. 

This time, there was absolutely nothing Dean could do to stop the events that were about to unfold. The glint of a knife flashed, blood spilled from the vamp's forearm. Then, the appendage was pressed to the woman's mouth. 

By God, did Tori try to fight. Even from the distance and despite his dislike and distrust, he had to admit she had a fire in her. Kicking and scratching at the monster, she tried to pull away. Twisting and yanking her head and body away from the vamps grip, but he held fast to her arms, keeping her from grabbing the machete on the hip opposite of the quiver. 

“No!” Sam yelled from beside him. 

Dean was a step behind his brother, charging forward. The next 10 seconds happened in a blur.

One second he was yanking Tori’s unconscious body from the vampire's grasp, the next Sam was pinning the monster down, a rageful expression stretching his features. His brother’s blade hit no resistance, cutting straight through the vampire's throat on rage alone, embedding itself into the wood flooring beneath. 

Dean’s chest rose and fell in great heaves. He reached for any rational thought, but his mind had gone blank. Tori’s body was dead weight in his arms, her face slack with blood coating her mouth and chin. 

“Dean,” Sam said frantically. “We need to get her back. Get the cure.”

Dean nodded, rolling his shoulders. “Get the syringe. I’ll get her to the car.”

He paused. “Get the rope too. Need to bind her hands in case she wakes up before we get back.”

Sam nodded grimly, sprinting back out of the barn to where they’d stashed their duffle bags. 

“Fuck,” Dean sighed, blowing a breath through his nose. 

We should have cleared the place before going after her. Shoulda checked the bodies. Dean glanced around, the unease creeping up the back of his neck. Logically, they should all be gone now. He had his machete, plus Tori’s bow and her own blade.

Dean glanced down at her, setting her gently on the floor. Without the blood, it would be easy to convince himself she was just sleeping, not unconscious while she underwent a supernatural transformation.

Just get the blood, we have the other shit at home. It’s just getting her there that’s gonna be the problem. 

“Looks like the Fed’s are actually on their game for this one.” Dean peered out the windshield from where he sat in the driver’s seat. 

It was a gruesome sight, even with the body covered with a sheet, courtesy of the paramedics on scene. Blood and gore stained the cobblestone alley like a macabre Jackson Pollock painting. Whatever vamp had killed this victim didn’t have any qualms about keeping a low profile. Two police officers stood off to the side, a few more beside them setting up a barrier to block the nosy passerby’s, and Sam clocked a woman in a suit walking up to them. 

“We don’t know she’s a Fed,” Sam shrugged, unbuckling his seatbelt, smoothing out the wrinkles in his black and white getup. The sleeves of the suit jacket were a little short, so were Dean’s, but they were banking on nobody looking too closely past the false ID’s. “She could be a well dressed reporter for all we know.”

“Still, I don’t like this Sammy.”

Sam glared at Dean but didn’t deign to reply, knowing no matter how many times he corrected his older brother, the pet name was stuck like hot gum to the bottom of a pair of sneakers. 

In tandem, the brothers exited the Impala, Dean taking lead as usual. He palmed the counterfeit FBI badge in his jacket pocket, fidgeting with the lapels making sure they laid correctly over his dress shirt. They got closer to the woman and the boys in blue she was talking to, their words starting to carry on the breeze to the brothers. 

“You feds usually aren’t this fast on the trigger.” The taller one spoke first, reaching his hand out to the woman.

“Agent Nicole Diver,” Dean watched the woman flash a badge not unlike the one he carried in his pocket. “I don’t make the rules, I only go where they send me.”

The woman reached out shaking both of the police officers hands before pulling out a pad of paper and a pen.

“Well I’m glad we finally got some back up on this.” The second one spoke up, gesturing at the sheet down the alley. 

A truck roaring past covered up the woman's parting words, and she descended down to the crime scene. Dean felt Sam nudge his side. 

“Dude, I was right. She’s not a Fed.” 

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, how’d you work that one out, Sherlock?”

“Nicole Diver.” At his brother's blank stare Sam rolled his eyes and continued. “Nicole Diver is a character in a F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.”

“Could be a coincidence.” Dean shrugged his brother's notions off, approaching the two officers. “Agent’s Strummer and Page, I believe you just spoke to our colleague.” Dean flashed his badge, Sam following suit.

“Oh yeah, Agent Diver.” The first officer nodded to Dean, lifting the line of police tape for them to duck under. “Have at it, we haven’t been able to make but a scratch in this and it seems like this fucker is just getting worse.”

Dean ducked under the tape, dipping his head to the officer. “Will do.”

Once he and Sam were out of earshot Dean pulled his brother aside. “Okay, say this chick isn’t a Fed. What else could she be?”

Sam tilted his head side to side in contemplation. “Simplest explanation? She’s probably a hunter just like us. Best case scenario, it’s a looky-loo reporter that we can scare off.”

Something about this whole thing seemed off to Dean. What were the odds that another hunter was on this case and they hadn’t heard about it. Bobby was usually pretty good about monitoring the radios and not doubling up hunters unless both parties were notified. Dean cut a glance down to the main crime scene. The woman was crouched down, having pulled the sheet away from the body. 

Usually gore and blood didn’t bother Dean. It was second nature to him, and most of the time he could pretend it was all props and dyed corn syrup like in his favorite slasher films. But when the tangy, irony smell of blood shoved its way up his nose to coat the back of his throat, it was a little harder to pretend otherwise—harder to forget that they live in a world where there are things to fear in the dark shadows of the closet, under the basement stairs, or in this victims case, down a darkened alley. 

Dean rolled his shoulders, taking the lead. Here goes nothing. Dean tried and failed to suppress his cough at the overwhelming stench permeating off of the corpse. The throat of the young male had been torn away completely, nearly detaching his head from his shoulders. But it wasn’t the bloody site in front of him that made his breath catch in his lungs this time. 

No it was the black gaze of the woman crouched at the body, latching onto him before swiping over to Sam next to him. 

With a quick sideward glance, Dean knew his brother had seen it too. Dean watched with bated breath as she stood, not much shorter than him. With her dark hair in a tight braided chignon and subtle make up, she sure looked the part of an FBI agent. 

“Gentlemen,” Her voice was familiar and alien to Dean all at once, sending shivers of deja vu down his spine. “Agent Nicole Diver. How can I help you?”

She held up her ID, and Dean was able to get a better glance at it. If it was a fake, it was a really good fake, maybe better than the ones he and Sam carried. Dean shot Sam a look before returning her gaze. 

“I’m Agent Strummer and this is my partner Agent Page,” Dean gestured to Sam. “Where did you say you were out of again?”

“I didn’t,” she replied smoothly, tucking her ID away. 

The simple slacks and dress shirt with matching suit jacket fit her like a bespoke suit. It was impressive really, whatever demon that took this woman as a meatsuit chose wisely. A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched, offering the woman—Nicole if she was to be believed—a polite smile. 

“Kansas field office. Apparently you boys are doing a lackluster job out this way.” Nicole carefully stepped over the body, Dean observing her careful steps to avoid contaminating the blood pooling around the body. “4 bodies in a month, all ripped to shreds. Evidently the Bureau has been slacking with their recruits.”

Dean didn’t appreciate the once over she gave him and Sam, dark gaze dragging from his head to his feet and back again. Normally he’d preen at a once-over from a pretty woman, but this was different. It was scrutinizing and judgmental to the point where humiliation crawled crimson up the sides of his neck much to his chagrin. 

Beside him Sam cleared his throat before speaking. “We’ve been swamped recently.”

Dean mentally face palmed at his brother's half-baked lie, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. Nicole made a dismissive sound in the back of her throat that had Dean seeing red. She jotted some notes down in the small pad she had in her grasp, but he couldn’t make out the scrawl from where he stood in relation to her, and he wasn’t about to try and crane his neck to read it either. Dean opened his mouth to, well, he didn’t even know at this point, but was saved when Nicole shut her notepad with a snap.

“Well, I’ve got what I need. Crime scene is all yours, boys.” 

Dean watched Nicole walk past them back up the alley. Watched her give a serpentine smile to the oblivious officers, tracking her until she disappeared around the corner. 

“Okay, can I be the first to say that was weird?” Sam muttered from Dean’s right, a perplexed and inquisitive look plastered on his face.

“Yeah,” Dean trailed off, turning back to the body. “You think it has something to do with this?”

“Maybe. Let’s get what we need here and regroup at the motel.”

As Dean began to examine the body he couldn’t get the image of dark eyes staring back at him. Something about all of this didn’t sit right with him. It was already grating on him working for Crowley by hunting down some demon, but to stumble upon a gruesome hunt already being investigated by this mysterious woman. Yeah, it was safe to say Dean was on edge.

The car ride back to the motel was silent save for the clacking of keys, Sam typing away on his laptop in the passenger seat. The motel was on the only major road in and out of town, and seemed to be the only decent place to stay that didn’t involve the risk of bed bugs. Dean couldn’t wait to get out of the monkey suit, peeling off the layers and replacing them with the familiar wrapping of denim and flannel. 

By the time both of them were showered and changed, Dean’s stomach was loudly protesting the fact that neither one of them had had anything to eat save for the gas station food they’d picked up on the way to the scene; a surprise to no one that a sandwich, if you could call it that, with two slices of meat and questionable cheese didn’t last very long.

The last thing Dean expected when he pulled up to the diner was to see a familiar braided bun and dark eyes sitting at a booth through the window. Dean nudged Sam, jutting his chin at his brother’s look of confusion. Recognition flashed across Sam's face and he grabbed the flask of holy water from the glove compartment, making their way to the door.

Tori sighed, slumping down into the booth. The diner was the only thing open that served food aside from the skeevy hole in the wall dive bar on the main drag through town. She'd stopped by her motel room to drop off her gear but didn’t bother to change out of her getup. 

She shrugged off her suit jacket, which was stolen from an attorney's car along with the shirt and pants back in Lincoln, onto the booth beside her. Her waitress, a plump older woman with a cheery grin on her full face, dropped off a menu and took her drink order then disappeared back into the kitchen.

The case was pretty cut and dry. The blood loss and the sheer vulgarity and gore left behind meant either a werewolf or vampires. The timing wasn’t right for it to be the wolves, one victim popping up per week, so that left the bloodsuckers. 

She tugged the small notepad from her jacket pocket, thumbing through the thin pages until she found the sheet she had jotted down her notes. Folded corners of the newspaper articles and online forum pages she’d printed out peeked around from the sides, tucked into the loose pocket. A bigger legal portfolio that was tucked away in the lifted pickup held more documents across various cases. Salt and burns, shifters, wendigos, and the most important: demons. The near phantasmal trail she had been following led her here, this town that wasn’t big enough to have a dot on a roadmap.

Previously, it had been one of many popular stops for settlers moving west in the 1800’s, the abundance of coal and ores like lead in the mountains of the West an alluring prospect. Over the centuries, it became more of a farming community. Farms and ranches that had been in families for generations surrounded the main town which didn’t span more than a couple blocks either way. It was enough for a few bars, a strip club, 3 churches of varying faiths, an elementary school with an adjacent intermediate and high school combo, and this diner. 

Between the abandoned farms and the interspersed elevation no doubt holding caves and coal mines, there were plenty of places for a nest of vamps to sequester themselves into. She would have to scout out the options later, but first, was food.

Tori had just begun scanning the menu for something to satiate the grumbling in her stomach when the bell above the door loudly announced the arrival of new patrons. Glancing up from her menu Tori did a double take, spotting the two “agents” from the crime scene earlier. They’d changed into civvies, but it was definitely them.

Despite her better judgment, Tori slid down into the seat, leather creaking with the movement, and ducked her head behind her menu but not before locking gazes with the green eyed one.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Maybe they'll leave me be.

The sentiment was quickly thrown out the proverbial window when the pair walked up to her table.

“Agent Diver,” the shorter, green eyed one slid into the seat across from her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He'd introduced himself as Agent Strummer, and the mountain of a man sliding in next to him was Agent Page, though Tori was almost certain they were Federal agents as much as she was.

Tori plastered a smile on her face and lowered the menu enough to be polite. “Gentlemen, if I didn't know better I’d think you were following me.”

“Is there a reason we should be following you?”

Tori narrowed her eyes slightly at the first man. He stared right back, gaze unwavering. She watched a muscle twitch in his cheek. His jaw is clenched so tightly I'm surprised he hasn't cracked a tooth. Clearly he had more to say, and part of her wanted to know why he hadn’t. Not one to show her cards, especially since she knew nothing about the men opposing her, Tori opted to keep those cards close to her chest. They showed up here. They approached you. Let ‘em sweat for a minute. 

The tension, thick enough to be cut with a spoon, was broken by the waitress returning with Tori’s coffee.

“Here you go, Sugar.” The waitress, Millie, according to her name tag, set the steaming mug in front of Tori. Straightening, she braced her hands on her wide hips to look between Tori and the two men, picking up on the hostility. “Are these two giving you trouble, Hon?”

As much as Tori would have enjoyed seeing the two dragged out of the restaurant by their ears like naughty boys being kicked out of Sunday school by their mothers, she shook her head. “No trouble here. Just a little spat between friends.”

Millie didn't look entirely convinced by Tori’s half-assed lie, but Tori flashed her a reassuring smile and she relented. “Let me get you boys a couple of menus.”

Once Millie had walked out of earshot, Tori turned back to face the men, every trace of easygoing cheer wiped from her expression.

“Okay, here's how this is gonna go. You two are as much Federal agents as I am the Queen of England. Now, I’ve got a gun leveled at Andre the Giant here and I’d rather not make a mess. So, you two are gonna tell me who the fuck you are and why you two are here.”

Unbeknownst to the two, Tori didn't actually have a gun, just a small knife strapped to her belt at the small of her back, but she was hoping to hell and back they wouldn't call her bluff.

Dean felt Sam stiffen beside him at the woman's threat. There wasn't enough room between him and the table for him to prove or deny what she claimed, nor would he even dare if there was. Something about the look in her eyes told him she was just looking for a reason to. Eyes that now he was not 2 feet from her were actually a very dark brown, so dark they were nearly black. Well, at least that's no longer an issue. 

“Okay okay, simmer down Annie Oakley. No need to get violent.” Dean placated, sparing a glance at Sam. “Cards on the table, alright. I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam. I'd tell you what we're doin’ here but I don't think you'd believe me even if I did. And I don't know about Sam but I'm not fixin’ to have a slug to the thigh any time soon.”

He watched with curiosity, a flash of recognition crossed the woman's face, which morphed into a look he couldn't quite put a name to; she ran her tongue over her teeth, nodding her head slowly. A low chuckle emanated from her that set Dean's nerves on edge, and she tipped her head against the back of the seat. Her chest rose and fell with a seemingly exasperated sigh.

“Of fucking course.” She muttered incredulously. She glanced between him and Sam, and Dean had to stop himself from shrinking away from the sheer intensity of it. “You're Bobby's boys.”

That had Dean taken aback. For as long as he could remember, they'd been referred to as ‘John's boys’. Only the people closest to them know the extent of Bobby's influence on their formative years as well as their present. But if she knew Bobby well enough to know their relationship to the old man, then that'd have to mean…

“The last thing just need right now is for the Wonder Twins crashing my fucking hunt.” The woman rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Shit. Dean exchanged surprised looks with Sam. Sam had proposed the idea, but Dean didn't think either one of them actually considered it with any serious regard. Not that a woman couldn’t be a hunter, they’d met and recruited plenty, but she didn’t seem the type. 

“I knew you weren't Feds. But hunters? Yeah I didn't see that coming.” 

“Wait,” Dean interjected. “What do you mean you knew we weren't Feds?”

She gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “Your cuffs were an inch too short, big guy over here has hair that is against regulation, and anyone with working eyes can see your badges are shit.”

Dean opened his mouth, a retort hot on the tip of his tongue but it died when the woman raised a singular manicured brow. Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam raise a hand to his hair. With every word from her mouth, his irritation only grew. It perturbed him, the casualness, the fact that she knew more about them then they knew about her. It felt wrong. Invasive. 

Just then Millie came back, placing menus and coffees in front of the boys and filling up Tori’s coffee. “I'll be back to take your orders.” She gave the boys a sideline glance before she moved on to the patrons down from them.

“Alright Nancy Drew, we gave you our names, I think it's only fair you give us yours.” Dean spoke, bringing the coffee to his lips.

“I told you, it’s Nicole Diver.”

“Bullshit.” Sam cut in this time, much to the annoyance of the woman.

“Excuse me?” If looks could kill, Dean was sure Sam would be dead in his place beside him with the glare she leveled at his younger brother.

“Nicole Diver is a character in Tender is the Night by Scott Fitzgerald.” Sam stated, and Dean swore a look of admiration flashed across her face. “So unless your parents were really into his novels, you’re lying.”

Silence befell the three of them before she spoke. 

“Touche, Mr. Winchester” Her mouth opened and shut a couple times, Dean’s eyes tracking the movements, and a slight narrowing of her eyes the only signs of reluctance before she continued. “My name is Tori.”

The waitress came back to take their order, providing a much needed buffer, feeling the men’s eyes digging into her, questions aimed at her like spears primed to fire. A tightness spread in her chest, a dull pounding in her ears. She always hated this part, the questions, the proposal to work together. They always insisted on safety in numbers, but how wrong they were this time.

“Pie, really?” Tori criticized, the waitress departing with their orders, hoping to divert from their line of questioning.

She watched with amusement when Dean’s eyebrows damn near reached his hairline at her inquiry. “Are you being serious right now? Pie is the best dessert to have ever been created.”

“How can you possibly say that when lava cakes exist?”

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off before he could speak. “Don’t you think we have more important things to discuss?”

Tori could have laughed at the pointed look Sam gave his older brother, the way Dean practically deflated with resignation. She could have, if that suffocating feeling hadn’t returned with an incessant vigor. I suppose it’s inevitable. 

“Before you even ask, no, there is no plan. Matter of fact, there is no us”. She gestured with a finger between them, the ease that had been created with her and Dean’s meaningless banter was quickly snuffed out. “I was here first, so you boys can continue moseying your way to wherever it is that you came from.”

Dean scoffed. “You can’t call dibs on a hunt. Those vamps pose a threat to all of us. Not to mention there's no way in Hell, we are letting you take on this hunt alone. You saw the body. That's no sparkle-skinned vamp out there.”

“You think I don't know that?” Tori snapped back, not appreciating the tone in which Dean spoke. She didn't know what high horse he sat upon that he thought gave him the right to make those kinds of accusations, but he needed to be knocked off it. “I'm not some kind of novice hunter on her first case.”

“Doesn't fucking matter if this is your first hunt, or if you had a knife in your hand from the cradle.” Dean challenged. “We don't know how many of them are out there. In case you haven't noticed, things haven't exactly been the same recently.”

He was right, the last few months had been chaotic. The worst of Hell's denizens had been out in full force especially with its leadership currently in an unsteady position. With Lucifer and Michael in The Cage, Hell was currently being run by a demon who’s name she hadn’t come across yet. No doubt some lucky grunt who took advantage of the power vacuum. With the change of power, the leash being kept on the things hiding in the dark had faded into nothing. 

Vampires and demons and things far worse now roamed the mortal plane with little to no consequences; the situation was worse than ever now, only rivaled by the aftermath of The Cage being opened years ago, and when The Gates busted open years prior to that. Ironically, the reason for that happening sat across from her, Millie setting their food down on the table in front of them.

“And I wonder who’s fault that is, hmm?” 

“Fuck you.” Dean sneered, digging into his burger

Tori grinned, plucking a fry from her plate and taking a bite “You wish you could.”

A silent, temporary truce was placed as the three dug into their food. Not once did the tension fade, nor did the hair on the back of Tori's neck go down. 

Something wasn't right. 

When she'd entered the diner nearly an hour earlier, it was nearly full with the dinner rush crowd. But now, it was a ghost town which was to be expected the longer the night went on. Aside from the booth she and the Winchesters sat in, two other booths were occupied. One by a pair of teenagers, seemingly on a date. The other sat a foursome; Three men and a woman sat at the table, all dressed in paramedic uniforms.

Tori slowly stopped chewing, the cogs in her brain churning faster and faster until observation and idea connected. She sat her burger down, glancing out the window to the near vacant lot. Her stolen pickup truck, a beautiful Chevy Impala along with a rusted minivan and two older model sedans were the only vehicles in the parking lot. She didn't remember seeing any parking in the back.

“Did you guys see an ambulance when you pulled in?”

Dean’s brows furrowed, glancing at her then at Sam and back to her. “No.” The word left his lips slowly, clinging to the syllable. “Why?”

“Don’t look now, but there are four paramedics sitting at a booth behind you.”

Tori rolled her eyes as Dean craned his neck to look. Can he be any more obvious? She opened her mouth, a scolding remark aimed and ready to fire but Sam beat her to it. The younger Winchester swatted his brother on the arm with the back of his hand, raised eyebrows and a disapproving look plastered on his face. 

“Thank you.” Tori said pointedly at Sam, digging into her pocket to pull out her wallet, throwing bills down on the table. “Look. You boys are smart enough to connect the dots, and I have better places to be.”

Tori hooked her finger into the collar of her jacket, slinging it over her shoulder, scooting out from the booth. She could sense the disappointment wash over the younger brother. It was too familiar and some deeply suppressed part of her almost felt bad. 

It wouldn’t kill you to stay. 

She looked down at the brothers, Sam looking up at her with this accepting disappointment. Dean on the other hand looked on with an air of contempt and something else Tori couldn’t quite place. Even so, despite the way he disregarded her, he was someone’s brother. A person, alive and breathing.

No, but it could kill them. 

The thought immediately shut the door of possibilities that had opened the barest amount. Shadows and corpses, grotesque images flickered behind her eyes, the boys’ faces replaced by ghosts for a second too long, only adding a padlock to the theoretical door. A big, Grade A padlock incapable of being picked. Not if she had any say in it.

“Wait a damn minute.” Dean interjected. “We have questions. Like how the fuck you know Bobby. And why the hell he’s never even mentioned you.”

“Those are second date questions babe, and you only paid for one night.” Tori cocked her head at the older brother. 

“And we can’t convince you to stay?” Sam looked up at her, setting his fork down

“If she wants to go, then let her.” Dean snapped. “She’s only gonna slow us down.”

Her lip curled up in a mocking gesture, not letting the jab hit its mark. Maybe mark-adjacent at the subtle sting that left her wanting to curl into herself. He’s not worth it. That kinda pride is blinding. Instead she rolled her shoulders back, standing straight. Tori gave Dean a single finger salute before shoving her hand in the pocket of her pants.

“Good luck, boys.” She called out flippantly over her shoulder. 

It’s your funeral, she wanted to say but bit her lip, knowing the weight of a hunter's funeral was something she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. 

She eyed the foursome of vampires on her way out, not liking the way they were eyeing the Winchesters. They paid her no more mind than the stepped-on fries that littered the floor. Clearly, they were not here for her. She wasn’t sure that gave her any peace of mind.

Something didn’t feel right. A dark, oily unease curled into lead in her belly. It was the kind of sensation that you don’t just ignore. It makes its presence known whether you want it to or not. It’s the feeling of hair standing on the back of your neck, the feeling of being watched, the inherent wrongness that came over you right before all hell broke loose. 

Tori swallowed thickly, pulling her gaze away. No longer my problem. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself, exiting the diner with the intent of leaving everything that had happened in the last 8 hours in her rearview mirror.

Sneak peek for Chapter 2:

He'll make a last-minute stop after work - at any store that he thinks might sell some half-decent flowers, and wherever he can find the perfume you like. Maybe throw in some of your favorite chocolates if he can find them, or anything else that makes it seem like he didn't forget.

The man is a workaholic, and he often gets tunnel vision on his cases, so he tends to lack on the day-to-day opportunities to "spoil" you in the traditional sense.

He does like to eat out a lot though (because before he met you, he rarely had time to cook), so he'll often take you to nice restaurants and new spots you might want to try or places he hears about from Finau or Bell. He also takes cues from Sheppard sometimes for more creative date ideas.

As a Cali detective, he does get paid decently well, so be sure to remind him when the important days in your relationship are coming up.

What he'll do is treat you to expensive spa days on your birthday, and anything else you might have mentioned wanting off-hand.

One thing about Mark, he hangs onto the details when he knows what his target is.

So when he surprises you on Christmas day (the one holiday he definitely won't forget) with plane tickets to a place you've always wanted to go on vacation, you're genuinely shocked, and even a bit emotional before you practically smother him with affection.

Your reaction definitely makes him warm inside, as well as a bit smug and cocky.

He knows this just won him brownie points for the next ten years at least, and he'll be sure to remind you of this day - every fucking year.

᯽ Russell Shaw

Russell is also not the guy to remember important dates and inherently know how to be the boyfriend/husband who spoils you, because before you, his lifestyle didn't leave a whole lot of room for normal relationships.

I mentioned in his boyfriend training hc that poor Russ struggles with basic things, like checking in with you when he's away on a job, or remembering to close cabinets after he finds the thing he was looking for, or resisting the urge to toss your expensive pots and pans in the dishwasher along with all the other dishes. 

But he's good at the things that he thinks are important, like making the most of his time with you when he’s home:

Taking you out for dinner, to the movies, to street fairs and grocery store runs and whatever else you might come up with for you and Russ to do together.

He's easy going and rolls with most of your ideas, often indulging you even when it's not something he thinks would be fun - like walking around in the heat at a farmer's market, or that time you wanted to go to a "paint and sip." (He brought a six-pack of his freshly brewed beer and mostly watched you paint.)

Russell may not be the "big gesture" guy, but he shows his consideration for you in the little things that amount to the big things as he continues to learn how to be a man you can rely on.

᯽Beau Arlen

Beau's a sweetheart who will indulge you in most things you ask of him - whether it's picking up food from your favorite restaurant or taking you to a music festival, even if he's not crazy about the genre or band.

He's usually the opportunist spoiler, buying your favorite candle because he noticed it at the store while shopping for groceries, or remembering your favorite ice cream flavor. He might mess it up by buying the wrong brand, but the man's not perfect.

He's game for the farmer's market, the play you want to see, the museum you want to visit, the wine tasting, even the deep tissue couples massage you found on Groupon (and he openly admits that the hot stones and face mask were his favorite parts).

His work often takes up his focus and his time though, so like Mark, you'll have to float these ideas to him and be sure to remind him more than once, but one thing he puts his foot down on is glamping.

Aside from the bad taste in his mouth that Sunny Day Excursions left him with, he just flat out doesn't believe in that bullshit. Either he's taking you real camping, or he's renting a nice lake house to take you on a nice vacation - just you and him and the mountain air.

᯽ Dean Winchester

Dean, Dean, Dean...

Well, he may not be a big gesture guy either in the classic sense of expensive gifts and vacation getaways, but the way he shows he cares is through all the things he does for you -

Cooking for you: as much as he loves food, he really likes taking care of you and Sam this way and gets genuine enjoyment out of seeing both of you like something he worked hard to make for you. He put his all into that cheeseburger and homemade fries - whether he admits it or not.

Your car: he'll tune it up for you with the same care and attention to detail as he does his Baby.

His time: Dean's a quality time guy, much like Mark, Russell, and Beau. For Dean, he shows it best with movie marathons in the Dean Cave, chilling in bed watching TV and talking about everything and nothing in between, and long drives in the Impala, just you and him and the open road with his hand on your thigh and one of his cassettes setting the soundtrack of the day - one of his rare, perfect days with you.

Your protection: It's not "spoiling" or even "indulging," but it must be said how far Dean would go to protect you once you're under his skin and embedded in his heart. We know the man loves with his whole body and soul, even if his gruff exterior doesn't always allow him to express it.

If you're a hunter, he gets into the habit of cleaning and sharpening your weapons along with his because he wants to make sure you're safe. He follows you closely on hunts because he wants to make sure you're safe. He'll make the reckless choice every time if it protects you and Sam more than himself, because he can't afford to lose either of you.

Your body: The way Dean makes love to you is an act of service in itself. When you two have time to take it slow the way he likes, he's thorough, his hands mapping out and worshipping all his favorite places. Because he's learned your body so well, he knows exactly how to make you fall apart every time he touches you.

᯽ Soldier Boy (Ben)

lmfao I struggled to figure out Ben at first, because on one hand, he's the most inherently self-centered of all these guys.

He measures most of his actions by what he intends to gain from it, especially with his rich boi upbringing and his decades of debauchery and fame whoring.

On the other hand, I feel like he'd so be the one to try to hook you with expensive and over-the-top gifts if his version of "flirting" doesn't do the trick.

But once Ben's actually invested in an honest relationship with you, those random gifts don't change. He'll buy you a $5,000 necklace just because he was in the store buying himself a watch, and he saw something that he thought would look nice on you - especially bouncing between your tits while he's fucking you later.

(He jokes - mid stroke - that next he'll give you a "pearl necklace." Make it a matching set.)

If you're not into jewelry though, he knows other ways to spoil you as well as himself.

He'll take you to fancy restaurants, bypassing the waiting lists using his fame and a wink tossed at you as his big, warm hand spans the small of your back (definitely copping a feel of your ass when the hostess eventually leads you to your table).

You take all this with a roll of your eyes, but you smile and allow this cavemanish behavior because by now you know his intentions - it's not just about his pride, and a male ego the size of Empire State. He genuinely wants you to have a good time.

He orders an entire bottle of wine just for you, and scotch for himself. He always encourages you to order whatever you want, and he himself orders appetizers and dessert even if you're probably going to take most of it home - because he can, and he won't ever have it said that he doesn't spoil the fuck out of you.

Mind you, some of his gifts are more than a little self-serving lol

He'll buy you lingerie with the express purpose of ripping it off the first time you wear it - inch by inch.

He'll make you tremble and come with the wealth of experience in his hands and mouth, and he won't stop until the only thing in your mouth is his name.

But of course, this man fully expects some special attention in return for "how well" he treats you.

You may roll your eyes (again) and have a pointed retort ready about everything you already do for him. Aside from the obvious, you've created a home with him, showed him how to navigate the modern world, and you've been the only woman in his long life who's genuinely loved him.

"All right. Come on, sweetheart," he says. "I just ate your pussy like a three-course fucking meal. Had your thighs squeezing my head like a fucking grape, like you wanted me to suffocate down there. Think it's time you showed this cock some appreciation, huh?"

Despite his deeply smug, insufferable smirk that makes you want to slap him, regardless if it'll hurt him or not, it also makes you want to kiss him - half because it'll shut him the fuck up for a while.

But you can't help it. You love this insufferable asshole.

Your lips tug at a smile, and you repay him with a bit of spoiling too.

AN: lol honestly these were less so rankings and more just an exploration of how each guy would give you some special care and attention. Which one was your favorite? Any other takes on how he'd "spoil" you?

᯽ Tag Lists || Fic Library Blog -> (you can follow and turn on notifications)

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Mark Meachum Masterlist

Russell Shaw Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Jackles Characters Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

@wvffles @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

@winchestergirl2 spnbabe67 @stoneyggirl2 @my-stories-vault @this-is-me19

@tofics @artemys-ackles @mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @flawlesslyspellbound

@k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan @gabavaldman

✨ What’s one (or more) of your favorite pieces you’ve done?

I think one of my absolute favorite pieces I've written that I go back to and actually enjoy re-reading every now and again (without like... looking at it and only seeing what I could've done better) is my Sam soulmate AU series, Moon Without Stars. It was my first attempt at creating a creature for Supernatural, and I put building the relationship at the forefront of the story which is probably the first time I've ever put romance as the primary focus in any of my writing I've done over all the years.

✨ If you could go back and redo any works, which one would it be and how/why would you change it?

I'd go back to my first series I wrote, Chasing Shadows, and give the whole series an overhaul. It was my first foray into Supernatural fanfic as well as reader-inserts, so I didn't really give me reader character much of a personality. I learned that I don't do well with that. I would probably go back and give the reader more of a personality to go off of as well as expand on scenes that I didn't feel like I dove into as much as I should've. I'd also change up my romantic subplot to be a little more... gradual? I feel like I didn't do it much justice.

✨ What’s a piece that you’re super proud of but don’t feel like it got as much attention as you were hoping for?

I'm a real slut for Omegaverse stuff! I participated in my first Kinktober ever in 2025, and was super excited about my A/B/O piece for it In Heat, By Design with alpha!Sam. I don't know if maybe people were just super burned out by smut since it was towards the end of the month (day 29) and either their TBR lists had just grown so long or if they were tired of reading smut or what it was. But I adored it to pieces. Maybe because I don't see a ton of alpha!Sam. I endeavor to change that!

✨ Which piece did you struggle with the most?

Glitter and Ashes, which I wrote as a challenge fic for @chevroletdean's follower celebration. I was given a mood board to write for, and let me just say, incorporating everything into it as best as I could was tough. Turns out, though, all I needed was some cold medicine and a "send it" attitude 🤣

✨ Which piece did you pour your heart and soul into (more so than everything else)?

Roll for Initiative. Another challenge fic done for @chevroletdean in which we get to see Ranger!Reader hopelessly in love with Paladin!Sam with all sorts of references to D&D! Nothing like taking my two loves (Sam and D&D) and smashing them together. Fun fact about it: I wrote about... 3k words in one direction before scrapping all of it and taking it in a totally different direction. It turned out so much better!

✨ What piece do you hold closest to your heart and why?

The piece that is probably most dear to me is Tangled Sheets. It's a Dean x reader x Sam polyship smut fic that pulled me out of a writing funk I was in. I feel like it's also what sort of put me on the radar on tumblr, and honestly, it was something that I was (and still am) so very proud of writing.

✨ What's something you included in one (or more) of your works that you wished more people noticed?

In my Christmas fic, With Love, Dean, I put a lot of little details in it that I feel got overlooked. Which is fine. Like they're nothing huge. But the fact that Dean and Sam's gifts that they give are put in bags since they likely never had anyone teach them how to properly wrap a Christmas gift or the fact that the reader's gift to Castiel used his own duct tape to cover up the word 'dummies' so she could write 'angels' over top of it. Also, the fact that two gifts that were wrapped were wrapped by the reader (instead of placed in bags). I love putting little touches like that in fics even though they usually will go overlooked.

✨ What's a piece you wrote because you wanted to try something totally new?

Okay, I'm gonna cheat just a little bit here and list two pieces. I typically write for Sam and/or Dean, but I have two pieces where I wrote for other characters. Naughty List, Voluntarily is my first attempt at writing for the Archangel Gabriel, and oh my god did I fall in love with him! The fun sort of shenanigans you can get up to with a character who's as chaotic as him! And my Soldier Boy piece, Stealth Means STFU, was my first stab at writing for The Boys. Funny enough... I've never actually watched The Boys. So all of my knowledge of Soldier Boy comes from what my friends tell me as well as fanfic lol One of these days I'm sure I'll give it a watch... probably... maybe...

✨ What’s something you’re working on right now that you’re super excited to share?

I've got three more chapters of Ashes of Grace plus an epilogue which I am absolutely ecstatic to share with you all! For anyone who hasn't seen me around, Ashes of Grace is a Dean x Angel!Reader series centered around the mystery the reader's reason for being on Earth. It has mystery, romance, and lots of rumination about what it means to be human. We're currently at chapter 15 where I threw gasoline on the slow burn. So if you're interested, please give it a read!

What’s one (or more) of your favorite pieces you’ve done?

Ooh, hard question. All of my fics hold a special place in my heart, but in no particular order:

Take Me Back to Eden—Dean Winchester x Tori Marchetti (OFC)

So, this one is fairly new—it only started posting last month—but this one is hands down my favorite. I have spent so much time and put blood, sweat, and tears into it. There are plenty of one-shots of in-world and AU snapshots of their story post TMBTE, and even a mini series AU into the world of Dean and Tori.

Cowgirl Casanova—Dean Winchester x F!Bartender!Reader

This fic is probably my favorite reader insert that I've done thus far. Eventually, I'll write a part two to this one. I think it deserves it.

Adjustment Protocol—Soldier Boy x Odessa Albrecht (OFC)

This one I did for @zepskies 5k Follower Celebration. I had done only smut for Ben prior to this, so I really enjoyed writing something with a little more characterization with him.

Rendezvous' and Reminiscing—Soldier Boy x Odessa Albrecht (OFC)

Another of my non-explicit fics with Ben. This one was heavily inspired by a scene in Captain America: The Winter Soldier and was a lot of fun to write. Odessa and Ben have a lot of backstory in this one.

If you could go back and redo any works, which one would it be and how/why would you change it?

Hmm, another good question. Overall, I really would like to go back and rewrite most of my entries from Kinktober 2024. I had just started writing smut at the time and definitely think they could use an overhaul and they would be 1000% better.

Individually, I think Just A Note deserves a facelift. I'd go back and add more context and more stakes for the relationship between the reader and Dean.

What’s a piece that you’re super proud of but don’t feel like it got as much attention as you were hoping for?

Sheesh, there's a couple. I write a lot of OC, so a lot of them don't get as much traction as reader insert, which is pretty disheartening, but I suppose that is the nature of the beast.

We're Dying to Live and We're Living to Die—Logan Howlett x Morana Leeds (OFC)

This one didn't get advertised, which is completely on me, but I was really proud of it. I also don't think the X-Men/Wolverine fandom has a huge presence (or at least one for OC's) in general.

I'm Feelin' Good—Soldier Boy x Unnamed OC/F!Reader

This one was a precursor to my fics with Odessa. It doesn't have any indication who it is, so it could be read as a reader insert, which maybe put some people off.

Go Back to Strangers—Stanford Era!Dean Winchester x Librarian!Reader

This is a reader insert, so I'm not sure what happened with this one, but maybe since it was a hurt/no comfort it's not as many people's tea. I really liked this one though.

Which piece did you pour your heart and soul into (more so than everything else)?

Highway to Hell—Dean Winchester x Tori Marchetti (OFC)

I spent a lot of time on this one. I really wanted to capture some domesticity with these two.

We're Dying to Live and We're Living to Die is another. I struggle with my mental health quite a bit, and getting to have a character where I could express some of my struggles through was both freeing and terrifying. Tori from TBMTE also shares a lot of my struggles, but I feel I really poured myself into.

What piece do you hold closest to your heart and why?

Take Me Back to Eden 1000%. I spent 3 years on development for this one, plus so many one-shots fleshing out my OC and her story with Dean. Their relationship is one I will never stop going back to, even once their origins are fully posted. There are so many possibilities for stories to fit in.

What's something you included in one (or more) of your works that you wished more people noticed?

I'm not sure if it's stuff that isn't noticed really, but I put a lot of effort into staying close to the lore of the show, and also any lore I include mythology-wise. The door numbers Dean and Sam are in in the MOL Bunker, the vehicles John and Dean drive in one fic, the method of torture Ben endured, to name a few. This is probably like, the bare minimum, but I do it to try and really ground the readers in the world.

What's a piece you wrote because you wanted to try something totally new?

Keep Dreamin' and Dark Schemin'—Homelander x F!Reader

No Mercy (Show Me How You Love)—Homelander x F!Reader

One Way or Another, I'm Gonna Find You—Demon Dean x F!Reader

These three are probably the most controversial/dark fics I've written to date. I wanted to try and write some more taboo fics for 2025's Kinktober (Free Use, Primal Play, and Gun Play, respectively, all with heavy themes of Dubcon). Surprisingly, Keep Dreamin' is the post with the most notes on my blog thus far (1.4k) notes at the time I am making this.

What’s something you’re working on right now that you’re super excited to share?

Obviously, Take Me Back to Eden is posting; weekly updates on Tuesdays.

Part two to One Way or Another is in the works, albeit on hiatus at the moment.

I am also working on two gen fics with Sam and Dean. One is based on the song Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan featuring Stanford Era!Dean who gets pulled over drunk and calls Sam, only for him not to answer. The other is based on a song, this one is Where the Wild Things Are by Luke Combs in a Non-hunter AU where Dean is the first to leave. That one has a lot of angst (which you can guess if you've ever heard the song)

He felt every molecule of this poison running through his veins, eviscerating his human cells, mutating into new ones like cancer. At speed. The air was dank and cold in the lab, but his entire body was pulsing and molten from the inside out. His skin was hardening to compensate, muscles tearing and solidifying all at once.

He was strapped down to this gurney like an animal, but he wasn’t fucking special. Even now, with that pulsing in his ears and other deafening sounds of his own agony, he could hear Quinn. That bastard was fighting his own battle.

He was strong, though. He had been from the beginning, unlike Ben. No amount of charm or devil-may-care could hide that here.

Only now was he able to choke out that confession—to be fucking pitiful and beg for it to stop.

Too late now.

His ears sharpened again, like the crackle of old vinyl and screeching tired. He winced, screwing his eyes shut. He began to hear you too, like tuning a car radio to the wrong frequency. Somehow, your agonized voice drowned out all the others.

Ben woke with a jolt in the dark.

A line of cold sweat broke down the side of his temple as his chest moved shallowly with his breaths. Looking to his left, he realized he had the corner of the wooden nightstand crumpled into splinters in his hand. The ruins of Fort Harmony had knocked more than a few memories loose, most of them nightmares he’d long ago swallowed with vices and distractions.

“Ben,” you said, quiet and steady.

His head turned to you before he fully registered where he was.

Relief. It made his bones heavy. For a split second, he wasn't sure if you were a phantom of the past as well. But you sat up, and your flesh and blood hand fell on his bare chest. It was hot and sweaty to the touch—too hot, in the mildly radioactive sense.

“You okay?” you asked, with knowing eyes.

“Fine,” he croaked, slowly sitting up with you.

Your head tilted slightly as you watched him, not without sympathy.

“You sure that’s what you wanna go with?” you asked.

His brows knitted in immediate irritation.

“I’m fucking fine,” he growled.

You firmed in response, but you didn’t react. You just stared back at him, a silent challenge. You and Ben might’ve spent too many years of your long lives apart, but you still knew him. And he still knew what bullshit you wouldn’t accept.

Eventually, his breathing began to calm. The longer you sat together in silence, the more the storm quelled inside him. You felt the heat of him cool like embers, but not entirely. You heard the low hum of that nuclear reactor housed his chest cavity. The reminder stabbed at the sorrow, and even the spark of guilt that lived inside you.

Ben reached out and framed your jaw with his hand. Believe it or not, it was gentle, veering toward affectionate as his hand moved down. His middle finger traced a cigar burn you once had along your neck. It was the mark of a life you left behind a long time ago, before you were remade.

You were frankly surprised he remembered it. But you also knew then what he was thinking. Not that you couldn’t guess. Seeing Quinn, a shell of himself, and a tormented creature of hate, had rattled you too.

You took Ben's hand and pressed a kiss into his palm. Then your lips skimmed down the length of his pointer finger and nipped playfully.

His lips tugged upward. You always did know how to get his head in order.

He pulled you in for a demanding kiss. You let him take what he wanted, what he seemed to need, even though he’d never fucking admit it. You would let him, because despite everything he’d done, you’d been complicit in a lot more than you acknowledged back then.

This man didn’t have many honest saves under his belt, but you, strangely, were one of them.

So you let him swallow your tired sigh as your hand smoothed up the familiar path of his arm, over every dip and cord of muscle. You raked your nails through his hair and lured his tongue into your mouth. He held you to him with unshaking strength, turned you onto your back and moved between your thighs, where he fit so well.

His clothes and yours were already discarded memories on the bedside floor, so nothing stopped his fingers from seeking between your legs, finding your clit and working you up to slick arousal. It didn’t take long.

He used your moans and needy whimpers as guiding signs, and took the time to lick your sweet wetness off each of his fingers, like the sticky remnants of a Jolly Rancher.

When he finally slid home inside you, it took you back several decades, when the world was a very different place. And yet, the darkness had always been there. The packaging had just seemed more genuine, at times daintier, more wholesome.

But you were also grateful for the present—not only because this man was the only one strong enough and skilled enough to fuck you like he meant to make you feel it for the next year.

His thrusts punched the air from your lungs and tested the metal bedframe’s limitations, but only because he knew you could take it. You were almost as strong as him. Your thighs wrapped around his sides hard enough to make him feel like he was trapped in a goddamn vice.

There were a couple of other things in your arsenal that he didn’t have, but tonight, your main weapon of choice was the gentler hand you caressed along his cheek. You were admittedly still getting used to the beard. It was growing on you though. It was sharp, handsome, roguish.

He wasn’t the boy you met, all cocky swagger and selfish desires. This was the man, hardened and jaded and angry, maybe even bitter. But there might just be enough of the man you knew too, underneath these sordid layers of stoicism and bravado.

Your thumb drew across his parted lips before you leaned back up to kiss him, deeply, thoroughly. Almost a claim.

He held onto you as well as the headboard. In fact, he pulled you flush against him, allowing your clit to find more friction as his strokes hit deeper, making you shudder and tremble.

His name was what fell from your lips as you gasped and gushed hard on his cock. He grabbed a fistful of your hair as he shouted his own release into the crook of your neck, his teeth biting into your shoulder.

“Jesus, Ben,” you uttered. You clung to his back and broad shoulders, heaving for breath along with him.

"Fucking right, sweetheart. Still fit me like a goddamn glove," he rumbled. Though a smirk spread across his face as he pulled back. "You better not shave this pussy again, you hear me? If I'm not wading through a fucking forest, it's too damn easy."

You had to laugh, albeit breathlessly. He wasn't a fan of the modern trends. You didn't mind; less work for you.

His body was large and heavy and nearly suffocating you on the bed, but you wouldn’t say anything just yet. His fingers were still tangled in your hair. His gaze roamed your face, then caught on your eyes. You wished mind reading was one of your powers, so you could crack that coconut of his and hear what he was thinking when he looked at you like that.

Even as he leaned down, you didn’t expect the slowness of his kiss, or the way you melted underneath him.

Damn it, you thought, as your heart pulsed painfully.

He likely still had it, after all this time. The question was, did this mean you finally had his?

AN: What do you think? Should I explore this little plot bunny further, especially when Vought Rising comes around? 😜❣️

⌖ ݁˖ Tag List Form || Fic Library Blog -> (you can follow and turn on notifications)

Join My Patreon ⊹ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1):

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @luci-in-trenchcoats @spalady26

@nancymcl @emily-winchester @sl33pylilbunny @chernayawidow @spnfamily-j2

@lacilou @mimaria420 @yvonneeeee @my-stories-vault @iprobablyshipit91

@jacklesbrainworms @adoringanakin @deanwanddamons @globetrotter28 @mrsjenniferwinchester

@deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70

@rizlowwritessortof @chevroletdean @spnwoman @syrma-sensei @muhahaha303

@123passwort @lyarr24 @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @supernotnatural2005

@jessjad @fromcaintodean @stoneyggirl2 @kazsrm67 @winchestergirl2

@jensensswthrt @midnightmadwoman @ladysparkles78 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @tmb510

@sarahgracej @foxyjwls007 @just-levyy @roseblue373 @kmc1989

The ad said they were looking for a maid. Well, a ‘Personal Household Assistant’. Pressed for money, you really didn’t stop to question why Vought and its superheros would need a ‘Household Assistant’. So, you’d rationalized it as a maid and all the things that would come along with a position with that name, things that the Supes and their overinflated egos thought would be below their stations.

You were mildly surprised when you received an email following up on your application. You weren’t surprised at all by the lengthy training process nor the multitude of NDA’s you were required to sign. 

What did surprise you a great amount, though, was who’s penthouse you'd be assigned to.

Never in your life had you seen so much red, white, and blue in one place. Homelander’s penthouse was like he’d designed a shrine to himself. Accented with dark leather, marble statues and a wide open balcony, you couldn’t fathom why one man would need so much room.

As outlined in your nonexhaustive list of duties presented to you in your training, a few of the tasks you would be in charge of would include changing the sheets, dusting and vacuuming. A set of instructions were included on how to clean, dry, and store his suits. Cooking was another of the major things that came with the position. You were to have them ready at predetermined times, or prepare them per his request. A document with appropriate foods and meals followed.

Right off the bat, Homelander had taken an interest in you. It was to be expected, you told yourself. You were a stranger in his space, and from the footage you saw on the news, he was a highly paranoid individual. But perhaps it was a little more than a simple interest.

Eyes that lingered just a little too long, giving you the impression that you were nothing more than a juicy steak on a plate being presented to a starved wolf. Smiles that were a little too wide, a little too bright, a little too toothy; every time he leveled one at you, your eyes were drawn to his unnaturally white canines. 

Wolf indeed

The unnecessary touches came in later. Gloved hands that grazed over your lower back or hips as he passed behind you even though there was plenty of room, leaning forward too far into your space as you prepared his meals, close enough for his warm breath to fan across your neck. 

Speaking of meals, he was a man on a strict regimen, one that rivaled a competitive body builder. A small book outlined what he could and couldn’t have, what to use and when to serve it. Steak and eggs with hashbrowns were for breakfast, some kind of light meal like a sandwich for lunch, and a feast fit for a king—or a god—for dinner. 

Plus milk. Lots of it with every meal no matter what it was. An entire shelf of his larger than life fridge, which you were convinced was bigger than your entire kitchen at your apartment, was dedicated to it; jugs upon jugs of whole milk were to be kept stocked at all times. You couldn’t imagine that a Supe of his abilities would have a calcium deficiency, but you supposed everyone had their things.

Like a frog in a gradually heating pot of water, you didn’t know you were in too deep until it was too late for you. All the subliminal things, the touches and glances that could be explained away, all the small, calculated, dents until you realized you enjoyed him—his presence, his touch. 

So the first time his glancing touches shifted to something…other, you didn’t even flinch. Not when the hand on your lower back wandered lower and lower, lingering longer until his gloved hand rested solidly on your ass. And you knew it wasn’t your imagination when his fingers curled inward, getting a fistful of your asscheek. 

Not when he walked up behind you one morning when you were cooking him breakfast. The warmth of his body pressed against your back as he leaned in, peering over your shoulder. Then you felt it, the brush of his lips ghosting over the exposed skin of your neck, hair ruffling as he breathed you in. And, as if in second nature, you leaned back into it. You tilted your head in a way that bared your neck, your throat, to him. 

A small, satisfied hum was his only acknowledgment, his approval. He had pulled away, rambling about something regarding the Crime Analytics Department and a hollow want replaced the space where his warmth had just been. Your brain was still short circuiting at the feel of his lips, warm and dry against your neck.

Managing to pull yourself from the temporary stupor in time, barely, to prevent the eggs from becoming overcooked, you tried not to linger on it. But trying and succeeding were two different things that were worlds apart. 

It followed you like a ghost everywhere you went, in everything you did. It didn’t stop at the threshold of Vought Tower. No, it followed you to the store, the coffee shop, it followed you home. It lingered on your skin so that even after you’d showered for the night, the skin still tingled. 

You weren’t completely blind to who—or what—he was. You’d seen the blood and gore on his suit and gloves when you cleaned them. You’d seen the news, witnessed that too sharp predator's gaze tinged with a possessive madness.

Gods. 

Monsters. 

The only difference was who is telling the story

And you were human, weak to the prospect of power. Being the object of his attention, no matter how fleeting it may turn out to be, awarded you power. Or at least some perverted kind of it.

The night that thing, that unnamed tension, finally came to a head, you’d let it happen.

Handwashing the stainless steel pans you’d made dinner in—chicken piccata and angel hair pasta—you’d been standing at the sink. While you weren’t given a uniform, you always wore the same thing: a pair of shorts, or pants when it was colder, and a t-shirt or tank top. Light, breathable, and gave mobility to make cleaning easier. 

You’d come to recognize him by the whoosh of him landing on the balcony or the heavy thumps of his boots, the glass french doors usually kept open. Some days you couldn’t get him to shut up, other days he was near mute in quiet, internal contemplation. But the silence that day had nothing to do with inner turmoil. Boots on the floor was the way you tracked his progress to you. While your ears gauged where he was, you continued to scrub the pan with a washcloth, sudsy water coating your forearms nearly to the elbow.

Then, he had been behind you. Unabashed, his front had pressed against your back and you could feel the hardness of him against your lower back. In a silk smooth voice, he had told—instructed—you to keep going. So you had. You scrubbed away as his hands, still encased in his gloves, dipped in between the elastic of your shorts and your skin and pulled them down your legs, your underwear having gone with them. 

You had cum twice by the time he pulled out of you, his spend starting to drip down your leg. Your grip on the edge of the sink was the only thing keeping you upright, your jelly legs threatening to give way. 

It only continued from there. Some days you could anticipate it. Days when the press conferences went awry, when Stan Edgar pissed him off, or when some man named William Butcher, who you’d learned about through Homelanders ramblings, got just a little too close to bringing about his downfall. 

Those were the days when you came home with bruises on your hips and hickies on your neck and shoulders, when you felt a pair of eyes on you from the darkness until long after you had crawled into bed for the night.

Others you couldn’t predict. Changing the laundry, dusting the inordinate amount of shelves in the penthouse, restocking the fridge. Any time, anywhere. Your bottoms were bullied down your legs, his fingers teasing across your pussy before the fat head of him pushed his way inside you until he was fully seated and your hips were flush against each other. The anticipation of it all flooded your panties, meaning when he did pound into you, he was met with little resistance.

It was rough, raw, unforgiving, and you ate it the fuck up.

The dryer cycle had just ended when the thump of Homelanders boots on the balcony reached your ears despite you being on the very interior of the penthouse. The publicity event must not have gone well then, you thought, which meant today was gonna be one of those days. The small, irregularly shaped bruises on your thighs and hips had just faded, but it seemed more would be replacing them before you left for the night.

A heat stirred low in your stomach, your chest tightening in anticipation. Overaware of everything, you tried your best to continue about unloading the dryer. It was mostly towels, the soft fabric pleasantly warm against your skin as you folded them all neat like, one ear on the sounds of him moving around the penthouse. 

Then, there was nothing. Placing the towel from your hands into the basket, you paused. Normally, you could hear his footfalls, or hear him muttering to himself under his breath. The silence wasn’t malicious, but teasing.

A game, is what this was, you realized. A fucked up remix of cat and mouse. But you knew that part of the fun, for him at least, was you acting like you didn’t know. Like you weren’t in on it. 

So back to folding towels it was. Each fold, each tuck, each sheet of fabric piled neatly into the basket you could feel was scrutinized. There was this feeling, like the hairs on the back of your neck were on end, the feeling of being watched. From where you didn’t know. You hadn’t heard the door slide open, but for a man of his stature, Homelander sure knew how to move quietly when he wanted to. 

And he really must have, because your feet must have made it 6 inches off the floor when heavy hands landed harshly on your waist. 

“You know,” His voice was heavy with calculation. It always was, each word measured and hanging on his tongue like it was thought out. “You really should just walk around here naked.”

Breath hitching as those hands, encased in soft leather snaked around to rest on your belly, you attempted to pull another article from the laundry basket. 

“These truly are such a nuisance.” You flinched as he tugged the waistband away from your waist, only to let it snap back. “Should be able to have access to you whenever I want.”

“Don’t you already?” 

You spoke now, voice barely over a whisper. Not in defiance, but in a teasing encouragement; an attempt to diffuse the bomb given skin that was Homelander, even if it took more courage than you cared to think about.

Silence was your only answer. Not an empty silence, all awkward and dangerous, but one of heat and anticipation. That was until the sound of ripping fabric replaced it as he tore both your shorts and underwear in one motion. 

“That’s more like it.” His sentiment punctuated by a slap to your now bare rear.

That hand found its way back to your stomach, now resting unimpeded against your flushed skin. But, instead of resting there unmoving like it had been, his index finger traced teasing circles around your belly button. With each rotation, it traveled lower and lower until you were trembling; little tremors wracked your body, ones you were sure he could feel vibrating underneath the softness of your lower belly. Against your backside you could feel him, hard as steel, as he stepped into that empty space. 

“I can hear your heart racing.” You shuddered as he leaned in, speaking directly into your ear. “Smell how wet you are.”

A pause as he nuzzled his nose into your hairline.

“Tell me, are you afraid.”

“N-”

“The truth, please.”

You loosed a breath. “Yes.”

“Good.” His lips smacked as his hand shifted even lower, those small circles finally teasing around your clit. “You should be.”

Your hips bucked up into his hand, chasing his fingers. His thick digits swirled across the sensitive bud in alternating directions, gliding easily aided by your arousal. Legs far past trembling, you felt like a baby deer trying to stay standing, bracing your hands on the edge of the dryer.

But Homelander was already there, arm spanning across your chest, big hand fondling one of your breasts as he kept you steadily upright. Between the preternatural heat radiating from his body and the pleasurable burn of arousal pulsating from your core, a haze had started to overtake you. Any rationale was left in the dust as you tuck your bottom lip in between your teeth to keep from whimpering too loudly.

“Fucking pathetic.” He mused, rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger. “I’ve barely even touched you.”

Your lip drops from where it had been caught between your teeth, mouth dropping open with a reply, but nothing coherent came out. Not when his hand between your legs slid lower, his middle finger dipping into your entrance to the first knuckle. Curious, experimenting, it entered you just barely before sliding back out. Even though it was one digit, with the thick padding of the glove your walls dragged along every time he retreated. 

Your head lolled back, resting solidly against his shoulder, as a ragged moan ripped from your throat when it finally pushed all the way to the last knuckle. The sound your pussy made as he retracted his hand, only to bully his ring finger in alongside the other one was obscene. 

“Homelander.” You managed to gasp, one hand clinging to the arm he had across your chest.

“She found her voice.” He crooned. “Was beginning to think I’ve fucked you dumb.”

A sad, pathetic whimper was the only retort you could muster as that coil low in your belly began to tighten, your inner walls fluttering around his fingers. It was only spurred on when he adjusted his hand so that you were now grinding your swollen clit against his palm, the material and stitching of them providing much needed friction. 

Your heavy breathing matched his, his lips not straying much from the shell of your ear. Hips bucking erratically, you pushed yourself closer and closer to that edge, needing the release. Closer and closer he guided you, curling those deft fingers up towards your belly button to stimulate that spot within you. At first he’d had a hard time finding it, but now months later, he knew all the ways that made you fall apart, using them to his—and you supposed, your own—advantage.

If it weren’t for his arm across your chest, you would have pitched forward as your orgasm ripped through you. The edges of your vision blurred as waves of euphoria cascaded through your lower belly and sent shocks up your spine. 

“That’s it.” He mocked in that overly patronizing tone. “Good girl.”

If the remnants of your orgasm hadn’t sent a shiver down your back, his words definitely did.

His fingers retreat from your slick-soaked pussy, dragging a shiny trail up your belly under your shirt before pulling away. Not trusting your unsteady body, you didn’t even try to turn as he took a half step back. Not that you would, anyway. Not once did he permit you to look at him while he was inside you. You didn’t mind, much. This was transactional, mostly at least. 

Again, that fire was stoked back to life as you felt him press back up against you, running the length of his cock through your folds, covering himself in your arousal. You knew the blue and red suit covering his body had a generous amount of padding built into the lining, not that he wasn’t muscular, but the suit’s physique you were sure could only be achieved by chronic use of steroids. The one part that didn’t need padding? 

The thick head of him caught at your entrance as he rutted himself against you, causing both of you to moan in sync. Ten dull aches dug into your hips as he gripped them hard, finding purchase there. His shallow thrusts worked his cock in and out of your pussy until his hips sat flush against your ass. Curved just right, he sat sheathed inside you, pressed up against every sensitive part. 

“Thaaaat’s it.” Voice ragged and gruff in your ear. “Open up for me, slut.”

A harsh kick to the inside of your lower legs had you spreading your stance further, sending him impossibly deeper inside of you. Then, he started to move, setting your already decimated and fucked out body on fire. You were trapped, nowhere to go between the dryer and the unforgiving pace he’d set. Too much, too soon after the first orgasm he’d coaxed out of you. 

But you were just a human at the mercy of a god, so you were helpless to the tears brimming in your eyes, the wanton moans and whimpers and broken pleas that fell on his deaf ears. Body molten and pliable, he used his bruising grip on your hips to pull you back to meet every thrust. 

It wasn’t long before your legs were trembling again, every time he bottomed out sending you barreling towards the edge. You tried to hold off, tried to control your breathing, Deep inhale through the nose, out through barely parted lips. 

It didn’t fucking help. Not when Homelander’s teeth closed around the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You cry out, the sound tailing off to a moan as the pain of his teeth digging into your skin trails down to further stoke the fire of arousal in your belly. Pleasure rolls through your body in great waves as your second orgasm crashes over you. 

But he’s not done with you. Not even close. 

Your orgasm, your inner walls clamping down around his cock only spurs him on further. His groan sends vibrations through your skin before he pulls away, tongue sweeping over the indentations of his teeth. 

Now it truly was too much. With a series of rapid blinks, the tears that had welled up in your eyes rolled down your cheeks in fat droplets. A sob wracked your body as his cock pounded into you, suit stimulating your oversensitive pussy and clit. 

“You can fucking take it.” Homelander snarls, somehow managing to fuck into you even rougher than before. 

Your hips grow sore between his unyielding grip and being pushed into the corner of the dryer with each thrust. Every sound from your mouth grows weaker, the edges of your vision blurring as the sheer amount of arousal and pleasure clouds your senses, your brain, your nervous system. Muscles and bones are replaced by jelly, pliant and complicit to his will and his needs. 

Through the haze, you register his movements becoming erratic, jerky, no longer the even strokes he’d started out with. His faint grunts and groans evolved into moans and something that resembled whimpers as he slipped a hand around your throat, keeping your back flush with his chest as he came with a choked moan.

Hips grinding against your ass, warmth filled you. Not once had you considered why the Vought hiring team assured you were on some kind of long term birth control, but after the first time you were glad you had an IUD.

Only once you could no longer feel him twitching inside you did he pull his now flaccid cock from inside you. It was by some unknown miracle that you could stand mostly on your own as he reached around you to grab one of the folded washcloths to wipe himself clean. 

“Thanks for the fun.” He said, that ever present chipper tone back in place as he patted you on the ass before walking away. Not long after a whoosh indicated his departure.

Using a different washcloth you cleaned yourself of his cum, which was now leaking out of you. On unsteady legs, you managed to throw both soiled washcloths in the hamper and made your way to his room, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs from his laundry and putting them on. It’s not like he’d miss them or even knew they were there in the first place. Sighing, you went back to the laundry room, the task seeming moot now.

You just huffed an incredulous laugh to yourself. “Anything I can do for America’s Hero.”