Ageless Blogs And Minors DNI

I currently intend on writing for Supernatural, Criminal Minds, Until Dawn, The Bear, and Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II.

Main Tags: #starspyderfics #starspeaks

Characters I write for:

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

Castiel

Jack Kline (platonic only, pls!)

Charlie Bradbury

Bobby Singer (platonic only, pls!)

Gabriel

Michael

Lucifer

Call Of Duty: Modern Warfare 2

Captain John Price

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner

Spencer Reid

Derek Morgan

Penelope Garcia

David Rossi (platonic only, pls!)

Until Dawn

Chris Hartley

Mike Munroe

Josh Washington

Sam Giddings

The Bear

Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto

I will NOT write:

incest

bestiality

ANYTHING involving a romantic relationship between a child and an adult

self-harm of ANY kind.

Masterlist

Like any other hunter, you’ve had those days where you end up being hunted. Between being tracked down by a pissed pff werewolf pack for killing their sibling, held hostage as a bloodbag for vampires… Hell, you even were nearly dessert for a couple of djinns on more than one occasion.

The difference between those times and where you find yourself now, is that nobody knows you’re even in danger yet.

Ketch’s stare is cold and calculated as he speaks slowly, drawing out his words to add to his cruel tone.

“You want to act like a big girl? Fine by me. You’ll have to prove it to me, though. All I see is a scared little girl hiding behind her mouth.” He taunts, hardly even cracking a smirk. “You Americans are too proud. If it weren’t for your un-killable brothers, you would’ve been six feet underground ages ago.”

You know he won’t kill you, of course. Ketch may not particularly like your brothers, but he knows better than to hurt you. Besides, this is clearly personal on a level you don’t quite understand.

You’d been alone in the bunker while Sam and Dean were off dealing with getting the bunker prepped with all the newcomers; everyone else had broken off into groups to gather supplies and basic necessities for the additional twenty people now housed in the bunker.

You’d gotten home from an easy, one-woman hunt, made yourself a drink, and had just sat down in the library to relax for a few minutes before getting ready to turn in when your personal phone rang, the ringer at top volume as it sat on the end of the bed. You whined petulantly and stood to retrieve the call, leaving your drink on the table.

It had only been Dean checking in, making sure you were okay.

You assured him all was well, you were just planning to take a shower and go to bed early (not mentioning you’d settle down while thinking of a certain someone), before hanging up.

When you returned, you didn’t notice that the drink tasted a little off, somewhere close to stale. You tried not to doze off as you sat in the library, but the blanket over your lap was so cozy and your brain felt so light and fuzzy.

You’d dozed in and out of consciousness, but it all felt like a dream. Like when you were a kid in the back of the car, passed out from late night drives, being carried into your room by your stepdad.

You were actually being carried, however, wrapped in the blanket off the couch. You catch glimpses off the stairs, then the door as it closes heavy behind you, and as you’re taken outside, you feel the faint humming power of the hidden protection sigils and runes fade as you leave their safety.

Your head lolls to the side as you’re gently jostled about, but there’s no concern of falling or being dropped in your delirious mind.

During all this, as you’re laid on what you think might be the bench seat of someone’s car, you were able to make out a voice. Smooth, deep, accented.

“Can’t wait to teach you a lesson, pet.”

Somewhere in your mind, the connection was made that Ketch drugged and was actively kidnapping you, but the alarm bells kept fading away each time until you fell unconscious again.

Now, as you stand in the middle of the woods somewhere in Kansas—or did he cross state lines into Nebraska? All these midwestern forests look the same—you find yourself staring back in fear.

He’s intimidating to begin with. Military trained, no-nonsense, ruthless hitman with enough weapons on him at any given moment, it would be comical if he ever had to suddenly remove them from his person. He’s tall, constantly wearing black, and as of late, full tactical gear. Unfortunately for you, it tends to catch your attention much easier than you’d care to admit.

There’s something about his eyes, his tone. His physical appearance already made you want to run for the hills when you first saw him, but he speaks like he’s owed something.

“If you don’t want this, say the word. I’ll drive you back to the bunker and we’ll never speak of it again, no harm done.”

Admittedly, you’re still a little groggy. “What do you mean, ‘this?’ You kidnapped me and brought me into the woods, I’m not really sure what you’re asking for, dude.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t purposely crossed every damn line—like you don’t look at me like you want me to rip you apart. Trust me, I do. I want nothing more than to shut that pretty mouth of yours up. You act so smart and brave, Miss Winchester, but you’re just a brat who needs to be put in her place.”

As he stands there, a heavy semi-automatic rifle slung across his broad back, shoulders squared and jaw tight as he speaks, you feel the heat begin to pool inside of you.

You flush, finally looking away. The crunch of leaves and suddenly he’s a few steps closer, but still out of reach. “I’m asking one last time—do you want to see how far I’m going to take this? How far I’ll push you? I won’t be kind, love.”

You take a shaky breath after a moment, nodding.

“Fine, but you’ll have to catch me, first.”

You don’t give Ketch a moment to think before you’re booking it through the trees, deeper into the forest. You hear him laugh, something evil twisted in it.

—

Sure, after they tortured your brother, the British Men of Letters were number one on your shit list. However, with forced proximity and your life being unbelievably busy as of late, you found yourself running into Ketch a lot more than you originally would’ve liked.

Call it the daddy issues, or maybe because you’ve been the only girl around “big strong men” most of your life, and the fact that you never got to fool around like your brothers. Sam and Dean were far too protective for you to have any semblance of a relationship. It’s not like you’re a virgin, but you’ve rarely gotten the chance to take your time when it comes to enjoying sex.

You were hungry, clearly aching for it, and that’s something that Ketch picked up on from the second you met. A stubborn, headstrong young woman who always had to have the last word and didn’t take shit from anyone. A woman too used to being strong for everyone else, she was in desperate need for someone else to take control for once.

You saw that role being filled with Ketch in your fantasies, late nights after a rough hunt when you’re too pent up and tired to sleep and too scared to let go of the knife. It was supposed to be a distraction, not a crush. Something fleeting to think about when your hand is between your legs and you’re biting the pillow to keep quiet in the dead of night.

You found it in your daydreams, reading in the library during the start of a hunt, pretending to focus on the pages when you’re really imagining his hand around your throat, that calm, deep, sultry voice whispering filth into your ear as he—

You get the gist.

It had come to a head when you sent Dean and Ketch off to the Apocalypse World to find Mary and Jack, and when Ketch didn’t return, you found yourself a little heartbroken. Yeah, you’ve lost your share of people. It comes with this life. You’ve learned how to grieve quickly and move onto the next world-ending catastrophe at your doorstep. You know he’s seen how tired you are; the number of late-night, gas station coffee runs, researching until the crack of dawn on how to find Lucifer, anything about the rift, only to go to sleep for an hour or so before starting the day again.

And then, there was that one conversation.

You’d been in the bunker, alone for once. After a nasty vamp hunt, you were covered in blood, you had a nasty gash spanning across your left shoulder, and there wasn’t an inch of your body that wasn’t sore.

You’d felt a lot better after a boiling hot shower and some decent skincare, walking through the halls of the bunker with your hair wrapped in a towel and comfy clothes on—Sam’s old purple shirt, the one with the dog that you saved after he went to the Cage, and Dean’s hot dog pajama pants. You were covered in scratches, some deep and some surface level. Clearly, you were looking rough. As you were rummaging through the fridge for dinner, you suddenly felt like you weren’t alone, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end.

“Jesus! Don’t sneak up on me!” You nearly jumped out of your skin, one hand already wrapped around the handle of a large knife from the block in the counter. Ketch’s hands were raised in defense as he took you in.

“Apologies. I was looking for your brothers, neither of them are answering their phones. You weren’t, either.” He states, emotionless as ever. He says the last sentence with an air of suspicion, as if you’d been purposely ignoring him.

You sigh, nodding as you return the knife to where it belongs. “Yeah, we just got back from a hunt an hour ago. They went to the bar, Dean’s probably already getting laid by now. We’re taking a weekend, talk to us again in two days.”

You turn and return back to the fridge, disregarding him now.

“What on earth did this to you?”

“Wendigo, I hate the fucking things. There were three, which has never happened to us before, we got backed into a corner. They attacked all at once and if Cas hadn’t been there, we would’ve been toast.”

He stands, rigid as ever. “You could’ve called.”

“Yeah, after you’ve been so sweet to us? We took our chances, and we all made it out alive.”

“Hardly. Are you going to seek medical attention, or get drunk?” He scoffs, as you rustle behind a few beer bottles.

“I need to eat something before I stitch these shut, or else I’ll pass out.”

Ketch watches as your knees shake as you squat down, fingers trembling as you move. Clearly you’re either in immense pain or still disoriented.

“Sit.”

“Excuse me? I am not a dog—Ketchputmedown!”

Your vision suddenly spins as you’re scooped off the ground, secure in his arms as he moves to sit you at the table. Okay, definitely disoriented. You’re dizzy for a moment, as you squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto the table for dear life.

“What the hell was that?”

“Not a dog, but you continue to whine like a bitch. I’m feeding you, then I’ll sew you back together. You’re in no condition to be alone right now.”

You roll your eyes but make no move to stand, letting him take your place. It’s now that you notice he’s not in his usual tactical gear or a suit, just a pressed, black silk button down and slacks. Casual, for him, overdressed compared to your current state. Tattoos that you’d never noticed took up most of his forearms before disappearing under his sleeves. They’re all l runes and sigils of some sort, likely for protection. You’ve caught glimpses of the ink before, memorized the pattern of the cross tattoo on the back of his right hand, but this is your first good look. You’re memorizing them for later.

It doesn’t take long for him to make a sandwich and some fruit, cut carefully.

“Show off. You do this for every girl you try to kill?”

He doesn’t answer. He leaves you with a fork for the fruit and leaves the kitchen, and for a few tense moments, you listen out for him. It’s near silent, almost eerie until you hear him approach, carrying an expansive first aid kit.

“Eat, please.”

You scoff, spearing a strawberry with the fork. “Fine, just don’t say anything about the tattoos.”

His brow furrows as he lifts the hem of the shirt, where he sees dark ink above your tailbone; an anti possession sigil in the middle, surrounded by whirls of fine lines and a phrase in latin above. Along your hips and towards the front of your belly there were more, but he didn’t get a direct look.

“Fortuna caeca est? Fate is blind?”

“I asked you not to say anything,” You chide mid-bite. “I like my tattoos, frankly.”

“You have multiple?”

“Well, you haven’t taken my clothes off yet, have you?”

Yeah, that was certainly testing the waters. Since then, it’s been tense between you. Not in a bad way, but obvious enough to you that there’s something there, on both ends.

You come to realize you’ve been running for a while. You try to catch your breath, pinning yourself against a tree. It’s too quiet, even the bugs and birds are silent. They know a predator is among them, clearly knowing better than to interrupt the hunt. Your chest heaves as you look into the sky, eyes shutting briefly as you try to regulate your breathing.

A branch snaps in the distance and your eyes go wide. The tree is low enough, if you’re quick you can climb it. Thankfully, you hadn’t taken your shoes off when you got back home.

You right yourself and book it up the tree, thanking Sam in your mind for making you go to the gym with him sometimes, this upper body strength thing is great. You manage to get about twelve feet up before you hear another noise, closer, this time. Leaves crunch and sticks break under his boots as he approaches the clearing, rifle raised to shoot.

“You don’t have much farther to go. You could make this very easy on yourself if you just come out.”

He’s a fluid shadow in the night and you’re hardly able to make out his silhouette until he’s just a few feet away.

You stay silent as the grave as he passes below you, watchful eye on the scope as he creeps quietly through the brush. As he stalks away, you slowly climb down the tree, tentatively placing your feet flat on the ground, keeping your eyes glued to his figure as he steps further from you. Once you think you’re in the clear, you bolt in the other direction, not caring about the noise.

He tracked you this far, which already proves how skilled he is, which means he already knows where you are; the least you can do is make it fun for him.

He spins on his heel and runs, footsteps thundering on the ground behind you. You may be the smallest and physically weakest Winchester, but you were the quickest. Ketch, of course, knew you were en route to be a high school track legend as a kid; it was in your BMOL file. He knew you’d give him a run for his money (no pun intended).

Trees whip past as you sprint through the woods, fear snapping up your spine like lighting when the first shot rings out, hitting a tree to your right as you pass. Wood chips fly out and hit you in the back of the head as you shriek, nearly losing your footing on a patch of wet leaves as you darted to the left. You know he isn’t aiming to kill, and while you don’t really want a fresh bullet wound anytime soon, there’s a thrill to his skill as a marksman. At this point, if it means he’ll finally have his way with you, you’ll take the lead slug.

You’re quick to collect yourself, chest heaving as you switch directions, moving east into another deep section of the woods. You hear him growl behind you, something feral rising from his chest.

Another shot rings out, narrowly missing your ankle by just a few inches, hitting the damp forest floor and sending a spray of mud and leaf litter up the side of your leg. That’s the one that sends you to the ground, too worried about the potential ricochet from the bullet hitting a rock to notice the tree root that catches your left ankle. You crash to the ground and roll quick and unceremoniously as you fail to catch yourself. You take quite a tumble as your world spins, too disoriented to realize he’s already right behind you.

One hand grabs the back of your neck, shoving you into the wet ground. The sharp edge of a rock cuts into your chin, causing you to wince. His thighs brace your hips as he kneels over you, pressing his full weight into your hips and shoulders.

“That’s it, try to fight me off, you’ll just make this harder on yourself.” He sneers, his free hand moving to grapple your wrists and wrench them behind your back, then the tight sting of metal cuffs against the bone.

You shake and try to buck him off, but of course, it’s no use. He’s 6’2 and at least 200 pounds of carefully trained muscle. Part of you is certain that he could bench press you twice over without breaking a sweat.

“Get off!” You attempt a futile kick to his knee, the force on your back too much to wiggle out of.

“No, you made up your mind the second you ran away. You’re mine, Miss Winchester.”

Ketch shifts, keeping one hand splayed over your shoulders as he moves down, rutting his hips into your ass. You hear the shifting of fabric and then the familiar click of the safety of a gun being switched off.

“I don’t understand how it’s taken anyone this long to put you in your place, pet. That mouth of yours is entirely too big for your own good,” He grits, and you feel the muzzle of the pistol at your temple as he bucks against your clothed cunt and you can’t help the startled moan that rises from your throat.

“Fuck, you’re a filthy girl, aren’t you? Moaning like a whore when I have my favorite gun to your skull. How fucked in the head do you have to be to get wet over this?”

“You like it,” You wheeze as he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. He looms over you like a thundercloud, shrouded in danger and darkness. Your eyes flutter shut as he shifts again, pulling you roughly to your knees with his arm wrapped tightly around your neck, meaty bicep and forearm squishing your cheeks. You gasp and sputter as you try to breathe, but you’re already fading fast with how tight his grip is, and he still is holding the gun.

He’s quick to shove his hand down the front of your leggings, slipping his gloved fingers between your fold and groaning at the warmth he was met with.

“Look at that, pet,” He removes his hand, deliberately avoiding your clit as he holds his gloved fingers up to the moonlight, where they glisten with moisture. “I can’t wait to have my fun with you.”

“Whatever makes you think your dick is big.” You grunt, swallowing as much air as possible when his arm relaxed ever so slightly.

Ketch growls and shoves your leggings down to your knees, then pushes you back towards the ground, moving to grip your hair at the root as he maneuvers you onto your belly. He’s quick to pull a knife from somewhere on his person and cuts the leggings completely off.

“Ah, so those are the tattoos I’ve yet to see. Look at that, you’re soaked. This is all you needed to fix that attitude of yours, isn’t it? A rough hand?”

When you stubbornly don’t respond, he slaps your ass hard enough to leave a handprint immediately.

“You’ll answer when I fucking speak to you, is that understood?” The gun is back on you again, this time digging into the back of your skull.

“Y-Yes!”

“Yes, Sir. Say. It. Back.” He spanks you three times in the same spot for emphasis on each word.

“Yes, Sir,” You moan, your panties cold and damp against the nighttime air.

Ketch hums, pleased. “Like I said, pet, you just need a rough hand. Now that you’re listening, I’ll give you a choice. I’ll either fuck your face and if you behave, I’ll consider playing nice.”

As he speaks, he runs his fingertips over the crotch of your panties, circling your hole and avoiding your clit altogether. Your hips buck backwards, searching for more friction, which earns you a harsh yank on your scalp.

“Or, should you continue with your recent behavior, I’ll string you up to this tree, gag you, and fuck you until you learn your lesson. Either way won’t be gentle, but one of them ends with you earning the chance to cum.” You shudder at the thought, how pent up and hot you feel. Your excitement from his words melts into tingles across your cunt at the idea of his cock anywhere inside of you.

“T-The first one. Please.” You swallow. “Sir!”

Ketch laughs lowly, pulling away until he’s kneeling upright over your ass. You take the chance to relax for a brief moment as he plots his next move.

Ketch is quick to stand, kicking you gently at the hip to roll onto your back, before he’s reaching down to haul you up by the hair until you’re back on your knees.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous when you’re crying for me.” You didn’t even notice the wetness at your lash line until he pointed it out. You assumed your blurry vision was from being choked out, not from your blatant desperation.

You gasp for breath as he uses his right hand to unbutton his pants, quickly freeing his hard cock. You certainly expected something impressive, but his cock is intimidating. He’s big, not terribly thick, but he’s fairly long. He clearly takes care of himself and is carefully groomed, the dark hair cropped fairly short across the base and his balls.

If you weren’t already in enough trouble, you certainly don’t want to think about trying to take him with no prep.

“Open up. If you even think about biting, I’ll rip out your teeth.” He threatens, gripping his cock at the base and guiding himself into your mouth.

He’s immediately heavy on your tongue, warm and salty with pre. His chest heaves with a sigh of relief at the warmth of your mouth. It’s certainly a stretch, and somewhat tricky to avoid using your teeth, but you manage just fine once he sets a rhythm, giving you little time to prepare.

“That’s it, take my cock like a good bitch. You take orders so well when you’re desperate. Perhaps I’ll give my pretty dog a treat if she does a good job. Wouldn’t you like that?”

You nod around his cock, tears welling as he hits the back of your throat. Both of his hands on your head, using you like a toy for his pleasure. Obscene noises rise from your throat as it’s assaulted, unladylike and whorish.

“Make me cum down that pretty throat and I’ll give you a treat, but you’ll have to beg me for it. Think you can do that?” He asks, condescending and hateful.

Ketch pulls you off of his cock roughly and you cough, sputtering and nodding, shaking and teary-eyed.

“Yes, Sir! Please, I wanna make you cum!” You whine pathetically. If anyone who knew you saw, they surely wouldn’t have imagined that Y/N Winchester, badass hunter, true vessel of the archangel Gabriel, would be slutting herself out to the man who tried to kill her at least twice. Oh, how the mighty fall, some would say.

“Come on, pet, you can do better than that. This could be life or death for all you know?” Again, the gun is out and pressing to your temple. With the downright feral look in his eye, a wave of fear washes down your spine and a fresh round of tears wells.

“Please, don’t kill me, Sir! Can I please have your cum down my throat, please?” Your lip wobbles and the grin on Ketch’s face is giddy and depraved.

“Oh, what a good girl you’re becoming for me. Come on, keep it up.” He orders. The low timber of his voice made the hair on your neck stand on end as you nodded eagerly, guiding your mouth back on him.

You’re on his cock again in an instant, spit and cum rolling down your chin as you hollow your cheeks and get to work, taking him as deep as you can. Over and over, as he thrusts back in the tip of his cock hits your soft palate, making a soft, squishy sound with each pass. You’re sure you look a mess, desperate and drooling in the middle of the woods at Arthur Ketch’s mercy, because the idea of him berating you made you wetter than a slip n’ slide.

It’s not much longer before his hips begin to stutter, and he presses his cock fully down your throat, groaning hoarsely as he shoots his load.

It sticks to the back of your throat and coats your tongue as he pulls out halfway through his orgasm, pumping himself to completion across your face. He sighs as he relaxes, the hand in your hair relaxing as he rubs gently at your scalp. You keen at the slightest bit of praise, your head falling to his thigh as you catch your breath.

“Still with me, darling?” He asks, breathless.

You nod, looking up through wet lashes, your mouth slightly parted with small pants.

“Yeah, ‘m good.” You pant, jaw slack and voice hoarse.

He huffs with a cocky grin, putting himself away with one hand, and then removing his touch in favor of a silver lighter and a pack of cigarettes, probably an expensive kind from the UK, based on the unfamiliar packaging. He crouches behind you, slipping the lighter in your hand, both of which are still behind your back.

“Give me a light, will you, love?” He pulls your hair back off your shoulder and plants a chaste kiss on the side of your neck. You shudder and nod, clumsily doing your best to feel for the switch, and there’s a flash of warmth in your palm as you light it. He holds the cig there for a moment too long, before clicking his tongue and flicking the extra ash off. It flitters through the air in a dying orange glow, before landing on the small of your back, where your shirt has ridden up. It doesn’t hurt, but there’s a whisper of heat that rests there for a second.

“You’re already such a good toy for me, darling. Let’s see if you can exceed my expectations.” He holds the cigarette between his lips as he makes a show of standing, towering over you, still knelt on the ground. Ketch steps around you, hands clasped behind his back as he looks you over approvingly, before coming to a stop. The toe of his boot is pressing against your crotch with delightful force, the feel of cold leather sending a shiver up your spine.

”Get yourself off before I finish this.” He orders coldly, any interest in your pleasure suddenly missing from his cadence. You position yourself closer by shuffling, then settle. Your eyes flit up to his as you rock your hips, mouth falling open with a needy whine. “How’s that feeling, pet?”

“Good!” You gasp. The curve of the boot digs into your cunt, not rough, but definitely inescapable. Your eyes dart between his handsome face and the slowly-burning cigarette between his fingers, taking in as much of this as possible, just in case it’s just some dream—that would be one freaky ass Djinn. “Feels good, Sir.”

“Oh, just imagine the things I could do to you. I knew you were depraved, but fuck, you’re practically bent. Bet you can’t even cum without someone telling you to. What exactly has that dirty mind of yours been thinking about me, hm?”

You have to squeeze your eyes shut to focus on his words, but your own spilled out like a burst fire hydrant.

“I-I think about you telling me what to do, like now. Choking me,” His shoulders roll back with what you assume is pride as you speak. “Fucking me on a hunt. Tying me up and doing whatever you want with me. Marking me.”

Your movements grow shaky as you try to keep a rhythm, a coil of heat tightening low in your gut. You’re sopping wet, surely leaking over the toe of his shoe and onto the forest floor below. A chilly breeze sweeps through the woods and your nipples clearly are pebbled against the thin material of your top. You swear you see his control crack at the mention of him marking his territory.

“I want you to take me away, farther this time,” You keen. “Just us. Doesn’t even have to be romantic, just… us. You could do what you want to me, I don’t care—jus’ want your attention.”

Ketch is pleased as punch, scoffing lightly at the thought of a ‘romantic getaway.’

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’d take you in the middle of the night, just like this. Gag you, tie you up and fuck you until you’re screaming for mercy. I’m good at torture, pet, you just have to beg the question. I’d fill that tight cunt of yours until you’re leaking with me, then keep going.” His words are venomous, full of promises and cruelty. “Maybe I’d take you out for dinner, but you’re too much of a slut to appreciate it. A messy whore like you is only worried about getting something inside of her.”

You can only babble your agreements, degrading yourself further for his approval, feeding his massive ego like it has been starving without you.

“Whatever you want from me, I’ll give it to you. I’d stop hunting, I’d just be yours,” The cigarette is nearly halfway gone, smoke curling around his sharp jawline like one of those expensive neckties he likes.

That’s the comment that finally breaks his composure. He takes the cig between his lips again, before yanking you off the ground, onto your feet until you’re bent face-first over a conveniently flat-topped boulder. There’s the flick of a knife opening, before your shirt is cut from the back, neckline to the bottom hem. He’s quick to strip you from the last of your clothes, yanking your ruined panties down to your ankles.

“Fuck, you look so good like this, bent over and crying for me. Right where you belong, hm?” His hand grips your jaw as he cages you in, one hand splayed beside your head. His stare roams down your spine, the layers of ink etched into your skin like a canvas

“Yes! I’m yours, Sir, please! Please touch me, you’re right, I need it so bad,” You hiccup.

His (now gloveless) hand meets your clit and your knees shake against rough stone as he laughs coldly. You grit your teeth as you finally feel the beginning of your end.

“You’re tighter than I thought you’d be,” He comments snidely as his fingers breach you. “All those dirty ideas were just in your head? Nobody was ever good enough to finally make your tempestuous dreams a reality?”

“No! No, Sir, mhm! Only you.”

You tremble as he unravels you, mind, body, and soul. Ketch shushes you tauntingly, slowly.

“Hush, pet, you’ve got me. I’m wrapped around that pretty neck of yours and I’m not leaving you.” He swears, pumping his fingers deeper inside. You tense in anticipation as his thumb begins to circle your clit, pushing your hips back against his palm. “Don’t get greedy, sweet girl, I’ll give you what you’re so desperate for.”

One hand settles over the anti-possession tattoo above your ass as the other gets to work releasing himself from his pants again, then lining himself up.

“Deep breath for me, yeah?” You nod as he clutches the base of your throat at the same time as he slides himself home inside of you. The stretch is impressive, and as Ketch presses himself against you, he’s heavy in your belly and you can feel him land somewhere deep inside with each forward thrust. You exhale with a groan of relief.

“Atta girl, taking me so well. Just as perfect as I imagined you to be.”

“More, please. Tell me more!” You sob. Your throat bobs perfectly into the cup of his palm and he can feel your pulse hammering beneath his fingertips.

“Narcissist. You want to know everything? Fine.” He’s downright mean with his words, now, as if he was being kind starting off. “Since the moment I saw you—”

He startled you with a deliciously painful thrust and a slap against your ass.

“I knew I wanted to rip you apart. I wanted nothing more than to feel your blood on my hands, the hands of a killer. That’s what you called me, right?”

“He’s a fucking killer, Mary! Why the hell would you ever consider working with them a good idea?!”

He moves his hand slowly up to your jaw, then over your mouth and nose to cut off any chance of breathing. Your eyes roll back as he hits just the right spot, causing you to tighten around him like a vice.

“The more I watched, I saw what you really are. You’re smart to be afraid of me. You’re a scared, little fawn, desperate for another man to hide behind, to be protected by. Oh, I’ll do that love, and more. I’d be better off slitting your throat just before you cum, then washing my murderous hands of your blood.”

You jerk in his grasp, lashes fluttering as you begin to suffocate.

“I’m enjoying myself too much with you, call me a masochist for putting up with it—but you’re the one getting off from my mercy. I’ll protect you, and more. I’ll keep you all to myself, locked away, never to be seen from again, as long as you let me use you however I see fit. You want to leave? Say the word, but even afterwards, you’ll be stuck with the memories of being put into your place.” His words are laced with hostility, and you can imagine his perfect teeth bared as he speaks.

Right as your vision begins to grow spotty, he releases your airways and you cry out as he pumps himself in, deep and rough. Your pelvic floor contracts and you cum, finally. Your toes tingle and heat crawls through your skin, starting from your pussy outwards. Your bare nipples scrape across the stone as he gropes your chest, twisting and pinching as he pleases.

Tears of relief fall as Ketch releases with a few low grunts, snapping his hips into your ass in succession. He slows his pace as you come down, crying softly as your chest heaves. It’s quiet for a moment, besides your stuttering breaths as you both come down.

Ketch is quick to uncuff you, massaging up your arms and back to soothe your sore muscles.

“Are you alright?” He finally asks.

You shake the hair out of your face and look at him over your shoulder, bleary eyed and teary.

”I’m okay,” You sniffle, releasing a staggered breath. You slowly pull your arms up to your chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious as you turn to shyly face him. All of your pent-up want and desperation, not just for him, but for any form of intimacy has finally been released, and your brain can’t keep up, still dazed from the harsh treatment.

“No more tears, you’ve done so well for me, love,” He tilts your chin up with a hooked finger, smirking proudly at you. There’s something soft, almost domestic in his voice as your eyes meet his.

You huff a laugh, but your slight embarrassment brought on a new wave of tears.

”Sorry, I just…” You wipe your face, trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Clearly, you needed that. Sometimes, sexual depravity is rooted in trauma. Plenty of which, you have. If this is how you want to confront it, I’m more than happy to help.” He turns you to face him again, this time by the shoulders as he kisses you, slow and sure.

You let it happen, let him guide you through this new introduction. When he pulls back, your eyes are wide and glossy.

”Thank you.” You murmur.

“Cry, if you need to. I’ve no problem with it. Come, let’s get you home.”

“You’re not…are you leaving?” You ask with a glimmer of hope in your voice. Ketch has turned and is unzipping a backpack he must’ve brought with him (you were too focused on not getting shot to notice it) and pulling out the blanket from the couch in the library. He pulls your wet panties back where they belong and wraps the blanket around your shoulders, then leans down to scoop you into his arms. The cigarette has been stomped into the dirt by now, faded and cold.

Your right hand goes to his chest to steady yourself, as if he’d ever let you fall.

It had been a long day— from the moment your doors opened for the typical Saturday 11am-12am shift, you seemed to constantly have a line out the door, at least three groups coming in for matching tattoos, a few teenage girls looking to get belly button piercings, and people trying to haggle over your reasonable yet firm prices. There were plenty of great people that came in, many of them asking for you specifically— it was comforting to know your hard work was paying off.

Even when the shop closed from 2pm-4pm so you could clean up the shop and have lunch, there was always a laundry list of shit that needed to get done. Between sanitizing stations, taking phone calls for appointments, answering consultation emails, offering water and snacks to those who were nervous or feeling lightheaded, and doing a few pieces yourself, it had been a long-ass day.

You’d been busy, but the thought of Carmy kept egging in the back of your mind. Your coffee date (for lack of a better term) went great, and Carmy still wouldn’t let you give him all that extra money back—he’d left you $300 for what was a $40 flash (not that you were going to charge him anyway, as a ‘thank you’ for helping you set up when you’d first met).

“Consider it your tip, Flash,” He’d started calling you that, Flash. It wasn’t hard to figure out why, and you certainly weren’t going to correct him when it rolled off his tongue like that.

“What, you give every girl you meet tips like this?” You jabbed, maintaining eye contact as you sipped your mocha.

Carmy chuckled, arms crossed as he leaned back coolly in the chair across from you. “Just the ones I like.”

When you first met him a few weeks prior, you wouldn’t have expected him to be such a flirt. He admitted to you just a couple of days ago over text that you made him feel calm, like he could think clearly around you. He blamed it on your seemingly easy-going nature, so you decided to leave it at that.

However, as the day went on, and it got busier into the evening, you were growing inches closer to losing your cool.

Your current client was haggling. You hate hagglers— you’re an artist, and your work takes time, effort, and constant practice, not to mention how expensive quality equipment is. Your prices were fair, still fairly close to what you were charging during your apprenticeships.

“I can’t just put down a deposit now and pay later?” He asks dumbly. You resist the urge to prince the bridge of your nose in frustration and try to keep your tone firm, but nice.

“Listen, man, I’m sorry, but I can’t just trust the honor system— you can only put a deposit down if you make an appointment at least a week prior. I can go ahead and get you scheduled for a later date so we can set up a consultation and figure out what you’re wanting.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Carmy pass the window to your right, shuffling in as the door chimed upon his entrance. You give him a quick smile over the guy’s shoulder, then turn back to the jerk in front of you.

“Come on, woman, your stuff isn’t even that good.” He scoffs, tossing his arms in the air in annoyance. Carmy visibly tenses, watching the interaction closely. In the few weeks you’d known him, you learned how observant he is— must’ve come from culinary school, watching the masters of cooking at work.

“You’re the one trying to argue over a $60 tattoo, dude. If you don’t like my work, you can find what you want somewhere else. There are plenty of great artists in the city, you’re the one who chose to come into my shop.” You say sternly, arms crossing over your chest.

Carmy takes a step closer as the guy starts huffing, his hands braced on the glass countertop where different piercing jewelry and art was displayed. You scowl as his fingerprints smudge the glass you just cleaned.

“You don’t have to be such a bitch about it!” He snaps.

You’re leaning over the counter as this guy looks like he’s about to bow up and raise a fist against you, when Carmy decides it’s time to step in.

“Man, ‘m givin’ you ten seconds to get the hell out.” He put a hand on the guys chest, shoving him back with much less force than he could. Your eyes flickered down to his biceps, trapped under a simple but sinful white t-shirt, stretched taut over his shoulders. Your mouth would’ve been watering if it wasn’t such a tense situation.

The patrons and your two other artists, Logan and Rhett, watch with a mixture of shock and amusement at the interaction. Asshole Guy, as you’ve begun calling him in your head, throws his arms up again in defense, brows furrowed in anger.

“What, you need a fuckin’ guard dog? Get fuckin’ real, bro, this skank is just greedy—“

Carmen shoves him again, a lot harder this time, his back to you as he lifts up the front of his shirt, exposing the grip of a black pistol, magazine locked and ready to go.

“You’re down to five. Fuckin’ leave already.” Carmy threatens, almost nose-to-nose with the offender.

Glancing at the weapon, then Carmy’s angry expression, then you, Asshole Guy grumbles out a few insults, turning and skulking away.

Carmen follows him out, holding the door open for him to get out onto the sidewalk.

“‘F I ever see you on this street again, your ass is mine!” He shouts in finality.

Your glower doesn’t leave Asshole Guy until he’s completely out of sight, and even after, Carmen guards the door in case he turns around for the last word.

After a tense moment, Carmy turns back inside, muttering under his breath about ‘teaching that jagoff some fuckin’ respect.’ His expression softens when his eyes find you again, arms crossed and a smug grin on your face, one that mirrored his just a few weeks before.

“Sorry ‘bout that, hope I didn’t freak ya out or anythin’.” He apologizes, almost nervously.

“My guard dog, huh?” You tease. “I could get used to hearing that.”

He flushes, looking away with an amused smile.

“You can call me anything you want.” His eyes are trained on you as a smirk grows on his lips, stepping up to the counter to face you.

“How can I repay you?” You ask.

He ponders for a few seconds, then looks back up at you.

“Come to Family on Tuesday.” He states.

“Family?” Your head tilts to the side for a second, a cute contrast to your edgier aesthetic, Carmy thinks. You’d done it a few times during your coffee date, and Carmy wasn’t sure he’d ever get enough of such a simple action.

“Uh, every Tuesday before dinner service, we make a staff meal. Usually we take turns, an’ it’s up to me this week, if you’d maybe wanna join?”

You smile, nodding in acceptance.

“It’s a date, Guard Dog.” You tease with a toothy smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Carmen nods, before straightening up and crossing his beautifully tanned arms— those Italian genes unearthing themselves as the weather gets warmer and his hair gets a few shades lighter from what little he sees of the sun. Underneath the hem of the sinful white t-shirt, you can see the outline of a rounded golden pendant, pressed between his clavicle and the almost sheer fabric that fits nicely to his chest.

As he notices your obvious staring, Carmy responds.

“It’s a date, Flash.”

——

Oh my god where to begin oKAY—

So let’s say at this point, The Bear has been open for at least a couple of months. Everybody’s getting into a routine, the reputation is still good (albeit a little mixed with all the bitching and moaning coming from the kitchen mid-service). Carmy’s routine is get up at about 6am, sometimes earlier if he can’t sleep, get to the restaurant by 7:30 at the latest, run prep until lunch service, take a break that Syd, Richie, or Sugar forced him to take so often that it’s normal, as much as he dislikes it, and then return to do the last bit of prep before dinner service.

My poor boy works himself to death :((

It’s on one of these aforementioned breaks that he’s standing out front, smoking a cig while on the phone with Fak, bitching him out for screwing something up or picking up the wrong thing from the restaurant depot store, when he sees you. 

You’re across the street, about three shops down to the right, carrying in some heavy looking boxes from your car, parallel parked out front. 

He, in true Carmen Anthony Berzatto fashion, watches from a distance. It’s been a while since he’s been with Claire, and it’s not like he was going out of his way to get into another potential relationship, but he would easily admit how pretty you were.

Dressed in shorts and an oversized shirt with some scribbled logo for a metal band, Vans and a black baseball cap. Underneath, your hair was a darker, navy blue color. You had a few piercings, a couple of nostril hoops on one side, your septum and a pretty stud in the middle of your top lip— not to mention the plethora of jewelry adorning your ears. Your arms and legs were covered in tattoos, some bright and colorful and some darker and moodier.

There were plenty of different people that Carmy’s met in his time traveling and working, so any kind of alternative look didn’t really faze him. 

It’s after Richie comes outside to bother him that the former notices his thousand yard stare right at you. 

“‘Scuse me, sweetheart!” Richie shouts down the street, before Carmy can shut his ass up. “Need a few pairs of hands?”

You look up from where you’re struggling to open the shop door while holding a large box, a big grin on your face as you accept their help. Richie all but drags Carmy over as he tells Fak to "get it fuckin' right this time," taking the box from your hands and taking it inside. 

“Oh my god, you guys are lifesavers, thank you.” You smile, holding the door open for them as they retrieve the last few boxes out of your trunk. 

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart, just being neighborly.” Richie says. “I’m Richie, this jagoff is Carmen. We own and operate The Bear down the street.” 

“Jus’ Carmy is fine.” He interjects quietly. 

You nod, looking between them. “Oh, I’ve heard of you guys! I’ll have to come in sometime,” you pause, subtly trying to get an eyeful of Carmy. 

“That would be awesome— you know, Carmy’s got a lot of tats, don’t you, Cousin?” 

Carmen, who is wearing a long sleeved blue sweatshirt, stills as you look him over, before rolling up his sleeves. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t immediately ogling his hands when he first walked up to you. 

“Oh, I love the snail, that’s awesome! Well, if you were ever looking to add to your collection, we open next Thursday. It’d be cool to see you guys around.” 

“You’ll be sick of us before you know it.” Carmy agrees. 

“I’ll look forward to it,” You smile, a little shy by now. The way you and Carmy are looking at each other doesn’t go unnoticed by Richard. 

After a few weeks of saying hi and giving a wave when you crossed paths, it was only after a really shitty Saturday night that Carmen decided he wasn't ready to go home. They were closed the next two days, Sunday Monday which coincided with your hours, funny enough. 

As Carmy locks up, he looks out the window to see the lights still on at your shop, seeing you mill about and take care of the last of your customers. It’s nearly 1am, The Bear stopped seating at 11:30 each night, where your shop closed at 12am on Saturday nights. He supposed you also had a pretty busy day.

The bell above the door chimes softly as he enters, looking around timidly for you. 

You’re finishing up with a client, reminding them of proper aftercare.

“Oh shit— Hey, Carmy! Give me just a sec, I’ll be right with you!” You say, then go back to the guy in front of you. “Clean it with unscented, antibacterial soap, pat dry with a clean paper towel, and use a thin layer of moisturizer— CeraVe works pretty well for me. Don’t take the bandage off until tomorrow morning and try your best not to sleep on it.” 

You help get your client checked out, sending him out the door with a final goodbye, before locking it and turning off the red and blue ‘open’ sign. 

“Got time for one more?” Carmy asked. 

“Sure,” you say, moving behind the counter. “Have anything in mind, or did you wanna flip through my flash books?” 

“Flash— it’s already late, ‘m not gonna make you draw somethin’ up for me."

“Another time, then.” You grin. You go through your books, showing him different styles you offer. A lot of them are more along the American Traditional style, some fineline, some simple, some that were decently intricate for flash sheets. 

While he chose his design, you got to work cleaning your station, sanitizing everything, changing out the old needles for new ones, taking your time and making idle conversation across the shop. 

“What made you wanna open your shop?” He ended up asking. 

“Didn’t know what to do with my art degree. Six years at Pratt Institute of Art, and I hadn’t given a thought as to what I wanted to do. Drawing has always been a big part of me, so it gives me a chance to do what I like. Plus, sometimes it’s kinda fun to see people squirm.” You laughed the last part off, shaking your head at how suggestive it sounded. 

“You’re cold, huh?” He smirked. 

“Bad to the bone, Carmy. You decide on what you’re gettin’?” 

He decided on a box of matches with a rose on the front, one of them sticking out of the package and lit up with fire. He decided not to get any color, sticking with his usual black and white aesthetic. He chose a spot on his arm, on the front of his shoulder near the end of his collarbone. 

It was quite an intimate setup, Carmy taking off his sweatshirt and wearing only a white muscle tank underneath, part of the hem pulled back to expose his tanned skin. You leaned close as he sat back in the chair, head back and looking up at the ceiling. 

“Not that I mind the company, but what made you decide to come in?” You asked, peeking up at him for a moment, your eyes following the silhouette of his face against the fluorescent lights. 

“Had a shitty night at work— didn’t wanna go home just yet. Did you mean to be open so late?” 

“That sucks, sorry to hear that. I was finishing up with that guy earlier; he’s followed me on instagram for a while, and wanted to wait for me to get a proper setup before he came in. He’s a talker, though, it was kinda hard to get rid of him.” You chuckled, wiping at his skin with a clean paper towel. 

“‘S fine, same as always. Richie can’t keep his mouth shut even if it would do everyone some good.” 

Once the tattoo is finished, you snap a few pictures for your portfolio (with permission ofc) and allow him to stand up and take a look in the mirror before you wrap it up. 

“This is fuckin’ sick, thanks,” he mumbles, but the sorters of his lips turn up in satisfaction. 

“Glad to hear. I won’t bother you with the aftercare stuff, I’m sure you know what you’re doin’, but you’ll let me know if you have any trouble with it or anything, right?” You slide a business card across the glass countertop, watching as he inspects it, then slides it into his worn out wallet. You stop him as he starts pulling out cash, asking what the damage is. 

“C’mon, let me pay you, yeah?” 

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll let you next time, promise.” You wink. 

“‘M not leavin’ till you let me give you somethin’,” He said sternly. 

Your eyes lock for a moment before you speak up. “How about this— we go get coffee on Monday, if you’re not busy? 

With a sigh, Carmen relents, putting his wallet away with a short few nods. 

“It’s a deal. Want me to just meet you here? Maybe around noon ‘r somethin’?” 

“That sounds great. I’ll see you on Monday.” You smile, turning around to grab something, and he’s out the door. It makes your heart sink just for a moment, until you see three one-hundred dollar bills on the counter— way more than you would’ve charged normally, even at a discounted price. 

Then you’re pissed, because through the window, you catch his smug grin as he glances back at you one final time tonight.

——

It was a typical hunt, something you’ve done a thousand and one times. One of your first hunts was a Wendigo, in fact. 

It wasn’t the first for either of your brothers, elder or your twin. You had good odds, four against one— everything was supposed to be fine. 

That one was smart— far smarter than any of you had given it credit for. It quickly split you and John away from Sam and Dean, then it got you completely alone in the cave system it called home. It wanted to separate you all and pick you off one by one. 

-

“Dad?” You whispered, keeping your hands steady on your flare gun. “Dad?!” 

Without realizing, you stepped back into a divot between the rocks, causing you to lose your footing and fall backwards. You yelped involuntarily as you tumbled down into a narrow cavern, rolling down smooth yet rugged stone before you finally came to a stop. You gasped for breath, looking up to where you’d fallen from. 

It was a good twenty foot drop, and as you looked up, you could see streaks of moonlight flooding in from the cave entrance. You shakily stood, grunting softly at the spark of pain in your ribs. 

The cave was silent. Thankfully, you hadn’t lost your flare gun, and your flashlight was still in your jacket pocket. You knew you would have to keep moving, try to find a way out. The way you had fallen down was steep and slippery, covered with damp moss. 

That’s a no-go, you thought. 

You knew better than to try and use your flashlight, though you figured it would come in handy shortly, so you looked around, squinting the moonlight to try and take in your surroundings. 

You’d fallen into a kind of central cavern, a wide area with plenty of stalactites hanging from the ceiling. There was one path, veering to the right. 

You took a shaky breath to steady yourself, then quietly made your way down the tunnel. 

-

You never were comfortable with enclosed spaces. You always managed to feel suffocated while sharing the wide backseat of the Impala with Sam, and you got antsy when you were practicing your shooting with how John hovered over your shoulder, waiting for you to make a mistake. 

It made you uneasy. When that unease twisted itself into your stomach, you would feel hot and nauseous. You liked having breathing room, the rare times you had gotten it in your childhood. You were either in school, stuck in a rank motel room, or in the back of John’s car. Personal space was a luxury throughout your life. 

The first Wendigo you ever hunted was good at keeping you on your toes, you’ll give him that. 

-

“Find Dad, find Dean, find Sam. You’re doing great,” you said to yourself, repeating words of encouragement to keep yourself going. 

A loud screech rang out from somewhere in the cave system far behind you, followed by the sound of your name– your father’s voice. 

You halted, listening for anything else. Anything that could lead you to safety. 

John’s voice rang out again, but coming from an entirely different direction. From directly ahead of you. 

“These things, they can mimic peoples’ voices. Don’t ever believe you hear me until you see me.” John had said before, as he gave you the flare gun. 

Your eyes went wide as you pushed yourself against the wall of the cave, sidling along until you found a small alcove you’d passed and shoved yourself in it. You could only see the path you’d come from, not where you were going. 

Footsteps rang out, slow and steady. 

You were shaking, one hand coming up to cover your mouth, the other holding the gun up, your finger hovering over the trigger. 

A horrific scream echoed, much closer than you had anticipated. If you had to guess, it was within ten feet of your hiding spot. 

-

“You good, Y/N?” Dean asked, shutting the trunk of the Impala. 

You swallowed nervously, nodding in response. 

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” You answered. 

Your eldest brother clearly wasn’t convinced. 

“You can stay behind, if you want. Sam and I can take care of one Wendigo.” He said gently. “I know that one time messed you up. There’s definitely a few monsters I'd rather not deal with ever again.” 

You looked back into the motel room, where the door was open and you could see Sam was packing up the last of his things. You considered for a moment, then thought back to your first Wendigo hunt. You needed help then, and things may not be so lucky for your brothers if they went on their own.

“I’m coming with you, Dean.” You stated firmly. 

Dean raised his hands in defense, nodding firmly. 

“Alright, hotshot, you’re with us.” 

“Damn right, jackass.” You teased, slinging your duffel bag over your shoulder as Sam walked to the car, passing it to you. 

“You got this.” Sam said encouragingly. 

“Okay, shut up and get in the car.” You said, smacking each of them gently on the back of the head. 

You hesitated before looking at the now closed door of the motel room. 

I’ll be okay. I have my brothers. You thought to yourself. 

Fate had other ideas for you, that day. 

-

“Y/N!” Your fathers voice screamed out, but it was clearly wrong. 

It sounded distorted, simultaneously too close and too far away. It echoed through the cavern, making a shiver run up your spine. 

And God, the smell. These monsters were easy to detect by sound, but if they were trying to go undetected, the scent gave them away easily. 

You never smelled a rotting corpse until that day, and that’s almost what got you killed. 

It was the middle of summer. It was hot during that day, and the weather had shifted from partly cloudy to a summer rainstorm. Water and heat don’t mix well with withering flesh. 

As it approached your hiding place, you tried not to gag as the smell burnt your nostrils, making your eyes water and your stomach churn. As if being in a cramped, dark cave wasn’t enough, it was like all the fresh air had been sucked away. 

You gagged. Your near fatal mistake was almost vomiting right before your potential death. 

Air. You couldn’t breathe. If you uncovered your mouth, you’d surely be sick and give away your spot. Saliva filled your mouth, the telltale sign your stomach was about to empty itself. 

If you didn’t breathe, you were certain you would pass out, giving the Wendigo the perfect chance to catch his dinner. 

Your eyes watered as you tried to ready yourself, before a shot rang out, and a blast of heat rushed past you. 

The Wendigo screamed like you’d never heard anything scream. Long, drawn out and a sound that haunted you to your core. 

“Y/N? Where are you, Bug?!” 

Dean?

-

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You swore. You tried not to panic so soon, but god damn it, you hated cramped spaces. 

Of course, you were the only one who could squeeze through the hole that entered the mine. 

Of course, you had to find a path to the door to unlock it for your brothers. 

Of course, you had to do it alone. 

“You’ve got this, Bug!” Dean encouraged. 

“Shut up!” You snapped. 

Sam smacked Dean on the arm. “I don’t think you’re helping, man.” 

“I’m trying, dude.” 

“Well, stop trying!” You cut in. “There’s only one path, it veers to the right. I’ll get the door open in a few.” 

You pulled out your flashlight, looking around. 

“Be careful!” Sam warned. 

“Will you two shut up? Go wait by the door or something.” You ordered. 

With one final look back, you stood to your feet, trying desperately to shake the anxiety from your mind. 

You remembered what John taught you. 

“With these bastards, silence is survival.” 

Your footsteps were near silent, save for the occasional crunch of rocks under your boots. You hadn’t heard anything yet, and you were all smart enough to at least try to get into the mineshaft before sundown; before they started hunting you.

The mineshaft thus far only had one path; you entered at a dead end, on the easternmost point of the entire area. Hopefully, if you’d read the map properly earlier, you would only have to make it about a hundred yards forward and twenty to the right before you had your backup. 

You pushed your fear aside, trying to focus on your current objective: find the door and get it open for Sam and Dean. 

The path was nearly pitch black, even with the small streaks of sunlight coming from your entryway behind you. You could easily see the first hints of something horrifying— scraps of tattered clothing, the occasional hiking boot here and there, and burnt out flashlights scattered about. 

It was extremely difficult not to think of that night, nearly eight years ago. You were barely fourteen, and John had essentially sent a sheep into a den of lions. That’s how you always saw it, at least. 

-

 Dean’s voice got closer and closer, yelling desperately for you. Your mind was too clouded and paralyzed by fear and you were unable to decipher whether it was really your big brother, or just another one of the monsters. 

“Bug? Come on, kid, where are you?!” 

You watched as a figure passed your hiding spot, one you easily recognized. 

“D-Dean?” You whimpered, trying your best not to be sick. 

He whipped around, his hardened expression falling to one of immediate relief as he rushed towards you. Dean pulled you into his arms, carefully inspecting you for any injuries. 

“Are you okay?” He asked softly. 

Your bottom lip trembled and your vision was blurred around the edges by hot tears as you hiccupped and squeezed your arms around Dean’s midsection tightly. 

“Oh, Bug… you’re fine, I promise. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay? We have to find Dad and Sammy first. There shouldn’t be any more of these things, alright?” 

“N-No, Dean! Please, I wanna leave, I can’t— I-!” 

“Sh, sh, it’s alright, I’m gonna keep you safe, yeah? I always do, don’t I?” He asked. 

“Y-Yeah,” You sniffled, nodding slightly. In the darkness, you’re not sure if he can see you well, but he seems to understand. 

“That’s my girl.” 

-

You hadn’t been walking long when the smell hit you. It was hard not to consider that the Wendigo may be closer than you expected. 

That awful stench of decay— would it kill these assholes to invest in some candles, maybe a nice floral perfume? 

You came to a halt, analyzing your surroundings as carefully as possible. The mineshaft extended ahead in front of you, and there was one path to the left. 

Maybe.. thirty yards ahead? Twenty yards to the right. You’re almost there, you thought to yourself. 

You crept ahead, your ears tuned to pick up on any unusual sound. The wood that held up the rocks above creaked every so often, and sometimes you could hear the dripping of water from somewhere down an adjacent hall. 

It didn’t take long for you to reach the door, and you breathed a sigh of relief. There was a small, rectangular window near the top middle of the metal door, and you could see Sam looking around, clearly antsy. 

You reached up and knocked on the window. 

“That you, Bug?” Sam asked, muffled. 

“I-It’s me!” You responded, kneeling down and trying to pick the padlock. Sam was always better at picking locks than you were— you got ahead of yourself sometimes, rushing but not being as careful as you should’ve been. 

After the second time of not being able to unlock it, you let out a frustrated groan. 

“Take it easy, okay? You got this. Slow and steady!” Dean cheered you on.  

“If I go slow and steady, this thing is gonna get me!” You huffed. 

You started over, steadying your breathing and trying to pay closer attention to what you were doing. 

“Y/N!” 

You peered up to the window, where Sam and Dean were banging against the glass, yelling for you to run. 

How didn’t you smell it? Hear it?

Your blood ran cold as you slowly turned around, pressing yourself against the door. 

At the end of the path, the Wendigo was crouched, ready to strike. 

“Your flare! Y/N, shoot it!”

“Come on, Y/N!” 

Your breath hitched with each inhale as the Wendigo stared you down. They couldn’t see well, but with the noise your brothers were making, trying to snap you out of your fearful haze, it clearly knew you were there. 

Sam and Dean flinched at the blood curdling scream you let out, cries of panic ringing through the air. 

“No, no!” echoing throughout the mine. 

The creature screeched at the same time you did, then your voice went dead silent. 

“Bug? God damn it, Y/N!” Dean banged on the door, trying to see in through the dirty window. 

Dean watched as the wendigo unceremoniously hauled you over its shoulder, before turning to the window and emitting an ear splitting scream. Your brothers both watched and listened in horror as there was a responding call coming from deeper into the mines. 

Dean shoved Sam back, then pulled out his gun and shot the lower part of the door, right under the handle. The force must’ve been strong enough to break the padlock from the outer side, or at least rattled it enough to slide your lockpicking kit just the right way. 

When Sam and Dean entered, you were gone. All that remained was your backpack, your dropped flare gun, and a puddle of steaming blood. 

-

When the creature was dead and you found your brother and father, Dean thankfully kept his mouth shut about your borderline panic attack. You almost dropped to your knees as soon as you stepped into the morning sunlight, but Sam was quick to steady you. John had always been hard on you, for not being as fast or as strong as your brothers. Dean knew you weren’t in the right headspace to get yelled at; none of you ever were, but you were the best at steeling your emotions and taking the brunt of John’s words head-on. Silent and without argument. 

“You get hurt in the fall?” John asked. 

“No, just a little bruised. I’m okay.” The first part was thankfully true, but that entire hunt did nothing to quell your fears. In the car on the way back to the motel, you were much quieter than normal, and had pressed yourself against the door of the car, in a near-catatonic state. You answered softly when something was asked of you, but weren’t happy about a successful hunt like you usually would be. 

You had awful nightmares for weeks, afterwards. John did nothing to comfort you, he’d just wake you up, scold you for waking him, and go right back to sleep, leaving you to silently cry on the fold out couch. 

-

“Dean, there are two of them, at least! How are we going to kill these things without her?” Sam whisper-shouted. 

“Will you shut it? First, we find Y/N. They can’t be too far off from her. You’re gonna get her out, I can deal with at least one of them. You get her out, shoot anything that moves.” 

“I’m not leaving you, Dean!”

Dean turned, grabbing Sam by the front of his jacket. “You didn’t watch one of those almost kill our sister, but I did.”

“I was just with you when it happened!”

“No, Sam! Her first wendigo hunt. She was having all those nightmares about it for a month after. I’ve never seen her that scared of anything, Sammy. If she’s awake now, she’s terrified.”

Sam relaxed, gently shoving Dean off of him. “Fine. As soon as she’s safe, I’m coming back.” 

“We’ll talk about it later.” 

-

When you woke up, the first thing you felt was pain searing from the outside of your left thigh. With blurry vision, you looked down. Three jagged, still bleeding scratches were embedded into the soft flesh. Your jeans were ripped with blood caking the fabric. 

You looked around, up, and down. The only thing you could deduce was that your hands were crudely tied together, but it was still tight, and you were hanging from some kind of large hook. 

Your head was pounding and it was hard to think straight. 

Focus, you thought. You couldn’t hear anything, and while it did smell quite a lot like mildew and rotting meat, it wasn’t as strong as it was when the Wendigos were around. 

You struggled, attempting to reach up and grab the hook so you could pull yourself up and off and drop to the ground. You grunted, your wrists were sore and you were feeling dizzy and weak from the blood loss. You stopped, jerking towards the ground after you’d managed to lift yourself up a few inches. Your shoulders spasmed in pain, the feeling traveling up your neck. 

“Come on, come on, please–!” you muttered, lifting yourself again. With all of the strength you could muster, you tried again, then dropped to the stone floor before you could anticipate the fall. You hissed as a sharp pain shot up through your already injured leg. 

Great, you thought. Now my ankle’s fucked. 

You sat up and tugged off the rough ropes, freeing your hands. This room was small, with a small cage of electrical boxes against the left wall. Two more hooks hung from the ceiling, both of them with a scrap of fabric caught on the sharp point. Old blood stained the cold metal. The victims from before weren’t as lucky as you’d been so far, you supposed. Your bag was nowhere to be found, with no weapons on your person. 

Slowly, you shuffled over to the cage, pulling yourself up by the chainlink to stand. Thankfully, your ankle didn’t feel broken, but it was sprained at the very least. You’d have to go slow and steady. 

With a sigh, you limped towards the only hallway you could find. 

It was eerily similar to that hunt from years ago, you could hear the sounds of dripping water, and the air here was stale and stagnant. It was dark, by then, the sun had gone down within the past few hours. If Sam and Dean hadn’t found a way in, if they got lost, you may be in even more trouble than before. 

You stumbled through the darkness as quickly as you could without making any loud noises. It was even more difficult to see without any kind of light, so you tried to remember the turns you’d taken up to that point. Right, ahead for a few minutes, left. Right, again, another right. Left.

It didn’t take too much longer to get to the central area of the mine. The stalactites here were enormous, clearly, this place was old. There was one main elevator shaft to the left, and catwalks above your head that led deeper into the mines. To the right of the elevator shaft was a clock-in station, as well as a set of old lockers and a bench. Hard hats and other gear was strewn around, as well as a few worktables; this place had been long abandoned. 

Perfect for these monsters. 

You trudged along and sat on a bench that was in front of the lockers, happy to give yourself a break. You knew you couldn’t stay long, though. 

After a moment of rest, you decided to snoop through the lockers. The first two were empty, but in number three, you found a small matchbook and an oil lamp. You breathed a sigh of relief– Wendigos were killed by fire, and while it would be attracted to the light if it meant food, if you found a torch it would offer better protection and lighting. 

You struck the match and lit the lamp, holding it up and looking further at your surroundings. There wasn’t much you already hadn’t seen, save for a pile of bones against the far wall. 

“Would it kill for them to clean up a little?” You muttered. 

You weighed your options– you could try to find your way back to the entrance where you had come in, you could attempt to go up the elevator, but it was old and would likely draw attention. Your other option would be to go down one of the other tunnels and try to find Sam and Dean. 

The tunnels would likely just get you even more lost, and it’s not like you could climb up to one of the catwalks with your injuries. The bleeding had slowed, but you were likely to hurt yourself further if you tried to climb with your bum leg. Find the entrance it would be. 

You sighed quietly, turning back around towards you came in at. There was another path, tucked away in a dark corner. In the distance, you stopped dead in your tracks at a shrill cry that echoed. 

You moved a little faster, trying to ignore the ache in your ankle. 

You soon heard other voices, ones that clearly were those of your brothers. 

“Dean? Sammy?!” You called out. 

You were met with silence. 

“Fuck,” You swore. 

You pushed ahead, turning back every so often to ensure you weren’t being followed. So far, you were in the clear. 

“Sammy?!” You shouted. Your voice echoed, and a scream rang out. This one was even closer than a few moments before. 

You shuddered, memories flying back in a rush. 

The anxiety, the fear– the smell. 

You rushed ahead, uncaring of the pain you were in. Your mind screamed at you to run, hide, to whatever it took to get the hell out of here. The wendigo was closing in, and you imagined it was somewhere near the elevator you found. 

You held the lantern up, looking around for a place to hide. There was some sort of clearing up ahead, with oil drums and another workbench. You bolted, pushing yourself against the wall under the table, and blew out the lamp. 

Then the smell. It was rotten, but oddly sweet. You had been careful to avoid decomposition since that first wendigo hunt, but you felt like a bloodhound. As soon as it registered in your brain, your body tensed and you were frozen. 

Before you could react, the Wendigo had rushed in, sniffing the air for its prey– for you. 

Your entire body trembled, tears welling in your eyes. No, no, this couldn’t be happening. Not again, god, not again!

It crouched and you nearly screamed at its disfigured face. Its jaw was elongated to account for its long, jagged teeth. There were open sores across its skin, and its limbs were unnaturally long. It must have been around for quite a long time, as it didn’t have any clothes. The skin on its spine was stretched and you could count each individual rib. Its hip bones jutted out from under the gray flesh, which was torn and plain disgusting. These monsters were nothing but rotted corpses, turned into this awful being through the consumption of human flesh. 

Based on the lore of these mines, there had been a collapse and the miners were trapped for just over a month. A few of them were rescued, but they were different when they came out as opposed to when they went in. Shortly after being released from psychiatric care, they allegedly killed their families, two of the men disappeared into the woods and were never found. 

A year or so later is when people started going missing. 

The wendigo sniffed around, whipping its head towards you. You felt hot, stuck under this cramped table between a rock wall and your death. Its eyes held no color, but it felt as though the milkiness of them pierced directly into your soul. 

God, please, not like this. Anything but this, please! You prayed in your mind. 

You were locked in a stalemate, trying not to projectile vomit and piss it off even more, while trying not to scream your head off. Every nerve in your body stood on end as it crawled slowly towards you. You couldn’t help the tears that fell as you came nose-to-nose with it. Just as it reared back to scream, you heard another voice.

“HEY!” 

The wendigo whipped its head around at the noise that came from your right. You watched as it hissed, lunging towards the source of the sound before it shrieked and fell backwards, writhing on the floor as it was suddenly engulfed in flames. You pinched your nose as the scent of burning flesh squeezing your eyes shut and looking away. 

Hands, strong hands suddenly grabbed you, yanking you from your hiding place. 

“No, no, get the fuck off of me!” You thrashed, kicking at the attacker. 

“Hey, hey! Bug, it’s us, you’re safe!” 

It took a moment for your brain to recognize the voice. This wasn’t some sick, distorted mimicry. 

“Sammy?” You whimpered. 

Looking up, Sam was holding your upper arms, looking at you with a relieved smile. Dean stood behind him, kicking the scorched corpse away from you. 

Upon seeing them, your panic washed away and transformed into a fit of sobbing. 

“Oh, kid, it’s okay. You’re alright.” 

“I-It almost happened a-again. I thought I was gonna die again, like that hunt with D-Dad!” You heaved, your breaths quick and uneven. Sam pulled you close, one arm around your shoulders and the other caressing your hair. He nodded for Dean to come closer, then Dean crouched down, inspecting your injuries. 

“Come on, we’ve gotta get you to a hospital.” He said softly, pushing your hair out of your face. 

You turned up at him, and in that moment, all he could see was the same scared little girl from almost a decade ago. Fat tears rolled down your cheeks and you were covered in blood. Your hair was a mess and your clothes were tattered, but seemed easy enough to repair. His heart ached, every paternal instinct screaming for him to make sure you were safe.

“We’ve got you, okay? Nothing’s gonna happen with us here.” He promised. 

You hiccuped again, crying harder, but slightly less tense than before. 

“Let’s get you out, alright? We got the door open, at least.” Sam tried to make you laugh. 

“There’s a-another one, I-I heard it!” You stammered. 

“We got to it first, that’s probably what you heard.” Dean assured you. With a fearful glance at the dead Wendigo on the floor, you slowly nodded. 

Sam pulled you into his arms, one looped under your knees and the other behind your back. 

“You hurt anywhere else?” He asked, looking down to the injury on your thigh. 

“My ankle– I don’t think it’s broken, though.” You said, laying your head against his shoulder. Dean let Sam lead the way out, bringing up the rear just in case. 

When you made it outside, it was still dark, making you cling to Sam more. 

“The car isn’t too far, let’s go.” Dean urged, moving forward ahead of you. It didn’t take long to get to the car, where Sam got into the backseat, taking off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. 

He remembered how you were after that case, and scooted over to give you some space. You whined softly, grabbing his arm. 

“Please, don’t.” You begged softly. 

Without a word, Sam opened his arms and pulled you close. You laid down, your head in his lap as he played with your hair. 

With one final look back at you, Dean started the car. The sound of the engine roaring to life had become a comfort to you, over the years. In that moment, after reliving the harrowing events from before, you could finally breathe. 

After all, your brothers would always be there for you.

--

as always, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated! tysm for reading! ask box is open! <3

You watched as a figure passed your hiding spot, one you easily recognized. 

“D-Dean?” You whimpered, trying your best not to be sick. 

He whipped around, his hardened expression falling to one of immediate relief as he rushed towards you. Dean pulled you into his arms, carefully inspecting you for any injuries. 

“Are you okay?” He asked softly. 

Your bottom lip trembled and your vision was blurred around the edges by hot tears as you hiccupped and squeezed your arms around Dean’s midsection tightly. 

When you woke up this morning, you hadn't expected to be hit with such a massive headache, but here you are, laying your head down on folded arms as Dean cackled from his seat across the table.

"I didn't know you were such a party animal, Y/N!" He teased.

"I didn't know you were so cruel, Dean." You pouted, looking up to see your boyfriend's obnoxious older brother laughing at his phone screen.

You'd had a very successful hunt this week that was practically a milk run; a simple salt n' burn, and only one person had been killed, who was the initial victim. After all the stress of your lives recently, this was a win in the Winchesters' book.

To celebrate, your trio went out to a bar, unknowing of how popular their karaoke stage was. After a few rounds of drinks, and a lost bet between Dean and yourself, you found yourself onstage with Sam singing along to a few songs from the Mamma Mia! soundtrack.

Dean, being the conniving jerk he is, got it all on video (his favorites were the off-key bits, which he reminded you of first thing this morning).

You're sipping a cup of coffee, trying to keep your headache at bay as your loud voice played over his phone's speaker, while the man himself mouthed along to the title number.

"He's still at it?" Sam's voice rings from the bathroom.

"Of course he is." You mutter.

"Oh, lighten up! this is my favorite song you sang!" Dean turns his phone towards you, as the opening melody of Abba's S.O.S. plays in the background.

On the video, you and Sam are on a small wooden stage, bathed in pink and blue lights, microphones in hand and grinning ear to ear.

"Where are those happy days? They seem so hard to find, I tried to reach for you, but you have closed your mind!"

Okay, it isn't that bad so far.

"Whatever happened to our love? I wish I understood! It used to be so nice, it used to be so good!" Sam sang back, one hand snapping while his hips swayed to the beat. It brought a smile to your face, how lovestruck he looked on the video. You could hear Dean's voice in the background, cheering you both on.

"So, when you're near me, darling, can't you hear me? S.O.S. The love you gave me, nothing else can save me, S.O.S. When you're gone, how can I even try to go on? When you're gone, though I try, how can I carry on?" You and Sam sang together.

You feel Sam's hand on your shoulder as he leans over you, watching the video, laughing at a particularly rough sounding high note. At least he didn't wake up as crabby as you did today.

You watch on with stifled amusement, rolling your eyes at your own awful dance moves. By the time the song is over, the crowd is cheering at your shared display as Sam pulls you close, leaning down for a particularly risqué kiss in front of the bar patrons.

"Alright, I've seen enough." You shake your head, standing from the rickety motel chair.

"I'll be keeping this for the next time you piss me off, Y/N!" Dean teases, as you grab a fresh towel and make your way to the bathroom for a shower, grabbing your phone as well.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." You shut the door behind you, sending a quick text to Dean.

Send me that video, please :)

~~

It’s the hottest spot in France, with champagne flowing like water. He finds such beauty, freedom, and culture, wonders he couldn’t ever imagine he would one day bear witness to, or even experience himself. He looks up at the windmill on the top of the building as bright lights illuminate his eyes, sparkling in the night sky like diamonds.

Speaking of diamonds, he certainly meets one that fateful day.

He hears Sam and Dean speak of you, and insists he must see you perform, the Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge.

He only gets to speak with you briefly before the show, in awe of how you teasingly chastise Dean for his reputation among the theater. Castiel is captivated immediately, the first ache of love blooming in his chest as you wink at him, before returning to your private dressing room.

He gets a good seat that night, and certainly doesn’t dare to let his eyes leave you during your performance.

You truly did live up to your nickname, you were gorgeous. Your hair and makeup were perfect, and your risqué costume left little to the imagination, fitting your personality and body perfectly.

Castiel knew what you did. You were a performer at possibly the biggest brothel in the world. Times were often tough, and it wasn’t uncommon for dancers to sell themselves when they weren’t onstage— that’s exactly what this place was for.

You did what you needed to do in order to survive, and it was a cutthroat industry.

The men of the aristocracy leered at you in between shows, doing their damndest to swoon you. They offered jewels, pretty dresses, more than enough money to keep the recently failing theater open.

In that last moment you were onstage, Castiel saw the way you looked at him, there was no doubting what your gaze meant. You wanted him, just as badly as he wanted you.

He would could write sonnets about you that rivaled those of William Shakespeare about your beauty, your talent and charm. The way your eyes shine in the stage lights, how smoothly you moved as you danced, capturing the focus of every eye in the room.

You may have given your body to many, but Castiel swore right then and there that he would be the one you gave your heart to.

I am this close to making this a full fic send help