Supernatural Imagines

Title: Home (Is Wherever I'm With You)

Author: ihopehellhaswi-fi

Summary: Sometimes the universe twists the roads that lead us home. Ficlet. 

Pairing: Gabriel/Reader 

Word count: 695

a) if it's a question, i don't wanna end up spamming the blog with anon asks so you're better off asking on your account so i can answer privately

b) dude i have 200 asks

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You absently hum some old Rolling Stones song whilst folding fresh, crisp, angelically white towels, throwing them over the rack in the classically dated bathroom. It was weird, if slightly confusing, how nice the bunker was. When was it built? The Men of Letters must be pretty old – several generations at least – yet the whole thing felt modern. Judging by the décor it must have been expensive, too. It was all baffling.

You step into the shower, continuing to hum. Life was plain odd. A year ago you were graduating from a top university with your parents sitting together in the front row, beaming. Now you were washing blood from your skin.

You didn’t even have a sob story. Your parents had divorced the week after your ceremony – you’d discovered they were putting on a front so as not to ruin your day – but that hadn’t overly bothered you. Your friends were all alive (you hoped); your apartment still intact.

__

You’d been in your final year when you met them. It was late. Quiet, too. Maybe too quiet, but the quiet had never bothered you, nor the dark. What was bothering you was how the hell the stomach in front of you’s lining had been so heavily eroded. It wasn’t abnormal for its pH to drop to 1, sure, but for extended periods of time? Not so much.

Click. Probably the chilling cabinet.

Click. It’s probably broken.

Click. You look up.

All of a sudden your head was slammed from the top of your spine and your body forced forward so your lungs’ contents are forced out of you. Your eyes bulged as you choked and swallowed for oxygen, but are immediately cut off as an iron grip crushes your trachea. It begins with a warmth in your stomach. Pleasant, even. But it quickly heats into a fire, roaring through you, spreading and tearing and rising up, pausing in your chest; enveloping. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

You glance frantically around for something, anything. Your eyes land on the dismembered organs on the work bench and it all clicks. Some psycho serial killer was trying to burn people from the inside out!

Black spots begin to cloud your vision and quickly take over as your thrashing subsides without your permission. Everything is tunnelling until the last thing you see is a spotlighted, inflamed, dejected stomach lying on marble slab.

__

Your eyes shoot open and you gasp dramatically, raking in air – but it burns like hell. The whole action triggers retching in the back of your throat and all of a sudden your body convulses onto its side as you inadvertently empty the innards of your own stomach. It only ends after a solid 5 minutes, but even then you continue spluttering blood.

It’s only then your situation comes rushing back to you and you freeze. Where was the crazy killer? How had you survived? Your head jerks up and your eyes immediately crash into a pair of brown ones belonging to a shaggy giant crouching a few feet from you. He smiles.

You scramble backwards, crashing into the stone work bench, wanting to make a break for it but your body not responding. Oh, God. Here it is. I’m gonna die.

“Go away!” You scream as a weak threat, or at least you mean to scream. It comes out as a hoarse whisper and it’s your throat that screams. An uncontrollable hacking cough is forced out of you, blood spraying the tiled floor.

He moves towards you and you can only stare up in terror. His arms grip your waist as he hoists you up onto a clean surface of the counter. Your head begins to spin.

If there was one thing you weren’t, it was a quitter. In a last ditch attempt, you wedge your left foot into his groin and throw yourself off the counter, stumbling towards the door, his moans of pain all the reassurance you needed. You reach the door and launch yourself out towards the opposite wall so you’re able to check the corner of a T-junction in the corridors. You flatten yourself against it and are about to move out when a shadow looms on the wall of the passage you’re about to take. You’re sure your involuntary yelp gives you away, but you nonetheless turn to dash the opposite way towards a door at a dead end. Your body slams into it as you frantically shake the handle. No, no, no, no. The one door in the entire building that uses a key instead of a coded lock, and this was it. You slump to your knees and turn over to sit with your back against the door in order to face your fate.

He’s terrifying. That is the only word you can use to describe him. His face is raked with black lines and all sorts of scratches line his body. His green eyes would be pretty if there wasn’t something positively murderous in them; his hair sticking at all sorts of angles as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

Your whole being is spasming with sobs that drag through you as your eyes don’t leave the figure moving towards you in slow motion.

It seems like a life time, but he finally arrives.

He crouches down, his right arm extending…

And cups your cheek. “Hey, hey, ssh.”

Your head strains away but there’s nowhere for it to go. Your body freezes, rigid as a scarecrow.

“It’s okay, we’re not gonna hurt you.” There’s footsteps behind him as his taller friend from earlier appears.

Your breathing increases and you bite your tongue so hard you taste blood. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t need this. your brain repeats over and over.

“Really, we’re not.” The tall one speaks and you start, your eyes flickering to him.

Green Eyes drops his hand. “Actually, we just ganked that son of a bitch who tried to kill you.”

Ganked?

Your eyes flicker between them. There, back, there, back.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Just do it quickly. Please.”

One person retreats. One person stays. One of them pulls you into a broad chest and wraps their arms around you, and you completely let it go. You simply sob into it, but the arms only hold you tighter and a hand strokes your hair.

Thus was how you met Sam and Dean Winchester.

You think back to how they’d begged you not to tag along with them. How Dean had joked about not wanting your ‘pretty little face’ to be ruined; although if they knew you any, they’d have to try harder than that.

You’d not thought about Dean’s little comment back then. Brushed it off as just part of his nature.

But just recently it had crossed your mind more than once. Dean thought you were ‘pretty’. Although then again, didn’t he think everyone was pretty after a few drinks? You had been witness to his mannerisms in bars; flickering eyes and tiny movements over some girl’s body, grinning whenever he caught your eye over the her shoulder. He thought he was such a stud. You would always shake your head, smile, and maybe turn and make some comment to Sam.

Back then Sam and Dean were your big brothers – that was all. They would make you hot cocoa if you were sick; make fun of you if you messed up a hunt; ruffle your hair when they knew you’d made an effort.

But then something had started moving. Like a little caterpillar, itching underneath your skin. Suddenly you noticed Dean’s body – how did he get it like that without working out? And the eyes. Their green was abruptly brighter, framed by a perfectly chiselled face with a spattering of freckles that somehow made him look like a boy again. You tried to ignore it, and the caterpillar made its cocoon. It was easier to ignore it, especially when he stopped flashing you those grins when you were out at bars, which had become the bane of your life. Months went by.

Then, out of nowhere, the cocoon broke. A butterfly burst out, and Dean hit you with full force – you were completely and unalterably in love with him.

You’d waited before doing anything, of course. Months to be sure. But tonight was the night. Sam had driven up to Sioux Falls to see Bobby whilst you and Dean stayed and did ‘research’ in the snug warmth of the bunker as the world froze over outside. You’d lit a fire in the main room earlier after Sam left and nipped off to take a shower.

You finished the last coat of mascara, still miraculously being able to open your eyes after so many layers, and smiled. You were definitely improved, that much was true. You just hoped Dean thought you looked okay.

You slip on a skirt over your nicest underwear and neutral tan heels, stand your tallest and take a deep breath. This was it – and you felt like dancing. You and Dean, Dean and you. You’d had just one serious boyfriend when you were younger, and were eager to experience that feeling again. The excitement, the exhilaration, the sex. It was always so much better with someone you totally had feelings for.

You love the sound heels make as they clack over wooden floorboards. It’s confident, it’s independent and it’s wholly self-assured.

“Dean!” You call through the bunker. “Hey, Dean!”

A faint “yeah?” echoes back. Still by the fire.

Your heart beats increasingly intensely as you near the doorway, and you take a deep breath. “Dean.”

“Yeah?” He’s still looking down at the books in front of him, evidently scanning for some piece of information. He evidently finds something, jots it down, then looks up, and his mouth falls open slightly. His eyes run down to your toes and back up again, and he swallows.

You smile. “Hey.”

His expression is completely dumbfounded yet inherently unsure. “Oh, god, Y/N…”

Your smile falls. “Dean?” You ask nervously. Oh, no.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re beautiful, but…”

Your blood runs cold and rushes in your ears, your hand shooting to your forehead. You forget how to breathe. “Oh, my….” You attempt a swallow but it gets stuck in your throat. You turn away.

You hear a chair scrape backwards across the floor and footsteps travel towards you, but you just stay planted in the same spot unable to move. How could you have been so stupid? Of course he didn’t like you. Of course he didn’t. He was like your brother!

A hand tentatively touches your shoulder and you jump round to face it. Him.

“Y/N, you’re…” His other hand rubs his mouth. “God, I’m such a douchebag. If you’d…. last year,” he attempts, and searches your face.

You stare back at him until it clicks. Last year. The grins, the looks. That was flirting.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry…” A thumb gently swipes away a tear you didn’t realise had fallen. His voice is husky and low. “I really like you, but –“ you choke out a sob. “ – not like – not like that.” His eyes are drowned in pain.

That’s when the cracks inside you fall away into shards, leaving the pane empty. You felt hollow, but most of all broken – and that’s when you realise just how hard you’d fallen for Dean Winchester.

You give a rush of tiny nods, averting your gaze from his before dodging and turning away so he couldn’t grab you as you left. How stupid could you be? You felt humiliated, ugly, undesirable. You look ridiculous! Dressing up like this? You looked obsessive.

You’ve taken but a few steps into the next room when a hand grasps your shoulder. How…? In that millisecond you frown. You closed the door behind him so you could shut him out; out of your mind, out of your life –

You know who it is before you turn. “Hey,” he says.

Without looking to see his face, you throw yourself into him and his arms wrap around your torso immediately. His left arm moves to the area just above your waist and the right to stroke your hair, and he doesn’t even stop when you’ve soaked his checked shirt and squeezed him to an inch of his life.

You don’t know how long the two of you stand there wrapped around each other, but eventually he pulls away when the juddering sniffles post-sobbing have cleared. He just stares down at you for a few moments then smiles. “You okay?”

Your eyes finally meet his and look away almost immediately down to the floor. You just take a deep breath. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

“You know it’s not you, right?” Sam pauses. “Dean, he – he’s just broken, and God knows how long that’ll take to fix, but – you’re not – you’re still beautiful.”

You let out a solitary sarcastic laugh. Right.

“Hey, don’t you dare put yourself down for some guy, Y/N. There’s someone out there who thinks you’re funny, smart, amazing; someone who loves the way you jump at small noises and – and – how you think Skittles are the coolest thing ever, and those freckles you hate – and if someone doesn’t ‘get’ you then – then they can go screw themselves. Screw everyone. ‘Cus all they talk is jack.”

“Sam, it’s not just ‘some guy’, it’s –”

“Yeah, it’s Dean. I get it.” He sighs and looks down, looking somewhat perplexed. He releases both hands from your body and runs the right through his mane of hair.

“You’re gonna be pissed, and protective, ‘cus he’s your brother, I know, but can you please at least try to understand?”

“Loud and clear.” He grimaces and turns to go, and begins walking away from you.

“Sam, don’t be mad.”

He turns around. “Mad?” He laughs incredulously, looking around the wood-clad room. “I’m not mad. I’m just tryna’ figure out why the hell you like my douchey brother so much.” His eyes rest on you.

“I –”

“You know it’s kinda crazy how after all this time you still trail around after him like a puppy dog.”

Your face contorts into disgust. “What?” Already Sam looks like he wants to shove the words back down his throat. “Like a… What the fuck is that meant to mean?”

“Y/N –”

“No, Sam, you’re the asshole here.” You pause. “Just leave me alone.”

There’s a deafening silence until Sam suddenly starts forward and gains such momentum in the short time that it looks like he’s going to take you in his path. He stops extremely close to you and stares down at you with crushing force.

“You know what the worst thing is? Seeing you just – God – seeing you like this. This isn’t you! Don’t you get it? He – he changes you!” He pauses, breathing heavily. “When I first saw you back in that lab, it was weird, ‘cus you know what my first thought was? It was how easy you’d be to fall in love with. Dean sure as hell saw it –” Sam runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes.

You just stare right back up at him. Baffled. Bewildered. Bemused. Was he…?

“Are you…?”

He swallows and nods. His face crumples simultaneously with yours. Oh, God.

“Oh, God.” You whisper.

He looks down, but you continue looking at him. After a few moments his eyes flicker back up.

More moments pass. You know it’ll happen before it does, yet as his lips brush yours it feels like you imagined it. A mirage. A dream.

Sam bows his head and the two of you stay like that for minutes. He moves away and leaves ever so softly.

And suddenly you’re back in the lab 365 days ago looking at an organ on bench. This time it’s yours and there’s a significant hole in your ribcage. One sentiment remains the same.

so i finally did the one with charlie and the bone marrow!! 

also hope y’all have happy holidays umu

____

Charlie taps the Star Wars theme tune in the wooden arm of the chair, slowly at first, but quickly increasing in speed until it all becomes a jumble of thuds and that grumpy overweight middle aged man in the corner’s unkempt eyebrows almost totally cover his eyes. You clap your hand over hers.

“Hey. It’s gonna be okay.” You rub soothing circles into the pale smoothness of the back of her hand and glance up at her pasty pallor. It could’ve been the cream coloured everything of the numerous hard surfaces in the room reflecting on her skin, but it also could’ve been the fact she was about to get pregnant. With your baby.

She smiles at you briefly before looking down at your hands. “Yeah, I know, you’re right. It’s just – this is so friggin’ scary, y’know, like – after I was sure I played for this team I kinda thought that was synonymous with not having kids.”

Your brow puckers slightly.

“Not that – not that I’m having second thoughts. At all. Though I’m scared as hell about all this mom stuff I’m also totally excited and there’s no-one I wanna make babies with more than you.” She frowns. “That sounded more romantic in my head.”

You chuckle. This had to be why you loved her. Or, not to mention the fact she was gorgeous, or she had amazing taste in music, video games, TV, films, or the fact she was the sweetest and cleverest person you had ever – or would ever, you were pretty sure – met. You lean forward and peck her on the lips, and before you have the chance to say anything more a female doctor pops her head out of the door, “Charlie Bradbury and Y/N?”

Your fingers on her hand stop to clasp it and pull her, along with yourself, to your feet. She squeezes your hand extremely tightlyand both of you follow Dr. Pond, as it said on her name badge, into the light.

____

It’s only when you both reach the car that either of you stop to take it in.

Charlie takes a deep breath in. “I’m pregnant. Oh my God.”

You nod dazedly. “You’re pregnant.”

She turns to you. “I’m pregnant!” Then and there her face is a ray of sunshine – not a boiling, spitting ball of magma – a star; happiness; the light. It’s goodness. The most genuine grin spreads across her face and it’s infectious. You pull her close to you, tight. You read somewhere once that no matter how hard you try, there will always be a microscopic area of space between two surfaces. Right now, that has to be impossible. Your bodies are pressed together into the tightest hug imaginable that somewhere turns into a deep kiss which makes your legs go weak.

You’re not sure how long the two of you are stood there for, but when you pull back the sun is going down. You let out a small laugh.

“What?”

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Imagine what the guys’ll say.”

___

The two of you descend the somehow pristinely pearly polished wood of the opening stairs down to the bunker, hands still clasped tightly together.

When you arrive on the main floor, Cas is standing there with his usual stoic, confused expression and his head whips around like a cat on your arrival. His eyes narrow – hey, nothing new.

“You okay, Cas…tiel?” Charlie’d only met Cas last week and, despite you telling her otherwise, had insisted she didn’t have nickname rights to him yet since she didn’t share a ‘profound bond’ with him – whatever that meant – but couldn’t seem to get out of the habit of using it.

“Yes, I’m fine.” His head cocks sideways. “You’re… Different, Charlie.”

“What d’you mean?” You chip in.

His eyes narrow further.

It all comes out of her like vomit, then: “I’mpregnant.”

His eyes move to space on the floor in front of your feet.

“…With Y/N’s baby.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “You must be mistaken. That is biologically impossible.”

You attempt to help. “No, Cas, see, there’s this thing in modern medicine with bone marrow –”

“Hey, so, I’m thinkin’ tonight we order pizza. My baby’s all fixed up, the world can put its crap on hold –” Dean’s footsteps echo loudly around the bunker whilst he dusts his hands off on his jeans. “What’s up?”

You and Charlie exchange glances for a couple of seconds.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on? You gonna tell me or we playin’ Charades?” 

Charlie pulls herself in close to you so your face muffles her speech when she talks. “You’re gonna be an uncle.”

Dean’s eyes widen then he frowns and his jaw sets in a hard line. “Sammy!”

A distant “yeah?” is thrown off the walls, which is followed by footsteps.

“No, no – Dean, no, it’s – it’s gonna be me.” Charlie blurts before Dean can say anything else.

His brow furrows even more. “But you don’t… Did some guy – hell, did some guy do something to you? ‘Cus I swear to god I will hunt the bastard down and –”

“No! No, no! The baby’s Y/N’s.”

He looks around the room like he’s trying to figure this out. “But…” He blinks a few times. “You know, I might be wrong, but don’t you need a guy to do that?” He pauses. “Wait, did you get one of your, uh, LARPing buddies to jack off into a jar for you and do it that way?”

“Ew! Dude, no! Oh, ew, Dean. Seriously?”

He shrugs.

“No, we –”

“Hey, everything okay?” Sam sounds mildly breathless upon his abrupt arrival into the ‘dining room’.

“Charlie’s pregnant. It’s mine. Before you ask, just listen, okay?”

His mouth opens, then closes, then he simply nods.

“We’ve been planning this for ages, we – we really wanted a kid together but of course we…” You look down and clear your throat. “Yeah.” You look up again. “And we thought how totally awesome it’d be if it was, you know, ours, and not some random donor that would never be a part of this baby’s life.” You swallow. “So my doctor told me about this new thing that’s coming in. It – it uses your bone marrow, to, uh, make… The lil’ wrigglers, and it works that way. So it’s biologically yours. Or mine.” You look around at their faces.

Cas is intensely staring at you with a frown on his face, unwavering. Dean’s eyes flicker between you and Charlie, as if he can’t quite comprehend what you’ve just told him. Sam looks thoughtful and after about 10 seconds breaks the thick silence by stepping towards you both and pulling Charlie and you into a bear hug.

“That’s amazing! So I’m gonna be an uncle?”

Charlie grins and nods.

Sam begins laughing and it’s catching. Soon, the three of you are in hysterics and after a minute or so you remember Cas and Dean. You lean round Sam to peek out at them and are dismayed to see both still standing there with frowns on their faces and your smile slips away.

You step out of the hug to place yourself directly in front of Dean. He slowly shakes his head whilst staring you down, an unreadable expression on his face, and your heart sinks. God, no. He had to be one of the only people you absolutely knew you wanted to meet this kid, to be in his or her life, and if he wanted nothing to do with it…

Dean swallows thickly, and before you know it has stepped forward to envelop you totally in a hug. His left hand curls over the back of your head and he buries his nose in your hair, and that’s when you know it’s going to be alright. This is how he interacted with Charlie – this is how he interacted with a sister.

“If it’s a boy you better call it Dean, okay?” He mumbles into your hair.

You grin and nod into him, softly making a sound of agreement. Just like you did with Sam, though, you peek round his shoulder to see Cas, who is now looking at Charlie intently whilst she chats animatedly to Sam.

“Cas?”

His eyes snap to you.

You pause. “What do you think?”

He gives a small nod. “Congratulations.”

“You don’t… You don’t think it’s, uh, weird?”

“I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation. ‘Children are a heritage of the Lord’.”

You’re not totally sure what that means, but you nod and smile anyway.

You stare forward at the Impala’s dashboard heavily shadowed in 2am gloom, and consider all the options. Sam was definitely on the demon blood, most likely Ruby’s – that much you know.

You feel a painful jolt of a jealousy thinking about Ruby. What could she give Sam, besides her blood, that you couldn’t? Did Sam like her?

You’d been able to have a slight grip on the situation at first. Some nights he’d sleep with his head in your lap and whenever he had a funny start you’d run your hands through his hair soothingly and offer him some sleep meds.

But then there came a time where it stopped working. He twitched and writhed and beads of sweat and tears dripped down his temples and soaked your trousers. You’d pressed a light kiss to his forehead and whispered about how strong he was in his ear – like a mother would – but that didn’t work either.

One night, though, he stopped. Stopped wriggling and squirming and just lay peacefully for the first time in months. You’d glanced over at Dean and he’d just shrugged, so you’d thought yeah, maybe he is getting better.

You’d let your eyelids slip closed into a dreamless slumber.

You tuck your knees up to hug them and curse yourself. You should’ve known. If it seems too good to be true, it usually is.

Dean looks sidelong at you. “You haven’t eaten for 48 hours. I’m stoppin’ off at the next food place, okay?”

You shake your head and mumble a muffled “no,” but Dean ignores this and a half hour later he pulls into a truck stop and gets out, giving the instruction for you to stay put. Where the hell would you go anyway?

While you wait you drum rhythms on the leather seat. 2 days he’d been gone. You could travel a long way in two days, which snakes doubt into your mind. Dean was pretty confident he could find him (“what don’t I know about that kid?”) but he must know that if Sam doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.

You jump slightly when Dean opens the door and tosses you some chocolate and a couple of juice boxes, then gets in.

The corner of your mouth pulls up slightly. “Nutritional, huh?”

He raises an eyebrow sarcastically. “Well it’s that or beef jerky.”

___

Hours later you you’re standing outside the hotel Dean seems to be positive Sam is staying at.

You open your mouth to speak again but Dean cuts you off. “I swear to God if you ask me whether I’m sure it’s here one more time, I am dumping your ass on a one way train ride to Mexico.”

You hold your hands up in mock defeat. “Okay, okay, just checking.” Looking up at the ominous doors beneath the harsh glow of a neon sign and your grin fades. You’re worried you’re not going to like what you see.

Dean takes a sharp breath in. “Okay, let’s do this,” he says under his breath and checks his pockets. “Got your salt and gun?”

You nod and your heart speeds up. It’s partially adrenaline – you get to end Ruby, here, tonight – but it’s also the thought of seeing Sam again. When you’d all met in a bar years and years ago, you’d thought he was pretty cute. When you’d got talking, you’d thought he was pretty nice. When you’d gone hunting, you’d thought he was pretty clever. But when he’d gotten ill, you’d realised you weren’t sure if you could live without him, and that scared you.

You load your gun and hold it close to you out of habit. Bullets couldn’t kill a demon, sure, but they could incapacitate one long enough for Dean to shove a knife in its neck.

There’s nobody at reception – if there was, they’d probably call the cops because of a guy and a girl walking through with pistols – so you slip by undetected.

You follow Dean up a flight of stairs and he edges on to a landing and stops by door 66, gesturing for you to stand the other side of the frame. You silently follow the instructions.

Dean wordlessly counts down from three on his fingers and busts in with brute force. You follow him in and spot Ruby – but not Sam – immediately. Rage fills you, it courses through your veins and in a second you’re across the room and have her against the wall, your arm jammed over her meatsuit’s windpipe. “Dean!” you signal desperately and he’s next to you in a millisecond, the knife nearly –

Suddenly he’s thrown backwards and you look back in confusion when you are, too.

You’re still standing up, just, but Dean is splayed out on the floor coughing whilst you blink the lights away from your eyes.

“Guys, I’m glad you’re both here,” Sam says looking between the two of you, “let’s just talk this out.”

“Sam, she’s killing you! Can’t you see what an idiot you’re being?” As soon as it comes out you want to take it all back. Shove it back down your throat and bury it.

Sam stares at you. Just stares, and oh God, it’s the worst stare imaginable. Hurt mingles with sadness mixes with an undertone of anger.

You shake your head slowly. “Sam that’s not what I –”

“Ruby, go.”

“No, she ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Dean cuts in.

Ruby merely looks at Sam, but his gaze is still locked on you, so she exits so quietly it’s as if she was never here. You wish she was never here.

Sam’s voice is tight and restrained when he speaks. “She’s helping me find Lilith.”

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. “No, she’s manipulating you!”

“Listen – we’ve got a lead on a demon close to Lilith, what’s the problem with that, huh? Neither of you have one.”

“We can do this without Ruby. Just us three.”

“I don’t get why you even hate her so much. She’s helping me!”

“That’s crap, Sam! Why can’t you let Dean help?” You gesture to him. “Why not me?”

“Because Ruby can give me what I need – she supports me, and with her blood I can kill Lilith.”

Your voice is still ascending and you can’t stop it. “Ruby isn’t the answer to everything, you know!”

He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” your voice wavers and wobbles dangerously but you’ve started now and can’t stop. “Does Ruby stay up so she can hold your hand if you have a bad turn? Does she worry about you constantly? About how you’re slipping away from her with every second that falls away and there is nothing – absolutely nothing – she can do about it but sit and wait and hope that she can be the light that leads you out of the dark? Does her whole being hurt at the thought of losing you or – or how much she loves you?” Your breathing is heavy and fast like you’ve just ran a marathon for a few moments, then you realise what you’ve said. Your eyes widen and you take a step back, your mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

His eyes focus hazily on the space above your head. “What?”

When you next speak, it’s a whisper. “I’m so scared, Sam.”

His eyes slowly, so slowly, drop back to fix yours in a stare.

beware it gets smutty at the end!! double beware bc i am terrible at smut!!!

___

You sit down wearily in an equally weary diner somewhere in Kentucky and pick at the peeling faded lino seat. Some part of your brain comments that it’s a shame, really, since this could’ve been a nice place.

Your head snaps up when you hear a voice. It belongs to a balding, overweight bearded man in leather who looks notably out of place. Speaking, or rather leering, directly to your chest, he winks. “Free later, darling?” and licks his lips.

“Get lost.”

He looks taken aback for a second and his grin disappears. For a few moments panic flashes through you and it seems as if he’s going to use force, but his chin merely juts forward and he mutters “dumb bitch,” before wandering off.

You shift about uncomfortably. You hate getting your boobs out at the best of times, but in certain places – such as this – where the police force was predominantly male, using your assets to your advantage couldn’t hurt.

___

You’ve just about finished your beer when the police scanner crackles to life. Another death, this time a few blocks away. You frown. In daylight?

You stride out to the car park and select a car. You scan the area to make sure nobody’s around before easily breaking in and hotwiring it to start. Sure, you could have walked, but with 6 inch heels on you’d have bloody stumps by the end of it.

After a minute or two you find the place easily enough. The police tape is a dead giveaway.

Making your way through the crowd that has begun to gather, a tubby police officer with an extravagant moustache steps forward to meet you. “How may I help you, ma’am?”

You stick your chest forward not-so-subtly and flutter your eyelashes slightly, touching his shoulder with newly manicured nails. “Detective Balgrove, FBI.”

He nods and lifts the tape up to let you through. “FBI sure got here quick,” he remarks, but doesn’t make an effort to stop you. He says something else indistinctly that you don’t catch, but you don’t bother to ask for a repeat since it could easily lead on to a wait, who the hell are you?

A couple of middle-aged policemen mill about inside, taking little notice of you, save for ogling gazes.

The place itself is a small grocery store with no more than two or three aisles, and an exhausted décor not dissimilar in atmosphere from the diner, although a little less colourful. The shelves are filled with own-brand long life packet mixes that probably contained little natural substance in.

You scan them for any telltale hexbags or sulfur on your way to the scene in order to rule out the possibilities with a familiar metallic smell filling the air. It was rather ironic how you were often around blood, being a hunter and all, but you could only barely tolerate it at the best of times – and now was no exception.

Your mind whirs. Not a demon or witch, then. Angel? Very unlikely. Ghost? Probably.

You’re about to round the corner when your feet are nailed to the cheap lino and your blood runs cold.

10 million square kilometres and he’s here?

No. It had to be a mistake.

Your body reacts before your brain does, and you’re backing away towards the door. Suddenly the air seems heavy and this room too small and the bloody stench clogging your nostrils.

Your hand is on the door handle when it happens. The unthinkable.

“Y/N?”

Your opportunities sprint through your mind. Walk out and ignore him? He’d probably check the shop’s tapes for confirmation it was really you. Turn around? He thought you were dead, for crying out loud. How would that play out? Yeah, sorry for ditching you, Dean; but hey, I’m alive!

Maybe Sam would help you out? Yeah, of course he would. Sam was the one who facilitated your whole Sherlock Holmes getaway, after all.

A few tense seconds pass and all three of you are silent.

What are you waiting for?

You turn around slowly to face him but don’t meet his eyes. He’ll crush you with them and you both know it.

“Dean.” You swallow.

He simply stares at you for what seems like a lifetime, and is only broken when Sam clears his throat.

Dean looks at his little brother then back at you. “We need to talk.” His voice is tight and closed and everything you wish it wasn’t.

“I don’t think that’s –” You begin, but he cuts you off.

“We’re staying at Sleep Inn.”

You’re either about to burst into tears or vomit or both at once. “Dean, I don’t think that’s such a great idea. Let’s just forget this ever happened.” You turn around to the door.

His jaw and fist tighten simultaneously. “Yeah, no. Not gonna happen.”

You close your eyes. He’s right. Oh, God, he’s right. Dean Winchester is the world’s best tracker with the determination of a hellhound. He’d find you wherever you went. “You going all Liam Neeson on me?” You let out a jittery laugh that falls noticeably short of its target of humour.

Dean ignores you and turns to the shop owner. After a few quiet words with him, and subsequently Sam, they both walk towards you so you’re left with no choice but to exit the shop.

Suddenly the 80 degree heat is way, way too hot and you clutch your throat, forcing in the oxygen to your lungs.

A hand on your back makes you jump about 10 feet in the air and instinctively pull away slightly, but it merely follows. For a second you’re terrified it’s Dean, but to your minimal relief it’s his younger brother. You send him a pleading look but he presses his lips together and looks away.

You note how his hair has really let itself go, and it flows like a lion’s mane to brush his shoulders. This would be acceptable, but Dean’s hasn’t changed at all, so you figure maybe there must be opportunity to get their cut at some point, so really there’s no excuse.

These thoughts take place in the small part of your brain that isn’t in overload. It’s like someone crossed the wires and everything is crashing into each other at once, threatening to cut out completely.

You three arrive at the Impala. Oh God, the Impala. Hours and hours in there you’d spent – sometimes it was way too hot and you melted into the leather seats; the rattling in the air conditioning had annoyed you no end. Sometimes it was too cold and its complete lack of insulation had meant you’d frozen until Dean bought you a huge fur blanket. Sometimes you rode in the front with Dean and sometimes, just sometimes, he’d let you choose the music. And in extremely rare cases, he wouldn’t even complain.

Then there were the times in there where it was you two alone. You blush slightly. Those times were the best.

You sit in the back – it goes without saying you’d promptly lost front seat priveliges – and for a few seconds there’s a horrid, arid silence that you’re too scared to shatter.

“Why’d you do it?”

You attempt to swallow down the lump in your throat. “Dean, I’m –”

“Yeah, you’re sorry. That’s what everyone says. Funny, that.” He pauses as if to let you speak, but carries on. “Way I see it, you ditched me and Sam when we needed you most and let us think you were friggin’ dead.”

“I can’t change that.”

“Too damn bad, Y/N. I trusted you!” His volume rises a few notches. “Doing this stuff when it suits you!”

You raise your voice, too. “It did not suit me! How could you even think that?”

“Oh yeah? Like the time in Salt Lake City?”

You fall silent. He was bringing up Salt Lake City. He was bringing up Salt Lake City. That was a low blow.

The three of you say nothing for the remaining 20 minutes of the journey, at the end of which you pull up to a duffed-up motel that was once called Sleep Inn, but as a result of the missing letter, it now reads “Seep Inn”. Huh.

Sam and Dean get out and straighten up, Sam managing to hit his head in the process, and both begin walking to the reception. You stay sat where you are, trying to prolong the time before the inevitable.

Dean would make you crumble, you know that. He would crumple you and tear you into pieces without so much as touching you, which was both the worst and best thing about him. He hated what he dubbed “chick flick moments”, aka showing emotion, but if you lifted the mask then he was emotion all over, and you kind of loved it.

They return, Dean raising his eyebrows at you as signal to get out, and you follow the wordless instructions silently. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

The sick feeling wells up; your head pounds, but somehow your feet are still moving.

Once inside, Dean closes the door behind you and you cross the room to slump into the cheap off-white plastic chair by the matching table and stare at that dodgy yellow stain on the floor.

Dean rubs his face. “Okay, uh…” He turns to look at Sam pointedly. When Sam just raises his eyebrows, he raises them back. Eventually Sam rolls his eyes and leaves, the sound of the Impala’s husky voice growling and her tires chewing the gravel, before speeding off.

You look up at Dean. “You’re letting him take it?”

“Nope.”

You both laugh, and it’s a nice but surreal moment.

You’d hoped for a while that you could just get over him, and you’d tried. You really had. You’d had fling after fling and even been on dates just to try out different guys, even if you weren’t looking for anything long term; just something to get him out of your brain.

It hadn’t even worked.

“I missed you.” You say quietly.

He lets out a short, sarcastic laugh.

“What?”

He turns around so his back is facing you, but you still see the tremble of his shoulders and stand up to brace yourself.

“You’re friggin’ impossible.” Barely contained anger tinges Dean’s voice and you wince. He spins around suddenly, causing you to shrink back in your chair.

“What the Hell were you thinking? Did you even stop to think about how it made me feel? I thought you werestone cold dead!”

You jump up with such vigour the chair tips over and clatters to the floor, but you’re too furious to care. “I did it for you!”

“Cut the crap, Y/N! How the fuck was that for me, huh? Yeah, sure, thinking you were dead like pretty much everyone else close to me was darned peachy!”

“You –”

“Hey, and you know what the worst thing of all was? Feeling like I’d failed you like every other God forsaken thing that I care about. I don’t need to feel like crap! I don’t need it!”

You take a step towards him, so you’re close enough to touch his chest. “That’s your problem, Dean, you keep trying to look after me all the time. Well newsflash: I’m not a kid and I can look after myself!” You punctuate each word of the last sentence with a jab of your index finger to his broad chest.

There’s a brief pause, then Dean is leaning down and you’re meeting him halfway with your lips. You crush together with some force and you feel the anger, the passion, and the hunger pulsing through him as he turns you 90 degrees and slams you into the wall, his mouth never leaving yours.

You link your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him and extinguishing any space between your bodies. Without your brain telling your body to, you grind into him, never wanting to leave – but Dean abruptly pulls away.

No!

Your mind flails for a few hundredths of a second. Does he not want me? Am I unattractive? Have I lost it? Is he having second thoughts?

Your thoughts are interrupted when he tugs off your blazer and attempts to undo your blouse before getting frustrated and ripping it open, buttons flying everywhere.

He does the same with his own blazer and shirt, forgetting the tie so it lay on his bare chest. Obstructing his bare chest. You rectify that by undoing the knot with ease and throwing it over his shoulder.

Momentarily you pause and stare up at his green eyes – like in some kind of movie – marvelling a little at the beauty of them for a second, when Dean cuts you off by rather forcefully pulling him into you again.

You unbuckle his belt and pull down his flannels, bending down, pausing by his crotch and noticing the bulge straining through the grey fabric. Dean’s breathing suddenly becomes even more erratic and you look up to see his lip trembling slightly, him staring down at you with pure lust.

You stand up and he groans slightly, to which you smirk. Yep, you definitely did still have it.

He removes your skirt and tights with ease so you’re both standing there in only your underwear. Just for a second or two you pause to take the vision of him in. God, he was gorgeous. You loved every little bit of his personality, his quirks and all, of course, but damn, was he beautiful.

You reach to lay a hand over his heart, which beats in competition with a hummingbird’s, and he shudders.

Again with an abrupt action, he grips your elbow to jerk you towards him and undoes your bra. You assist by pulling down your panties, scrunching them up and launching them across the room. Dean does the same with his boxer briefs until you’re both standing completely nude.

You wait for him to make the first move toward you – you always did – but all of a sudden his eyes flash with fury. It’s then you remember you’re pissed.

Dean rams his fist into the wall above you. “Damn it, this is your fault!”

You place both hands on his chest and shove him away with as much force as you can muster. It does force him back a pace, but he’s a hefty guy.

“My fault? My fault? I was fucking protecting you because of your fucking incompetent hunting skills and I had to get Sam to help me!”

“Sam helped you?” Dean’s breathing and volume increase even more. “You’re telling me Sam freaking helped you?” He regains his space lost and rests his elbows either side of your head, pinning you in place.

You swallow. You can feel his rage radiating from him, and you see his Adam’s apple go into overdrive.

“You fuck him?”

“No.” You shoot out.

“You’re mine.” He all but growls.

You tip your head up to meet his eyes and lick your upper lip. Through gritted teeth you mimic his voice. “Says who?” Your eyes flicker down and then up at him again. Go on, you will him.

Impulsively and quickly he thrusts his hips to yours so they touch, and you let out an audible gasp as he enters you.

You’re letting out shallow, jagged breaths, and so is Dean, but he collects himself enough to pin both your arms above your head and stare you hard in the eye, nostrils flaring.

You let out a small laugh and that’s it. He’s gone.

Dean pounds into you, squeezing moans and grunts out of the both of you. It’s sore for lack of lubricant, but so, so, good. So right.

You feel Dean’s on the edge before he says it. “Y/N,” he says softly at first. “Y/N!” His voice raises, and you feel a warm pool in your belly.

“Hold on for me,” you breathe, it growing by the second. “Hold on for me - oh, God, D-Dean,” your right hand grabs a hunk of his hair whilst the left scratches at his back. “Dean!” And you’re gone, which sends him over the edge. You pull your legs up around his waist and clench around him while he lets out the most delicious moan you’ve ever heard, and you’re sure you’ll utterly lose it unless you do something. You bite down hard on to Dean’s shoulder so he reciprocates by pressing little hickies down your collar bone, all the while the both of you riding out the orgasm.

When you’re finally done you’re both shaking with your heads leant on each other’s shoulders and neither of you say a word.

When your breathing slows, he slips out of you without a word. You expect him to walk away and start pulling his clothes on, since he’s still supposedly mad at you, but instead he gives you a smile. A perfect smile, the smile you’d been waiting for, the smile that secretly holds a ray of sunshine and a look in his eyes like he genuinely thinks you’re the most perfect thing in the world. He shakes his head slightly,

i guess you wanted sex in this but i’m crap at smut so

_________

You twist round to examine the gash on your torso that extends from your right armpit and curves round to end at the small of your back. You touch the sticky, deep ruby mess tentatively and quickly shove your fist in your mouth to choke back the scream.

This was only your third hunt without Sam and Dean, so you were most definitely not calling them back for help. Of course you three had agreed it was a mutual decision for you to break off from them, but it had been obvious they were reluctant to let you go since you had an inane habit of losing yourself in the hunt and getting hurt. Just like now.

Which was precisely why you needed to deal with this yourself.

The mash of tears and blood and sweat on your face creates a stench of plain fear. You try to put blinkers up in your mind – focus on what’s happening now. Nevertheless, there’s still a section of your conscious that drifts from the task in hand and can’t help noticing all that flesh reflected back at you in the mirror. You’d stripped in order to attend to all your wounds, that being the practical thing to do, but you can’t help wishing all the reflective surfaces away.

You pause to examine yourself in the full length one. Your hair is knotted and your face mottled almost beyond recognition. Some twisted part of you is slightly glad about that – you always hated your facial features, too.

You lean over to your makeshift first aid kit of dental floss, alcohol and a needle, and pull out your lighter shakily to disinfect the sharp point. You squeeze your eyes shut and swallow to brace yourself and are just about to pierce the skin when you hear your name.

Your hand goes to the handle of your pure iron dagger and you spin around.

You narrow your eyes. “Cas?”

“Y/N. What happened?” His eyes scan your body so that you remember your lack of clothing.

You scream and pull the dank blanket of the bed up around yourself, tipping some of its contents off in the process. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

His eyebrows knot together. “You prayed.”

You frown back. “No I didn’t. I…” It is then that it dawns on you. “Idiots! Fucking following me!” Your hand closes around the neck of the bottle you wish was one of theirs and hurl it across the room. In the anger you forget about the wound in your side, but the action causes the nerves to flash red hot and make you yell out in pain, clutching it.

“Y/N, let me see,” Cas says in his broad, commanding voice.

“No!” You sob, attempting to pull the bedclothes further up to your neck.

He frowns. “Why are you –”

“Look at me, Cas! I’m hideous!”

“I don’t understand.”

“My body – it’s grotesque! My face – God, it’s –” You squeeze both of your own cheeks, wincing as you do so. “Get out.” You stand up, stumbling slightly, and cross the area between the two of you, shoving him with as much force as you can muster. “Get out!”

He stays put and doesn’t respond for a second or two, but when you attempt to back up to the bed, he cups your cheek, holding you in place. “You are God’s creation. His creation is perfect.”

“Guess I’m an exception to the rule.” You spit out and tug away.

His jaw clenches and a bright light fills the room, but you only realise what he’s doing too late.

In your improved state you shove him again and this time he takes a step back. “You asshole!” You scream, spewing various other profanities. “I could’ve done it myself!”

He’s quiet for a few moments. “You don’t like your aesthetic appearance.”

You fold your arms in what you hope is an aggressive way. “Yes. And?”

“Why?”

You roll your eyes, making an ‘ugh’ sound, turning away.

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would you think that?” He pauses briefly. “You’re beautiful.”

__________

You drum your fingers on the worn leather seat. “So, where are we going?”

Dean purses his lips and smiles slightly – you hope the way your insides melt doesn’t show on your face – “nuh uh, not telling you.”

You pout. “Come on, it can’t be that secret,” you touch his shoulder and he jerks slightly so you drop your hand away quickly. “Y’know, I would’ve been happy just going to McDonald’s or something.”

“And here I was thinkin’ you were a Goddamn Claire Standish of this world.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Breakfast Club? Didn’t know you were in to that kind of thing.”

“What? Uh, no… Sam made me watch one time. Friggin’ girl.”

You cover your mouth with a hand to stifle a smile.

“What?” He looks at you then back at the road. “What?”

You can’t hold it in any longer and throw your head back and laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

“Hey!” Dean feigns hurt, “hey, he did, okay? Too much of a  chick flick if you ask me, with all the dancing and the talking about feelings, and I mean come on, how the hell’d Brian get a gun in the first place – You know what?  I don’t have to justify myself to you.” He pulls on to a grassy embankment.

You hold your hands up in defeat and bite your lip to hold down the laugh bubbling in your throat. “You’re adorable when you’re pissed.”

Dean cuts off the engine and simply turns to you, locking you down with those indescribable eyes. Your mother had said they were wasted on a man – those eyelashes, too – and you completely agreed with her, but somehow they fitted Dean perfectly.

It had been a risk introducing him to her: she’d asked what he worked as, so when they’d said a mechanic she’d asked why he travelled so much. It was only a matter of time before she discovered the huge stash of weaponry in the trunk.

There’s complete silence besides the crickets rubbing their legs together and the extremely faint ripple of water when dragonflies created intricate patterns on its surface. You want to speak, to move, but Dean has you pinned down without touching you.

You don’t notice him moving slowly towards you at first, but when he lifts his arm your breath catches. You swallow. Do you want this? Are you sure? It’d be pretty dumb to back out now – he obviously hadn’t brought you here for a picnic and a nice chat.

But he’s stopped leaning in, then opens his mouth to speak. His voice is low and rough and sounding more appropriate for a porno. “Tag.” All of a sudden he’s tapped your arm and torn himself out of the car and is away.

You narrow your eyes and stare after him for a few moments. What the hell was that?

“So you wanna play it that way, huh?” You pull yourself up, wincing as your skin comes away from the leather seats as you’re semi-stuck to them after the long car journey, and leg it after him. You soon catch up and tag him back, but as you’re turning to make your own getaway, his arm links around your waist and pulls you back.

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure this is cheating.” You look away and take in the surroundings. Your feet are bare on the wooden decking of the small scale docking area for boats, as you pulled your shoes off in the car and never put them back on. Beyond you is an expanse of azure, almost pinkish water tinted from the sunset, and surrounding the whole lake, pine trees. Wildflowers of shades of reds and purples and blues that you’ve never seen in a plant before scatter the grass and mingle into the reeds which lead on to the fairytale-like lily pads. It’s the kind of place you’re sure only exists on postcards.

Dean cups your cheek and draws your face back to face him again. “Who said anything about rules?”

This time, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you, and your eyelids droop in anticipation but –

You’re plunged into a huge bath of ice cubes that you’re sure was once a lake but now is a monster, grabbing at your ankles, pulling you down, suffocating you, pushing your head under. “Dean –” You swallow a huge mouthful of water. “Can’t! Swim!”

“Y/N? Y/N?”

“Asshole –”

Your memory jumbles after that, and nothing is concise. You see nothing. You hear nothing. Yet you hear everything at once and there is a muffled voice calling your name, but you need to concentrate more on breathing, but giving up seems ever more attractive…

Your head hits a hard surface and your eyes shoot open. It takes a second or two before you try to take a breath, but when you do, you heave up water instead and roll onto your front.

“Y/N?” It’s Dean’s voice, you realise. “Hey, stay with me. You okay? I didn’t know you couldn’t –”

“Well now you do, idiot,” you hack out. Your lungs burn from the water – ironically. “Maybe you should just kiss me in future, yeah?” You roll onto your back as the last of it clears and close your eyes.

Dean shoves you playfully, but perhaps a little too hard this time; as you stumble and trip, grazing your hands on the gravel.

He half grins sheepishly and is about to open his mouth when Sam returns from paying for gas at a garage.

He pauses and looks at you, then at Dean and frowns. “Hey, man, way to be a jerk,” Sam frowns and offers his arm out to you.

You exchange glances with Dean before taking Sam’s hand. Once up, you begin to pull away when the younger turns your palm over to examine the damage.

“Hey, you’re bleeding,” he moves his eyes to fix you with a somewhat intense stare.

“Seriously, it’s nothing – ” you begin, but Dean cuts you off.

“Yeah, sorry, Y/N,” He walks through the middle of you and Sam, unclasping your hands, and during the brief proximity you notice the hard set of his jaw and a muscle jumping in the area below his eye. You know this look. It’s –

“Baby’s all fired up,” Dean taps the roof of the Impala. He suddenly grins, all remnants of the expression you’d seen a few seconds before obliterated, it so fleeting you’re not sure if you imagined it. A smirk pulls on the side of his lip, drawing attention to his 2 day old stubble. “Sorry, Sammy, Y/N called shotgun.”

You turn to Sam and grin. “You snooze, you lose.” You squeeze his shoulder. “It’s okay. You get bronze medal for effort.”

You turn to Dean again and you swear you see that look again, but a millisecond later it’s gone again. You pause, scanning his face for a few moments before an angry rev of some idiot in a Porsche pulls up behind you and you yank the Impala’s door open and jump in.

Sam climbs in the back and leans forward. “Dean, what do you think you’re doing?”

Dean releases a heated growl from the Impala in response to the Porsche, whose driver, upon closer inspection, is a barely legal teenage boy whose head is only just visible above the wheel. You let out a snort.

“Showin’ that douchebag who’s boss.” He raises his voice. “Suck it, City Boy!” With that, the car roars away and you all sit in silence for a while until Sam speaks up.

“So there’s a case not far from here – in Indiana – that old Jackson wants us to clear up. Bunch of vamps, killing loads of people. Sounds like our kinda thing.”

“Vampires. Our kind of thing.” You mutter and let out a short, sarcastic laugh.

______

Again the silence falls apart from Sam giving the occasional direction. Dean pulls up at yet another shoddy hotel, with a fading neon sign and a dated lobby. The colourful 80s carpet combined with the stripes on the walls make your head ache, and the grouchy receptionist does you no favours, either. He grunts out a price for the two rooms – you didn’t usually share with the brothers since you three were practically siblings anyway – and Dean flicks through his wallet, eyebrows knitting together.

“Crap.” He pulls out several bills and slaps them on the counter. He looks up at you with wary eyes. “Hey, Y/N, real sorry ’bout this, but I’m a bit low on the old moolah, you mind sharing?”

Of course secretly you don’t mind, but still you feign annoyance and let out an ‘ugh’ sound, then a reluctant “…fine.”

Once in the room Dean offers to sleep on the moth bitten, someone-probably-died-on-this, stained carpet, but you dismiss him with a flick of your hand and he doesn’t argue, since you’re more stubborn than him and his father combined.

John Winchester. He’d been a man and a half – secretly you’d harboured a strong disliking for him: it was clear he’d abused Dean as a child, judging from the unexplainable scars, the way the two boys talked about him and the half formed sentences Dean muttered in his sleep. John had an aura of allure about him, that much was undeniable, but if you looked hard enough into his eyes you could see the concealed demon of his own making from the Hell inside his head.

Despite all this, when he was alive you could never bring yourself to say anything. You’d been a teenager when he picked you up, shivering next to your parents’ bodies. That was why you respected John, though; he’d do anything for his kids, just like your own mother and father had for you. And that was enough.

You make a short inspection of the bathroom, before popping your head out the door frame. “Guys, I’m going to take a shower and this door has no lock on, so, uh…” You look pointedly at Dean, “Don’t come in.”

Dean raises his hands in mock surprise. “Woah, hey, I don’t know what you’re looking at me for. I’m innocent.”

You roll your eyes in reply and pull the door closed.

______

It’s only when you’ve wrapped the towel around you and you’re standing still wet in the fogged-up, peeling blue lino bathroom – which has a noticeable lack of vent – that you realise you have nothing to sleep in.

You always try to act slightly cocky and confident around those two. When you’d met them you’d been young and stupid and scared, and for them to have confidence in you, you needed to be confident yourself. And so, for the first time in a long time, you step out and act like a complete girl.

Avoiding eye contact, fumbling your words and twiddling your thumbs, “could I borrow, ah…? Could I borrow…? Do you have…? Anything I could… You know? Sleep in.”

Sam raises an eyebrow but nevertheless leans down to grab his scruffy rucksack, but Dean beats him there and chucks one of his own countless t-shirts at you. You open it out, and unusually for Dean, it isn’t plain.

You raise your eyes to Dean and smile amusedly. “Led Zeppelin, nice.”

His ears tinge pink and he smiles back. “Yeah, it’s… Tha -… Thanks.”

5 minutes later you emerge in his too-big flannel top and earlier’s underwear – no way are you going commando – standing with feet shoulder width apart and fold your arms, looking from Dean to Sam and back, who you notice have both changed into sweats. Since you’d never actually slept in the same room as them (John was strict about that. You blamed it on the fact he never had a daughter), you have to suppress a small smirk at the surprise Sam’s pyjamas aren’t plaid “So, how’re we doing this?”

“Well you could, uh…” Dean swallows, and then shrugs. “You could always, you know, sleep in my bed,” he clears his throat, “you know, if you’re cool with that.”

You try to keep your expression nonchalant and shrug, too, nodding. “Yeah… I’m, uh, cool with that.”

Dean nods, “cool.”

Sam shakes his head whilst he climbs into his bed, but you decide against questioning it. Sam could be way too cryptic sometimes and it was too late for all that right now.

Dean quickly jumps into his own bed and proclaims that the last one in bed had to turn off the lights. You roll your eyes and reach out your leg and kick him, then turn the light off and scuttle back to the bed.

Most people ran back to bed because they’re scared of the Things That Go Bump In The Night – but, of course, most people don’t hunt the things that go bump in the night. No, you run because you love how warm Dean always is, how comforting his arms are and that smell he has; the one of leather and whiskey and slight spice all mixed in with his cologne. You would never admit this all to him, though: he’d make fun of you no end and you’re sure he’d just think you a dumb kid again. In reality you’re not much younger than he is, but you’d been in the business less time than him which seemed to detract at least 5 years from your age in his eyes.

So when you land in the bed and Dean pulls you into him, sure, maybe you never really had a roof and four walls, but you were never, in fact, homeless.

 ______

You flatten against a wall, gun in hand by your left knee, loaded. You can see it. So close.

You shift yourself into a better position to aim. This is it.

Suddenly, it looks up straight at you. There’s a brief pause, then it’s charging for you, teeth bearing and you shoot it – but nothing happens.

Crap. Crap crap crap crap.

You look around desperately for something, anything, to ward it off, but the creature suddenly lets out a scream and charges away, disappearing into a wall.

“What the Hell just happened?” You say to nothing or anyone in particular.

“I just saved you.”

You look up to the familiar voice and grin. “Oh, really, Sam? I could’ve totally taken it out myself.”

He walks to where you’re standing. “Sure.” He smiles and touches your shoulder. “You okay?”

You nod once. “Should we go after it?”

“You see where it went?”

You point the gash in the wall to your left. “Right in there.”

It’s a short exchange, but you and Sam know each other so well that there’s full understanding with next to no speech.

He holds a knife handle out to you, which you naturally assume is silver, and you take it, examining the slick of blood on the blade. “Weird colour,” you mutter to yourself.

“You first,” Sam instructs.

You gulp, grimacing at the sight.

“Sam –” you begin to protest, and then stop yourself.

No, you’re a hunter. Sam would think you were weak.

That’s the deciding factor – you can’t have Sam thinking badly of you. You just can’t.

You climb what you hope is confidently into the hole in the wall and scope the space around you. Around a metre thick, dark, dusty and inherently small.

You feel your breathing speed up, but force the rising hysteria back down your throat. No.

Sam touches your shoulder to which you jump. “You okay?”

You nod quickly. “You already asked that.”

He merely frowns and you take the opportunity to move forward, but you can’t. You’re frozen.

“Y/N?”

Short breaths escape your mouth.

Oh, God, no.

You manage to turn around in the confined space. “Sam, I – I can’t do this, okay, I can’t, just let me –”

He grips both your shoulders. “Y/N, relax.”

You begin shaking your head slowly, then increasing in speed. “You don’t get it. I need to get out.” You shove him, but his frame is so solid and tall, you leave next to impact.

You look up, down, backwards, anywhere for an opportunity to escape. Your breathing quickens as you realise there is no way out. You swallow.

“Help. Help. Help.” You choke in air. You’re stuck. Barred. Imprisoned.

“Listen, Y/N, come here.” Sam pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around your back.

His smell calms you only marginally. You begin to wonder how his shirt got wet, then – ah, yes. You’d be why.

You only properly realise you’re sobbing into him when he wipes a tear from your cheek. “Ssh, it’s gonna be okay. I’m here, okay? I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Ever.”

“But –”

“No butts.”

You smile at this, but don’t release your grip on his plaid jacket.

One more. Just one more.

If you keep this up for 2.75 more weeks and run 15 miles per day then you’ll be able to outrun it for at least half an hour which would give you enough time to load your shotgun, plus –

“Y/N!” Someone calls.

You roll your eyes but say nothing.

“Y/N!” The voice calls again, nearer this time.

You quickly jump off the running machine and patter to the door, turning the lock. You know what they’ll do: tell you that you need to eat and you can stop training once in a while, you know.

You snort as you climb back on to the treadmill. Yeah, they’re ones to talk. Neither of them got more than 5 hours sleep at a time, 6 if they were lucky, and for the past 3 months had been at cases non-stop. Sure, they were saving people, hunting things, but they had nothing to focus on right now. It was all “we gotta keep going, Y/N, it’s what we do.”

At least you had a purpose. You needed to find and take out whatever it was that killed your parents. There was no choice.

Family protects each other is what your father had said. And you’d failed. Took your eye off the ball for one fraction of a second and they were gone. You wince at the memory. It was just as well John Winchester had taken you in, and whilst at times rather unethical, he was good hunter and taught you all you’d needed to know.

It had merely been an added bonus that he had two boys you could buddy up with, who happened to be sharp, too.

Not quite as sharp as you though.

You were better than them; of course you knew that, but little needles stabbed at your heart when you remember they have each other. You have no-one.

Your thoughts begin to swim, and soon enough you can’t concentrate. You frown to yourself. Just keep running, you think, keep running.

You’re aware of a hammering at the door, but your vision is tunnelling and your legs are collapsing underneath you and…

Your eyes open slowly, and you blink several times.

All you see is white.

You bring your hand up to your head and think out loud. “Crap, am I dead?”

“Nope,” a voice says. “Next best thing.”

You frown, trying to figure out who the Hell’s voice that was. “Dean, you ass, what’d you do?”

“Nothin’, I swear.”

You groan and turn on to your side.

Dean clears his throat. “Look, Y/N –”

You sit up, taking in your surroundings for the first time. The white you saw was the white of the ceiling of the gym room. You’re surprised he hasn’t squealed to Sam.

“No, Dean, you look. I appreciate all the things you’ve done for me, I really do, but to be honest I don’t need it. I’m so close to getting that thing that killed my family. I can smell justice.”

“You passed out, okay? You’ve been training too hard.”

You roll your eyes.

“Screw the chick flick moments, Y/N. I’m worried about you – so is Sam – and you’re gonna end up killing yourself and I can’t let you do that. Not you.”

You sigh. “I don’t need –”

“Dammit, you do need me. Hell, I need you. I care about you too much to watch you waste your life, you hear me? I won’t let you.”

Left. Right.

No place to hide.

They’re coming for you.

You scream out, but your voice is returned to you by an echo bouncing off the trees.

Up. Down.

They’re coming for you.

You should be used to this, you tell yourself.

You don’t care if this is a nightmare or reality – they’ve morphed and twisted and marinated into one.

You should expect this from being with Sam and Dean Winchester, you tell yourself.

“They don’t need you.”

You spin around. Nothing.

“Show yourself!” You scream to the air.

“They’re using you.”

“Who are you?!” You scream again.

“Sam and Dean Winchester don’t care if you die. You’re disposable.”

You turn your head to the sun that should be there but has been blocked out by the gnarled branches.

“No!” You yell.

That’s when you notice the faces. They’re on the trees, in the ground. They’re smiling. They’re happy. They throw back their heads and laugh.

You try to keep your cool, and you do.

That is, until they come.

It’s every damned thing you’ve ever killed. Right here. Right now.

They all pause. They’ve got you.

Suddenly they’re charging at you and before you’ve had time to react they’re ripping at you, tearing at you, making you scream out in pain, ripping out your guts and wrapping them around your neck. They’re choking you with your own blood, but you just can’t die. They rip out your eyeballs but you can still see. Blood.

So much blood.

The ground beside you dampens.

This is not rain; not blood.

Tearing. Never ending tearing.

Then a shaking. No rumbling; not an earthquake, but you’re sure there’s shaking.

Your name is being called. You can hear it, you’re sure of it.

“Sam? Dean?” You cry.

Your name is called again.

Then everything begins to fade out. Are you dying? You’re not sure.

Your eyes shoot open.

You’re being shaken.

“Y/N?” Someone asks.

The pillow is damp beside you and you reach up to your face, and you’re crying.

You sit up.

“Y/N?”

You look to your left. There sits a familiar guy in a plaid shirt with hair that really needs cutting.

“Sam?”

His face is worried, concerned and perhaps a little scared. “You okay?”

You break out into a grin. “Sam?” You begin to laugh. “Sam!”

He gives a small smile.

You lean forward, nestling your face into his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him. “I – I thought I’d lost you.”

“You’re an ass!” You scream at him.

“Oh yeah? Well at least I’ve always been there.”

“Been there? Dean, the most you’ve been there for me recently is to tell me how I’m doing something wrong or it was my fault. I’m sick of it!”

“Oh my God.” He rubs his mouth. “You’re trying to put this on me? After all we did for you?”

You shake your head; slowly, then faster. “After all you did? I can’t believe you.” You stalk out the motel room slamming the door, not caring if or who you’ve disturbed. You’re fuming. You’re on the brink of hating him. No, scratch that, you do hate him. Damn it, how dare he?

You stamp to the Impala, leaning your head against its almost freezing body. In a fit of rage, you try to kick its door in, and although a small dent is left, it hurts you more than anything.

“I hate you. I hate you!” You scream at the sky, not sure who’s listening; not all sure who you’re talking to.

Suddenly you’ve got an idea. You pick her lock easily enough – it was one of the first things Sam and Dean had taught you – and tripped the wires into starting. You revved her up, not sure of your purpose and are about to reverse when something slams into the bonnet.

You look up and it’s the owner himself. “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” He all but shouts.

“Move,” you spit.

“Get out.” He orders.

You don’t budge.

Abruptly he’s opened the door and taken the keys and yanked you out before you can even blink.

You shove him with all your might, and although Dean is as sturdy as anything, he’s clearly not expecting this and stumbles backwards, staring at you incredulously.

He says nothing and you’re about to scream another profanity when he steps forward.

All of sudden his lips are on yours and you’re kissing him back. Your arms wrap around his neck, bringing him closer to you, his hands wrapped in your hair. His tongue explores your mouth and you reciprocate until he draws back for air.