#allieschallenge

In the days following Jackie’s death, you were a wreck. Numb, mind clouded with darkness, even getting out of bed was a difficult task to accomplish. You slept for hours all day, hardly ever coming out of your room. Your uncle stopped in every once in awhile to check on you and try to talk, but you never responded. What was the point? Talking about what had happened wouldn't bring Jackie back. Nothing would.

Your dad, god bless him, was at your side the whole time, trying to help you, trying his damndest to coax you out of the shell you'd created. He didn't force you to go back to school, knowing you would want to go back of your own choice, and you were so grateful.

By the end of the second week, however, Sam realized that he needed to quit being your friend and start being your father again.

“Hey, kiddo?” he called from the doorway of your room. He heard of a grunt of acknowledgement come from the lump of blankets on the bed, and took it as an invitation to enter. Carefully, he sat down next to you on the bed, his hand on your back. “Listen, I know you're still upset and grieving, and you’re allowed to, you wouldn't be human if you didn't… But at some point, you are going to need to try and go back to school.” Somewhere up by the pillows, a whimper escaped from the blanket wall. “I know you don't want to, but there are only so many days you can miss. You've already been out for two weeks. That's gonna be a lot of make up work.”

He sighed. “I won't lie, it's not gonna be easy. It's probably gonna hurt like a bitch. I have a lot of faith in you, though. You're a strong kid, you'll make it through this. Just… promise me you'll at least try?”

Muffled through the blankets, your response was so quiet. “Promise, daddy.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Y/N.”

“Where have you been, Y/N? You missed a lot of school.”

“Y/N, I'm so sorry.”

Everywhere you went, the condolences followed, clinging to you like a wet shirt. It bothered you, pissed you off, even. You didn't want these people’s “I'm sorry”s, you wanted them to leave you alone. If Jackie had been there, he would have told them off for you. But he wasn't.

“Hey, Y/N?”

Looking up from your textbook, you saw a girl standing in front of your desk, most likely another junior. Her face, round and covered in freckles, was unfamiliar to you, but she seemed nice enough.

“I know you’re probably sick of everybody talking to you today,” she said; you scoffed -- finally, someone understood. “But, uh, me and a few of my friends are all hanging out together Friday night, and we wanted to know if you’d like to join us. We figure you could use a bit of a distraction. It’s okay if you’d rather not, though.”

For a minute, you were silent, thinking. As much as the idea made you want to vomit, you knew somewhere in the back of your mind that it would be good for you to finally get out of the bunker, and not just for school.

Besides, it was what Jackie would want you to do.

“I’d love to,” you said, speaking for the first time that day.

The girl grinned. “Great!”

All of a sudden, for the first time since everything happened, you could sense yourself beginning to feel happy. And it made you smile.

The rest of the week passed by in lurches. By the time Friday came, you were actually… excited. When you told your dad you were going out, he was beyond thrilled, as was your uncle. They were so proud of you for picking yourself up.

“Y/N!” a voice called. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw the girl -- Missy -- and her friends standing by the entrance to the house waving you over, and you walked to them. With a forceful shove, you pushed away the feelings of apprehension that bubbled to the forefront of your mind, and tried to at least enjoy yourself, just a little bit.

About two hours into the small get together was when it happened.

Beforehand, it was quite pleasant. You’d mingled with Missy’s friends, made small talk. Everyone, even if they didn’t know you, was nice, respectful. They didn’t push you to talk about yourself; half of them probably only wanted you to listen to them talk anyway.

Then, just as things started to get to be a little too much, a little too overwhelming, someone offered you a drink. Deciding to accept it rather than seem rude, you thought nothing of it until you caught a whiff of it. Alcohol -- whiskey, to be exact.

After everything was said and done, you would wonder what made you do it. Maybe it was because of Jackie and his suicide, maybe it was because you were all alone in the world now. Hell, maybe it was just because you needed something to numb the pain.

Whatever the reason, when you took that first sip and felt it burn down your throat, it felt good. So damn good. When you'd finished the whole cup, you didn't even realize at first, too caught up in how free it made you feel -- free from the numbness, free from the pain.

You wanted more.

You needed more.

For nearly two months after that night, you jumped at any chance to have another drink. You started going out more, partying and drinking until the wee hours of the morning, when you would curl up in the bathroom and puke your guts out. During school, you would carry a water bottle around filled with vodka, just so you could have that beautiful pain-numbing feeling everywhere you went.

The past few days had been spent blessedly numb since your dad and uncle were out of town on a hunt, leaving you at home in the bunker. Alone. With no one to tell you what you could and couldn't do.

As soon as you walked in the door, you dropped your backpack on the landing and threw your coat over the railing. Taking two steps at a time, you hurried down the stairs and practically ran for the kitchen.

When you got there, you pulled the refrigerator door open, trying to decide what to drink. Whiskey? Bourbon? There were endless possibilities thanks to your uncle’s love of alcohol. Eventually, you settled on plain old beer, wanting some variety. Reaching past the leftovers, you grabbed the six-pack and pulled out one of the bottles. Beer in one hand, the other went searching through the drawers for a bottle opener, which of course you found in the last cabinet you checked.

Suddenly, you heard the giant steel door open, followed by two pairs of footsteps descending down the metal staircase. Your father’s voice called out, echoing through the hallways. “Y/N, we're back!”

Silent curses flying from your lips, you scrambled around the room, hastily shoving the bottle opener back into the drawer as quietly as humanly possible. Throwing the fridge door open so hard it teetered on its edges, you quickly replaced the beer bottle in the six-pack and slammed the refrigerator shut before almost diving into one of the chairs at the table.

“In the kitchen, dad!”

Not a minute later, Sam came sauntering into the room, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey, adulto,” you greeted, hoping he couldn't hear your slightly labored breathing.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Nothing. Just hanging out before I start my homework.” Noticing his unexpected arrival, you tilted your head, much like your Uncle Cas would. “You're home early.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Turns out there were some other hunters in the area that were able to help us out, so we finished up a lot quicker than we expected. Any troubles here?”

“Nope. I’ve just been chilling in the kitchen.”

“All right,” Sam said. He shifted the weight on his shoulders, looking like he was going to leave, but then hesitated. Meeting your eyes, a smile ghosted his lips. “Listen, I just wanted to say that… I’m really proud of you. I know the past few months haven’t been easy, but for the most part you’ve kept your head on straight, and not many people would be able to do that. So, I’m proud of you, sweetheart. You're doing good.”

Guilt came crashing down on you like a wave, threatening to swallow you whole. Your dad -- your hero, the one person in the whole world you admired the most -- was proud of you for a lie. Meanwhile, your grades in school were slipping dangerously low, you couldn't get through the day now without a little hunter’s helper, and your life was balancing precariously on the line between held together and total collapse.

Throat burning with tears you refused to let fall, you smiled ruefully. “Thanks, dad.”

A happy sigh on his lips, Sam walked over and kissed the top of your head, leaving the room with a grin plastered on his face, so full of love for his beautiful, strong daughter.

That night, after he and Dean had already gone to bed, you snuck a bottle of some of your uncle’s hard liquor into your room and drank yourself into a shame-filled sleep.

By the time Sam and Dean found out about your little alcohol problem, it was all but too late.

You’d been drinking every day for weeks, downing as many as five or six in one day, almost addicted to the delicious burn of whiskey, the smooth silkiness of Bailey’s Irish Cream, the smoky taste of bourbon. School became optional -- you started cutting class, choosing instead to get blackout drunk behind the building while the druggies shot up beside you.

With your impaired judgement, you decided one day that it would be a great idea to skip class and go home. Of course, in your alcohol-addled mind, the thought never occurred to you that your uncle was there at that very moment.

You arrived at the bunker on foot, drink sloshing around in your unsteady hand. After three tries, you finally figured out how to open the door, slamming it shut behind yourself. Stumbling down the stairs, you missed Dean’s confused expression at your sudden appearance.

“Y/N?” he called. “What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at school?”

“Shhh, s’okay. S’all okay,” you told him, draping yourself across one of the chairs around the table in the war room. As you lifted your drink to take another swig, Dean snatched it out of your hand, eliciting a whine from you.

Taking a sniff, he recoiled. “Is this alcohol?” He looked at you incredulously. “Are you-- are you drunk?

“Yeah,” you said, still pouting. “So?”

“So?” Dean asked. “Why the hell are you drunk? And for that matter, why are you even drinking?”

“Doesn't matter,” you mumbled.

If his eyes could have grown any bigger, they would have popped right out of his skull. “It doesn’t matter? Of course it damn well matters!”

“Don’ worry,” you slurred, too inebriated to realize you were only making the situation much worse. “‘M fine.”

“You’re not fine!” your uncle screamed, his anger increasing. “You’re 17, dammit! You shouldn’t be getting drunk off your friggin’ ass, Y/N!”

Growing aggravated by the interrogation and your inability to fall back on the alcohol as a crutch, you hissed at him. “Wha’ are you gonn’ do about it? You’re not my dad.”

“But I am.”

Sam walked into the room from where he’d been standing in the hallway, heart heavy. You felt resentment rise within you at the sight of him, though for what you had no idea.

“You gonn’ send me to my room?” you said with disgust. Snarling, you spat at him. “Screw you.”

Eyes wide, your dad looked a puppy who’d been kicked one too many times. It should have hurt you, should have affected you more than it did, but you were too far gone into the bliss of the alcohol to care.

They tried. Oh, how they tried. Your father and uncle did everything they could to assist you in getting sober, in getting your life back to normal; you, however, resisted. Vehemently denying their attempts to help, you continued to drink well into the ensuing weeks. You refused to participate in any of the recovery activities at the rehab center they sent you to, still believing yourself to be perfectly fine.

No matter what anyone said, you wouldn’t stop. Even when the doctors raised the increasing possibility of death, you dismissed them.

Isn’t it scary to be ready to die at such a young age? they would ask you.

Not at all, you would respond.

Then, everything changed one day with four little words.

“What would Jackie think?”

And with that, your whole attitude flipped like a light switch. The thought of Jackie, your best friend and other half, being upset with you, disappointed in you, filled you with shame, and renewed your spirit to fight back against your own mind.

At first, it was a grueling process. After drinking for so long and becoming dependent on the alcohol, your body did not adjust well to a lack of it. If you weren’t running a fever, you had to deal with the muscle tremors and headaches, or the horrible anxiety you developed. Your depression also increased to the point where even your dad wanted to find an alternative solution, but you stuck it out. You wanted to make Jackie proud.

Nearly four months later, despite a few minor setbacks, you finished your inpatient treatment at the rehab center. Now, instead of turning to booze to fix your problems, you knew you had a support system that you could turn to if you needed anything.

The cops fall easily for the ruse, as small town cops tend to do, and you’re soon flipping through a thick case file at the motel room table while the boys tack a map to the wall. You feel more comfortable here, in the safety of the locked room with the Winchester brothers by your side, but the tight itchy feeling in your chest doesn’t go away. It doesn’t seem to be getting worse, though, which you’re grateful for.

The case appears to be a salt and burn, with several people missing from the same neighborhood. It looks like either one very mobile ghost or a whole horde of them. Either way, it’s going to be hard.

Sam settles into the chair across from you at the table, turned sideways so he can let his long legs sprawl out. Dean plants himself on the lumpy couch and Sam tosses him a file.

“Because of how recent the disappearances are, we’re probably not looking at any missing person’s case older than a few years,” Sam says, popping open his laptop.

“Unless someone disturbed the grave,” Dean points out. “In that case, it could be much older.”

“Mmmm, good point. Let’s start with a parameter of five years and work from there. Sound good?”

Dean makes an affirmative noise and you nod.

Three hours later, the three hunters have narrowed it down to a couple possibilities, the most recent of which occurred less than a year ago. This is great and all, but Sam is worried about Y/N. She’s been strangely quiet and tense all day. He hopes she’s not getting sick.

They take a break for lunch. Dean hits up the diner down the street for takeout while Sam and Y/N organise the mess of research. When they’re done, Sam sits on the bed and pats the spot next to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks when Y/N joins him. He slides his arm around her shoulders, tucking her against his side. “You’ve been really quiet today. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she tells him, leaning into his embrace. Her body is tense against his and he knows she’s not being completely honest with him, but if she doesn’t want to talk yet, then he can’t force her.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you.”

She exhales deeply and softens in his embrace. “I love you, too.”

The anxiety reaches its peak the next morning, less than a half an hour after Dean figures out who the ghost is. You’re in the bathroom when it hits. You find yourself curled in the corner between the wall and the side of the tub in nothing but your underwear and bra, struggling to breath through the unrelenting weight on your chest. Tears streak your face, but you’re barely aware of them.

“Y/N, are you ready to go get breakfast?” Sam calls, knocking on the bathroom door.

You open your mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a strangle sobbing sound. You know he heard it because the door slams open and suddenly he’s by your side, gathering your to his chest.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I should have realized,” he says, surrounding you with his body. “Dean!”

The older Winchester appears in the doorway, looking concerned. “Yeah?”

“I need you to get me the soft blanket from my duffel.”

You clutch at Sam’s shirt, the texture of the flannel familiar against your skin. His homey, spicy scent seems to loosen the clench of your lungs a little. He sits back a little to wrap yours favorite fluffy blanket around your shoulders. Once you’re covered, he scoops you up and carries you to the bed.

“I’m going to go get breakfast,” Dean says, clearly wanting to give you some space.

Sam has your head in his hands, forcing your eyes to look into his. He nods, but doesn’t look away. This intensity of his gaze is grounding.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs. You can faintly hear the door of the motel room clicking shut. “Focus on me, darling. It’s just you and me right now.”

You nod, blinking back tears.

He gently wipes your eyes with his thumbs. “Here we go. In. Out. Just like that, Y/N.”

Breathing with him is hard. Your lungs protest at first, but it gets easier over time. Sam stays with you. His hair has fallen forward to tickle your forehead. You wriggle your hand out of the blanket cocoon and push it back. He smiles.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Awful,” you manage. “But better.”

“Can I get up for a moment? I’ll be right back, I promise. I just want to grab something for you.”

“Ok. But hurry.”

He chuckles and his weight disappears from the bed. You hear him rummaging around in his bag, and then he’s back. In his hands, he’s holding a large stuffed elephant. Your eyes go wide and you can’t help reaching for it. Sam gives it up easily, smiling as you tuck the toy to your chest. It’s soft against your skin, perfect for times like these.

Sam gently rolls you onto your side and spoons up behind you. His body is solid and reassuring against your back. Your body melts into his embrace.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to. I love you, Y/N. I’ll always do what I can for you.”

You reach down and grab his hand, weaving your fingers together on top of the plush. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Finally one day over dinner you had it. You weren’t sure what made you break from the carefully constructed box you had created around you. It might have been his insufferable show tunes in the shower. It might have been eating all the good food or constantly stealing your laptop. No matter what it was you finally broke one evening.

“Why did you do it?” You stared at Chuck, completely ignoring the two Winchester brothers who nearly dropped their jaws, and forks.

Chuck slowly put down his napkin and folded his hands on the table in front of him. He looked at you, as if he had expected this moment to come. Of course he had. He was God, he knew everything. He knew every eternal battle you had fought, he had seen the time you had nearly downed a glass of pills before throwing it across the room in anger. He had seen every day you had pulled the blankets over your head, losing one battle and staying in bed, pretending to be sick. Pretending you had a flu, because it was easier to explain to the world and because you could pull yourself onto your feet.

“Why did I do what Y/N?” Chuck answered you patiently. His patience only angering you further and you fist hit the table making both Sam and Dean jump slightly.

“Why did you make me this way?” you were fighting your tears as you spoke and you angrily swatted away Dean’s hand from your arm as he tried calming you. You ignored Sam calling your name. You were solely fixated on Chuck in front of you.

“You’re depression?” Chuck asked, with a sympathetic look on his face which only angered you further. How dared he feel sorry for you? He did this too you and he had the audacity to pretend like he was sorry. Like he had no idea what you were talking about.

“No my unruly locks,” you mocked before glaring at him with so much hatred you were sure he felt it. “Yes my depression.”

“Y/N I didn’t create you in that sense.” Chuck started before taking a deep breath, “but even if I did I wouldn’t have make you in any other way that you were created.”

You couldn’t believe your own ears. First he tried to excuse himself from his failures and then he… He took pleasure in your pain. That had to be it. He took pleasure in seeing your tears when you felt like nothing you did was good enough. The tears that streamed down you face when the thoughts that didn’t completely belong to you tried to convince you that everyone would be better off without you. The tears that fell from your eyes after days spent just going through the motions as if you were a shell. Numb and soulless. Soulless would be easier though. It would take away the pain of knowing you were messed up for not letting the warmth of Sam’s smile reach your heart. It would take away the worthlessness you felt when Castiel hovered over you, feeling your prayers even though you had no idea what you were praying for. It would take away the guilt of not feeling the love in Dean’s touch, when he slipped behind you at night, pulling you back against him and holding you close.

“So you like people suffering is that it?” You hissed at the deity in front of you.

“No Y/N.” Chuck leaned forward, “but it is part of who you are. I wouldn’t wanna change that.”

You stared at the man in disbelief. How could he not get it. “It is not part of who I am. It steals who I am from me!” You almost screamed at him but Chuck stayed calm unlike Dean who desperately tried to get near you, but you kept pushing him away. The pained expression on Sam’s face didn’t escape you either. He had heard these words from you before. He had been the only one you had ever told. You loved Dean, but you never wanted him to see that side of you. You knew that you couldn’t hide it completely but he carried enough and you didn’t wanna put the crap you couldn’t even control yourself, on him too.

“I know that is what it feels like Y/N, but you are strong and you can beat it.” Chuck’s tone got a little more harsh. “That is not all it does. It makes you more sympathetic towards others. It makes you understand pain that not many can comprehend. You understood what Sam was going through after he had lost his soul. You understood why he needed to go through the trials. You understand what Dean felt like coming back from purgatory and what he was going through with the Mark. You understood because it was changing him and that is why you never left wasn’t it?” Chuck asked staring you right in the eye and your mouth fell agape.

You desperately wanted to yell at him and tell him he was wrong. You wanted to tell him that the way you felt towards the people in your life and your ability to empathize with them had nothing to do with your disorder. You just couldn’t. You had never thought of it like that. To you the depression had been a dark invader. Something that tried to control your mind and take who you were away from you. You had never seen it as part of you or as something that added to who you were. You had no idea if he was right or not and that knowledge scared you. It scared you so much you jumped from your chair and ran from the kitchen.

You ran down the halls and away from God. Away from the Winchesters. Past Dean’s and your room right back to your old one. A room you hadn’t set foot in for over a year. Trying to escape the million voices in your head competing to be heard. Trying to escape having to deal with and understand a part of you that had always scared you. A part of you that you had always hated.

You threw yourself on your old bed and hid your face in the pillows. Ignoring the door being opened and closed behind you. You knew who it was, you didn’t have to look. You felt the dip in the bed and the warmth of his body envelope you as he closed his arms around, turning you and pulling you against his chest.

“I know you think you are broken Y/N/N,” Dean started and you held your breath. Him and you never talked about this. He was always there for you. He always knew when you had your dark days. He always stayed closer to you, letting you know he was there with small touches during the day and he held you just a little bit closer during the nights. He did a lot of small things. He made your favourite foods, he played your music in Impala rather than his own, he tried to make you smile.

You loved all the little things he did. You knew Dean wasn’t good at talking about stuff and frankly neither were you. His way worked for both of you and he never failed to bring you back to being you. Sam was the one you talked to, but never at the times you were feeling bad. You talked to him after the fact. You talked to him when Dean’s love had shown you the way back to your lighter and happy self. You talked to Sam when Dean’s love had made you remember who you truly were and when you’re stubbornness had chased the darkness in your mind away.

“You’re not broken. Chuck is a dick, but he was right. It is part of who you are. I love who you are, sweetheart, and as much as I hate seeing you hurting, I don’t wanna change you either,” Dean spoke softly and you looked up at him, tears streaming down your face.

“You don’t know what it is like. If I didn’t have you and Sam I… I am not strong Dean. I couldn’t do this alone,” you sobbed and Dean sent you a sad smile, before pressing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss.

“I think you could but you don’t have to. None of us do. We have each other and we are family. I am not sure what Sam and I would do without you either, you know,” Dean smiled giving you a small squeeze, making you laugh. He always did that. He always made you feel loved. He always managed to remind you just what you were fighting for. You were fighting to be the person he loved. You were fighting to be part of his family forever. You were fighting not only because him and Sam deserved the best of you, but because you deserved to be the person you knew you were. Who knows maybe the depression was yours and maybe just maybe it did make you who you had become even on your brightest of days. It didn’t really matter. You were gonna keep fighting because you deserved to be happy. You deserved to be who you wanted to be and not who your mind sometimes told you what you were. You deserved to be the woman Dean saw, you as. You deserved to be who you really were.

Dean Tag Team:

He'd picked her up from a hunt gone wrong. The police had wanted to take her to foster care, but she'd cried and cried. Something about her had Bobby up and swear to raise and protect her. But she’d also come with her own challenges. Weeks went by without a word; Bobby put it down to her seeing her parents death. Dean had been that way after Mary died. But then months went past, and she seemed content enough with her new home, but still not a word. “Watch out, sweetheart.” Bobby called as she ran along the gravel behind the boys, but too late. Her foot caught in a pothole, and she sprawled across the ground. Bobby rushed over to her, and the boys stopped in their tracks, looking back worried. “You’re ok, Bunny.” Bobby helped her to her feet and began to pull her into a hug, the first show of physical affection. She looked terrified and ripped her arm from his hand, tears beginning to spill, so Bobby immediately dropped his hands, shocked that this little girl, the girl he now looked to as his daughter, was terrified of him. “What happened?” Sam asked, the three of them staring at Bonnie. “Why is she crying, Uncle Bobby?” “I’m sorry, Bun, I’m sorry,” Bobby whispered, standing and wiping his hands on his jeans, thinking it over, hoping for the best, suspecting the worst. Dean had gained plenty of experience with looking after Sam, ever the big brother, he grabbed Sam’s hand and waved Bonnie over. She stared at them through her tears, the sobs stopping. “Come on.” He encouraged, and with that, she wiped her eyes and followed them up the gravel path, as if nothing had happened.

Bobby took her to a children’s shrink, out of his depth and terrified that he would be traumatizing her more by not getting her help. His old man had been a terrible father, and being a parent was--well, it made hunting look easy. “Mr. Singer, she’s showing some of the classic signs of Asperger's. Do you know what that is?” Bobby shook his head and the kind lady continued in a soft voice that wouldn’t upset Y/N. “It’s a part of the Autism Spectrum. It's not unusual for children with this condition to be more physical than verbal, but not a word in months does raise some concern. Do you mind leaving us so I can ask her some questions, see if she responds to any of our tests?” Bobby was unsure, but she'd come to be his whole world, and there was precious little he wouldn't give to know what was going on in her head, to hear her talking to him. “What kind of tests?” Bobby asked, looking over the little girl at the lego table. He was out of his depth, but his protective instincts were still strong. “Cards with pictures, the norm for children of six years.” Bobby took a deep breath. “Bunny?” She looked up at the older man, “I’ll be right outside, ok?” He assured, pointing to the door. The doctor held it open for Bobby, and he stepped through. He caught a glimpse of her confused face as she got up from the table and took a step in his direction, then the door was shut. Bonnie wasn't stupid, she was well aware that there was something different, but she didn't want to be left with the Doctor. As she walked towards the door, the doctor stepped in front, crouching to her level. “Bonnie, I need to ask you a question.” She tried to catch Bonnie’s attention. Bonnie’s hands began to twist between each other, her fingers winding this way and that. “Bonnie, Bobby’s just on the other side of the door. I promise.” The doctor tried again but Bonnie looked down at her feet, shuffling them against the carpet, swaying slightly. “Bonnie?” The doctor reached out, touching the little girl’s shoulder, attempting to gain her attention. “Bobby!” Bonnie screamed, loud and clear enough through the door. Her savior burst through the door; he looked astonished as his adopted daughter hid behind his legs, tears fresh in her eyes and making tracks on her cheeks already. “What happened?” Bobby asked, angry and confused, watching the little girl who was holding the knee of his jeans. “I touched her shoulder and startled her. I should’ve known better. I’m sorry, Mr. Singer.” The apology reached the doctor’s eyes. Bobby took a deep breath and nodded. “We can make another appointment; I can give you brochures and other reading material, and in the meantime I can put you in touch with a group for parents who face similar problems?” The doctor offered, going back to her desk, already collecting up reading material. Bobby accepted the pamphlets, and said he’d call about another appointment, unsure of what was best for Bonnie at this very moment.

“Bunny, Boys, breakfast!” Bobby called up the stairs, the boys had been left behind by John, again. Dean and Sam understood, now they were older, if Bonnie wanted to be with them, she would; if she didn't, she wouldn't. Bonnie came down the stairs, close to tears as she struggled with one of the buttons on her overalls. “Help, please.” She sniffed as she approached Bobby. He would always want to hug her, to hold her tight and tell her everything was ok, to kiss her forehead and tuck her in. But after the first attempted hug resulted in terror and tears, he’d understood deep down, physical touch for her was different, it was more intimate, so he was hyper-aware of every second of contact. Being her father was certainly a learning curve, each day was a new lesson, each word a new memory, each smile a light for the darker times. The first shrink appointment hadn’t gone to plan, sure, but, what is it they say; try, try again? The ongoing meetings had opened her up, and she'd become more talkative - for her anyway! He bent to her level and carefully fixed the button into the loop, securing the suspender. “There you go, Bun.” He smiled, encouraged when she actually met his eyes and returned the smile before sliding away to go sit in her regular seat. Bobby stood up, called for the boys again, and then turned to serve breakfast.

One day Bobby was fixing up a car, it wasn’t all hunting after all, when Bonnie came home from school. She dumped her bag and sat on a nearby tire, watching her adoptive father work. Bobby caught her craning her neck a few times to see what he was doing, and after the third time he gestured for her to join him. “Wanna help?” He asked, beaming when she nodded and jumped up. “What does this part do?” She asked, pointing at the timing chain. “That holds this,” He pointed at the camshaft, “And this,” he pointed at the crankshaft, “in the same position to each other while the engine’s running. If this stops working, you ain’t going nowhere.” He watched as she nodded and processed it all, then she pointed at another part. “And that?” “That’s a spark plug, it creates a mini-explosion between the air and compressed fuel, that make this one work,” he pointed to the row of four cylinders. “It looks like a … piston?” She squinted as she tried to remember her science class. “Yeah, look at you! Do you know what it does?” Bobby asked, she was incredibly smart and this was possibly the longest two-way conversation they’d ever had. He watched and listened as she explained what she’d learnt about pistons, and he was brimming with pride and love for this girl. It became the regular afternoon with them, she’d get home from school and help on the cars. Bobby was thrilled to finally have a way to connect with her.

“Bunny?” Bobby called up the stairs, turning to Rufus, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to touch other people’s stuff?” He growled, ripping the compass out of the older man’s hand. Rufus chuckled but looked up at the creak in the stairs. “Hiya, Bonbon, keeping out of trouble?” Rufus asked as Bonnie came down the stairs. “Yes.” Bonnie replied, her only greeting accompanied with a polite smile. “This kid’s a keeper!” Rufus said with a laugh. Bonnie’s eyebrows drew in at his remark, she looked at Bobby, alarm evident in her eyes. “Why wouldn’t you want to keep me?” She asked, concerned. “Sweetheart, he’s just… it’s just a saying. It doesn’t mean anything.” Bobby smiled at her while swiping at Rufus with the back of his hand. “Where are you going this time?” She asked, taking in his suit and tie, catching a glimpse of the fake badge as he raised his arm. “Outta state, but I’ll be back before school on Monday.” He answered. “What is it?” “A pissed off spirit.” Rufus answered, he’d moved to Bobby’s desk and was shuffling through papers. Bobby rolled his eyes at his friend’s manners but looked backed to his daughter. “So you don’t need the badge.” She stated, looking at her watch as she went to fix herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Bobby shared a look with Rufus, he’d be here forever if he tried to fight Bonnie’s logic; she didn’t like that he lied, actually she didn’t understand why he had to lie. Bobby put the badge down next to her on the bench and fought the urge to kiss her temple. “I’ll be back first thing Monday. Promise.” A few years back, after explaining to Bonnie why he posed as an FBI agent, why he had to lie, he’d kept a spare badge in the glovebox. It hurt, lying to his daughter, but he kept telling himself, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Bobby checked up on her that night, calling before she went to bed, make sure she’d eaten and hadn’t studied all day. He called her on Sunday morning after her shower, everything was to a schedule for Bonnie, easy for Bobby to follow along. She spent the day fixing engines, Sunday was her free day after all, she treated herself to pasta for dinner, even though it wasn’t thursday, but when Bobby hadn’t called and it was past her bedtime, she worried. She called his mobile, she called Rufus’s, she even called Sam to see what she should do. Bonnie had polished all the pistons she found in the car yard and laid them in a line down the hall, she’d mapped the length and breadth of the house from one room to another, she was rewiring the TV when Bobby arrived home. “Bunny? What are you doing up?” He asked surprised to find her awake at two-thirty on a school night. He had ash in his beard, blisters on the insides of his fingers and thumb, dirt under his fingernails and in the creases around his eyes. “You said you’d be back first thing Monday. You promised.” She was angry and upset, but determined to finish putting the TV back together now that she was half way through. Bobby dumped his bag by the door and removed his cap, scratching at the top of his head, what did she - Oh. “Sweetheart, I meant…” Bobby had realised his mistake, by promising first thing she’d taken him literally, as she so often did. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Forgive me?” He asked, crouching next to her. She looked up and stared at his cheek. “Yeah. But don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” She muttered, returning to the TV once Bobby nodded and stood up.

She was nearing the end of high school, top of all her classes, while still helping Bobby on the cars. When the boys stayed for prolonged periods of time she’d let Dean help on the cars and engines, chatting away about the mechanics they’d both learned to love. But Sam was her best friend; they got along like a house on fire, and even though she was six years older, she helped him with homework, stayed up talking to him, even let him lean on her, touch her - much to Bobby’s amazement. Her graduation rolled around, and the boys begged John to let them go to the ceremony to cheer her on. It had taken Bobby days to convince her to attend and many late night calls to Sam to even make her think about getting up on the stage. The day came and she was nowhere to be found. Bobby was going mad, knowing they’d be late, but he couldn’t find her anywhere until he spotted her tucked into the hollowed out car that she’d used as a safe cubby ten years ago. His heart broke at the sight of her. “We don’t have to go.” She had tear streaks down her face and had a line of polished pistons in front of her; she must have scoured every engine here. “The boys can just come back here, and we can have pizza.” He assured, leaning against the rusted truck. She shook her head, her jaw tightening in determination. “I promised Sam.”  She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “But I don’t want anyone to clap.” She’d always hated loud noises, the exception being a roaring engine. Bobby smiled and patted her arm. “Deal.” He agreed. He remained calm on the outside, knowing what a struggle this was for her, but on the inside he was ecstatic, getting to see his baby girl up on the stage, showing off her smarts.

Bonnie Singer, her name rang through the open grounds and she stood up, her heart thundering in her throat. She kept her eyes down, her feet moving, as she rushed the stage and grabbed her certificate and ran down the other side, not even stopping to shake hands. Bobby was glad they’d asked everyone to keep applause to the end and shuffled over to allow her to sit between him and Sam. When the final speech was made and everyone stood and cheered, throwing their hats into the air, she covered her ears, turning towards Sam for cover. He laughed and took the hat off her head, throwing it up into the air for her. “Bonnie you looked great up there, I think I even got a photo!” Dean declared, giving her a large smile. She smiled back, not making eye contact, it was clear she was anxious. “Well done, Bonbon.” Sam cheered, pulling her into a one armed hug, she tensed but didn’t push him off. Bobby had grown to envy the youngest Winchester’s ease with her. “I’m so proud of you, Bun!” He smiled, a tear in his eye. He was desperate to do what Sam had, to even be able to squeeze her arm would be a miracle, but he respected her comfort zone, knowing that all of the emotions around her in the gymnasium had to be making this difficult. Bonnie fidgeted and shifted from foot to foot. Finally, with a nudge from Sam, she stepped closer and wound her hands around the older man's waist, ducking her head under his chin, squeezing him tight before retreating. “Thanks, Dad.” She whispered. Her eyes still didn’t meet his, but it was more than he’d ever dreamed. He couldn’t help the tear that rolled down his red cheeks, and at that point, he didn’t give a damn who saw them. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.” She said, noticing the tears, backing away further. “No, Bunny, I’m not sad.” Bobby said, sniffling and wiping at his eyes as Sam and Dean stepped back to give them a moment. “I’m so happy, you have no idea.” Bobby, opened his arms wide and shrugged, “I’m just an old man proud of his little girl.” He choked on his words but managed a bright grin. Bonnie stepped in and gave him another hug. Calling him Dad may not have been her idea, but she was glad Sam had suggested it. Seeing Bobby happy was more than enough to force her unease aside.

As fate would have it, I adopted a girl and two boys, and they grew up great!

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@thing-you-do-with-that-thing​

“Well, why don’t you just move into the bunker with us?” Sam asked what should have been an innocent and welcome question.

What he didn’t know was that Dean had suggested it already. That more than anything it would have been great for you to move into the bunker, stop carrying your clothes and hunting gear back and forth all the time. That there were reasons you had kept yourself from ever living with anyone else.

“I’ll think about it, thanks for the offer Sammy.” You smiled at him genuinely, grateful for the brotherly concern.

You and Dean had been casually dating for a while now. You’d hooked up while helping out on a hunt and it grew to a point where you were regularly backing them up and hanging out with them for fun. You and Dean both knew real feelings were in play at this point, but hadn’t gotten super serious yet. You were hunters, serious didn’t usually go too well, so you were both steering clear of it like the emotionally avoidant adults that you were.

“Alright, grab your gear, we’ve got a nest of vamps over Southern Ohio we gotta go clean up.” Dean walked into the kitchen carrying his already-packed bag. “Meet in the garage in ten.”

You headed out to the garage to grab stuff from your car while Sam headed to his bedroom to do the same. You grabbed your spare machete, syringes and dead man’s blood, and set it all on the ground next to your car. Then you went around to the front seat and grabbed the bag of spare clothes and toiletries that you always had prepared, adding it to the line of items on the ground. After closing your trunk, you carefully placed each item into their usual spot in your bag, then zipped it up. You carried it over to Dean’s Impala, setting it in the backseat where it would ride next to you.

Dean was sitting in the driver’s seat already, radio on, drumming along on the steering wheel. “Ready sweetheart?” He looked out the window at you and smiled.

“Yes, sir!” You leaned through the open window and kissed him on the lips before pulling away and following your bag into the backseat.

Sam exited the bunker shortly after and tossed his bag in the trunk before sliding in next to Dean.

As Dean started the car and pulled away you slid the zipper open and rechecked your bag once more to ensure you hadn’t missed anything. Sam and Dean always had extras in their arsenal of course, but you weren’t one to be less than over prepared for anything.

The hunt went smoothly, the three of you made a well-coordinated team by now and you moved through the house in tandem, decapitating vampires as they tried to attack you. One jumped on your back at one point when you were separated from the boys sweeping the rooms, but you had a syringe ready in your shirt pocket that you were able to reach around and plunge into its neck before it could sink it’s teeth into you.

Covered in grime and blood you all showered at the motel before heading out to get dinner. You laid out your soaps and shampoos on the counter before climbing in and rinsing yourself off.

Sam and Dean were chivalrous when it came to shower turns, so you had some down time after while you were waiting for them to clean up. You more thoroughly cleaned your machete, took inventory of the remaining syringes that you still had, and repacked them precisely in your bag. You put the shampoo and conditioner back in your toiletries bag as you wouldn’t need them again before you headed back from the trip, and pulled out clothes to wear the next day. You packed your dirty, hunt clothes in the garbage bag always stocked in the outside pocket of your bag and stuck that in its usual spot.

By the time you were satisfied with all of those things, Sam had showered and come out in clean clothes, and Dean already had the water running for his shower.

You leaned back on the bed and plugged some headphones into your phone, cranking up the meditation music that you liked to use to come down from a hunt. You closed your eyes and got your breathing in time with the rhythm and felt your heart rate slow along with it.

Dean knew that you got into a very zen mode when you did this, so he also knew to shake you out of it gently. He sat on the edge of the bed next to you and placed his hand on your shoulder softly. Your ear buds were still in so he motioned to you eating a burger to ask if you were ready to go get food. You nodded hastily and tugged your ear buds out, leaving them on the bed side table.

In the same parking lot as the motel there was a run down burger joint that offered a decent beer selection. You walked over together, looking forward to getting some food in your stomachs, downing a few beers, and getting some sleep after driving through the night on the way up to the hunt.

Dean and Sam ordered first, you signaling to them that you still needed a minute.

“I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, with just bbq sauce please? And can I get a basket of fries, separate from the burger?”

“You got it. Should be out quick.” The waitress was friendly but brief, the perfect combination.

You joked with the boys until the food came out, teasing Dean a bit and getting Sam to share embarrassing stories. Dean’s hand rested on your thigh in a comfortable, grounding way.

Once the food was brought over you pulled out the small bottle of hand sanitizer in your pocket and made quick work of cleaning your hands before picking up your burger. The rest of dinner was quiet as you all devoured your food and grew drowsier.

You had finished your burger and had shifted the baskets so you could eat your fries when Dean finished his basket of food. He quickly snatched a couple fries from your basket and you playfully slapped his hands away.

After you walked back to the motel and everyone changed into their sweats to sleep in the boys crawled into bed. You went to the door and checked that the chain was securely in place, and tugged on the handle to be sure the deadbolt was holding. You went to the other end of the room and checked the lock on the glass sliding door, tugging at that handle to be sure it didn’t budge. You felt Sam and Dean’s eyes follow you as you repeated the sequence two more times before crawling into bed and snuggling up to Dean. He wrapped his arms around your torso and pulled your back into his chest.

After getting up and getting ready you repacked the rest of your toiletries, double checking that all the small bottles were in the right place. You put your remaining dirty clothes into the trash bag, then replaced that on top of your larger bag. You followed Sam and Dean out of the motel room, sweeping it visually one last time as you closed the door behind you. Your bag went in first, then you followed into the back seat. Sam and Dean got arranged up front and you were quickly on the road back to Kansas.

“Come on, please, sleep here tonight?” Dean’s puppy dog face was working its magic on you as you moved your bag from the Impala into your car, intending to drive back to your house that night. You only lived another half hour up the road, you’d make it just fine. When you and Dean first started getting involved you had showed him how complete and comprehensive your warding was, it was a safe place to be. That didn’t stop him from pleading you to stay in the bunker to be safe and so you could spend more time together.

You caved, just as you both knew you would. “Fine.” You dramatically rolled your eyes and sighed, ending with a laugh.

“Why don’t you go shower, I’ve got a few things I’m going to read up on before bed.” Dean leaned in and kissed you before you parted at the bottom of the stairs.

You got settled into bed with Dean that night, mentally chanting that you didn’t need to check the doors, that it was safe here, that you could just stay in bed and everything would be okay. You were safe. You didn’t need to check the doors. You felt Dean’s breaths lengthen as he drifted off into sleep. Easing out of bed you ventured down the hallway, up the stairs, and double checked every locking mechanism on the door into the bunker. You whispered a spell that made the warding glow and ensured that it was all fully in place.

As you went to return back to bed your curiosity got the best of you and you returned to the library to see if you could find what Dean was reading. He wasn’t exactly one to spend his down time on research, he researched plenty when it came to hunts.

His still open laptop’s screen was dark, but there were a few piles of papers around the spot where it was sitting. You walked over to read them and realized one stack was scientific research articles, another was a list of diagnoses across the anxiety and depression spectrum, and the pile closest to the edge of the table was topped with some sort of article titled “Loving Someone with OCD. Supporting and Understanding.”

Your eyes filled with tears as you processed what Dean had been looking into. He was digging to identify what you were battling with internally, how it manifested, and what he could do to help you.

You heard a throat clear in the doorway and turned to see Dean standing there, “I wanted to clean that up before you woke up tomorrow morning.” He raised his hand to rub the back of his neck, “I’m sorry, I just wanted to help.”

You blinked and the tears spilled down your face. Seeing this Dean quickly made his way across the room and embraced you. “Shh, I’m sorry sweetheart, I just wanted to help you. To understand and be there for you.”

“Don’t apologize Dean, thank you. So much.” You pause to take a deep breath, trying to stem your tears and pull away from Dean’s chest slightly so you could look up into his eyes, “I’ve always been afraid to talk about my OCD. To open up about what it’s really like, why I do what I do. It’s easy to be cautious when hunting, but for you to recognize it was more and to put the time in to help…. Thank you Dean. So much. I love you.”

“I love you too.” He smiled then cupped your face and leaned down to capture your lips in his. You separated, “Everything all good out here? You alright to get back to bed?”

“Just gotta check one more time, and yes.” You smile again, heading for the stairs and repeating your check as Dean waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs. On your way down you muttered the spell once again and spun to view all of the warding as it glowed. “All good.”

Dean took your hand and lead you back to the bedroom.

He didn’t try to reassure you that you didn’t need to do what you felt you had to do, he didn’t try to stop you, he didn’t think it needed to change. He just wanted to be there with you as you did it. He just wanted to help whenever he could. He just wanted to be understanding.

Maybe moving into the bunker would be more doable than you had initially thought.

Two Months Later

You had been right. After that night you felt more comfortable opening up to Dean about what you were experiencing and why. He continued to find ways to help you. You hunted, stressed out about selling your house, hunted a bit more, then finally came across a hunter couple that truly appreciated all of the weapon hiding spots, warding, and supply storage that you had built in. With Sam and Dean both helping carry boxes, the move went pretty quick. You took deep breaths as you carried the last box out and shut the door behind you.

Dean placed his hand on your shoulder, enough pressure to be reassuring, “You’ve thought about this, you’re okay with this. You got this.”

You turned your gaze from the door and over to him, “Thanks Dean, you’re right.” You smiled and exhaled the last deep breath you took and turned toward the car.

“Let’s go home!” Sam called cheerfully as all three of you piled into the Impala.

The start of unpacking went smoothly. Dean had already allocated half the closet space and a new dresser for you in the bedroom you’d be sharing. You took another one of the spare bedroom’s to set up your creative outlet supplies in - painting, drawing, knitting, all that good stuff that kept your hands busy when your mind wouldn’t stop running.

As you got to attempting to organize those things you felt your heart rate start to increase, feeling overwhelmed by the choices to be made. Where did you want this? How would it work best to organize that? What if you changed your mind? Why did this box of pencils spill, you had packed it so carefully? What if it didn’t all fit right? Where would it be easiest to get to that? Why wouldn’t this work how you wanted it to? Where was that other box with the rest of what you were looking for? What if you had left something at the house? What if Dean changed his mind and he didn’t want you here? What if he got sick of all of your double and triple checking everything? What if you couldn’t sleep one night and he got sick of you tossing and turning? What if Sam got sick of you being here all the time? What if a hunt went wrong and one of them got hurt? What if it was you that messed it up and got them hurt? What if you researched a case wrong and things went South because of it? What if you put the books back in the wrong place in the library and Sam got frustrated with you? What if both of them realized how much better of a person they deserved in their lives?

When Dean came searching he found you in a ball on the floor, sobbing. You couldn’t catch your breath, your head was pounding, and you couldn’t stop shaking.

You didn’t see him come in because your eyes were clenched shut against the tears, but you felt his arms wrap around you as he joined you on the floor. He didn’t say anything, but slowly rocked you back and forth. After what felt like hours, but could have been seconds or days for all you knew, you finally felt your breath returning to normal and the shaking eased up. Dean hadn’t wavered since he had first sat with you.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

His only response was to squeeze you a bit tighter and place a soft kiss on the top of your head.

“Let’s go to bed.” You suggested, ready to get off of the hard floor now that you were returning to reality instead of the terrifying web of possibilities your brain wound, trapping you.

Dean stood and pulled you up right with him. You wrapped your arm around his waist, he draped his arm across your shoulders, and you leaned on each other as you walked to your bedroom.

He softly undressed you, then just as softly pulled your favorite of his soft t-shirts over your head before staying right by your side and guiding you into bed. He slowly changed into his boxers and t-shirt too before lying down himself. He reached across to set his hand on yours where it was resting on the bed. Your fingers intertwined and untwined, Dean rubbed small circles on the back of your hand using the pad of his thumb.

You fell asleep to those gentle circles. The repetition was grounding and the fact that it was Dean supplying that support was enough to get you back down to a place where you could sleep.