#anxietywrites

"Where's Mommy?" Dean had asked, his small voice trembling.

You looked at Dean and then at your father, and you realised he couldn't answer. His face was covered in soot, eyes red-rimmed and vacant.

"Daddy?" you whispered.

He just shook his head, clutching baby Sammy tighter to his chest.

You didn't know the answer either, so you just held your father's hand and pulled Dean in for a hug with another.

"It's okay, Dean," you whispered, though you didn't believe it yourself. "We're together. That's what matters."

You were nine years old by the time you could cook a full meal over a motel room stove and assemble a Colt .45 in under two minutes. The same hands that stirred instant mashed potatoes and cut the crusts off peanut butter sandwiches were the ones that wiped blood from silver blades and loaded salt rounds into a shotgun.

"Can I have the blue plate?" Sam would ask, barely tall enough to see over the counter.

"Sure thing, Sammy," you'd reply, sliding his dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese onto the chipped blue plastic plate he loved.

Dean tried to help when he could — his heart was always bigger than his body — but you kept the worst of it from him. He was still so young, and Sam? Sam was a baby. He didn't know how to hold a spoon properly, let alone understand why his dad disappeared for days at a time or why you sometimes locked all the windows and stayed up with the lights on, holding a knife under your pillow.

"Why are you still awake?" Dean asked one night, finding you perched by the window.

"Just making sure everything's okay," you answered, not mentioning the shadow you'd seen flicker across the parking lot. "Go back to sleep, buddy."

"Dad said he'd be back today."

You glanced at the clock. 2:17 AM. "He will be. Maybe he just got held up."

"You always say that."

You reached out, ruffled his hair. "Because it's always true. Now bed, hero."

You taught yourself how to lie. How to smile and tell Sam stories to keep him calm. How to tell Dean everything was okay, even when your hands were shaking. How to tell your father you could handle it, even when you weren't sure you could.

You learned how to be a mother before you were ever old enough to stop being a child.

You didn't need to read Dad's journal to know the truth. You'd known what he did long before he ever sat you down. You'd seen the signs, heard the names whispered under his breath when he thought you were asleep.

You carried that knowledge quietly, the way most kids carried stuffed toys. But not you. You carried silver blades and Latin prayers. Because someone had to. Because Dean was still trying to figure out why Dad came home angry and silent and Sam was barely big enough to hold a crayon.

So you did what you always did, you stepped in. You protected.

When your father barked orders and disappeared for days, you made sure the boys were fed. When he came back reeking of whiskey and regret, you kept the boys close and his temper farther. Dean never saw the worst of him, not really. You made sure of that. You always stepped between them before it could touch him.

And when John snapped at Sam for crying too loud or forgetting how to hold a knife during training, you were there in a second, sharp as a blade.

"He's six. Back off," you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands.

"He needs to learn," John growled.

"Not like this." You placed yourself between them. "Go cool off. I'll handle it."

"You don't give the orders around here," he snarled.

You didn't flinch. "I’m not. I’m doing what you taught me."

You didn't care if your voice shook. You didn't care if John towered over you.

Because no one was allowed to hurt them, not even him.

Sometimes you'd catch Dean watching you. Like he knew. Like he was old enough now to understand what it cost you to stand in front of that fire every time it threatened to consume them.

He never said anything. But he didn't have to.

You were the one who taught him how to clean a gun and how to patch a wound. You were the one who sang Sam back to sleep when the nightmares wouldn't let go. You were the one who told your father no, over and over, even when it earned you silence and slamming doors.

By the time you were twelve, you weren't just their sister. You were their shield. Their home. Their soft place to land and their hardest edge when things went bad.

And somewhere along the line, you turned from Daddy's little girl to Daddy's little soldier.

You stopped asking why he did what he did and started asking how to do it better. You learned to read salt patterns and demon signs like other kids learned cursive. You memorized lore between math problems, whispered an exorcism under your breath like a second language. There was no room for softness anymore, not for you.

Not when you had two boys depending on you to be both steel and sanctuary.

You never told them how tired you were.

"How do you always know what to do?" Dean asked one night, watching you bandage a cut on his arm.

You smiled, tying off the gauze. "I don't. I just pretend."

"Well, you're really good at pretending then."

You ruffled his hair. "Get some sleep, hero. Tomorrow's another day."

"You should sleep too," he said, eyes serious beyond his years.

"I will," you lied.

You never let it show — the weight, the pressure, the loneliness that came from always being the one who had to know. The one who had to smile when Sam wanted cartoons. The one who had to hold Dean back from throwing himself headfirst into hunts just to get Dad to say he was proud.

You kept them balanced — Dean's rage, Sam's innocence, and your father's obsession. You were the quiet axis they all spun around. And maybe that was the cruelest thing about it. No one ever asked you to be that. But no one else ever would have done it either.

You remember the first time John hit the wall too close to Sam's head — not at him, not technically, but close enough. You remember the way Sam flinched and how Dean froze like prey sensing a predator, and how something ancient and furious rose up in your chest. You shoved yourself between them, eyes blazing.

"Try that again and I swear to God, I'll put you on the floor."

Your father had stared at you, stunned. "You threatening me, girl?"

"No," you said, voice steady as steel. "I'm promising you."

And maybe in that moment, he saw something of Mary in your eyes, that unflinching, wildfire strength. Or maybe he just realized you weren't his little girl anymore. Either way, he walked out the door that night and didn't come back for four days.

You didn't speak to him when he did. But he didn't raise his voice at Sam again.

Dean curled up next to you that night on the lumpy motel mattress, like he used to when he was five. No words, just warmth and shared silence. He knew what you'd done. He always knew.

"You think he's coming back?" he whispered finally.

"Yeah. He always does."

"I'm not sure if that's good or bad anymore."

You squeezed his shoulder. "It's just what it is, Dean."

Sam brought you a sticky note the next morning with a drawing of the three of you holding hands under a yellow sun. He didn't say anything, just handed it to you and went back to his cereal.

"That's us," he said after a moment. "You, me, and Dean."

"No Dad?" you asked gently.

Sam shrugged his little shoulders. "He's not here much anyway."

You kept that note in your jacket pocket for years.

Because some days, that little drawing was the only thing that reminded you why you were still doing this.

You were thirteen when you got your first scar, a deep, curved line across your upper thigh from a rougarou hunt gone sideways. You stitched it yourself in a gas station bathroom while Dean stood guard and Sam sat on the counter trying not to cry.

"Does it hurt?" Sam whispered, watching you thread the needle.

"Nah," you lied, forcing a smile. "It's just like sewing a button."

"You're lying," he said, eyes too knowing for a seven-year-old.

"Only a little bit, Sammy." You winked. "It's not the worst."

"You don't have to pretend for me," he said quietly. "I know you're not invincible."

Dean shot him a look. "Shut up, Sam. She's fine."

But you caught his eyes in the mirror, worried, uncertain. He knew better too.

You didn't make a sound as you worked. You just bit down on your sleeve and pushed the needle through your skin like Dad had taught you. Like he would've expected you to.

But later that night, when the boys were asleep, you let yourself cry into a towel in the shower. Quiet, so no one would hear. So no one would worry.

Because the truth was, being strong all the time hurt like hell.

And no one ever asked you if you were okay.

You were fourteen the first time you met Bobby Singer.

The Impala pulled into a dusty driveway that looked more like a junkyard than a home, and all your father said was, "You kids behave. Bobby doesn't take crap from anyone."

That made you raise your eyebrow. Coming from him, that meant something.

The man who stepped out to greet you was gruff and blunt, wearing a trucker cap and covered in engine grease. But his eyes were sharp, the kind that saw straight through you. You'd barely gotten two steps out of the car before he looked at your face, then at Dean's, then at Sam curled up in the backseat.

"John," he said flatly. "You look like hell."

"Still better than you," your dad replied, slapping him on the shoulder.

But you didn't miss the way Bobby looked at you again. The crease in his brow when he noticed the way you stood between your brothers and your father, not by accident, but like it was instinct.

Bobby didn't say anything that day. Just waved you all inside, muttering something about supper and how he'd already put a pot of stew on. You could count on one hand the number of warm meals you'd had in the last month, and suddenly this dusty little house felt like something dangerous.

Safe.

You didn't trust it at first.

But over the next few days, you watched the way Bobby moved. The way he muttered "idjit" at your dad with a grunt, but set out extra blankets for you and your brothers without a word. The way he always made sure Sam's bowl was the fullest, or that Dean got an extra scoop of pie when no one was looking.

And the way he looked at you, not like a soldier, not like a ticking clock waiting to grow up, but like a kid who was too tired and too smart and too angry for her age.

Late one night, when your father had passed out in Bobby's guest room after too much whiskey and too many ghosts, you'd slipped into the kitchen to make tea for Sam's cough, having to stand on a chair to reach the stove.

"You shouldn't have to do that," Bobby had said from behind you, making you nearly jump out of your skin.

You didn't flinch. "Somebody has to."

He didn't argue. Just pulled out another chair and sat down, watching you move like he was trying to figure out a puzzle no one had warned him about.

"He leans on you too much," he said quietly. "John. Always did have a blind spot when it came to expecting his kids to be soldiers."

You didn't answer. You just stirred honey into the tea and tried to pretend your throat wasn't tight.

"You ever get to just be a kid?" he asked suddenly.

You paused, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Bobby said. "When's the last time you did something just for fun? Not for your brothers, not for your dad. For you."

You couldn't remember. The realization must have shown on your face.

"That's what I thought," Bobby muttered. "Damn fool, John Winchester."

"He's doing his best," you said automatically, the defense reflexive.

"No, sweetheart. You're doing his best. He's just doing."

"He's lucky you're as strong as you are," Bobby added after a moment. "But that doesn't mean you're not still a kid, sweetheart. You deserve to be one sometimes."

That nearly undid you.

No one had called you sweetheart in years. No one had told you you deserved anything but orders and responsibility.

You passed him the mug you'd made for yourself instead. "You need it more than I do."

"The hell I do," he grumbled, but took it anyway. "You know, you remind me of someone I used to know. Too smart for her own good. Too stubborn to ask for help."

"How'd that work out for her?" you asked, curious despite yourself.

Bobby's eyes softened. "She saved more people than she'll ever know."

He didn't reply further, just stared at you with an expression you didn't know how to read at fourteen.

That night, when Sam fell asleep curled up on Bobby's couch and Dean passed out mid-sentence telling you about a creature he saw in a book, Bobby came in and draped a blanket over all three of you. He ruffled Dean's hair and tucked the blanket around Sam. When he reached you, you pretended to be asleep, just to see if he'd stop at them.

He didn't.

He placed a calloused hand gently on your head.

"You're stronger than he deserves," he whispered, thinking you couldn't hear.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

You felt like maybe you had someone watching out for you, too.

You were eighteen when Sam first started questioning the life.

He had always been the quiet one, the one who stayed out of trouble and listened to you more than anyone. But the questions started creeping in, slowly at first. It was small things, why the hunts always left you all covered in dirt and blood, why you couldn't stay in one place for more than a couple of weeks, why Dean's laugh sounded like it had to be forced sometimes.

But soon, it was the big things.

It was the night the three of you were sitting in a diner, the warm glow of neon lights casting a strange comfort over the table. Sam was staring at his half-eaten burger, the silence stretching far too long.

"You ever wonder if there's more than this?" he asked suddenly, his voice small, vulnerable.

You knew the question had been building. He'd been spending more time reading, books about normal things, books about real life. He was still so young, barely sixteen, and the weight of the world had already been placed on his shoulders. You could see the strain in his eyes, the way he was looking at Dean, looking at you, looking at everything that wasn't this life.

You gave him a quiet look. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean." He looked at you, his face serious. "We're never in one place long enough to even finish high school. We barely ever get a break. And every time we go on a hunt, I keep thinking... one day, we won't come back."

He let the words hang in the air, and for a second, you could feel your heart drop.

You knew what he was really asking - Is this all there is?

But Sam was just a kid. He hadn't seen enough, not like you had. He didn't know how deep the blood ran. You tried to keep the panic out of your voice.

"Sam, we're doing what we have to do. It's not forever."

"Isn't it?" Sam challenged, his gaze intense. "Isn't it? Look at us. Look at Dean." His eyes flicked to Dean, who was picking at his fries, trying not to pay attention. "We don't even have friends anymore. Hell, we don't even have a life outside of hunting. How is that not forever?"

Dean finally looked up. "We save people, Sam. That matters."

"At what cost?" Sam shot back. "Look at us! Look at her!" He gestured at you. "When's the last time any of us did anything normal? When's the last time she got to be just a regular person instead of playing mom to both of us because Dad can't be bothered?"

You felt the sharpness of his words like a blade across your chest. He was right. You couldn't lie to him anymore. Not this time.

The silence between you all stretched thicker, like the weight of it was enough to crush the air around you. Dean didn't say anything, he never did in moments like this. He just let you handle it. He was tired of fighting this fight too.

Finally, you took a deep breath and leaned forward, meeting Sam's gaze head-on. "You're not wrong, Sam. But this life... it's not about what we want. It's about keeping people safe. It's about making sure what happened to Mom, to all the people who get taken by things they don't even know are real, doesn't happen to anyone else."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but you held up a hand. "I get it. I do. I've had those thoughts, too. But you have to remember something." You let your voice drop low, because this was real. This was raw. "No one else can do it. No one else can stop it. We're the ones who have to carry it."

"But why us?" Sam pressed. "Why does it have to be us?"

"Because we know," Dean said quietly. "And once you know... you can't just walk away."

Sam looked at you, still uncertain. Still questioning. He didn't want to accept it. Not yet. Maybe he never would. But you saw the way his shoulders sagged, the way his fists unclenched.

"I just... I just don't know if I can keep doing this," he said quietly.

"You don't have to decide right now," you told him, your voice gentle. "You're sixteen. You've got time."

Sam looked up, a strange light in his eyes. "Do I? Really? Because the way Dad talks, I'll be doing this until something kills me."

And for the first time, you saw the boy who had been your little brother, the one you always tried to protect, finally starting to come face-to-face with the weight of everything that had been placed on his shoulders. He wasn't a kid anymore, not really. And you weren't sure how to protect him from this part of the life.

You reached across the table, placing a hand on his. "You don't have to figure it all out right now. But when you do, we'll be here. I'll be here."

"Even if I want something else?" he asked, so softly only you could hear.

"Especially then," you promised.

Sam nodded, but you could see the conflict still warring inside him. You weren't sure if he'd stay in the life, if he'd keep following you and Dean on these endless hunts, but for the first time, you wondered if you were asking him to be something he wasn't meant to be.

You wished you could give him the world outside of this.

But this world wasn't one you could escape.

Not unless you had the strength to tear it apart from the inside.

You were twenty-four when Sam decided to leave for Stanford.

You saw it coming before Sam even opened his mouth.

The motel room was thick with tension, the air heavy like it was waiting to explode. Dean sat on the bed closest to the door, lacing his boots with too much focus. John stood by the table, cleaning a rifle that didn't need cleaning. You leaned against the sink, arms crossed, heart already pounding.

"I got into Stanford," Sam said, voice even. "Full ride. I'm leaving."

John didn't even pause. "Like hell you are."

"I'm serious," Sam snapped. "I'm done with this life."

John's eyes lifted, and the calm shattered.

"You ungrateful little piece of—"

"That's enough," you said sharply, already stepping between them.

John ignored you, moving fast, crossing the room in two strides. "You think you get to just walk away after everything I gave you? After everything your sister gave up?"

"Exactly!" Sam shouted. "She gave up everything. You didn't. You used her. Used us."

"Watch your mouth, boy," John growled.

"Or what?" Sam challenged. "You'll hit me? Go ahead! It's just one more reason to leave."

That's when John shoved him.

It wasn't hard - just enough to send Sam stumbling into the wall, wide-eyed and furious.

Dean jumped up. "Dad!"

But you were already moving. Already there. You shoved John back, hard. "Touch him again and I swear to God-"

"You gonna hit me now too?" John snarled. "Go ahead! Just like your mother, too damn soft when it matters and too damn loud when it doesn't."

"Don't you dare bring Mom into this," you hissed. "She'd be ashamed of what you've become."

Your hand was in the air before you could stop it. The slap echoed.

He grabbed your wrist before you could pull back.

And that was when Dean slammed into him.

"Let her go!"

John staggered back, letting go of you only to swing wildly. Dean ducked, grabbed his arm, but John was stronger, older, meaner, and angrier.

You didn't hesitate.

You shoved yourself between them again, taking a blow across the ribs meant for Dean. It knocked the wind out of you, but you stood your ground. Stood tall.

"That's ENOUGH!" you screamed, shoving them both apart. "You want someone to fight? Fight me. But you leave them the hell out of it."

The room went still.

Dean was breathing hard, bleeding from the corner of his mouth. Sam looked stunned, like he hadn't expected it to go this far. And John, John just stared at you, chest heaving.

"Dad," Dean said quietly. "This isn't right. None of this is right."

"You're making a mistake," John growled at Sam, ignoring Dean completely.

Sam's voice came back hoarse. "No. I'm finally doing something right."

He grabbed his bag and walked to the door. Paused.

"Sam," your father said, one last attempt. "If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back."

You felt the words like a physical blow. Saw them hit Sam like one too. But he straightened his shoulders.

"Fine by me," he said, voice steady despite the tears in his eyes.

You reached out, wrapping your arms around him. "Go. Be free. Be you. I've got Dean. Just... don't forget you still have us."

"I won't," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours for a heartbeat. "I love you."

"I love you more," you whispered back. "Call when you're safe, okay?"

"I will," he promised. "Take care of yourself too, not just Dean."

And then he was gone.

John didn't say another word. Just grabbed his jacket and keys.

"Where are you going?" you demanded.

"Out," he growled. "Don't wait up."

The door slammed behind him.

Dean sat back down, chest still rising and falling like a war was stuck inside him.

"He'll be back," you said, not sure if you meant Sam or your father.

Dean looked up at you, eyes red-rimmed. "Should we have gone with Sam?"

The question hit you in the chest. Because yes, maybe you should have. Maybe you all should have gotten out years ago.

"I don't know," you admitted. "But we're still together. That's what matters."

You stayed standing, bruised, breathless, but unbroken. Because if they weren't going to protect each other, you'd do it yourself. Every time.

What made his stomach knot wasn't just the situation—it was the realization that his captors had been thorough. Every hidden weapon he normally carried was gone: the lock pick in his boot heel, the silver knife usually strapped to his ankle, the small backup pistol normally tucked into his waistband. Even the paperclip he habitually kept in his jacket pocket. Whoever had them knew their routines.

Dean's eyes fixed on the small camera mounted in the corner of the room. The red light blinked steadily, someone watching their every move. He stared directly into it, letting his defiance show even as fear churned in his gut.

Sam groaned beside him, consciousness returning slowly. "Dean?" he asked, voice thick with disorientation.

"Yeah," Dean rasped. "Still here." He studied his brother carefully, checking for injuries. Besides a small cut above his eyebrow, Sam seemed intact.

"You remember anything?" Sam asked, blinking hard as he took in their surroundings, his hunter's instincts kicking in despite the fog of whatever drug they'd been given.

"We were grabbed," Dean muttered. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness. "You okay?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah, just... fuzzy. Head hurts like hell."

"How long have we been out?" Sam asked, trying to rotate his wrists within the cuffs, wincing at the raw skin already forming.

Dean glanced at the window, noting the position of sunlight filtering through the blinds. "Few hours, I'd guess. Last I remember, we were walking back after I got the cure. It was around midnight then."

"So they know," Samuel said grimly. "About vampires, about hunters. This isn't random."

"No," Dean agreed, "this is targeted. Professional. Question is—by who?" A cold weight settled in his chest as possibilities flashed through his mind: demons, angels, any number of supernatural creatures with grudges. Or worse, humans with knowledge of their world. Those were often the most dangerous.

"Could be anyone," Sam sighed. "We're not exactly short on enemies."

"Crowley?" Samuel suggested.

Dean shook his head. "Not his style. He'd be in here gloating by now."

A heavy silence fell over the room as each man retreated into his thoughts, calculating odds and possibilities.

"You know what I keep thinking?" Dean finally said, his voice quiet.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"This is the kind of situation where we could use..." Dean's voice trailed off, unable to say your name aloud. The wound was still too fresh, the guilt too heavy. He'd made his choice a year ago, walked away from hunting, from the life. From you. For a shot at normal with Lisa and Ben.

And here he was, right back in it. The cruel irony wasn't lost on him.

Sam's expression softened with understanding. "Yeah," he agreed quietly. "She always was good with the impossible situations."

"Who are you talking about?" Samuel asked.

Neither brother answered.

The sparring room at the S.H.I.E.L.D facility echoed with the sounds of combat. You moved with precision, driving your knee lightly into Ward's ribs—enough pressure to make a point without causing injury. In one fluid motion, you hooked your leg around his ankle and sent him tumbling to the mat, following him down to pin his hands above his head, your breathing barely elevated while his came in ragged gasps.

"I kinda like this," Ward flirted, a smirk playing across his lips despite his defeat. "Reminds me of last week."

The memory flashed unbidden—vodka burning your throat, his hands in your hair, the desperate attempt to feel something, anything besides the hollow ache that had become your constant companion. The morning after, you'd slipped out before dawn, avoiding his gaze in the hallways for days.

You didn't bother responding to his comment, simply released his wrists and pushed yourself up, walking toward your gear. The towel was rough against your skin as you wiped away sweat, your mind already drifting elsewhere—back to memories you'd been trying to drown in work and training and meaningless encounters.

"You're even quieter than usual today," Ward noted, coming up behind you. His voice held something between concern and frustration.

"Not in the mood for talking," you replied flatly, taking a long drink from your water bottle. The cold liquid did nothing to soothe the perpetual tightness in your chest.

"You're never in the mood for talking," he countered, grabbing his own towel. "But you used to at least pretend."

You stared at your reflection in the mirrored wall. Dark circles under your eyes, skin paler than it should be. You looked like someone haunted, and perhaps you were, haunted by green eyes and a crooked smile that you couldn't seem to exorcise no matter how hard you tried.

You weren't exactly emotionally available, and no one could blame you for it either, since the one you thought was the love of your life left you for someone better, someone more normal, someone who wasn't as fucked in the head as you were.

So you came back to S.H.I.E.L.D, asked them to take you on again, like you had when Dean first died and went to hell. You came here to escape the memories that had haunted you back then, and now when Sammy died, you were back here again—you didn't think you could feel pain like you did when Dean had died, but this was worse, so much worse, because he was alive, he was okay—he just wasn't yours. He didn't want to be yours. As soon as he had a semblance of an option, he chose someone over you.

"What do you want from me, Ward?" you finally asked, voice low and tired.

Ward stepped closer, his expression softening. "I just want to know if you're okay."

"I'm fine," you lied automatically, the words so practiced they almost sounded true.

"Bullshit," he replied softly. "Nobody who spends sixteen hours a day in the gym or on missions is fine. Nobody who drinks themselves to sleep is fine. Nobody who looks at the world like it's already ended is fine."

Something hot and dangerous flared in your chest. "I don't remember asking for your psychological evaluation."

"No, you just asked for everything else," he shot back, frustration breaking through. "My body, my time; but god forbid anyone actually try to reach the person underneath."

You were saved from responding when a nervous-looking intern appeared at the doorway, clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield. "Agent Coulson would like to see the two of you in conference room eight," he announced, his voice wavering slightly. "He says it's a mission. Priority level."

You and Ward exchanged glances, the tension between you momentarily forgotten.

"We'll be right there," you told the intern, who nodded quickly before scurrying away.

"Think it's serious?" Ward asked, grabbing his own towel, professional mask sliding back into place.

"Coulson doesn't call meetings over parking violations," you replied, gathering your things. "Come on."

The walk to the conference room was silent, your mind already shifting into work mode, the only place where you felt anything close to peace these days. Mission parameters, threat assessments, tactical strategies- these things made sense in a world where nothing else did.

When you pushed open the door, you found Rumlow, Romanoff, and Barton already seated around the table. The air held that particular tension that always preceded a high-stakes assignment.

"Wow," you muttered under your breath as you slid into an empty chair. "They're pulling out the big guns for this one."

Clint caught your eye and gave you a subtle nod. He'd been like a brother to you for years, and when he'd brought Natasha in from the cold, the three of you had become inseparable—"The Three Musketeers," as Coulson called you.

"You look like hell," Natasha whispered as you took the seat beside her.

"Always the charmer," you replied with a ghost of a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"Now that we're all here," Coulson began, his expression serious as he entered the room, "I'll get straight to the point. This isn't a standard op."

"When is it ever with this crew?" Rumlow quipped, leaning back in his chair with casual arrogance.

Coulson didn't smile. "Three individuals on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s watchlist have disappeared. We believe they've been captured."

"How do you know?" Clint asked, his posture straightening, eyes alert.

"Because we received a message demanding ransom," Coulson replied, his eyes flickering toward you for just a moment, but long enough to send a chill down your spine.

"What's the demand?" you asked, reaching for the file in the center of the table, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in your chest.

Coulson hesitated, then said simply: "You."

The room fell silent. You felt everyone tense, could sense their eyes on you as you slowly opened the file. Three familiar faces stared back at you: Sam and Dean Winchester, and a third man you'd never met but whose name you recognized instantly—Samuel Campbell.

Your world tilted on its axis. "Sam's dead," you said automatically, staring at the photograph as if you could will it to change. It had been over a year since he'd died, since Dean had chosen Lisa and Ben over you, since you'd walked away from hunting and back into the arms of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Apparently not," Natasha said softly beside you, her hand coming to rest on your arm.

You looked up to find Coulson's gaze steady but apologetic. In that moment, understanding crashed over you like a wave, he'd known. Known that Sam was alive, and hadn't told you.

"How long?" you asked, your voice deadly calm even as your insides churned with betrayal.

"Almost a year," Coulson admitted. "We've been monitoring the situation."

"A year," you repeated, feeling Natasha's hand tighten on your arm, subtle but supportive. "And you didn't think I deserved to know?"

"It wasn't my call," Coulson said, though his expression suggested he might have disagreed with that decision. "The order came from higher up."

You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouth. "Fury?"

Coulson's slight nod confirmed it.

"Why tell me now?" you demanded, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

"Because now we need you," Coulson said simply. "Whoever has them knows about your connection to the Winchesters. They want to trade—you for them."

"What's so special about these guys anyway?" Rumlow asked, leaning forward to peer at the file. "They're on our watchlist, why?"

"They're hunters," Natasha explained before you could. "Specialists in supernatural threats."

"And apparently someone valuable enough to S.H.I.E.L.D. that we're having this conversation," Ward added, studying your face carefully.

You stared at the photos, mind racing. Sam was alive. Had been alive for a year. And Dean... had he known? Had he chosen to keep this from you too?

"We have a plan," Coulson said, pulling you back from the edge of your spiraling thoughts.

"I'm listening," you said, crossing your arms, fighting to keep your expression neutral despite the storm raging inside.

"We make the exchange, with conditions," Coulson explained. "You'll be wired, tracked, and we'll have teams in position. The moment the Winchesters are clear, we extract you."

"And if something goes wrong?" Clint asked, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

"Then we move to plan B," Coulson replied.

"Which is?" you pressed.

"We take out everyone except you and the targets," Rumlow said with a predatory smile.

As the others began discussing strategy and extraction points, your mind drifted to the last time you'd seen Dean, his face when he told you he was going to Lisa, that he was done with hunting, done with the life. Done with you. The pain and betrayal on your face that you'd tried so hard to hide. The way he'd looked away first, unable to meet your eyes.

You wondered what he would think when he saw you again, if he even wanted to see you at all. You wondered if Sam knew you'd never been told he was alive. You wondered how much more your heart could take before it shattered completely.

Before you could sink your mind deeper in that wormhole, you heard a name, Blackwood.

You stopped them from discussing further. "Blackwood?" you asked Coulson, your body suddenly alert.

"Ellen Blackwood. She is the one who made the demands. You know her?" he asked, looking at you with renewed interest.

You closed your eyes, trying to think back to the case years ago. The memories came flooding back with startling clarity—the way they always did when it came to your past cases. You remembered every detail, every death, every mistake, every victory. It was both a blessing and a curse.

"Blackwood," you repeated, opening your eyes. "Yes, I know her, or rather, knew her brother."

"Care to share with the class?" Rumlow prompted when you fell silent.

You remembered it clearly, remembered every single one of them. Fury had assigned you the case years ago—an Ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agent who had gone rogue and killed several of their agents, taking help from a witch. That's why Fury had called you in—you didn't really get involved until it was supernatural back then, not wanting to get caught up in S.H.I.E.L.D politics, but you had needed something from Fury: information about the faith healer that saved Dean all those years ago, in exchange for completing this mission.

"It was a mission for S.H.I.E.L.D., I wasn’t officially working for them back then." you explained, eyes fixed on the table. "James Blackwood, Ellen's brother. Former agent turned rogue. He'd had some arrangement with a witch, started eliminating his old team members one by one."

"I remember that case," Clint said with a frown. "How many dead?"

“One hundred and fourty seven people over the course of five years” You told them, and took in the horrified expressions “It started when he still worked here. Then he left and his old teammates started dying, so they investigated, they couldn’t do much with what they found, so they sent me.” You replied, looking at all of them. All of them took betrayal seriously, and if this asshole was killing people, people who trusted him, then he didn’t deserve to live. 

"Fury brought me in because of the witch connection. I had just met the Winchester boys back then, but I'd known their father for way longer. I felt I owed it to him, to his boys, to help them with something they were dealing with. So I made a deal with Fury—information they needed in exchange for taking care of his witch problem."

Clint calling out your name brought you out of your head. "I killed her brother," you said flatly, looking down at the file in front of you. "He was using a witch to kill people. I put him down like the rabid dog he was."

"This explains why they want you," Nat shrugged, her eyes filled with anger at Blackwood.

"Revenge," Ward concluded. "Classic."

"It's been years," you said, shaking your head. "Why now?"

"Because the Winchesters are back in play," Coulson suggested. "They've been more active lately. Perhaps she's been watching, waiting for the right leverage."

Your chest tightened with a toxic mixture of emotions: fear for Sam and Dean, anger at being kept in the dark about Sam's return, anxiety about seeing Dean again after all this time, and underneath it all, a bitter, unwelcome spark of hope.

"So what's the plan?" you asked, straightening your shoulders. "When do we move?"

"We have twenty-four hours to respond," Coulson said. "The exchange is set for tomorrow night."

Natasha's hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently. "You don't have to do this," she said quietly. "We can find another way."

But you both knew there wasn't one. Not really. Not in time.

"Yes, I do," you replied, meeting her gaze. "I owe them that much."

And maybe, a small voice whispered in the back of your mind, maybe you owed it to yourself too. To finally face the ghosts that had been haunting you for the past year.

"Then it's settled," Coulson said with a nod. "Prep begins immediately. Barton, Romanoff, you'll be primary backup. Ward and Rumlow, you'll coordinate the perimeter team. We move at 2200 hours tomorrow."

As the others began to file out of the room, Coulson caught your arm.

"A moment," he said quietly.

You waited until the others had left before saying, "You should have told me."

"I know," he admitted. "For what it's worth, I argued that you deserved to know."

"Doesn't change anything," you replied, the betrayal still raw.

"No," he agreed. "But there's something else you should know before you go in there."

You steeled yourself. "What?"

"Sam Winchester doesn't have a soul."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "What are you talking about?"

"When he came back, something was... wrong," Coulson explained. "Our intel suggests he's been hunting with this Samuel Campbell for the past year. Dean only rejoined them recently, after leaving the civilian life behind."

Your mind raced. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know," Coulson admitted. "This is beyond even S.H.I.E.L.D.'s understanding. But you need to be prepared. The Sam Winchester in that room may not be the man you remember."

You nodded slowly, processing this new information. "Thank you for telling me."

As you walked out of the conference room, your mind was already shifting into mission mode—compartmentalizing emotions, focusing on tactics, on survival. It was what you did best, after all. It was how you'd survived this long.

But underneath it all, a voice whispered: Dean. You're going to see Dean again.

And despite everything—the pain, the betrayal, the year of silence—your heart still skipped a beat at the thought.

Dean paced the length of the small room for what felt like the hundredth time, muscles tense with restless energy. They'd been moved from the chairs to a more comfortable but equally secure setup, a room with two beds, basic facilities, and a door that remained stubbornly locked.

"Wearing a hole in the floor won't get us out of here any faster," Samuel remarked from where he sat on one of the beds, methodically checking the bandage on his forearm where their captors had drawn blood.

"Neither will sitting on your ass," Dean shot back.

Sam looked up from his position by the window, where he'd been studying the security measures. "Dean," he said calmly, "you need to conserve your energy. We don't know when we'll get a chance to move."

Dean knew Sam was right, but the enforced stillness was making his skin crawl. Three days they'd been here, with regular meals and no abuse beyond the initial capture, which made no sense. Monsters tortured; humans interrogated. These people were doing neither.

"What kind of kidnapper provides three squares and medical attention?" Dean muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"The kind that needs us alive and well for something," Samuel replied.

The sound of footsteps outside drew their attention. The door swung open to reveal a woman flanked by two armed guards. She was tall, elegant in an austere way, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that seemed to hold no emotion whatsoever.

"Mr. Winchester. The elder one, I presume?" she said, her gaze fixed on Dean.

"Depends who's asking," Dean replied, tension radiating from every line of his body.

"Ellen Blackwood," she offered with a cold smile. "Though the name likely means nothing to you."

"Should it?" Dean asked, eyes flicking to the guards and their weapons, calculating odds.

"No," Ellen replied. "But it meant something to someone you once knew quite well."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Ellen said, "that your freedom has been arranged. Conditionally, of course."

"What's the catch?" Sam asked, his voice lacking the emotional inflection it should have had.

Ellen's eyes traveled to Sam, and something like distaste flickered across her features. "The catch, Mr. Winchester, is an exchange. One life for three."

"We're not interested in anyone dying for us," Dean said firmly.

Ellen laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "How noble. But unnecessary. You see, the exchange has already been agreed to. Your former associate has quite the hero complex."

Dean's heart stuttered in his chest as understanding dawned. There was only one person she could mean. "No," he said, his voice rough with sudden fear. "Whatever deal you think you've made, it's off."

"That's not your decision to make," Ellen replied calmly. "The exchange happens tonight. I simply came to inform you of the arrangement... and to give you this."

She nodded to one of the guards, who stepped forward and handed Dean a small device.

"What is it?" Samuel asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"A live feed," Ellen explained. "I thought you might want to see your rescuer in action. Consider it a courtesy."

With that, she turned and left, the guards following and the door locking behind them with a definitive click.

Dean looked down at the device in his hand, a small tablet that flickered to life at his touch. The screen showed a security feed of what appeared to be the facility's entrance. And walking through it, flanked by men in tactical gear, was you.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, his face draining of color.

"Is that..." Sam began, moving closer to look at the screen.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, his voice tight. "It's her."

Samuel peered over their shoulders. "Who is she? Some hunter?"

Dean didn't answer, couldn't answer. His eyes were fixed on your face—the face he'd tried so hard to forget over the past year. You looked different, harder, colder, your movements precise and controlled as you walked through the security checkpoint. Your hair was different, your clothes were different, but the way you carried yourself was unmistakable.

"She works for the S.H.I.E.L.D now," Sam said when Dean remained silent. "She left hunting after..." He trailed off, glancing at his brother.

"After I told her to go," Dean finished, guilt churning in his stomach. "After I chose Lisa and Ben."

Samuel raised an eyebrow. "And now she's walking into a trap for you? Must have been some goodbye."

Dean shot his grandfather a glare that could have melted steel.

"We need to get out of here," he said, turning to Sam. "Now. Before she reaches us."

"Why?" Sam asked, genuinely perplexed. "She's obviously here to get us out. Why not let her?"

"Because it's a trap, Sam!" Dean exploded. "This Blackwood woman, she's not just going to let us walk out of here. She wants revenge for something, and she's using us as bait."

"For what?" Samuel pressed.

Dean ran a hand down his face. "I don't know. But I'm not letting her sacrifice herself for us. Not again."

The unspoken history hung heavy in the air between them. All the times you'd put yourself in harm's way for the Winchesters. All the scars you carried because of it. Dean had sworn the last time would be the last—it was part of why he'd walked away. To keep you safe. To give you a chance at something better.

And now here you were again, walking straight into danger for him.

"We're getting out of here," Dean said with renewed determination. "And we're going to find her before Blackwood does."

In the tactical van parked two blocks from the Blackwood facility, you checked your weapons one last time. Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sidearm, plus your own personal arsenal: silver knife strapped to your ankle, holy water flask in your jacket pocket, and an angel blade concealed along your spine. Old habits died hard.

"Comms check," Natasha's voice came through your earpiece.

"Reading you," you replied, adjusting the fit.

"Remember the extraction plan," Clint said from the driver's seat. "Once the Winchesters are clear, head for the southeast exit. We'll be waiting."

You nodded, though anxiety gnawed at your insides. Ellen Blackwood had been specific in her demands: you alone, unarmed, or the deal was off. The weapons and backup were insurance, but if she was as thorough as her brother had been, she'd know they were there.

"If this goes sideways—" you began.

"It won't," Natasha cut you off. "But if it does, we've got your back. Always."

The simple declaration threatened to crack the careful composure you'd built over the years. These people—Natasha, Clint, Coulson—they'd become your family when your old one fell apart. They'd picked up the pieces Dean left behind.

"Time to move," Clint announced, checking his watch.

You took a deep breath, centering yourself. "Tell me about the building again."

"Three stories, underground parking level," Natasha recited. "Main entrance is north face. Security checkpoint, then a corridor leading to the central atrium. That's where the exchange is supposed to happen."

"And the Winchesters?"

"Being held on the second floor, east wing, according to the intel."

You nodded, committing the layout to memory. "If I'm not out in thirty minutes—"

"We're coming in," Clint finished. "Guns blazing if necessary."

"Try not to need us," Natasha added with a small smile. "Paperwork's a bitch when we have to explain bullet holes."

A ghost of a smile touched your lips. "I'll do my best."

With one final check of your equipment, you stepped out of the van into the cool night air. The walk to the Blackwood facility felt simultaneously too long and too short, your mind racing with possibilities and contingencies.

What would you say to Dean when you saw him? What could you possibly say after a year of silence? After he'd chosen someone else? After Sam had been alive all this time and no one had told you?

No. Focus. The mission came first. Feelings could wait.

The security guards at the entrance eyed you warily as you approached.

"I'm expected," you said simply.

One of them spoke into his radio, received confirmation, and nodded. "Arms out, please."

You complied with the cursory search, grateful they weren't being thorough enough to find your concealed weapons. They confiscated your visible sidearm, as expected, then escorted you through the entrance and down a long corridor.

The building was eerily quiet, your footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Your escort led you to a large central area—the atrium Natasha had mentioned, with a domed glass ceiling and minimalist furnishings. Ellen Blackwood stood in the center, flanked by her own security detail.

"Right on time," Ellen remarked as you approached. "I appreciate punctuality."

"Where are they?" you asked without preamble.

Ellen smiled, a cold expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Straight to business, then. They're being brought down as we speak. But first, I thought we might have a chat."

"I'm not here to chat," you replied coldly, your posture deceptively relaxed. "I'm here for the exchange. Bring them out."

Ellen's smile widened, something predatory in her eyes. "The exchange? Oh, I'm afraid there's been a slight change of plans."

You sensed the trap too late. The prick of a needle in your neck sent ice through your veins, your enhanced reflexes dulled by whatever drug was now coursing through your system. As you staggered, two guards moved in, catching your arms before you could reach for any of your concealed weapons.

"You didn't really think I'd let a S.H.I.E.L.D agent walk in here without precautions, did you?" Ellen asked, her voice distant through the growing fog in your mind. "I've been planning this for years."

Fighting against the drug's effects, you tried to activate your emergency beacon, but your fingers wouldn't respond. The room tilted and swayed, Ellen's face blurring in and out of focus before darkness claimed you entirely.

You woke to pain, sharp and insistent. Cold water dripped down your face as consciousness returned in agonizing increments. The room swam into focus—sterile white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting, the tang of antiseptic barely masking the metallic scent of blood. Your blood.

Your arms were secured above your head, shoulders screaming from supporting your weight. Your feet barely touched the ground, toes straining for purchase on the smooth concrete floor. The tactical suit you'd worn was torn in places, dark with blood both dried and fresh.

As your vision cleared, you realized you weren't alone in the room. Across from you, chained to chairs bolted to the floor, sat Sam, Dean, and Samuel Campbell. Dean's face was bruised, a split lip crusted with dried blood. He strained against his restraints when he saw your eyes open, panic written across his features.

"About time you joined us," Ellen's voice came from behind you as she stepped into view, a knife twirling between her fingers. Not just any knife—the same one you'd used to kill her brother. The irony wasn't lost on you.

You didn't respond, using the silence to assess your situation. The comms unit was gone, as were all your weapons. The wound in your side throbbed, caused by whatever they'd done while you were unconscious. But your mind was clear—the drug had worn off.

Your eyes met Sam's across the room. There was something calculating in his gaze, something cold that confirmed Coulson's warning about his missing soul. No emotion, just assessment. Samuel watched with wary interest, but Dean—Dean looked wrecked, his eyes never leaving your face.

"You know," Ellen continued, circling around to face you, "I've been telling her about my brother. About how I found him after she was done with him." The knife traced a line down your throat, not quite breaking skin. "Seven stab wounds. Throat cut. And for what?"

You finally spoke, your voice hoarse but steady. "Yeah, and he died like a fucking pussy."

The room went silent. Ellen's eyes widened with shocked rage before she backhanded you hard enough to split your lip. The metallic taste of blood flooded your mouth as your head snapped to the side.

"You shut your mouth," Ellen hissed.

You spat blood onto the floor, a cold smile curving your lips. "He killed 147 people in five years, good people, people that trusted him to have their backs." You met Ellen's gaze unflinchingly. "And he cried at the end. Begged. Hardly the soldier you're making him out to be."

Ellen's face contorted with fury as she drove the knife into your shoulder, a quick jab that had Dean roaring threats from across the room. You didn't make a sound, didn't even flinch, your eyes never leaving Ellen's face.

"You're lying," she snarled, twisting the blade before yanking it out.

"Read the mission report," you replied calmly, as though you weren't hanging by your wrists with blood streaming down your arm. "It's all there. Every pathetic detail."

Ellen slashed the knife across your midsection, opening a shallow cut that immediately began to seep blood through your already torn tactical gear. "My brother was a hero."

"Your brother was a coward who couldn't handle the job," you countered. "He broke under pressure and took out his failures on innocent people. Just like you're doing now."

The knife sliced again, this time across your thigh. Through the haze of pain, you heard Dean struggling violently against his restraints, the metal cuffs clanking against the chair.

"Stop it!" he shouted. "Ellen, this isn't going to bring your brother back!"

Ellen ignored him, her focus entirely on you. "I'm going to carve you apart inch by inch while they watch. And then I'm going to start on them."

You laughed, the sound hollow and cold. "You won't live that long."

"Is that a threat?" Ellen asked, pressing the tip of the knife beneath your eye. "From someone in your position?"

"It's a statement of fact," you replied. 

A flicker of unease crossed Ellen's face before she masked it with a sneer. "Your backup isn't coming. We've taken precautions."

"Not good enough ones," you said with certainty.

Ellen's jaw tightened as she stepped away from you, walking over to Dean. She pressed the bloodied knife—your blood—against his throat. "Maybe I should start with him? Would that loosen your tongue?"

"Go ahead," you said, your voice eerily detached. "One less complication in my life."

Dean's eyes widened slightly at your words, hurt flashing across his face before understanding dawned. He knew you were playing for time, trying to keep Ellen's attention focused on you rather than following through on her threats against them.

Ellen studied your face for a long moment before laughing. "You really have changed, haven't you? The woman I researched would have torn the world apart for him."

"That woman died a year ago," you replied flatly. "When he chose someone else."

The words hung in the air between you and Dean, weighted with a year's worth of unspoken pain and resentment. His expression crumpled, guilt written in every line of his face.

Ellen looked between you, a slow smile spreading across her features. "Oh, this is delicious. He doesn't know, does he? About what you've become?"

She turned to Dean, the knife still pressed against his throat. "Did you know your ex has the highest kill count of any S.H.I.E.L.D agent in the field this year? Thirty-seven confirmed eliminations in twelve months. They call her 'the Ghost' now. No hesitation, no mercy." Ellen's eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "She's more like my brother than she'd ever admit."

"She's nothing like your brother," Dean growled. "Your brother killed innocents. She protects them."

"Such loyalty," Ellen mocked. "Even after she just offered you up as a sacrifice."

A commotion outside the door drew Ellen's attention. Muffled shouts and what sounded like gunfire echoed from somewhere in the building. Her eyes narrowed as she pressed a hand to her earpiece, listening to a frantic report from one of her men.

"Secure the perimeter!" she snapped into the comm. "I don't care how, just keep them out!" She turned back to you, fury etched into every line of her face. "Your friends are persistent, I'll give them that."

"You have no idea," you replied, a cold smile playing at the corners of your bloodied lips.

Ellen turned toward the door, knife still in hand, her composure fracturing at the sounds of combat echoing through the building. "Looks like your friends didn't get the memo about coming alone," she snarled.

"I never come alone," you replied, your voice steady despite the pain radiating from your wounds.

In that moment of distraction, you made your move. With a sharp intake of breath, you pulled your body upward, using the chains as leverage to swing your legs up and wrap them around Ellen's neck in one fluid motion. The move sent fresh waves of agony through your wounded shoulder and abdomen, but adrenaline pushed it aside.

Ellen gasped, the knife clattering to the floor as her hands flew to your legs, trying desperately to break your hold. You tightened your thighs around her throat, twisting your body to use the momentum to your advantage.

"Stop her!" Ellen choked out to her two remaining guards who stood by the door.

They rushed forward, weapons raised, but you were already in motion. With a powerful twist of your hips, you used Ellen's body as a human shield. The first guard hesitated, unwilling to shoot his boss, and that hesitation cost him. You swung Ellen's body around, forcing her to collide with the guard. As they stumbled, you released your leg hold, dropping back to your hanging position for just a second before using the chains to swing yourself up again.

Your feet connected with the second guard's chest in a powerful kick that sent him flying backward into the wall with a sickening crack. He slumped to the floor, unconscious or worse.

Ellen was scrambling to her feet, gasping for air, her hand reaching for the fallen knife. You twisted your body, ignoring the screaming pain in your shoulders, and wrapped the chains around your wrists for better leverage. With a violent jerk, you pulled yourself up, the metal digging into your flesh as you strained against the restraints.

One of the bolts securing the chains to the ceiling groaned, then gave way with a metallic screech. Your right arm came free, the sudden release almost making you lose your balance. With one arm still chained, you swung down, your feet hitting the floor just as Ellen lunged with the knife.

You caught her wrist with your free hand, stopping the blade inches from your ribs. The force of her attack pushed you back against the wall, chains rattling. Ellen's face contorted with rage as she pressed the advantage, using her body weight to drive the knife closer.

"I've waited years for this," she hissed.

"You should have waited longer," you replied coldly, before smashing your forehead into her nose.

Blood sprayed as Ellen stumbled backward, momentarily stunned. You seized the opportunity, twisting your body and using the remaining chain as a pivot point to swing your legs up, wrapping them around Ellen's arm. With a vicious jerk, you heard the satisfying crack of bone breaking.

Ellen screamed, the knife falling from her useless fingers. You released her arm only to grab her by the throat with your free hand, squeezing just enough to keep her in place.

"Now listen carefully," you said, your voice dangerously quiet. "You're going to release them, or I'm going to finish what I started with your brother."

"Go to hell," Ellen spat, blood from her broken nose dripping down her face.

"Been there," you replied with a cold smile. "Didn't take."

With a swift, calculated movement, you slammed her head against the wall, rendering her unconscious. As her body slumped to the floor, you turned your attention to the remaining chain, searching for weaknesses in the link.

The first guard was stirring, reaching for his sidearm. Without hesitation, you used the chain as a whip, catching him across the face with enough force to send him back to unconsciousness.

Dean watched the entire sequence with a mixture of awe and horror, while Sam's expression remained analytically detached. Samuel's eyebrows were raised in grudging respect.

"Anyone got a paperclip?" you asked casually, as if you weren't bleeding from multiple wounds and hanging partially from a chain.

The door burst open and you tensed, before relaxing when you realised it was Ward.

Ward lowered his gun, his eyes quickly assessing the room before landing on you. "So," he said to Dean, his voice deceptively casual as he trained his weapon on Ellen, "you're the Dean Winchester."

"Ward," you acknowledged, relief coloring your voice despite your best efforts to remain detached. "You're late."

"Traffic was hell," he replied, stepping fully into the room. Behind him, you could see more S.H.I.E.L.D agents securing the corridor. "Looks like you started the party without us.” he commented before adding, “Romanoff and Barton are clearing the west wing. Should I be concerned that you're hanging from the ceiling?"

"Nothing I can't handle, you know I hate waiting." you replied, ignoring the blood dripping steadily onto the floor beneath you.

Ward holstered his weapon, moving quickly to where you hung. "Medical's on standby," he said as he reached up to cut through the ropes securing your wrists. "Try not to bleed out before they get here."

As the pressure on your shoulders released, pain shot through your arms like fire. You collapsed forward, Ward catching you before you hit the ground. He lowered you carefully to the floor, propping you against the wall as more agents flooded the room, some moving to free the Winchesters and Samuel.

"I had it under control," you muttered, pressing a hand against the wound in your side.

Ward's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Clearly."

Across the room, Dean was freed from his restraints. He immediately pushed past the agents tending to him, making a beeline for you. You tensed as he approached, your expression carefully blank despite the pain radiating through your body.

"Are you okay?" he asked, dropping to his knees beside you, hands hovering uncertainly as though afraid to touch you.

"I'm fine," you replied automatically, the lie obvious given the state of your body.

Dean's face was a storm of emotions—guilt, fear, concern, and something deeper that you refused to acknowledge. "You're not fine," he argued. "Jesus, look at you."

"Nothing that won't heal," you said dismissively, turning your attention to Ward. "Extraction plan?"

Ward nodded toward the door where Natasha had appeared, her expression darkening as she took in your condition. "Quinjet on the roof. We move as soon as Medical clears you for transport."

"I don't need clearance," you insisted, trying to push yourself up only to have both Ward and Dean reach out to stop you.

"Don't be stubborn," Dean said, his hand gentle but firm on your uninjured shoulder. "You've lost a lot of blood."

You jerked away from his touch, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through your battered body. "Don't," you warned, your voice low and cold. "Just... don't."

The hurt that flashed across his face should have given you satisfaction, but you felt nothing. The emotional walls you'd built over the past year were too thick, too necessary for survival.

Sam approached, his expression more curious than concerned as he surveyed the room. "We should move," he said pragmatically. "Ellen might have had more men in the building."

"Already cleared," Natasha reported moving in, her eyes never leaving you. "You look like hell."

"You should see the other guy," you quipped weakly.

"I did," she replied with a glance at Ellen's body. “Clean up is on the way.” 

The medical team arrived shortly after, their efficiency a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded them. You winced as they examined your wounds, refusing the offered painkillers with a curt shake of your head.

"Three lacerations requiring immediate attention, possible shoulder dislocation, multiple contusions," the lead medic reported to Ward, who hovered nearby. "She needs to be moved to the Quinjet now."

"I can walk," you insisted, already pushing yourself to your feet despite the protests of both the medic and Dean.

Natasha stepped forward, her expression brooking no argument. "Either you let them carry you, or I sedate you myself. Your choice."

You glared at her, but the look she returned was equally unyielding. With a resigned sigh, you nodded to the medics, who quickly moved to prepare a stretcher.

"The Winchesters and Campbell come with us," you said to Ward, your tone making it clear this wasn't a request.

Ward nodded. "Already arranged. Coulson wants a full debrief anyway."

As the medics secured you to the stretcher, your eyes met Dean's across the room. His face was a mask of conflicted emotions—concern warring with guilt, relief tangled with regret. You looked away first, unable to bear the weight of that gaze.

The journey to the Quinjet passed in a blur of pain and the clinical voices of the medical team working to stabilize you. By the time you were loaded onto the aircraft, your tactical gear had been cut away, replaced with temporary bandages and an IV drip that you'd finally relented to.

The interior of the Quinjet was dimly lit, the hum of the engines a familiar comfort as Clint prepared for takeoff from the pilot's seat. The Winchesters and Samuel were seated across from you, Dean's eyes never leaving your face despite your determined efforts to ignore him.

Natasha sat beside you, her presence a silent support as the medical team continued their work. "Ellen?" you asked quietly.

"In custody," she confirmed. "Along with the remaining members of her security team. Fury wants them interrogated at the Triskelion."

You nodded, wincing as the medic tightened a bandage around your thigh. "Any casualties on our side?"

"Two agents wounded, none critical," Ward reported from nearby. "Could have been worse."

"Much worse," Natasha agreed, her eyes flickering briefly to the Winchesters.

The Quinjet lifted off, the slight jolt sending fresh pain through your battered body. You bit back a groan, unwilling to show weakness, especially with Dean watching so intently.

"You should rest," Natasha advised, noting the strain on your face. "We've got a two-hour flight back to base."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though the words lacked conviction even to your own ears.

A shadow fell across you as Dean rose from his seat, approaching despite the warning look Natasha shot him. He knelt beside your stretcher, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the same eyes that had haunted your dreams for the past year.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "For coming for us. You didn't have to do that."

You stared at the ceiling of the jet, unwilling to meet his gaze. "It was a mission, Dean. Nothing more."

A flash of hurt crossed his features before he masked it. "Right," he said, clearly not believing you. "Still... thank you."

Before you could respond, Sam appeared beside his brother, his expression clinically curious rather than genuinely concerned. This close, the difference was jarring—the Sam you remembered had been empathetic, kind. This version studied you like an interesting specimen.

"You work for S.H.I.E.L.D now," he stated rather than asked. "Since when?"

"Since you died," you replied coolly. "Or didn't, apparently."

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the steady beeping of the medical equipment monitoring your vitals.

"I hear you've been busy," Sam continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Thirty-seven confirmed kills this year?"

Dean shot his brother a warning look. "Sam—"

"It's forty-two now," you corrected flatly. "Ellen's brother wasn't the only monster I've put down."

Sam's lips quirked in what might have been approval. "Impressive."

"That's enough," Natasha intervened, her voice carrying a subtle threat as she positioned herself between you and the Winchesters. "She needs rest, not an interrogation."

Dean nodded, rising to his feet. "Sorry," he said, directing the apology to you rather than Natasha. "We'll talk later?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. You closed your eyes, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming. "Maybe."

As they returned to their seats, you felt Natasha's hand on your uninjured arm, a gentle squeeze of support. "You okay?" she asked quietly.

"No," you admitted, the honesty surprising even you. "But I will be."

The rest of the flight passed in relative silence, the hum of the engines lulling you into a state somewhere between consciousness and sleep. The painkillers had finally begun to take effect, dulling the sharp edges of your injuries to a more manageable ache.

When the Quinjet touched down at the S.H.I.E.L.D facility, you were immediately transferred to the medical wing, Natasha and Clint flanking your stretcher like protective shadows. The last thing you saw before the doors closed was Dean's face, watching you with an expression that spoke of all the words left unsaid between you.

Hours later, patched up and stubbornly refusing to remain in the medical bed, you stood in one of the observation rooms, watching through the one-way glass as Coulson debriefed the Winchesters and Samuel Campbell. Your body protested every movement, the fresh stitches pulling uncomfortably beneath the clean S.H.I.E.L.D-issued clothing, but you ignored the pain with practiced ease.

The door opened behind you, and you didn't need to turn to know who it was. "Shouldn't you be resting?" Fury asked, coming to stand beside you.

"Shouldn't you have told me Sam Winchester was alive?" you countered, not taking your eyes off the scene in the interrogation room.

Fury sighed, his one good eye fixed on the Winchesters as well. "It was a judgment call."

"It was the wrong one," you replied coldly.

"Perhaps," he conceded, surprising you with the admission. "But it's done now. The question is, what happens next?"

You finally turned to look at him, your expression carefully neutral despite the turmoil of emotions beneath the surface. "They go back to hunting, I go back to my job. Nothing's changed."

Fury studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Everything's changed," he corrected. "And we both know it."

Before you could respond, the door to the observation room opened again, revealing Ward. "They're asking for you," he said, his eyes flickering between you and Fury.

"I'm busy," you replied dismissively.

Ward raised an eyebrow. "Winchester was pretty insistent. Said something about owing you a conversation."

Fury nodded toward the door. "Go. That's an order. Medical tells me you're pushing yourself too hard anyway. Take some time."

With a resigned sigh, you moved toward the door, each step a careful study in controlled pain. Ward fell into step beside you, his presence a silent offering of support.

"You don't have to see them alone," he said quietly as you made your way down the corridor.

You almost smiled at that. "I've faced worse than Dean Winchester."

"Have you?" Ward asked, his tone suggesting he knew better.

You didn't answer, pausing outside the interrogation room door to gather yourself. Through the small window, you could see Dean pacing while Sam sat calmly at the table, Samuel looking increasingly impatient in the corner.

"I'll be fine," you assured Ward, though whether you were trying to convince him or yourself remained unclear.

With a deep breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, immediately feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes on you. Dean stopped pacing, relief washing over his features as he took in your appearance—still bruised and battered, but standing.

"You should be in medical," he said by way of greeting.

"And you should be thanking me instead of criticizing my choices," you replied, crossing your arms carefully to avoid aggravating your injuries.

Samuel chuckled from his corner. "She's got you there, Dean."

Dean shot his grandfather an irritated glance before turning back to you. "Can we talk? Alone?"

You hesitated, considering refusing. It would be easier to maintain the walls you'd built if you kept your distance. But something in his expression—a vulnerability you rarely saw in Dean Winchester—made you nod.

"Five minutes," you conceded. "Then I have a debrief with Coulson."

Dean looked to Sam and Samuel. "Give us the room?"

Samuel nodded, moving toward the door without argument. Sam remained seated for a moment, studying the interaction between you and Dean with clinical interest before finally rising.

"Don't forget we have our own problems to deal with," he reminded Dean as he passed.

Once the door closed behind them, an awkward silence filled the room. Dean ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture you remembered all too well.

"How are you feeling?" he asked finally.

"Like I got stabbed multiple times," you replied dryly. "But I'll live."

Dean winced at your bluntness. "Look, I—" he began, then stopped, seeming to struggle with his words. "Thank you. For coming for us. I know you didn't have to, especially after..."

"After you left me for Lisa and Ben?" you finished for him, the words more bitter than you'd intended.

Dean's expression crumpled slightly. "Yeah."

You sighed, some of the anger draining away despite your best efforts to hold onto it. "It was a mission, Dean. You got captured cause of me. I had to come."

"Bullshit," he said, taking a step closer to you. "You could have sent a team. You didn't have to come yourself."

"Maybe I wanted to see if Sam was really alive," you countered. "Since apparently everyone knew but me."

Guilt flashed across Dean's face. "I wanted to tell you," he said quietly. "But he's... he's not Sam. Not really. Something's wrong with him."

"He doesn't have a soul," you stated flatly.

Dean's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you-"

"S.H.I.E.L.D has been monitoring the situation," you explained. "Coulson told me before the mission."

"And you came anyway," Dean said, a hint of wonder in his voice.

You looked away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. "Like I said, it was a mission."

Dean took another step closer, close enough now that you could smell the familiar scent of him, leather and gunpowder and something uniquely Dean. "I missed you," he admitted softly.

The words hit you like a physical blow, your carefully constructed defenses cracking under the weight of them. "Don't," you warned, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, don't."

"I made a mistake," Dean continued, ignoring your plea. "Walking away from you... it was the biggest mistake of my life."

You finally looked at him, allowing him to see the pain and anger you'd been carrying for the past year. "You made your choice, Dean. You chose them."

"I was trying to keep a promise to Sam," he explained, his voice rough with emotion. "I was trying to have the normal life he wanted for me. But it wasn't..." He swallowed hard. "It wasn't right. It wasn't where I belonged."

"And where do you belong, Dean?" you asked, hating the tremor in your voice. "Because from where I'm standing, you seem to bounce between whatever option hurts me the most."

Dean flinched as if you'd struck him. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," you replied, gesturing between the two of you. "It never has been."

A heavy silence fell between you, filled with all the words neither of you seemed able to say. Finally, Dean broke it.

"Come back," he said suddenly. "Help us hunt. Help me fix Sam."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Are you serious? I have a life here, Dean. A job. People who depend on me."

"People like that Ward guy?" Dean asked, a hint of jealousy in his tone.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "That's none of your business."

"It is if you're..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"If I'm what, Dean? Moving on?" you challenged. "Because that's what you told me to do, remember? 'Go live your life,' you said. 'Be happy,' you said. So that's what I've been trying to do."

Dean's jaw tightened. "And are you? Happy?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Were you happy? The honest answer was no, not really. S.H.I.E.L.D gave you purpose, a way to channel your skills and rage into something productive. But happy? That was a luxury you'd stopped expecting long ago.

"I'm alive," you answered finally. "That's enough."

Dean shook his head, taking another step toward you until he was close enough to touch. "It's not enough," he insisted. "It's never been enough for either of us."

Before you could respond, the door opened, revealing Natasha. Her eyes quickly assessed the situation, noting your tense posture and Dean's proximity.

"Time's up," she announced. "Coulson's waiting for the debrief."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Natasha's expression made him think better of it. "This isn't over," he said to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

"It has to be," you replied just as quietly, before turning to follow Natasha out of the room.

Shirt caught on the door handle? The door handle was ripped off, miracle he didn’t rip off the door with it. Everyone was avoiding him, being able to sense his irritation from even the other side of the base before you can even hear the thuds of his boots.

Nik was not a scared man, he knows that Price would never do something to intentionally harm him. But Nik just happened to have made the mistake of walking into Prices office with the door creaking open. Prices gaze immediately snapped up to Nik and the atmosphere got even thicker and colder. Price looked like he already planned how Niks funeral was gonna go, down to the look of the invitations.

Nik stepped out, and knew that the next moments were crutial if he wanted to live and see another day. He went to the store, with only two things in mind. A fan, and a giant box of popsicles.

When NIk had got back, he marched back to Price’s office to satiate Price for the time being. Fan was plugged to the wall and on full blast in record time with the box of popsicles given like a peace offering.