#aussie!reader

You’ve already warned Dean about the drop bears and their love of Vegemite sandwiches. Told him to avoid standing under any tree. And, hey. You once had him believing Crocodile Dundee was your uncle. Lived down the street from you growing up. That part was half true.

Jokes aside, there’s something magical about the sunburnt country. The sea air on the coast, the fragrance of wattle and eucalyptus swept through it. The sand, the dirt, the bitumen on the road that sticks to your thongs and breaks the fuckers, leaving most of the population barefoot and shirtless.

That was you once. A feral kid running around town.

But there’s a monster to hunt now, for some rando reason, and you and Sam and Dean are here hunting it down.

Only sometimes you need to refuel.

Sometimes Dean does too.

While he’s living it up with his newfound addiction to meat pies and sausage rolls, and Sam’s god knows where, you’ve wandered across the street to the servo, gunning for lollies, chips and, best of all, the ice cream you’ve been craving since you hit the ground.

You step out onto the main drag. The edging of the famous bright blue and pink wrapper in your hands.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had one, and you might just have two more in your bag.

You’re quick to draw, much like your beloved is with a real gun, tearing the plastic open, careful not to lose his nose. You pinch the stick between finger and thumb as you get rid of your rubbish. Take your first delicious bite and cross the street.

The sun draws a sheen to your head, but the creaminess of Bill’s chocolate hat and crispy chocolate backing counteracts the heat. Soothes the tip of your tongue.

“You didn’t tell me they do bacon ones, too,” Dean says as you step up to the picnic table he’s all set up at. White paper bags and empty tomato sauce sachets littered in front of him. Hints of bottle-green paint chipped below it, all blending into the grass before you. Even the ocean looks green today.

“It’s just diced ham. Nothing special.” You shrug. Take another bite of your ice cream, only to splinter the base in two.

Your palm reaches out to catch a large flake, lip swiping low to reach a sliver of the strawberry layer that caught your chin as you moved.

“What’s that?” Dean’s pastry lined shadow points to the cowboy in your hands.

“A Bubble O’Bill.”

Dean repeats it like the name is holy. Eyes lit up as he comes closer to inspect the face, nose to nose, with yours and with Bill’s. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s an ice cream,” you say.

“Yeah. But-but it’s a cowboy one. You guys don’t have cowboys here.”

“No one has cowboys anymore.” You snort. “But, yeah, he’s a cowboy. You want one?”

Dean’s eyes light up like it’s the last smile he’s ever going to give. His freckle-dusted cheeks, as pink as the bubblegum nose on your Bill.

“You got me one?”

“I got you two.” You’ll just pretend you hadn’t planned on eating all three. Not when he looks the way he looks. A child on Christmas. One who’s been given a million bucks, and out too long in the unforgiving Australian sun.

You’ll forgive him this once for not listening to you about slip, slop, slapping. He’s the Rhonda to your Ketut, hot like a sunrise, raccoon eyes and all. Looking mighty adorable as he takes his first bite. His brilliant greens, candy-like against the equally green gumball nose.

“So what’s with the cowboy?” he says.

“Dunno, why?”

“Figured you guys’d have that blue dog or that guy with the bucket for a hat as an ice cream over a gunslinger.”

You stare into the distance for a moment at his comment, dumbfounded. Not sure whether to be surprised he knows who Bluey is or that he’s heard of Ned Kelly.

“How the hell do you know who either of them are?” you say as you pluck out your gumball with precision so you can finish the strawberry centre.

Dean just looks at you like you insulted John Wayne. But while his eyes narrow at you, his tongue still works his Bill. “Hey, Ledger’s no Leto,” he says between licks, twisting his arm to scoop up a drip forming at the side. “But he sure beat Nicholson. And that dog is cute like Dory.”

Cute comment aside, “Don’t you mean Nemo?”

“He’s not blue.” He swipes his head through the air, matter-of-fact, and you’re just as dumbfounded as before,

“She’s not Aussie.”

“She wouldn’t go for a guy like me, either.” His non-eating hand grabs yours, intertwining his fingers, squeezing gently. “Not like you.”

“Well, I’m not a fish.”

You turn towards the surf, sticking the whole stick in your mouth to get the last morsels of ice cream, dragging it back with your teeth. You pucker and pop your lips when you release it, knowing he’s watching.

“No, you’re not.” He chuckles. “You’re making mighty fine work of that stick, though.”

You grin. Wiggle your brows and hips a little. Play into the sultry look he’s giving you and rub your thumb over the back of his hand. “If you don’t hurry up and eat that other ice cream, I’m making work of it, too.”

There’s no way you’re letting that thing go to waste. You’d gladly eat it and get two more. Who cares about the belly ache after?

But Dean’s grabbing it and peeling back the wrapper, before you can so much as blink.

“Get your own,” he says.

“It was mine,” you spit back, and he feigns hurt to insult, to a playful smirk.

He puts the bullet-hole end of Bill’s hat up to your mouth, but you don’t bite, knowing he’ll just pull it away. You know him too damn well, so you do what any sweet girl would do in a pinch, and push it into his nose instead.

Of course, you don’t leave him this way.

You kiss the strawberry off his chin, lick the caramel from his top lip and let him taste them both on his tongue. “But you’re mine, too.”

Obligatory Jensen chewing gum because why not.

True Blue Aussie Glossary

True Blue: genuine, quintessentially Aussie. Someone or something can be true blue.

Drop Bears: feed on the tourists. Give them a Vegemite sandwich and they might leave you alone.

Vegemite: that black, salty spread no one outside of Australia likes. I’m telling you guys, it’s delicious on toast when done right. Even Mark Sheppard says so.

Sunburnt country: it’s a nod to a poem we (at least, my generation) learnt in school.

Wattle: is a native Australian tree. Bright yellow and tiny flowers.

Thongs: lol - just in case anyone’s scratching their head who hasn’t seen me or anyone else use this one before. Flip-flops are sticking to the road there, not the underwear kind (we call them g-strings or g-bangers - I don’t know why).

Rando: random. We shorten everything.

Servo: short for service station. AKA a gas station.

Lollies: candy. Except it’s anything but chocolate. Think gummy bears, bubblegum, lollipops as a collective.

Slip, Slop, Slap(ping): a campaign we had here to wear sunscreen. Slip on a shirt, slop on some sunscreen, and slap on a hat.

Rhonda and Ketut: the greatest love story of all time (it’s a bunch of TV commercials selling car insurance). Rhonda has a beautiful brake foot, and she’s hot like a sunrise. Ketut is her Balinese toy boy. In one of the commercials her sunburn forms raccoon eyes where her sunglasses had been.

Bluey: that adorable blue heeler. If you don’t know her, you’ve been living under a rock.

Ned Kelly: a famous name in Australian history. He was a bush ranger. Heath Ledger played him in a movie based on his life. I figured Dean’s love of movies might make him aware of the role.

Ten points to Gryffindoor if you spotted any extra slang or references!

I wanted to squeeze in another pun about Rhonda and Ketut at the end, or a “I just want milk that tastes like real milk,” but they just didn’t fit. Hope you enjoyed ❤️

Dean Taglist #1

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse @kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573 @lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly @my-stories-vault @amberlthomas @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447

*I've paused uploading the story for now, but you can find it in full on AO3 and Wattpad using the links above, including the second part

1. You Don't Exist

2. The Fugitive and Her Keeper

3. It's All in the Details

4. What's the Time Mr Wolf

5. The Bunker

6. Home Alone (with Kevin Tran)

7. Get Inked

8. Always Feels Like Tuesday

9. Little Koala

10. Location, Location, Location

11. We're Both Fine

12. Room 7B

13. The Demon and the Glowworm

14. Why My Foot?

15. The Wizard and Her Wand

16. Ask Jeeves

17. It Was Dean Winchester, at the Impala, with the Handcuffs

18. Hex Bags and Girly Girls Don't Mix

19. Ageless

20. Teenagers Aren't Monsters

21. The Blood on His Hands

22. Tell Me Your Story

23. One Whole Year

24. A Slice of Apple Pie

25. Was it Bach, or Simpson?

26. Two Redheads Aren't Better Than One

27. Honey and Babe

28. Tonight I'm Getting Over You

29. The Deal

30. My Door is Always Open

31. Waiting With the Enemy

32. When Later Becomes Now

33. A Few Days of Snow

34. How to Play Nice and Influence Hunters

35. Cruel Jokes

36. Sheriffs and Angels

37. Keeping It Happy

38. What's Your Number Winchester?

39. There has to be Another Way

40. The Truth Hurts (but so can Withholding It)

41. Whoever Said Romance is Dead, was Wrong

42. Honey and Babe 2.0

43. Doors That Open and Close

44. The Not So Calm Before the Storm

45. It Started and Ended with Charlie

46. Removing the Mark

47. The Exact Time and Place

48. Part Two Teaser

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Blowtorches, Boots & Bugspray (timestamp)

What Happened Last Night? (this two parter was inspired by a scene that happens in chapter 40)

As he forced you down into the chair, your cuffed wrists followed you, thumping onto the scratched wooden surface of the Interrogation Room’s centre table. “Maybe you’ll give them a straight answer.”

“The feds?” Who were you expected to answer to now? 

“The Bureau,” he said. 

‘The Bureau?’ Right... Because that explained everything. You stared at him confused and he stared right back. 

You had come to the realisation that this wasn’t a dream a couple of days ago, although waking up in a foreign country after a night out clubbing would suggest otherwise.

But dreams couldn’t hurt you. Dreams didn’t continue for as long as this situation had and there was no way your mind was capable of coming up with something so elaborate in the first place. At least you thought.

Your memories from that night were that you hadn’t been drunk. Tipsy maybe, but not intoxicated as everyone you met here so far had been suggesting. On the other hand, the condition of your body agreed with them. How else would you have wound up with these strange clusters of cuts in stranger still places, had you not been so? 

There was one on your chest, your back, both arms, both legs, your left shoulder, your right, and the list went on. For every body part you could name, guaranteed there was at least one grouping of cuts, healed, or trying to heal like your wrists were. You couldn’t count how many times the handcuffs that covered them had reopened and aggravated them further. 

The cuts were as individual in their placement as other imperfections that already plagued your skin from years of living. Just bigger, finer and made up of strokes as if they were letters from a foreign language you had no hope in hell of reading.

“The F. B. I...” Officer Tubby spoke again, more irritation in his voice. His hands moving in a motion that you recognised as an ‘ain’t it obvious’ kind of way. It wasn’t obvious to you.

You didn’t speak back this time, rather you continued to stare at him, a pleading look in your eyes. Surely this was just a sick joke. Surely your family would burst through the door at any minute and shout “April Fools” or something of the like. However, it wasn’t April. It was the middle of December and very, very cold.

Officer Tubby glared at you one last time, then left out the door, slamming it shut behind him. A thunderous bang pierced your ears, and the sound shook the tears you’d been holding. They’d been trying to escape the confines of your lashes for days.

You sat alone in that room for what felt like an hour, but it was really only a few minutes. The sound of the clock on the wall behind you, tick, tick, ticking away, and you, trying to hold back the sniffle that you had gained through your tears. That was until the door opened and closed again, and all upset switched off. There was no hiding your stained, sticky skin, but there was no way you’d let any of them see you cry.

The person who joined you was new, serious, and much younger than the other officers you’d met during your time at the police station. He was very tall and wore a black suit and tie. Hair, dark blonde. Eyes, piercing green, gazing at you, trying to read your expression as you did the same to him. In his hand was a clear zip-loc bag. The contents resembled the small purse you had been carrying that night.

“Miss?” he said, reaching into his suit jacket to pull out a small black wallet. His American accent was low and stern, but also kinder than Officer Tubby had been. “I’m Agent Smith. FBI. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

The black wallet in his hand flipped open, revealing the letters FBI in large navy blue writing. A small photograph matching his profile on the right of them. You’d only ever seen these in the movies and did not know what you were looking at. Were you supposed to do something? Take it? Look at it? 

When you did nothing, Agent Smith cleared his throat and mouthed what appeared to be an ‘okay’ in a tone that you would normally take to mean as awkward. He tucked his ID back inside his jacket as he pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. “Is this yours?” he asked as he placed the zip-lock bag down and took out your purse.

All you could do was nod.

He unzipped the purse and pulled out the contents onto the table. You could see your phone. The battery had to be dead by now. A pair of earphones. Your driver’s licence and credit card and a couple of coloured Australian banknotes. Your favourite lip gloss and a small bottle of perfume you took on nights out. Plus your house keys and the ticket stub from the club you’d been to that night.

Agent Smith put his pointer finger on your driver’s licence and pushed it across the table towards you. “Is this yours?” 

Once again, you nodded.

“Answer the question,” he snapped.

“Yes,” you said, finally finding your voice again. “That’s me. That’s my licence.”

“Okay… Well, the guys out there,” he pointed to the door behind him, “the officers, the detectives. They’re telling me it’s fake. This licence, the credit card you see there. All fake.”

“Well. Ah... They’re not American. But they’re not fake.” 

Agent Smith pulled your licence back towards himself and collected your things. He placed them back in your purse and closed the zip-loc bag.

“The detective also told me he did a trace on you. Back to Australia. Called the Australian consulate in DC.” Agent Smith seemed to take his time. “You... You. Don’t. Exist... No one with your name, date of birth, or address according to what’s written on your cards exists in Australia. You wanna explain what’s up with that?”

Agent Smith waited for you to respond, but you couldn’t. You’d already told the detectives, the officers and the hospital staff everything, and no one had believed you. So why would he?

“The detective said you gave him your parent’s details, a phone number to call them back in Australia... But they didn’t know who you were. Never heard of you... So... Who. Are. You?” The three words you’d heard repeatedly these past few days left Agent Smith’s mouth.

How many times had you been asked that? How many times did you have to go over your story before someone believed you? You didn’t know how you’d found your way to ‘there’s no place like home, Toto’ Kansas. You couldn’t even point it out on a map, let alone name all the states of the US. And you would have remembered if you’d taken a vacation to the United States.

“What’s the point? I’ve been over it with all the others. Here, at the hospital. No one believes me.” You lowered your eyes down to your hands, your wrists still wearing the silver handcuffs. “Look. I just want to go home and put whatever this is behind me. If I could just call my family myself. They’ll confirm who I am, and I can get out of everyone’s hair and find my own way back to Sydney.” 

Agent Smith’s expression changed, his green eyes softened, and a nod moved his head. 

Did he believe you? 

He pulled out his cell phone from somewhere inside his jacket and placed it on the table, the numbers on the screen already lit up waiting to be dialled.

“I assume you know the number you need to call? What is it?”

You recited your parent’s home number to him, remembering to include the international area code, +61, for Australia while Agent Smith entered the numbers as you spoke. He then pressed the speaker button on his phone and leaned back in his seat as the ringing sound of the phone filled the room.

A few short rings later and you heard the voice of your dad answering the phone. “Hello,” he said in that kind, familiar way you’d always known.

“Hey, it’s me.” 

“Who’s this?” The tone of his voice had changed with a hint of confusion added.

“Dad, it’s me. Your daughter…” Agent Smith was listening, but his face was unreadable. “I’m um, I need your help..”

“You people need to stop calling us!” your dad interrupted, before the line dropped dead.

You sat there in shock as the tears fell once again. “I... I don’t understand.” 

Agent Smith leaned forward in his seat, his left hand rubbing over his mouth and then onto his chin as he continued to watch you. “Look. Let’s say I believe you. That this ID here,” he rested his hand on the zip-loc bag, “is real, and that’s your real name written there. How did you get here? Australia is a long way from the States. And I don’t see a passport.”

“That’s because it should be back home in my apartment, where I left it! No one carries their passport around with them all the time.”

“So how did you get here, then?” Agent Smith asked, kinder but still firm. “Tell me the last thing you remember before you woke up in the hospital... Humour me.”

Even though you knew his meaning perfectly well, through a hint of sarcasm and a sudden spike in confidence, you answered his question literally. “The last thing I remember was getting on the train at Central station IN Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. I can give you the address if you like?” The corner of Agent Smith’s lips upturned at your question. “And before you ask, I’d been out clubbing. With my friends…”

“Clubbing? So you’d been drinking?” he asked.

“Yes. But I wasn’t drunk,” you said. “I’d been dancing too. Tipsy maybe, but not drunk. I’m no Cadbury.”

Agent Smith didn’t hold back the smirk this time.

‘Arsehole.’ You had been trying to hold back the slang, especially because Officer Tubby had been mocking your accent since you’d arrived at his station. 

“I left my friends around six and went back to Central to take the first train home,” you explained. “I put my headphones in and zoned out like usual... I mean, sometimes, I fall asleep on the train. So maybe that’s what happened... But the next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital, my whole body hurt like hell, and I’m being told they found me on the side of some random US highway, unconscious.” 

Agent Smith looked down at your hands still in the cuffs. Your right sleeve had ridden up, exposing the injuries on your wrists. “Those cuts under your sleeve there. The hospital notes said that they’re all over your body?”

“Yeah…” So far only the hospital staff had been interested in your wounds. Officer Tubby and the other officers, they hadn’t cared, but Agent Smith did. Why? 

“Do you mind if I take a look at it?” He gestured towards your hands and you moved them towards him, giving him your permission. 

He took a small flask from the inside of his jacket and popped the lid open, squirting a small amount of clear liquid onto his hands before rubbing them together. “Hand sanitiser,” he muttered before taking your hand in his.

His fingers were still wet when he touched you, but the coolness of the drying liquid offered little relief to your inflamed skin. 

Oddly, he sighed, relieved at something, but you didn’t know what. “And they’re all the same as this?” he asked, as his calloused fingers brushed over the strange cuts.  

“No. I mean, they’re similar I guess, but they’re all different. The ones I can see anyway.” You watched him as he continued to study your wrist in silence. “Do you know what they are? They kind of look a bit like letters don’t you think?”

“They are,” he said. “They look Enochian. A very old language.”

‘Enochian? What the fuck is that?’ You wanted answers and by the sounds of it, he at least knew what the cuts were on your skin, or what they looked like anyway. But why were they there? Who cut you? How did you get here? Maybe he knew how you got here and he’d just been playing dumb. You were. Stupidly, you felt hopeful for the first time since arriving in the States.

“Soooo. These cuts, do they mean something?” you asked.

“Maybe.” He looked away from your wrist and back up to your face. “But I can’t do anything for you here. I’m going to need you to come with me.”

“You mean, I don’t have to go back in that cell?” 

“Well, not if I can help it,” he stated as he stood up from his seat. “I’m going to help you, but I’m going to need you to trust me.” And with that, Agent Smith picked up the zip-loc bag holding your purse in one hand and strolled over to where you were sitting.

He placed a hand on your upper arm and helped you to stand up and away from the table. Gripping tighter, he then escorted you towards the door. As you both reached it, he leaned in close to your ear and whispered, “Just play along.”

‘Just play along?’ 

As Agent Smith pulled the door of the interrogation room open, you had to squint your eyes as the bright lights of the outside hallway invaded your sight. A stark contrast to the small room you’d spent the last hour in talking to him.

As soon as you had entered the hall, Officer Tubby, who presumably had been watching your entire conversation with Agent Smith through the one-way mirror, approached you. “Where do you think you’re taking her?” he demanded, visible anger written all over his face. “She’s staying here until Homeland Security arrives tomorrow.”

“Sorry.” Agent Smith stated. “I’ve got strict orders to bring her back to my superiors. She’s assisting us with investigations into a recent case. Homeland Security will just have to wait.”

First the local police, then the FBI, and now Homeland Security, whatever the fuck that was. Why were they treating you like some kind of criminal?

Still holding your arm only tighter now, Agent Smith guided you once more and hurried towards the exit. Officer Tubby and his colleagues following close behind you. “Who’s the name of your supervisor?!” Officer Tubby screeched.

Definitely not a Teletubby…

“I need to call them before you leave here with her...” But you didn’t hear the rest of what he said as you and Agent Smith hurried out the front door and down the street.

“Keep walking,” Agent Smith said as he released the grip of your arm, moving his hand to the middle of your upper back to guide you down the street, away from the police station.

The light of the sun, which you hadn’t seen in days, made your eyes struggle to adjust, and your body still ached from the ordeal you had been put through. But you were relieved to be away from those officers who’d been holding you captive all this time and in the presence of Agent Smith who at least held some form of promise that you might get back home. To your family.

The two of you rounded a corner into an alleyway, used as a one-way street with just enough room to park a vehicle without hindering traffic. You knew this because you saw a sleek, black old-fashioned car parked about fifty meters away. The silver cursive logo of Chevrolet was written just below its hood.

Agent Smith led you to the passenger side, opened the door and encouraged you to take a seat on the black leather bench. He then darted around to the driver’s side and in a matter of seconds started the engine. The car roared as it came to life before settling into a rhythmic purr as Agent Smith manoeuvred it out of the alley, into the busy street and past the police station you’d been in minutes before.

As the car picked up speed, you looked towards Agent Smith and saw him removing his tie. When he returned your gaze and smirked at you, the realisation hit. “You’re not really an agent... are you?”

“Nope. I’m Dean... Dean Winchester… I believe this belongs to you.” And with that, he handed you the zip-loc bag containing your purse and other processions. 

Series Masterlist || Next Chapter

And that’s how Glowworm met Dean.

Let me know if you guys want me to bring the full story here to Tumblr ❤️

:@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

A/N: If you knew me from AO3 or Wattpad first, you might be familiar with my first fic/series Abducted, and my Aussie!Reader, Glowworm. Well, this reader is her, and this is all thanks to Erwin the spider (named after Schrödinger), and his friends who think it’s okay to set up shop in my house rent free.

This is purely self indulgent - just a fun little thing to get me in the mood to write because I’ve been struggling lately so I haven’t tagged anyone.

If you happen to be feeling homesick or hate creepy crawlies or just need a Dean cuddle, this one’s also for you.

“Fuck off, you cunt!” You swatted at the large-arse spider on the wall for what felt like the hundredth time. Okay, not quite, but your arm sure hurt because of the fucker and Dean’s left boot you’d been holding above your head. 

It wasn’t the same as a thong, but it was bound to do the job better. As long as he never found out.

The little spindly legs scurried under your arms’ shadow as you launched the heavy sole a couple inches ahead of the bastard. Didn’t work, of course. The fucker seemed to sense your every movement. 

Or maybe it smelt Dean’s feet.

He’d done enough running to sweat up a storm on the last hunt, and the stench had wafted into your nose. You just ignored it.

It was his boot or a pair of yours.

Your fingers flexed over the ankle cuff and you raised your arm further back behind you. A real good swing oughta do it, if you could just find the bastard.

“Where the hell did you go?”

Your eyes scoured the walls. With so many nooks and crannies and guns to hide behind, the little shit could be anywhere. But dare you try to move them? Would Dean chuck a fit? Would you? 

You still shuddered at the thought of touching your own gun most days, much less his. And the thought of sleeping with them another night and IT would drive you mad. 

So you dropped the boot to the ground with a glorious thud and flinched your eyes back to where Incy Wincy had last been seen. 

Nope. Nothing.

“You know the spiders we have back home would put you to shame! ‘Least they have the decency to wait in the toilet or behind the windscreen. Not where we sleep!” 

Yes, you were going bonkers, talking to spiders now, but you had a point, and you reached for the closest shotgun. Damn thing was heavy, and you were extra careful, even knowing Dean never kept them loaded, least not the ones on the wall. 

And that’s where he found you some ten minutes later, taking down the last of those that remained since you’d started moving in. His prized machete in your grasp. 

“What the hell?” he said, freshly showered, hair disheveled. Half a beer still in hand. His towel held up ‘round his waist by the other. 

His eyes scanned his bed where all his toys now lay, then flicked to you and back. “What’re you—”

“Spider,” you said, a little breathless. “Little cunt.” Your fingers squeezed together to mimic its size.

“And you needed to take everything off the wall?”

“It—” Your own eyes scanned the room. You’d taken them all off and nothing, which meant he was somewhere else. 

Your fingers darted for the next thing you could reach. The old phone on the desk Dean had moved for you when you’d chosen a side. 

“You ready to take the full plunge, huh?” He sauntered to the closet, ignoring your dashes and darts to find the little shit. “Moving in tonight?” He chuckled, but you continued to ignore him.

Even the towel dropping to the floor and his naked arse-cheeks hadn’t deterred you in your plight. Sure, your eyes might’ve taken a peek, but you’d get back to him later. He could’ve been helping!

Where is it? Where is it? You shifted the chair and dragged its legs back, arousing Sam’s suspicions from down the hall. 

“What the hell’s going on?” he said, much like Dean, only without the towel.

Luckily, the latter had put on boxers and a tee by then. “She’s looking for a spider. Little cunt.” He chuckled again, and all Sam could do was scoff.

“Weren’t you gloating to Claire about our bugs being nothing?”

His attempt at your accent quirked a brow. But for the most part, you were civil. You had to find Charlotte before she started forming words with the dust bunnies you’d just discovered under the vintage desk.

Yeah, you were going through this place with a dustpan first thing tomorrow, assuming there was anything left. 

“You have a blowtorch in the boot, right?” you said.

“In the—Okay, first of all.” Dean swooped in and grabbed a wrist, pulling your back flush against him. “Don’t insult my Baby. She has a trunk. A trunk.” He enunciated slowly the second time to which you rolled your eyes.

“And second?”

“There’s one down the hall in 8B.”

“Dude!”

His chest rumbled through your spine. His arms wrapped ‘round your waist. “Relax, Sammy.” His breath tickled your ear. “Go get the bug spray, would ya? I’m gonna round up Dundee here before she hurts herself.”

“I’m not gunna—”

“You took all my guns off the wall, sweetheart.” Dean reasoned. “There’s nothing left.”

“On the walls,” you snarked, twisting in his arms to face him when you realised he wasn’t letting go. Finding his stupid grin and a peck to the lips soon after. “My brother pulled apart his whole room for a huntsman once. Those fuckers can jump,” you added through pride and a lump that tied your throat and tongue.

Not only had you completed another successful hunt two days prior, but his birthday had come and gone that week, and Dean took that clue and ran with it. You knew it by the way his brows raised, and his dazzling greens shot at yours, even in the faint lighting of the bunkers evening ones. 

“You haven’t mentioned your family in a while,” he said, and your gut did a flip. 

Hands found their way to smooth the fabric they found between you and his firm chest. Had he worn his usual flannel, you’d have smoothed your fingers over the button holes, too, but now they searched his heartbeat instead, beating steady as a drum.

“I guess so.” You nodded, finding his bare toes below you. “Just a coincidence with the spider.”

“Yeah.” The pop from Dean’s lips pouting was loud enough to hear, but he didn’t say anymore; simply squeezing your sides and pulling you in further so that your nose and no longer dry eyes could hide in his warmth.  

And like that, you stayed for a minute, maybe more. His soap and still steady heart, a comfort to your clouding mind. 

Until he had to go and ruin the moment with his soft timbre, and, “Son of a bitch. That thing just jumped.”

That thing?

“You saw him?” You pulled back and spun around to follow the direction of his gaze to his pillow and your little friend sitting smack bang in the middle of it.

“Sammy! I’mma need that blowtorch!” he bellowed, but you were too busy reaching for his discarded boot from earlier. 

The fire would get the guts out.

You were essentially trapped in the moving vehicle with no hope of escaping. The car was moving way too fast for you to even attempt to open the door and roll safely away. Even though you hated to admit it, you realised you had been safer with Officer Tubby at the police station all along.

“Sorry for lying to you back there,” Dean spoke with a half grin. He sure didn’t look sorry. “But it was the only way for me to get in there to talk to you.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. Saying anything seemed way too risky given the situation. You had no idea what this guy was capable of. He’d already lied to the local law enforcement.

You looked over at the odometer on the car’s dash, but the numbers were lower than you expected. ‘Right, America uses miles,’ you thought. So you tried to calculate in your head how fast you might be going. ‘There’s about two kilometres in a mile—’

“Look. I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m the best chance you’ve got of making your way back home.” He raised his hand and pointed his thumb like he was hitching a ride. “The officers back there, they can’t do jack. Same with the other guys that were coming for you. They have no clue what they’re dealing with.”

“And you do?” you asked, the sarcasm clear in your voice.

“Yup.” His eyes moved back to the road once again.

“Okay,” you started, trying to choose your next words carefully, “Look. I really appreciate you getting me out of there and all, but I’m good now. You can just—drop me off somewhere and I’ll figure it out by myself and—”

“Yeah, I can’t do that.” The grin that had lined his face vanished and his green eyes narrowed. “Someone’s gone through a lot of trouble to bring you here, and it’s my job to find out why.”

“Your job? You’re clearly not any kind of law-officer-person, so what exactly is your job?”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips as he heard you stutter through your American legal terminology. You barely had any knowledge of the cops back home, having never done anything remotely criminal. Well, maybe a speeding ticket or two, but you’d never set foot in a police station and definitely never been contained as you had been back there.

As for things in the United States, that was a whole other ball game. You knew nothing except what you’d seen in movies and TV, but that was all fiction. This definitely wasn’t. Law and Order SVU wasn’t going to help you here.

Country hopping in your sleep. International fraud. The stint back at the police station and this ‘little joy ride’ you were now experiencing in Dean’s car (assuming it was his and not stolen), was the most adventure you’d probably had in your life to date and you weren’t even the one driving. You were wearing the handcuffs though and in that moment you were reminded of the metal rings giving you more cuts. Your attempt to readjust them up your arms and away from the raw skin didn’t go unnoticed by Dean.

“I’m a hunter,” he said while you played with the cuffs. You just needed to get out of them, then you could consider your other options. “When we’re a safe distance away, I’ll help you get them off.”

Wait. A hunter?

It took a while, but when the word finally registered in your brain, it brought on questions.

Lots of them.

“A hunter? Like ‘wascally wabbits’ and ducks? Or are you America’s answer to Dundee?” The jeer was probably a bad idea, but you couldn’t help it. Why would he bring up his hobby of all things?

“No.” Dean’s demeanour was no longer playful if you could have ever really called it that to begin with. “You know Twilight? Vampires, werewolves, it’s all real. Just—less sparkles, more blood. A lot more blood.”

Your mouth dropped open. You quickly shut it before Dean noticed.

“Me and my brother, we hunt them, all of them. Not just Dracula. Demons, ghosts, pretty much everything except Big Foot and Godzilla all exist. And angels, too. Those cuts on your skin, the Enochian, some angels and demons still speak it. I know a guy who can probably tell you what it says. Might be your ticket home,” Dean finished matter-of-factly.

“You’re serious?” was all you managed to spit out. Not only was Dean dangerous, but he also clearly needed therapy.

“It’s a lot to take in, okay? Believe me, I know. This ain’t my first monster talk.” A slight grin had returned to his face, his tone a little more relaxed. “Normally I have to give the talk to people after they’ve seen something. So I get it. You’re sceptical. But it’s the truth. Just give it time. Hanging out with me, whatever’s going on with you there, you’re bound to see it for yourself sooner or later.”

“And what makes you think I want to ‘hang out’ with you?” your sarcasm returned.

“Right now. You don’t have much of a choice.” He was quick. Witty almost, and damn irritating. “You’re technically a fugitive.” He smirked.

The sun was setting as Dean walked back to you, waiting in the car out front of the shady-looking motel. You’d been on the road for about two hours now and were relieved to know that you were finally going to be given the chance to get out and stretch your legs.

You had discovered on your journey that the black beast of a car did, in fact, belong to Dean. It had previously belonged to his father, who had started him on his path to what Dean called ‘the family business’. He’d also told you briefly about his brother, Sam, who had recently stopped talking to him over ‘something stupid’.

Man, it was odd to be making friends with a guy who was potentially your captor, but small talk was better than awkward silence.

Dean had asked you more of what you remembered during your night out in the city. Had you noticed anyone following you? Had you met or talked to anyone new? Had you felt or seen anything unusual? Cold spots? The smell of eggs? His questions were strange, but you humoured him, anyway.

The car was moved to a parking spot in front of the room the two of you were going to be staying in for the night. You walked inside ahead of him as he went to retrieve his belongings from the boot of the car.

As you didn’t feel like sitting down again but were also at a loss for what to do while you waited, you poked around the tiny room. Checking it all out, only there wasn’t much to look at. Two beds, a table and chairs, a mini fridge and ageing yellow walls that reminded you of piss...

At least there was a bed for you - with stained sheets and a scratchy blanket. A vast improvement from your cell cot back at the police station.

Dean entered the room and locked the door diligently behind him, making certain to apply the little chain that was supposed to add security. You were starting to believe him, at least in his sincerity p that he thought monsters and such existed. He was definitely putting on a show for you, but you were a firm seeing-is-believing type. If anything it humoured you to see the grown man acting so cautiously.

He placed a duffle on the bed closest to the door and a first aid kit on the small table that sat in front of the only window in the room. He then reached into the back pocket of his suit pants and pulled out a small metal cylinder, using one hand to take the lid off, revealing a lock pick.

“Let’s get those cuffs off,” Dean said as he motioned for you to come sit down at the table with him.

Your eyes followed his hands as he worked to pick the tiny lock holes and within a couple of minutes, you were released from the silver rings. It was such a relief to be free again, and you pulled back the cuff on both arms of the jacket you were wearing to inspect the injured skin they left behind.

But regret hit you as Dean grabbed your arms and he too examined the cuts and old bruises along with them. “They were really rough with you at the station.” It was a statement, not a question, and one filled with pity.

A small sound of agreement escaped your lips.

“Let me clean up these fresh cuts and then I’m sure you’d appreciate a hot shower.”

He was right.

“You hungry? I bet they didn’t feed you much in that cell either?”

You were hungry. Tired, too. And that shower, although smelling a little funky at the back of the room, sounded amazing, and you practically jumped at the chance to wash away the metaphorical filth of your ordeal.

There were no clean clothes to change into though and the thought crossed your mind to use one of the robes the motel had provided in the room. However, knowing that you were going to be sharing a room with Dean for the night made you cautious. You were warming to him, at least less on your guard than you were when you’d first met, but he was still a stranger and you felt uncomfortable wearing nothing more around him.

So you put on the same clothes you’d been wearing since you’d last left your apartment back home in Sydney, and stepped out of the bathroom, feeling somewhat refreshed.

As you entered the main part of the room once again, the smell of burgers and fries filled the air and you looked over to see Dean with a cheeseburger in one hand and a beer in the other. He had been out while you showered. “Burger?” he mumbled through his mouthful and pointed to an unopened package sitting on the table.

He pulled a second beer out of the six-pack sitting on the table and offered it to you as you sat down. “You drink beer?” His mouth was finally empty of food.

“Sometimes,” you said, taking it from his hand. “Thanks.”

You wiped the top of the bottle over with your shirt, trying to remove the condensation from its tip, and then twisted the lid off with your hand, the fizz of the air escaping the thin neck.

“I’ll take you to a mall or something tomorrow and you can pick up anything you think you might need.” Dean began in between swigs of his beer. “I’m sure you’re sick of those clothes.”

“Yeah. Didn’t exactly pack real well for my night out, did I?” You laughed at your small joke. “But my credit card is fake, remember, and I doubt anywhere around here takes my dollarydoos. I’ve got no way of paying for anything.”

“Just leave that to me,” Dean replied with a smile.

“I couldn’t. You’ve done enough for me already.” You hated being in debt to your friends, let alone someone you’d just met.

“No, really. My cards fake too…” Dean said with his now trademark grin. “But unlike yours, mine works.” He winked at you.

You woke up the next morning, your mind refreshed, but feeling not so clean as you still wore the same clothes you’d put on almost a week ago. Your eyes soon adjusted to the morning light, and you sat up to see Dean sitting at the small table by the window. He was fidgeting with a large metal object in his hands. The metal clinked and clacked together as he moved the mechanical pieces of what you now realised was a gun.

You’d never seen a gun in real life before. Hell, most people you knew in Australia probably hadn’t up close. They were objects only seen on the belts of street police, or a farm maybe, or on TV of course.

You knew there were biker gangs that probably used them too, but all you knew of that was what you’d heard on the news. Yet here you were in this dingy motel room, somewhere in the middle of the US with your new found companion Dean, a self proclaimed monster hunter who helped you escape the American police barely twelve hours ago.

The small cuts still stung on your body when you moved wrong or grazed too hard against a surface were the only evidence you had that proved this wasn’t a dream. Everything you saw before you was very real.

“Morning,” Dean grunted. His lips curving in an attempt at a warm smile. He had changed his clothes sometime during the night, no longer donning the black FBI suit, but jeans, a chequered flannel shirt, military-style jacket, and boots. His appearance was definitely more rough around the edges than the day before.

You’d call him handsome, except the real gun he held in his hands threw any thought of that out the window. A small amount of fear bubbled once again, deep in your gut.

“Hi,” you breathed out, trying not to alert him to how you really felt in the moment. Unfortunately for you, though, he read you like a book.

Dean looked down at the gun in his hands, and in quick movements, clacked the moving parts back into their usual positions and then reached around and slid the gun into the makeshift pocket, made by his back and his jeans.

“You guys banned ‘em, right?” He was right, but he didn’t give you the chance to answer him.

“You’d best get used to it.” He chuckled, tilting his head to the side. “Don’t worry. I already told you, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just… Always prepared. Y’know? For the things that go bump in the night.”

He stood up and started packing them away. “I thought we’d leave in about ten minutes. Get some food, get you some essentials, and then I can figure out what I’m going to do with you,” he continued.

And geez, that sounded promising.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Ahhh - the first few chapter were so short. They get longer. I wrote this on the notes app on my phone before I considered really thinking about my word choices. I’m going to try uploading the next two on Sunday (16th) and Tuesday (18th) because they’re shorter.

The aussism’s are rather tame in this one, but they will become more obscure. For the Aussies playing along, I’ve wanted to slide in Rhonda and Ketut and “Charter boat? What charter boat?” in here for the longest time, but haven’t managed it yet.

Expect gems like, “We’re not here to fuck spiders,” and “It’s a long way to the shop if you wanna sausage roll,” to come ☺️

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly

@my-stories-vault @levine-23

OH, my friend. I don’t think you know what you’re asking. I know I seem so kind AND I AM, but I’m also a terrible person.

Before I answer your question, I need to give you some context, so I’m breaking this into two parts. The backstory, and then an actual story at the end featuring Dean, yours truly, and the old Bible lady.

You’re looking at close to 3k words.

*For anyone who might be reading, and are scratching their heads at this ask, HERE’s the context for it

(If you scroll down to the next purple line like the one above, you’ll find the fic)

My day job is what we call a merchandiser here in Australia. I’m one of those people who goes from store to store, representing the brand I work for. I fix displays, tidy, fold, unpack all the pretty new stock, etc. Because of all that, I’m also one of THOSE PEOPLE who tells you they don’t work for the store you need help in, even though I’m clearly working. And guess what? I’m allowed to say it if you’re not shopping for my brand.

Now, normally on the day to day, I have this weird default mode. I hate confrontations, and I would rather back down and walk away, or in this case be polite over telling old ladies all about twigs and berries.

So if I see a customer that clearly needs help, I have two options. I can tell them straight up, “Sorry, I don’t work here. I'm just working for XXX brand,” but sometimes I’m just not in the mood and what I do most often is this:

I’m fucking Houdini! The second you come near me, with something that I can tell is not my problem, I’m noping out. So today, well, technically, it was yesterday by the time of posting this, I saw an older lady doing an Austin Powers multiple point turn with her shopping trolley a couple of racks over. You know this:

Well, I did this:

I’m terrible. She knocked some stock over that wasn’t mine, and I fucking ran 😂

Which brings me to the crying baby.

Now. I have two kids. Love ‘em to pieces. People keep telling me I should try working in child care or becoming a teacher’s aide so I can work at my children’s school and work school hours and to that, I say HELL NO.

I love my kids. I worked as a teacher in Japan for four years and half that time I was teaching little kids. I LOVED those kids, too. I got two marriage proposals out of my junior high kids (that sounds super dodgy, but it was honestly 11-13 yo’s shouting out “Beth-Sensei! Will you marry me?” while I stood at the front of the classroom, straight-faced and trying not to laugh - seriously I have some stories to tell). BUT now that I have my own? I don’t love other people’s children. And I especially dislike babies.

You see? Terrible.

To further explain, until I got to the point in my life when I got clucky and thought having a baby would be a great idea, babies scared me! If a coworker came in with a brand new baby, guess what I was doing? Yup:

I’ll admit they’re cute, but unless I know you, I ain’t coming near that thing with a ten-foot pole. What do I do with it? What if I drop it? I might be polite (yk, my default mode) if I have to stand near you. I might agree with whomever I’m with on how cute they are, but honestly, that puppy across the road is looking a whole lot sweeter. Unless they’re my babies, of course, and even then, at their current ages, that puppy is looking mighty cute…

My four-year-old asked me to make him a toasted ham and cheese sandwich for dinner instead of the dinner I was actually making for us. I’m a nice mum. I said sure. When he asked if he could help, it was a little frustrating, but I let him because I don’t want him to be a man baby who can’t cook for himself when he’s older.

We got butter everywhere. We had a tantrum when I suggested he get his stool so he could reach the bench better. He wanted me to get it for him, I caved and got it (great parenting Beth, really sticking to your guns), and after all that, when he sat down to eat it, he wanted to pull off the ham and ditch the rest…

Okay, yes, a baby wouldn’t do that. But if I saw a guy like Dean, struggling to deal with Bobby-John, he’s the baby in my eyes, and I’m running away from him.

So to your question:

What would I do, realistically or otherwise, if I was being bothered by the old lady and her bible, and I turned around and saw Dean and the baby?

My first thought was, wait, do I know who he is? Is he Dean zapped not only out of the tv, but also Down Under for whatever reason? Is it Jensen Ackles hanging out in my local shopping centre, or is this Dean, Dean, and everything in the show is real, I’m in their universe playing a dumb civilian, and for whatever reason, he’s ended up Down Under?

Side note: Do you know what a down under kiss is? Or that in Australia we have a euphemism for vagina - the map of Tassie. It’s named after that tiny little island of Tasmania (that no one cares about) at the bottom of our map. Go check it out. Notice the shape… I’m not making this up.

Yes, I’m an over-thinker. Don’t ask me to tell you my favourite movie, I will sweat buckets thinking you’re going to hold me to my answer for the rest of my life.

I think you see where I’m going with this, but I’m still going to humour you with a swashbuckling tale of this situation.

*Cracks knuckles*

FOUR ADULTS AND A CRYING BABY

Starring: Dean Winchester, Sam, yours truly (in third person), the old lady with the Bible, and Bobby-John Summary: It was just a normal work day, until it wasn’t - or - holy fuck! That’s Dean Winchester! Why does he have a baby? Warnings: language, craziness

A Monday morning in March. A week since cyclone Alfred was supposed to hit her corner of the state, and she’s frazzled. Forgot she’d promised her manager she’d go into the store on Friday to make up for the visit she couldn’t get to on account of school being closed. 

Why couldn’t that cyclone have just hit? Really. All that fuss, and nothing to show for it. Yes. The fence had to be tied up with a zip tie so it wouldn’t fall down, “we will rebuild,” but where was the big emergency that made having the kids at home for almost a week worthwhile?

The fighting? The tantrums? Okay, she was lucky she didn’t lose her roof. Or the power. Her mum and dad are currently cut off from the main road in their town and can’t leave. Friends are running electricity through a generator because in their pocket of their tiny suburb, they still don’t have power. Yet SHE complains.

No bother. The kids have been dropped off. She’s going to treat herself to some McDonald’s breakfast and an iced latte. Chill for a bit in the food court, working on her writing before she goes to work. 

Her own slice of heaven, minus the noise, but she’s got her earphones for that. And she sits there at the little bench, charging her phone at the same time because Tumblr likes to drain her battery hard and she needs the device for work. Her hand burns under the heat of her iPhone’s blue, but cracked finish. 

She types away. Her fingers glide over the keyboard with ease as she whips up a headcanon about her current favourite hunk of spunk, Dean frigging Winchester, and why he likes to get slapped in the face by a woman wearing a Zorro mask during sex. 

She thanks H for that. H was a genius when she sent that ask. Hilarious H. 

Our heroine giggles to herself as she changes words like breasts to jubblies, and dicks to swords. She slides in another reference to Snickerdoodles & Special Sauce. She refers to Dean’s junk as a set of twigs and berries the second time. 

Damn, Austin Powers, you really are the man.

She’s so focused on her task at hand that she gets a little surprise when out of the corner of her eye she notices someone approaching. Someone who stares. 

But she is nice. She’s not feeling all that terrible at the moment. Frustrated, sure, but this is just a tiny kink in the machine that is her day. She’s enjoying her coffee. Her children are someone else’s problem. And she has not a care in the world. Daydreaming of Dean just does that. 

“Hi,” she says to the little old lady, smiling at her. 

She smiles back. Of course she does, because she is in default mode. She is nice. But inside? Inside, she’s screaming. She has her suspicions. Little old lady, frail and smiling. One who reaches her hands out to take hold of hers. One that’s not afraid to interrupt someone younger than her, busy on her phone and wearing earphones. One that lives in this part of her state, too.

She’s gotta be a Jehovah’s Witness. Or something similar. There’s no way this old lady wants to chat with her about anything other than god.

“Hello,” the old lady says. “Could I talk to you about—”

“No sorry.” There is no way she’s even letting the word slip from the sweet old lady’s mouth. Is she sweet? Really? Coming on up into her space to talk about a man in the sky. Chuck was not all that sweet in the show in the end. What does this lady know?

A smile exchanges between both women again, and the discussion, what lack there is of one, ends. 

The old lady goes to another unsuspecting group, and she’s left alone. 

But we all know that wasn’t the case. We know she moves. She moves closer to the store she’s working in that day, trailing through the shopping centre. Under the bright lights, dodging other customers going about their day.  

She passes the juice bar, Boost Juice, and she contemplates getting one if she has time when she finishes. Past a shoe store, a phone one, the giant grocery chain she shops at, but refuses to go to this one. She hates people, and this one is always busier. 

She finds another seat, a cluster of them right out front of the store she’s working at that day, and finishes what she’s doing. She knows she needs to start work soon in order to get to school pick up on time, so she’s quick. And as she finishes up her final edits, lo-and-behold, who appears, but none other than the old lady, wanting to talk about her Bible again. 

The transaction is quicker, thank god - the irony - and she’s left alone in peace again to finish and upload her piece. But it’s not over. No. Her other online friend J has decided it is not so, and so we jump in time to after the shift, when our heroine decides to pick up a few things from the same grocer she avoids.

Imagine if you will, dear friends. A large Australian grocery store. At the front, rows of shopping trolleys, a help desk behind them where cigarettes and gift cards are sold. Checkouts to the right, fresh fruit and vegetables to the left, and rows upon rows of groceries behind all that.

She likes to use the self serve checkouts, working in retail and often being time poor, she likes to do it herself. Knows how to work the registers faster than the other customers, but not today. She’s buying a carton of Coke, the drink kind, not the kind you sniff. She doesn’t even know what to do with the other stuff, let alone where to buy it.

So she stands in the twelve items-or-less line. She has one item, she’s allowed, and she’s waiting when lo-and-behold, guess who shows up?

How long can one old lady go around talking to people about the Bible in a shopping centre? Their last encounter was three hours ago… But of course she’s forgotten that, and she looks up at her with those kind old lady eyes and opens her mouth to speak when the shriek of a baby rampages through the air.

Dear lord. Was the kid dropped on their head? The sound is deafening. Her eardrums throb as the high-pitched sound pierces through the small skin that covers them and protects her brain.

Of course, she’s smiling. She’s in public, and she’s still in nice mode, but it’s wearing thin.

She looks to the sound with many regrets, but is stunned like a mullet who’s jumped into her father’s tinny, and slapped her young brother on the head. 

Dean frigging Winchester? No. No way!

She rubs her eyes as the cartoons her kids force her to watch on repeat love to do, and she takes a second glance.

“Oh how sweet,” old lady coos, but we know she’s delusional. She wants to tell people about god and forgets when she’s already asked them twice.

Our heroine thinks she’s delusional, too. Maybe cyclone Alfred was worse than they thought and she’s Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Bumped her head? Had her house fall on a witch. Oz was in an episode of Supernatural, right?

Is that what’s happening here?

The guy who stands in the next checkout line over to her has Jensen Ackles’ face. If it’s not him, it’s a damn good doppelgänger, parading around in Dean’s clothing. What the hell?

He holds the screaming child up in the air, much like he did to Bobby-John, and - oh my god - is that Jared Padelecki, too?

What the hell are they doing not only in Australia, but in a suburban little supermarket, dressed as Sam and Dean?

She takes out her phone, close at hand, and opens up her camera. No way she’s not taking a photo of this. But she’s also torn. She doesn’t want to miss this opportunity. She’s going to the Sydney Supernatural Convention in June and those guys won’t be there, just Misha, and god knows who else, but there’s also a baby, and it’s screeching.

She takes a few photos, all while watching the fiasco. What would she say? What would she do? She doesn’t want to go near that baby. Her tummy is flipping all over the place, and the top of her lip twinges at the thought of ever saying hi.

They’re celebrities. She’s far beneath them, especially now, covered in work fluff, dust and sweat.

Her hair, frazzled. She’s wearing her retail black. She’s a hot mess, but she’s not bringing the hot. She’s only hot because she’s burning up with a fire that just comes around Jared and Jensen, or so she’s heard. She’s sure feeling it!

“Come on Bobby-John. What do you need, huh?” Jensen says, and man, talk about method acting. Where’s the cameras and crew?

“Dude. Would you do something?” Jared hisses loud enough so that she hears.

Should she be smiling? Should she expect someone to jump out any minute and say, “Smile, you’re on candid camera!”

Fuck that. 

She pays for her goods. She looks at the two men, even goes up a little closer, and tries to listen in on what they're saying some more. Of course, she pretends to be looking at her phone while all this is happening. It’s not even pretend. She’s zooming in on the photos to study their faces and clothes.

“We need to find a, ah, a working phone. Call Bobby. See if he can figure out what the hell’s going on,” Jared says as they move towards her now. Trolly full of baby supplies. 

“Hey, do you think the shifter’s a witch, too? A wifter?” Jensen gives a couple of heh’s. The same one he gave when Dean joked with Cas about the Ghoulpires. 

Damn. They’re good.

She glances at them, meets Jensen’s eyes. Fuck, he’s so handsome. That jaw. Those brilliant greens pick up the logo of the supermarket’s apple swirl. His smile as he catches her looking is lopsided. Embarrassed, but also curious. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, and she can’t breathe. They smell divine. That’s some woody cologne, and a touch of leather? Who cares! Jensen Ackles is talking to her with his Dean voice! 

She chuckles. It’s more of a choke, a whine, a moan? 

She can’t move. Can’t run away. She’s stupefied in the spot in the middle of the shopping centre while Jared Padelecki stares at her with a cocked brow. Hair tucked behind his ears, pushing a trolley and a baby, still screeching by the way, Jensen still at his side. 

“Don’t suppose we could borrow your phone there?” he gestures at the phone in her hand.

Without a word, because her lungs are still dried up, and she’s now having palpitations cause of the kid, she hands it over, fingers brush against his, and she’s now stuck there, only now realising their photographs are right there on the screen.

“What the hell are you doing taking our pictures” Jensen is no longer happy. There’s no goofy smile on his dial. Shit, she’s going to be staring down at an NDA soon.

“Sorry, I should’ve asked,” she says. Bow’s her head like she’s still living in Japan. 

“Do you know something?” Jared adds. His face is more relaxed, somewhat amused. 

What should she say, what should she do? “I, ah,” she lets out another weird laugh that squeaks in her throat, “I was too afraid to come up and say hi.” She shrugs. Where’s the old Bible lady now?

“Say hi? What? Do you know us?” There’s that Dean voice again, and it’s travelling to places she doesn’t wanna admit. He’s a married man.

“Ah, yeah? You’re Jensen, and he’s Jared,” she says, and at first the latter just stares. 

His mouth opens and closes. His green eyes go wide. “J-j-Jensen?” He turns to Jared, who’s looking just as shocked. “Son of a bitch,” he says, and she’s swooning. 

He said the line!

“Where are we?” he turns back to her, and now she’s confused. 

She states the name of the suburb they’re in, and when they both still look confused, which is impossible. How else did they get there? Come to think of it, where’s Cliff and their bodyguards?

“Brisbane?” she says, and still they stare.

“Queensland?”

She has to wave at their blank expressions. The damn kid still cries like a banshee.

“Australia?”

And this is where I leave you my loves! I hope that was enjoyable. If you want to know more, you will have to beg for it ❤️