#hunter reader

The Red Mesa Motor Lodge has been dying for years.

The neon sign out front flickers like a heartbeat that can’t quite decide if it wants to stop. Half the letters are burnt out, so most nights it just reads RE ESA TOR L DGE, which feels about right. The parking lot is cracked and dusty, weeds pushing up through the asphalt like they’re trying to escape. A rusted Coke machine hums near the lobby door, and the ice machine has been broken longer than you’ve worked here. No one bothers to fix anything. No one expects it to last.

Inside, the lobby smells like bleach, burnt coffee, and whatever cheap air freshener the owner bought in bulk a decade ago. The carpet is a sad, sun-faded red, worn down to the padding in front of the desk where people stand and complain. The wallpaper peels in the corners, curling like dead leaves. The ceiling fan clicks every time it turns, a tiny metronome ticking off the minutes of your life. This is where you work. This is where you exist.

Your name tag says Y/N, clipped crookedly to the collar of your uniform shirt. The shirt used to be white. Now it’s more of a greyish-beige that no amount of washing seems to fix. Your paycheck barely covers rent on your tiny apartment across town. Tips are rare. Raises are a fantasy. You’ve learned how to stretch ramen, how to ignore the car’s warning light, how to live with the AC only sometimes working. You scrape by. That’s the whole point.

A typical day at the Red Mesa starts around noon, when the desert heat begins to press in and the lobby becomes a greenhouse of stale air and buzzing lights. You check out the few long-term guests who live here because they can’t afford anything else. You deal with truckers who want ground-floor rooms and extra towels. You hand out keycards to tourists who didn’t realize the Grand Canyon is still hours away. You pretend not to notice the couples who rent by the hour. Then there are the others.

The ones who pay in cash and don’t want receipts. The ones who ask if you’ve seen anything strange around town. The ones with too many scars, too many questions, and eyes that never quite settle. You’ve learned not to ask questions. You’ve learned to keep your head down, keep your tone neutral, keep your hand close to the panic button under the desk. Creeps flirt with you constantly. Men with beer bellies and missing teeth. Men who think being drunk is charming. Men who lean on the counter too close and call you sweetheart like it’s your real name. You’ve perfected the art of the polite smile and the emotional shutdown. They flirt. You ignore. You survive.

It’s just another day. Until the bell over the lobby door jingles. You’re half-slumped in the chair behind the front desk, scrolling through your phone and pretending you’re not calculating how many days you can stretch the groceries in your fridge. The bell makes you look up automatically. Two men walk in. They don’t fit. Not like the truckers or the tourists. They don’t look like locals either, too clean, too alert, too… out of place. The first thing you notice is the tall one on the right. He’s got long hair, pulled back loosely, wearing a flannel and worn jeans. He’s lanky but not weak, posture straight, eyes scanning the lobby like he’s mapping every exit and blind spot. The other one, The other one looks like trouble wrapped in leather.

He’s a little shorter than the tall one, broad-shouldered, wearing a brown leather jacket that looks broken in, not new. His boots are dusty, jeans faded, shirt plain. Dark hair, stubble, and green eyes that flick straight to you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. You sigh internally. Of course he does. He smirks when he catches you looking, like he knows exactly what that reaction means. Like he lives for it. The tall one steps forward first. “Hey,” he says, voice polite, warm. “We’re looking for a room.”

“One room,” Leather Jacket adds, leaning on the counter like he owns it. “Two beds. Preferably clean. Preferably without bugs.” You don’t smile. “We charge extra for no bugs.” Leather Jacket laughs, the sound low and irritatingly charming. “Figures.” You grab the booking ledger and flip it open. “How long are you staying?”

“Three nights,” Tall Guy says. “If that’s okay.”

“Three nights is fine.” You glance up at them again. Tall Guy’s eyes are still scanning, still alert. Leather Jacket’s eyes are on you. Of course they are. “Cash or card?”

“Cash.” Leather Jacket says instantly, pulling a wallet from his back pocket. He fans out a stack of bills like it’s nothing. Too many bills. Too casual. You take the money and count it, keeping your expression neutral. “Names?” Leather Jacket flashes a grin. “Dean Miller.” Tall Guy nods. “Sam Miller.”

You pause for half a second, pen hovering over the page. Miller. It’s generic enough. But you’ve heard enough fake names in your life to recognize the way they said it, too quick, too practiced.

“Alright.” you say, writing it down anyway. Fake names are none of your business. You’re paid to give them a room, not interrogate them.

You slide two keycards across the counter. “Room twelve. Second floor. Ice machine’s broken. Vending machine steals money. Checkout’s at ten. No smoking in the rooms.” Dean Miller leans forward, fingers brushing yours as he takes the keys. You pull your hand back immediately. He doesn’t miss it. “Come on,” he says, grinning wider. “You don’t even know me yet.”

“I know enough.” you reply flatly. Sam clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Uh, thanks. We’ll be out of your way.”

“Good.” you say. Dean chuckles like he finds that amusing instead of insulting. “You’re not big on small talk, are you, y/n?” You glance at your name tag, then back at him. “I get paid to hand out keys, not conversation.” He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough.” They head for the stairs, Sam carrying a duffel bag that looks heavier than it should be. Dean throws you one last look over his shoulder, eyes lingering, expression thoughtful. You roll your eyes and go back to your phone.

Another pair of drifters. Another fake name. Another charming guy who thinks a smile is enough to make you care. You’ve seen hundreds like him. You refuse to be another story they leave behind.

Later, when the sun starts to dip and the desert turns gold, you restock towels and grab the master key ring. Housekeeping is short-staffed, meaning it’s basically just you and Maria, who only works mornings. That leaves you to handle afternoon room checks, trash pickups, and anything guests complain about. You knock on a few doors. Empty. Quiet. Boring.

Then you reach Room Twelve. No answer. You unlock it and step inside. The room is clean. Too clean. Beds untouched, bathroom unused, curtains drawn. The air smells faintly like motel soap and something else, leather, metal, something sharp. You collect the trash, wipe down the counter, and straighten the pillows. Your eyes catch on a duffel bag under the bed.

Half-zipped. You hesitate. You’re not supposed to touch guest belongings. But something about the bag, about them, about the weight Sam carried it with, it itches at the back of your mind.

You crouch and tug the zipper a little further. Inside, you catch a glimpse of black metal, wrapped cloth, silver glinting under fluorescent light. Your stomach twists. You zip it back up instantly and stand, heart racing. Drifters. Fake names. Heavy bags. You swallow and finish cleaning, hands a little less steady than before. Maybe they’re just weird. Then again, in a place like this, “just weird” is never the full story. You turn off the lights, lock the door, and head back to the lobby. Three nights. You have a feeling they’re going to be long ones.

The sun finally drops behind the desert around seven, dragging the heat down with it. The sky turns that dusty purple-orange color that only ever looks pretty from far away. Up close, it just makes everything feel tired.

You’re behind the front desk again, half-watching a rerun on the tiny lobby TV, half-counting the minutes until your shift ends. Your phone buzzes with a bank notification, another reminder that you’re walking a tightrope over an overdraft fee. The lobby door jingles. You look up. Sam and Dean step inside, both carrying crinkled paper bags and fast-food cups. Grease-stained wrappers peek out the top. They smell like burgers and cheap fries and desert dust. But that’s not what makes you freeze. They’re wearing suits.

Actual, tailored suits. Dark jackets, pressed shirts, ties loosened like they’ve already had a long day. Earlier, they’d been in flannels and denim and leather, road trip casual. Now they look like they stepped out of a courtroom or a funeral home. You narrow your eyes. “Evening.” Sam says, polite as ever. He gives you a small nod, like he respects you, which is weirdly disarming.

“Hey there,” Dean adds, dropping the bags on the counter with a paper-thin rustle. He flashes that same grin, the one that makes women melt and you itch. “Miss us?”

“Not particularly.” you reply, closing the ledger. He laughs, undeterred. “That hurts, sweetheart.” You hate that word. You don’t react. “Long day?” Sam asks, setting his drink down while he adjusts his tie. “Same as always,” you say. “Where’d you two go? Court date?” Dean snorts. “Funeral.” That makes you pause. “Family?” you ask. “Distant.” Sam says quickly.

You glance between them. Suits for a funeral. Heavy duffel bag earlier. Fake last names. Guns in the room. Yeah. Sure. Dean leans on the counter again, forearms braced like he’s trying to keep your attention. “You ever get out of here, y/n? Or does this place chain you to the desk?” You meet his gaze, unflinching. “Some people don’t have the luxury of running around in suits.”

He studies you, something more serious flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t say you did.”

There’s a moment, quiet, stretched thin, before Sam clears his throat. “We’re gonna head up.”

“Have a good night.” you say automatically. Dean winks. “Always do.” They head up the stairs, their footsteps fading. You stare at the door for a long second.

Suits. Funeral. Hunters.

Your mind tries to connect dots you’re not ready to connect. You shake it off and go back to the TV.

By ten, the motel is dead quiet. You start closing procedures: logging the day’s income, counting the register, wiping down the counter. Maria should be here any minute to take over for the night shift till early morning. You’re already picturing your apartment, quiet, dark, cheap takeout, maybe a shower if the water heater behaves. You’re halfway through locking the supply cabinet when the lobby door opens again. Maria slips in, heels clicking on the tile, lipstick perfect, hair curled like she’s going somewhere nicer than here. Which, honestly, is anywhere.

“Y/N,” she says, flashing a guilty smile. “Heyyy.” You groan internally. “What.”

She drops her purse behind the desk and leans against the counter. “So. Funny story. I kinda sorta have a date.”

“That’s not a story.”

“With, like, a real man. With a car that works. And a job that doesn’t involve motel carpets.” You cross your arms. “Maria.”

“Can you take the night shift?” she blurts. “Please? I’ll owe you. Big time.” You stare at her. You have been here since just before noon. Your feet ache. Your head aches. Your bank account aches. “I can’t keep covering you.” you say, but your voice lacks conviction. She grabs your hands dramatically. “Please. He’s cute. He has tattoos. He thinks I’m mysterious because I work nights. Don’t ruin this for me.” You sigh, long and slow. “You owe me.”

“Anything.”

You glance at the clock. 10:58 PM. “Fine.” She squeals, hugs you, and is gone before you can change your mind. You drop back into the chair, staring at the ceiling fan. Great.

The night shift at the Red Mesa is a special kind of hell.

The desert goes quiet in a way that feels unnatural, like the world is holding its breath. The neon sign outside buzzes and flickers through the blinds. Insects beat themselves against the glass. The lobby clock ticks loudly, every second stretching like it’s taunting you. No guests. No calls. No noise. Just you and your thoughts. You scroll through your phone, then stop. You count the ceiling tiles. You make another pot of coffee and regret it instantly.

Midnight. One a.m. Two.

You start watching the parking lot through the security monitor. At 2:47 AM, headlights sweep into the lot. Your pulse spikes. The Impala pulls in. Sam and Dean climb out, and even through the grainy camera feed, you can tell something’s wrong. Sam’s jacket is torn at the sleeve. There’s dirt on his cheek, and his hair is disheveled like he’s run his hands through it too many times. He moves stiffly, like everything hurts. Dean looks worse. His leather jacket is scuffed, knuckles scraped, shirt stained with something dark. Blood, probably. He’s limping, subtle but noticeable. They head inside. You straighten, suddenly wide awake. The door jingles. Sam walks in first, giving you a tired smile and a nod, like he doesn’t want to worry you. Then he heads straight for the stairs without a word. Dean lingers. Of course he does.

He steps up to the counter, leaning heavily on it, exhaling like he’s just run a marathon. Up close, you can see the cut on his jaw, the bruise blooming under his eye. “You got spare towels?” he asks, voice low and rough. You nod, grabbing a stack from the cabinet. “Yeah.” You slide them across. He takes them, fingers brushing yours again, slower this time. “Are you always working?” he asks. “Pretty much.” He studies your face, eyes searching for something. “That sounds like a prison sentence.”

“It pays rent.”

“Barely, I bet.” You stiffen. “You don’t know anything about me.” He smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “I know you don’t smile at creeps.”

“Lucky you.” you say. He chuckles, then winces, hand drifting to his side. “Rough night?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. “Yeah,” he admits. “You could say that.” He glances back at the stairs, then back at you. “You ever think about getting out? Out of places like this?”

“Places like what?”

“Places where people just pass through. Leave nothing but dust.” You stare at him, unsure why this feels personal. “Some of us don’t pass through.” He nods slowly, like he understands that too well. “Well,” he says, forcing the charm back on, “if you ever wanna pass through with me, sweetheart-” You cut him off with a flat look. “Goodnight, Dean.” He laughs softly, but there’s something different in it now. “Night, y/n.” He heads upstairs, footsteps heavy. You watch the stairwell long after he’s gone. Outside, the neon sign flickers. Inside, the clock keeps ticking. And you can’t shake the feeling that you’re standing in the middle of something you never meant to step into.

The motel settles into that eerie, desert-deep quiet sometime after five.

The kind of quiet that presses against your ears until you swear you can hear your own heartbeat. The neon sign outside flickers through the blinds, painting the lobby in alternating red and blue shadows. The ice machine rattles once, then goes silent again. Somewhere in the distance, a semi roars down the highway and disappears into the night.

You sit behind the front desk with a lukewarm cup of coffee and a pen you’ve been clicking for the past twenty minutes. Room Twelve is dark now. Dean and Sam are probably asleep. Or pretending to be. Or cleaning wounds. Or loading weapons. You don’t know. You don’t want to know. Except… you do. You glance at the security monitor again. The Impala sits alone in the lot, moonlight glinting off the hood. The desert wind lifts a swirl of dust, and for a second, it almost looks like something moves in it. You lean back in your chair and exhale. You shouldn’t care. They’re just guests. Passing through. Three days and they’ll be gone, leaving behind nothing but a couple of wrinkled sheets and maybe a tip if you’re lucky. That’s how it always works.

You pick up your phone, scrolling mindlessly, then stop. Your bank balance glares at you. You set the phone down and stare at the wall instead. This is your life. Endless shifts, endless strangers, endless nights where time stretches thin and heavy. You reach into the drawer under the counter and pull out a thin notebook. The cover is cracked, the pages dog-eared. You open it to the middle, where loose papers are tucked inside. You’re not supposed to bring personal stuff to work, but no one checks. No one cares.

You flip through a few pages. Scribbled notes. Names. Dates. Towns circled in red ink. Newspaper clippings folded and unfolded so many times the paper is soft. One clipping is from a small-town paper in Nevada- Local Woman Found Dead Under Mysterious Circumstances. Another is from Arizona, then New Mexico. Patterns. Symbols drawn in the margins. Latin phrases scrawled in messy handwriting. You stare at one line for a long moment, jaw tight. You close the notebook and slide it back into the drawer. Just then, the lobby door creaks open. You look up, startled.

Sam steps inside, barefoot in socks, hair messy, wearing a faded band T-shirt and flannel pants. He looks exhausted, but calmer than he did earlier. He blinks at the harsh fluorescent lights like he regrets turning them on.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice quiet. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you say. “Coffee’s on. It’s terrible.” He smiles faintly. “That’s motel coffee.” He walks over to the machine, pours himself a cup, and leans against the counter. For a few seconds, neither of you speak. The clock ticks loudly on the wall. “You’re up late.” he says.

“You’re up early.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Guess so.” He takes a sip, winces, then takes another anyway. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. He’s different from Dean. Quieter. Observant. His eyes move slowly, deliberately, taking in details people usually miss. You know the type. “So,” he says, nodding toward the parking lot. “Not much happens around here, huh?”

“Depends what you consider ‘much,’” you reply. He glances toward the dark hallway that leads to the rooms. “You ever get… weird guests?”

“Every day.” He studies your face. “I meant weird.” You meet his gaze, unflinching. “I work at a motel in the middle of the desert. You think I get normal?” He laughs softly. “Fair point.” He sips his coffee again, then his eyes drift down to the front desk. To the drawer. You realize too late that you didn’t push it all the way closed. A corner of the notebook sticks out. One of the clippings has slipped free, its headline visible under the dim light. Sam’s gaze lingers. He sets his cup down slowly. Your fingers curl against the counter, but you don’t move. He doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t ask about it. He just looks. Really looks. You see the moment something clicks behind his eyes. Recognition. Understanding. Suspicion. He lifts his eyes back to you, expression unreadable. “How long have you worked here?” he asks casually.

“Long enough.”

“You ever thought about leaving?”

“Every day.” He nods, like he understands that too well. The silence stretches again. Outside, the wind howls across the lot. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Sam glances at the notebook one more time. Then he steps back, picks up his coffee, and gives you a small, polite smile. “Well,” he says, “nice talking to you.”

“Yeah.” you reply. He heads back toward the stairs, pauses, and looks over his shoulder. “You ever see anything you can’t explain around here… you should tell us.” You tilt your head. “Why?” He hesitates. “We’re good at explaining things.” He disappears up the stairs. You stare after him, heart beating a little faster than it should. You slowly push the drawer shut. The lobby feels smaller now. You glance up at the security monitor again. Room Twelve’s light flicks on for a moment, then off. You don’t know what Sam saw. But you know he saw enough. And for the first time since they walked in, you’re not sure who should be more nervous. Sam’s eyes had flicked to the notes on your desk, then back to you. He hadn’t said a word, but you knew he knew.

Part 2

A/N: Please lmk if you would like to be added to the taglist of this fic!!

———

It was a cold and breezy night, nothing but silence that followd in the forest, we'll, atleast not for the slight howling of wolf's in the distance or the slightly coo of near by nocturnal creatures. The same old sound you heard when out in the forest camping.

Thats until... a small very slight and almost unnoticeable 'crunch' of a leaf on the forest ground was heard. Then soon after the silence in the forest was now very noticeable unlike before, the occasional coo of a creature, the sound of distant howing were now gone. Almost how it would've sounded like if a prey- a rabbit was being stalked by a predator- a wolf. Then in the next few seconds before you could even turn to face where the quiet noise was heard, an sharp item flys through the air, almost deliberately hitting the trunk of a tree. If it wasn't for how the sharp object was silent and shaped as a personalised weapon... you would have thought it was a hunter, almost mistaking you as a big game, but oh- how wrong you were. As you glance down at the pin that stuck itself deeply into the trunk of the tree, another pin is thrown again, this time breezing near the jugular point on your neck, a slight graze, although enough to make a shallow cut that drew out a drip of blood.

Then finally you react, turning around sharply towards the point of action, the person or rather dark figure you spot in the forest is a tall, lean and imposing figure. Even as you can't see more than the outline of the figure, you can certainly sense nothing from the individual standing before you. Which is another odd and dangerous observation.

-no aura

-no sound

-no unnecessary movements

-Just precise

-Just efficent

-Just lethal

The qualities that no hunter would want to be presented with when on the other side of an opponent. The next movement was silent, as expected, quick and unfeeling, like a robot programed to end things quickly, and at this moment, you were its task to be completed. To be killed.

Another pin should have been predicted, as it seemed to be the individuals main and personalized weapon. Long distance, usually this meant the weilder didn't want to involve their selves with close range attacks, close combat. Thats what you observed, and predicted but atlast instead a sharp dash was presented. In what seemed like less of a second, the figure was infront of you, before you could even react, the sharp pain was felt on the side below your left rib, a jab. A harsh jab at that. Then you finally move, to react to the fact you had been wrong about the figure choosing to fight long distance, yet you try to move and fight back-

But a kick was presented at the side of your right abdomen, sharp pains here and there as the figure delt blows to your body, like a punching bag, you unfortunately took them all. Dealing with blows that would take weeks to heal- thats if you do make it out alive. The individual you were with was skilled, too skilled to be a hunter, having long black hair that blended in too well with the dark forests background, their irises dark, black and as emotionless as the figures fighting style, straight and too the point.

Although you could have tried to fight back, it would have been proven useless, the figure was fast, moving like a blur, the other downside was the fact you were a long range to medium range type of fighter. Not a close combat, hand to hand type of fighter. Which unfortunately, your opponent seemed to he skilled at all fighting styles, close range, long range and medium range...

Your choice of weapon?

-a katana, easy for medium range attacks, but getting close enough to deal lethal blows, but not close enough to where your within arms length. Due to that, there was no opening you could take to unsheath your weapon, to be able to drawl the sword and have a 'fair' chance at fighting for your life, as at the moment it literally depended on it.

No, this would be it. The end of your time as a hunter, well you did wanted to know who the person was that sent a literal killing machine after you- but it seemed like you wouldn't be getting an answer at the end of this fight, or more like a beating session.

———

Then it ended with you on the ground, pinned and bleeding, a needle shaped object with a round ball which made it easier for the weilder to hold, was pinned to the soft skin of your neck, like a wolf's jaw ready to pierce through the soft fur of a rabbits vulnerable neck.

Throughout the whole fight there was nothing said from the individual, no heavy breathing, no side conversation, not until now.

"You're sloppy- uncoordinated" The individual spoke in a plain, very blunt and emotionless tone. The sharp piercing eyes stared blankly at you, as if killing was just a second thought, which it might very been so.

Tensing up as the slightest movement when the needle was ready to prick your skin, you spoke up abruptly-

"I-I can pay you double!" Your voice slightly quivers from the exhaustion of trying to stay alive from the eariler fight, and the burning sensation from the inflicted wounds you took on. "I can pay you- double of whatever your client offered you!" It was a desperate response, a desperate cry, to save your poor pathetic life atleast for a second longer.

Silence, for about a minute or two, which to you felt like a painful long hour.

Then the figure spoke up

"Double?" Cold and calm. The individual glanced down at you, silent and unblinking, for a moment they seemed to be in thought, although it was almost impossible to read the poker face the guy had. After a moment of silence, the figure removes the needle from your neck, then stands up with ease. Leaning back as he slowly and deliberately places the pin needles back into his shirt like another place holder for the weapon.

"I suppose I can wait this out until one of you pays me first" a cold response, no pity or sympathy was in the tone, just a straightforward statement about payment.

Now you just had to scramble up a few hundred thousand Jenny to complete the transaction that was keeping you alive for a while longer

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AN: AHHH I haven't wrote in so long, hope this isnt trash :p @mtf-muffin ALSO, my alt account for drawings 🫥

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The pre-dawn air in the rickety motel room was thick with the scent of cheap coffee and gun oil. You leaned against the worn laminate counter, watching Sam meticulously clean his favorite hunting knife. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on his focused face. His brow was furrowed in concentration, long fingers moving with practiced ease over the gleaming blade.

"You sure you don't want the last donut?" Dean called from the other bed, mouth half-full, gesturing towards the grease-stained box.

Sam didn't look up. "Nah, Dean. You finish it." His voice was low, calm. Then his eyes flickered to you, the intensity softening into something warm and intimate. "You want it?"

You shook your head, offering him a small smile. "All yours, Dean. I'm good."

Sam’s gaze lingered on you, tracing the curve of your lips. He set the knife down deliberately and crossed the small space in two strides. Before you could react, his large hands were framing your face, calloused thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones. His touch was unexpectedly tender, a stark contrast to the lethal weapon he’d just been handling.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated deep in his chest.

"Hey yourself," you replied softly, leaning into his touch. The worry lines around his eyes eased slightly as he looked at you.

"You checked your gear? Extra rounds? Silver knife sharp?" The questions were routine, hunter’s habit, but the undercurrent was different – thicker, warmer.

"Twice," you assured him, placing a hand over one of his. "Just like you taught me."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He dipped his head, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, charged moment. You could feel the steady thrum of his pulse against your skin. His breath was warm on your face. "Good," he breathed. "Just… be careful out there today. This one feels… messy."

It wasn't like Sam to state the obvious about a hunt’s danger, not like this. There was a possessiveness in the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on your jaw before he released you, his gaze holding yours a beat too long. "Always am," you whispered back.

Dean cleared his throat pointedly. "Alright, lovebirds, save it for the post-monster smooching. We got a nest of Rougarou to smoke out before they decide the local high school football team is an all-you-can-eat buffet." He stood, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. "Move out."

Sam’s eyes finally broke from yours, the softness hardening back into hunter focus as he grabbed his own gear. But the lingering warmth of his touch remained on your skin, a silent promise in the chill of the impending fight.

The Louisiana bayou at dusk was a living thing – oppressive humidity clinging like a second skin, the chorus of insects deafening, and the stench of stagnant water and decaying vegetation thick enough to taste. The Rougarou nest wasn’t in some abandoned shack; it was deep within a crumbling, water-logged plantation house slowly being devoured by cypress knees and Spanish moss. The air inside was thick with mold and the unmistakable, coppery tang of old blood.

"Split up," Dean hissed, flashlight beam cutting through the oppressive gloom of the grand foyer, revealing peeling wallpaper and rotting floorboards. "Cover more ground. Yell if you see anything that ain't supposed to be breathing."

Sam caught your arm as you turned towards a dark corridor. His grip was firm, insistent. "Stick close," he ordered, his voice low and rough, devoid of its earlier warmth. His eyes scanned the shifting shadows beyond your flashlight beam like a predator.

"I am close," you countered, keeping your voice steady but firm. "I know the drill, Sam. I’ve got this." You met his gaze squarely, asserting your competence.

For a fraction of a second, conflict warred in his eyes – the ingrained trust in your skill battling something primal and unfamiliar that seemed to have taken root since leaving the motel. He gave a curt, almost reluctant nod. "Fine. But yell. Immediately." He released your arm, but his body stayed angled towards you as you moved down the corridor.

You moved cautiously, senses on high alert. The silence was broken only by the drip of water somewhere deep in the house and the frantic thudding of your own heart. You cleared room after decaying room: parlors choked with debris, bedrooms with skeletal remains of four-poster beds.

Then, in what might have been a library, thick with the smell of mildew and wet paper, you saw it – a flash of matted fur and unnatural movement behind a collapsed bookshelf. Your finger tightened on the trigger of your sawed-off shotgun loaded with rock salt rounds.

Before you could fully process the threat, all hell broke loose.

It wasn't one Rougarou. It was three. They erupted from hidden nooks and shadowed corners with guttural snarls that ripped through the silence. They moved with terrifying speed, more beast than humanoid now, claws like obsidian sickles gleaming in your flashlight beam.

"CONTACT! LIBRARY!" you roared, firing instinctively.

BOOM! The blast caught the lead creature square in the chest, sending it reeling back with an unearthly shriek. But the other two didn't falter.

One lunged low, claws raking towards your legs. You pivoted hard, feeling the air whistle past your calf as you pumped the shotgun and fired again.

Click. Misfire.

Panic seized you for a split second.

Too long. The third Rougarou, faster than the others, slammed into you from the side with the force of a wrecking ball. Your shotgun flew from your grasp, clattering across the rotten floorboards into darkness. You hit the wall hard enough to see stars, the impact driving the air from your lungs. The creature was on you instantly – a crushing weight pinning you, fetid breath hot on your face. One massive clawed hand clamped onto your shoulder, talons digging deep through your leather jacket and into flesh. Pain exploded, white-hot and blinding.

You brought your silver knife up blindly, stabbing wildly into its flank. It howled, jerking back slightly but not releasing its crushing grip. Its other hand swung towards your face.

Time seemed to slow. You saw the deadly claws descending, aimed straight for your throat. You twisted desperately, throwing up an arm in a futile block.

Razor-sharp points grazed your raised forearm, drawing fiery lines of pain. One claw tip caught the corner of your mouth with brutal force.

Searing pain. The coppery taste of blood flooding your mouth. The crushing weight. The stench of decay and rage.

You were trapped, staring into yellow, inhuman eyes filled with mindless hunger. This was it.

"GET THE FUCK OFF HER!"

The roar wasn't human. It was a guttural, earth-shaking bellow of pure, unadulterated fury that seemed to shake the very foundations of the rotting mansion.

A blur of movement slammed into the Rougarou pinning you. Not Dean. Sam. He moved with terrifying speed and impossible strength. He didn't shoot it. He didn't stab it.

He grabbed it.

Massive hands seized the creature around its thick neck and one hairy arm. With a roar that echoed the monster's own, Sam wrenched it bodily off you and flung it across the room like a ragdoll. It crashed into the remnants of a marble fireplace with a sickening crunch of bone.

You gasped, scrambling back against the wall, clutching your bleeding shoulder and throbbing lip. Blood dripped warmly down your chin.

Sam didn't check on you. Not yet.

He turned towards the remaining Rougarou, the one you'd wounded and the one stunned by your salt blast that was now rising. The air around him crackled with palpable violence. His entire frame seemed larger, vibrating with unleashed rage. His eyes, usually warm hazel, were chips of obsidian ice, fixed on the creatures with terrifying focus.

Dean burst into the room, shotgun raised, taking in the scene: you bleeding against the wall, Sam standing like an avenging angel between you and the monsters. "Jesus H—"

"Mine!" Sam snarled, the word tearing from his throat like shrapnel. It wasn't directed at Dean; it was a declaration to the creatures, to the room, to the universe itself. "You touch what's MINE!"

He moved.

It wasn't hunting anymore. It was execution.

He met the charging Rougarou head-on. He sidestepped its lunge with preternatural grace and drove his fist, wrapped around his heavy silver knife handle-first, into its throat with a crunch that made you wince. As it choked and staggered, he seized its head in both hands and twisted with brutal force. The snap echoed horribly in the sudden silence.

The third one, whimpering now from its wounds and clearly recognizing the apex predator in the room, tried to scramble back towards a hole in the wall.

Sam was on it in two strides. He didn't bother with silver or bullets this time. He kicked its legs out from under it with a force that shattered bone. As it writhed on the floor, he dropped to one knee beside it, his face devoid of mercy or hesitation. He raised his knife – not for a quick kill – and brought it down with savage precision again and again and again, long after the creature had stopped moving. The wet thuds of blade meeting flesh and bone were obscene in the stillness.

Dean stood frozen near the doorway, his shotgun lowered slightly, his face pale under the grime, watching his brother with an expression of stunned horror.

Finally, the only sounds were Sam's ragged breathing and the drip of blood – monster blood pooling on the floor, your blood dripping onto your jacket.

Sam slowly rose from the eviscerated corpse. His broad shoulders heaved. His knuckles were white where he gripped his blood-slicked knife. He turned slowly.

His eyes locked onto you.

The fury hadn't abated; it had merely shifted focus. It burned in his gaze as he took in the dark bloom on your shoulder where claws had torn through leather and skin, the vivid red line splitting your lower lip, the blood smeared on your chin and arm.

He strode towards you, each step deliberate and heavy on the creaking floorboards. Dean started forward instinctively. "Sam—"

"Don't." Sam didn't even look at his brother. The single syllable was a whip-crack of command that stopped Dean dead in his tracks. His entire attention was fixed solely on you.

He reached you in three strides and dropped to his knees before you with a thud that shook the floorboards beneath you. His large hands came up – not gently this time – and seized your face again. But there was no tenderness now. His grip was firm, almost bruising as he tilted your head back under the beam of his dropped flashlight, forcing you to meet his burning gaze as he examined your injuries with terrifying intensity.

His thumb brushed roughly over your split lip, smearing the blood further. A low growl rumbled in his chest – a sound that vibrated through his hands and into your bones. His eyes were dark vortexes of possessiveness and barely contained violence.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice a gravelly rasp that scraped raw against your nerves. It wasn't concern; it was accusation mixed with something feral – a primal rage at seeing his territory marked, his possession harmed.

His gaze dropped to your shoulder where blood seeped through torn leather. His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped violently in his cheek. Without releasing your face, he ripped open the Velcro strap on his own duffel bag slung over his shoulder with his free hand, pulling out a field dressing pack one-handed with rough efficiency.

His movements were jerky, controlled violence barely leashed as he tore open a gauze packet with his teeth and pressed it hard against your bleeding shoulder wound. You hissed at the sudden pressure and sting.

"Hold it," he commanded gruffly, not releasing his hold on your face until he was sure your hand was pressed firmly over the gauze on your shoulder.

Only then did he let go of your jaw. But he didn't move back. He stayed kneeling between your legs, his body radiating heat and coiled aggression like a panther guarding its kill. His eyes never left yours – intense, demanding, utterly consuming.

Dean shifted uneasily nearby, watching the interaction with wary confusion. "Sam... man... she's okay. It's just—"

"Just?" Sam's head snapped around towards Dean. The single word was laced with venom so potent it made Dean flinch back half a step. Sam's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper that somehow carried more threat than any shout. "They had claws on her. They drew her blood." He looked back at you, his gaze searing into yours again as he raised his own bloodstained hand – coated in black Rougarou gore and streaks of your red blood where he'd touched your face and shoulder. "They touched what's mine."

He emphasized each word deliberately, holding your gaze captive as he slowly wiped his bloody hand clean on his own jeans with deliberate, almost ritualistic strokes. The gesture wasn't about cleanliness; it was a declaration etched in gore.

The silence stretched, thick and charged with unspoken tension – Sam's raw possessiveness radiating outwards like heat waves off asphalt, Dean's shocked confusion, and your own pounding heart echoing in your ears as you stared into Sam's dark, unwavering eyes. The only sounds were your ragged breaths and the relentless drip of water somewhere deep in the decaying mansion – a chilling counterpoint to the storm held barely in check within the man kneeling before you.

Sam finally tore his gaze from yours to scan your face again – the split lip he'd touched so differently hours ago, now swollen and bleeding; the paleness beneath your skin; the pain tightening your eyes. A muscle ticked furiously in his jawline as if he were physically restraining himself from further violence… or pulling you into him with crushing force.

He leaned forward abruptly, invading your space until his forehead rested roughly against yours again – just like at the motel, but devoid of all tenderness now. This was claiming. His breath fanned hot and harsh over your injured lip as he spoke through clenched teeth.

"Not another scratch," he growled, the command vibrating against your skin. It wasn't a request; it was an edict carved in stone. "Not one." He pulled back just enough to spear you with that obsidian gaze once more. "You stay behind me."

He waited for no acknowledgment or argument from you or Dean. In one fluid motion fueled by barely leashed power, Sam rose to his feet and turned towards the dark corridor leading deeper into the house – towards any remaining threat.

His silhouette was immense against the gloom, radiating lethal intent and an aura of iron control that had utterly replaced his earlier calm competence. He paused only for a second at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder at you kneeling on the floor. His eyes flickered over your injuries again – your blood on his jeans seemed to ignite something dark within him – before settling on your face with that same unnerving intensity.

"Dean," he stated flatly, his voice devoid of any inflection except command. "Cover her six." He didn't wait for an answer; he knew Dean would obey that order implicitly now.

Then Sam Winchester stepped into the shadows of the corridor alone – a silent, vengeful storm moving with deadly purpose to eradicate anything else foolish enough to breathe in his territory near his claimed prize.

Dean finally moved then, quickly kneeling beside you to help secure the dressing on your shoulder properly. He worked efficiently but kept glancing nervously towards the corridor where Sam had vanished into darkness punctuated only by distant sounds of violence – sharp cracks of breaking bone or heavy impacts that made dust shiver down from the ceiling – each one a chilling testament to Sam's unleashed fury.

You stayed silent against the wall, clutching your throbbing shoulder, tasting blood on your swollen lip as you stared at the empty doorway where Sam had disappeared – leaving behind only an echo of command ("Stay behind me") and the heavy scent of iron and rage hanging thick in the ruined library air.

The oppressive silence of the ruined library shattered with the sounds of heavy, deliberate footsteps approaching from the corridor Sam had vanished into. Dust motes danced in the beam of Dean’s flashlight as they turned towards the doorway.

Sam emerged.

He was a vision of brutal efficiency painted in gore. Black, viscous Rougarou blood coated his arms up to the elbows, spattered across his face and neck like macabre war paint, and soaked the front of his flannel shirt and jeans. A deep scratch ran from his temple down to his jawline, bleeding sluggishly, and another marred the back of one hand. His knuckles were raw and split. He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling with controlled power, but his expression… the volcanic fury that had consumed him earlier was banked. Not gone, but submerged beneath a layer of something far more intense and focused: you.

His eyes, still dark but no longer the obsidian ice of pure rage, scanned the room and locked onto you instantly. The tension radiating from his broad shoulders eased a fraction, replaced by a wave of palpable relief so strong it was almost physical. He crossed the debris-strewn floor towards you, his movements purposeful, ignoring Dean entirely.

"You okay?" Dean asked gruffly, eyeing his brother's state.

Sam didn't answer. He stopped before you, where you were still leaning against the wall, Dean’s hands having just finished securing the gauze pad tightly over your shoulder wound. Sam’s gaze swept over you – the stark white dressing, the swollen, blood-crusted split lip, the scratches on your arm, the paleness of your face beneath the grime and blood.

Without a word, he bent down. One arm slid firmly behind your back, the other hooked under your knees.

"Sam, no, I can walk," you protested immediately, pushing weakly against his chest. His flannel was stiff with drying monster blood. "It's just my shoulder and lip, I'm fine."

He didn't even acknowledge your words. His arms tightened, lifting you effortlessly off the floor and cradling you against his chest. He held you close, possessively, his head dipping slightly so his cheek brushed against your hair. He inhaled deeply, as if confirming your scent beneath the blood and fear. "Quiet," he murmured, the single word low and brooking no argument. His tone wasn't harsh, but it held the absolute finality of a command issued by a force of nature. You were coming with him, held by him. End of discussion.

He turned, carrying you as if you weighed nothing, and strode towards the exit. "Dean, car," was all he said, his voice gravelly but calmer.

Dean grabbed the gear, his expression a mixture of concern and lingering unease at the shift in his brother. "Yeah. Right behind you."

—

The drive back to the motel was conducted in near silence. Sam drove, one hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the other resting possessively on your thigh, his thumb making slow, rhythmic strokes over the denim. His gaze constantly flicked to you in the rearview mirror, checking, assessing. The fierce protectiveness emanating from him was a tangible thing, filling the Impala's interior. Dean wisely kept his observations to himself.

Back in the dimly lit motel room, Sam carried you straight to the bathroom connected to their room. He set you down gently on the closed toilet lid. "Stay," he ordered softly, his eyes holding yours for a beat longer than necessary before he turned to rummage in their extensive medical kit.

He worked with meticulous care, but an underlying current of fierce energy thrummed beneath every movement. He dampened a clean cloth with warm water. "This will sting," he warned, his voice low and rough as he carefully began cleaning the blood from your face. His touch was infinitely gentle around your swollen lip, his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly as he dabbed at the crusted blood. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he focused on the task.

His large hands were surprisingly deft as he peeled back the field dressing Dean had applied. His breath hissed through his teeth at the sight of the angry, deep claw marks raking across your shoulder and upper arm. The fury sparked briefly in his eyes again – a dark ember flaring – before he ruthlessly banked it. He cleaned the wounds with antiseptic wipes, his touch feather-light but firm where it needed to be. He applied antibiotic ointment with careful strokes before re-bandaging it securely.

Dean hovered in the doorway, watching the intense, silent care. He cleared his throat. "Uh... I'm gonna... grab some food. Real food. Burgers? Fries?" He sounded desperate for an escape from the charged atmosphere.

"Yeah. Good," Sam said without looking up, his focus entirely on securing the bandage on your arm. "Get extra."

"Right." Dean practically bolted from the room. The click of the motel room door closing felt deafening.

Silence descended, thick and heavy. Sam finished taping the last edge of the bandage. He didn't move away. He remained kneeling before you on the cool bathroom tile, his hands resting lightly on your knees. He stared down at where his own bloodied knuckles rested against your jeans for a long moment.

When he finally looked up, his eyes held a storm of emotions: anguish, residual fury, a terrifying depth of fear, and an overwhelming tenderness that stole your breath. The raw vulnerability was startling.

"Seeing you like that..." His voice was a raw scrape, barely above a whisper. It cracked. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "On the floor... blood on your face... that thing..." He couldn't finish. He closed his eyes for a second, visibly wrestling with the image seared into his mind. "I saw red. Pure red." He opened his eyes again, meeting yours with heartbreaking intensity. "The thought of losing you... of something taking you from me..." He shook his head slightly, unable to articulate the sheer terror that had consumed him. "It wasn't just danger. It was... unacceptable. A violation."

You reached out, wincing slightly at the pull in your shoulder, and cupped his cheek. The rough stubble scratched your palm. "Sam," you said softly, your own voice thick. "Look at me. I'm okay. You saved me. You got there." You traced the scratch on his temple with your thumb. "We got roughed up, but we're here."

He leaned into your touch, turning his head to press a fervent kiss into your palm. His eyes drifted back to your bandaged shoulder, visible where your torn shirt had been pulled aside for treatment. "Those marks..." he murmured, his voice thick with regret and something darker – possessiveness twisted with pain.

"They'll scar." He said it like a condemnation, as if the scars were a brand of his failure to protect you perfectly.

You shifted forward slightly, ignoring the twinge of pain, and pressed your forehead to his, mirroring that primal gesture from before the hunt and after the attack, but now filled with shared pain and comfort. "Then they'll just be reminders," you whispered against his skin. "Reminders that I have someone who would tear the world apart for me."

A shudder ran through him. The fierce protector softened further, revealing the deeply loving man beneath the storm. The tension in his shoulders finally began to ease, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion and overwhelming relief. He wrapped his arms around you carefully, mindful of your injuries, and pulled you gently off the toilet lid and onto his lap on the floor. He cradled you against his chest, your head tucked under his chin.

He held you like that for long minutes, rocking slightly, his large hand stroking your hair with infinite gentleness, a stark contrast to the violence he’d unleashed hours before. The scent of blood, sweat, antiseptic, and Sam filled your senses.

His lips brushed against your hairline, then found your ear. His whisper was a warm breath filled with absolute conviction and a love that bordered on ferocity:

The hunt had been long, but the car ride back was even longer. 

You’d been hunting with Sam and Dean for some time, and over the last year or so you had become somewhat of a pretty good hunter yourself. You could handle yourself in a fight against almost anything, and both Sam and Dean knew it. 

The case had started out fairly normal, a run of the mill vampire nest in some midwestern highway town. Having been called in by a local hunter, it seemed like a short detour that wouldn’t take long to take care of. 

So why had this hunt been so different?

Maybe it was the numbers. You three against upwards of a dozen vampires was never going to be fair, but that had never stopped you before. Maybe it was the greasy diner food you’d eaten earlier that day, making you feel off your game. Maybe, by chance, you were slipping. Maybe you weren't as good a hunter as your ego had convinced you that you were.

However it might have happened, you had gotten hurt. 

Now you sat in the backseat of the Impala, rain pitter-pattering on the roof of the car while Sam and Dean sat up in the front. Rock music played softly from the cassette player in the car— Dean’s choice. Besides the music and the rain, the three of you were silent. 

You clutched your arm, the blood slowly seeping through the thin fabric of your overshirt. It wasn’t that bad of a wound, and not the worst you’d had in the last couple of years. Hell, the brothers shouldn’t have even been phased. You just needed to get back to the hotel room and stitch yourself up, and you would be good as new.

Your mind kept flashing back to the abandoned warehouse where the nest had been, and the moment it had happened. 

You were going up against one of the vamps, when the knife it carried had slashed through your upper arm. You had stumbled back, your weapon knocked from your hand. Sam had come up from behind with a machete and decapitated it a second later, but the damage had already been done.

The two of you had stood there for a few moments, adrenaline pumping, just staring at each other. Sam hesitated, his eyes darting to the blood starting to stain your shirt, but he didn't have time to look for long before the rest of the vampires needed taking care of and the hunt continued.

The walk back to the car had been filled with a nearly endless amount of questions from Sam, questions about if there was any chance their blood had mixed with yours, and every time, you refuted it. You were fine, it was just a gash. Not that it convinced Sam, of course.

Back in the Impala, the silence was palpable. Dean kept shifting his eyes back at you every couple of minutes and although he wouldn’t admit it, he was tense. Sam, on the other hand, had his worry written on his face. You tried not to look at him, turning your gaze out the window. In the dark you could see a couple lights speckled through the forested drive as the three of you pulled into town, and eventually into the motel parking lot. 

The sound of the engine slowing pulled you from your thoughts as the car doors opened. Dean walked to the trunk to pull the canvas duffel of wooden stakes and gear, hoisting it over his shoulder. With your free hand you began to open the car door, before Sam apparently beat you to it. He opened the door, his shaggy brown hair framing his face while he looked at you worriedly in the backseat.

”I’m okay, Sam. I can open the door for myself,” you said, with a slight smile audible in your voice.

Sam tilted his head and held eye contact. 

”Yeah…sorry,” he said, stepping back from the car. He waited for you to get out.

You hesitated, waiting for him to go on into the motel. 

“…You can go, Sam. Really, it’s okay. I’ll meet you there.”  

Once Sam gave in and hoisted his backpack over his shoulder, you stood up and got out of the Impala. Clutching your arm, you kicked the door closed with your foot as you turned to face the motel.

There was a flickering neon sign above the building, save for a couple letters that had been long since dead. One of the numbers on the door was crooked and hanging sideways, and you committed the room number to memory.

Stepping inside, you saw Sam and Dean on their feet, doing all their usual things after a hunt. Dean was pulling guns and stakes out from his bag and setting them down on the round table in the corner of the room, where Sam had sat down and was cleaning the shotguns out and sanding the stakes.

You came in and sat down on the bed, groaning. You wanted to get ahead of the wound before it had the chance to become infected.

”Sam?” you asked, eyeballing the first aid kit that sat on the table beside him.

He caught your eyes and followed them to the kit, which he grabbed. His chair pushed against the worn-down hardwood floors as he stood up, coming to sit down on the bed beside you, the squeaky mattress sinking under his weight. 

“I’m taking a shower, be out in 5.” Dean’s voice came from across the room, throwing a towel over his shoulder and shutting the bathroom door behind him with a thud. The tiredness was radiating off of him, and you couldn't be mad. A hot shower sounded like music to your ears, or warm water to your sore muscles. 

The sound of the water turning on could be heard through the thin walls and broke you from your thoughts and back into the room. With Sam. 

You shrugged your flannel overshirt off slowly, sleeve by sleeve. As you peeled it away from the gash, you winced as you saw it fully for the first time. Around the wound was some blood that had already dried, making it look worse than it was. Sam’s expression contorted in concern. 

There was a click of the first aid kit popping open, and you turned to see it opening in Sam’s hand. You opened your free hand and extended it to him. 

“Do we have any wet wipes left?” You asked. 

“I’ve got them,” Sam replied, turning to you and tearing open the packaging with his hands and pulling one out. You waited for him to hand it to you, but he spoke up again, brows furrowed.

”…Let me do this for you.” His voice was sad, and weighed down by guilt that you couldn't seem to place. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

You looked confused. You were confused. Why was he so set on this? 

“Sam, I’ll be okay, really. You don’t need to coddle me.” You tried to reason with him, but when your gaze met his, your heart sank. His eyes were filled with such genuine concern and compassion towards you. 

“What’s up with you?” You questioned. There was something Sam wasn’t telling you. Something was clearly weighing on him, and to you, it looked a lot like guilt. 

Sam looked down at his hands, clearly thinking. Still holding onto the towelette, he brought his eyes back to yours. Watching his body language, the gears began to turn in your head as to what had brought this on. Before you could ask about it, Sam spoke again, lower and soft, as if he was afraid to scare you away.

”It’s my fault. It’s my fault that you got hurt, so please, let me help. Let me make it up to you.”

”Sam I— what are you talking about?” you asked, almost defensively. Why would this have been his fault? “I put myself in the line of danger, you saved me. If anything, I should be thanking you.” 

The words seemed to go in one of Sam’s ears and out the other, like he wouldn’t accept the truth, convinced he was still at fault. “I should have been there sooner. You could have gotten killed, or worse—“

”Turned? Yeah, right. I’m a capable hunter, you know that,” you assured him. “See? None of their blood even came close.”

While you wouldn’t admit it in the moment, it was in a way, sweet, to see him so worried for your wellbeing. Not that he hadn’t shown that he cared before, but this felt different. 

This felt…genuine. Personal. 

He didn’t want to help you so you could be back in good enough shape to move onto the next hunt, he wanted to help you because he felt like he had to. Like he owed it to you. Like it was the one thing in his power that he could do to mend the damage that he’d convinced himself that he’d done.

“…I’ll admit, my first aid skills are a little rusty,” you remarked after a beat, “so if you want to help me, I’m not going to turn the offer down.” 

Something subtle flashed behind Sam’s eyes as he listened. “…Yeah?”

You smiled softly, his eyes meeting yours again.

“Yeah,” you replied, watching as Sam wiped down your arm and began to dig around in the kit.

It hurt when the needle first pierced your skin, and it hurt after the next stitch, and the next. Sam applied stitches to your arm with great precision, in and out. The sting of your wound closing stitch by stitch should have felt more bothersome than it already did, but there was a comfort in knowing Sam was there and taking care of you. 

———————————————————

By the time he’d snipped the thread and tied it off twenty minutes later, Sam was wiping your arm with another disinfectant wipe to clean any remaining blood. You looked down at his work, admiring how clean the stitching was. You were grateful you’d let him help you.

”Does that feel okay?” Sam asked, checking in on you. His brows were furrowed in lasting concern, unconvinced he’d done enough to make it up to you.

You shook out your arm, the lasting pressure feeling uncomfortable, but expected. “Yeah, that’s a lot better, actually.” Pausing, you looked up from your arm and back towards Sam. “Thank you.”

The moment was melancholic, between the reality of the situation and the intimacy that it provoked. You and Sam sitting less than a foot away from each other on the creaky motel bed, his eyes trying to find something in yours while your blood was underneath his fingernails.

The sanctity was broken by the bathroom door slamming open as Dean stepped out of the bathroom, running a hand through his damp hair.

”The shower's open,” he called over his shoulder, not bothering to pay much attention to the two of you as he opened the mini motel fridge and pulled out a beer. 

“…I’m gonna go shower then,” Sam said, breaking eye contact with you, packing the first aid kit back up and standing.

You watched him longingly, the spot where he sat feeling colder next to you immediately after he left you. Your gaze didn’t leave Sam until he shut the bathroom door behind him.

Every step she took was in time with the song, her angelic gown bouncing with every movement. Your eyes tracked her as she walked, only turning away when you heard your mother sniffling. Your father rested a gentle hand on her back, comforting her as they both tried to savor this bittersweet moment. Gaze softening at the sight, you look away and return your attention to the altar. She stops by her partner's side, he turns his head to face her and you watch as a genuine smile cracks his stoic expression.

Father John clears his throat, calling for attention from the pair and gestures for the guests to sit. All oblige and you eagerly wait for the ceremony to begin. "Welcome all of you who are near and dear. We gather here today under this roof to celebrate the union of Lady Estrid-" The doors crash open, hitting the wall and vibrating slightly due to the force. "I OBJECT" A voice belted, turning the heads of every individual within the room, including you. It was a man or perhaps a woman? You couldn't tell, as they're features were far too neutral to form an opinion. But they were shockingly gorgeous, knocking the wind from your lungs as you set your eyes upon them and their loose black curls framing their pale white skin and plump, red cheeks. "What'-" Your sister begins her sentence, likely to protest, snapping you back to reality as you swallow to nurse your dry throat. But another interjects, you raise from your seat somewhat to get a look at these intruders. "You were supposed to wait, it is not time yet!" The second voice is much softer, though urgent and sharp, belonging to a young man with skin reminiscent of a cool, rich, umber, his cheeks were without rogue yet his radiant beauty still distracted you. Albeit, the distraction was different from the dazzling being next to him, it was no less breathtaking. Your eyes stuck on the man much longer than need be.

"Elder said we need to wait, that he has a plan." Alarm was raised in your mind at the chosen word, yoru eyes narrow with suspicion as you observe the two beings much closer. The pale one sweeps their eyes across the room, a seemingly malicious smile on their face as they talk. "Oh, I forgot." Shrugging their shoulders, rustling the frills of their coat at the movement, they wave their hand dismissively and continue on. "It will be fine, we have not done anything yet." They step forward, entering the church and suddenly dread runs down your spine. Your sister exhales and tries yet again to speak, stepping off the altar, though her partner attempts to stop her but soon follows nervously, she bundles the sides of her dress in her hands to quickly move towards them. "Forgive me, but I must insist you explain why you interrupted our ceremony." Her stern voice echoes through the building. Your father stands, shoulders tense as he watches the two intruders warily.

Following suit, you stand and reach for your hip, where a small blade rests, in case you have to defend your sister., and slowly approach. The pale one watches curiously as your relatives approach the two of them, the second one, much softer and respectful, rushes to comfort them. "Oh, our apologies, my sibling is far to eager for their own good." He chuckles, trying to smooth over the tension beginning to overcome the attendees. "Eager for what exactly?" Your sister snaps, releasing her dress and crossing her arms, tired of whatever game the two seem to be playing. You notice the pale one's eyes narrow, their strange golden color seeming to glow under the light of the chandeliers. Your steps hasten as you sense a subtle change in demenor, you yank the blade out of it's leather scabbard. But it's too late, your sister's blood spills across the floor as the wretched creature jumps at her. Startled your spouse is slow to react, backing away at first and then attempting to pull the attacker off your sister. "Wait, stop!" He shouts, his verbose voice cracking as he witnesses the death of love. They shove him away with surprising strength, he stumbles but strangely enough doesn't fall.

"Sanguisuge!" Someone shouted, eliciting panic throughout the room, as guess rush out of their seats and try to escape. They don't make it very far, as other creatures begin to attack them, jumping the innocent and viciously ripping at their throat. Gasping, you freeze, barely registering the cries from your mother or your father screaming at you and the others to stab them, to do something, as he begins fending off a Sanguisuge that had attacked him immediately following your sister's brutal mauling. Your legs shake, but your senses soon return and its fortunate that your close enough to stab the pale demon between their shoulder blade. They cry in pain, shrieking and then yanking away from the blade forcing it to be pulled from their skin, it doesn't bleed yet you know they are in pain. Their almond eyes sharpen fiercely as anger overtakes the sadistic grin previously expressed, they hiss, hand reaching behind them to cover the wound, and then they pounce. Your vision is spun as your swung to the ground, a heavy weight collides with you and loud hissing draws attention to another Sanguisuge, one of the guest you realize, who tries to rip your throat out. Quick to react, you thrust your blade into its eye and it screams in pain as your holy blade pierced through its cornea.

Scrambling up and rushing away, you bump into one of the bridesmaid, she reaches for you smearing blood on your sleeve as she begs for help. "H..el..p" Voice gargling from the blood suffocating her, uselessly she applies pressure to the wound on her throat. She collapse and you catch her in your arms, breathing shaking as you watch the life drain from her eyes. Her hand falls and lands on the lovely lavender dress she had worn to the wedding, blood stains it as you slowly lay her down on the floor, once a lovely white marble now unrecognizable underneath the red liquid drowning it. Your breathing quickens and your vision blurs, heart racing you turn your head and look at the scene around you. Various bloodsuckers enjoying the feast they had selfishly secured. They all ignore you as you stumble around the chapel, stepping over the broken pews and trying to find your mother or father. You felt ill as your eyes run over the numerous massacred victims of the ruthless creatures, you knew these people. You grew up with them. What about the children? Your eyes catch sight of a small bloody dress and your stomach swam with discomfort, anger and sorrow setting in as you began to dry heave. The children, even the children. "Oh, god.." The though alone caused you to wretch, bile coating your tongue afterwards and you held your mouth shut to prevent this from reoccurring.

"I am afraid God is not listening dear." A dainty voice speaks, arrogance present in their tone. You turn your head, finding a tall, slim individual standing behind you. A woman perhaps, their features were delicate and their physique remind you of a noble woman's yet they lack a chest. At least you assume they do you can't tell under all the clothes they wear. Their high collared blouse is a dark burgundy, it's sleeves hang gently around their wrists forming a bell shape. A black corset clinches their waist, though you doubt its needed, and attached to the sides is a layered skirt made of an expensive material, such as silk or satin, it matches the corset and falls elegantly around their legs, exposing a small portion of their pants. Dropping the fabric they had bundled in their hands, they clasps their gloved hands together. "God stopped listening centuries ago."