#isabel walker

Constant nightmares meant Sam was constantly the first one up and about in the mornings. Interrupted sleep with the image of you on the ceiling burned on the inside of his eyelids was hell for his concentration most days, but it was great for making sure he got an early start. The sun had barely risen and he was already back from his run, panting and dripping with sweat. He guzzled a bottle of water as Dean shuffled into the room in his bathrobe.

Dean grimaced at his younger brother and put on a pot of coffee. “Dude, you stink.”

Sam shrugged. “At least I take care of my body.”

Withdrawing the remainder of the doughnut Dean had just shoved in his mouth, he spoke around the food. “Wha’ oo you mean?”

“Never mind.”

You wandered in, letting out a loud and dramatic yawn as you blinked and stretched. Your hair was in total disarray thanks to your chronic case of behead, and Sam couldn’t help but laugh and give it a playful tug when you passed.

“What was that for?” You slapped his hand away.

Sam took his toast to the table. “Nothing. How did you sleep last night?”

“Like a rock.”

Sam watched you move around the kitchen in a rhythm unique to you. It was the same routine every morning, without fail. Half-asleep, you’d pull out a mug for your coffee, then poke your head into the fridge for something to eat. Then you’d realize you forgot to pour any coffee and abandon the fridge without closing it. After pouring your coffee, you’d remember you forgot to close the fridge and do that. But then you’d open it right back up again because you forgot to grab the creamer while it was open.

And every morning, Sam would smile at you from the table when you weren’t looking. The day didn’t really start until you’d bustled around the kitchen to get yourself some breakfast.

“I stayed up way too late last night binging ‘Sherlock,’” you continued, joining Sam and Dean at the table with a cup of coffee and a container of mango yogurt. “But, you know, once you watch a season finale you have to see the episode of the next season.”

“I’m familiar with that torture,” Sam said. “I had to wait over two years to watch the next episode, though. You’re lucky you have Netflix.”

Your eyes got wide and round over the rim of your mug. They matched the light brown, creamy color of your coffee, accentuated by the thick black eyelashes. “You’re kidding.”

Sam shook his head. “Nope. It was a long hiatus.”

Dean snorted from his end of the table. “Dork.”

“Hey,” both Sam and you protested simultaneously.

“You’re just jealous because you’re missing out on all the ‘Sherlock’ fun,” you pointed out. “We all know you’re the biggest dork here.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s right, Dean.” Sam balled up his napkin and took it along with your empty yogurt container to throw out. “It may be a different kind of dorkiness, but it still counts. Who stayed up all night to finish a ‘Dr. Sexy’ marathon last month?”

“That’s different. ‘Dr. Sexy’ is an art form.”

“If you say so.” You stood up to wash your mug. “But anyways. I found ourselves a case.”

That caught the brothers’ attention, pulling them away from their relentless teasing of each other.

“What?” Dean said, as Sam said, “Where?”

You answered both of their questions. “Some small town in South Dakota, not sure what. But people are literally losing their minds from whatever it is. Total memory loss for no reason other than they went into this ‘haunted house’ on a dare. One day they’re fine, the next they don’t even recognize their own families. It’s near Sioux Falls, so I thought we could stop by and say hey to Bobby on the way back.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m gonna go change.” Dean stood up from the table, gesturing to Sam, but speaking to you. “Make that man take a shower before small animals start passing out when he walks by them.”

You snorted, then called after him as he walked away. “Why would you think I’d have any control over him? He’s a grown man.”

“I don’t know, bat your eyes or something.”

Sam muttered, “Jerk,” under his breath, trying to play it cool even as heat rose to his feet.”

“So,” you said once Dean had left and leaned against the counter in what was probably supposed to be a seductive way, but coming from you came across more like a toddler playing dress up in her mom’s heels. You had no clue what you were doing, and it was absolutely adorable. “Do I need to bat my eyes at you or are you going to shower? Cause I hate to side with Dean on, well, anything, but you do stink, and there’s no way in hell I’m getting in a car with you for seven hours like this.”

“Like you said, I’m a grown man.” Sam tugged at your hair again, earning himself another slap from you. “I’ll take a shower.”

“Thank you, kind sir. Now we can all save those poor, innocent forest creatures Dean is so worried about.”

“Those bastards,” Sam said with a twinkle in his eye, because he knew as soon as he said it, you’d be doubled over with laughter, and your laugh was one of those rare things that couldn’t be manufactured but made the sun wonder how you were able to outshine it.

It was a simple phrase, but held enough meaning between you two, it was like a secret code. After your first hunt together, you’d hit it off so well, you decided to catch a movie nearby. But of course, no movie was complete without smuggled snacks. Into CVS you went, and while Sam opted for the healthier choice of trail mix of which you later picked out all the M&M’s, you went straight for the candy bars and other junk foods.

“They don’t have my favorite chips!” You’d gasped, clutching a Snickers bar in each hand.

Something about your utterly indignant face as you stared in horror at the shelves made Sam grin wider than he’d ever had. “Those bastards,” he replied, without missing a beat.

You’d turned to him, the serious look still etched upon your face, then folded over on yourself, wheezing for breath as you laughed. Maybe it had been the hunting high you were both still coming off of, maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe something else entirely. But something had changed then. Maybe just for Sam, but it had still undoubtedly changed.

“Hey, Sam?” You said before Sam could leave the room completely.

Sam poked his head back in the kitchen. “Yeah?”

You fidgeted with the ends of your frizzy hair. “Did you sleep okay last night?”

Sam stiffened. He leaned against the doorway so you wouldn’t notice. “Yeah. Fine. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing.” You sighed and turned away. “I thought I heard someone calling out in the middle of the night, but maybe I was just dreaming.”

“Maybe,” Sam said, and left before you could ask any more questions.

#

You were making excellent time up until the last hour when the skies broke open over you and pelted the road with glittering glass shards of raindrops. It was an angry, punk rock sort of rain that obscured your vision and made it impossible to do anything but crawl to the nearest exit.

“We’ll stay with Bobby tonight,” Dean said as he pulled off down a quieter road, away from most of the traffic. “I’m sure he won’t mind. We can do some research there and head out again tomorrow.”

Bobby did mind, very much, as he was wrapping up a date none of you had known about when you arrived, soaking wet, your shoes more mud than they were shoes. After Bobby had bid the woman farewell, Dean proceeded to tease him for a straight half hour. Sam just shook his head at his brother and thanked Bobby for letting them crash, then headed to the kitchen to get a head start on the research.

You joined him soon afterward, but Sam only caught you in his peripherals as he really dissected the articles depicting the recent memory loss victims. You dug around in the cupboards, shamelessly raiding Bobby’s stash of food.

“Bobby!” You called out. “You really need to keep actual food in your kitchen, not just whiskey and cans of beans.”

“I do have real food,” the grizzled, grumpy man grumbled. He and Dean came in, distracting Sam for the time being. “I wasn’t expecting company, that’s all.”

“Yeah, only the company of your lady friend.” Dean smirked.

“Shut up, ya idjit,” Bobby muttered.

At some point, things quieted down. You found a Snickers bar at the bottom of your hunting bag, rectifying the food situation, and Dean helped Sam research for five minutes before faking a yawn and calling it a night. Sam continued to scroll through articles and Facebook posts on his laptop.

The thunk of a mug being set down on the table jerked Sam out of his trance.

“You need some caffeine if you’re going to keep this up for much longer,” you said. Your hands were wrapped around a steaming mug of your own. “You look exhausted.”

“Thanks. Restless night last night,” Sam said without thinking. He stifled a yawn on the back of his hand.

Your eyebrows knitted together. “I thought you said you slept fine.”

Sam’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “I did. I just meant—”

He broke off. There wasn’t a good enough lie within his grasp for him to use, so he grabbed the mug instead. It was hot, much more than usual. “Did you warm the mug first?”

A smile tugged your lips at the corners, barely. “Yeah. You always get so focused on your research, you know, sometimes your drink gets cold. I figured the coffee would take longer to cool down this way.”

It was just a normal, unsweetened, generic cup of coffee in a chipped mug worn from one too many times through the dishwasher. And Sam loved it.

“Thank you.” He picked it up and held it to his chest as you sat down next to him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You asked. “I mean, I know hunters always have bags under their eyes, but yours have seemed a little darker than usual lately.”

Sam sighed. He wasn’t able to keep things from you, most of the time. Just the most important bits, the ones that would condemn him in ways that would change your relationship permanently, for better or for worse. “It’s been a rough few nights. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Nightmares?” You ventured.

Sam nodded.

“I get them, too. Sometimes I see them at night, my family. And it feels—so real.” You took a shuddering breath, staring at the wall. You looked paler than usual. “But then I wake up and they’re gone. I can’t always decide what’s worse: having them there, covered in blood in my dreams or having them—just gone.”

Sam knew you were thinking about them—your parents and younger brother. And he knew just how you felt, down to the “it’s all my fault” face you got when you thought he wasn’t looking. But he couldn’t reach out or do more than say, “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Really screws with my beauty sleep.” You cracked a sideways smile at him. “And you could definitely use more of that.”

Sam rolled his eyes, snorting. “Thanks.”

“I’m just saying, a little facial cream does wonders—”

“I get the picture.”

You squeezed Sam’s shoulder, and an electric jolt ran through him, like a little shock, though he knew he’d imagined it. “Don’t stay up too late tonight, ‘kay? We can always do more research on the road.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

You shrugged and put your mug in the sink. “I can’t help it.”

Sam tried not to watch you leave, but he couldn’t resist a glance your way as you disappeared around the corner.

Bobby watched you, too. Or rather, watched Sam watch you.

“What?” Sam said, too defensively as he opened another tab on his laptop.

“She’s sweet on you,” Bobby said softly.

Sam snorted again, but there was no humor behind this one. This was all self-deprecation. “No she’s not.”

Bobby’s stern look was one Sam was well acquainted with. It was often paired with a grumbled “idjit.” “Boy, I’ve been around the bend a few times too many to know that that girl has more than just friendly concern for you. Believe me.”

“You’re crazy, Bobby.” Sam didn’t look up from his laptop when he spoke.

“Don’t you go calling me crazy in my own home. You boys just can’t realize when something good’s right in front of you, can you?”

Sam didn’t resume his typing until he could no longer hear Bobby’s heavy footfalls. When he went back to his Google searching, he found he couldn’t focus any better with the room empty, save for Bobby’s words echoing in Sam’s head, than he could with it full of people.

Sam picked up his coffee mug, realizing he hadn’t even sipped at it, and took a drink. Still warm. He smiled down at the contents in spite of the remnants of his nightmares flashing in front of his eyes.

Maybe if he told himself enough that he was fine. Maybe if he did, he could get over this. Get over you.

#

You made a big show of grumbling your discontent as you got out of the Impala to ask directions at the gas station, but Dean insisted on sending you inside. As soon as the door had slammed shut and you started to walk away, Dean whipped around to face you.

“What’s this I hear about you and Y/N?” He demanded, all business.

Sam threw his hands up in defense. “Whoa. What’s what about what?”

“You know what. Just answer the question.”

“How am I supposed to answer a question when I don’t even know the question?”

Dean sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Bobby told me last night that you and Y/N have a thing going.”

Sam laughed. Loudly. Too forcefully. “There’s no thing.”

“B.S., Sam. Bobby seemed pretty sure of himself.”

“Bobby’s crazy.”

Dean shook his head. “He said you’d say that.”

“Seriously, Dean—it was a silly crush, okay? Like ages ago. But I’m over it now, it’s no big deal. And Y/N doesn’t know it ever happened, so let’s keep it that way.”

Dean set his jaw and squinted his green eyes at Sam for a long time, but you reemerged before he could interrogate is brother further. “Okay.”

You slid into the backseat. “Yeah, just like your phone said, Dean. Straight ahead. I’m not sure why you don’t trust GPS. Everyone uses it.”

“Because I swear one day, these machines will rise up against us,” Dean said as he started the Impala up again.

“You sound like my grandfather.”

“Maybe he had a point.”

Sam tuned out your bickering and leaned his head against the window, resisting the urge to doze. He couldn’t risk another nightmare with you and Dean in the car. Not when he already spent half the night last night tossing and turning.

Your face, framed by the flames, flashed in front of him again. Sam sat up straighter, pinching his forearm. As much as he hated the reminders from his subconscious, the reminders were necessary.

So many names. Too many gravestones. He would not add yours to the growing list.

#

You all reached the old, abandoned house, and you reached up to tie your thick hair back. But, of course, it didn’t work the way you’d planned.

“Shoot,” you muttered. “I always forget—”

“—your damn hair tie?” Sam finished for you, pulling one out of his pocket.

You laughed and accepted it, tying your hair into a ponytail. “You’re a lifesaver. Honestly.”

“I try.”

“When you two are done flirting, we’ve got a haunted house to inspect,” Dean said as he passed, earning him a less than kind hand gesture from Sam when you weren’t looking.

The house was a total cliché, something straight out of a cheesy horror flick. It was dusty and over a hundred years old and had floorboards that creaked louder than a clap of thunder if you so much as breathed too loudly.

“Nice digs,” you said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “I’m sure there’s something here that’s causing the memory loss.”

“Let’s hope.” Dean shone his flashlight around the bottom floor. “Otherwise we’ve got to figure out where else these people could have been attacked.”

“I’ll take the upstairs,” Sam offered. He gripped his knife tighter as he looked at the rickety staircase.

You batted a cluster of cobwebs away from your hair. “I’ll join you. Might be nicer than down here.”

“Doubt it,” Dean said, but you and Sam went upstairs anyways.

Dean was right. The upstairs wasn’t much better, but it creaked less, and it allowed for you and Sam to be in the same space without Dean or Bobby potentially causing problems. Sam found that for as often as you made him fight for breath, it was also easier to breathe around you. Something as simple as your presence stilled him. It was a rare and beautiful thing to find a soul that could calm another.

“What?” You said, startling Sam.

“What?” Sam echoed.

“You were staring at me. Something in my teeth?”

Sam cleared his throat and pretended to be rifling through an ancient wardrobe. “No. Sorry. Just zoning.”

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t sleep last night.”

“Did you?” Sam countered. “I heard someone up at four getting water.”

“You had to be awake to hear me.”

“Touché.”

You ran your hand along the top of a desk, shuffling a few papers out of the way as you did so. “So if you were awake—” You broke off, and Sam followed your gaze to the fireplace. On top of the hearth was a glittering object, some sort of crown. “Whoa, fancy.”

“Y/N, I wouldn’t—” Sam started, darting forward.

But you’d already touched it. You shrieked as a bolt of something electric audibly crackled, blasting you backward into the wall. Sam fell beside you when you crumpled. Your eyelids fluttered, thick lashes twitching with them. Sam felt for your pulse. It still beat in a steady rhythm, if not more rapidly. Dean could be heard storming up the stairs, calling both of your names, but Sam didn’t answer him.

“Y/N?” He said, holding your face in both of his hands. He tried not to think about how it fit perfectly, a puzzle piece falling into place. “Y/N, can you hear me?”

The door slammed against the wall as Dean burst in. Plaster fell like snow from the hole in the wall thanks to the doorknob smashing into it.

“What the hell happened?” Dean panted. “Y/N? Is she—”

You groaned in response, reaching out to Sam like he was a raft in the middle of a stormy sea. Your eyes were unfocused, breathing more shallow. “Sam?” You mumbled. “Something—ungh, I feel sick . . .”

“Hey, hey, hey.” You tried to stand, but your legs wouldn’t hold your weight. Sam caught you before you could hit the floor again. It was a good thing you weighed close to nothing, or at least it seemed that way to Sam.

Dean stepped out of Sam’s way, watching as he lifted you into his arms. “Get her to the car. What happened?”

Sam jerked his head toward the crown. “Touched that. Careful, I think that’s the source of our problems.”

Dean shook out a cloth from his pocket as Sam took you from the room. A minute later, Dean slid into the front seat of the Impala and glanced back at Sam inspecting your head.

“Definitely cursed,” Dean confirmed. His lips were set in a grim line. “How’s her memory?”

“Haven’t gotten that far yet.” Sam leaned back and waved his hand in front of your eyes to get your attention. “Hey, can you tell me your name?”

“Sure, I can. It’s Y/N Y/L/N,” you said, and though your speech was slurred, Sam couldn’t find any other reason to worry.

“And where are we?”

“Near Sioux Falls. South Dakota. We’re staying with Bobby.”

“What just happened?”

“I touched that.” You pointed to the crown wrapped in Dean’s cloth. “And everything went dizzy.”

“I think she’s okay,” Dean said. Both his and Sam’s faces were uncertain, but there was nothing more they could do. “We’ll keep an eye on her, just to be sure.”

“Sam?” You said again, and to Sam’s surprise you scooted closer across the seat and curled into him. You must have been tired. “Can we get food? Real food? Greasy food? I’m hungry.”

Sam’s stomach churned at the thought of another diner meal where the closest thing to a vegetable was corn, but he couldn’t resist you. Never was able to. Especially now, when your head resting against his shoulder, when your messy ponytail draped over his arm, when your eyes were half-shut and vulnerable.

Over you. He was so over you. Over your laugh and your smile and your wit and your everything.

“Sure,” Sam said. “Anywhere you want.”

#

You gasped from across the booth at the menu, startling Dean, who sat next to you, but Sam just glanced up from his own menu. He had a guess as to what you’d say.

“Sam!” You said in indignation. “They don’t have any cheese dip!”

“Those bastards,” he laughed, which made you laugh despite the grievous offense of leaving out cheese dip as a menu item.

Dean shook his head at both of you. “I stand by my original ‘dorks’ statement.”

You hit him with your menu.

Somehow, you all managed to find something worth eating even without the cheese dip, and an hour later you strode back to the Impala, full of food and laughing at each other’s jokes.

Then, without warning, you collapsed again.

This time Sam wasn’t able to catch you, but he did help you off the asphalt, wincing on behalf of your skinned knees.

“You okay?” Dean went to your other side, helping you to sit down in the backseat.

You blinked a few times, then smiled up at the both of them. “I feel fine, why?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

“You just fell down over there,” Sam said. “Can you—are you still remembering things okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just go through the questions again.” Dean left Sam to go to the driver’s seat and get the engine going.

Sam crouched down to get on your level. “Where are we?”

“A diner?” You said, as if it were totally obvious. Your forehead had confused crinkles in it.

“Okay, good, and where are we going?”

“Back to Sioux Falls, I assume.”

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N Singer.”

Sam was about to stand up, satisfied with your answers, but your last one made him pause. “What did you say?”

“Y/N Singer,” you repeated. The crinkles in your forehead were deeper. “Why are you questioning me? I just scraped my knees. I’m fine.”

“Dean,” Sam said in warning, but Dean had already twisted around in his seat.

“I heard her,” he said, his face clouding over. “Let’s get her to Bobby’s quick.”

“You guys are acting weird. Weirder than usual,” you said as you all drove back to Sioux Falls.

Dean grunted, but didn’t say anything for the remainder of the drive. Neither did you. Neither did Sam.

Part 2

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Sam insisted on sleeping on the floor of your room that night, just in case something happened. Nothing did, unless Sam lying awake for five hours before finally drifting off into a nightmare counted as something. When he woke, sweaty and confused, you still stared at the same spot out the window where the sun was rising.

Bobby tried to feed you breakfast, but you barely swallowed anything and wouldn't chew anything more solid than watery eggs. From then on, he only fed you liquids. Dean would check in every half hour on the dot, which meant he'd stand in the doorway and study you for a minute, then shake his head and mumble to himself as he walked away.

As for Sam, he only left the room when Dean literally dragged him from it to shower and put on a fresh change of clothes. But he could not get his brother to eat, no matter how hard he tried.

“Dude, starving yourself isn't going to help anything,” Dean said when night fell and Sam hadn't had a bite to eat all day.

Sam shook his head and clicked through another hunter forum on his laptop. He'd propped himself near the foot of your bed where he could watch you and read articles that had the possibility to be helpful to the situation. “There's no time.”

“We have all the time in the world now.”

“How do you know it won't get worse?”

“Sam, just eat something.”

“I'm busy, Dean.”

Burying himself in his research was the only way Sam was able to feel helpful. Nothing else distracted him enough. Nothing else temporarily filled the hole in his heart. The pain from his bullet wound didn't even do enough to take his mind away to different places.

When Sam's eyes burned from looking at a screen for so long and he couldn't sleep anyway, Sam would pick up the nearest novel and read to you. It was the only time he allowed himself to sit next to you on the bed. Whether or not you could comprehend your surroundings was beside the point. He hoped at least some way, somehow, you might be able to hear his voice and hang onto the words for some comfort the way he'd hung onto yours for so long.

Three weeks passed. You didn't improve, but you didn't get worse, and it pained Sam to even count that as a win. None of this should have happened in the first place.

“Sam.”

Sam lifted his head from his laptop on day twenty-two. Dean stood in the doorway at his usual time, but his eyes weren't on you. He beckoned for Sam to follow him. “It's time to go.”

Though the words were vague, Sam found the deeper meaning in them. It's time to let go. It's time to go home.

Sam shook his head. “I'm not leaving.”

“Sam, she's not getting any better—”

“But she's not getting any worse.”

Dean sighed and rubbed between his eyes. “Bobby agrees, too. There's nothing else we can do.”

Sam tugged at his hair to keep himself awake and alert before the words on the screen started to blur again. “You don't know that.”

“I know it's been three weeks and you can't spend the rest of your life waiting for something that may or may not happen.”

Sam didn't look at him.

Dean sighed again. “I'm going to the car. I'll wait for ten minutes. If you want to go home, you know where to find me.”

Sam waited for the screen door to bang shut before he moved. Dean was right, and he hated when Dean was right. He hated it more when it meant he'd have to face what he'd never be ready to face.

When he stood up and looked at you, he knew you may never wake up. You may never understand a word of what he said while you were in this state. But he would burn up from the inside out if he kept the words inside. Somehow your glassy look that went straight through him made his heart beat faster than if he knew you were listening.

Sam set a Snickers bar on your nightstand. Did you move? No, just his eyes playing tricks on him again. Why was he so nervous? It was like speaking to a sleeping person.

“I thought you might be hungry if—when you wake up,” Sam said. He ran a hand through his knotted, greasy hair. “I know chocolate always hits the spot for you.”

Could that have been a twitch of your eye? Sam gave his head a firm shake. No, it was stupid to keep hoping. It would only delay the inevitable pain. “I—I'm sorry, Y/N. I never should have—well, there's a lot of things I shouldn't have done, but I won't list them now. I'm just sorry for getting you in this mess.”

He leaned over you to place a hand on the back of your neck, press a gentle kiss to your forehead. He lingered there for a moment, trying to think of more things to say before he left, but nothing summed it up as well as the three words that stood the test of time across all cultures. He brushed them across your skin with gentle strokes of his lips, a whisper. “I love you.”

There. He'd finally admitted what Dean and Bobby had suggested more than once. And like your steady state, he didn't feel good or bad about it. Somehow that was worse than feeling awful. Leaving you eternally staring out the window, his words hanging in the stale air, felt final and unsettled all at once.

He wished more than anything that you could say one word, any word, to show that you'd heard. To show you were still here with him.

Sam closed the door behind him. Dean looked surprised to find his younger brother making his way to the passenger seat, but knew better than to speak as he pulled out. There was nothing he could say to improve the situation, so he let the silence be enough.

#

“She's awake.”

It had only been eighteen hours since they'd left you. Bobby's voice on the phone was breathless, but nevertheless, his words were understood.

“What?” Dean leaned closer to the phone, despite it being on speaker.

Sam didn't even bother to bookmark his page as he abandoned his research to also stand nearer to the phone.

“She's awake,” Bobby repeated. “Like—real awake. Walking, talking, eating . . . She's asking for you boys.”

“We'll drive over.” Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets. They were damp and trembled with each exhale. He couldn't dare to hope, fully and without fear, but still hope tugged at him like the chorus of a catchy tune he couldn't push away no matter how hard he tried.

Dean cast a look toward his brother, one without expression. “Yeah. See you tomorrow, Bobby. Tell Y/N hey from us.”

“Drive safe.”

“What do you think woke her up?” Sam tossed his book from hand to hand. “After all this time?”

Dean shrugged. His eyes didn't leave Sam as the younger Winchester paced the room. “Who knows? Could've been us leaving, you know, the change in the environment or whatever. Could've been the curse only lasts for so long. Something someone said . . .” He trailed off.

Sam made up some mumbled excuse to leave then. He didn't need Dean insinuating anything to add to his already jumbled ball of nerves. As soon as he was alone in the hallway, a smile won its fight onto his face.

He was going to see you tomorrow.

#

Bobby was outside when Sam and Dean drove up to the old junkyard. He, like Sam, couldn't help a sly grin.

“She barely slept a wink last night,” was Bobby's greeting as he led them inside. “Kept asking what time you were planning on rolling up. I don't think I've ever seen her this excited.”

What did that mean? Sam couldn't help but wonder if he should take this as a good or bad sign. Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe you didn't remember anything, any of it, any of what he'd said.

Before he could let his thoughts run wild, more than they already were, you barreled into the room and into the boys.

Dean let out an oof, catching an elbow to the ribs like Sam had.

“Oh my God, it feels like forever since I've seen you,” you said, squeezing them both tight. You stepped away to get a good look at them, like it had been months since they were last by your side. “I mean, I know I've seen you, but it was weird. It didn't count. I couldn't really see you, not like this—”

“Slow down,” Dean chuckled, ruffling your hair. “You just got your conscious thought back. We don't need you wearing out on us again.”

You giggled, light and carefree and back to your normal self. Sam didn't realize he was staring until you looked back, but he couldn't help it. It was like seeing a reflection in a mirror, only it wasn't a reflection of himself, but of all the things he wanted to be. All the traits of a person perfectly made.

“What?” You said, more quietly.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “It's just good to have you back.”

“You better have brought me some chocolate, Winchester. I'm starving. That one Snickers you left on my nightstand was not enough sustenance after weeks of just broth.”

Sam held up his hands in preemptive defense. “I was going to stop by the store on the way here, but they were still closed when we left.”

You sighed dramatically and rolled your eyes. “Those bastards.”

Two clunky, run of the mill, meaningless words.

But for Sam, it was the sun breaking through the storm.

#

At some point in the day, you and Sam were alone. The sun was low in the western sky and everyone's stomachs were rumbling. Dean and Bobby ran to get takeout while Sam took on the job of setting the table and you handled the “stay put and don't do a damn thing” task Bobby had given you.

“Are you sure I can't help?” You asked from your curled up spot on the armchair in the other room.

“You heard Bobby.” Sam obsessively re-straightened the already straight silverware. “If you so much as lift a finger, he'll flay you alive. He really wants to make sure you're rested up.”

Your groan elicited a grin from Sam. “But I wanna help.”

Sam waited a beat before responding. “Then you can keep me entertained while I neaten up around here.”

“How so?” You shuffled into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway.

The dishes in the drying rack were already drier than the Sahara, but you didn't have to know that as Sam rubbed them off with a towel. “Tell me how much you remember.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “From the whole memory curse thing? I mean, I don't remember much, seeing as it was a memory curse and all . . .”

Sam turned to push a few plates into the cupboard where they belonged. His pulse was so quick and erratic, he wondered if you could see it leaping against his throat. “So you don't remember anything?”

“I wouldn't say that.” You fiddled with the hem of your shirt where a loose thread hung. “I remember going to that old house, touching the crown . . . then there's a big blank space.”

He was playing with fire, but he had to know. “And nothing after?”

Lifting your eyes to meet his, you were as unreadable as Dean the day before. “Pain. A lot of pain. And then staring at nothing every day for what feels like forever.”

That didn't tell him anything, and you weren't bringing it up, so Sam tried to drop it. He really did. He nodded and put the last dish in its place. “Well you're back now. That's what matters.”

“Yeah.”

Sam found that he couldn’t concentrate on keeping up a happy face, on any semblance of normal at all. “I have to do something. Let me know when they come back.” With his vague excuse and long strides, he hurried out of the kitchen toward the screen door.

“Sam, wait.”

Your pale skin and endless eyes rooted him in place. You stared for a long time, and Sam was incapable of being the first to break the contact. Neither could see what the other was thinking, but both knew, somehow, on a deeper level. They knew in the marrow of their bones, in each pulse of their heart, in each expansion of their lungs.

“I—” You whispered, but your words stuttered to a stop, tongue faltering. Sam finished the words that would have followed in his head, no matter how naïve and desperate it was, how foolish.

“What?” Sam prompted you. He had minutes, seconds before he gave up entirely.

“I don’t know. Everything was so cloudy when I was stuck in that bed. I don’t know if I dreamed it.”

Sam shook his head, throat tight. “You didn’t dream it.”

You were across the kitchen in one fluid movement. Your arms flung around Sam’s neck, feet lifting off the floor to the tips of your toes so you could reach. He caught you, gripped you tight, stumbling back not from your weight but from the shock of your reaction. Your breathing was ragged in his ear as you spoke.

“I love you, too.”

He pulled away, all of his instincts at odds with each other. Some said to run, others said to say something back, others still said to stop thinking and just kiss you already. But the instincts that won out made him say, “What?”

Smooth, Sam. Smooth.

Your lips twitched into a smile, but it was as wobbly as Sam’s legs were. “I—I said I love you, too.”

Sam let out a breathy huff of a laugh. “You’re crazy.”

“No, I mean it.” You slid your hands down to find his, squeezing. “I love you.”

Flames. Heat. Your face engulfed in a crimson blaze.

Sam pulled his hands from her, and yours fells to dangle by your sides, suddenly lifeless and defeated. “You shouldn’t,” he said.

“Sam Winchester, don’t you dare tell me what I should and shouldn’t feel.” Creases deepened between your eyebrows, the same ones that made an appearance whenever Dean teased you about your short stature. “Why would you say anything to me if you weren’t going to let me say it back?”

“I didn’t think you would.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, slumping forward a little like maybe he could curl in on himself and fade away. “You’re better off without me.”

“How the hell can you say that?”

“If you hadn’t met me, none of this would’ve happened to you in the first place. You wouldn’t have lost weeks of your life lying in a bed like some sort of prisoner.”

You took a step forward to close the distance Sam had tried to put between you. “If I hadn’t met you, that shifter would’ve killed me. Do you know how many times you’ve saved my ass? You’re the best thing—”

“Stop.” It was meant to be firm and final, but it came out weak with a crack in his voice. Somehow the fragility of the word made you break off more than any shout would have. The skin seemed to strip away from Sam’s bones, leaving only the raw parts of him, the honest ones. “Y/N, I’m not good for you. I haven’t been good for anyone in a long time. Those nightmares I’ve been having—every time I sleep I see you on the ceiling, burning. I can’t risk anything happening to you. It’d end me.”

This time when you took Sam’s hand, it wasn’t tight, it wasn’t possessive, it wasn’t anything at all except for two broken people needing the touch to heal. Calluses and scars and bumps and edges rubbing against each other, not even close to smooth, but that only meant those two people were mending.

“Sam,” you murmured. “We are far from perfect, but we are good. You’re good. If you can’t see that, you’re going to have to be stuck with me until you do.”

His hand shook in yours, barely, but you felt it. You put your other hand on top, steadying the tremors. The corners of his mouth lifted up.

“I don’t think I could get rid of you if I tried,” he said.

You beamed, the kind of brightness that could only be achieved by showing all your teeth. “Nope.”

Before you had time to prepare yourself, Sam was kissing you. He was kissing you slowly and carefully like he was scared he’d break you if he went too fast. Your fingers got lost in his thick hair, tugging at the roots, telling him it was okay. And neither of you knew how long you’d blocked out the rest of the world and stayed blissfully unaware in yours, but at some point you were pulled apart by the sound of two deep voices.

Bobby dropped the takeout on the table. “It’s about time,” he said, just as Dean grimaced and groaned, “Right where we eat? Really? Come on, guys.”

“Don’t you people knock?” You teased, trying to distract from your deep red flush.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. “In my own home? I don’t think so.”

“Here, let me help you,” Sam mumbled, busying himself with setting out the food so he didn’t have to make eye contact with either of the other men.

Dean continued to grumble loudly about your scandalous activities in the eating area, sometimes around a large bite of food so only half the words could be made out. Bobby rolled his eyes and said several things under his breath, probably something along the lines of exasperation at Dean’s indignation. Sam didn’t listen. By the twinkle in your eyes as you smiled at him from across the table, he didn’t think you did, either.

You and Sam were the last ones in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner while Dean and Bobby discussed the latest werewolf attacks in Michigan.

“I think I’m still hungry,” you said as you dried off the dishes.

“I’m pretty sure Dean and Bobby polished off the fries,” Sam had to break it to you.

You sighed, tossing the towel aside and leaving to clear the rest of the table. “Those bastards.”

Sam smiled and closed the fridge. You hummed to yourself as you moved about the kitchen, oblivious to the softened expressions on Sam’s face, to the fact that maybe he’d be able to sleep tonight, to his thoughts that maybe it’d be okay.

You did a double take as you looked over your shoulder. “What are you grinning at?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Dork.”

You resumed your off-key, humming rendition of the “Sherlock” theme song, a bounce in your step when you put the dishes away.

Yeah. It’d be okay.

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“Or we can just tell her.” Dean paced the kitchen floor to the point where he could almost put a hole in it. “We’ll just try to explain it to her. She might think we’re nuts, but it could jog her memory.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, a headache coming on. “But—Dean, do we want her to remember?”

Dean gaped at him, like he couldn’t recognize his own brother. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What do you mean, Sam?” Bobby leaned against the counter, eyeing him inquisitively.

Now that both pairs of eyes were on him, Sam had to fight to remain casual. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I mean, maybe it’s better this way. She doesn’t remember all of the horrible things that have happened to her. Her family getting killed, being possessed that one time, nothing. She thinks we’re her family.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, clearly running out of patience. “But she doesn’t remember anything about monsters, either. She doesn’t know how to hunt. Hell, she won’t even know to salt her windows at night. How is she supposed to stay safe? Sam, we have to get her memory back.”

“No.” Sam wouldn’t look at him, but his tone was firm. “No, this is the perfect chance for her to start over. She can have what we couldn’t, a normal life. If this is her only shot, I’m not taking that away from her.”

“But—”

“Dean.” Bobby held up a hand, and though Dean glowered, he stopped talking. “I’m not going to get in the middle of this, because it’s up to you boys, but Sam, are you sure you don’t even want to try to figure out some sort of cure?”

He wasn’t. He wasn’t sure of anything except that right now, you were in another room without a care in the world beyond life’s usual curveballs. You thought you had a family that was alive and intact. You might be able to have a solid night’s sleep.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I’m sure.”

“Then it’s settled. Y/N can stay here with me, seeing as she thinks I’m her father and all.”

Bobby went to get glasses for drinks, which Sam didn’t usually go for to drown out the pain like Dean did, but he had to admit, it sounded pretty good right now. He sat down at the table, fixating on the grooves and dents.

Dean hadn’t stopped staring at his younger brother. “Sam, you know if you do this, you’ll never—”

“I know,” Sam said.

“She thinks you’re her brother.”

“I know.”

“You can never tell her. Not if you want her to think that all of this—” Dean gestured to the house. “—is her normal.”

Sam played with the hair tie you had returned to him after the diner between his fingers. “I know, Dean.”

Dean looked about as convinced as Sam was himself. But he was over you. He’d said it a thousand times. Despite the dreams that still plagued him, despite the way something as simple as a warm cup of coffee or your bedhead in the morning could bring a smile to his face, despite everything, he was over you.

#

Sam left you later that day. You thought nothing of it. Sam and Dean were just going back home, back to their jobs, their normal lives. That’s what you thought. That’s what Bobby and the brothers told you. That’s what you remembered. You didn’t think it was strange, but you didn’t catch the way Bobby watched Sam as he hugged you tight before leaving. You didn’t see how Dean’s mouth opened and closed with words he ached to tell you. You didn’t notice their slumped shoulders when they walked to the Impala and drove away.

Sam noticed. He noticed everything, from the laugh lines that crinkled around your eyes when you smiled, to your loopy handwriting on the shopping list, to how natural it was to wrap his arms around you. Even after everything he’d said to Dean and Bobby, he almost told you then. He almost made you give it all up. And he immediately felt like the world’s biggest dick for doing it.

“You okay, man?” Dean asked when him and Sam left Bobby’s house in the dust, a blip in the rearview mirror.

“I’m fine,” Sam said, his new mantra. If he told himself enough, he’d believe it. Then he could stop feeling like leaving you behind at Bobby’s wasn’t permanent.

The truth was, the whole drive he was falling. He was falling into dreams that tugged at the edges of his mind, reminding him why he had to leave. He was falling into monotonous days sure to be that much emptier because you weren’t there to stumble between the fridge and your coffee those mornings. He was falling into lonely nights and sidelong glances from Dean.

He was falling around you.

#

“Spill.”

Sam glanced up from his lore book, facing his older brother, who stood with his arms crossed and looked down in defiance.

“What?” Sam croaked, half-asleep. Why was Dean even up at three in the morning?

Dean swirled his finger around at Sam and the book. “You. This. Now. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I was sleeping.”

The excuse wasn’t good enough for Dean. Not that Sam had expected it to be. “Uh huh.”

“I was, Dean. I’m fine.”

“Dude, it’s been a month since we left Y/N, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you even close to your normal self.”

Sam shrugged and closed the book. He hadn’t gotten much reading done anyway. “It’s just been a long month.”

“Cut the bullshit, Sam. I know what’s really going on.”

“Then why the third degree? Look, it’s been a rough adjustment, but I’m getting over it—used to it.”

Dean shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he walked away. Sam yawned and opened the book again.

“Oh, I found us a case, by the way.”

Perfect. Something to keep his mind occupied. Sam was dying for a chance to get out of the bunker for a while. “Where is it?”

“Sioux Falls. Bobby wanted our help.”

Dean left. Sam sat in the oppressive silence of the early morning and didn’t read a single word until the sun came up.

If there was anything worse than leaving you, it was leaving only to go back and pretend everything was okay.

#

“Sam! Dean!”

You raced out of Bobby’s house, the screen door banging shut behind you as you bounded across the yard and flung yourself into Dean’s arms. He’d been the closest to you, and as soon as you were done squeezing the breath out of him, you turned to Sam.

It hurt like hell and Sam had been dreading it the entire drive over, but the sight of your messy hair tied up into a haphazard ponytail still made him smile. He bent down to compensate for your short stature.

“I missed you,” you said.

Sam swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “It’s good to see you.”

“I’m starving,” Dean said. “Got anything good inside?”

“Dean Singer, do you ever think with anything but your stomach?”

Dean did a double take along with Sam at how you’d addressed him, but recovered with a quick smirk. “Not when there’s food to be eaten.”

“Speaking of food . . .” Sam trailed off and revealed what he'd hidden from you inside his duffel bag. You stopped walking back to the house and raised your eyebrows, grinning at it.

“I had to settle for Twix,” Sam explained as he handed you the King-sized candy bar. “The store didn't have any Snickers.”

He waited for your reply, hoping for some sense of normalcy back if you just resumed your usual banter with him. But you didn't say those two words. Instead, you laughed and took the Twix from him.

“Thanks, bro,” you said, another twist of the knife in Sam's heart. “Any chocolate is good chocolate, amiright?”

“Right,” Sam said with a weak smile.

Bobby and Dean were already in the corner of the kitchen, discussing something quiet enough that Sam couldn't make out anything specific, their shoulders slumped and foreheads wrinkled.

“Whatcha two talking about?” You said around a mouthful of Twix.

“Nothing,” Dean and Bobby said before you'd barely finished your sentence.

You raised your eyebrows at them. Sam clenched his jaw as he shot Dean and Bobby his best “be cool” look. And he thought he'd be bad at acting casual.

“Just about our next stop,” Dean amended, glancing at Sam on every other word like he was waiting for approval of his lie. “Sam and I have a lot of vacuums to sell.”

“You know, there's some days I still can't believe you two went into sales.”

“Yeah, us either,” Dean said.

Bobby threw out your empty chocolate wrapper and shooed you away. “You'd best go change now. Don't want to be half-dressed when you-know-who shows up.”

Sam stood up straighter, keenly aware of how warm the room was. “Who?”

You gasped and almost knocked the chair over in your rush to leave. “You're right. I'll be back.”

Dean jerked his thumb toward the doorway you'd just gone through. “What's with her?”

Bobby rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. Sam knew that look. It was the expression of 'what the hell am I going to do with this kid?' he often wore it around Dean when he was younger and liked to get into all kinds of trouble with the Sioux Falls police department or one of his neighbors. “She's got some date tonight.”

“What?” Dean said, as if he'd never heard of such a thing, and Sam said, because maybe, just maybe, he'd misheard Bobby.

Bobby's eyebrows almost disappeared into his baseball cap. “You heard me.”

“But—that's insane,” Dean said.

“Dean, she's an adult. Has been for a while.”

“But—”

“Who is it?” Sam interrupted, thinking he might recognize someone from town. He couldn't decide if knowing would make it better or worse.

Bobby flapped his hands again, like he didn't want to think about it. “I don't know, some kid. Newcomer. Josh or Jared or something. Are you done gossiping and ready to talk about the case?”

So Sam, Dean, and Bobby gathered around the kitchen table while muffled music floated from your room as you got ready. Somebody knocked on the door just as the three men were trying to figure out what kind of creature could be responsible for the attacks.

“I'll get it!” You skidded into the room, hopping on one foot as you pulled another heel on. Sam had to fight to not stare too much as he took in your appearance. Hair uncharacteristically straightened and neat, dress short but casual, heels shiny and precarious looking, makeup lightly applied. You still looked like you, but not any kind of you Sam was used to. It was like seeing baby pictures of a friend you'd only known older.

“Guys,” you said after letting the visitor in. It was a man about your age, slightly taller than you, easy smile. He looked like the sort of guy your grandmother would fawn over about how handsome he looked. Sam tried not to hate him. “This is Jason.”

Jason nodded his head in greeting. “Nice to meet you. Y/N's told me so much about all of you.”

“Did she now.” Dean phrased it like a question, but nothing about his tone indicated any sort of warmth. Sam was surprised that Jason didn't run away with his tail between his legs at the look his older brother gave him.

You glared at Dean behind Jason's back. “Yes, about how nice you guys were and how much you'd like him.”

“Sure, sure,” Dean said, ignoring your less than subtle cues.

“Ooh, is that cherry?” Jason pointed to the pie Dean had been demolishing. “Y'all have good taste. That's my favorite.” Poor guy was trying so hard to be likeable.

“You want a slice?” Bobby got up for another plate. Sam wasn't fooled by the hospitality. He knew this was just Bobby trying to get another chance to interrogate Jason.

Jason glanced at you, then shrugged. “Sure, thank you.”

“Not too long, though,” you said, sitting between him and Sam. “We have a reservation.”

Bobby said something to Jason, who said something back, but Sam didn't pay much attention to the conversation. He was too busy watching Jason making you laugh, and you fidgeting with your hair and tucking it behind your ear every few seconds. It was enough to make his stomach churn.

It was then, in his half-focused state, that Sam noticed something strange. Something that wouldn't have mattered had he not been a hunter attuned to those sorts of things.

Jason picked up the fork and flinched. Then set it down. The whole time, his smile only wavered once.

Sam shot Dean a look across the table, but Dean didn't notice. His energy was going into giving Jason the death stare.

“Bobby?” Sam said, cutting the old hunter off in the middle of another question. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“What?” Bobby asked when Sam had all but dragged him into the next room.

“Him,” Sam hissed. “Jason. He's our guy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he's a shifter. He's the guy we're looking for. The silverware burned him.”

“Balls.” Bobby leaned to the side to peek into the kitchen. “How are we going to get him away from Y/N without—you know.”

“I don't know.” Sam peeked in, too. Dean flipped his knife between his fingers, showing off. You had your face in your hands. Jason looked as uncomfortable as everyone felt.

Bobby adjusted his hat, suddenly determined. “I'll handle it.”

He strode back into the kitchen before Sam could say another word. Sam followed.

“Y/N,” Bobby said, though his narrowed eyes were on Jason. “Your friend Amanda called.”

You wrinkled your nose. “What? I didn't hear the phone.”

“Well it rang,” Bobby said defensively. “She's been in a bad accident. She's okay, but your date's gonna have to wait. She needs you.”

“Oh my God,” you gasped. “I—yeah, of course. Jason, I'm sorry—”

“Hey.” Jason held up his hands. “I get it. It's cool. I'll pick you up tomorrow?”

You nodded, biting your thumbnail as your face clouded over. “Okay.”

It wasn't until the door had shut and Jason was halfway to his car that Bobby turned back to you.

“You're not going out with that boy tomorrow.”

You'd stood up and reached for your coat, but paused when Bobby spoke. “What?”

“You can't date that boy, Y/N.”

“What're you—” You shook your head as if to clear it. “Amanda's not really hurt, is she?”

Dean stopped flipping his knife and went back to eating his pie. “Good one, Bobby. I knew that kid was bad news.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean clearly didn't know the full extent of what “bad news” meant with Jason.

“I can't believe you!” You threw your coat over a chair. “Why would you sabotage my date? He's a perfectly nice guy!”

Bobby sighed. “Look, it's not that we—well, we don't like him. But listen, it's more complicated than that. You wouldn't understand.”

“You're right.” You crossed your arms and tapped your foot. “I don't. Sam? Care to back me up here?”

Sam had all three pairs of eyes on him now. He'd been quiet most of the night, so he could see why you might think he could be a potential ally. That made standing against you all that more difficult. You would never understand why he was turning on you.

“I think Bobby's right,” he said quietly.

You stared for a long time. Then, without a word, let your arms drop to your sides and left the room. The door to your bedroom slammed shut a moment later.

Sam rubbed his temples to keep the headache at bay. It'd been killing him since he and Dean started driving to Sioux Falls, but now it really pulsed behind his eyes.

“You did the right thing, boy,” Bobby said kindly to Sam, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “I know.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows, still incredibly late to the party. “Did I miss something?”

#

“I feel awful,” Sam said a while later, his head in his hands. “We don't get her memory back so she can have a normal life, and now we're interfering with that normal life?”

“It's for the best Sam,” Dean said. “Better that she's safe and mad at us than hurt. Or worse.”

“I'll check on her.” Bobby stood up. “See if I can talk her down a bit.”

They let Bobby leave, waiting in silence. Then, hurried footsteps back to the kitchen, Bobby in the doorway, his breathing heavy. “She's gone.”

Sam and Dean bolted out of their chairs at the same time.

“What do you mean she's gone?” Dean said.

“I mean, she's not in her room. She snuck out the window like a damn teenager.”

Dean swore several times under his breath as he grabbed his hunting bag and keys. “Where does Jason live?”

“How the hell should I know? I tried my best not to meddle in her love life.”

“She's on foot,” Sam said, trying to calm himself as much as the others. “She can't have gone far.”

“Unless she hitched a ride,” Bobby pointed out. “She has friends around here.”

“We'll just—we'll drive until we find her.” Dean slammed the screen door open. It almost hit Sam in the face as it swung back.

Dean paid no attention to the speed limit signs as they all drove, faces pressed against the windows in their search for you. Sam ran through the possibilities of horrible things that were happening to you right now. Y/N's alone with the shifter. The shifter has her tied up somewhere. The shifter is hurting her. She's scared and trapped. She's already—

He didn't allow himself to go that far. That was something he could never face.

#

Dean slammed on the brakes so hard, Sam nearly cracked his head against the dashboard.

“There!” Bobby said again, the reason behind Dean's sudden stop. He pointed to the house nearest to them. “That was for a sale 'bout a month ago. He might be in there.”

Sam was the first out of the Impala and the first to the door. His fist pounded a rhythm that would have terrified most people into submission. But when Jason opened the door, he was all smiles.

“Sam, Dean, Mr. Singer,” he said in a polite, but confused tone. “What can I—”

Sam pushed past him into the house. He didn't care if he was being careless. As far as Jason knew, the three of them were just ordinary men living an ordinary life. He didn't know that they were aware of his true identity. And right now, the only rational thought running through his brain was make sure she's okay, make sure she's okay, make sure she's okay. “Y/N? Y/N!”

“Y/N isn't here,” Jason said slowly. “Isn't she checking on her friend? Aliesha?”

“Amanda,” Bobby corrected him, also moving past to join Sam.

Dean had his arms crossed in a way that hid his weapon when he entered. Jason closed the door.

“Then what are you three doing here?” Jason asked.

“Y/N!” Sam projected his voice up the stairs.

“Listen, pal.” If it weren't for the concealed weapon, Sam was sure Dean would have poked Jason in the chest for emphasis. “What we're doing here is our business. You need to tell us where Y/N is. Now.”

“I don't know.” Jason was getting agitated. His posture straightened, his legs more spread apart in dominance. While Dean squared off with him, Bobby poked around with Sam in all the different rooms. “But if you don't start explaining yourself, I'm calling the cops. You have no right to—”

“Shh!” Sam held up a hand. “Quiet, all of you.”

“I don't know what you're expecting to find—” Jason started.

Your whimper cut him off.

All eyes turned to the shifter.

Jason sighed and revealed a pistol. “You hunters really are more observant than we give you credit for.”

Dean barely had any time to react before Jason fired. He ducked, the bullet missing him by inches, but the shot was just a ploy for time. Jason ran into the other room, locked the door. By the rumbling, scraping sounds, he was in the middle of pushing furniture around to further barricade himself.

“Go!” Dean slammed himself against the door, splintering it. “Find her! I'll handle him.”

“Where'd the noise come from?” Bobby gripped Sam's arm.

“Downstairs.” Sam whirled around in every direction. “We need to find the basement.”

The door was in the kitchen, found just a few seconds later. Sam skipped the steps three at a time, all but falling down the staircase to get to the bottom and to you. More images flashed in front of him, as vivid as you burning on the ceiling, each scenario more terrible than the last.

It was almost a relief to find you curled sobbing in the corner.

“Y/N,” Sam gasped, dropping next to you. He held you by the shoulders, inspecting you for injuries like Dean did him so many times. The first thing he noticed was the awkward angle at which your left leg was bent.

“Sam,” you cried, flinging yourself into him. You buried your face in his shirt, every inch of you trembling. “I tried calling, but there's no reception down here, and I couldn't leave—I think he broke my leg.”

“It's okay, kid.” Bobby rubbed her back as Sam had already taken on the role of enveloping her in his arms. “We'll get you out of here, no problem.”

“I'm sorry I left,” you sniffled. Sam didn't mind when you wiped your wet face on his flannel. “It was stupid. You were right, he was bad news.”

“Let's go.” Sam helped you to stand on your good leg his arm around your waist. “Dean's holding him off.”

Bang. The door to the basement opened and you stiffened in Sam's arms. There was nowhere to hide. Sam went to grab a knife or gun, but in his haste, he'd forgotten to grab one from the Impala.

“Dean?” Sam called out.

No response. Slow footsteps descended. Sam felt you shiver, like you were cold, but much more violently. It made him want to punch something. Like Jason in his stupid shifter face for making you so scared.

“Your brother's got some fight, Sam.” The shifter stepped into the light, grinning.

“Where's Dean?” Bobby growled. He, unlike Sam, gripped a small blade.

“Out of the way,” Jason said.

And he clicked a bullet into place.

Sam reacted through instinct, pulling you down as a bullet hit the wall behind where you'd been standing and ricocheted harmlessly. You cried out when you hit your broken leg, but Sam couldn't afford to hesitate as Jason kept firing. He pulled you out of the line of fire again and again, and Bobby yelled and dove for the shifter.

Getting behind a stack of boxes, Sam propped you against them. Your face was streaked with tears. “Stay here.”

“Sam—”

He didn't stay to hear the rest of your sentence. Bobby had disarmed Jason, his gun lying at the other end of the basement as they both fought hand-to-hand. Sam made a break for it, but Jason caught sight of him. The shifter slipped from Bobby's grasp and kicked out, sending Sam into a wall. His head cracked against the cement, and explosions of light obscured his vision.

“Sammy!” Dean's gruff shout came from nearby. He leaped down the staircase. Blood streaked one side of his face from some sort of head injury.

There were three of them, but Jason was fast and strong. He shoved Bobby off him again, twisting his arm until Sam heard a loud pop. Bobby doubled over, his shoulder dislocated. Jason stooped for his gun just as Dean jumped forward, but only got an elbow in the face that knocked him flat on his back.

Sam had scrambled to his feet, but was backed into a corner. There was nowhere for him to run.

Jason grinned. He was missing a tooth. Blood covered some of his mouth, bright as lipstick. He pointed the gun at Sam. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“No!”

Your shriek caused Sam to take his eyes off Jason for a split second, and it cost him. He saw you leaning against the pile of boxes, gaping in horror, and then the gun fired.

Dean knocked Jason's arm to the side, and though the bullet didn't pierce any essential organs, it grazed Sam's side. He gasped and clapped a hand over the injury, which burst with blood, already soaking his flannel.

“Sam!”

A flash of silver arced through the air. Sam caught the blade Dean tossed him. Before Jason could pull the trigger on him again, Sam plunged the knife straight into his stomach, then up behind his rib cage.

The thick, crimson substance bubbled through Jason's lips and spilled onto the ground. The light had already left his eyes when he hit the floor.

Dean bent over, his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. It only took him a second to recover, and then he was by Bobby's side, helping to put his shoulder back into place. “You okay, Sam?” He called over his shoulder.

“Fine,” Sam said tightly. Grunting, he twisted to look at the wound. It was shallow, but he still felt dizzy from the blood loss.

Everyone was banged up pretty good, but you were the one who collapsed.

“Y/N.” Your name left Sam without conscious thought, and all pain from the grazed bullet was forgotten as he went to your trembling form.

Your eyes were wide and glassy, darting from Sam to Dean to Bobby back to Sam, seeing everything but focusing on nothing. You clutched Sam with both hands, too weak to hold yourself up. Warning bells went off in Sam's mind. This was more than a broken leg and trauma from being trapped in the basement. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

“S-Sam,” you whimpered. “What—he—”

“Dean, Bobby,” Sam called for them. They came rushing over.

“My head.” Your eyes squeezed shut, each of your words an astronomical effort for you to speak. “It's—burning.”

“Shh, it's okay, it's going to be fine.” Sam held your head up when you no longer could. You went more limp with each second, shook more until your entire body vibrated with pain and energy.

“What's happening?” Dean said. His hands were outstretched to help, but he didn't know what to do with them.

“Could be the curse,” Bobby said solemnly. “Her memories might be coming back.”

“I can't . . .” Your voice was a mere whisper. “Sam, I can't . . .”

“Then don't,” Sam murmured. He held you close, rocking you back and forth. “I've got you.”

A single, hot tear trickled down your cheek and dripped onto Sam's hand. Your eyes found his, round and panicked, then unfocused. You shuddered once more and went still.

Part 3

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It had been less than ten minutes of interaction between you two—both of you having broken into the morgue on the same day, same time, of all the rotten coincidences—and you already couldn’t stand him.

“Find anything else, princess?” He asked as you attempted to block out his flirtatious chatter by inspecting one of the bodies. Another ripped out heart. Definitely a werewolf. Or werewolves, plural.

“Don’t call me princess,” you grumbled.

He just winked at you. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes.

The chatter continued on your walk back to the motel where you were both, unfortunately, staying the night.

“So I’m thinking we both go check out the woods tomorrow, take care of whatever’s there, and head to the diner back on Lehman Street for a bite to eat. What do you say?”

You tried your best to stride ahead of him, but his long legs matched your pace without any difficulty. Damn him.

“I say no thanks,” you said. You passed a cop writing someone a parking ticket on the side of the street and cast a glance toward him.

If your curt dismissal did anything to hurt Dean’s pride, he didn’t show it. If anything, it only seemed to fuel his persistence. He stepped in front of you so you were forced to stop walking.

“Okay, so we go someplace else. Where do you want to eat?”

You shrugged off your purse and handed it to him. “Here, hold this.”

Dean’s forehead crinkled as he held it. “What for?”

“Officer!” You suddenly shrieked, making both Dean and the policeman jump. “Help! This man’s trying to steal my purse!”

“What?” Dean shouted, dropping the purse and holding up his hands. “No, I’m not, I swear.”

“Good try, son.” The copy pulled Dean’s hands down behind him and cuffed them. “Are you all right, miss?”

You pretended to be shaken up as you clutched your purse to your chest. “I’m fine, thank you, officer.”

“Have a good night, then.”

Dean’s teasing smirk turned into a glare as he was shoved toward the car. When the cop wasn’t looking, you winked and blew Dean a kiss as he slid into the backseat.

Now you had the case all to yourself.

#

Just as you suspected, it took you less than a day. Of course, you’d totally ruined your outfit by staining it with werewolf blood. You resorted to wearing a sweatshirt a size too small on you and tied up your wet hair into a messy bun when you headed to the jail.

Dean looked up from behind the bars in when he saw you come in. His green eyes widened and he made to stand up, but got yanked back by his handcuffs.

“What are you—” He started.

You shrugged as the cop unlocked the door and let Dean out. “I wasn’t really going to leave you in here forever.”

Dean rubbed his wrists after his cuffs were removed. It had only been yesterday he’d stood next to you, but in that short time, you’d forgotten how much he towered over you. “Then why did you even land me in here?”

“I told you, I work alone.”

There was that damn smirk again. God, he aggravated you. “Hey, I usually do, too. I just thought maybe we’d make a good team for this one.”

“Yeah?” You blinked against the sunlight as you both stepped out of the jail. “What makes you think that?”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, looked down at his shoes, then at you. You tried not to let on how captivating his gaze was. “I could tell.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cop out.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, something conclusive. Anyways, you’re free now. Sorry about the whole ‘he’s-stealing-my-purse-now.’”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up a second.” He stepped in front of you like he had the night before. “You’re just going to get me arrested, let me spend the night and jail, and leave with a ‘sorry?’”

“That was the plan, yes.”

He laughed, and it lit up the air around you, like you were caught in a swarm of fireflies. “You’re unbelievable.”

You tried to glare at him, but it was hard when all he did was smile. Did nothing rattle this man? “Well, what do you want me to say?”

He poked your shoulder, playfully, like a friend might. “You owe me a favor, Y/N.”

You crossed your arms as a sort of barrier between the two of you. This made you nervous. What would someone like Dean want to cash in as a favor? “Fine. One favor. Do you need a ride back to your car?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t spend it on something as trivial as that.” He flashed another wide green, revealing perfectly straight and white teeth. You couldn’t find a single thing wrong with him, and it made him drive you even crazier. “How about this? You let me take you to that diner for something to eat, and we’ll let all of this stay in the past.”

“So we can just . . . part ways after?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“Perfect.” You didn’t hesitate to turn your back on him and hurry off. “See you there in a bit.”

#

It turned out the diner wasn’t so bad after all.

If it had been, you certainly wouldn’t be sitting in your pajamas in the kitchen of the bunker, exactly one year later.

“I’m telling you, he definitely talks in his sleep,” you laughed as you recounted the events of the night before to Sam, who snorted into his cup of coffee. “And it was definitely about pie.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean joined you at the table. He set a steaming plate of pancakes in front of you. “Pie is a delicacy. Forget caviar or truffles or whatever else rich people eat. Pie is as good as it gets.”

“Dork.” You stabbed at your pancakes and took a huge bite. “Mm, these are amazing, though.”

Dean winked at you. “Chocolate chip. I remembered.”

It’s what you’d ordered at the diner, one year ago today, on what you supposed you could consider your first date. Every day after that had been a whirlwind of madness and electricity and love, but you felt it all now, because he’d remembered that little detail.

It must’ve showed on your face, because Sam made an “aww” noise, clearly meant to tease his brother. “You guys are adorable.”

“Shut up.” Dean rolled his eyes at him, but a smile tugged at his lips. “We’re not cute; we’re sexy as hell.”

“Hmm,” you said disbelievingly. “No, you’re pretty cute yourself.”

Dean huffed a laugh and flicked his balled up napkin at you. “You’re going to ruin my street cred, Y/N/N.”

“Worth it.” You stood up to take your empty plate to the sink and kissed his cheek. “We should get ready if we want to make it to that case before sundown.”

“What better way to celebrate our anniversary?” Dean got up and started to leave, but looked over his shoulder in the doorway. “Just don’t get me arrested this time.”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you get him arrested again,” Sam piped up.

You laughed and waved him off. “No promises.”

#

You were both young when Dean died.

It happened fast. So fast, you didn’t even have time to watch the light leave his eyes. One minute he was teasing you about how short you were, and one minute you were coming back at him with witty retorts about you still being able to kick his ass, and the next minute the wendigo came out of nowhere.

Dean Winchester didn’t deserve to die.

Dean Winchester definitely didn’t deserve to die by striking his head against a rock.

You didn’t remember burning the wendigo to a crisp, but you still smelled smoke when you knelt beside your boyfriend’s lifeless body. It didn’t matter how glassy his eyes looked, you still desperately tapped his face, hoping to get a reaction from him. You still felt for his pulse—on his neck, his wrist. You still rested your hands on his chest, waiting for a breath that wouldn’t come.

Not a single tear fell as you dragged Dean’s body to the Impala, hauling him into the passenger’s seat. Your vision didn’t even blur as you drove. There was no need for that now. You knew what had to be done. Part of you had always been prepared for a moment like this. Then everything would go back to the way it was supposed to be. You didn’t even care how much time you got.

“I figured it’d only be a matter of time before this happened again.” The demon’s eyes flashed red as she smirked at you.

“Before what?” Your voice was hoarse, but you managed to keep it steady.

The demon gestured to the Impala where Dean laid. At first glance, he might have looked like he was sleeping. But you knew there was blood smeared on the seat behind his head.

“Before I stood in the middle of a crossroads, a dead Winchester just feet from me, another one begging for a deal.”

“I’m not a Winchester,” you corrected her.

She raised her eyebrows. “You’re willing to make a deal for one. You may as well be family.”

Your grip on your flask of holy water tightened. “Please, just—how much time will you give me?”

The demon looked you up and down, appraising you for your worth. You knew ten years was out of the question. Sam and Dean had evaded death far too many times for you to be able to get that much. Hell, you’d be lucky to get five.

“Three,” the demon said. “I’ll give you three.”

“Years?”

“Three years. Then you get to meet my favorite hellhounds.”

You licked your dry lips. “And Dean gets to live? No catch?”

“None, except for your death, of course.”

Grabbing the collar of her shirt, you drew her in for a quick kiss to seal the deal before she could change her mind.

She disappeared, and you hurried back to the Impala, starting the engine and driving away as Dean stirred. Your heart thudded against your rib cage.

“Dean?” You tried not to let your words tremble as you glanced over at him. “Hey, how do you feel?”

Dean groaned and put a hand to the back of his head. His fingers came away bloody, but his face flooded with color. He looked completely normal. Alive and well. “What happened? Where are we?”

“The wendigo got you good, but I took care of it.” Your smile wobbled. “You were out cold for a while.”

“Guess I wasn’t much help this time,” he rasped, chuckling. “Thanks for dragging my ass back here. You can pull over, I’ll drive.”

“Oh no,” you said. “I don’t get many chances to take Baby out for a spin. I’m driving her all the way back to Lebanon.”

He grumbled, but knew better than to argue with you. A few seconds later, “Y/N? You okay?”

“Hmm?” You looked up from the road, your eyes shining, throat tight. “Yeah. I’m fine. You just gave me a scare, that’s all.”

His lips twitched into a half smile as he reached across to squeeze your hand. You had to fight to breathe as you squeezed back.

The sound of his watch ticking echoed like gunshots all the way home.

#

It was two years and three-hundred-and-sixty-four days later. There was no need for you to mark the calendar. You knew it was your last night. You’d counted every day since the wendigo hunt, and every night when you tossed and turned, images of Dean cracking his head against the rock plaguing your sleep.

“What’s all this?” Dean’s face split into that wide grin you’d fallen in love with as he took you in—dressed in a long red dress, high-heels, your hair up, makeup flawless.

You shrugged, taking his hands and letting him lean down to kiss you. “Just ‘cause. I know we’re heading out tomorrow, so I wanted to celebrate our fourth anniversary tonight. I wanted to have the perfect night.”

You also knew it was your last chance for a perfect night. For any night.

“Every night with you is perfect. But I guess I’d better get changed.” Dean didn’t make any move to walk away. He kept his hands in yours, then moved them to your waist. “Where are we going?”

“Ballroom dancing.” You leaned into him, breathing in the familiar scent of whiskey and leather. “And then dinner at a diner for burgers and fries and chocolate chip pancakes.”

“That does sound perfect.” He twirled a loose strand of your hair around his finger. “You know what would make it even more perfect?”

“I see that twinkle in your eye, Dean Winchester.” You playfully slapped his arm.

He wiggled his eyebrows at you. “Well?”

Sighing like doing what he had in mind was a great chore, you said, “I suppose.”

He kissed your cheek, then left to change.

You watched him walk away, touching the spot where he’d kissed you. Would you still be able to feel his warmth when the hellhounds came for you? Every moment you had with them was fleeting. You were racing against time, trying to savor each second and stretch it into three.

You tried to capture the moments that night, too—the two of you in the dark, skin on skin, gentle kisses and pounding hearts. Maybe if you wished hard enough, you could keep them like pictures in a locket, something to bring you comfort during your last breaths.

#

  Your alarm clock the next morning sounded like a funeral march. Dean grumbled as you reached over to turn it off, and as soon as it stopped beeping, he was back to snoring.

You were keenly aware of each sensation, the everyday tasks you didn’t give a second thought to most mornings. The hot, sharp sting of the shower against your face. The crunch of the buttery toast as you bit into your breakfast. The scent of coffee brewing as Sam shuffled in to start a pot. He offered you some, but you passed. Your heart was already working double time without caffeine added to the mix.

“Ready to go?” Dean asked, and though you knew he was asking about the hunt—because how could he possible know what tonight really had in store for you?—your breath still caught in your throat.

“Not quite.” You finished rinsing your dishes and hurried over to where Sam was waiting to see you off. You rose up on your toes to wrap him into a hug that caught him off guard.

He bent down to reciprocate. “What’s this for?”

“I’m just—really going to miss you.” Was your voice more high-pitched than usual?

“You guys will be back before you know it. I’ll hold down the fort.” His smile was warm and inviting and broke your heart all over again. All this time you’d been dreading leaving Dean, and only now did it truly sink in who else you’d be leaving behind.

“Take good care of the place,” you said, and tried to say everything else you couldn’t with your eyes. Take good care of Dean. Don’t let him miss me too much. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.

Sam held up a hand as you left.

“What’ll it be today? Metallica or Led Zeppelin?” Dean picked up the box of cassettes before he even turned the engine on.

“You choose. I like it all.”

Dean winked at you. “That’s my girl.”

You regretted your decision as soon as the first notes of Metallica’s “Fade to Black” started to play. Closing your eyes in an attempt to let the lyrics wash over you, you held onto the rumble of the Impala’s engine, the whir of the tires against the pavements. You gripped the feeling of the warm leather seats and Dean’s hand in yours and the taste of sticky summer air blowing through the windows.

“Life it seems will fade away, drifting further every day.”

Dean’s thumb brushed across your knuckles, catching on the ring you wore on your middle finger, and heirloom from your mother.

“You know,” you said quietly as a thought struck you. “In all these years, I can’t believe you never popped the question.”

Dean looked over at you, surprised. “I didn’t think I’d need to ask.”

“Emptiness is filling me, to the point of agony.”

“You just assumed we’d get married eventually?” You couldn’t help but smile, a true smile, as he gazed at you like you were absolutely all he needed in the world.

Dean shrugged, nonchalant. “I thought maybe we’d make a good team.”

“No one but me can save myself, but it’s too late.”

“Oh? And what made you think that?”

His smirk filled the aching parts of you. “I could tell.”

“Death greets me warm. Now I will just say goodbye. Goodbye . . .”

#

You’d written Dean a note.

It wasn’t long, because you knew how much he hated rambling, and the minute you started to fill a second page, that’s what it felt like. But you made sure to fill everything into those few paragraphs. Everything you could. Everything he made you feel, everything he needed to remember when you were gone.

The plan was to get him out of the motel room that night for an ice cream run, or tampons, or something. Anything so he wouldn’t have to be here when it happened. You wrapped yourself around him as you watched TV, but really you were watching the digital clock. 11:45. 11:46. His heart beat had kept yours steady for most of the night, but now yours felt like the Energizer Bunny was tapdancing on your chest.

11:50 hit and you muted the TV. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you do me a big favor?” You were shocked at how normal your voice sounded. Maybe the anxiety of him possibly staying counteracted the fear somehow, allowing you to continue the charade of everything being fine.

“What’s up?”

“I’m craving fries. There’s a McDonald’s just down the road . . . ?” You trailed off, giving him your best puppy dog eyes. You knew he was immune.

He sighed dramatically, but got off the bed. “All right, I’ll be back in a few.”

“Wait.” You winced when you realized the fear did show through a little after all, but Dean paused at the door. “Come here.”

You flung your arms around him and kissed him. Firmly. Passionately. Desperately. Like the world was crashing around you and this was your last chance. This is my last chance, you realized. You didn’t care when you couldn’t breathe. You’d have an eternity of not breathing. But you’d never have this again.

“Y/N,” Dean said softly when he’d pulled away. His eyebrows were pinched together, and you couldn’t figure out why until he brushed his thumb across your cheek. He wiped a tear away. You were crying. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said, the words coming out with your last gasps of air. “Nothing’s wrong. Just go, I’ll be fine.”

“Y/N, seriously, what’s going on?” He sat down next to you, and another fat tear dripped from your eyelashes.

“Dean, you have to leave.” You stood up, twining your fingers through his in the hopes that he would follow, but he wouldn’t budge. 11:55. “Please. Just do this, for me.”

Dean shook his head. “No. Something’s weird. I’m not leaving until I know what.”

11:56. You covered your mouth to muffle a sob. “Dean—”

You broke off when you heard it. Growling. You jumped and turned around, but nothing was there. Yet. The rumbling reverberated in your chest.

Dean stood, gripping your hand tight. “Is something after you?”

“Please,” you begged again, trying to drag him to the door, but he was stronger than you by a long shot. “You have to. It’ll hurt too much. You’ll know later. Just trust me.”

Dean cupped your face in his hands, and his green eyes bore into yours. God, they were like twins suns. You wanted to drown yourself in them. You wished more than anything that they could be the last thing you saw, instead of the glowing red of the hellhounds, whose barks and growls were growing louder.

“You can tell me,” he murmured.

“I can’t,” you cried. “It hurts. It’s been hurting like this for three years.”

“Three—” It seemed like his features actually drooped as the memory dawned on him. “Oh—no . . . Y/N, no.”

11:57. You didn’t have a choice now. Maybe if you told him he’d listen. You had to try. “The wendigo didn’t just knock you out,” you said.

Dean’s jaw clenched. His green eyes clouded with tears. “And?” He said hoarsely.

You didn’t have to go into detail. You knew that he’d already guessed what you’d done. All he needed was the confirmation. “And I got three years.”

11:58. The tears slipped down Dean’s face. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“It’s done. There’s nothing to do now.” You clenched the fabric of his flannel in your shaking hands to steady them. “Please don’t stay here. You can’t watch this.”

He shook his head. “I’m not leaving you.”

He drew you close, and you didn’t have the strength to resist anymore. Your knees buckled, but he held you up. He didn’t even try to kiss you, he just held you, like this could stop time, like this could stop everything.

11:59. You heard them, clearer than ever. They were yards away, if that. Dean rubbed your back and you trembled like an earthquake.

“It’s okay,” he kept telling you. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. You squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face in his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” he whispered back. The rumble of the hellhounds was right behind you, hot air from their snuffling strong enough for you to feel it on your legs, but Dean’s voice rose above it all. “It’s all going to be fine. I love you.”

“I love you,” you choked out.

And they pounced.

You were too stunned to even feel the pain, and you supposed it was a blessing as you were still conscious to watch the skin be ripped from your legs, your stomach, your chest. Blood exploded everywhere, the biting bark of the hellhounds ringing in your ears, but you couldn’t feel anything. You didn’t even scream.

“It’s okay.” Dean never stopped reassuring you. He watched the entire traumatic event, kept his eyes unblinkingly fixed on you. “I’m here.”

The room went still and dark and silent.

It’s okay.

#

Somehow Dean was able to drive the Impala back. The sun was coming up. The passenger seat was empty. He was surprisingly, miraculously steady.

Each of his steps down the stairs echoed, reminding him how much emptier the bunker was now.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Wow, you guys are back early,” Sam’s voice came, loud, so loud after the quiet ride home. Dean closed his eyes against the noise as he made his way to the kitchen. “I guess everything went—Dean?”

Sam knocked over the chair he’d been sitting in in his rush to stand up. Dean wasn’t sure if it was the blood that soaked his t-shirt or the look on his face—devastation and helplessness—that alerted him.

Sam hurried over to him, crossing the space in two strides. “Dean, hey, what is it? Where’s Y/N?”

Dean collapsed. Sam caught him, barely. He held his older brother up. “Dean—”

“I’m sorry,” Dean rasped. The tears he hadn’t allowed himself to shed before came freely. “Now I know what you went through. I’m so sorry.”

They stayed like that for hours.

You were both young when you lost each other. So young.

Too young.

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Sweet child of mine,

you’re still part of me.

When you smile, I see

what I could be. When you laugh, I see

the whole world in a face smaller than

the palm of my hand.

 Sweet child of mine,

grow up with only the best parts of

what I am,

but grow up slow.

I hope you know you’re everything

I never thought existed, and you’re everything

I’ve fought for.

 Sweet child of mine,

take my mistakes and turn them into

masterpieces.

Take my regrets and transform them into

opportunities.

And if you do, I’ll take my callused hands and make them into

hugs for you.

I’ll take my hoarse voice and aching shoulders and turn them into

lullabies for you.

 Sweet child of mine,

I’ll take my tired eyes and

look into yours and see that

we are a perfect match,

but I know you’ll be so much more.

 Sweet child of mine,

just stay this small for a little while longer, and

listen to me tell you,

tell myself,

that it’s all going to be okay.

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