#kidnapped!reader

Bucky was two time zones away when it happened. When Sam called, he didn’t even let him finish the sentence. Bucky was already moving, already packing, already shoving knives and ammo into bags. He didn’t eat. Didn’t speak. He flew out with Steve that night, stone-faced and silent, fingers drumming against the grip of his knife the entire flight.

By the time they reached the site, it was ashes.

No body. No trace. No sign of you except for the busted comms unit found in a bloodstained hallway.

They told him the mission was a trap. That Hydra had been waiting. That you’d been the target.

He told them you were still alive.

No one argued. Not because they believed it, but because Bucky Barnes looked like a man who would kill anyone who said otherwise.

The next days blurred. He tore apart the war room trying to trace your location, running on caffeine and fury and gut instinct. No detail was too small. No theory too far-fetched. He didn’t care what rules he broke, what old contacts he had to burn—he would find you. He had to.

The rest of the team tried to help, but they couldn’t reach him. Steve offered quiet support. Sam tried logic. Nat said nothing, but her eyes followed him with worry every time he passed.

He barely noticed.

The nights were worse. That’s when the dreams came—visions of you bleeding out in some freezing cell, your eyes dull and lifeless as you whispered his name and he couldn’t reach you in time. He’d wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, fists clenched so tight he left bruises on his own palms. But you weren’t there to pull him back. You weren’t there to touch his cheek and tell him it was just a dream. You were gone.

The guilt ate him alive.

He’d failed you.

He’d let them take you.

So he worked harder. Days turned to weeks. He stopped shaving. Forgot to eat unless someone physically handed him a protein bar. His knuckles were raw from punching walls when leads went cold. The spiral was vicious. Dark. Dangerous.

He started slipping.

It was Steve who noticed it first—the twitch in Bucky’s jaw, the way his eyes glazed over in moments of silence, as if a colder part of him was surfacing. He didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to see the signs.

But the Winter Soldier wasn’t gone.

He was waiting.

And the moment Bucky found what he needed, he let him out.

Three weeks after your disappearance, Bucky found it. A shred of code embedded in an old server they’d recovered from a black-market trader in Latvia. It matched a defunct Hydra division last believed to be dismantled in 1994. One of the scientists linked to it was still alive, operating under a new alias in Smolensk. Bucky went alone.

He came back with blood on his shirt and coordinates burned into the inside of his arm.

Steve tried to stop him. Told him they needed a plan. Reinforcements. Surveillance.

But Bucky looked him dead in the eyes and said, “If she dies while we wait, I will never forgive you.”

And then he was gone.

The compound was buried beneath a forest near the Russian border, surrounded by snow and fog and silence. Bucky made it there by nightfall.

He didn’t wait.

He didn’t sneak.

He descended.

The first guard didn’t see him coming. A blade to the throat. The second got a bullet to the skull. Within minutes, alarms were blaring, red lights spinning, but it didn’t matter—he wanted them to know. He wanted them to fear. He wanted them to understand what they’d done.

They took you.

So he brought hell with him.

The Winter Soldier moved through the compound with terrifying efficiency. Every bullet found its mark. Every bone he broke was precise. The corridors were painted in blood by the time he reached the sublevels.

He tore the last guard’s arm from its socket before demanding access codes. When the man refused, Bucky ripped the panel from the wall instead.

He found you in the last cell.

The door was thick steel, bolted from the outside. There was no window. No light. The air reeked of rot and decay.

And then he heard it.

Your voice.

So faint he thought he imagined it.

“B-Bucky…?”

His vision went white.

He punched through the door like it was paper.

You were huddled in the corner, covered in bruises, eyes swollen, lip split, body shaking. Blood soaked through your shirt. There were fingerprints on your neck. Rope burns on your wrists.

But you were alive.

Alive.

He dropped to his knees beside you, metal hand trembling as he reached out. “Y/N… it’s me. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your fingers curled weakly into his collar. “I knew… I knew you’d come.”

He let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and pulled you into his chest. You winced, and he cursed himself, adjusting so he held you without pressure.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe now. No one’s ever going to touch you again.”

You nodded against him, breathing in his scent like it was oxygen.

“Let’s go home,” you whispered.

He carried you out of that compound like you weighed nothing, blood soaking into his shirt, your breath warm against his neck. The building burned behind him. Hydra soldiers lay broken at his feet. And he never once looked back.

You spent the next two weeks in the hospital. Internal bleeding. Three fractured ribs. A dislocated shoulder. Malnourished. Sleep-deprived. But you were alive.

Bucky didn’t leave your side.

Not once.

He sat beside your bed every night, head resting on your mattress, hand wrapped around yours like a lifeline. When the nightmares came for you, he was already there. When the pain was too much, he held you through it. He fed you ice chips, brushed your hair, kissed your forehead, and whispered promises you barely remembered.

“I’ll never let you go again.”

“They’ll never find us.”

“You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

The doctors said you were strong. That your survival was a miracle. That patients who endured what you did often gave up long before rescue.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew Bucky would come.

And he did.

By the time you were cleared to go home, you could barely walk unassisted, but you refused the wheelchair. Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist and supported your weight like it was nothing. The rain poured down in sheets outside the hospital doors, but he didn’t flinch. He was waiting with your favorite hoodie, your warmest socks, and a blanket tucked under his arm.

You looked at him, trembling, exhausted, but whole.

“Hi,” you said softly.

And he broke.

His lips crashed into yours, hands framing your face so gently you wanted to cry. The kiss tasted like rain and salt and desperate joy. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

“You didn’t,” you murmured. “You never will.”

The weeks after weren’t easy. You couldn’t sleep through the night. Certain sounds made you flinch. You hated closed doors, and sometimes you just cried for no reason.

But Bucky never left.

He learned your rhythms. Your silences. The way you needed space but hated being alone. He’d sit at the foot of the bed and read when you couldn’t talk. He cooked you soups and changed your bandages. He helped you shower the first time, fingers gentle as lace, voice steady even when yours cracked.

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

He never asked what they did to you. Not once. He never made you relive it. But one night, curled against his chest, you told him anyway. In the dark. Just a whisper.

And when you woke the next morning, a news report aired of a black site explosion in northern Russia.

No survivors.

Bucky never said a word.

Weeks passed. You healed slowly. On the surface, anyway. The bruises faded. Your bones knit back together. You walked more. Slept a little better.

But it was the way Bucky looked at you that healed the most — like you were made of stars. Like you were unbreakable. Like nothing, not even a whole fucking war, could ever make him stop loving you.

One morning, months after it all, you woke before him. The sun was rising through the curtains, pale light pooling across the bed. Bucky’s arm was slung over your hip, his face soft in sleep.

You touched his jaw gently and whispered, “You saved me.”

His eyes blinked open slowly, blue meeting yours.

“You saved me,” he whispered back.

And neither of you had to say the rest.

The cold metal of the handcuffs dug into your wrists as they kept you bound and vulnerable on the soft mattress. A contrast that was as big as your kidnapper’s personality: hot and cold. Evil and kind. An icy chill swept through the room, causing goosebumps to form on your skin and making the hairs on your legs stand on end. You had felt it before, and it usually meant the front door had been opened. He’s home. The thought sent a chill down your spine. Loud barking of the dog confirmed he had indeed returned from walking their round.

You held your breath and listened for the sound of footsteps. Was he heading your way? Or would he go to the kitchen first? The soft mumbles of the man reached you and you assumed he must be talking to his dog. Perhaps you were in luck and he’d leave you alone for a little while longer. But then the door creaked open and in walked Albert, wearing only the upper part of his mask. It concealed the top of his face, but his devil's horns no longer frightened you. What did send shivers down your spine, however, was the sight of his lips and the smirk that played upon them.

He showed off his sharp canines in a grin that spelled what was to come. He wanted to touch you again.

"So, how have you been, little one? Not too scared while I was away, I hope,” Albert drawled, his words dripping with sinister intent. Little, you huffed. He seemed to like to call you that way just to establish some kind of power balance between the two of you.

You tried to keep your breathing calm, though your heart raced like a wild animal caught in a trap. Your eyes followed his every movement, trying to anticipate what he would do next.

“I suppose you can show Daddy how much you missed him,” he continued in that overly dramatic theatrical voice. He moved to the side of the bed and carelessly dropped his cardigan at the end of the bed, just out of your reach. Teasing you.

But you knew what it meant.

His chest was already bare, had been so underneath the piece of garment. He’d never fully dressed after the last round, you realized with a shock.

"Please, don't..." you whispered, but your voice wavered with fear, betraying any semblance of bravery you hoped to display.

Albert chuckled, deep and throaty, sending shudders up your spine. "Now, now, sweetheart. You know I can't resist you when you're all trussed up like this."

You swallowed hard, your mind racing with thoughts of escape and retaliation, even though you knew it was futile. In this room, with Albert looming over you, there was no way out, no hope for reprieve.

As he approached you, you could see the hunger in his eyes and feel the weight of his gaze as it roamed over your body. It felt like a predator sizing up its prey, and you knew that soon enough, he would once again have his fill.

"Let's see how feisty you are tonight," Albert mused, his voice low and grating.

He approached you with a predatory grace, his hands reaching out like tendrils seeking to coil around your body. You hissed and tried to pull away as he ran his palms all over your trembling form, but there was nowhere to go, no escape from his touch.

"Still got some fight in you, huh?" Albert growled, growing impatient with your resistance. His palms slid down your naked thighs, calloused skin brushing past soft flesh. You felt his fingertips as they traced patterns down your sides, down your hips and legs, how his nails raked past your skin.

He moved his hands up and down a few times, admiring you, exploring you. He cupped your breasts underneath the shirt, tweaking your nipples between his fingertips a few times for good measure, having you bite back a moan.

A low growl escaped his throat, but you didn’t know whether it was a sound of approval or annoyance at the way you still tried to resist him. His hands ran down from your breasts, past your belly and to your hips where he got a good grip on you.

“Come on, sweet thing, open up.” His ice-blue eyes stared intently at you through the holes of the mask. His lips were curved upward in a grin full of malicious intent. You realized he wanted you to spread your legs, which you did, hesitatingly.

His one hand sneaked in between while the other pressed down on your thigh, forcing you to keep your legs spread open for him. He rubbed his thumb past your clit, little circular motions that sent jolts of pleasure down your core. You bit your lip in an attempt to keep silent. You didn’t want him to hear how he played you like an instrument, how much pleasure he sparked deep inside. But your walls slickened, so he must know. Your body never allowed you to hide its reactions.

“There,” he whispered, almost lovingly. And again. “There.”

Disgusted by the pleasure he made you feel, you tried to move your hips away from him. Just anything to relieve some of the tension you felt building up inside your core. He was working you towards an orgasm, you felt it. But you didn’t want to give him the pleasure.

Your reluctance didn’t go unnoticed, and with a sigh, he took his fingers from your clit. With a clap of his hands on his knees he pushed himself up into a standing position. Your heart pounded as he slowly removed his belt, the leather slithering against itself like a snake preparing to strike. You knew all too well how much he enjoyed using it on his victims, and fear tightened around your throat like a vice.

"Please..." you choked out, bringing your knees together to protect your precious core from his roving eyes. But your plea fell on deaf ears.

“Now, now,” Albert cooed, “Good girls deserve treats,” he said, swirling the leather band of the belt around his left hand, then pulled at the ends, showing the belt as it stood taught. You couldn’t help but feel how your eyes were drawn towards it. A clear signal that you were in trouble.

You trembled when he took a step closer towards you again. With his right hand, he let go of the belt, so the torturous item was only held in his left. But that right hand – oh. You dreaded to look at how he spread his fingers and then pushed down upon your tummy. His hand slipped lower and tapped against your knee.

“Bad girls need to be punished,” he said, huskily. “Now, open your legs again for me, sweetheart.”

You felt the pressure he gently supplied with his right hand on your knee and did as you were told, not eager to make him use force. As you lay there, trembling, you tried to think of anything but the man now looming in front of your cunt. You could feel his breath pass over your skin. Keeping your legs apart cost you real effort and you knew that he could tell you were trembling from fear. His thumb started to draw small circles on your thigh, effectively keeping your legs spread open with the comforting motion. As if it was enough to appease you.

“Ah there,” as he studied your exposed flower, wet and pulsing for his cock. “What a pretty sight, little one.”

For a moment, you glanced at him through your lashes, thinking that perhaps you had escaped the dance. Perhaps him showing off his belt had been enough; a reminder of a punishment you could have deserved if you defied him any further.

But you were mistaken.

Without a warning, he fiercely pushed your leg down with his right hand, his thumb no longer making soothing motions. Then raised the belt up into the air with his left.

You instantly knew where he wanted to strike.

No. Anywhere but there.

"Tell me you want this," Albert demanded, his left hand still up in the air. You could see the leather of the belt glisten teasingly, challenging you to defy. His knuckles had turned white, the leather straps were circled around them just once. His gaze locked on yours, unrelenting and unforgiving.

"Say it."

You couldn't bring yourself to utter the words, your defiance sparking something dark within him. With a sadistic grin, he struck down. A loud snap and an instant jolt of pain as he deliberately smacked it against your pussy. The pain seared through you, and you couldn't hold back your cries and tears.

"Say it," he ordered, his tone callous and cold. "Tell me you like it." He raised the belt again like a whip and panic seized through you. You struggled against your bonds anew and would have closed your legs if he would have so much as allowed it.

The words didn’t come out fast enough, and so he hit again. Your hands curled into fists and your back arched. The tears welled up in your eyes as an awful cry escaped your lips. Your pussy burned.

“You sweet little thing,” you heard the man coo, mockingly. That demon, you thought, as you tried to look at him through the tears in your eyes.

He fell silent and for a moment, simply stared at you. Just as you were starting to wonder why, a grin twisted his lips. “I love it when you cry,” his voice was low and husky, dripping with arousal. This whole thing got him turned on, you realized with a start. He derived pleasure from your pain. The bastard.

“But you know what?” he asked, voice sultry. You didn’t want to know. Your pussy still hurt and you did not think you could stand another blow. Tears were still rolling down your cheeks, you could taste them. “I love it even more when you take my cock,” Albert said, voice dangerously low.

“Now, I will ask you again,” the warning was clear. “Do you like what I am giving you?” He raised the belt once more, igniting fear deep inside of you. You wiggled against the bounds again but felt his burning hand upon your thigh, reminding you he had no scruples in hitting you once more.

"Y-yes," you gasped out, the humiliation burning as hot as the pain. "I like it."

He watched you, the mask hiding his true expression. But you could feel the anger behind it.

“Daddy,” he sounded furious. The calm kind of furious that made you know not to make any missteps again. “I like it, Daddy,” he said, waiting for you to repeat the words.

His eyes gleamed with depraved satisfaction. The belt was still raised dangerously beside his head. The hand he had on your leg, pushing them wide apart, pressed even harder, betraying his anger.

You bit your lip, your shame and self-loathing warring with your desperation to end the torment. You could try and struggle all you want, but you knew you could not break free. That this man had you. All of you. And he would take all that he craved. Finally, you gave in, whispering the word that sealed your submission.

"I like it, Daddy..."

The belt lowered., but you did not draw a sigh of relief. It was too early for that. Your pussy stung from the hideous slaps he’d given it. And yet, your core felt slick. As if your body actually wanted it. As if he was telling you to say what your body already betrayed. That you wanted it. Him. More.

As if he could read your mind, you heard his low voice grumble. “Tell me you want more,” the low command made you want to curl up into a ball and hide your vulnerable flower from his wicked belt.

“I need more,” you said, a breathless whisper as you finally dared to raise your gaze and look at him fully. He stood there, sweating, panting, obviously aroused. The tent in his pants gave it away.

“Need it,” he sounded pleasantly surprised by your choice of words. Then he dangled the belt towards your pussy, having the leather dip against your slick pussy lips. “Need my cock in there?”

You squeezed your eyes shut in shame and swallowed. A silent nod was your first reply, but you could tell by the way he pushed the belt against your slick core that it wasn’t enough. And so you opened your eyes again to caught his staring, waiting.

“I need your cock,” you said, chest heaving up and down rapidly. “Daddy.”

A pensive hum, voice dripping with lace and sin. “I thought so.”

With your eyes squeezed shut, you could feel it. First, he dipped forth. A warm, wet tongue licked the tears from your cheek.

Then, a low hum.

“Delicious, little one.”

The words made you flinch, though you tried to hide it.

The rough leather edge as it tapped gently against your clit. He was dangling the belt in front of your pussy, letting the leather slip past your sensitive slit, forcing a moan from your lips.

A low laugh escaped him, then he suddenly grew silent.

"Enough," Albert finally whispered, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he lowered the belt. The torment ceased, leaving you shaking and gasping for breath.

He moved closer, cradling your head in his strong hands, forcing you to look into his eyes. His grip was firm, almost painful, but it was the obscenities that escaped his lips that made you feel small and defenseless.

"Such a pathetic little thing," he sneered. "You're nothing without me, you know that?"

Tears welled up in your eyes once more, but you couldn't turn away from his piercing gaze. You tried not to look down at how he palmed his own hard cock through his pants while breathing heavily. You knew he was right, and it shattered what little dignity you had left.

“Fuck, those pretty tears of yours,” he murmured. You’d forgotten he liked it when you cried, and threw him an angry glare.

His laughter was cold and unforgiving as he undid his fly, exposing his hardened length. He looked down at you with predatory eyes, taking in your bound form, the bruises and welts that marked your skin. The tears in your eyes.

You saw him close his eyes for a short moment, throat bobbing as he swallowed, then opened his eyes again and let out a shivering breath. He studied you while he took his cock in his hand and though you tried not to look down at him preparing himself, you couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of his hard throbbing shaft. The skin was already purple, the veins angrily popping out, the head leaking in anticipation. You’d seen him hard before, but never like this.

"Please," you choked out, hoping against hope that some shred of mercy remained within him. But deep down, you knew better.

"Still begging, are you?" he taunted. "You never learn."

"Please don't..." Your voice cracked, fear making it impossible to speak more than a whisper.

"Too late for that," Albert growled, positioning himself between your legs. “In case you’d forget,” here he hesitated, letting the tip of his shaft brush threateningly past your entrance. “You’re mine.”

And then, despite your pleas for him to stop, his hips moved forward and he buried his cock deep inside - another act of dominance, another reminder of his control over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the pain, the humiliation, the utter degradation. But there was no escaping it, not when he held you so completely in his grasp.

You whimpered as you trembled underneath him, feeling how his length dipped deep inside, how all his ridges and veins stroked your walls and stole your slick. It was just one thrust to bury himself to the hilt and establish his dominance. But as he slowly moved out, you felt it: all of him. It felt ridiculously good. He was hot, warm, rigid, unyielding. His hips moved fiercely against yours, working his way back into your throbbing pussy.

You felt his teeth as he grinned against your neck while his grip on you tightened.

"Oh, that is so good, little one," he breathed against your ear as he thrust into you, each movement calculated to remind you of your place in his world.

He was ravishing you like a man starved. You could feel it, the passion with which he moved his hips against yours and how the head of his shaft battered your insides without mercy, spurting pre-cum along the way.  He slipped from your core way too easily, the way now lubed with a mixture of your combined juices. He let out a laugh, making you flinch for his lips were still near your ear.

“You’re so, so wet,” he breathed, the puff of air sending goosebumps to form on your skin. You closed your eyes and tried to block him out. But he slid in and out of you smoothly, lubing your walls, hitting a spot inside that made your pussy quiver around his hard cock. At first, when he took you, the pain threatened to consume you, each thrust like a burning dagger inside your already bruised and battered body. But as he moved within you, something began to change – the fear and disgust that had been your constant companions began to ebb away, replaced by a twisted kind of pleasure.

"Fuck... why does it feel so..." he gasped out, and you had to agree. You were unable to comprehend the sensations coursing through you. The agony was still there, but it was being overtaken by waves of ecstasy that left you breathless and wanting more.

Without a warning, your walls started to clamp down hard, milking his cock hard and eager, drawing a loud moan from your lips that you were too late to withhold. Your fingers curled above your head, your whole body twisted in the throes of desire.  

And above you, thrusting still, your masked captor grinned down at you. A droplet of sweat fell from his head upon your half-clad chest – the shirt had ridden up to reveal your breasts.

“That’s it,” the words were vague, blocked out by the bliss of your orgasm. You felt how his fingers dug deeper into your skin, how his length kept battering your overly sensitive walls as he worked himself towards his own. His thrusts became erratic, and just when you thought you could take it no more, he slammed inside of you hard and buried himself deep. You felt the pulsing of his shaft and the hot warmth that filled you deep inside your tummy.

You caught your breath, body sensitive around his twitching cock. That’s when you heard it, the whispered words near your ear. You felt Cheshire grin against your neck and felt how the edge of the mask pressed painfully against your cheek.

"You were made for this," Albert hissed, his fingers biting into your hips hard enough to leave bruises in their wake. "You were born to be my good girl, weren’t you?"

His words should have repulsed you, sickened you to your core. Instead, they ignited a spark deep within. Yes, you thought. You felt like you were. Your body was thrumming pleasantly, the afterglow of the orgasm making you feel dozy and warm and – not yourself.

"I know," you admitted, your voice barely audible through your tears. You weren’t quite certain if you said it just to please him and save yourself from his ire any longer. You were too tired at this point to fight. "Daddy."

"Good girl," he murmured, propping himself up on his elbows, cock still softening inside your core. His words echoed hauntingly through your mind. You were born to be my good girl. You were made for this.  

You glanced up at him to meet his blue eyes, cold and hungry and devious. They rested upon you, piercing you, making you feel as small as he always wanted to make you believe that you were. You could see the darkness swirl within them. Something that you couldn’t name. He wasn’t done yet?

“Tell me what you are," he commanded, his voice low and dark, filled with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

"I'm... I'm yours, Daddy," you whispered, feeling his softening cock twitch at your answer. “I am your good girl.”

"Damn right, you are," he growled. And then, as if nothing had happened, as if the world hadn't just shifted beneath you, he leaned down and pressed a soft, tender kiss to your forehead.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle now. And before you could fully process what was happening, he slid down beside you on the bed, cock slipping out of your core with a squishy sound, his arms wrapping around you in a hold that was almost – almost – comforting.

You felt Albert's fingertips tracing the delicate skin of your bare arms, feather-light touches that sent shivers down your spine. His breath caressed your ear as he whispered words you'd never expected to hear from him.

"Such a beautiful girl," he murmured, his voice low and sultry. "Look at how well you take what I give you."

Your heart pounded in your chest, the sweet words and gentle touches somehow more terrifying than the violence that had come before. But there was something intoxicating about it too, a heady mixture of fear and desire that made it impossible to look away.

"Tell me you love it," he demanded, his fingers tightening around your arm. "Tell me you need it just as much as I do."

"I-I love it," you stuttered, feeling a flush of shame rise in your cheeks. "I need it, Daddy."

"Good girl," he purred, his grip on your arm relaxing as his lips brushed against your neck. The sensation was intoxicating, overwhelming; your world narrowed down to the feel of his mouth on your skin, the warm breath tickling your ear.

"Please," you whimpered, unable to hold back any longer. "Kiss me."

He chuckled softly, clearly pleased with your submission. "As you wish," he breathed against your lips before capturing them in a passionate kiss.

It was a kiss unlike any other, a maelstrom of raw emotion that left you reeling, desperate for more even as you knew you should be pushing him away. But in that moment, wrapped up in Albert's warmth and the sweet lies he whispered into your ear, you couldn't help but feel comforted and loved.

And so you let yourself fall deeper into the darkness, knowing full well that there would be no return.

~ Fin ~

“Okay- no, no. Let’s not start it like this Cas- as much as I like the approach, we don’t even know her name- let alone why Chuck would tell us that she was the one who would help us get the upper-hand on Eve. So, what’s your name?” Sam turned his attention away from Cas and directed the question towards her.

“Uh- Lyla, Lyla Marcus.” She replied, twiddling her thumbs ever so often, trying not to make too much eye contact with her ‘captures’ as she thought of them.

“That’s Bullshit- you know it, and I know it- so tell us the truth.” Sam wasn’t playing around- he was tired of this familys crap. Castiel began to read into whether or not what she was saying was the truth.

“Fine- fine, it’s Gillian, Gillian Thompson.” She replied honestly as Cas had read it- she then rose her head to glare at Sam in the eyes. “And I don’t know anything about a girl named Eve- even with knowing the Bible verse.” She said the last part with annoyance, as if it were the most stupid question a person could ask.

“Okay Gillian... Just- just wait here a moment while I talk with my partner.” Sam affirmed before getting up and whispering to Cas his plan, “Chuck said to get her right? That’s it? Now we need to bring her back- we can just keep her locked in the bunker and then move on to Step two, let’s just do that.” Castiel shook his head in disagreement as Gillian watched them bicker over whatever they were planning, finally coming to a conclusion: they wouldn’t go to the bunker immediately because they didn’t want to have to deal with her and Dean- so they’d see if there were any nearby hunts first and give Dean some time to cool off.

--------------------------------------------

The hunt was uneventful- just a poltergeist, which was easy- they took it out in about an hour once they’d gathered all the information, and headed home despite the constant protest and whining coming from the ‘kidnapped’ backseat passenger. “Stop whining, you’re not being kindnapped for the fiftieth time!” Sam continued to become increasingly irritated with this girl.

Once they had gotten back to the bunker- a mini-hell seemed to have broken loose. Not only was Dean drunk, but he had found an old friend- and interestingly enough, neither Sam nor Cas was too shocked to see this ‘friend’- though the capacity to comprehend why Dean would’ve possibly brought him back to the bunker alluded both Sam and Cas as they’d known the ‘friends’’ past feelings towards each other.

“I found him at the titty bar downtown- he was gambling with some no-hosers and I figured I had to see if he was actually, well- him! I mean, dude- we thought you were dead! Even though I hate you...” Dean grumbled in his wasted state, which was not so normal anymore- for Dean to be drunk- or maybe it was... Sam hadn’t really been paying that much attention to Deans drinking anymore, at least, not lately.

“Well Sammy, it’s nice to see ya buddy-ol’ pal! And Cassy! What a great surprise! Still hanging out with these dirt monkeys, huh? Well! That’s not too surprising, I’ll give ya that! And who’s this?! We have NOT met before! I’m Gabriel, pleasure to meet you buttercup. Are you one of the Winchesters new ‘friends’?” The man wiggled his eyebrows before grabbing Gillians hand and twirling her around before dropping her hand and retreating to his seat at the Librarys table.

“I thought angels couldn’t get drunk?” Sam joked to Cas, “Especially- not Archangels.” Sam bumped Cas’ shoulder, before going to take a seat on the couch.

“Wait- did you say Winchester?” Gillian seemingly asked out of the blue, capturing the attention of everyone as she held her arms, being nervous surrounded by a bunch of unknown men in an unknown, new place.

“Yeah, why?” Gabriel questioned, seeming intrigued, as was there rest of the fellow men in the room, they all stopped their side-conversations and listened for her answer.

“Like the rifle, right?” She answered- but to one ones surprise she just curious, but something changed, in her thoughts, in her demeanor- something was different.

“Well she can’t stay!” Dean exclaimed while stumbling towards the hall to his bedroom.

“She is!” Castiel and Sam yelled back, before helping Gillian to a room, making sure he was secured and ‘safe’.