#subjecttochange8

Dean gets a text that night, around two. Wakes up to Cas reaching over him to get the phone off his nightstand, because he knowsw that the bright flare of the screen will wake Dean anyway but he wants to let Dean keep resting unless it’s urgent; the human half of their thing can fall back asleep a lot quicker if he doesn’t have to peer at the electric glow of the screen.

“Emma sent ‘Yeah, okay’.” Cas holds up the phone and Dean reaches for it, dragging himself up. Not necessary, maybe, but he wants to see for himself.

That’s really all it says. Just. Yeah, okay. She likes texting, though she doesn’t with him often. In his darker moments he thinks that she prefers the impersonal nature of it. The distance from him it allows her.

But. Doesn’t matter now. She said yeah, and she really can only be talking about one thing. He backs out of the conversation and opens up a new one, a group text to Benny and Charlie, Jody, Sam. Easter dinner Sunday, you in?

Charlie’s a night owl and Benny’s actually a vampire and Jody works night shifts these days; he gets various degrees of assent from everyone within minutes. In the group thread. Another text pops up from Sam, separate, private. Really?

Emma said she’s cool with it.

No response. He’s not expecting one.

***

He begs, though he doesn’t mean to. Emma has been living on good old plain Earth for two months now. In that time, she has never once set foot inside a store. Not the thrift store for clothes, not a Dairy Queen, not a Target or a Walmart or even a diner. And she sure as hell has not gone to the mall. The closest she’s come to capitalism has been the commercials and ads on the internet, plus that one really disastrous haircut in a tiny strip-mall salon.

But when he starts making a list, sitting quietly at the kitchen counter, she comes and sits next to him. Watches the list form in pencil in his blocky handwriting over the rim of her mug. It’s filled with tea, not coffee. Coffee is too bitter and milk is too sweet, but chai with a little sugar – she’ll drink that.

“You, uh. You wanna come with?” He doesn’t look up at her, in case this is a morning where eye contact makes her skittish. Dean taps the word spiral ham on the list with the tip of his pencil. He’ll never admit to searching Google for typical Easter dinner foods. “Gotta go back to the store, get everything if we wanna make dinner tomorrow.”

And then he does look up, because. Because it’s been two months and he loves her too much to think he should let her hide in the bunker forever. It’s her choice, not his, he won’t – can’t – force anything, but. He wants her to be able to go outside without being terrified, interact with other people. Run to the grocery store if they’re all gone on a hunt and she gets hungry.

Oh, hell, there’s something else to worry about. Granted that they’ve cut down on hunting a lot since bringing her home, and granted that he always makes sure they leave a full fridge and pantry behind, but now he’s gonna be extra paranoid about her running out of food when they’re out hunting bad guys. (It’s hard, these days, to say ‘monsters’ without a blade of guilt in his gut).

He’d had that experience a few too many times, at an age younger than she was now. And if Emma ever has to resort to any of the shit he used to have to do to keep him and Sammy fed –

The pencil cracks in his hands, startling them both, but to his surprise Emma doesn’t flee.

She jumps into a crouch on the chair’s seat, knife in hand, gaze darting around for a threat before she tracks the sound to the pieces of broken wood in his hand, but she doesn’t disappear and that’s so much progress that pride in her pushes past any other crap feeling that might want to distract him.

“Sorry,” Dean sighs, dropping the pieces of ex-pencil onto the table. His list is mostly done anyway.

Oh. Maybe it isn’t right for her to come with him if he’s also going to be getting her Easter stuff along with everyone else’s? But she’s seventeen, she knows it’s not coming from the Easter bunny, and she can tell him if he grabs something she doesn’t like as much as he thought she did in their impromptu taste test.

Emma acknowledges the apology with a nod, but it still takes a couple minutes for her to relax back into actually sitting on the chair. Dean pushes his list over to her and tries, he does, he tries not to plead with his eyes or any muscle in his face, but he knows he begs her anyway because she smiles, just a tiny curl in the corner of her mouth. Only for a second. All the more precious for that.

He doesn’t have the right to ask her for a damn thing, but she doesn’t. Right now she doesn’t look like she minds so much?

“Pecans?” She says it ‘pick-AHN’, like some heathen, and he shudders.

“Pecan pie. Gotta have dessert,” and she’s totally laughing at him, amusement sparkling in her eyes though her mouth doesn’t twitch. His life is lousy with only kinda nominally human folks who all have poker faces and only show their smiles in their eyes, but – much to his past self’s surprise, he’s sure – he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Emma does bite into her lip, then, gaze dropping to the list. She runs her finger down the items, and he knows she finds him too loud, too much, so he does his best to sit still and quiet while she thinks. He’s gotten a lot of practice lately.

“Now?” Dean was about to launch into a description of the grocery store, but maybe she’s seen them enough in her self-guided internet and T.V. education. Her question brings him up short and he looks at the clock.

Eleven in the morning on the Saturday before Easter Sunday. Fuck, the store is gonna be a disaster.

But waiting isn’t gonna improve it any, and if they go at a time she’ll be more comfortable, late at night when most of the shoppers are asleep, then they might not get everything. “Up to you. It’ll be crowded today, going right now. We can wait until later tonight.”

Yeah. That. He doesn’t care if they don’t get every item on the list, he can make do, but he’s not pushing her into a crowded fucking SuperTarget the day before Easter. “Or you can wait. Come with another time, when it’s quieter.”

“I want to go. Later.” The statement seems to surprise her almost as much as it does him, but she nods and Dean nods back and it’s settled.

***

This is a bad idea.

He’s been thinking about how bad of an idea it is all their hour-long drive into a town big enough to have a big grocery store that’ll be open late. He’s not bringing her into Wally World if he can help it, but even so. This is a bad idea.

Emma’s been quiet in the passenger seat. She’s not huddling by the door, just. Curled up, yawning as she scrolls through something on the tablet Sam got her. At first glance you’d think she’s just a fucking normal teenager. At first glance you might even think she’s actually relaxed.

Hell, she might be. Fuck if he knows. She wouldn’t be the first Winchester to feel safer in Baby than anywhere else.

He’s pretty sure she’s the first Winchester – or Campbell – with her own set of fangs, other than his brief vampire stint. And maybe he should feel horror at that, but the only feeling Dean can scrounge up is a horrible, selfish gladness that she has the innate weapons to defend herself, so he can’t even act like it bothers him. Would tell her in a heartbeat to rip the throat out of any guy, any person who tried to hurt her.

This thing. It’s different, with her, with Sam. He raised Sam and he damn well knows it, always thought he was as much of a parent to Sam as a sibling. And maybe, in some ways, sure. But this?

There aren’t words for this. Dean might have been filling a parent’s shoes with Sam, might have raised him, but he is actually Emma’s parent, and the difference is more profound than he thought possible.

Fortunately they’re coming up on a brightly lit sign and a mostly-empty parking lot, so he doesn’t have to try to find the words, now. Just gratitude that relatively few people go to the 24-hour grocer at two am on Sundays, even Easter Sundays.

There’s a parking spot, right up near the front, safely away from the other cars in the lot. Both of them sit quiet for a second, staring at the big lit entrance, after he’s turned Baby’s engine off. But Emma’s never yet been inclined to stillness that Dean’s seen, and she undoes her seatbelt first. Dean follows, the familiar motions of opening the door and getting out of his car a balm to his nerves, which haven’t settled any now that they’re actually here. He’s got his list in one pocket and a wallet full of Charlie-fixed credit cards in the other, and as much as Dean might want to haul ass back to Lebanon, Emma’s here. Emma’s standing next to the Impala, and he can see disquiet in every line of her body but she’s not running, not ducking back into the car.

If she can be brave enough to try something new and unfamiliar, he can damn well be brave enough to guide her through it.

He starts marching toward the only open entrance, and Emma attaches to his side like a shadow. She gets closer the closer they come to the store, until she’s all but walking on top of him, in his space yet never colliding with him or getting in his way. Amazon speed and reflexes come in handy.

Course, they get a weird look from the only cashier on duty, but he doesn’t think Emma notices so Dean tries not to, either.

He turns to grab a cart and she’s just – standing. There in the entrance, lit by too-bright florescence, and frozen in place. Dean doesn’t breathe, really, for a minute; he’s tensing in time with her, getting ready to follow her back to the car or – something, because the only times Emma is still is when she’s fuckin’ terrified.

Her head turns to him, jerky and slow; her eyes are huge, wide and round and white-edged.

It’s a lot of space. It’s a lot of color and a lotta noise, even this late, even to his senses – there’s the soft radio playing on the speakers and the low hum of the refrigeration cases and the sound of distant carts rolling along the linoleum.

Yeah. Bad idea.

But just as he’s about to reach out to her, she closes her eyes. Shudders. Turns to face forward again, blinking, and takes a step forward. He gets it now; she can’t follow him in here, not into an unknown place with unknown dangers, neither her inhuman nature nor two years in purgatory will let her stay behind him when she doesn’t know what’s around any corner.

She can go with him, though, and his insides ache a little more. Cause fuck, yeah, yeah it’s just a grocery store, there probably isn’t anything in here that can actually hurt her, but she doesn’t know that. Not where it matters, in her gut. 

He follows her, pushing the cart until he’s just a step behind her and to the side. Fuck trying to even get their list right now; the store’s 24 hours, it’ll be open all night. Right now – “Left,” he says, and she turns with him.

They make a steady circuit of the store, going up and down every aisle. Every so often Emma will stop and breathe deep, maybe close her eyes for a moment, because the light and the abundance of food is overwhelming (and yeah, there’s another fuck-it-why-didn’t-you-think-of-that-Dean moment, because he could have predicted that taking a kid with severe Issues With Food into a damn grocery store was gonna be stressful for her, if he’d thought about it for half a second).

But she doesn’t leave, she doesn’t disappear on him, she doesn’t run out or away. They end up back at the front, and the clerk has probably seen a hell of a lot weirder than people taking a walking tour of the store in his time because now he barely looks up as they pass the checkout stands.

“List.” It isn’t a question. Dean thinks about protesting, about saying they can go home, but he’s not gonna invalidate her courage like that. He digs out the list and hands it over.

She looks it over, then heads back into the aisles, and he follows.

***

They ended up skipping the baskets, but Baby’s backseat is full of food and candy and nobody had a meltdown or ended up dead, so Dean’s going to count it as a win. Emma takes charge of returning the cart to the cart stand in the parking lot while Dean loads the last couple of bags into the car.

(He’d have liked to get everyone a basket, in theory. In practice they had both stopped and stared at the aggressively pastel monstrosities left in the seasonal aisle, and by silent mutual agreement moved to the next item on the list without even picking one up.)

When both of them are in the Impala with the doors shut and locked, Emma lets out one small, quiet breath, as if she’d held the tension in her the entire time they’d been in the store. She’s not relaxed now, not how she looked on the way in (illusion or not), but she’s not awfully still and controlled, either. She slumps against the door and leans her temple against the cool window, one leg pulling up beneath her.

“Hey.” He doesn’t start the car, not just yet; Emma’s head barely moves, a tilt to let her see him out of the corner of her eye, but she’s listening. And this is awkward and he doesn’t know how to do it, sure as hell never had it done to him, but – “You, uh. Did good in there.”

Dean can see her lips twitch, and her voice is desert-dry when she says, “It’s just a grocery store,” because they both know how very untrue that is.

subjecttochange8′s Supernatural Femslash Bingo Masterlist

“Don’t Do That”

Title: Blackout I Pairing: Anna x Ruby Medium: Fic Word Count: 1123 Summary: I picture this Ruby as Version 1.0 Ruby from Season 3, but it works either way. Hipster!Anna is my favorite Anna, and to picture Julie McNiven in a black tank stop with tattoos on her upper arms while wearing chunky black glasses and worn old jeans is one of my dearest Anna fantasies. Rating: T Warnings: None. Links: Tumblr   AO3   ♥

Spring

Title: Blackout II Pairing: Claire x Emma Medium: Fic Word Count: 996 Summary: “I think our galaxy’s definition of vanilla is different from your galaxy’s definition of vanilla,” Claire says dryly. Notes: This takes place in some distant future of HFK/"The Whole Romance Thing" 'verse, but it is comprehensible without having read them. Rating: T Warnings: None. Links: Tumblr   AO3   ♥

Meg x Bela x Charlie

Title: Blackout III Pairing: Bela x Meg x Charlie Medium: Fic Word Count: 1700 Summary: Celeste would not have left East Germany willingly. Her mother is still there, in a cold hospital room filled with four other iron lungs. Spy AU. Notes: It was just too perfect not to do a Man From U.N.C.L.E. fusion. Not sure how much sense this will make if you haven't seen the film, which is TREMENDOUSLY entertaining. I played with doing a version with each of them playing the respective three roles, since each of them would be perfect and fascinating as Ilya, Solo, OR Gaby, but this is the version that got written. Rating: T Warnings: None. Links: Tumblr   AO3   ♥

Donna x Jody

Title: Blackout IV Pairing: Donna/Jody, Dean/Cas Medium: Fic Word Count: ~3300 Summary: From a Donna/Jody AU I’ve been piecing together for a while. Donna coaches a girls’ city league softball team. Jody, whose niece Krissy plays on the team, ends up volunteering to be assistant coach. Chemistry ensues. Rating: T Warnings: None. Links: Tumblr   AO3   ♥

Hogwarts AU

Title: Blackout V Pairing: Claire x Emma Medium: Fic Word Count: ~1100 Summary: Emma hesitates. When she left the party half an hour ago, Claire was speaking to a Durmstrang seventh year to whom Naomi had introduced her. Notes: from the hogwarts au I have been working on forever. Professor Naomi is Claire’s pureblood grandmother, and each year she hosts a super-classy Christmas gala at their manor which is attended by all the Ministry bigwigs and purebloods. Naomi doesn’t like Emma or Dean at ALL, but Claire and Cas (Claire’s uncle) invite them to it. Emma spends the night… Rating: T Warnings: None. Links: Tumblr   AO3   ♥

Emma x Claire x Krissy

She wends her way through the storage rooms and back passages of the bunker, up a staircase that doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed in fifty years apart from her own small footprints. Climbs through a blocked-off section of wide, ancient air duct that she is just slim enough to wriggle into, and comes out on top of a stack of big, broad crates piled high. There’s maybe four feet between the top of the highest crate and the ceiling, in this corner with two sturdy walls to protect her, and that is where Emma has made her current – nest.

Room. It’s her room. Humans don’t nest and she’s trying to be human, she is, so this is her room. It’s just kinda… mobile.

She tacked up heavy drapes that she found in a storage room several moves ago; she strung up battery-powered Christmas lights Cas left on the dining room table at two in the morning last month, a deliberate and cherished gift.

Emma turns the lights on and flops onto her bed. She covered the top of the crate with a thick, scavenged foam pad and blankets. So many blankets. The bunker’s previous occupants had a serious bedding fixation; she doesn’t think they’re ever gonna run out of blankets, or pillows. Those she took certainly have not been missed. And yeah they were kind of dusty, but they were real and warm and not covered in blood. There hadn’t been anything like blankets, Before.

And pillows. Yes. This is heaven, and if heaven comes with confusing emotions and unfamiliar dangers, it still shines far above purgatory.

Rolling onto her side, Emma takes the precious sack of tiny morsels of bliss from her pocket and tucks it in the space that serves as her nightstand, a portion of the crate top she left clear. The carrot-shaped bag of Reese’s pieces settles next to her Galaxy and a heavy flashlight, side-by-side with her biggest knife and a package of Saltine crackers. She has a bottle of water and the can of soda she’s trying to like this week; right now it is Sprite. She drinks the water most often, fills it up from an empty bathroom two corridors away, because clear sweet water is still the most luxurious of things to her. You don’t need to drink in purgatory, you don’t feel the thirst, but you still crave wet to wash down the dirt and the death and there’s no water in purgatory except for a filthy, dangerous stream.

Her hand snags the black tablet – comparatively small, next to the laptops upstairs, but containing infinite wonders still.

On a whim that tastes as dark and bitter as the chocolate she’d liked, Emma opens up Chrome and types “how to forgive someone who killed you” in the search bar.

The first page of search results is about forgiving murders of family members, or murderers who are family members. The second might be useful but the first makes her chest pang, so she opens a new tab and closes that one. Google is nearly all-knowing, but she doesn’t think it can help her live with her uncle.

Or forgive her father.

She’s not sure right now which is harder.

She doesn’t want to forgive Sam. She’s not ready for that, nowhere near; he has been nothing but awkwardly, distantly kind since they brought her to this place, to Kansas. And Emma knows he is giving her space, and she appreciates it, and. And. She gets it. You know? She does. She watches, and the depth of the care between Sam and Dean is glaring, obvious. They look to each other. They are family in a way that transcends blood; they have a way of fitting together side-by-side, of instinctive knowledge that (TV and books would tell her) only comes from living with someone you love for years and years and years.

They aren’t peaceful and they aren’t easy and they are never ever ever quiet, but they are a special kind of family.

A kind that makes her ache to belong to it, even as she sets herself on the outside.

Cas fits into the Winchester dynamic – not like he was born to it, but like they grew around him, like they changed to encompass him in the thing that is them, that is family. She’s been given a vague history in bits and pieces from various (highly suspected to be unreliable) narrators; she knows that this slotting of Cas into what he is now to both Winchesters was the work of years. The topic tends to lead to a lot of trailed-off, ominous silences that she has taken to indicate dangerous times.

So she gets it. She does, really. If someone threatened Benny or Dean or Cas, she would do her best to hurt them. Stop them. Kill them. She understands.

That doesn’t make it okay. That doesn’t make anything okay.

If someone threatened Sam –

She doesn’t know.

Rolling over, Emma places a hand on her stomach. It’s nice to feel the softness there, the give. Her muscles are strong and lean but there are a few layers of padding now, of healthy softness that say I am eating and I am not always running. Unfamiliar, but good. A lot like the candy upstairs.

He’s trying so hard. He’s trying so hard that she can see it and she’s still working on acting even remotely human, much less understanding them. And maybe understanding people won’t help all that much with understanding Dean anyway, because her father is a – “unique, special, complicated, frustrating man,” in the words of the angel living a few stories above where she is now.

If she believed in any kind of god she would pray for mercy, for both of them. Time seems to slip through her fingers like water, like she’s growing up too fast when she used to not be growing up at all, and she knows what it is to go from newborn to fourteen in three days.

(What faith she had been taught died a quick and bloody death in the mud and muck of monster-hell. A Goddess worth worshiping would have saved her.)

Mostly though, right now. She’s safe in her space, and she doesn’t want to think about Easter dinner yet, about the prospect of sitting down for a whole meal with multiple people and also Sam. Her tongue feels a little sick of sweetness, a little raw from the small matte eggs in the purple package, with the hard shell. She hadn’t liked those. Under her hand, her stomach grumbles; she didn’t eat much, only sampled a bit of many things, and she last ate – when?

Emma brings her hand up to peer at it in the glow from the Christmas lights. There’s a mark on the heel of her palm in black sharpie that says A.M. On the side of her index finger are six tick marks, messily refreshed over several days.

So she needs to move her room after one more sleep, and she last ate this morning. The clock on the Galaxy says 4:00 pm; if she goes to the kitchen now, she can probably avoid seeing Sam, and she won’t need to go back until tomorrow morning. Eating twice a day is a minimum requirement, and as much as she dislikes it she is not willing to sacrifice strength to lack of nutrients now that she must eat.

Her stomach makes another rough, hungry sound. Emma glares down at it, then glances across to the bag of Reese’s, but no. Those are to be savored, to be eaten with care, not to be swallowed down in a bunch because her traitorous body wants food.

Claire stopped at a news stand and grabbed a paper, digging through her pockets for change. She passed over a handful of bills and coins to the short man, who nodded at her, teeth clacking as he chewed his gum. He handed back her change and she continued her way down the road, just a half block away from her apartment. She paused and dropped her heels on the concrete, pushing her feet into them, wriggling her toes around to get a grip. She might be a city girl now, sure, but she was not ending her walk of shame barefoot.

She took the stairs two at a time, wishing desperately for some caffeine. That was the first thing she’d do once she was back up in her apartment; make a coffee, nice and strong to ward off the impending hangover. As she made it to the top of the stairs, the brunette from across the hall was coming out of her apartment, locking the door behind her, car keys clutched tight in her hand. They shared a brief nod and smile before Claire was back in her apartment, closing the door behind her. She sighed and rubbed her temples, glancing back at the door. Emma had lived across the hall for five months now, not that anyone but Claire would know it. She was quiet as a mouse, rarely coming out of her apartment except to get the mail. They’d spoken a few times, mostly over trivial things, and once a bit more over coffee when she'd run into Emma coming back up the stairs, crying. Claire knew three facts about Emma - that she was a brunette, that she had a poor relationship with her father, and that she lived across the hall. Also that she was smoking hot, but that could really be argued as more of an opinion than a fact.

After a pause, she crossed the floor to the window, opening it wide and sticking her head out. Emma was heading down the street, fiddling with her keychain. “Hey!” Claire yelled, resting her elbows on the sill. Emma stopped and looked back, confused. “Emma!”

She looked up to where Claire was hanging out the window, tucking a strand of brown hair behind one ear. “Yeah?” she called back, eyebrows raised. The early morning breeze tossed her hair around in the soft light.

“Where are you going?” The blonde asked. Emma shrugged, biting her lip, then replied, “To church.”

Before she quite knew what she was saying, Claire answered back, “Can I come?”

She wasn’t sure who was more surprised by the request, herself or Emma. But after a moment, Emma yelled, “Sure!”

Claire gave her a thumbs up before pulling back into the apartment, slamming the window shut and kicking off her heels, squeezing into the flats she’d left under the table. There was no time to change, but she didn’t think last night’s black dress and leather jacket were too inappropriate for church. Her mother would’ve had a fit about it, but she hadn’t been in years; something about the look on Emma’s face as she was leaving had made her want to go. She paused by the mirror by the door and ran her fingers through her curls, pushing what little fringe she had back from her face and wiping the smudges from her lipstick. Her eyeliner had transformed itself into a spectacular smoky eye; she shrugged at her reflection and stepped outside, patting her pockets to check she had her keys and phone.

Emma was waiting for her by the door outside, toying with her keychain. Claire bit her lip, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Emma said. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” Claire shuffled her feet, trying not to fidget. “Lead the way.”

Emma lead her down the street to a black, sleek car that was at least thirty years old. Claire did a double take, running her eyes over the familiar shape, before shaking her head; it wasn’t the same car. Similar, though. Close enough that she’d felt her heart freeze.

“Nice chevy,” she said, opening the passenger side door. The corner of Emma’s mouth twitched, but didn’t quite make it to a smile.

“Thanks,” the brunette replied, climbing in and running her hands over the steering wheel. “She’s a 1970 Malibu. Found her in a car yard in Maine.”

“Maine?” Claire asked. “Is that where you’re from?”

A frown crossed the other girl’s face, vanishing as soon as it appeared. “Not exactly. I was born in Seattle.”

“Oh,” she hesitated, then offered, “I’m from Illinois, originally.”

Emma didn’t reply this time, shifting her gaze on the road ahead. The Wichita streets were still bare, given the early hour, but there seemed to be something more to the emptiness, something Claire couldn’t place. They drove straight past the local church, where a crowd of people had gathered on the steps, without stopping. Claire turned in her seat, staring at the well-dressed crowd as they grew smaller and smaller, until they turned onto the highway.

“Where are we going?”

“Oh, um - there’s this church, about an hour out of the city? I...I prefer to go there. If that’s okay.” Emma bit her lip, her grip on the wheel growing tighter.

“I don’t mind,” Claire tugged at her hair, twirling it around one finger. “I don’t have anywhere better to be.”

“You don’t want to spend today with your family?” The brunette’s gaze didn’t stray from the road ahead.

“No family to spend it with.”

She went quiet again, guiding them out further and further out of the city. Soon the houses became few and far between, replaced instead by fields, lush grass swaying in the wind. A few lazy sheep watched them, poking their heads through wire fences to tear the grass from the roadside. The car began to slow, turning down a road that was more dirt than gravel, bringing them closer to a white building that sat square in a field. A few cars were parked by it, twenty or thirty at most, everything from a faded blue pickup truck to a more recent model sedan. Emma let the car drift off into the field, letting it stop not too far from the church.

It was a pristine white, a beacon in the otherwise empty land. Car doors slammed and voices called out across the field, children sprinting past with wild laughter, getting dirt on their boots and their Sunday best. Claire watched them with a frown, remembering a time when she had been like that, running off to meet her friends for a game of tag before church. Emma seemed to steel herself with a deep breath before walking towards the church, stepping past puddles from the latest lot of spring rain. Claire hurried after her, tugging at the hem of her dress, which, now that she’d thought about it, really probably wasn’t church appropriate at all. The other girl stopped and looked back at her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, gesturing to her own clothes, a blue overshirt and black jeans. “They’re not fussed. It’s why I like this place.”

Claire pursed her lips and nodded, trailing after her. The beginnings of a headache were ebbing at her temple, still light enough she could ignore them. It’d been at least two, three years since she had stepped into a place of worship of any kind, five at least since it had been an honest-to-god church. The hospital chapel didn’t count.

“Emma!” An older woman waved enthusiastically from the double doors, gripping onto her husband’s arm tight. Emma reached over and took Claire’s hand, pulling her towards them. Claire looked at her hand in surprise and allowed herself to be taken to the couple, who were smiling at them brightly.

“Happy Easter!” The woman exclaimed, standing on her toes to lean up and kiss Emma’s cheek. Emma offered her a small smile.

“Happy Easter, Joan. Leo.” She pulled away slightly, still smiling. “This is my neighbour, Claire. She wanted to come for today’s service.”

“Claire!” Joan swept her up in a hug, something the blonde was not at all expecting. She gave an awkward laugh and squirmed slightly, patting the shorter woman’s shoulder. “We’ll see you girls inside, okay? I’ve got to go grab the kids.”

“Happy Easter,” Claire mumbled as they went off after a pair of grinning children sprinting through the grass. Once they were out of earshot, she turned to the girl beside her and hissed, “It’s Easter?”

Emma gave her the first real smile she’d seen. “You don’t keep track of this kind of thing, do you? You stared at me like I was crazy when I wished you a Merry Christmas last year.”

“No,” she muttered. “No, I don’t keep track of this kind of thing.”

They filed inside with the rest of the congregation, finding seats towards the back of the crowd. It seemed smaller on the inside, crowded with row after row of benches. The crowd was still talking amongst themselves, quieter than before, sharing stories, wishing each other a happy Easter. Claire fingered at the cross that dangled around her neck, feeling out of place. Emma handed her a bible, flipping through one of her own.

She let her fingers drift over it, noting the cracked spine and yellowed pages. It was well-loved, clearly handled but hundreds of people over the years it had been sitting in the church. She thumbed through it, glancing over words that she knew were once familiar to her, had once held great meaning, but now just seemed hollow and foreign. The last time she had held a bible, she’d thrown it at Castiel’s head.

The sermon started, but she paid it little mind, busy reading over the pages she had so loved in her youth. This was a different edition to the one she’d grown up with, but the intent behind the words was the same. She stopped at the Psalms, where someone had underlined several lines in thick, dark pen, highlighting a verse out of the many on the page, the ink almost obscuring the fine type.

The LORD hears his people when they call to him. He rescues them from all their troubles.      The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.

With a slight frown and a barely suppressed laugh, she flicked through a few more chapters, not realising how deeply engrossed she was becoming in the book. It had left its mark on her, many years ago, and there was some small part of her that knew she had no choice but to believe - but while she believed, she had no faith. Not in God, at least.

Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said. “Why did you doubt?”

“Because you gave me no other choice,” she mumbled. Emma looked to her, and to the page, before taking her hand once more and giving it a gentle squeeze. Claire blinked, returning the gesture. She’d known her for five months, now, but this was the closest they’d ever been; she hadn’t realised Emma was so affectionate, but she was. And Claire liked that about her - it had been a long time since she’d met someone so open.

The sermon was winding down, but she didn’t feel quite ready to leave yet. If she’d managed to land herself in a church on Easter Sunday after a night of drinking, maybe she was meant to be here.

Emma didn’t move to leave, either, even after everyone else started to shamble their way to the doors, chattering amongst themselves. Leo and Joan waved as they passed by, along with one or two others who gave Emma bright smiles. She returned them, inclining her head slightly, looking every bit the demure church-going girl. Claire stared at her as the church emptied, noting her bare face, her tired hazel eyes. There were dark bruise-like marks beneath her eyes, not so heavy she looked ill or hurt, but dark enough. A few stray hairs drifted into her face, and she tucked them back, finally meeting Claire’s eyes.

“Why’d you decide to come today?” Emma tilted her head to the right, resting it on one hand. Her blue nails shined in the dim light of the church. Claire noticed for the first time that the roots of her hair were not quite the same shade as the rest of it; a quarter-inch of dark blonde was just visible around her hairline.

Claire shrugged, touching the cross around her neck again. “Why did you?”

“I come every Sunday,” was the soft reply. “It makes me feel closer to my father, I guess. I don’t think he was big on church, but from what I last heard of him...he had to believe. So I do, too.”

“I used to,” Claire spoke before she could stop herself. “But things...happen. My dad left. My mom left. And I just - I didn’t even have anyone to watch over me, any more. So having faith just seemed...”

“Wrong,” Emma finished for her. She tapped one foot on the polished floor anxiously, shrugging. “My mom gave me away. My dad didn’t want me. I nearly ran into him a couple of years back, but I didn’t think he’d recognise me, so I didn’t bother.”

“That’s rough.”

The brunette huffed out a strangled noise that she was pretty sure was meant to be a laugh. She gave Claire a shaky smile, with a slight shrug. “Yeah. It was a pretty rough couple of years. I got out of there, though.”

“To Maine?” Claire asked.

“To Maine,” Emma echoed, not quite meeting her gaze. Claire looked away, then, swinging her dangling legs back and forth. These pews were a lot higher than the ones in the church of her childhood; a lot harder, too. But the church itself was beautiful. Five wide windows ran down either side of the building, light streaming in to illuminate the honey-coloured wood, the silver cross hanging behind the stand. It was ornate, delicately carved with a neat, beautiful pattern. In her old Illinois church, the cross had been a dark, wooden crucifix, adorned with a smiling saviour as opposed the suffering man that was depicted on every other crucifix she’d ever seen. No, but this church was beautiful, full of light. She consider getting married here, if she ever got married.

“Hey,” Emma broke through her thoughts, looking somewhere to her left. “If you want to go, um, wait outside, you can. Talk to Joan, she’s nice. I’m gonna be in here a little while longer.”

“Sure,” Claire said, standing. She trailed her fingers over the bench, placing the bible back into the slot it had come from. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”

As the blonde made her way down the aisle, she turned back, to see the other girl clasp her hands together and lower her head, eyes closed. She knew better than to ask what she was praying for; they were all praying for something. Claire hesitated at the very back of the church, looking up to the cross on the wall, running her thumb over the cross around her neck. She wore it more out of habit than anything, these days; it worked as a protective symbol in a fix, and she’d used it - more than once - to make holy water.

Briefly, she mumbled a prayer of her own and crossed herself, before making her way outside. The congregation was still milling about, discussing their plans for the rest of the day, catching up. Church, she remembered, was the social occasion of the week. Leo and Joan were standing off to one side, talking to an older man with dark, curly hair. Their children had resumed their earlier game of tag, this time having dragged several of the others into it. After hesitating, Claire approached them, plastering a smile on her face and ignoring her rapidly pounding heart.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m not sure if you remember, I’m -”

“Claire!” Joan beamed at her. She could see why Emma liked this woman; she seemed to gravitate towards her, smoothing down the shoulders of her jacket in an almost maternal way. “Emma’s told us about you before, you know. Claire, this is Aaron.”

“Pleasure,” the man gave her a small smile, nodding to her briefly. “I’ll be off. Leonard, Joan.”

“Aaron.” Leo briefly shook the man’s hand, before turning to Claire. His smile was gentle, the corners of his eyes crinkling easily in a way that showed it was something he did often.

“Emma’s told you about me?”

“Yes, of course.” Joan was giving her a fond smile, now. “You’re her neighbour. She was over to our house for dinner at Christmas - such a shame about her parents, you know - and was telling us about you. Says you make good coffee, the best she ever had.”

Claire laughed, still feeling somewhat out of place with these bright, happy, achingly normal people. They were so - so apple pie life, so kind. She wasn’t sure how Emma had come to meet them, if it was just through the church or what, but she found herself glad that the girl had people so loving in her life.

“You’re not being embarrassing, are you?” Emma seemed to appear out of nowhere. Claire nearly jumped straight out of her skin, she was so surprised, because Emma’s approach had been so silent. Joan laughed and cupped Emma’s face, patting her cheek. Emma pulled away with a shy smile.

“You girls what to come for lunch? Leo’s parents are in town.”

“My mother makes the best apple pie you’ll ever have,” Leo declared, the first time Claire had heard him speak. His voice was deep, cheery - not as deep as Cas’s, but pretty close.

Emma looked at Claire, who merely shrugged. It was up to her. Like she said, she had no plans for the day, but if Emma had something on later she’d rather go to, Claire wouldn’t be offended. “If it’s alright with Claire,” Emma smiled, “I think we might skip lunch today, sorry. Maybe some other time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Joan said it with such certainty that Claire had no doubt she would. She looked between the two of them, smile unwavering. “We’ll see you next week, Emma. And you too, hopefully, Claire.”

“Bye,” Claire said, waving as they walked away. She blinked, not quite sure what had just happened. Were all people like that? Winchesters weren’t, that’s for damn sure.

“A bit overwhelming, huh?” Emma nudged her with her elbow. “I figured you wouldn’t be able to do a whole three hours with them. I still find it pretty hard, sometimes.”

“Don’t blame you,” Claire laughed. “They’re lovely, though. They are. Do you just know them through church, or...?”

“Just church,” she confirmed. “I first started coming here about a year ago. Drove down from Maine. Didn’t have a job or a place to call home, so when I found the doors open, I just walked in and fell asleep inside. They found me early the next morning, about an hour before the Sunday service. Joan got me a job, they let me crash in their spare room until I was able to get my own place. They’re...well, I owe them everything, I guess.”

Claire found herself smiling, but she wasn’t sure why. The story, sweet as it was, didn’t make her happy. It just reminded her how little she really knew about her quiet, often private neighbour. She looked down at the ground, taking a few deep breaths. She knew she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her history, either. But Emma had surprised her today - when she’d asked her that morning if she could come, she hadn’t expected this. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Emma so relaxed, either, but out here she truly looked like she was where she belonged.

“You wanna go for a walk?” Emma offered. “There’s a creek, not far from here. The kids’ll sometimes play in it, if it’s a warm day.”

“Sure,” she replied. A walk. She was beginning to think this had to be a dream, because no way could she be having such a pleasant day.

They made their way across the field, past the rows of cars and towards the brush. The trees were together in a tight thicket, where several children were laughing and shoving each other gently. After a few moments, Emma reached over and took her hand again; Claire’s heart jumped in her chest. She swallowed and gave Emma’s a light squeeze. Emma was beautiful in the shadows of the trees, pale skin seeming to shine in the dim light. Her eyes seemed almost gold, for a moment, before the green showed through. They were definitely hazel, framed by long, dark lashes, with a very light - so light she could barely see it - splattering of freckles across her nose.

Claire suddenly felt self-conscious, brushing her fringe away from her face once more, chewing on her bottom lip. She wondered how badly her makeup had managed to smudge in the two hours since they’d left their building. No doubt she looked like a disaster, now, a trashy girl who hadn’t even bothered going home last night, who was still in yesterday’s clothes. Emma looked - good. Really, truly good. Not just in an aesthetic way, though that was definitely present, but just...good. Wholesome. Like she’d never hurt anyone in her life.

They stopped by the creek, settling on the slightly damp ground as the children splashed at each other a little away. Emma smiled, watching them, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes. Claire knew that feeling.

“You ever want kids?” She said, turning her head to face her. Emma shook her head, but didn’t give a reason as to why. Claire didn’t ask. Parents probably had something to do with it - that was the reason when it came to her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want kids, exactly; it was that she was terrified of not only repeating the same mistakes of the past, but the idea passing down the Novak bloodline was horrifying to her. She never wanted a kid - especially her own - to go through what she had.

The creek ran smoothly, quietly, its surface undisturbed. The air by the water was cool, but the sun warmed their backs, leading Claire to shrug off her jacket and let it rest in her lap. Emma paused before rolling up her sleeves, reaching up to push her hair behind her ears again. There was a white mark on her wrist, one she couldn’t clearly see; it looked like some kind of scar or tattoo. She rubbed at her own inked wrist absentmindedly, thumb brushing over the stars that ran up her forearm. Emma glanced down, then stopped, focusing on them, lashes fluttering slightly.

“They’re gorgeous,” she said, taking Claire’s hand once more, turning her arm over so she could see them clearly. They shared a smile as she looked at them. Five stars in all, and beside them, a rose. The rose had been gotten on impulse, in memory of her mother, a couple of years after Amelia had run away. By that point, she’d had almost no doubt in her mind that her mother had died. It was the only reasonable excuse she could come up with for her to have been gone for so long. The stars, though, had been inked in later, in memory of her father. Five, for each year he’d been missing. She had been going to add to it, but then she’d ran into Cas, and well. She’d gotten her answers, there.

“Do you have any others?” Emma asked. Claire tugged down the front of her dress, showing Emma the pentagram that peeked out from beneath her bra. She was glad she’d had the mind to wear her good one last night.

An expression crossed Emma’s face, a frown, almost anxious. Claire pulled it back up, suddenly worried. Had that been too forward?

“Are you a hunter?” The brunette asked, releasing her arm. Claire almost breathed a sigh of relief.

“God, no. They’re all assholes.” She looked over to Emma, who didn’t seem to relax all that much at the reassurance. “How do you know about hunters?”

Emma clenched her jaw, for a moment, a muscle in her cheek twitching before she said, “My father was one.”

That explained it, then. Hunters were shitty parents. Claire hadn’t been raised by one, but she’d been in enough hunter bars and roadhouses to see it - they’d dump their kids in the corner while they got drunk and discussed hunts, or worse, leave them in the car, or ask her to keep an eye on them because more often than not she’d be one of the only girls in the place. Sometimes she felt like hunters just shouldn’t have kids. 

Claire lifted her arm and threw it over Emma’s shoulders, pulling her closer, rubbing the other girl’s arm gently. Emma stiffened, for a moment, then relaxed into it; after a second, her lips twitched into a smile. It was almost silent out by the creek, now, most of the children having run off back to their parents; those that hadn’t were over in the field, their laughter carrying on the wind. The dirt was damp and the grass sticking to her thighs itched, her head was still throbbing, and her feet still ached from being squeezed into her heels all night, but damn if this wasn’t the most content Claire had felt in months.

“We should head back,” Emma mumbled. Neither of them wanted to, though, and neither girl moved. Claire didn’t want to go back, not to the car, not to their building, not to the life where she only ever spoke to Emma in passing. She was almost sure she was still half-buzzed from last night, but this felt good. It felt like it was how things were meant to be.

Claire let her go, after another moment, standing and brushing off the back of her dress, offering down a hand to help Emma up. The brunette allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, flicking grass off her shirt and what little dirt had managed to get on her jeans. The blonde shrugged on her jacket again, pulling her curls free from it and shaking them out. Emma smiled again, her bright, lovely smile. She offered Claire her hand.

They walked, hand-in-hand, back to Emma’s car, talking softly. A herd of rabbits bounded by, causing Claire to grab Emma’s arm tight, pointing them out. Emma laughed, then, happy and clear, and pulled her back towards the car.

“Happy Easter, Em,” Claire grinned.

“Happy Easter, Claire.” Emma looked at her with those gorgeous hazel eyes, cheeks rosy. “Do you want to go get a coffee, sometime?”

Claire played with the cross around her neck for a moment, knowing that by now she was starting to blush, too. “I’d love to. Is now good for you?”

“Now is great for me,” she laughed. They climbed into Emma’s Malibu, waving goodbye to the few churchgoers still around. Emma reached over to turn on the radio, letting some classic rock fill the car with noise. Claire gave a happy sigh, turning back to watch the church grow smaller and smaller in the distance as they headed back towards the city.

So Dean presses on the top of the steaks with his spatula, and they feel nearly done. He’s aiming for rare, rare-rare, seared perfectly and seasoned lightly because too much pepper makes Emma sneeze. He’d hoped, when he left Cas sleeping in his(their) bed and fired up the stovetop, that the scent of food might draw his daughter out from wherever she was currently holing up.

His daughter.

Sam had brought her and Benny back from Purgatory, both, and not one of the three is talking about how that went down. Emma tolerates being in the same room as Sam only barely, still, not that Dean blames her.

 It’s good that they’re not trying to kill each other. He wonders, vaguely, how fucked-up his family has to be that he counts not actively murderous as a hell of a positive step.

Pulling the steaks out because they’re right, just right, Dean plates them to let them rest. Dares to speak, low, as he’s putting two separate slabs of meat on two separate plate, and Emma’s is fucking huge because he doesn’t know if she’s even eating, “Gotta let these sit for a minute. Makes ‘em taste better.”

Dean doesn’t hear an answer, but he doesn’t hear the patter of teenage feet dashing away either, so he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he survived hell and he turns around, slowly. She’s still there in the doorway, and she doesn’t even look like she’s thinking all that hard about running. He’ll take his victories where they come.

She’s so. Damn. Young.

Standing there in the jeans and flannel he bought her at a Goodwill, guessing her size and taking them out to the car because she wouldn’t go inside, Emma looks like a dozen contradictions. The clothes say outdoorsy girl, maybe hunter-chic; the tense posture and wary eyes say predator. But the kind of predator that’s only midway up the food chain, fidgety and always poised to run cause she has to worry about things hunting her as well as her own prey. She’s got his eyes, the shape of his face, delicate and pretty when her features aren’t feral, when her eyes aren’t yellowy gold instead of green. She looks like a teenage girl, looks like she should be laughing with her friends and wasting Saturdays at the mall.

Mostly she looks like she’s his, like she breaks his heart every damn day.

“Come on,” Dean coaxes, throat thick because he’s a shitty parent in the first place (see: Ben), and he’s been far shittier to her, in ways he will never, ever be able to make up, than even John Winchester managed. He’s careful to keep his posture casual, leaning with his ass against the counter next to the stove, arms folded and legs crossed at the ankle. Easy. Restful. Nothing to run from, nothing hunting them here, Em, can’t you see?

No. No she probably can’t.

Still, Emma takes a few steps forward, sniffs the air. She has language, English, she didn’t forget it all in Purgatory, but he knows. He remembers how you lose the taste of words in your mouth in that place, how your voice starts to go silent. Dean had Benny and Cas to talk to, pray to, curse at. Emma had nobody.

“Steak?” That’s not an outright no, and he tries to keep his smile contained to just the crook in the corner of his mouth.

“Steak. If you sit down.” He doesn’t know where the lines are, ever, cause he’s her father but he’s not her Dad, no matter how much he wants to be. The only damn authority he has over her is that she lives in his home and he took part in making her, unknowing and blind. Dean doesn’t see that he has any right to tell her what to do or give her advice or fucking raise her, except that she doesn’t have anyone else to do those things for her and also he wants to, fuck, he wants to so damn badly.

He tries to be careful. Thinks that if he doesn’t overstep too much, doesn’t try to run ragged over her, maybe she’ll let him have just a little slice.

Emma sits, and Dean brings both the plates to the table. Sets them across from each other so they’re not too close, so she’ll be able to watch him while she eats. Goes back for knives, forks, then takes the chair opposite and sits. He’s not sure what to do with his hands. Or his mouth, but he’s got worse control over that so it just starts – going. “Can’t eat ‘em, just yet, wanna let ‘em set for a few more minutes. Gotta let meat rest so the juices soak back in, so it reaches the right temperature. These,” and Dean demonstrates, pokes the top of his steak with his fork, “are gonna be rare. Just like this, see?” Dean touches his left thumbtip and fingertip together, then presses his right index finger into the flesh just below the joint of his thumb. “When it feels like that, it’s rare.”

She watches him, too-familiar green eyes staring, then copies the motion. Tests the steak, then the meat of her hand, and her head fucking tilts. Like Cas at his angel-est, wondering at the vagrancies of these weird human creatures. It doesn’t make his heart thump. It doesn’t.

As if he’d been summoned by Dean’s thoughts – he might have been, is somewhere between fallen and not, right now, part angel and part grouchy human – Cas’s voice comes from the hallway, a rough, “Dean?” that straightens Emma up, makes her shoulders hunch defensively. She doesn’t relax, exactly, when Cas steps into the kitchen light, but she gets… less taut, maybe.

She tolerates Cas better than Sam, better than Dean, better than anyone but Benny. She’s wary of him, sure, she recognizes a superior non-human when she sees one, but she also seems to know that he’s not part of her hunting hierarchy. Angels aren’t predators, don’t seem to ping her radar the way Benny does. She recognizes hunter in Benny, recognizes herself in him and that he’s bigger and stronger and older (according to Benny), so they get along like a house on fire most of the time. Cas… Cas seems to just confuse the hell out of her.

Dean sympathizes.

Hell, they finally untangled enough of the mess between them for Cas to be spending the nights he sleeps in Dean’s bed, and Dean still isn’t sure he gets Cas.

“We’re just havin’ a midnight snack,” he calls quiet-like, hoping that Cas will recognize the warnings and pleas in his tone for what they are. Cas smiles, so Dean figures he got the don’t scare her but don’t go request pretty clearly.

“I see that. Hello, Emma.” The angel ambles forward, dressed in Dean’s t-shirt and Dean’s pajama bottoms cause he can’t be assed to get his own damn clothes, and Dean’s offered to take Cas shopping but he hasn’t really tried all that hard either. So sue him; he likes the sight of the angel wearing his stuff.

“Castiel.” She pronounces his name with careful perfection, closer to how Cas himself says it than even Dean gets when he bothers to use the whole thing. Dean doesn’t know how Emma feels about him and Cas being – together, hell, doesn’t know if she even cares, but she manages something like a half-smile for the angel and it kind of. Hits him.

She’s trying too.

Cas gives him a look as he sits down, one part Oh, Dean to two parts You’re just figuring this out now, and they’re gonna have a talk about mind-reading the next time he gets Cas back into bed. Or not, because Cas reading his mind in bed is pretty awesome, but that isn’t the point either because Emma’s trying.

Maybe just as hard as he is. Maybe she’s even more lost because she was a person for like, three days before she went to monster hell, but for all the hiding and the scared tension she’s here, she’s sitting down, she’s in the fucking bunker when she could leave any time, and his heart kind of painfully thumps because maybe if they’re both fucked up and both trying they can meet somewhere in the middle.

Dean clears his throat, rubs his hand over his mouth to disguise any tattle-tell trembling, and jerks his head up at his daughter. “Probably can eat ‘em now,” he says, and cuts into his steak, rarer than he likes it but he’s hoping that it’ll be to her taste.