#supernatural reader insert

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: You and Dean pretend to be a couple to investigate a case, but what happens when things start to get a bit too real?

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut

Content: no Y/N, fake relationship, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, 10998 words

Chapters:

1 - My Bloody Valentine - 1011 words

2 - Just Married - 904 words

3 - Cold Feet - 1783 words

4 - Sweet Wine and Sour Grapes - 1254 words

5 - Bubbling Over - 1747 words

6 - Hot and Bothered - 3244 words smut

“Last time I wore a tux, you thought I was going to propose,“ said Dean, unbuttoning his jacket in front of the mirror.

“Last time you wore a tux you did,” you said from the bed, crossing your legs as your dress took up most of the bed. “You look quite good in one, Mr. Winchester.”

“Well thank you. Mrs. Winchester,” he said, glancing back at you with a big smile. He kicked off his dress shoes and walked over to the bed, careful of your dress before he lay next to you. You rolled onto your side and propped your head up on your elbow, smiling at him as he looked over at you. “You made my heart stop more than a few times today in that dress.”

“S’just a dress,” you said. “But I know what you mean.”

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you back,” you said, Dean smirking.

“Did you like the wedding? And the reception?” he asked. You hummed, shifting over closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“I got to kiss this really handsome guy today. A lot. It was awesome,” you said, Dean chuckling. “For someone who said he didn’t care about this, today meant more than you let on.”

“It’s just a day, like tomorrow’s just a day. But all of the rest of the days I’ll have, I’m with you,” he said. “I always knew you weren’t leaving me, no matter what happened to us. But now I’m just thinking, I really know you aren’t going anywhere.”

“Never was,” you said. Dean simply smiled at you, with that look he’d shown you all day.

A little part of him had healed that day. You gave him a smile right back before he leaned up to kiss him.

Hopefully with all those other days you had together, you could find some more ways to help heal the rest of him too.

You were miles from the bunker, hours deep into unfamiliar mountain roads after chasing down what turned out to be a pack of werewolves. The town had been small already, tucked away, isolated, and the wolves had been picking off the population one by one, quiet and methodical.

The case was done. Finito. You and Dean had saved the day.

You should’ve felt relief. Victory. Something light.

Instead, your body ached and your chest felt hollow.

Your neck twinged when you shifted, ribs screaming in dull protest beneath your jacket.

Getting thrown into a tree by a pissed-off werewolf had a way of humbling you fast. You were pretty sure nothing was broken, Dean had checked you over with shaking hands and frantic eyes, but you knew you’d be bruised for days.

And still… the physical pain wasn’t what gnawed at you.

Earlier that day played on a loop in your head, vivid and cruel.

You’d been excited when you took the case. Too excited, maybe. Sam was off helping Eileen with another hunt, which meant it was just you and Dean. No third wheel. No motel rooms with a thin wall between you. Just space. Time. Something that felt dangerously close to domestic.

You and Dean hadn’t been seeing each other long, not long enough to define anything… yet, but long enough that it wasn’t just a comfort fuck in the dark anymore.

You hadn’t labeled it. Neither of you had. You were adults, friends first, hunters always. You cared about each other. You enjoyed each other. Really enjoyed each other. And at the start, that had felt like enough. Easy. Organic.

You’d told yourself it didn’t need more explanation.

Until suddenly… it did.

Because somewhere along the way, things had shifted.

Subtly at first. Then all at once.

Dean would pull you into his side on the couch in the ‘Dean Cave’, your legs draped over his lap while some old movie played half-forgotten on the screen. On long drives, his hand would find yours without comment, fingers lacing together like it was the most natural thing in the world. He kissed your cheek in the mornings when he reached for his mug, even in front of Sam, something that had once been just yours, private and unspoken.

It felt like something.

It felt like enough.

And then, just when you’d start to settle into it, when you’d let yourself relax, he’d pull back.

Some nights, he wouldn’t come find you, wouldn’t drag you half-asleep into the warmth of his bed. He’d go in alone instead. Other times, he’d wave off movie night, choosing a drink by himself, shutting himself away like a door quietly closing. You told yourself not to read into it. Being a hunter was heavy. You knew that better than most. Some days demanded space.

You understood that.

But Dean was hot and cold. Push and pull. One step forward, one step back.

And the more time you spent wrapped up in him, the more his habits became yours, the more his touch felt like home, the harder it became to ignore the quiet question building in your chest.

You hadn’t needed answers before.

Now, you did.

You weren’t looking for a label stamp of approval. Just the certainty that if you gave him your whole heart, he wouldn’t drop it the moment things got complicated.

And then you saw him today with the witness.

Her friend had been one of the victims, her grief raw and real… right up until Dean approached her at the bar, slipping seamlessly into his sympathetic cop routine. The voice he used was softer, practiced. His posture relaxed, familiar. You’d seen it before, just not in a long time.

You hadn’t meant to watch. You’d just arrived back after questioning your own witness, slowing when you spotted them at the bar. Her manicured hand rested on his arm, fingers lingering longer than necessary. Her chest angled toward him, posture open, inviting. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, smiling up at him through lashes that were just a little too deliberate.

You knew that look.

Textbook. You’d seen it a hundred times.

And Dean, Dean knew it too. Yet he didn’t pull away.

He smiled. Played the part. Let her touch him. Let her slip that hastily scribbled number into his jacket pocket without protest.

And standing there, watching him not pull away, watching him slide so easily into a version of himself you thought you’d been slowly, quietly replacing…

It stung. Deep. Sharp. Personal.

Because that used to be all there was. That version of Dean. The charming, unattached one who kept things easy and left before they got heavy. The one you’d told yourself you were no longer sharing.

When he finally noticed you, his expression shifted instantly. Relief softened his features. His smile, the real one, turned warm and familiar as he crossed the room toward you.

It made it worse.

You played dumb. Let him touch you like nothing was wrong, his hand resting casually on your thigh as you compared notes in a quiet booth, nodding along while your head and your heart went to war.

You told yourself it looked worse than it was.

Told yourself it was just a means to an end. Just Dean doing what Dean always did.

But you couldn’t shake the image.

And then the spiral started.

Was this temporary for him? Convenient? Were you just… easy? Familiar? Someone warm to come back to until the next blonder, bustier, simpler woman caught his eye?

The thought twisted in your gut, cold and relentless.

You felt stupid for even thinking it. You liked to believe you knew Dean better than that. But it stuck under your skin, festered, made you reckless, made you push harder during the hunt than you should’ve.

And now you were hurt.

Dean didn’t know that part. He didn’t know how deep it went.

He probably thought your silence on the drive back was just pain and exhaustion settling in after a long, brutal day. And you let him believe it, because right now, you didn’t trust what might come out of your mouth if you tried to talk. You needed space. Time to think. Time to decide how to approach it without everything spilling out wrong.

But the universe, it seemed, was hell-bent on throwing curveballs your way.

Baby’s engine rattled suddenly, the car jolting beneath you both.

Dean stiffened instantly. “C’mon, Baby…” He patted the dash, like a comforting hand might coax her through it.

The Impala sputtered again, harsher this time, a violent rattle shuddering through the frame. The dashboard lights flickered once, twice, and the engine gave one final, defeated groan before falling silent altogether.

The sudden quiet was deafening.

The car rolled a few more feet before Dean guided it to the side of the road, snow already swallowing the tires as it settled.

You exhaled slowly, breath fogging in front of you as the heater cut out. Not that it had been doing much to begin with — the age of the car saw to that. The cold crept in immediately, sharp and invasive.

“Well,” you muttered, curling in on yourself. “That’s just great.”

Dean twisted the key. Nothing.

He tried again. Dead.

“Shit.” He blew out a breath and tugged his jacket tighter before slipping out of the car. The door opening alone dragged what little warmth remained with it, replaced instantly by an arctic bite.

You could barely make him out through the blowing snow as he rounded the hood, cursing under his breath while he checked beneath it. Another sharp “fuck” carried back to you, confirmation settling in your gut that you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

He shut the hood and hurried back inside, the cold following him despite his speed. He rubbed his hands together, breathing warm air into them before leaning back with a frustrated huff.

“Looks like she’s done,” he said quietly. “Too damn cold out here.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and uncomfortable.

“Awesome.” You said through chattering teeth, “Man it’s freezing.”

Dean glanced at you, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Well,” he said, voice smooth despite the cold, “I might know a way to help with that.”

Something in you twisted, sharp and ugly.

“Don’t.” You pulled away before he could reach for you.

The word came out harsher than you meant it to, snapping through the small space of the car.

Dean stilled, blinking in surprise. “Hey—” His voice softened instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned closer instead, hand hovering uncertainly near your arm. “Is it your ribs? Your neck?”

“I’m fine,” you said, clipped and cold.

Dean frowned. He knew that tone. It set his teeth on edge. “Okay.” He said slowly, choosing his words. “Then what is it? Because you’ve been like this since we left town.”

You scoffed, turning toward the window again. Snow battered the glass relentlessly.

Dean exhaled, running a hand over his face. “C’mon. Don’t shut me out like that. What’s wrong?”

That did it.

You turned on him, anger flaring hot and sudden, cutting through the cold. “You,” you snapped. “You’re what’s wrong.”

Dean froze. “Me?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” you continued, voice shaking now, pain bleeding through the edge of your anger. “Don’t sit there and act like you actually care.” You were being a tad dramatic, but you were cold, in pain and he was making you feel crazy.

His confusion was immediate, written all over his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw you, Dean,” you said quietly. “Earlier. At the bar. With the witness.”

Recognition flickered across his expression a beat later. He shook his head. “That? I was just doing my job. Getting information — like we always do.”

“And getting her personal cell number was vital information?” you shot back.

He blinked, stunned. “That’s not—” He stopped, choosing his words carefully. “It wasn’t like that. I swear.”

You scoffed, turning slightly away.

“No,” he pressed, leaning closer now, voice earnest. “Honestly i forgot about it the second we sat down. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t want it. It didn’t mean anything.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

But the day had been too long, your body hurt too much, and the image of him letting her touch him still burned behind your eyes.

And so you shoved the door open, cutting him of before he could continue.

The cold hit you like a wall, sharp and brutal, snow stinging your face as you stepped out into the storm.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Dean demanded, panic edging his voice as he scrambled out after you.

You pointed down the road, toward the faint glow you’d noticed earlier, the only break in the endless stretch of white, the one lonely house on this godforsaken road. “There’s a house. I saw it a few minutes back.”

“It’s a blizzard,” he argued, already moving toward you anyway. “You can’t just walk off like this.”

You turned on him, words spilling out raw and unfiltered. “I’d rather take my chances out here than be stuck in that car with you right now.”

The sentence hung between you, heavy and irreversible.

Dean stopped short.

You saw it then, the way his shoulders slumped, the hurt flashing openly across his face before he could shove it down.

Guilt crashed into you instantly, sharp and sickening. But you didn’t take it back.

Instead, you turned away from him and began walking in the direction of the house.

It didn’t take long before you heard his footsteps following, the crunch of snow beneath both your boots the only sound left in the white, suffocating silence.

As you finally approached the house, you were frozen down to the bone.

The porch light cut a soft, golden circle through the snow, a small mercy against the endless white. Your fingers were numb, breath shallow as you climbed the steps and knocked, knuckles stinging with the effort.

The door opened slowly, and an older woman peered out, cautious at first.

“Hi,” you said quickly, words tumbling out through chattering teeth. “I’m so sorry to bother you this late, but our car broke down just up the road. There’s no service out here, and the storm’s getting worse. We didn’t know where else to go.”

It was only half a lie, you had known where else to go, but the heat spilling through the narrow gap in the door was already thawing your resolve. Suddenly, this felt like the only right choice.

The woman took one look at you, snow dusting your hair, your cheeks flushed raw from the cold, then glanced past you to where Dean stood a few steps back, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“Oh, you poor things,” she said immediately, concern softening her features. She was short, bundled into a thick knit sweater, her auburn hair cut short and permed in a way that spoke of another decade. The lines on her face were deep but kind, worn by years of smiling rather than worry.

“Come in, come in. Let’s get you out of that cold before you freeze solid.”

She pulled the door open wider and ushered you inside, already calling over her shoulder, “Honey! We’ve got company.”

Warmth wrapped around you the second you crossed the threshold, thick, comforting, almost dizzying. The smell of woodsmoke and something savoury hung in the air. You sagged slightly as the door shut behind you, cutting off the howl of the storm.

“We really can’t thank you enough,” Dean said earnestly as a man appeared from the adjoining room.

He was tall, nearly Dean’s height, but softened by a round belly and broad shoulders. A full grey beard framed his warm, ruddy face, and his eyes crinkled with easy kindness as he smiled at you both.

“Well, you’re safe now,” he said gently. “I’m Alan. This is Beverly.”

“I’m Dean,” he replied, shaking Alan’s hand before turning to Beverly. You followed, offering your name too.

It didn’t take more than a minute for Beverly to start fussing, the way only someone who had spent a lifetime taking care of others could. She’d already began brewing some tea, clucked softly at the state of your coat, and draped thick blankets over both your shoulders before steering you toward the couch by the fire.

“Sit,” she insisted kindly. “Both of you. Get some heat back in those bones.”

You sank down with a quiet exhale, the warmth slowly seeping back into your limbs, painful and welcome all at once. Dean sat beside you, close but careful, his knee brushing yours as he accepted his mug.

Conversation came easily after that. They asked where you were headed, nodded along as you answered carefully, filling the gaps with gentle stories of their own. It was… nice. Comforting in a way that caught you off guard.

At one point, Beverly smiled at the two of you over the rim of her cup. “You two married?”

You startled slightly. “No—” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, we’re not.”

Beverly chuckled softly. “My apologies. You just make a good looking couple.”

You offered a small smile in return and then stared into the fire, watching the flames curl and snap. From the corner of your eye, you saw Dean’s mouth twitch, almost a smile, before it fell, something unreadable crossing his face before he tucked it away.

They told you about moving out here a couple years ago, how they’d traded the noise of town life for quiet mornings and long winters. How the snow didn’t bother them anymore.

Eventually, as the wind rattled the windows harder, Alan cleared his throat.

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” he offered. “Blizzard should pass by morning. I’ve got some things that might be able to help you get that car started once the cold eases up.”

“Thank you,” Dean said sincerely. “We really appreciate it.”

By the time Alan finished his story about digging the fireplace out by hand during their first winter, your social battery was well and truly dead. The adrenaline from the storm had worn off, leaving only exhaustion and the dull, persistent ache in your ribs.

You shifted slightly, blanket slipping from your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I think I might turn in, if that’s okay.”

Beverly’s face softened immediately, like she’d been waiting for it. “Of course, sweetheart. You look done in.”

She was already on her feet, ushering you and Dean down the short hallway. The house creaked gently beneath your steps, warm and lived-in, the kind of quiet that felt earned.

“The bathroom’s just down there,” Beverly said, pointing. “Fresh towels are under the sink. And—” she hesitated, then smiled, already opening a dresser in the guest room, “my kids left plenty of clothes behind over the years. These should fit well enough for sleeping.”

She handed you a soft cotton shirt and a pair of lounge pants, then passed Dean something similar, fussing all the while. “Nothing fancy, but they’re clean and warm.”

“Thank you,” you said again, meaning it more than you could put into words.

Beverly squeezed your hand, a brief, grounding touch, before leaving you both alone. “Get some rest.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence settled in, thick and fragile.

The room was small but cozy, lit by a single lamp that cast everything in amber. A quilted bed sat beneath the window, the blankets neatly folded, smelling faintly of lavender and clean linen.

You set the clothes down and tried to change, but the moment you lifted your arms, pain shot through your side. You sucked in a sharp breath, fingers trembling as you struggled with your shirt.

You felt Dean shift behind you, hesitate, and then ask,  “can I help?” His voice was careful. Gentle. Like he was afraid of spooking you. 

You paused, pride warring briefly with exhaustion, then you nodded, once.

He moved slowly, helping ease the fabric away from your skin, his hands warm and steady, but never lingering too long. 

When the shirt finally slipped free, his breath hitched.

The bruise along your ribs was dark and ugly, spreading like a storm cloud across your skin.

“Jesus,” he whispered. You could feel his eyes burning into you skin, and turned to see his furrowed brow, the sadness in his eyes. 

“I Hate seeing you like this.” He confessed, voice cracking, just barely. 

You opened your mouth to brush it off, but he kept going, words tumbling out now, raw and unguarded.

“Every time you get hurt, it—it messes me up,” he admitted. “Because all I can think about is losing you. And that thought?” He shook his head. “It wrecks me.”

Your throat tightened.

“What you saw today,” he said suddenly, shaking his head again, frustration lacing his words. “That woman— none of it meant anything. I swear to you. I was acting out of habit and didn’t even think about it like that, and i’m so sorry.”

Whatever fight you’d been clinging to finally drained out of you, leaving only the ache underneath.

“I wasn’t mad about the number,” you admitted softly. “Not really. I was scared.” You met his eyes. “Because I don’t know where I stand with you, Dean. And the more I care, the more it feels like I’m losing my footing.”

He stepped closer. “You’ve got me,” he said immediately. “You’ve always had me.”

You let out a weak, but relieved laugh, tears stinging your eyes. 

“You’re making me a little crazy,” you said, then really looked at him — this man who’d been in your life for nearly a decade. Not always steady. Not always close. But always there.

And suddenly, the truth landed.

“I think…” your voice shook, but you didn’t look away, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hung there, terrifying and freeing all at once.

Dean didn’t hesitate.

He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes, his forehead resting against yours. “I love you too,” he breathed. “I’ve been trying not to say it. Trying not to need it. But it’s there. It’s always been there.”

You smiled through tears, and he kissed you then, slow and careful, like you were relearning each other. His hands stayed steady at your waist, grounding, reassuring. The kind of touch that said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

You melted into him, the last of the tension you’d been holding onto finally slipping away.

The kiss deepened slowly, unhurried, like you were both savouring it — like you were finally allowing yourselves to feel everything you’d been holding back. All the hurt, the jealousy, the fear from earlier softened and dissolved, replaced by the warmth of him, the steadiness of his hands, the simple truth of this.

When he guided you back toward the bed, it was with the same care he’d shown all night, one hand firm at your waist, the other warm against your back, checking in with every movement, every breath.

He eased you down onto the mattress like you were something precious.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured against your skin as he hovered over you, breath warm and steady.

You nodded, fingers curling into his shirt to pull him closer instead, answering him with a deeper, more urgent kiss as he settled his weight carefully against you.

The rest of your clothes were shed slowly, his hands never rushing, never careless, until there was nothing left between you. When he finally eased inside you, it was gentler than he’d ever been before, cautious but reverent. You welcomed him instinctively, arms tightening around him, holding him close as he began to move.

His rhythm was slow, deep, mindful of every breath you took, every small sound you made. Enough to make you feel him completely. Enough to remind you that you were safe, wanted, chosen.

Your skin prickled, your heart thudding hard in your chest as he surrounded you, body and soul. You clung to him, his shoulders, his hair, anywhere you could reach, grounding yourself as he brought you closer to the edge.

His breath was hot and uneven against your neck, hands tangling in your hair, grasping at your uninjured flesh as he murmured quiet praises meant only for you.

The cold from earlier was long gone now, replaced by heat, desire, want, need, curling deep in your bones.

You held him to you as you came, burying your broken gasps against his skin as pleasure rolled through you in thick, overwhelming waves. He followed not long after, body tensing, movements faltering as he gave himself over completely, panting your name as he did.

And in the quiet that followed, wrapped around each other, it felt less like escape, and more like coming home.

Later, once you were tucked into bed beneath layers of quilts, Dean curled around you instinctively, one arm wrapped securely around your middle, careful of your ribs. Your head rested on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmured sleepily.

Dean hummed in response, nuzzling into the top of your head, his arm tightening around you just a little.

“Did you ever picture something like this?” you asked softly. “You know… moving somewhere quiet. A house. Growing old with someone?”

He was quiet for a moment, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along your arm.

“Not really,” he admitted, and you tilted your head to look up at him, curious.

“By the time I was old enough to think about stuff like that,” he continued, “we were already knee-deep in hunting. Cases. Always on the move. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.” He let out a slow breath. “Even when I did try… you know how that went.”

You nodded, listening, a small ache settling in your chest.

“But with you,” he went on, voice softer now, more vulnerable as he hooked a finger under your chin, and met your gaze. “I’ve thought about it. I let myself imagine it. Even if it never happens… when I picture happy?” His fingers brushed softly against your cheek. “It’s you.”

Tears welled before you could stop them. He brushed them away gently with his thumb, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s you for me too, y’know” you whispered honestly.

He leaned down then, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, slow, warm, full of quiet contentment.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But you knew this much: home was never going to be a place.

It was the man holding you.

And that, you thought, was enough.

A/N: I know i’m severely lacking with the content atm, i’m very aware of my overflowing WIP’s folder 🥴. I’m trying, albeit slowly, to get through it, finish off some pieces that are long overdue. Those who are still sticking with me, and patient. I appreciate each and every one of you, and hope to continue getting back to posting, reading, etc more regularly. Love you all X

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Dean Winchester Tag List:

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@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

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@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

Still being relatively new to the life that the boys lead, the first few months of traveling with the brothers were an…interesting experience. From the banter and bickering to the scenic views of all that America has to offer flying past the rear window as you sat watching the world go by, there was always something to keep your attention. This included the somewhat limited selection of classic rock making up Dean’s cassette tape collection. 

As much as you enjoyed the music he played, the longer you traveled with them, the more you began to realize that the collection would benefit from a new addition. So with Dean’s birthday fast approaching, you began drafting a plan to somehow purchase a new cassette tape for him. It would have to be “new to him”, as you weren’t sure if they even made cassettes anymore. Sam had made that point a time or two when trying to convince his brother to update ‘Baby’s’ tape deck to something from the current millenia at the very least. 

Living the lifestyle of hunters and being together so often, it is difficult to find alone time with which to do something like this, but fate seemed to be on your side, as the perfect opportunity landed directly in your lap, albeit under some rather gruesome circumstances. 

In a small college town in rural Pennsylvania, female students kept disappearing from parties just off campus only to reappear days later in pieces in the pastures of local farmers. The latest student that met her end to this unknown creature was a music major who happened to work at a small record store in town. 

‘What are the odds?’ you thought to yourself.

Sitting across the table from Sam in the diner down the street from the college, you listened as he described the facts of the case. You knew this would be your chance. “Someone’s going to need to visit the record store. See if anybody she worked with might have a clue as to why she was targeted by whatever this thing is,” Sam explains. Seeing your opening, you speak up.

“I’ll go,” you volunteer. “Maybe they’ll be willing to tell me more if I look like I could be a future target.”

Your excuse seems straight forward enough to be believable. Sam seems satisfied, but Dean is not quite convinced. 

“You sure you want to go by yourself? Not that I think you can’t handle it, sweetheart, but you do have a point about being this beastie’s target demographic.” 

‘He does have a point,’ you think to yourself. Choosing to deflect his concern in a playful way, you reply teasingly, “You sure you don’t just want to take a trip to a record store?” Not waiting for his reply you continue, “I’ll be fine. I promise. Besides, I’m sure Sam would appreciate your input at the crimescenes. Right?” At this, you look to Sam, trying to convince him silently (almost telepathically so) to agree with your assertion. 

“Yeah sure. It probably would look better if a team showed up to investigate rather than a lone cop.” Sam replied. With that, it seemed like you had managed to convince Dean to let you take this one by yourself. Paying for your meals, you left the diner and piled back into the Impala. 

Arriving at the record store, Dean pulled into a parking space located near the back of the building, out of sight of the main entrance. Turning in his seat, his eyes land on you with a look of pride mixed with a hint of that concern from earlier that he hasn’t been able to completely put to rest. You know he’s proud of you. Why wouldn’t he be? The love of his life is a total badass who he can depend on to do the job, do it well, and come back alive every time. But there is always that little voice in the back of his head that whispers, ‘What if this time is different? What if her luck runs out this time? What if this time…is the last time?’ 

But each time, you knowingly silence those poisonous thoughts with a soft kiss, to which Sam always makes a face of mild disgust, and a quick, “I’ll be fine.”

“You better be,” he replies with a smirk, “Now, go get ‘em, tiger. Call if you need anything, okay?” 

Climbing out of the car, you nod, bundling your coat around your form to brace yourself against the January chill as you make your way around the corner of the building and out of sight. Upon entering the record store, the smell of dust and age floods over you. A little bell tinkles above your head announcing your arrival as you cross the threshold into the hole-in-the-wall storefront that seems to have been lost to time itself.  Amidst rows of meticulously arranged CDs, records, and other music related merchandise, an older graying man stands crouched near a box of what looked like new shirts he was attempting to fold and shelve for sale. The man looks up upon hearing the sound of the bell.

“Hey there!” He greets you warmly, “Let me know if you need any help.”

Seizing the opportunity, you respond, “Yeah actually. I could use your help. I was wondering if you could help me with something.” You proceed to explain your situation to the man. Telling him you were on the hunt for the perfect cassette tape for your Led Zeppelin loving boyfriend, and asking him if he could help you in this endeavour. Using your actual request as an impromptu cover story, you find subtle ways to sneak in questions about his former employee. 

Leading you through the shop’s collection of cassette tapes, the man’s wrinkled fingers stilled on a particular, unlabeled case. Pulling the tape out of the stack, he turns it over a few times in his hands, before he says, “Yeah, this will be perfect.” Sensing your confusion, he continues, “So this tape is actually a mix of songs from different albums that were never officially put on tape before.” He opens the case and pulls out the small slip of paper that lies behind the tape, serving as a makeshift setlist, and hands it to you. Among the songs on the list, one stood out to you immediately: ‘Traveling Riverside Blues’ by Led Zeppelin. 

Seeing one of Dean’s favorite songs of all time surrounded by other great songs in the lineup, you felt giddy. ‘This would be the perfect gift,’ you thought to yourself. “I’ll take it!” Quickly you begin counting out the cash needed to pay the man, but he suddenly stops you. 

“Don’t worry about it,” the man says, putting the tape into your hands and patting them as they close around it. “Nobody buys tapes anymore, you’re doing me a favor. And if this boyfriend of yours will appreciate it and enjoy it, then it will have been worth it for me.” There is a kindness in the man’s smile that wrinkles the skin around his eyes, giving him the look of a grandfather lovingly imparting a piece of himself, his music, to the next generation so that it can be enjoyed for years to come. 

Thanking the man profusely, you make your way back out into the cold, tucking the case into the interior wallet pocket of your leather jacket as you go. Walking quickly through the frigid chill, you make your way toward the main street where you had agreed to meet the boys upon completing your individual fact-finding missions.

The day of Dean’s birthday came in like a lamb, so quiet you would almost miss it, and maybe that was by design. Over the years, Dean had become accustomed to ignoring his feelings in favor of providing for the needs of those around him, namely you and his brother. Always making sure to celebrate Sam in his own way, to make his day special, the way his father was meant to. But somewhere along the way, celebrating his own birthday had become more of a chore than it was worth in his eyes. The growing number of twinkling candles shined less brightly when you lit them for yourself. The magic died for Dean, and for all intents and purposes he had accepted it. What else could he do? In his mind, it was better to keep moving. To celebrate things that deserved celebration. He’ll just get himself a beer in the next town they pass through and call it a day, he thought to himself. 

As luck would have it, it just so happened that the 24th of January fell perfectly at the end of a case you had been working in Minnesota, leaving you with a decent drive back to the bunker. Sam decided to sit this one out, preferring to continue researching the next big bad on the radar, leaving you and Dean alone to handle the call together. The case in question was a simple salt-and-burn, albeit unheard of anymore in the midst of the angel/demon pissing contest you seem to have found yourselves in the middle of as of late. It was refreshing to return to your hunting roots for a change. 

But even more refreshing was the time alone you got to spend with Dean. You had to admit, even after all this time, seeing him work still gives you butterflies. Watching him charm witnesses out of their silence, cleaning and assembling weapons with the practiced grace of a soldier, and don’t even start about how good that man looked digging up that spirit’s remains, all sweaty and dirty singing Journey to no one in particular in a key all his own (or perhaps no key at all) while you kept watch. All the while the tape sat, wrapped in a bit of newspaper that you found, in your jacket pocket, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

Said perfect opportunity arrived with the dawn, as it was time to hit the road again. ‘Wanted to get home and help Sammy with his research,’ he claimed. Really he just wanted to get moving again, never staying idle for too long, lest he drown in his own thoughts and remember what day it was. 

As you loaded the last of your belongings into the back seat, you pondered what you would say. How does one best approach the celebration of someone who has spent practically their whole life avoiding being celebrated, whether intentionally or not? Though your intentions are good, you cannot help but worry. Would he be upset with you for bringing it up? Was there a reason he seemed so intent to let the day go by without a word like any other would?

Sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, you decide now is the time. This way, if he enjoyed the gift, he would be able to listen to the tape on the long drive home. Deciding all of the equipment was properly stored, Dean slammed ‘Baby’s’ trunk and came to sit beside you on the driver’s side. Putting his key in and sparking the ignition, you decide it is now or never. 

“Hey D. Can you wait for a second? I just-I just want to talk about something.” 

“Sure, sweetheart. What’s going on? Everything okay?” Dean replies, clearly worried by the sudden need to talk. In his experience, when a woman says she needs to talk, it never goes well.

“I know we’ve been together for a while, and…I’ve never brought it up before,” you begin pensively. All of your would-be preparation for this conversation seemingly leaves your head as soon as Dean looks at you with those eyes of his. Full of patience and concern. ‘Dammit! Why does he have to be so good at that?’ you think. 

“Hey, it’s okay. Alright? No need to let me down gently. I can take it,” Dean offers with what is clearly a pained chuckle in an attempt to seem okay with whatever he thinks you are about to say. 

In that moment you realize that through your hesitance, Dean has arrived at a very different conclusion about where this conversation is headed than you had intended. 

“No! My God-no! I didn’t mean-ugh!” you sputter, a hand coming to cradle your brow in annoyance at your own ineptitude. “No, D. I don’t want to break up with you! I would never do that on your birthday.”

Dean freezes in his seat, out of neither shock nor fear alone, but maybe some mixture of the two. At the mention of his birthday, a number of thoughts pull his brain in different directions at once. 

First out of the gate is, ‘It’s my birthday?’ After all of these years of avoidance, it was almost easy to unintentionally convince himself he did not have one. 

Following closely behind is, ‘Is it really my birthday?’ Not too long ago, in his mind at least, the two of you had been snuggled up together in his man cave watching a nostalgic horror movie marathon for Halloween. Sam manned the mini popcorn machine and Dean was in charge of the remote, a duty he took on with the utmost enthusiasm, not at all unlike a middle aged dad with a thermostat. It had been an attempt to introduce Cas to what, in Dean’s humble opinion at least, were some of the best movies ever made as part of his ‘humanity training’ as it had lovingly come to be called. The cute little family bonding moment was a memory that he would cherish forever.

And entering Dean’s mind last, ‘How does she know about my birthday?’ Dean is sure he never mentioned it to you. Maybe Sammy said something? ‘No,’ he thinks. ‘I doubt if he even remembers. Then again, the kid always was good with numbers.’

During his whole internal monologue, you could only watch as the questions flickered across his face in rapid succession. Part of you wanted to intervene, but you didn’t even know what to say. How can you talk someone into moving through years of repressed disappointment?

“I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t have brought it up. I-” Dean cut you off quickly. 

“No. No, it’s okay sweetheart. Really. I’m fine,” he said, as if saying it aloud would somehow make him believe it too. 

“I’m sorry,” you reiterated. “I meant to do this gently, but I screwed it all up.” You pause, taking a steadying breath. Your hand moves to your jacket pocket, taking out the little wrapped package with a crudely tied bow. “Anyway, I…just wanted to give you this. Happy Birthday, Dean.” You held out the gift with lightly shaking hands, waiting with bated breath to see whether or not he would accept it. 

Dean looks stunned. A gift? For him? Someone he loves went out of their way to get him a gift for his birthday? He reaches out hesitantly and takes the gift from your hands pausing for the tiniest moment, as if he was unsure whether or not he should. Assessing the small parcel’s weight in his hands, he speaks. 

“You - you didn’t have to do this,” his voice shaking a little, dripping with an unusual humility.

“I know,” you reply firmly in direct contrast to his doubt, “But you deserve it, Dean. You deserve to have someone who cares about you enough to remember and celebrate you. If you don't want it, that’s okay. Just say the word, and I’ll never bring it up again, but I just wanted to- to make sure you knew somebody remembered.”

His bewildered eyes leave yours, moving to focus on the gift in his hands. Slowly, he begins unwrapping it, untying the bow and pulling off the paper, revealing the tape underneath. Because there was no title card inside the case when you bought it, you had come up with the idea to design your own by hand, complete with little doodles next to the track names and a drawing of the band’s classic logo. But the real star of the show was what you put in the back of the case. Turning it over in his hands, Dean was immediately struck by the image that lay before him. 

In the back of the cassette case was a picture of the four of you, his own little family, all laughing and smiling together in a candid image. He momentarily wondered how you were able to get the shot, until he remembered the camera you had found on a tripod back at the bunker. You had been fooling around with it in recent weeks, figuring out how it worked. It turned out it had a recording function, and you were able to take a still image from the recorded film. Though you needed to cut down the edges a bit, it fit the small space perfectly, as if it was meant to be there all along. 

Now, Dean Winchester is not the kind of man who cries out of happiness, but as he pulled you across the leather bench seat and into his arms, you could have sworn you saw a glassy look in his eyes, like the swell of emotion might just make it to the surface. 

“Thank you, baby. Thank you,” Dean murmurs into your shoulder, pressing you to his chest and enveloping you in his warmth. Oh, what you wouldn’t give to keep that feeling forever. To lose yourself wholly in it and never let go. 

It is in that shared moment that you both realize that nothing further needs explaining. No more words have to be said, and after a while, Dean pulled away from the embrace, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead as he opened the tape case. Placing the tape into ‘Baby’s’ radio console, the music begins to play, and Dean returns one hand to the wheel while his other hand remains joined with yours in your lap. You play with his fingers as he pulls out of the parking lot of the motel and onto the highway. Exhaling a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you whisper again, “Happy Birthday, Dean.”

𖤍: Hello again, everyone! I hope you all enjoyed this first attempt at oneshot writing!. I am looking to continue writing one-shots and other short-form fiction, so if you have any requests, please send me a request or a dm. I'd love to hear from you! :) Also, please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag list so you never miss an update!

—

Sam wipes his eyes as he stands over your bed.

It’s your actual bed, and not one at a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere. It’s unfortunately humid since it’s creeping toward the middle of August, but Sam doesn’t care. It’s a pretty special occasion — you’re taking a break from hunting for a few days.

He’d been beyond surprised when you’d told him. Catching you at your house during the summer was near impossible with the way your parents ran you around the country, so all your free weekends were taken advantage of.

John had dragged him and Dean to a case just a state over from yours, and Sam had realized it was the closest they’d been to your house in a while. The second the bones had gone up in a pile of salty flames, he was halfway to the nearest bus station and on his way to your city.

The bus pulled in late, and the long walk to your neighborhood meant Sam arrived even later. He wondered if your parents were home and decided he hoped they wouldn’t be. The last thing he wanted them to see was the pitiful sight of him walking through their front door at four in the morning.

And despite the way you insisted it wasn’t true, Sam knew your parents didn’t like him. He’d probably be seeing the barrel of your mom’s revolver before he saw her smile at him.

(“It’s not smart to be telling people the code to your house alarm.”

You laugh in that girly way you do sometimes. Sam imagines you twirling the coiled wire of your phone cord and his throat runs dry.

“Come on. It’s just you, Sam. And how else are you going to sneak into my house?”

Your parents change the code to disarm the alarm every two weeks as a precautionary measure, and you never forget to update him everytime it changes. Sam thinks it’s sweet, but the both of you know he’s barely lucky enough to get the time to call you. The stars would have to align for him to come visit.

“I’ll go in through your window,” Sam says.

There’s a small lift in your voice. “I’ll make sure to double check it’s not you when I throw a knife at the freak climbing up the side of my house.”)

Zero-five-zero-two-eight-three, you’d told him last week.

He’d gone silent on the other end when the numbers clicked in his mind — his birthday. The code to your house right now was his birthday.

Your dad had been too busy to set it, so you’d done it yourself, using the first six numbers that came to mind.

His birthday, apparently.

Sam tries not to think about it too hard.

But now he’s here, standing over your bed and trying not to pass out from exhaustion on your carpet.

Your room looks slightly different from the last time he visited. The walls are a new shade of your favorite color, and the old desk that was in the corner has been replaced with a vanity. There’s pictures of your hometown friends pinned all around the glass, but there’s a few photos he does recognize.

One is from your ninth birthday. Dean had smashed your cake in your face, as expected from the then thirteen-year-old, and you’d clocked him with your fist a second after. The photo was taken post-punch, and you’re grinning through the frosting on your eyes while Dean clutches his face.

The other picture is of you and him from when you were both about twelve. He’s sitting between your legs, laying against your stomach with your American Girl doll in his lap. He’s braiding her hair using the instructions in an old book of yours, and you’d shoved the camera in his face before he could stop you. The photo captured him glaring into the lens of the camera, his thick brown hair pulled into two pigtails on top of his head.

It’s nearly cut out of the frame, but you’re smiling so hard behind him it makes your entire face light up. It’s one of Sam’s favorite pictures of you.

Now, you’re a lump on your full sized mattress, a new step up from your trusty twin bed. The blanket thrown over you has little flowers on it that match your bedsheets, which he already knows you’re very proud of. Still asleep, you roll over onto your back, and that exhaustion from earlier comes back with a vengeance.

Sam drops his jacket onto the heap of clothes on your chair and works to unzip his jeans before his legs give out.

If you were awake, you’d slap him on the back for that, a teasing grin on your face. “I would’ve brought some cash if I knew you were going to strip for me!” you would probably say, like a menace.

He can’t wait for you to wake up so you can annoy him even more.

Sam’s left in a pair of boxers and a baseball t-shirt from a supermarket in Pennsylvania, sweating even in your air conditioning. When he lifts the covers off the bed, he freezes.

You’re wearing a shirt he’d given to you as a souvenir a few months ago. A movie theater in Jersey they helped with their ghost problem gave them a free shirt in return. The cartoon penguin smiles at him now, balancing on one foot with his arms out, like he’s surfing. Sam smiles back while he settles in next to you.

Now that your bed is bigger, there’s more than enough room for the both of you, which is good since it’s so hot out. It means there’s no need to sleep piled up like you had to in the past.

…but Sam hasn’t seen you since that time your families had run into each other in New Mexico, and he hasn’t slept with you like this since you’d been home during your finals week a few months ago.

Under the eye of the penguin on your shirt, he slides one arm below your side pinned to the bed and uses it to pull you against him.

You complain up a storm, even asleep, but settle down quickly. He wonders if you’ll kick him in your sleep again, claiming you were dreaming of being a soccer player.

With your face pressed to the spot between Sam’s arm and shoulder, he listens intently to the nonsensical string of words you mumble out against his skin. Your musings only get more muffled as you press even further into him, throwing your arm over his torso and staying there.

Sam’s hand kindly soothes over your hip, where your shorts have little pink clouds printed on them.

“Woah,” you grumble, dragging out the word. Your hand flexes and then clenches into the fabric of his shirt. “Woah.”

His eyes dart to you embarrassingly fast, guilty for disturbing you but more than excited that you’re awake. Your voice always sounds sweeter in person than it does over the phone.

When he finds your face in the darkness, he realizes your eyes are still shut. Sam runs his hand up your side, warm with sleep. “Hey. You okay?”

Your mouth twitches into a frown. “My friend. My friend’ll do it.”

Oh, he realizes. You’re just sleep talking.

“Okay,” he answers quietly. He wants to hear your voice again, but he also wants you to go back to sleep. You only really mumble like this when you’re about to wake up from a dream. “Sorry,” Sam adds, though he’s not sure what for.

Your face screws up, but then you sigh sweetly against his chest. “Dean?”

(Even when Sam dreams of this, he still feels like you’ve beaten him over the head with that single word.)

You’re dreaming, all right. Of his older brother.

“You gotta get rid of it,” you complain, a pout pulling at your lips.

“He will,” Sam agrees, just to appease you. Thankfully, the worry lines on your face flatten out, and you move yourself even closer to him.

You’re quiet for a few seconds, so Sam closes his eyes, squeezing your shoulder in hopes you go back to sleep.

It doesn’t work, though.

You jolt up and practically launch yourself off the bed, nearly slipping on your hardwood floor before you grab onto your bedside table.

Sam calls for you, but you don’t seem to hear him, busy fumbling in the dark for the lightswitch. He leans over and flicks on the lamp, flooding your room with warm, yellow light. “You okay?” he asks.

The way you spin towards him is comically slow, like you’re being spun in a microwave. There’s a crease on your cheek from being pressed to your pillow for so long, and your eyes are barely open. Sam laments the heartbreaking fact that he can’t see you everyday.

Within the next second, he’s being flattened back against your pillows. You’re by his side so quickly, he’s half inclined to ask you if you’ve gained the ability to teleport.

He squeezes your hip. You take the hint and loosen your hug.

“Sam!” you say, at a volume much too loud for four in the morning. You don’t say anything when he tries shushing you, too busy flitting your hands over whatever parts of him they can reach, laughter spilling from your lips. “You’re here!”

“Took you long enough to realize,” he teases. “I could’ve been some kinda killer, and you would’ve gone on sleeping.”

“What kind of killer would have a face as sweet as yours?” You’re kneeling over him now, smiling so wide it makes Sam feel winded. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” he says, matching your smile. “Do you wake up from all your dreams like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve been electrocuted.”

You smile. “I think my brain knew you were here. Made me wake up so I could say hi.”

Sam kisses your forehead. “Hi. Thank you to your brain.”

“Hi. And you’re welcome.”

The two of you sit like that for a little bit, taking in the sight of the other’s face for the first time in months. You seem to enjoy his new haircut, and he studies the new scar going down your bicep while you tell him the story about how you got it.

When the recount of how you were thrown out of a window starts turning into more yawns than words, he pulls you back down to the bed.

“How are you?” he asks, like he hadn’t just asked you that this morning.

Your tongue darts over your chapped lips. “Good. Missed you a lot,” you say, for the second time in the past five minutes.

“Your parents are—they’re good too?” he asks, stuttering over his words.

Whatever he feels for you gets stronger every day, but it’s only when he sees you again that he realizes just how much he likes you. He forces his eyes up from your lips and squeezes your side. Sam really wants to kiss you.

You nod, moving his arms around so you can cram yourself as close to him as the world and physics allows. “Yep. Yep, yep, yep. Your dad and Dean?”

Sam hums. “They’re fine. Didn’t even ask where I was going when I took off.”

“You didn’t tell them?”

“I think they know by now. My dad asked about you on the drive back to the motel.”

You’re curled against his left side, your chin resting against his chest so you can stare up at him. It means that his next few intakes of breath have to be done with a lot of careful thought.

“Can I just come join you guys?” you ask, and Sam’s surprised he can’t hear any hint of a joke in your voice. “I’m sick of missing you all the time.”

He makes a fist, and uses his knuckles to drag circles over your back from the hills of your shoulder blades to the jut of your hip bones.

Sam laughs. “I don’t think you’d want that.” He can tell you’re about to argue until he adds, “Moving in with my dad, that is. You know what he’s like.”

“I’d put up with it for you, though,” you say honestly.

“He treats you like shit,” he stresses. “And he likes you. Maybe it’d be better if I moved in with you instead.”

You push yourself onto your forearm so you can give him a real serious look. There’s a sore spot on his cheek from where he’d gotten shoved into a wall by some spirit, and somehow, you know.

You caress his face, dragging the pads of your fingers over it. Sam makes a weird sound in his throat, something like a hiccup, and you thankfully don’t smile too hard about it.

Sam decides that it’s probably best for his health that you don’t see each other too often. He knows without a doubt that his heart would give out if he felt any stronger about you. He soaks up the warmth of your hand on his face before you let it drop to his collarbones.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You lean down to press a kiss to his cheek before shifting your face into his shoulder. “Just appreciating your pretty face. If you moved in, I think my parents would have your head on a stake by the end of the week.”

It startles a laugh out of him. He can’t quite look you in the eyes because you’re trying to hide from him, but he tries to anyway. “Are you serious?”

“I’m sorry!” you groan, using one of your free hands to push at his face. “I thought they liked you, I really did. But my mom found out what I changed the alarm code to and made me clean every single gun in that stupid closet.”

Cruel and unusual. “All ‘cause of me?”

You think long and hard about it. “I think it was part of it. She was also mad because I forgot to do the dishes last week, so it could’ve been that, too.”

Your parents have quite the array of weapons. The jacket closet turned armory in your living room has enough rifles to arm half the state of Kansas, and Sam thinks about what a sad sight it would’ve been: you on the floor with a cleaning rod in hand, and about fifty more handguns to wipe down.

“Poor girl,” he says, pulling your palm into his hand. He presses into the calluses you have from where your gun usually sits. “You didn’t suffer too much?”

“Nope,” you say, awfully cheerful. Your next blink is slower than the others, so he resumes his ministrations against your back. You go limp again. “Only cause I… knew you were coming over soon.”

His face warms, but he has to poke fun at you before he lets you fall asleep.

“Sam, my parents love you,” he mocks, letting his voice go quieter. “Come over for dinner, Sam. No, my parents won’t mind, they love having you over.” He smiles at you. “Must be why I gotta show up here before the sun is up, right?”

Your chest stutters before you laugh, which usually means you’re really embarrassed.

The dream ends when he takes pity on you and kisses the spots on your arms you tell him are aching from all your hard work.

—

Dean wakes up that morning to the sight of Sam hunched over the old table in the corner of the room. There’s a pile of newspapers at his feet and one in his hands, which he stares at so intently it looks like he’ll burn a hole through it.

“Y’know, if you keep scowling, your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Sam doesn’t grace him with a glance. It’s clear he’s been up for a few hours already. “I think I got something.”

—

Rachel Anderson and John Hansen were two college kids from the suburbs of Virginia. Both were from respectable families, both were straight A students, and both were well-loved by the community.

Two nights ago, John left family movie night to shoot himself in his backyard. And last night, Rachel drowned herself in her bathtub during a sleepover with her friends. In the center of their bedroom floors were identical suicide notes. Each in their own handwriting, but not a single difference in wording or sentence structure.

Sam has to park the car down the block when they arrive outside Rachel Anderson’s house. The street leading up to the building is lined with shiny new cars — Mercedes, Lexus, and BMW logos as far as the eye can see — making the Impala stick out like a sore thumb.

Dean cranes his neck to look up at the houses on the same street as the Andersons. Pretty suburban towns like these scare him a little more than he’s willing to admit.

He whistles. “Didn’t know they made BarbieLand a real place.”

Sam cracks a smile at that. “How many of these people do you think have a membership at that country club down the street?”

The two of them snicker all the way up to the front door. Sam knocks, his brother too busy looking around at the rest of the neighborhood.

“If any of your little college friends have houses as nice as these, maybe we should make a quick visit the next time we’re in California,” Dean jokes, eyeing a neighboring pool.

Sam stops rolling his eyes because the door swings open, and he plasters on his most sympathetic smile for whatever grieving family member is on the other side of the door.

It’s a guy about his age, wearing a crisp black sweater. The dark circles under his eyes make it clear he was close with Rachel — a man plagued with grief through and through.

“Hey,” Sam says. “This is Rachel’s house, right?”

The man flicks his eyes from Sam over to Dean, who’s only now looking away from the nice looking houses to join him at the front door.

“Yeah. This is it,” he answers, though he still doesn’t open the door fully. The three of them stare at each other for an awkward second before the guy clears his throat. “If you guys don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

“I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean,” he explains. “Me and Rachel had psych together. She saved my grade in that class last semester.”

Sam’s not surprised at how easy the lie rolls off his tongue. Lying is almost as important to the job as the guns in their trunk are.

The man, satisfied with the answer, lets the door creak open. “Oh, I see. I’m Will. Thanks for coming, you two. Everyone’s out in the backyard.”

A girl’s voice floats to the front door from somewhere nearby. “Will, is it Deb?”

William Anderson was mentioned in the article about Rachel’s death. He’s the girl’s older brother, who pivots to face the girl speaking from behind him.

“These are friends from Rachel’s psychology class,” he says, stepping out of the doorway.

Olivia Anderson was mentioned in the paper too. The youngest child of the family, just a year younger than her older sister. For a second, Sam thinks he’s hallucinating. She looks just like her and a little like Will too, down to their twin black sweaters.

A different voice responds, and something about it makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up. “Psych class? Rachel didn’t—”

The closest Sam can get to describing this moment is like the seconds before a spirit manifests. His heart kicks up a little bit quicker. Alarms ring in his head, and the area around the Andersons’ front door turns electrified.

It’s you.

You get pulled into view by Olivia Anderson, a deer caught in headlights wearing your own matching black sweater.

Sam doesn’t want to blink, certain that your face will shift and it’ll be some sick trick of the light. A dream haunting him even while he’s awake.

“Rachel didn’t what?” Will asks, not suspicious, just curious.

Your mouth opens and closes, like you’re fumbling for something to say, and Sam doesn’t blame you.

For one, you’re going to lie for them. Both him and Dean are beginning to realize that Rachel didn’t take a psychology class at all, and you’re trying to figure out how to twist your sentence into an excuse that makes sense.

And two… you’re standing in front of your best friend who you haven’t spoken to in four years. Sam isn’t surprised that you have nothing to say to him.

“Rachel didn’t like anything about that class,” you decide on, your eyes shifting from Sam to Dean then back again.

You swallow hard. It looks like you’ve—

“—seen a ghost?” you ask, grinning.

The duffel bag in Sam’s hands hits the motel floor, but he’s too stunned to even wince at the sound.

“Looking a little scared there, Sammy,” you tease, pushing yourself off of the old bed in the center of the room. “A little old, too, honestly—”

He’s crossed the room before you can finish your sentence.

You squeak at the impact, your arms being crushed to your sides with the way he captures you in a hug. The two of you stumble two big steps back so you don’t tip over.

“You’re here,” Sam says, like he can’t quite believe it. You manage to work your arms away from your body so you can hug him too. “What are… How did you—”

“Dean finally remembered my phone number,” you joke, squeezing him with a big smile on your face. “I know you guys have to drive out early tomorrow — uh, I guess today, actually — but you know I had to come see you on your birthday, Sam. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”

It’s seven minutes past midnight on the second day of May.

Sam Winchester is eighteen.

“You’re here,” he repeats. He doesn’t bother trying to wipe the smile off his face. “I can’t believe it.”

When Dean had clapped him on the back and told him he’d booked him an extra room for his birthday, Sam was shocked. Birthdays weren’t anything special to either of them, so he’d been thankful, but also very confused. Buying another motel room wasn’t cheap, yet he’d done it anyway.

From the adjoining room next door, Sam’s sure his brother has a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s probably going to hold this over his head forever, claiming how much of a great brother he is, and Sam will let him.

He hasn’t seen you in four months. He thinks he might throw up.

“You drove here all by yourself?” Sam asks you, once the two of you have settled on the bed. He takes a seat cross-legged and both of you pretend like you’re not about halfway into his lap.

“Yep,” you say proudly. “Dean had to teach me how to parallel park over the phone so I would have my license in time.”

Sam’s heart swells ten sizes. “Thank you. I can’t believe you came out all this way.”

You hit him on the shoulder. “Of course. You’re my best friend, did you really think I was gonna miss your eighteenth birthday?”

He leans in close enough to the point that it’d be easy to kiss you. So, so, so easy.

He doesn’t, though, and you don’t push it. You reach for one of his hands in his lap and trace over the ridges of his knuckles, a little smile on your face.

His hair has finally recovered from the Nair that Dean had put in his shampoo a while back, so it hangs just over his eyebrows and curls around his ears again. You blow the brown locks out of his eyes and then smile a little wider.

“I have a gift for you.”

You slink out of his lap, and Sam tries not to frown when you get up to grab your backpack. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Stop worrying,” you chastise, dropping your bag onto the bed to look through. “I’m your actual birthday gift. This one’s just extra, so it’s nothing fancy.”

“You being here is worth more than any fancy thing you could've bought me at a store,” he says, and you brush his hair from his face affectionately.

“I’m happy you think so, Sammy.”

Too wrapped up in the sight of your smile, he forgets to say something about the dumb nickname.

“I got this from the grocery store down the street before you got here.” It’s wrapped in the plastic bag you’d bought it in, but Sam takes it from your hands like it’s made of gold. “Consider this one… supplemental.”

You huddle close while he takes the gift out of the bag and reads it.

“Thirteen Ghosts,” he says, flipping the DVD case over in his hands.

“Figured we could watch a movie together.” You poke his side. “See how funny they make their monsters look.”

This isn’t the first time you and Sam have watched a movie together. There was that one time when you’d watched Notting Hill on your couch, but your parents kept giving him warning looks from in the kitchen and he’d made sure to keep the bowl of popcorn and half of the couch between you two.

And Sam will always hold some level of respect for your parents because they’re your parents, but he could not be more glad to be hundreds of miles away from them right now. Because the second that he comes back from popping the DVD into the player, you’re very kindly asking to spoon, and Sam is not well known for being able to say no to you.

You tuck yourself against his front, and he slips his arms around your middle. You trap his hands there by slotting yours together, tracing over the lines on his hands like a palm reader. Sam watches you while you watch the movie, pretending to follow along with the dialogue and your whispered commentary.

The lights of the TV flicker on the side of your face as you poke fun at the actors, and he’s hit with a wave of anticipatory sadness. Sam prays to whoever’s listening that he never falls asleep. Prays this night lasts forever, and that you don’t have to go home and he doesn’t have to leave in the morning. If the rest of his life is bad horror movies and sleeping next to you, he’d die happy.

You laugh at something that jumps on the screen, and Sam can’t help himself anymore.

When he says your name, he practically winces hearing the sound of his own voice. It’s shaky and nervous, and you shift to look at him with concern in your eyes. One of the actresses screams on screen, and you squeeze his hand that you still haven’t let go of.

“You okay? Did you wanna turn the TV off?”

“I love you.”

You turn to face him completely, and Sam Winchester, the luckiest eighteen-year-old in the world, is able to watch the smile light up your eyes.

You let go of him to hold his face, like he’s something to be treasured. “I love you too, S—”

“—am, and I’m Dean,” his brother says, offering his hand for you to shake.

Your grip looks solid when you reach across the threshold of the Anderson house to take his hand in yours, as if you’re meeting him for the first time.

The whole thing feels like a nightmare.

It’s unnatural to watch your tight lipped smile and awkward shuffling while you stare blankly at Dean. You let go of his hand like he hasn’t pulled you off your couch and taught you how to dance in the middle of your living room. Like he hasn’t let you finish the rest of his food at rundown diners just because you ate yours too fast.

You turn to Sam next, and his stomach does a backflip.

Four years was a long time.

Sam knows he’s not the same person who left you on your front porch. He’d held you for longer than usual that day, and left you with a promise to visit that he hadn’t meant.

He doesn’t think you’re the same girl who was left there either. You look different. A little older, a little more mature.

(At eighteen, you would’ve given him a nasty look for that. “Older? You can’t say that to a girl, Sam.”

“I said you looked older, not old!” he would’ve defended frantically. “There’s a difference!”

“Why the hell would I want to be told I look older, you jerk!”)

And he loves you, but it’s true. You look older, but it means you look as lovely as ever. Grown into yourself and radiant in ways you hadn’t been at eighteen. You look like you’re glowing.

Your hair is also done in a way you never liked to do by yourself. He knows it for a fact, because you’d always complain to him over the phone about it, wondering how he was able to do it for you so nicely.

(He’d always said it was because he was patient and you were clearly not, but it was mostly because he’d practiced it on your old dolls a bunch of times before he’d asked to do it on you.)

Your hair now looks nicer than anything Sam could’ve done for you. He wonders if you did it yourself—if you had to learn because he wasn’t around anymore, and was never coming back.

Sam wants to tell you that he’s missed you, and that there hasn’t been a day he hasn’t thought of you.

He wonders what you would say. He wonders if you'd sound the same, and he’d be able to tell, ‘cause of how often he plays your old voicemails over when he misses you. He remembers just how you would sound when you were laughing and remembers precisely how much slower you would speak when you were upset.

You don’t extend your hand for him to shake, and Sam’s left to wonder if your hands would still feel the same in his.

And when he meets your eyes, he reads the hurt written all over your features. Hurt that he put there. Hurt that’s probably healed over in the last four years, leaving a nice long scar he’s sliced open again just now.

You nod at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

He digs his fingers into his palms. “It’s nice to meet you too.”