#touched

Your fingers rested lightly against the steering wheel, steady despite the slow climb of adrenaline tightening beneath your ribs. The deeper into the forest you went, the less the world felt real. Town lights had vanished miles ago. There were no houses here. No distant highways humming somewhere beyond the trees.

Just woods.

Dense. Ancient. Watching.

The sounds of the forest wrapped around your car in layers at first. Crickets chirping in uneven rhythms. Leaves whispering against one another overhead. The occasional rustle somewhere unseen beyond the road.

Then gradually—

Silence.

Not natural silence.

The kind that arrives all at once.

The crickets stopped first.

Then the rustling.

Then everything.

Your pulse slowed instinctively instead of quickening. Predators recognized silence for what it was.

Warning.

Every instinct beneath your skin sharpened.

Ahead, the sedan slowed.

Through the trees, you finally caught sight of it: an old cabin tucked deep in the woods, half-hidden behind thick brush and towering pines. The structure looked forgotten by the world. Weathered wood. Sagging porch. Dark windows reflecting almost nothing back.

The pastor pulled beside it and parked.

His headlights cut across the trees one final time before the engine died.

Darkness swallowed everything immediately.

For one brief moment, the woods disappeared entirely.

Then your vision adjusted.

Two doors opened ahead.

Two figures stepped out.

You were still too far back to stop anything.

Your jaw tightened.

The sedan doors shut softly. Muffled. Controlled.

Then nothing.

No voices.

No movement.

You slowed the Charger carefully, easing it farther down the road before finally pulling beneath the heavy cover of overhanging branches. The engine clicked quietly as you killed it.

Still no sound from the cabin.

Your hand moved automatically to the silver knife at your hip, fingers brushing the worn handle in practiced reassurance. Then to the gun tucked against the small of your back beneath your flannel. Silver rounds.

Ready.

Always ready.

You glanced once toward the cabin through the trees before shifting your weight toward the open driver’s side window.

The door stayed shut.

No unnecessary noise.

You slipped silently through the window frame and landed lightly against damp earth, crouched low beside the Charger. Cool air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of wet bark, old wood, and something deeper underneath.

Something animal.

Your movements stayed careful as you closed the distance through the trees. Silent footsteps against dirt and fallen leaves. No snapped twigs. No shifting gravel.

Your eyes tracked every movement automatically.

A branch swaying gently overhead.

Leaves drifting across the forest floor.

Shadows shifting between trees as the wind moved through them.

But no sign of the pastor.

No sign of the second man.

The closer you got, the more wrong the silence felt.

When you finally reached the sedan parked outside the cabin, you paused beside the rear bumper, body still and listening.

Nothing.

The metal ticked softly as the engine cooled.

No voices inside.

No footsteps.

No heartbeat close enough to track.

Your eyes swept the cabin windows again.

Dark.

Empty.

Then suddenly—

A light flicked on inside.

Warm yellow spilled briefly across the front room window.

And for the first time since entering the woods—

You froze. Heart hammering against your ribs.

You stayed motionless beside the sedan, every muscle held taut beneath your skin as your eyes locked onto the shifting silhouette inside. A figure moved across the small space slowly, casually. No frantic pacing. No signs of struggle. No violence.

Just movement.

Like someone settling in for the evening.

Your brow furrowed slightly.

That wasn’t right.

You hadn’t heard a door open. Hadn’t heard footsteps crossing the porch. And you knew with absolute certainty neither man had entered through the front.

The woods were too quiet for you to miss that.

A chill slid slowly down your spine.

Your gaze flicked once toward the trees surrounding the cabin before returning to the window. Instinct prickled hard beneath your skin now, not with the sharp warning of immediate danger, but something stranger. Unease layered with confusion.

The silhouette moved again.

Then the front door swung open.

Not violently.

Not suddenly.

Almost lazily.

Warm light spilled across the porch and into the darkness beyond, cutting long pale shapes between the trees.

You tensed automatically.

The pastor stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame. His expression remained calm, softened by the amber light behind him. No claws. No blood. No sign of panic at being followed miles into the woods.

Just quiet awareness.

“I know you’re out there,” he said.

His voice carried easily through the stillness. Warm. Steady. The same voice that delivered sermons every Sunday from behind stained glass and scripture.

“If you want to know the truth,” he continued gently, “you’re welcome to come inside.”

A brief pause.

“I’m no threat to you.”

The words should’ve sounded ridiculous.

Every instinct you possessed screamed trap.

Your fingers twitched near the silver knife at your hip as your pulse slowed into something colder and sharper. Werewolves lied. Predators lured prey closer. Monsters wore friendly faces all the time.

You knew that.

You’d built the last five years of your life around that truth.

And yet—

Something about him wasn’t matching the picture in your head.

No tension sharpened his voice. No false bravado. No edge of concealed violence waiting beneath the surface.

Just calm.

That calm unsettled you more than anger would have.

The pastor stepped away from the doorway a moment later, disappearing back inside without another word, leaving the door standing open behind him.

An invitation.

Or bait.

You stayed where you were for several long seconds, eyes fixed on the glowing rectangle of light cutting through the darkness.

The forest remained silent around you.

No crickets.

No wind.

Nothing.

Then slowly, cautiously, you moved.

Your footsteps stayed soundless against damp earth as you emerged from behind his sedan. The porch came into clearer view with every step, weathered wood silvered faintly beneath the cabin light. The old boards creaked softly under your weight as you climbed the few steps, each sound seeming unnaturally loud against the stillness surrounding the woods.

You paused at the threshold.

The cabin interior unfolded in front of you in one slow sweep.

One room.

Small.

Worn.

A bed sat tucked against one wall beneath a narrow window, blankets neatly folded despite the age of the mattress beneath them. A small wooden table and mismatched chairs occupied the opposite side near an empty stone fireplace dusted faintly with ash. Along the far wall sat a cramped kitchen space—old counters, faded cabinets, a rusted sink.

And directly across from you—

The back door stood wide open.

Cool night air drifted through it softly, stirring the thin curtains hanging above the sink.

The pastor stood there with his back partially turned to you, gaze fixed out the dark window above the basin. His hands rested clasped loosely behind him, posture relaxed enough that it should have felt vulnerable.

Instead, it felt deliberate.

Like a man who already understood exactly how dangerous the room had become.

And still wasn’t afraid.

He didn’t need to turn to see you.

“I clocked you that first day when you came into my church.”

His voice carried through the cabin low and even, warm in a way that should have been comforting. Instead, it settled beneath your skin like something alive. Certain. Knowing. The kind of certainty that didn’t come from guesswork.

Your fingers flexed once near the silver knife at your hip.

The cabin smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and rain soaked into the walls over decades. Beneath it lingered another scent now that you were closer. Iron. Not fresh blood, but memory of it. Faint enough most people would never notice.

“What makes a monster a monster?” 

The question settled heavily into the room.

The pastor finally shifted slightly near the sink, not enough to face you fully, just enough for the light overhead to catch the silver threading through his beard. Outside the open back door, the woods remained deathly still. No insects. No movement. Like the entire forest was listening.

Your pulse beat slow and hard against your ribs. The question wasn’t just for him. It was for you. Every hunter you’d faced, every choice you’d made in the past, every life weighed against another—what drew the line between monster and man? And standing there, watching him, you felt the pull of that line.

“The first man,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the trees beyond the window, “he used his power over others to hurt those who trusted him.”

Your jaw tightened immediately as your pulse spiked, muscles tensing as your mind traced the implication without moving. Every word painted a pattern, a chain of intentions and consequences, but it was his tone—the measured, almost mournful cadence—that made you pause.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath your shifting weight as you remained near the doorway, muscles coiled tight beneath your skin. Ready. Waiting for the moment this calm mask finally cracked open into teeth and violence. 

It didn’t.

“The second man,” he continued, voice softening almost imperceptibly, “he did harm in a different way, twisting control into fear. Using trust and god’s word as a weapon.”

A faint breeze drifted through the open back door, stirring the thin curtains near the sink. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a branch groaned quietly before falling silent again. 

You didn’t move, though your breath hitched once, soft, careful, a sound lost to the night. Your mind ran faster than your body could, cataloging details, piecing together what he said with what you already knew. Missing pieces you hadn’t fully connected yet.

Your stomach twisted.

Because predators wore human skin more often than claws.

“This man,” he said, flicking a glance toward the open back door, “he was planning something cruel. He finally revealed it all in confessions.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

Confessions.

Church.

Trust handed over freely behind closed doors.

Your throat tightened slightly before you forced it back down. The silver ring on your right hand felt suddenly colder against your skin as your fingers curled reflexively.

Still he didn’t move toward you.

Still he wasn’t afraid.

“And the woman,” his voice came again, deliberate and unwavering, “she’s been plotting in her own way. Calculating. Obsessing over a married man. Thinking she can bend someone to her will.”

The cabin suddenly felt smaller.

Tighter.

“The man’s wife is pregnant,” he continued quietly. “None of them knows.”

Your breathing slowed instinctively. A shiver ran down your spine, but you didn’t flinch. You absorbed, cataloged, let the words settle in your chest like stones in a stream.

Your eyes tracked him carefully now, searching for deception in every subtle movement. Every twitch. Every shift in posture. But there was nothing frantic about him. Nothing unstable.

Only exhaustion buried beneath restraint.

Outside, the trees swayed faintly against the night sky. The scent of damp earth drifted through the open doorway.

His gaze remained fixed on the darkness beyond the open door, on patterns only he seemed to see. His final words hung in the air, almost a plea, almost a warning:

Then finally—

He looked at you.

Fully.

Brown eyes steady beneath the warm cabin light.

“All I ask, little cat,” he said softly, “is that you don’t let that unborn child die, if you choose to kill me tonight.”

Silence crashed into the room afterward. 

The words twisted inside you. Choices. Consequences. Monsters and men. And suddenly, the question he asked earlier wasn’t just his. It was yours. It had always been yours.

Your chest tightened, a low, uneasy rhythm echoing in your ears. The pastor’s words had settled over you like a weight, pressing questions you’d asked yourself into sharper focus. What makes a monster a monster? 

You’d asked it before, in mirrors, in quiet moments in the dark, when the reflection staring back wasn’t fully human. And now… standing in the cabin, you hesitated. The line between justice and vengeance, predator and protector, had blurred in the span of a single confession.

The silence stretched long enough for your pulse to finally begin slowing.

Not fully.

Not safely.

But enough that the knife at your hip no longer felt like the only answer in the room.

Your shoulders eased by degrees, tension bleeding out slowly instead of all at once. The instinct to fight still lingered beneath your skin, sharp and ready, but it no longer screamed. It watched. Waited. Measured.

The pastor remained where he stood near the sink, giving you space to think. To choose.

The cabin creaked softly around you as the night air drifted through the open back door, cool against your skin. Somewhere far off in the woods, an owl called once before silence swallowed the sound again.

You swallowed carefully.

Then finally—

“I’ll protect them.”

Your voice came quieter than you expected, roughened slightly by everything tightening in your chest. The pregnant wife. Her husband. A child that hadn’t even drawn its first breath yet.

The pastor’s eyes softened almost immediately.

You forced yourself to continue before doubt could creep in. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to them.”

The words settled heavily between you, carrying the weight of a promise. Not empty reassurance. Not pity.

A vow.

The silver ring against your finger caught faintly in the cabin light as your hand flexed once at your side.

A beat of silence passed.

Then another.

Your gaze drifted briefly toward the open back door, toward the endless dark beyond it, before returning to him.

“You need to leave town.”

The pastor didn’t react outwardly, but something weary flickered behind his eyes.

“Go somewhere nobody knows you,” you continued quietly. “Start over somewhere else.”

Your throat tightened slightly around the next words.

“I’ll make sure you aren’t followed.”

The cabin fell still again after that.

Not tense this time.

Something stranger.

Something mournful.

The pastor lowered his head slightly, almost like the beginning of a prayer before looking back at you fully. Relief moved across his features first, subtle enough most people would’ve missed it. Beneath that came something deeper.

Compassion.

Not fear of you.

Not judgment.

Compassion.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

The sincerity in his voice settled awkwardly against the sharp edges inside your chest. You weren’t used to gratitude from monsters.

Or maybe—

The thought stopped before you could finish it.

He studied you quietly for a moment longer, the warm cabin light catching in his brown eyes. Then slowly, a small smile touched his lips. Gentle. Kind in a way that felt almost painful after everything he’d confessed.

“You’re not the monster you think you are, little cat.”

The words struck harder than they should have.

Your breath caught faintly.

Because he said it like he knew.

Not guessed.

Knew.

Before you could find a response, the pastor turned toward the open back door. His footsteps remained calm and unhurried across the old wooden floorboards as he stepped into the darkness beyond the cabin.

“Andrea Johnson.” 

Then, the night swallowed him quickly.

One moment there.

The next—

Gone.

You stood frozen in the center of the small cabin long after the woods fell silent again.

The lamp above the sink buzzed softly overhead. The curtains near the window shifted faintly in the cold air drifting through the open doorway. Somewhere nearby, the sedan’s engine ticked quietly as it cooled.

But your mind remained trapped on the same question looping endlessly through your chest.

What makes a monster a monster?

You had come here tonight ready to kill him.

Certain.

Certain enough to bring silver.

Certain enough to follow him into the woods alone.

And now he was gone because you let him go.

Not because you couldn’t pull the trigger.

Because you chose not to.

The realization settled heavily into your bones as you stared into the darkness beyond the cabin door, trying to come to terms with the impossible weight of mercy.

The Impala crawled slowly down the dirt road, tires crunching softly over gravel and damp earth. Dean kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting low near the gun tucked beside his seat. The headlights cut narrow paths between the trees, branches twisting overhead thick enough to swallow most of the moonlight above.

Neither brother spoke much.

The deeper they drove into the woods, the heavier the air seemed to become.

Not silent.

That would’ve almost been easier.

Crickets chirped unevenly somewhere beyond the trees. An owl called once from high above before another answered farther off. Leaves shifted softly whenever the breeze moved through the forest. Life still existed out here.

But something felt wrong.

Dean couldn’t explain it.

The kind of wrong hunters learned to trust anyway.

His jaw tightened slightly as his eyes swept the narrow road ahead again. The cabin wasn’t far now. He remembered enough from the maps and half-forgotten case notes to know this road only ended one place.

Then Sam suddenly leaned forward slightly in his seat.

“Dean.”

Dean’s gaze sharpened immediately. “What?”

Sam pointed subtly toward the trees off the side of the road. “There.”

At first, Dean saw nothing but shadows.

Then the angle shifted as the Impala rolled forward another few feet.

Midnight blue paint caught faintly beneath the moonlight filtering through the branches.

The Charger sat tucked deep enough into the shadows that it nearly disappeared entirely unless you were close enough to know what to look for. No lights. Hidden deliberately.

Dean slowed the Impala even more.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered quietly.

The same car.

Again.

A strange knot tightened low in his stomach.

Sam’s voice stayed low. Careful. “Think she’s here?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately.

Because he already knew the answer.

The road curved one final time.

Then the cabin came into view through the trees.

Old.

Weathered.

Light spilled warmly from the open front door, stretching across the battered porch and bleeding pale gold onto the dirt below. Beside the cabin sat a dark sedan they knew belonged to the pastor.

Still warm enough that faint heat shimmered above the hood beneath the headlights.

Dean’s grip tightened instinctively against the wheel.

“Stay sharp,” he said quietly.

The forest pressed close around the clearing, branches swaying faintly overhead. Crickets still chirped somewhere nearby, but the sounds only made the place feel stranger. Like the woods themselves were holding their breath around something unseen.

The Impala rolled to a careful stop several yards from the porch.

Engine idling low. Headlights already switched off.

Neither brother moved immediately.

Dean stared at the open doorway, every instinct he had pulling taut beneath his skin. Something had already happened here.

He could feel it.

But whether they were too late to stop it—

Or too late to survive it—

He didn’t know yet.

The Impala’s engine idled low for another few seconds before Dean finally killed it.

The sudden quiet settled heavily around them.

Crickets filled the spaces between the trees in uneven waves, their sound carrying sharp in the cool night air. Somewhere deeper in the woods, leaves rustled softly beneath something small moving through the underbrush. An owl called once overhead before silence swallowed the sound again.

Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on the cabin.

The open front door.

The light still burning inside.

Nothing moved across the windows.

That bothered him more than if something had.

Beside him, Sam shifted slightly in his seat, gaze sweeping the clearing again. The sedan parked outside. The dark tree line surrounding the cabin. The narrow dirt road behind them that suddenly felt very far from town.

“Feels wrong,” Sam murmured quietly.

Dean nodded once.

Because it did.

Not immediate danger.

Not yet.

But the kind of tension hunters learned to feel before a fight started. The air itself seemed tighter somehow, stretched thin enough that one wrong movement might snap it.

Dean opened his door carefully.

The old hinges gave the faintest creak before his boots touched damp earth. Cool air brushed against his face immediately, carrying the scent of wet leaves, old wood, and something faint underneath it that made instinct tighten low in his gut.

Sam stepped out on the opposite side a second later, shutting the door slower than normal to avoid the sound carrying through the clearing.

The brothers moved automatically after that. Muscle memory built over years.

Dean reached back into the front seat, fingers curling around the grip of the handgun resting there before tucking it securely into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Hidden beneath worn fabric. Easy reach if things went sideways.

Silver rounds loaded.

Just in case.

His other hand briefly checked the silver knife strapped at his hip. Backup weapon. Close quarters insurance.

Hunters who survived learned fast not to trust a single weapon.

Across from him, Sam mirrored the motions almost unconsciously. Gun concealed beneath layers of flannel and denim. Silver knife secure against his leg.

Prepared for claws.

Teeth.

A close fight in tight spaces.

Prepared for a werewolf.

Dean’s gaze drifted once more toward the hidden Charger farther back among the trees. A strange unease twisted through him again at the thought of the woman somehow being mixed up in all this.

Hunter?Victim?Something worse?

He still didn’t know.

And somehow that uncertainty bothered him more than the monster waiting somewhere nearby.

The porch creaked softly as the wind shifted through the clearing.

Dean’s attention snapped back immediately.

Nothing moved.

The cabin light still spilled warmly through the open doorway, standing in stark contrast against the cold darkness surrounding it.

Like an invitation.

Or a warning.

Dean exchanged one final glance with Sam.

No words needed.

Then slowly, carefully, the two of them started toward the cabin.

The cabin felt different after he left.

Too quiet.

Too still.

You stood near the small kitchen counter, both hands braced against the worn wood, fingers curled tighter than you realized against the rough edge. Your head remained slightly bowed, eyes unfocused on the sink beneath the window while your thoughts spiraled somewhere far deeper than the room around you.

What makes a monster a monster?

The question echoed endlessly now, threading through every memory you’d tried burying over the years. Every hunt. Every creature. Every human face twisted uglier than claws ever could be.

The pastor’s words clung stubbornly beneath your skin.

You’re not the monster you think you are, little cat.

Your throat tightened faintly.

The cabin smelled colder now without him there. Old dust. Damp wood. Faint traces of rain drifting through the open back door. The lamp above the sink buzzed softly overhead, casting warm yellow light across peeling counters and warped floorboards.

You didn’t hear the Impala outside. Didn’t hear the crunch of boots against dirt. Didn’t hear the soft creak of the porch steps beneath cautious weight.

Your thoughts had swallowed everything else whole.

Even when the brothers entered the cabin silently, guns already drawn toward a target that no longer existed, you remained motionless near the counter, unaware of the danger suddenly filling the room behind you.

Then—

“Where is it?”

The voice was firm. Low. Carrying authority without malice. And it cut through the fog of your thoughts like a blade.

Your breath caught violently in your chest.

No.

Your body reacted before your mind fully caught up.

You pivoted sharply on your heel, instinct taking over in one fluid motion, and suddenly the cabin shifted around you in a fraction of a second.

Two figures stood just inside the doorway.

Solid. Armed. Guns leveled. Eyes sharp.

The two men you’d seen around town.

But your focus locked onto the shorter one instantly.

And the world tilted beneath your feet.

Green eyes.

Freckles dusted across tan skin.

Broad shoulders beneath layered flannel.

Even the way he held himself—

Your stomach dropped so hard it bordered on pain.

Mark.

No—

Not Mark.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs as your mind tried desperately to separate memory from reality. Because Mark was dead. You’d watched him die. 

But the voice—

God, the voice sounded almost identical.

The air inside the cabin tightened into something suffocating.

The brothers’ breaths stayed steady. Controlled. Hunters trained for violence standing in a room that suddenly felt one wrong movement away from exploding into it.

You hadn’t heard them approach. The night had swallowed their footsteps whole. But now you felt the full weight of their attention fixed squarely on you.

Assessing.

Calculating.

Dangerous.

Your chest rose slowly beneath the pressure building there, breaths measured despite the violent confusion twisting through your thoughts. Your hands remained visible at your sides. You didn’t reach for the knife at your hip. Didn’t touch the gun hidden against your back.

You simply stood there.

Staring.

Your gaze flicked once toward the taller one beside him before returning helplessly to the man in front.

The similarities hit too hard. Too sharp.

Not exact.

But enough.

Enough to crack something open inside you that had never fully healed.

Everything seemed to pause inside that tiny cabin.

The rustle of leaves outside.

The sway of curtains near the open back door.

Even the old buzzing lamp overhead.

And as your gaze locked fully with his—

You understood with sudden, terrible certainty—

Nothing from this moment forward was ever going to be simple again.

Chapter 5 ----- Chapter 7 - coming soon Doppelganger Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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Somewhere beyond your bedroom walls, the ventilation system hummed its steady, comforting rhythm, accompanied every so often by the soft click of pipes hidden behind thick walls adjusting to the day's changing temperatures. The bunker had its own soundtrack, one you'd grown so accustomed to over the years that you'd stopped consciously noticing it.

This morning, though, you noticed everything.

Your eyelids finally fluttered open. The room was dim.

Not because it was still early, but because the thin line of light under your door was pushing its way into the space. The darkness wrapped the room in a quiet calm that made it difficult to judge the time. It could have been dawn.

Or noon.

You honestly had no idea, not in the mood to even glance toward the clock on the nightstand.

For another minute, you simply lay there, staring at the ceiling while your thoughts lazily drifted from one thing to another.

Then something tugged at the edge of your awareness.

Your room.

Slowly, your eyes wandered toward your desk.

Your laptop sat exactly where it belonged, closed and plugged into its charger, the little charging light glowing softly beside it.

A faint crease formed between your brows. You didn't remember putting it there. Your gaze continued around the room.

The overflowing pile of snack wrappers you'd left scattered across your bed yesterday was gone. The bags of chips had disappeared. So had the open container of cookies. Even the empty popcorn bag had vanished without a trace.

You turned your head toward the nightstand.

Your coffee mug was gone. The empty soda can you'd finished sometime after Dean had handed you a fresh one...

Gone too, along with the second one you’d finished sometimes into The Mummy.

Even the small trash can tucked beside your desk caught your attention. A clean white liner folded neatly over the rim.

Your stomach sank.

Dean.

It had to have been Dean.

The realization settled quietly over you, bringing with it an odd mixture of gratitude and guilt. He hadn't simply gotten you back into bed.

He'd cleaned up after you.

You let out the smallest sigh, lifting one hand to rub tiredly at your face before letting it fall back onto the comforter.

"...Thank you," you murmured into the empty room, even knowing he couldn't hear you.

Silence answered.

You rolled onto your back again, intending to enjoy another few peaceful minutes before getting up.

That was when the first memory surfaced. Not gradually. Not gently. It simply arrived.

"...Come here."

You blinked.

The image appeared in your mind with startling clarity.

A can of soda.

One inch out of your reach.

"...You're being difficult."

Your eyes widened. "...I argued with a soda." The words escaped in a whisper.

Heat immediately began creeping up your neck.

"Oh..." You closed your eyes. "...No."

You could still see it. Lying flat on your back. Talking to a can of soda as though it had intentionally refused to cooperate. Your stomach twisted.

Maybe...

Maybe that had been the worst part.

You could live with falling off the bed.

Gravity happened. Gravity happened to everyone. Even for you, although you were supposed to land on your feet.

Talking to carbonated beverages, however...

You pulled the comforter halfway over your face. "...Please let that have been the worst part."

For one blissful second...

You almost believed you'd gotten lucky. Then another memory floated to the surface.

"They're like little constellations..."

The blanket slid the rest of the way over your face. "Oh, God."

Your voice came out wonderfully muffled beneath the comforter. You squeezed your eyes shut, as though somehow hiding from the memory would make it disappear.

It didn't.

Instead, more pieces arrived.

One after another.

"I like your smell."

You groaned softly into your pillow.

"Your heart's fast."

Your face burned hotter.

"You hum when you think."

One eye opened beneath the blanket. "...I said that out loud."

You already knew the answer. Unfortunately.

"I like when you carry me."

The blanket became your sanctuary.

You lay perfectly still beneath it, contemplating whether there was any possible way to remain in your room for the next...

Week?

Month?

Possibly the rest of your natural life.

Because sooner or later...

You were going to have to leave this room, which meant facing Dean. And Sam.

Both of whom had witnessed every wonderfully unfiltered thought your brain had apparently decided was worth sharing. All the things you silently held onto and never once spoke aloud to anyone.

A long, slow groan escaped you as you buried your face deeper into the pillow. "...I am never going to recover from this."

The bunker, of course, offered no sympathy. Its quiet hum continued around you as another memory threatened to surface.

You immediately pulled the blanket tighter over your head. "No."

Not yet.

You weren't emotionally prepared for whatever came next.

The kitchen had long since settled into its usual morning rhythm.

Fresh coffee filled the room with its rich, earthy aroma, the scent weaving effortlessly through the bunker's cool air. Somewhere deeper in the bunker, the ventilation system maintained its steady hum, accompanied by the occasional click from aging pipes expanding with the warmth of the building waking for another day.

Dean leaned comfortably against the center island, one ankle hooked over the other while both hands wrapped loosely around a ceramic coffee mug. Wisps of steam curled upward, disappearing long before they reached his face. Every now and then he lifted the mug for another sip, but more often than not he simply watched the steam rise, his thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely.

Yesterday had left him with a problem he hadn't expected.

It wasn't taking care of you. That part hadn't bothered him in the slightest. Getting you back into bed, cleaning your room while you became completely absorbed by the carbonation in your soda, making sure you drank enough water before finally convincing you to sleep—none of that had felt unusual. If anything, it had simply felt... natural.

No.

The problem was everything you'd said.

Dean frowned faintly into his coffee.

He'd spent years around you, never once questioning the quiet way your eyes always seemed to be taking in more than you let on. It had simply become another part of who you were. You noticed things. Tiny things. The sort of details most people walked past without a second thought. He'd never given it much consideration. And not once had he considered he had little things.

Now he couldn't seem to stop.

Without realizing it, his thumb began slowly turning his mug against the palm of his hand, the rough ceramic scraping softly beneath his fingertips.

"You don't waste any movements."

His grip paused. The memory arrived uninvited, clear as if you were standing beside him, saying it all over again.

"You already know where you're going before you move."

Dean's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Did he?

He'd never consciously thought about how he moved through a room. After years of hunting, years of fixing cars, years of reaching for tools without looking because he already knew exactly where they'd be, efficiency had simply become habit. Yesterday, though, you'd spoken about it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He hadn't even realized you were watching. Not like that. Not like someone who saw past every wall he’d ever constructed around himself.

His fingers resumed their absent rotation around the mug.

"You hum when you think."

Almost immediately, Dean stopped moving altogether. His eyes narrowed toward the coffee.

Had he...?

No.

Surely not.

He stood there another few seconds before quietly pushing himself away from the island to refill his mug. The coffee pot gurgled softly as he tipped it, dark liquid splashing into ceramic while the familiar scent grew richer between them.

Without thinking...

A low hum escaped somewhere deep in his chest. It lasted perhaps two seconds.

Dean froze.

The coffee pot remained suspended over his mug.

Very slowly, he lowered it back onto the warming plate before glancing toward absolutely no one.

"...Son of a..."

Across the kitchen, Sam looked up from where he'd settled at the table with his laptop open beside his own mug.

"What?"

Dean looked over. "...Nothing."

Sam studied him for a moment longer before quietly returning his attention to the screen. He didn't believe that for a second. Truthfully, he'd noticed the humming nearly fifteen minutes ago.

He'd also noticed Dean catch himself pacing once already before forcing himself to stand still. Every few minutes his older brother seemed to become aware of another little habit that had existed for years without him ever giving it a second thought.

Sam found the entire thing endlessly amusing. Not because Dean was embarrassed.

Well...

Maybe a little because of that.

Mostly, though, because of the look on Dean's face every time another piece of yesterday clicked into place. It wasn't mortification.

It was bewilderment.

As though he'd suddenly discovered he'd been living with an audience all this time without ever realizing someone had been paying attention.

Sam clicked to another tab, eyes moving over the words of another article, hiding the smile threatening the corners of his mouth behind another slow sip of coffee.

He understood exactly what had happened. You hadn't invented those observations yesterday. You'd simply spoken them aloud.

That was the part Dean was still trying to come to terms with.

Somewhere down the hallway, faint enough that either brother might have missed it on any other morning, came the quiet creak of a mattress shifting beneath someone's weight.

Dean's eyes lifted instinctively toward the kitchen doorway. His expression remained carefully neutral. After several long seconds, nothing else happened.

He looked back down into his coffee.

Sam noticed that, too. He didn't comment. There wasn't any need. Sooner or later, you'd come out of your room.

Sooner or later, all three of you were going to have to pretend yesterday hadn't happened. Sam suspected that plan was doomed almost immediately.

He also suspected it was going to be one of the more entertaining breakfasts the bunker had seen in quite some time.

So, for now, he simply clicked into a new tab, took another drink of his coffee, and waited with all the patience of someone who knew the best part of the morning hadn't happened yet.

For several long minutes, you remained exactly where you were.

The blanket had long since slipped back down around your waist, leaving you staring up at the familiar seams in the bunker's ceiling while your mind stubbornly refused to move on from yesterday. Every time you thought you'd finally worked through the worst of it, another memory floated to the surface with perfect, merciless clarity, each one somehow managing to be just a little more embarrassing than the last.

Eventually, another problem began asserting itself.

Coffee.

You weren't desperate for it, not in the way you usually were after first waking up, but the thought settled comfortably into the front of your mind all the same. The rich smell of fresh coffee seemed almost tangible, even from all the way down the hall. Dean had clearly already made a pot.

The realization brought with it another small wave of guilt. He'd cleaned your room. Made sure you'd gotten into bed.

Probably checked on you more than once before turning in himself. And then he'd gotten up early enough to make coffee for everyone.

You let out a slow breath through your nose. "...I really owe him."

The words disappeared into the quiet room.

You finally pushed the blankets aside and sat up, letting your feet settle against the cool concrete floor. The chill climbed pleasantly through the soles of your feet, helping clear away the last remnants of sleep. For a moment, you simply sat there, elbows resting on your knees, fingers loosely intertwined as you stared toward your dresser across the room.

Wasn’t I wearing socks yesterday? You shook your head slightly, focusing again on the dresser.

Getting dressed. That was the logical first step. Normal people got dressed before facing other human beings.

Especially after accidentally telling one of those human beings that his freckles looked like constellations. Your face warmed all over again. With a quiet groan, you forced yourself to your feet and padded across the room.

The dresser waited exactly where it always had. You reached for the top drawer, pulled it open, and looked down at the neatly folded shirts inside.

Your hand hovered.

I like when you carry me.

It wasn't even the words. It was the memory that came with them. Dean standing beside your bed. The warmth of his arms. The surprised little squeak you'd made when he'd lifted you without warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut. "...Nope."

The drawer slid shut again.

You stood there for another second, one hand still resting against the smooth wood as though perhaps another idea might present itself.

None did.

Coffee still sounded nice. You turned instead toward the small bathroom connected to your room. The light flickered on with a familiar buzz. Your reflection blinked back at you from the mirror.

You looked...

Comfortable.

Your oversized sleep shirt hung crookedly off one shoulder, wrinkled from an unusually restful night's sleep. Your pajama shorts weren't much better, and your hair...

You stared.

It looked as though someone had introduced it to a tornado.

Dark strands curled in every direction imaginable, refusing to cooperate with gravity or basic common sense. A few stubborn pieces still stood almost straight up near the back of your head while the rest framed your face in thoroughly uneven waves.

You couldn't help the tiny sigh that escaped. "...That explains a lot."

Your gaze drifted toward the hairbrush resting beside the sink. You reached for it automatically. Your fingers stopped just short.

Your freckles... they're like little constellations all over your skin.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks so quickly it almost startled you. "Oh..."

Your hand retreated. "...No."

The hairbrush remained exactly where it was.

You stared at it for another few seconds before quietly switching the bathroom light back off and stepping into your bedroom once more.

Coffee.

You'd brush your hair after coffee. Probably. Maybe. At least that sounded like a reasonable plan.

You paused beside your bedroom door, your hand settling around the cool metal handle without turning it.

Beyond the door, the bunker carried on with its familiar morning sounds.

The faint clink of ceramic against metal. Someone setting a mug onto the island. The soft scrape of a chair shifting somewhere in the kitchen.

The low murmur of pages...

No.

Not pages.

Your brow knit together.

Keys.

A keyboard. Sam's laptop.

For some reason, recognizing that tiny sound made everything beyond your bedroom feel suddenly, unmistakably real.

They were both out there. Both awake. Both remembering yesterday just as clearly as you did.

Your hand tightened around the handle. You could still turn around. Nobody knew you were awake yet. You could absolutely crawl back beneath the blankets and emerge sometime around...

Next Tuesday.

That seemed perfectly reasonable.

Unfortunately...

Coffee.

Coffee won.

You let out one long breath, squared your shoulders as best you could, and eased the bedroom door open.

The hallway stretched ahead of you, quiet and familiar. Concrete walls. Warm overhead lights. Nothing about the bunker had changed overnight.

Only you had.

Your bare feet carried you forward almost of their own accord, each step unhurried, almost reluctant. The closer you drew to the kitchen, the stronger the smell of fresh coffee became until it wrapped around you with comforting familiarity. It should have eased the knot in your stomach.

Instead, it somehow made the moment feel even more inevitable.

You reached the edge of the war room and slowed.

The kitchen lay just beyond.

You stopped just out of sight. Not hiding.

Just...

Gathering yourself.

From where you stood, you could see only part of the center island, but neither brother. One more steadying breath filled your lungs before you lifted a hand and unconsciously tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

It immediately slipped free again, falling across your cheek exactly as it had before. You didn't bother trying a second time.

Coffee first.

You could survive the rest of the morning after that.

You lingered for only another heartbeat before forcing your feet to move again.

The kitchen opened itself to you one familiar step at a time, the scent of fresh coffee growing stronger with every foot you covered. It mingled with the brothers’ scents that lingered in rooms they spent more time in, wrapping around the cool, clean smell of concrete that never truly left the bunker. Ordinarily, those scents would have settled something inside you.

Today, they simply reminded you that you weren't alone. Even before you crossed the threshold, you knew exactly where they were.

Dean's heartbeat reached you first, slow and steady from somewhere near the center island. Every so often, ceramic clicked softly against the countertop as he shifted his mug between holding it and setting it down. Sam's heartbeat carried from farther to your left, accompanied by the almost constant, uneven rhythm of fingers moving across the keys of his laptop. The tiny sounds blended together so naturally that your mind sorted them without conscious effort, painting a picture of the room long before your eyes confirmed it.

It was something you'd done for years. Usually without thinking.

This morning...

You found yourself wishing, just briefly, that you couldn't hear any of it.

Drawing one slow breath through your nose, you finally stepped into the kitchen. Almost immediately, you felt it. Not in any supernatural sense.

Just the unmistakable awareness that both sets of eyes had lifted toward you.

You kept yours firmly on the coffee pot.

The distance between the doorway and the counter where caffeine waited wasn't more than a handful of steps, yet it somehow felt considerably farther this morning. Each footfall echoed faintly beneath your bare feet, sounding entirely too loud against the otherwise peaceful quiet of the bunker.

No one spoke.

You weren't sure whether that made things easier or infinitely worse.

The coffee pot sat exactly where Dean had left it, a thin ribbon of steam still curling from its spout. Beside it rested a clean mug, already waiting as though someone had anticipated you'd eventually make your way here. Yours. The same one he’d taken from your room when he’d cleaned up.

Your chest tightened ever so slightly. Of course he had.

Without looking anywhere but your hands, you reached for the mug and filled it almost to the top. The familiar sound of coffee pouring into ceramic grounded you in a way little else had managed all morning. You wrapped both hands around the mug almost immediately, welcoming the warmth against your palms despite the fact that the bunker wasn't cold enough to warrant it.

The first sip was almost embarrassingly comforting.

Rich. Strong. Exactly the way Dean always made it. You closed your eyes for the briefest moment as the warmth spread through you.

"...Morning." Dean's voice broke the silence gently.

Not forced. Not awkward. Simply... there.

You lowered the mug just enough to answer, your eyes still lingering somewhere around the countertop instead of either brother.

"Morning." Your own voice sounded remarkably normal. Far calmer than you felt.

Silence settled over the room once more. Not uncomfortable. Just... careful. Like all three of you were unconsciously feeling out unfamiliar footing.

You became acutely interested in the slow wisps of steam rising from your mug. Anything to keep your attention occupied. Anything except the memories that insisted on replaying themselves with painful clarity.

They're like little constellations...

Heat immediately crept back into your cheeks. You took another drink before your brain could volunteer another memory.

Across the room, Dean watched the top of your head dip with another sip from your mug and had the distinct impression that you were trying very hard to become one with it. It was almost enough to make him smile.

Almost.

Instead, he quietly shifted his own weight against the island, choosing not to say anything more. He'd noticed the same oversized sleep shirt you'd worn yesterday. The same pajama shorts.

The same tangled hair that looked as though you'd made it halfway through your morning routine before giving up somewhere along the way.

He didn't need to ask. Embarrassment had written the story plainly enough.

Sam noticed it too.

He watched you cradle your coffee with both hands as though it were the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor, your gaze refusing to rise higher than the countertop. Every few seconds, another loose strand of hair slipped across your face, and without thinking, you'd tuck it behind your ear again.

Each time, gravity patiently undid your efforts.

He hid the beginning of a smile behind his own mug. Not because he wanted to laugh at you. Because he knew exactly what was happening.

You were buying yourself time.

As long as you didn't look at either of them, perhaps yesterday could remain safely tucked away where all embarrassing memories belonged.

It was a nice plan.

Unfortunately...

Sam was fairly certain it wasn't going to survive much longer.

The silence lingered another several heartbeats. Not uncomfortable anymore. Just... tentative.

Each of you seemed content to let the quiet exist for a little while longer, as though everyone instinctively understood that yesterday's events required a little gentleness this morning.

Dean shifted his weight against the island. He drew in a slow breath, finally deciding he ought to say something. Anything.

A simple How'd you sleep?Feeling better?Coffee's fresh.

His mouth had only just started to open when Sam beat him to it.

"So..." Sam's voice carried easily across the kitchen, warm with unmistakable amusement. He closed his laptop with an unhurried motion before looking over at you with the kind of smile that had always managed to walk the line between teasing and reassuring. "How're you feeling?"

You glanced up just enough to meet his eyes for the briefest second before dropping your attention back to your coffee.

"...Actually..." You considered it honestly. "I feel really good."

"You look like you slept."

"I did."

"Headache?"

You shook your head. "No."

"Nauseous?"

"No."

He nodded thoughtfully, as though mentally checking items off a list. "So Charlie was right."

That pulled your attention back toward him. "Charlie?"

Dean answered before Sam could. "I called her yesterday."

Your eyes widened. "You..."

He nodded once, his expression apologetic without ever becoming dramatic. "I didn't know how two brownies would affect you."

"Oh." You looked back down into your mug again. "...That makes sense."

Another quiet settled over the room. This one lasted only a few seconds before Sam spoke again.

"So..." He rested his forearms against the table. "Do you remember much?"

The question hung gently between you.

You stared into your coffee long enough that Dean was already preparing to change the subject entirely.

Then...

You gave one very small nod. "...All of it."

Dean winced.

Sam's eyebrows climbed. "Everything?"

Another nod. "...Unfortunately."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched despite his best efforts. 

"I've been hoping since I woke up that maybe I dreamed it." You sighed softly. "I didn't."

"No."

"...I definitely didn't."

Dean finally looked up from his mug. There was something unexpectedly earnest in your voice that tugged at him.

You weren't trying to laugh it off. You genuinely wished you could rewind the previous afternoon.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," he said quietly.

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it. It wasn't really laughter. More...

Disbelief.

"I argued with a soda."

Dean pressed his lips together. "You did."

"I thought the refrigerator was judging me."

"It... might've been."

You looked at him then.

Really looked at him for the first time since entering the kitchen. "I said your freckles looked like constellations."

Dean's composure cracked just enough for one corner of his mouth to betray him. "...Yeah."

"Oh, God." You covered your eyes with one hand. "I remember saying that."

"You did."

"I remember all of it."

Dean pushed himself away from the island then, carrying his coffee with him as he rounded the counter.

He stopped beside you, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that his hip rested comfortably against the edge of the counter near you.

For a moment he simply stood there.

Then, with the smallest shrug, he looked down into his own mug. "...For what it's worth..."

You peeked at him through your fingers.

"...I didn't mind."

You blinked. "What?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "You weren't mean." He shrugged again, searching for the words. "You were just..."

His brow furrowed. "...Really honest."

The warmth that flooded your face somehow found another gear. "I'm not sure that's better."

"It is," Dean said it simply. Matter-of-factly. "You just didn't have a filter."

Before either of you could say anything else, Sam leaned back in his chair, watching the two of you with an expression that bordered on entirely too pleased with himself.

"I do have one question, though."

You groaned quietly. "...Sam."

"What?"

"I'm already regretting whatever you're about to ask."

"I was just curious."

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously over the rim of your mug. "Curious about what?"

Sam's grin grew just a fraction wider. "...Did the bubbles ever win?"

For exactly one heartbeat...

Silence.

Then you closed your eyes. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Not because it wasn't embarrassing.

It absolutely was.

But because, hearing it out loud the morning after… It sounded just as ridiculous as it had felt perfectly reasonable yesterday.

Dean let out an exasperated huff beside you, shaking his head into his coffee. "...I'm never gonna let Charlie leave something like those brownies lying around."

The laughter faded naturally, leaving behind something altogether lighter than the silence that had greeted you when you'd first walked into the kitchen.

It hadn't erased the embarrassment. You doubted anything ever truly would.

But somewhere between Sam's gentle teasing and Dean's quiet reassurance, the sharp edges had begun to wear away. What had felt, only minutes earlier, like a memory you'd spend the rest of your life trying to outrun had already started becoming something else.

A story.

One that, given enough time, would probably be told far more often than you'd prefer.

You took another sip of your coffee, the warmth settling comfortably in your chest this time instead of serving as little more than a distraction. The knot that had occupied your stomach since waking had finally begun to loosen, replaced by the quiet familiarity that always seemed to settle over the bunker whenever the three of you simply... existed together.

No hunts.

No monsters.

No looming disaster.

Just morning.

Dean finished the last of his coffee before pushing himself away from the counter with an easy sigh. He carried his mug to the sink, rinsing it beneath the faucet more out of habit than necessity before setting it in the drainer. As he reached for the refrigerator door, he glanced back over one shoulder.

"So..." His tone had settled back into something wonderfully ordinary. "You hungry?"

You hadn't really thought about it. Not until he asked. The answer arrived almost immediately.

"...Actually..." You smiled faintly. "Yeah."

"I figured."

The refrigerator opened with its familiar suction, cool air spilling into the kitchen as Dean leaned inside to inspect its contents. Eggs. Bacon. Cheese. Leftover hash browns from the night before. His movements carried the comfortable confidence of someone who had prepared the same breakfast hundreds of times before, reaching automatically for ingredients without needing to stop and think about where anything had been put away.

Behind him, Sam quietly reopened his laptop as the screen flickered back to life. He wasn't particularly focused on whatever article had occupied him earlier. Every so often his eyes drifted over the top edge of the screen, lingering for a moment before returning to the display.

Years.

It had been years of watching the two of you orbit one another. Years of shared glances neither of you ever seemed to notice.

Years of one always making coffee if the other had slept in, of automatically grabbing an extra blanket before movie nights because the other always got cold, of reaching for the same toolbox at the same time and somehow never colliding.

Neither of you ever said anything. Neither of you seemed willing to.

At this point, Sam had accepted that trying to hurry either of you along would probably only send you both running in opposite directions.

So...

He waited. It seemed to be working about as well as anything else.

You wandered toward the table almost absentmindedly, your coffee mug still cradled between both hands. The chair scraped softly against the floor as you pulled it out and settled into it, curling one leg beneath yourself out of long-standing habit. The warmth of the mug seeped pleasantly into your fingers while you watched Dean move comfortably around the kitchen.

Even after everything yesterday...

Nothing about him had changed. He still nudged the refrigerator closed with his hip because both hands were full. Still reached for the cast-iron skillet instead of any of the others. Still hummed under his breath without realizing it.

Your lips twitched. You noticed the moment he caught himself. The humming stopped so abruptly that you couldn't help smiling into your coffee.

Dean glanced back just enough to catch the expression before quickly returning his attention to the stove. "...Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"I wasn't."

"You absolutely were."

There wasn't any heat behind the accusation.

Only the comfortable familiarity of conversations you'd both had a hundred different ways over the years.

A soft chuckle escaped Sam before he managed to hide it behind the rim of his mug.

The skillet settled onto the burner with a heavy clunk, followed by the familiar hiss of butter beginning to melt across the seasoned surface.

The smell alone was enough to make your stomach remind you that, despite yesterday's impressive collection of snacks, it had been quite a while since you'd eaten anything resembling an actual meal.

You rested your chin lightly against your hand, watching Dean crack eggs one-handed into a bowl with practiced ease.

"...You know..."

Both brothers looked toward you.

You stared thoughtfully into your coffee before continuing.

"I think..." Your brow furrowed. "I'd try them again."

Dean stopped whisking. "...The brownies?"

"Not two." You laughed quietly to yourself, shaking your head. "Definitely not two."

Sam's smile returned. "What then?"

"Maybe..." You considered it seriously. "Half."

Dean looked somewhere between amused and horrified. "Half."

You nodded. "I slept really well."

"You also had a philosophical discussion with a soda."

"I know."

"And the refrigerator."

"I know."

"And my freckles."

Your face warmed immediately. "I know." A smile tugged at your mouth anyway.

"But..." You searched for the right words. "It wasn't..." You looked down into your mug for a moment. "It wasn't like drinking."

The humor in the room softened.

"I wasn't trying to forget anything."

Neither brother interrupted.

"I didn't wake up still tasting whatever I’d drank the night before."

You slowly turned the mug between your palms, watching the last curls of steam disappear into the air.

"I just..." Another small shrug. "I felt... peaceful."

The admission settled gently over the kitchen.

Dean looked down at the eggs for a long moment before returning them to the skillet. "I can understand that."

His voice was quiet.

Honest.

"But next time..." He pointed the spatula lightly in your direction without looking away from breakfast. "...I'm cutting you off after half."

A laugh escaped you, easy this time. "Deal."

"And Charlie's labeling the container."

"Bigger note?"

"Bigger note."

"Maybe one that says Dean's brownies. Do not touch."

Dean snorted. "I'm thinking bigger."

"How much bigger?"

He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow lifting. "I'm thinking skull and crossbones."

You laughed again, the sound filling the kitchen so naturally that it seemed to settle into the concrete walls alongside years of other mornings just like this one.

Outside the bunker, the day carried on unnoticed.

Inside, breakfast sizzled on the stove, coffee stayed warm in well-loved mugs, and the three of you gradually found yourselves talking less about embarrassment and more about whether Charlie would ever let any of you live the story down.

Some memories, you suspected, would never stop being embarrassing.

Given enough time...

They simply became the ones everyone laughed about together.

And somehow, sitting there around the kitchen table with the people who had quietly taken care of you instead of judging you, that didn't seem like such a terrible thing after all.

Part 2 Brownies Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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The glow of the lamp barely touched you from across the street, enough to illuminate the sidewalk without revealing the shape crouched behind your wheel. Your hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, eyes scanning the small church parking lot a few dozen feet away. The pastor’s car sat where it always did, dark and unassuming, the familiar contours already burned into your memory from three days of observation.

Through the windshield, you saw the Impala pull into the lot and come to a smooth stop. Two men stepped out, moving with the kind of quiet purpose that betrayed the instincts of hunters. 

You caught their silhouettes for a brief moment, the way their jackets hugged the lines of their bodies, the tilt of their heads as they scanned the lot. You didn’t look closer. They weren’t the reason you were here. Not tonight.

The streets around you hummed with quiet life: a dog barking in the distance, the faint hiss of tires on wet asphalt, a couple of voices drifting down the block. None of it mattered. You were waiting. 

Every movement inside the church counted, every slight tilt of a head, every shuffle of feet. Waiting until the last sermon concluded, until the congregation filtered out in murmuring clusters. Waiting until the pastor stepped outside and locked the doors.

Inside the church, the hum of conversation and the scrape of chairs carried to Dean and Sam as they moved slowly along the aisle, eyes trained on details rather than faces. Dean had parked his car in the lot, close enough to keep a line on the entrance, but far enough not to draw attention. 

Sam’s hand rested lightly on his knee, but his gaze darted repeatedly over heads, over hats, over the way people shifted in the pews. Neither could pinpoint the werewolf among the flock. Every person looked ordinary, every movement mundane. But something always set Dean’s gut on edge.

A light breeze swept along the street, carrying the faint scent of rain still clinging to the night air. Your fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel, tracing the familiar contours of the dashboard as your eyes flicked back to the church. 

Minutes stretched like hours. The congregation thinned. Laughter and hushed goodbyes spilled out the doors, sneakers scraping against the steps, coats brushing against wood and metal. You barely shifted, letting the shadows keep you hidden. And then, finally, the doors closed behind the last of the attendees. A click of the lock echoed faintly in the lot.

The pastor moved with practiced ease, locking windows and doors, tucking keys into his pocket. Your pulse picked up slightly, muscles tensing in quiet anticipation. This was it.

Dean and Sam didn’t notice you parked in the shadows across the street when they’d left, tailing a grey van a twitchy man drove. He’d been the only one who looked even remotely suspicious among the rest. Their minds running through the facts, theories spinning. 

The world outside settled into a hush. The faint buzz of the streetlamp. The gentle rustle of leaves along the lot. Everything paused for a heartbeat. Everything waited.

The pastor lingered beneath the awning a moment longer than necessary.

You noticed that.

Noted the way he adjusted his cuff. The slow sweep of his gaze across the empty parking lot—not casual. Not distracted. Measuring.

Your fingers stilled against the steering wheel.

He descended the steps, shoes striking concrete with an unhurried rhythm. No rush. No nerves. Just a man finished with his duties for the night.

But he didn’t get into his car immediately.

He stood beside it.

Listening.

Your pulse ticked higher, steady but alert. Three nights. Two victims. The pattern had been clean. Predictable. Almost arrogant in its consistency.

If he left town, you’d follow. If he cut toward the woods, you’d already mapped the fastest route to intercept. If he—

He finally unlocked the driver’s side door.

The interior light blinked on, casting his face in a warm, harmless glow. Soft smile. Gentle eyes. The same expression he wore behind the pulpit.

The door shut.

Engine turned over.

Headlights flared to life.

Across the street, you waited two full seconds after he pulled out before you started your own engine. Long enough not to be obvious. Short enough not to lose him.

The Charger purred beneath your hands.

And somewhere across town, Dean Winchester was chasing the wrong ghost.

The pastor’s sedan rolled out of the lot without hurry, tires whispering over damp pavement. You waited until he was halfway down the street before easing your car into motion, keeping the engine low, the distance comfortable. Not too close. Never too close.

He didn’t hesitate at the first intersection. No pause to check a phone. No second-guessing a turn. He drove like a man following a routine etched into muscle memory. Left. Straight. Right. The small town unfolded around him in sleepy silence—dark storefronts, modest houses set back from narrow streets, porch lights glowing like scattered embers. There wasn’t a single traffic light in town, only the occasional reflective stop sign catching the glow of distant lamps.

You kept your headlights off.

You didn’t need them.

The world was sharp and silver-edged through your windshield, every shadow layered in texture. The sheen of moisture on asphalt. The slow sway of tree branches overhead. The faint curl of exhaust drifting from the pastor’s tailpipe. There was enough ambient light bleeding from porches and streetlamps to guide you, and your eyes adjusted effortlessly, pupils wide, gathering every detail with feline precision.

You stayed three turns behind when you could. Two when the roads narrowed. Each time he signaled, you counted to five before following. When he turned down a residential street lined with older homes—paint chipped, lawns trimmed but tired—you let him disappear fully before you followed.

Curiosity pressed at you, but caution held tighter.

He wasn’t driving toward his house. You knew the route to that address by heart. This wasn’t it.

The street he chose was quieter. No barking dogs. No flicker of televisions through half-drawn curtains. Just a row of darkened homes sitting close together like they were sharing secrets.

The pastor slowed, then pulled into the driveway of a modest single-story house near the end of the block. No porch light flipped on in greeting. No one came to the door. His brake lights flared red against the siding before fading into darkness.

You drove past without looking directly at him, counting houses in your peripheral vision.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

You turned the wheel smoothly and parked along the curb several houses back, tucking your car beneath the heavy shadow of an overgrown maple. The vantage point let you see everything. You didn’t move to shut it off immediately, just watched.

You leaned back slightly in your seat, lowering yourself just enough that the dashboard hid the shape of your face from any wandering glance. The town had gone still again, the kind of stillness that felt expectant. Waiting to see what would break it first.

And you watched.

Because he hadn’t gone home.

And men who didn’t go home when they were supposed to always had a reason.

The grey van stayed just far enough ahead of the Impala to keep Dean interested.

Not speeding. Not panicked. Just inconsistent enough to stand out.

The driver had looked nervous back at the church. Twitchy. Sweat at the temples despite the cool night air. Eyes that moved too much. Dean had clocked it immediately, and Sam had noticed too. In their line of work, nervous usually meant one of two things: guilty or prey.

Either way, it was worth following.

Miller’s Creek Road stretched darker the farther they drove, the town thinning behind them until only scattered houses and dense trees remained. Gravel crackled beneath the van’s tires when the driver finally pulled into the small parking lot of a roadside bar tucked against the woods.

The neon beer signs in the windows buzzed weakly against the dark. Country music drifted faintly through the air each time the door opened, carrying with it the scent of cigarette smoke, grease, and stale alcohol.

Dean parked across the lot beneath a dying lamp that flickered every few seconds.

“That’s our guy?” Sam asked quietly, watching the man climb out of the van.

Dean tracked him with narrowed eyes. “Maybe.”

The man adjusted his jacket three times before heading inside.

Nervous.

Dean hated nervous.

Inside, the bar was dim and warm, crowded enough to disappear into but not packed enough to get lost completely. Hunters’ eyes adjusted quickly, scanning exits, faces, hands. The grey van driver took a stool near the end of the counter and ordered whiskey with the kind of tension that sat visibly in his shoulders.

Dean and Sam slid into a booth near the back.

They watched.

And waited.

Minutes dragged slowly.

The man drank one whiskey. Then another. He spoke briefly to the bartender but never relaxed. Every time the front door opened, his head turned too quickly toward it.

Dean’s instincts stayed hooked.

But something about it felt off.

Not wrong exactly.

Just… incomplete.

Forty-five minutes passed in fragments of country songs and clinking glasses. Sam nursed a beer mostly untouched while Dean kept his gaze moving between the nervous man, the windows, and the parking lot outside.

Nothing happened.

No claws. No twitching. No signs of aggression.

Just a scared man trying very hard not to look scared.

Dean finally shoved out of the booth with a quiet exhale. “Need something from the car.”

Sam nodded absently, eyes still on the sedan driver. “I’ll keep watching him.”

The night air hit cooler outside.

Dean stepped onto damp gravel, the bar door thudding shut behind him as muffled music faded into the background. The woods surrounding Miller’s Creek whispered softly in the breeze, branches creaking overhead.

He reached the Impala and opened the trunk.

Silver glinted faintly beneath the low light.

Then movement caught his eye.

A car.

Low. Sleek.

Midnight blue.

Dean straightened immediately.

The Charger crossed the far intersection at the end of the road without headlights, turning smoothly onto a narrow dirt path half-hidden by trees.

His pulse kicked hard once.

No civilian drove roads like that with their lights off.

Not unless they wanted to disappear.

Dean’s jaw tightened as he watched the last glimpse of dark metal vanish into the trees.

Son of a bitch.

The trunk slammed shut harder than necessary.

He moved fast back toward the bar, boots crunching over gravel. Inside, Sam looked up immediately at Dean’s expression.

“What happened?”

Dean jerked his head toward the door. “We need to go.”

Sam was already standing. “The guy—”

“Ain’t our wolf.”

Confusion flickered briefly across Sam’s face, but he followed without argument.

By the time they reached the road, the Charger was gone.

Only darkness stretched ahead beneath the trees.

Dean slowed the Impala at the mouth of the dirt road, eyes narrowing as memory clicked into place.

“There’s an old cabin down there,” Sam said quietly, realizing it at the same time. “Supposed to be abandoned.”

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel.

The woods swallowed the headlights as the Impala turned onto the dirt road.

And somewhere ahead of them, unseen in the dark, the orbit was tightening.

The pastor stayed inside the house for exactly ten minutes.

You counted.

Not consciously at first. It just happened. Your fingers tapping once against the steering wheel every sixty seconds while your eyes stayed fixed on the quiet little house near the end of the block.

No lights turned on inside except the living room.

No movement at the windows.

No signs of alarm.

Just silence.

Then the front door opened.

Your posture straightened immediately. 

The movement is small at first—just a wash of warm light spilling across the porch.

Even at this distance, there’s no mistaking the careful set of his shoulders or the composed, almost gentle way he moves. He steps onto the porch like he belongs in the quiet, like he carries nothing heavier than a sermon in his pocket.

He isn’t alone.

Another man follows him out, mid-conversation, the sound of low laughter drifting faintly through the night air. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind of ease that only comes from trust.

The pastor gestures lightly as he speaks, then gives the man an easy clap on the shoulder before heading toward the driver’s side of the car parked at the curb. The other man circles around and slides into the passenger seat without hesitation.

That settled something cold and heavy in your stomach.

The sedan pulled away from the curb smoothly.

You waited.

One Mississippi.

Two.

Three.

Then you eased the Charger back onto the road, headlights still off.

The darkness didn’t hinder you. If anything, it sharpened the world around you. Wet pavement reflected faint silver beneath the moonlight leaking through clouds overhead. Trees shifted in textured shadows. Mailboxes, cracked sidewalks, drifting leaves—every detail stood out with unnatural clarity.

You stayed far enough back to disappear into the night between intersections while never fully losing sight of the sedan ahead.

The pastor never hesitated.

No missed turns. No circling blocks.

He drove with purpose.

Your grip tightened slightly on the wheel as the town slowly began thinning around you again. Fewer houses. Longer stretches of trees. Less light.

Then the sedan passed the bar near Miller’s Creek.

You barely spared it a glance.

Neon signs buzzed weakly in the windows. A couple trucks sat scattered around the gravel lot. Just another roadside place full of tired people and stale beer.

Not important.

Your focus stayed locked on the taillights ahead.

The pastor turned onto the dirt road without slowing.

Your pulse picked up.

The trees swallowed his sedan almost immediately, darkness folding around it beneath the heavy canopy overhead.

You followed a few seconds later.

Gravel crackled softly beneath your tires as the Charger slipped into the woods behind him, engine low and smooth. The road narrowed quickly, branches arching overhead thick enough to blot out most of the sky.

No headlights.

No moonlight worth trusting.

But your eyes adjusted effortlessly, pulling shapes and depth from darkness the way a cat tracked movement at midnight. Every rut in the road. Every swaying branch. Every drifting shadow.

The deeper you drove, the quieter the world became.

No houses.

No distant traffic.

Just forest.

And somewhere ahead of you, a pastor drove calmly into the dark with a man who trusted him completely.

Your jaw tightened.

Because now you knew two things for certain.

The pastor wasn’t hunting randomly.

And whatever waited at the end of this road… he’d done it before.

Chapter 4 ----- Chapter 6 Doppelganger Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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Your shoulder had slipped. Your balance had vanished. The nightstand had met your foot with a loud—

Thunk.

—and the next thing you'd known, you'd been flat on your back.

For reasons you still couldn't quite explain… 

It had been the funniest thing that had ever happened. Another fit of laughter escaped before you could stop it. You covered your mouth with one hand, trying very hard to compose yourself.

It didn't work.

The image replayed itself in your mind. You falling with all the grace of an overcooked noodle. Another helpless snort escaped.

"Oh..."

You giggled.

"...That was..."

A breath.

"...so dumb."

You laughed all over again.

Eventually, the laughter eased enough that you could breathe. Your eyes drifted toward your prize. The unopened can of soda rested on the floor exactly where you'd forgotten to grab it from earlier.

Tiny beads of condensation clung to the aluminum, catching the light from your bedside lamp.

Cold. Refreshing. Beautiful.

You reached. Your fingers stretched as far as they would go.

Almost.

Just...

A little...

More.

Your fingertips wiggled uselessly through empty air. "...Come here."

The soda remained exactly where it was.

You frowned. "I said..."

Another stretch.

"...come here."

Nothing.

Your arm flopped back onto the floor. "...You're being difficult."

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at the can. "I don't appreciate it."

Silence.

You sighed.

"I crawled across the cold floor for you."

That seemed like a perfectly valid point. The soda, unfortunately, appeared unmoved by your sacrifice. You reached again anyway.

Still an inch short. "...Rude."

"So..." Dean's voice drifted into the room. "...Whatcha doin'?"

You tilted your head back.

Slowly.

As though you'd only just remembered other people existed.

Dean stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. Sam loomed just behind his brother, easily able to see over his shoulder.

Neither of them had moved. Neither of them had spoken again.

They were simply...

Looking at you.

You blinked once. "Oh." A smile spread lazily across your face. "Hi."

Dean's gaze traveled from your hopelessly tangled hair—

—to the way you were sprawled across the concrete floor—

—to one arm stretched dramatically over your head—

—to your legs, bent awkwardly with your socked feet resting against the front of the nightstand—

—and finally...

To the soda.

His eyes lingered there. Then slowly returned to you. "...Need a hand?"

You looked back at the can.

Considered the offer.

Then looked at Dean again.

"...Maybe."

A thoughtful pause.

"...But."

Dean waited.

"It's..." You pointed toward the soda with all the seriousness of someone presenting critical evidence.

"...right there."

Sam pressed his lips together.

Hard. Very hard.

You frowned at him. "What?"

"Nothin'." His voice sounded suspiciously strained.

You squinted. "...You're making a face."

"I'm really not."

"You are."

Dean cleared his throat. "So..." Another glance at the soda. "...You fall?"

You nodded solemnly. "I did."

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah." You waved one hand dismissively. "The floor caught me."

Dean blinked. "...The floor..."

"Mhm. It was very helpful."

For just a second...

Neither brother said anything.

Sam looked down at the floor.

Dean looked at Sam.

Sam looked back at Dean.

Dean inhaled slowly through his nose, looking back to you. "...Sweetheart..."

"Hm?"

"...Why didn't you just stand back up?"

You stared at him. Then slowly turned your head toward the bed. Then back to Dean.

"...Because."

Another thoughtful pause.

"I already came down."

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

His eyebrows climbed a little higher.

"...I..."

Nothing came out.

Behind him, Sam abruptly turned away from the doorway. One hand shot up over his mouth. His shoulders began shaking. A muffled sound escaped between his fingers.

Dean pointed accusingly. "Don't you start."

That only made Sam lose the battle entirely. His laughter echoed down the hallway.

You smiled. "Oh, good."

Dean looked back at you. "What?"

"I thought it was funny too." You nodded toward Sam. "He gets it."

Dean closed his eyes for exactly one second. "...I have a feeling..."

He opened them again, looking from you...

...to the soda...

...then back to you one last time.

"...I'm about to learn something I really wish I didn't."

Dean let out a slow breath through his nose.

"...Okay." He pinched the bridge of his nose for the briefest moment before looking back at you. "You stay right there."

You blinked. "...I wasn't really planning on going anywhere."

"I gathered."

With another sigh, he stepped into your room. His boots stopped beside your outstretched arm as he bent down, effortlessly retrieving the can of soda that had apparently become the center of your universe.

"There." He placed it carefully into your waiting hand.

Your face lit up. "Oh!"

Both hands immediately wrapped around the cold aluminum. "...Thank you." The words came out with genuine gratitude, as though he'd just rescued you from certain death.

Dean couldn't help the tiny smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Yeah."

You wasted absolutely no time cracking it open.

Pssht.

The sharp hiss filled the room as you shifted just enough so you could drink it without wearing it.

You took one long drink.

Another.

Then closed your eyes. "...Oh..."

A pleased little hum vibrated in your chest.

"That's..." Another sip. "...really good."

Dean watched you for another second before something finally prompted him to look up.

Really look.

His eyes swept across your room. The bed looked as though it'd survived a small tornado.

The comforter was twisted into impossible angles, half hanging off one side while pillows had migrated into uneven piles against the headboard.

Your laptop still sat open near the middle of the mattress. The Mummy continued playing to an audience of absolutely no one.

Beside it rested two open bags of chips. An open container of cookies. A battlefield of colorful candy wrappers scattered across the blankets. A half-empty popcorn bag lay partially crumpled on the other side of your laptop.

Dean's gaze drifted toward your nightstand. Your coffee mug sat abandoned where you'd left it hours ago.

Beside it...

An empty soda can. He looked back down at the fresh soda in your hands. Then at you.

Then slowly around the room once more.

"...Huh."

Behind him, Sam remained quietly in the doorway. He wasn't looking at the snacks. He was looking at you.

Your pupils. The blissful smile on your face. The way you kept absentmindedly rubbing your thumb over the condensation collecting on the soda can, as though the texture alone was endlessly fascinating.

Then...

A soft rumble. Barely audible.

Dean frowned. "...Are..." He glanced toward Sam. "...Is she..."

Sam nodded once. "She's purring."

Dean looked back at you.

You hadn't even noticed. Still smiling faintly to yourself, you turned the soda can another quarter turn beneath your fingertips.

"...It's cold."

Dean blinked. "...Yeah."

"I like it."

"I can see that."

Sam's eyes wandered toward the hallway. Then, almost absently, back toward the kitchen.

The brownies.

Dean followed his brother's line of sight.

Kitchen. Brownies. Six. Chocolate.

"No way she'd eat those.""She would've smelled the weed."

Charlie's note. Two missing brownies. 

Your room. The snacks. The laughter. The purring.

Dean's eyes slowly widened. "...No."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek.

Dean looked at you.

Then at the soda. Then back toward the hallway.

"...No."

A beat.

"...No."

You looked up from your soda. "...You okay?"

Dean pointed at you. "You..." He pointed vaguely toward the kitchen. "...ate..." Another point. "...the brownies."

You smiled proudly. "They were really good."

Sam lost it. A bark of laughter escaped before he could stop it.

Dean slowly turned to look at his brother.

Sam was already laughing too hard to apologize. "I..." He tried. Another laugh interrupted him. "I told you..." More laughter. "...she likes chocolate."

Dean closed his eyes. "...I said she'd smell it."

"You did."

"I said she'd know."

"You absolutely did."

Dean sighed toward the ceiling. "...I am never living this down."

"Nope."

Sam stepped farther into the room just long enough to clap one solid hand against Dean's shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to earn his attention. A grin stretched across Sam's face.

"Your mess." Another chuckle escaped him. "You get to clean it up."

Before Dean could even think of a response, Sam turned and started back down the hallway. His laughter echoed off the bunker walls.

Every few steps he managed to compose himself...

...only to picture you lying on the floor arguing with a can of soda.

Another snort escaped him. His shoulders shook. By the time he'd disappeared around the corner, he was laughing all over again.

Dean remained exactly where he was. Silent. Hands on his hips.

Looking from you...

...to the wreckage of your room...

...then back to you, perfectly content on the floor with your precious soda.

You smiled brightly up at him. "...Hi."

Dean stared for another long second before letting out one slow, defeated sigh. "...Charlie is never going to find out about this if I can help it."

You continued looking up at him from the floor, your head still tipped comfortably to one side.

He looked...

Tall. Really tall.

Your eyes slowly traveled upward until they finally reached his face. "Huh."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What?"

A smile spread lazily across your lips. "You look really tall from here." A quiet giggle escaped you. "And I feel tiny."

Another soft rumble vibrated pleasantly in your chest.

Dean closed his eyes. Just for a second. His thumb and forefinger found the bridge of his nose once more. His other hand firmly on his hip.

He pinched it gently, taking one long, measured breath that looked suspiciously like an attempt to keep himself from either laughing... or screaming.

Neither seemed to be winning. Finally, he looked back down at you.

"...Why," he asked slowly, carefully, "would you eat my brownies?"

You blinked. "They were yummy." The answer came without a hint of hesitation. A grin tugged at the corners of your mouth. "I want the recipe."

Dean opened his mouth.

You continued before he had a chance. "Do you think Charlie would give it to me?"

The question carried all the earnest curiosity of a child asking for cookie recipes after Christmas.

Dean's jaw shifted thoughtfully from one side to the other. He was clearly searching for words. Several possibilities crossed his face.

None of them survived. "...You're not getting the recipe."

Your shoulders slumped ever so slightly. "...Oh."

The disappointment in that single syllable made Dean briefly consider apologizing. He didn't. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and finally took a proper look at you.

Your hair had become an absolute disaster.

Dark strands stuck out in every conceivable direction from sleep, rolling around on the floor, and apparently losing an argument with your pillows.

Your pupils had swallowed nearly all of the color from your irises. One hand remained wrapped possessively around the soda can. The other rested comfortably across your stomach.

Completely content.

Completely unconcerned.

Completely...

High.

"...Come on." His voice softened despite himself. "Let's get you back into bed." His eyes flicked briefly toward the concrete beneath you. "...And off the cold floor."

"Oh." You nodded immediately. "Okay."

You held your free hand up toward him.

Dean looked at it. Then back at you. A tiny smirk tugged almost imperceptibly at one corner of his mouth. "...Yeah."

You waited patiently. Instead of taking your hand, Dean lowered himself into a crouch beside you. "What're you..."

One arm slipped carefully beneath your shoulders. The other hooked comfortably behind your knees.

Before you had the chance to process what was happening—

The floor disappeared. A tiny squeak escaped you as your stomach gave the briefest little flutter.

"Dean!" Your arms instinctively tightened around the first stable thing they could find.

His neck.

The soda remained safely clutched in one hand while your other arm looped securely behind him, fingers bunching lightly in the back of his flannel.

Dean adjusted his hold almost automatically, settling your weight comfortably against his chest. "There we go."

His voice carried the same easy reassurance it always did whenever he was helping you. Like this wasn't unusual at all. Like carrying you was the most natural thing in the world.

Another surprised little laugh bubbled out of you. "...You cheated."

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. "I cheated?"

"I thought..." You giggled. "...you were gonna help me stand."

"I know."

"You picked me up."

"I did."

"...That wasn't what I expected."

"Nope."

Despite every effort to remain exasperated, Dean felt the corners of his mouth betray him. A quiet chuckle slipped free. It wasn't much. Just enough.

The sound caught your attention immediately. Your gaze drifted away from the soda. Then upward. Very close upward.

Dean's face was only inches from yours now. Close enough that the lamp lights shifted across his features every time he moved.

Your eyes wandered.

His jaw.

The faint stubble beginning to return.

The curve of his nose.

Then...

You stopped.

Your entire expression softened.

Dean noticed the silence almost immediately. "...Sweetheart?"

You didn't answer. Your eyes continued tracing invisible paths across his cheeks. Across the bridge of his nose.

Back again.

His freckles.

The tiny specks scattered across sun-warmed skin that most people barely noticed.

Your pupils adjusted ever so slightly beneath the lights, narrowing just enough to bring everything into sharper focus.

They were everywhere. Little clusters. Some standing alone. Others gathered together.

Tiny patterns.

"...They're like stars."

Dean frowned. "...What is?"

You lifted one finger from around the soda can.

Very carefully...

You pointed toward his cheek.

"Your freckles." Your voice had gone almost dreamy. "Like little constellations."

Your fingertip hovered just shy of touching his skin as your eyes wandered from one faint freckle to the next.

"...All over."

Dean went very still.

"They're..." You smiled softly. "...pretty."

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Dean simply looked at you. The sincerity in your voice left absolutely no room for teasing or embarrassment.

You weren't flirting. You weren't trying to flatter him. You'd simply noticed something beautiful, and in your current state, it felt important that he knew.

The smile he'd been trying so desperately to suppress finally won. Small. Warm. And entirely unguarded.

"...Well," he murmured quietly. "I don't think anybody's ever complimented my freckles before."

You looked genuinely surprised. "They should."

Another contented purr rumbled against his chest. "They're nice."

Dean shook his head with a soft, disbelieving laugh as he shifted, assessing how to get you back into your bed easiest.

"...You're somethin' else."

And somehow...

That felt like the understatement of the century.

Dean shifted you a little higher against his chest as he turned toward the bed.

It looked...

Occupied.

Blankets. Pillows. The laptop sat squarely in the middle, Brendan Fraser continuing his adventure completely unnoticed.

A half-open bag of chips leaned lazily against one of the pillows. Cookie container. Candy wrappers. Popcorn.

Dean let out another quiet sigh. "...Course."

Finding a place to set you down suddenly required considerably more planning than he'd anticipated.

You, meanwhile, had become fascinated by something else entirely. "...You smell nice."

Dean glanced down. "Hm?"

You took a slow breath without really thinking about it. The scent wrapped around you before you could stop yourself.

Warm laundry soap. Motor oil that never quite left his skin no matter how much he scrubbed after working on Baby. Leather. Coffee. The faintest trace of gun oil lingering on his flannel. His aftershave. A hint of mint from the toothpaste he used.

Underneath it all...

Just...

Dean.

Comforting. Warm. Safe.

You smiled to yourself. "I like your smell."

Dean blinked. "...Thanks?"

"I don't think I've ever noticed it this much." Another absent-minded breath. "It's… warm."

Dean cleared his throat. "...Might be the laundry detergent."

You shook your head immediately. "No." Another inhale. "That's different."

You frowned thoughtfully. "The detergent's..." You searched for the word. "...clean."

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay..."

"But you smell warm."

He had absolutely no response to that. So he simply kept trying to decide where on earth to put you.

If he moved the laptop...

No.

She'd probably notice.

Maybe the chips—

"...Your heart's fast."

Dean froze. "...What?"

You tilted your head slightly, one ear resting closer against his chest now. The steady rhythm filled your ears.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You listened for another moment. "It got faster."

Dean instinctively looked down at himself as though that might somehow explain it. "...You can hear that?"

"Mhm." Another contented purr rolled quietly through your chest. "It's nice."

Dean looked toward the doorway. Sam had wisely disappeared. Coward.

"...It's..." You smiled sleepily. "...steady."

Dean swallowed once. "...Yeah."

"I like listening to it."

His ears turned faintly pink. He decided the laptop could stay where it was, but the candy wrappers… Those definitely needed to move.

He carefully leaned down, shoving them toward the laptop one-handed, trying not to jostle you too much.

On the laptop, The Mummy continued playing. Gunfire erupted through the tiny speakers.

You didn't even look. "...You hum."

Dean paused. "...I what?"

"You hum."

"I don't hum."

"You do." You nodded confidently. "When you think."

Dean frowned. "I don't..."

He stopped.

Realized. "...Do I?"

"Mhm."

Very softly, almost beneath your breath, you mimicked the little absent-minded hum he'd never realized he made while concentrating.

Dean stared. "...I do that?"

"You've always done that."

He honestly had no idea. "...Huh."

His attention returned to clearing enough space on the mattress.

Blankets.

Move those.

Pillow.

There.

Almost—

"...Your beard's scratchy."

Dean looked back down. "What beard?"

You reached up carefully, fingertips brushing lightly against the stubble beginning to grow along his jaw.

The sensation fascinated you immediately. "Ooo..." You rubbed your thumb across it again. "So pokey."

Dean chuckled despite himself. "It's called stubble."

"I like it."

"You do?"

"It tickles." Another slow pass of your fingertips. "So fuzzy."

Dean smiled helplessly. "...You're really high."

You looked at him with complete sincerity.

"I know. You’re still holding me." A beat. "I think Charlie bakes with magic."

Dean laughed. "No."

"I'm pretty sure."

"Nope."

"The brownies were enchanted."

"They weren't enchanted."

"They absolutely were."

Dean shook his head. "They had weed in 'em."

You blinked. "...That's a weird ingredient."

"It is."

"...It tasted like chocolate."

"Yeah."

"I didn't taste any weed."

Dean snorted. "I know."

Your brow furrowed. "...Did Charlie hide it?"

Another laugh escaped him. "Something like that."

Satisfied with the explanation, you nodded once. "She's sneaky."

"She sure is." Dean finally cleared enough of the mattress to expose a comfortable patch of blankets. "There."

He started lowering you carefully toward it.

Halfway down...

You suddenly looked up at him again. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I like when you carry me." The words were so simple.

So matter-of-fact. No embarrassment. No hesitation. Just another observation.

Dean paused for half a second. "...Yeah?"

"It feels safe." You smiled. "Like being wrapped in a heated blanket."

Dean's expression softened all over again. "...Well." He carefully settled you back onto the mattress. "I'm glad."

"I am too."

As soon as your back met the blankets, another contented purr vibrated through the room.

Dean looked down at you. Then toward the hallway where Sam had wisely escaped. "...He's never gonna let me forget today."

Behind him, somewhere in the bunker, Sam's laughter echoed faintly once again.

Dean sighed. "...Yep."

He wasn't wrong.

Before he could even focus on anything else, you started rambling, pulling his gaze right back to your wide eyes, telling him all about your little ‘adventures’ after your first movie had finished. Right up until your tongue got dry and started sticking to places in your mouth.

Your attention drifted back to the can still nestled safely in your hands.

"Oh." Your eyes brightened. "I have my soda."

Dean shook his head with a soft smile, just as you beamed at it like you'd been reunited with a long-lost friend.

"...Yeah, you do."

The tab was already open. You took another long drink. The fizz danced across your tongue, cold enough to make your nose wrinkle before another pleased little hum escaped you.

"...Mm."

Dean couldn't help smiling. "Good?"

"So good."

You hugged the can briefly against your chest before taking another sip. Content.

Dean shook his head fondly before turning his attention toward the battlefield that had once been your bed.

"...Let's see..."

One by one, he began gathering empty candy wrappers into one hand.

The crinkling plastic seemed impossibly loud to your ears.

Each wrapper had its own sound. Some crisp. Some softer. Some almost crackled. Your ears twitched. But your thoughts didn’t stay in your head, narrating the sound of each wrapper as Dean plucked them from the blanket.

He wasn’t even fighting his smile anymore as he moved around the bed with the easy confidence of someone who'd spent enough time in your room to know where everything belonged. All while listening to your commentary, which was quite amusing.

He never hesitated.

Never reached twice.

Empty wrapper.

Trash.

Half-empty popcorn bag.

Trash.

Cookie lid.

Stacked neatly.

You watched with complete fascination. "...You're efficient."

Dean looked over. "Hm?"

"You don't waste any movements."

He blinked. "I don't?"

You shook your head. "No."

Your gaze followed him as he leaned across the mattress to retrieve another wrapper. "You already know where you're going before you move."

Dean paused halfway through picking one up. "...Do I?"

"Mhm." Another sip. "You don't look first."

"I don't?"

"You just..." You made a vague little motion with your free hand. "...go."

Dean frowned thoughtfully. "...Huh."

He'd never considered it. You had. Apparently. He tossed another handful of wrappers into the trash.

"You bend with your knees."

Dean laughed. "...What?"

"You don't bend with your back."

You demonstrated poorly from the bed.

"You always..." Another vague gesture. "...do this."

Dean looked down at himself. "I… guess I do."

"You do." You nodded with absolute confidence. "It's smart."

Dean chuckled. "Thanks."

Another moment passed. You continued watching him. Really watching him.

His forearm flexed as he picked up your empty coffee mug. The muscles shifted beneath the rolled sleeves of his flannel.

You tilted your head. "...Your muscles move funny."

Dean almost dropped the mug. "My..."

"They slide." Your fingers traced little invisible lines in the air. "Under your skin."

Dean stared. "I've never..."

You smiled to yourself. "It's neat."

He set the mug down a little more carefully than necessary. "...Nobody's ever told me my muscles were neat."

"They are." You sounded completely certain. "They're like..." You searched for the comparison. "...ropes."

Dean snorted. "Ropes?"

"They move before your hands do."

"...I don't think that's how muscles work."

"It is." You took another thoughtful sip. "I watched."

Dean looked at you for a long second. "...How long have you been watching me?"

You frowned. "I don't know." Another beat. "...Years?"

Dean actually laughed at that. "Years?"

"Mhm."

"I watch everybody."

He relaxed. That... made sense.

Then you added, "But mostly you."

Dean stopped moving. "...Mostly me?"

"You move the most." You paused, considering. “Even when you’re sitting still.”

The answer came so naturally that it took all the weight out of the statement.

"You fix things."

Another sip.

"You cook."

Another.

"You clean."

Another.

"You pace."

Dean blinked.

"...I pace?"

"So much." You giggled. "You do little circles when you're thinking." You traced one in the air. "Like this."

Dean looked genuinely horrified. "I do not."

"You do."

"I..." He looked toward the doorway as if Sam might magically appear to settle the debate.

Unfortunately for him...

Sam wasn't there to deny it.

Only you. Watching him with wide, fascinated eyes. And somehow making observations he'd never once realized about himself.

Dean stood in your doorway for another few seconds.

You were still happily sipping your soda, now thoroughly engrossed in watching the bubbles race upward inside the can.

"...They're in a hurry," you murmured to yourself.

Dean followed your line of sight. "...Who is?"

"The bubbles." You tilted the can slightly. "They're trying really hard."

"...Right." A pause. "They always go to the top."

"Mhm..."

"They're very determined."

Dean slowly nodded. "...Okay."

You hummed contentedly and took another drink, immediately becoming fascinated all over again by the fizz dancing across your tongue.

Satisfied that you were comfortable, warm, and no longer lying on the concrete floor, Dean quietly backed toward the hallway.

"I'll... be right back."

You smiled without looking away from the soda. "'Kay."

Dean eased the bedroom door until it rested mostly closed, leaving it cracked just enough that he could still hear you if you needed him.

Or...

Started talking to another household appliance. Honestly, at this point, either seemed equally likely. Even if his plan had been to keep this from Charlie completely, he needed to call her.

The kitchen looked almost normal again.

Almost.

Sam had finished putting away most of the groceries while Dean had been occupied rescuing one very stoned Touched from the floor.

The only things left on the island were a loaf of bread, the coffee canister Dean had yet to open...

...and the plastic brownie container.

Dean stared at it. "...You."

Sam looked over. "The brownies are innocent."

"They absolutely are not."

"They're baked goods."

"They're accomplices."

Sam's grin widened, amused at how similar you and Dean were. "I'm pretty sure that's not how crimes work."

Dean sighed, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'm calling Charlie."

Sam leaned against the counter. "...Good idea."

Dean thumbed through his contacts before hitting her name.

The phone rang twice.

"Hey, Winchester!" Charlie answered cheerfully. "So... how amazing were they?"

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "...Slight problem."

A beat. "...What kind of slight problem?"

Dean glanced toward the hallway. "...Y/N ate two."

Silence.

"...Charlie?"

Another second.

Then—

"...She what?"

"She ate two."

"...My brownies?"

"Your brownies."

"...The pot brownies?"

Dean looked at the ceiling. "Charlie."

"Oh my God."

Dean couldn't tell whether the sound that followed was horror...

...or the beginning of laughter.

"I'm trying really hard not to laugh," Charlie admitted.

"I need you to try harder."

"I am." Another pause. "...I'm failing a little."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "I noticed."

"What happened?"

Dean looked toward the hallway again. "...How much time do you have?"

Sam quietly busied himself putting the bread away. Very quietly. Very obviously listening since Dean had put the phone on speaker.

Dean sighed. "She ate 'em."

"Mhm."

"Watched a movie."

"Mhm."

"Apparently became fascinated by the bunker making noises."

Charlie blinked on the other end of the line. "...Go on."

"So she wandered around listening to air vents."

"...Dean..."

"I'm not kidding."

Sam snorted.

Dean shot him a look. "Then she decided the refrigerator had moved."

Charlie made a strangled noise.

Dean continued anyway. "She crawled across her bedroom floor because walking was apparently too much effort."

The strangled noise became unmistakable laughter.

Dean closed his eyes. "Charlie."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No..." She laughed again. "...I'm really not."

Dean sighed. "Then she forgot her soda."

"...Dean..."

"Climbed back onto the bed."

Another laugh.

"Forgot the soda was still on the floor."

Charlie's laughter became completely uncontrollable. Dean waited. Patiently. Mostly.

Finally...

"She tried reaching it from the bed."

"Mhm."

"Fell off."

"Oh, no..."

"Hit the nightstand."

Charlie inhaled sharply. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine."

"Thank God."

Dean nodded. "Then she laid there arguing with the soda because it wouldn't come closer."

Charlie disappeared from the phone entirely. Dean could hear muffled laughter somewhere in the distance.

"...Charlie."

"I'm here."

"You don't sound here."

Another burst of laughter. "I'm trying!"

Sam abandoned all pretense at this point, openly grinning as he reached for the loaf of bread.

Dean pointed at him. "Don't encourage her."

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to."

Charlie finally managed to regain enough composure to breathe. "...Okay." Deep breath. "I'm good."

"No, you're not."

"No." Another tiny laugh escaped. "...Probably not."

Dean leaned against the counter. "How long is this gonna last?"

Charlie's amusement softened into thought. "...That's..." She hesitated. "...Actually a really good question."

Dean didn't like that answer already. "What do you mean?"

"Well..."

He could practically hear her slipping into analytical mode.

"I made those with you in mind."

Dean frowned. "...Okay."

"Your height."

"Mhm."

"Your weight."

"Mhm."

"And..." She laughed quietly. "...Your frankly concerning alcohol tolerance."

Dean looked offended. "It's not concerning."

Sam coughed loudly into his fist.

Charlie ignored both of them. "One brownie would've probably given you a nice buzz."

Dean nodded. "Two?"

"...About four hours, maybe."

Dean relaxed slightly. "Okay."

Charlie wasn't finished. "For you."

Dean's shoulders tensed again. "...Charlie."

"We honestly don't know how Y/N's healing factor interacts with cannabis."

Dean's expression flattened. "...Fantastic."

"I mean..." Charlie sounded genuinely intrigued now. "Think about it."

Dean absolutely did not want to.

"Her body heals ridiculously fast."

"Yeah."

"Which probably means she's filtering out a lot of the negative side effects."

Dean frowned. "...Negative?"

"Nausea."

"Mhm."

"Dizziness."

"Yeah."

"Headaches."

Dean glanced toward the hallway. "...She's definitely not nauseous."

"No?"

"No."

"Anxious?"

"No."

"Paranoid?"

Dean almost laughed. "No."

"Sleepy?"

"...Not really."

Charlie paused. "So what is she doing?"

Dean thought about it.

"...Complimenting my freckles."

Silence.

"...She what?"

"Said they looked like constellations."

Another beat.

"...Charlie."

A single snort escaped over the phone. Then another. Sam was barely keeping his composure, hands braced on his hips, letting out several heavy breaths to keep from completely losing it laughing.

Dean lowered his head. "...Don't."

"I—"

She tried.

She really did.

"...I'm trying so hard..."

Dean could already hear it.

"...not to picture Dean Winchester standing there while a very high Y/N studies his face like she's looking at the night sky."

Sam lost the last of his composure. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Dean pointed at him without looking. "You."

Sam immediately held both hands up. "I know."

"You are not helping."

"I know."

Charlie was laughing again.

Dean sighed toward the ceiling. "So..." He waited until she caught her breath. "...How long?"

This time Charlie's answer came much more slowly. "...Honestly?"

Dean's stomach sank.

"I don't know."

"...You don't know?"

"I've never met anyone whose healing factor works like hers."

Dean rubbed a tired hand down his face. "So..."

She winced sympathetically. "It could be four hours."

Dean nodded once. "...Or?"

"...Or longer."

"How much longer?"

"I genuinely can't say." She shrugged, even if Dean couldn’t see her. “The rest of the day, maybe?”

Dean was quiet.

Charlie softened her voice. "The good news?"

Dean waited.

"She's safe."

That helped.

A little.

"Keep her hydrated."

Dean looked toward the hallway. "Already working on that."

"Let her enjoy the ride."

Dean snorted. "I don't think she has much choice."

"Nope." Charlie smiled through the phone. "And Dean?"

"...Yeah?"

"If she starts trying to pet the furniture..."

Dean closed his eyes. "...I'm hanging up now."

Charlie's laughter followed him all the way through the click of the call ending. Dean stared at his phone for a long moment before slipping it back into his pocket.

Sam looked over from the pantry, a grin still firmly in place. "So?"

Dean let out one long, exhausted sigh. "...Apparently..."

He glanced toward the hallway just as your delighted voice drifted faintly from your room.

"...The bubbles are winning."

Dean closed his eyes again. "...I'm gonna need more coffee."

Part 1 ------- Part 3 Brownies Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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Your hair was still a mess from sleep, one side flattened from the pillow. You scratched absently behind one ear as you shuffled toward the coffee pot.

"Oh, thank God."

Half a pot.

Dean and Sam had at least been kind enough to leave you some.

You poured yourself a generous mug before hopping effortlessly onto the counter beside the sink, curling one leg beneath you. The ceramic radiated warmth through your palms as you wrapped both hands around it, letting the heat chase away the last remnants of sleep.

The first sip was heaven.

Rich.

Hot.

Strong enough to wake the dead.

A pleased little hum escaped before you took another drink, closing your eyes for just a second as the warmth settled comfortably in your stomach.

It wasn't until nearly half the mug had disappeared that your attention drifted to the folded piece of paper resting on the counter beside you.

You picked it up.

Supply Run. Won’t be gone long.-D

A small smile tugged at your lips.

The list hanging on the refrigerator had been growing for nearly a week now. Coffee. Eggs. Bread. Laundry detergent. Bobby kept threatening to visit and complain if the pantry looked like it belonged to two bachelors much longer.

You snorted softly to yourself.

Hopefully they'd remember everything.

Otherwise Dean would absolutely insist they could "make do," and somehow that usually translated into eating cheeseburgers three nights in a row.

Your gaze wandered idly around the kitchen.

Then stopped.

"Huh..."

Sitting squarely in the middle of the island was a plastic container.

Nothing fancy. Just one of those inexpensive clear containers with the snap-on lid that could've come from any dollar store.

You frowned.

You were almost certain it hadn't been there yesterday.

Sliding off the counter, you padded across the kitchen, curiosity already getting the better of you.

Another note rested neatly on top.

You picked it up.

You win. Never betting you again.

-C

"...What did you two bet on?"

Charlie was notorious for making ridiculous wagers with Dean, or vice versa.

Whether this had involved pie, classic arcade games, or convincing Sam to wear something embarrassing was anybody's guess.

You set the note aside and popped the lid open. 

The scent of chocolate, all moist and inviting, invaded your senses. Layered through it was warm butter, vanilla, brown sugar, and a hint of espresso, maybe. You hadn’t even realized you’d leaned down just to breath it in deeper. 

Your nose twitched as you took another deep whiff. There was something else beneath it all. Something earthy. Not unpleasant. Just… different.

"Hm." 

Whatever Charlie had used, it smelled incredible. Your stomach chose that exact moment to remind you breakfast hadn’t happened yet.

You licked your lips, glancing around the kitchen, even knowing neither brother was home, then back down at the brownies.

“...Dean won’t miss one.”

For a moment, you just stared at the brownies, actually debating taking one of the eight neatly cut squares. Soft. Dense. The tops were delicately crackled, while the centers looked impossibly fudgy. They practically melted under your fingertips when you picked one up.

You hesitated.

For all of three seconds. “Fuck it,” you finally mumbled, grabbing two out of the container, quickly closing it, and replacing the note neatly on top. “He can yell at me later.”

Your mind was already rationalizing the action. Charlie had made them. Which meant there was every possibility she’d made enough for Dean to share. But Dean had a sweet tooth. He’d absolutely complain. Probably. Maybe.

You finished off your first cup, poured a second, and took that, along with the two brownies, back to your room. No point in leaving crumbs in the kitchen. 

The first bite nearly made you groan.

"Oh my God..."

It was ridiculously good.

The outside offered just enough resistance before giving way to an almost molten center that coated your tongue with rich chocolate. The butter lingered just long enough for the sweetness to bloom afterward, balanced by that faint earthy flavor you still couldn't quite place.

You took another bite.

Then another.

By the time you reached your room, half of the first brownie had vanished.

You made a mental note to ask Charlie for the recipe.

Two hours later…

John McClane was in the middle of blowing something up.

Again.

Honestly, you'd lost track.

Your laptop rested near the middle of your bed while you lay sprawled against a mountain of pillows, half on your side, half on your back, one knee bent lazily. Die Hard 4 played across the screen, though your attention drifted in and out of the movie more than once.

The brownies were long gone.

So was your coffee.

A half-empty bag of microwave popcorn rested to the left of your laptop beside an open container of chewy chocolate chip cookies.

To the right of your laptop sat two different bags of chips, each somehow half-eaten.

Candy wrappers littered the comforter between you and the laptop like tiny colorful confetti.

The last soda you'd opened sat forgotten on your nightstand.

Empty. You were fairly certain it'd been empty for a while. You just hadn't felt like reaching for another, even if your mouth had felt sort of dry.

Instead, you sank further into the pillows. They felt… nice. Really nice. Almost impossibly nice. Like every muscle had simply decided there was no reason to hold itself together anymore.

For a few moments, you just stared at the ceiling before lifting your arm into the air. Your body felt almost light, while also heavy. It was a strange sensation. Plus, your skin just felt… different. You slowly traced your fingertips down your extended arm, the sensations too interesting to stop the movement.

“...Weird.” The word was barely mumbled into the quiet space.

Every brush of your fingertips seemed magnified, sending tiny ripples of sensation across your skin. Goosebumps chased after the movement in a lazy wave while the soft cotton of your T-shirt sleeve grazed your shoulder, suddenly becoming one of the nicest feelings you'd ever experienced.

You did it again.

Slower this time.

Watching the pads of your fingers glide over your skin.

The sensation was oddly mesmerizing.

"...Huh."

A smile slowly spread across your face before you even realized it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a soft rumble vibrated pleasantly in your chest. You didn't even notice you were purring. 

The ending credits finally rolled across your laptop screen, pulling your attention away from your arm as they mostly just fell to rest against your chest. Your head lolled sideways as though it suddenly weighed twice as much.

You frowned at the screen like it had personally betrayed you, "...That's rude." 

The movie had simply...

Ended.

Without asking whether you were finished watching it.

With an exaggerated sigh, you reached toward the mousepad, letting your hand fall onto it with all the grace of someone who'd suddenly forgotten exactly how arms worked. 

You nudged the cursor toward the search bar.

Almost there...

Almost...

There.

Success.

Pleased with yourself, you started typing.

The first letter missed. Then the second. Then somehow the third landed nowhere near where you'd intended.

"...No."

You stared at the keyboard.

It stared back.

You frowned harder.

"...You're not supposed to move."

You squinted suspiciously at it before another long, dramatic sigh escaped you. Apparently, the only solution was to sit up. Which, unfortunately, required convincing the rest of your body to cooperate.

Slowly, and with all the enthusiasm of someone being asked to climb a mountain, you pushed yourself upright. Your hair fell into your face as you settled right where your butt had been while you’d been lying down, blinking once at the keyboard.

"...There."

That seemed much more manageable.

The second attempt at typing went considerably better.

Mostly because you were actually looking at the keyboard instead of trying to reach it from an angle that defied both logic and anatomy.

A few clicks later, The Mummy filled your screen.

"There you are."

You smiled to yourself as the familiar opening music began to play. Perfect. You'd seen it enough times that it didn't matter if your attention wandered.

Which...

It immediately did.

Something clicked. Not loudly. Just...

Tick.

Your ears twitched. Your head turned toward your bedroom door before you'd even realized you'd reacted.

Silence.

Well... not silence. Never silence.

Your brow furrowed.

There.

Another one.

Tick... tick...

"...What..."

You sat perfectly still, listening. It was coming from somewhere beyond your room.

Not the hallway. Further.

Maybe one of the pipes?

No...

Too sharp.

The ventilation?

No.

Different.

You held your breath.

Tick.

Your eyes widened ever so slightly.

"...Has that always done that?"

The question floated into the empty room with absolutely no expectation of an answer. The sound came again. Then another. Not rhythmic enough to be annoying.

Just...

Present.

Like someone had quietly turned up the volume on the entire bunker. Your attention drifted again. Somewhere overhead, the ventilation system sighed as air moved through old ducts.

You could hear it separating around corners. A faint whistle where it slipped through one particular vent. Water whispered through pipes inside the walls.

Not rushing.

Just... moving.

Farther away, the refrigerator compressor hummed to life. The sudden vibration made your eyes swivel instinctively toward your closed door.

"...Huh."

You'd heard it a thousand times before. Probably. Maybe. Had it always sounded...

round?

Your nose wrinkled.

Could sounds be round?

That didn't make any sense. You considered it anyway.

Then...

Drip.

Your head tilted like a curious cat, eyes still glued to your door.

"There!"

Another drip. Definitely water this time. You slid off the bed almost without thinking, bare feet landing softly against the floor.

The movie continued behind you. Completely forgotten. You eased your bedroom door open. The hallway stretched out in front of you, empty as ever beneath the warm bunker lights.

You stood there. Listening.

Drip.

"There you are..."

You couldn't actually see where "there" was. The sound echoed strangely through the concrete corridors, bouncing just enough that it refused to tell you where it originated.

You leaned your head one direction. Then the other.

"...No..."

Another step.

Your feet carried you into the hallway with slow, cautious curiosity, more like a cat stalking an unfamiliar noise than someone looking for a plumbing issue.

Drip.

"...You're over here."

You took another few steps.

"No..."

Pause.

"...Maybe over there."

You frowned.

"You're moving." The accusation came with genuine suspicion.

You were almost positive water shouldn't be able to move like this particular sound. Yet somehow every time you thought you'd pinpointed the sound, it seemed to bounce somewhere else.

You crouched. Maybe lower would help.

It didn't.

Now you could hear something else—the faint electrical buzz from one of the fluorescent fixtures overhead.

Not loud.

Just...

Steady.

You looked up.

"...You're noisy."

The light, unsurprisingly, offered no defense. You stared at it for several long seconds, still crouching. Then tilted your head.

"...How long have you been buzzing?"

It had probably always buzzed. You'd simply never paid this much attention to it before. The realization somehow felt profound.

Your gaze wandered farther down the hallway until it landed on one of the floor vents. Air drifted lazily upward through the metal grate.

You walked over, hyperfocused on the invisible air slipping through the space between the metal. Head tilted, you slowly crouched down, gingerly reaching your hand out, hovering in the moving air.

Warm.

You frowned. Then leaned closer.

"...I can hear the air."

You blinked.

Well.

Of course you could hear air. That wasn't the strange part.

The strange part was...

"...It sounds warm."

You crouched there for several seconds, trying to decide if warm air and cold air sounded different.

The more you thought about it...

...the more convinced you became that they absolutely did.

"I need to remember to ask Sam."

Sam knew weird things. He'd probably know if temperatures had different sounds. Entirely satisfied with this conclusion, you nodded once to yourself before standing again.

Your stomach gave a small, impatient growl.

"...Right."

Movie.

You'd been doing something, and now you were hungry again.

The familiar lines of The Mummy greeted you as you stepped back into your room.

"...Right."

That was what you'd been doing.

Watching a movie.

You pushed the door shut with your foot before wandering back over to the bed, your attention already settling onto the laptop screen, not even realizing the door had barely moved. Brendan Fraser appeared, and you smiled.

"There you are."

Without a second thought, you let yourself fall backward onto the mattress. The bed welcomed you with an almost offensive amount of comfort.

The pillows puffed around your shoulders. The blankets settled all fluffy and soft beneath you. A content little sigh escaped you.

"...Mm."

Much better.

Your hand drifted automatically toward one of the open bags of chips resting beside your laptop. Your fingers disappeared inside, rustling through the nearly empty bag before emerging with a small handful.

You popped one into your mouth.

Crunch.

Then another.

Crunch.

You chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then your brow furrowed.

"...No."

You looked down into the bag. There were still chips in it. That wasn't the problem. Another chip disappeared into your mouth, slower this time.

Crunch.

"...No..."

You swallowed. Your tongue stuck faintly to the roof of your mouth. Suddenly, it was all you could think about. You were thirsty.

Really thirsty.

How had you not noticed that before, while you’d been standing?

Your gaze drifted toward the empty soda can on your nightstand. That explained absolutely nothing. You were still thirsty.

Slowly, your eyes continued across the room until they landed on the little black mini-fridge tucked neatly beside your desk in the far corner, just to the right of the bedroom door.

There it was.

Cold drinks. Water. Soda. Probably juice.

Everything you wanted was right there.

You stared at it. The fridge stared back.

"...Hmm."

You glanced down at the mess covering your bed.

Popcorn. Chip bags. Cookie container. Candy wrappers. Laptop. Blankets. Pillows.

Then back to the fridge.

Back to the bed.

Then the fridge again.

You narrowed your eyes.

"If..." You slowly stretched one arm toward the edge of the mattress. Not even close. "...Okay."

You scooted a few inches. Extended your arm again, fingers spread as far as they would go. Still nowhere near.

"Hm."

Your gaze swept over the battlefield of snacks between you and the edge of the mattress.

Well...

If all of that wasn't there...

Theoretically...

You could lie across the entire bed. Maybe hang one arm over the side.

Then...

Maybe...

You looked back at the fridge. "...How far away are you?"

It certainly hadn't looked that far this morning.

Now it seemed...

Suspiciously distant.

You squinted. "...Did you move?"

The refrigerator remained steadfastly silent.

You weren't convinced.

You stretched your arm out one more time anyway, fingers wiggling helplessly toward the far corner of the room.

Nothing.

Not even close.

You let your arm flop dramatically back onto the comforter with an exaggerated groan. "So far..."

Your head tipped back against the pillows. You considered your options with all the gravity of someone planning a mountain expedition.

You could stay exactly where you were.

Comfortable. Warm. Surrounded by snacks.

Unfortunately...

None of those snacks were liquid. Your mouth somehow felt even drier now that you'd acknowledged it.

You swallowed.

It didn't help.

The refrigerator sat there. Patiently.

Almost mockingly.

Waiting.

"...I don't appreciate your attitude." You pointed accusingly at it. "I know you have drinks."

Still no response.

A sigh escaped you, long and theatrical enough to rival Dean's whenever Sam started explaining lore.

"...Fine."

You planted both hands on the mattress.

Nothing happened.

You blinked.

"Oh."

Right.

You actually had to push.

With a tiny grunt of effort, you leaned forward, pausing halfway upright as the room seemed to sway ever so slightly around you.

"...Okay."

You waited.

The room politely stopped moving.

"I can work with that."

Satisfied that both you and the floor had reached an understanding, you took a deep breath, braced yourself for the arduous journey of approximately eight feet...

...and stood.

For just a moment, you regarded the distance between yourself and the mini-fridge with solemn respect.

"...This is gonna take a minute."

You eyed the distance one last time.

"...No."

Walking was...

Too much.

It wasn't that you couldn't. You absolutely could. Probably.

But standing meant balancing, and balancing meant using your legs, and your legs suddenly seemed like they required an unreasonable amount of supervision.

The floor, on the other hand...

The floor wasn't moving.

The decision made itself.

With a quiet little huff, you carefully lowered yourself until you were sitting on the edge of the mattress. Another second later, you simply let yourself slide the rest of the way down, landing on the cool concrete with a soft thump.

"...Better."

Much better. The concrete felt pleasantly cool beneath your palms as you planted your hands against it. Even your knees appreciated the chill.

Solid.

Reliable.

Not nearly as wobbly as your legs had threatened to be. You nodded once, entirely satisfied with your solution.

"See?"

Who you were proving right, you weren't entirely sure. Then your eyes found the mini-fridge again.

Still over there. Still entirely too far away.

You narrowed your eyes at it. "...This is your fault."

The refrigerator remained unmoved by the accusation.

With another quiet grumble, you started forward.

One hand.

Then the other.

One knee.

Then the next.

Your progress was slow but steady, more of an absent-minded crawl than anything hurried. The cool concrete slid beneath your hands while your oversized T-shirt brushed softly against the floor with each movement.

Honestly...

This wasn't bad.

Kind of comfortable, actually.

Your hearing picked up the whisper of fabric dragging beneath you. The tiny squeak your knee made against the polished floor. Your own breathing.

You paused halfway there, looking down at your hand.

Your fingertips spread against the concrete.

"...Huh."

It wasn't perfectly smooth. There were tiny imperfections. Little ridges. Minuscule dips.

You slowly rubbed your thumb across them.

"...Neat."

A beat passed.

Then another.

"...Drink."

Right.

You had been on your way to get a drink. You resumed your journey with renewed determination.

After what felt like an entirely unreasonable amount of time, you finally reached your destination.

You sat back on your heels with a triumphant sigh.

"There."

You'd done it.

You and the refrigerator regarded one another in silence.

"...You." You pointed a finger at it. "You could've met me halfway."

The refrigerator, somehow, managed to look unapologetic.

Your nose wrinkled. "...Rude."

You reached for the handle with exaggerated dignity and tugged the door open. Cold air immediately spilled across your face.

"...Oh."

That was...

Really nice.

You leaned into it just a little. The coolness brushed against your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose.

Your eyes drifted closed. "...Mm."

Maybe just...

A second.

The gentle hum of the compressor vibrated through the little appliance, and you found yourself listening to it with the same fascination you'd given the air vent.

"...You sound different up close."

Of course it did. Everything sounded different up close. 

Eventually, your brain remembered why you'd come over here in the first place.

"Oh."

Right. Drink.

You reached inside, fingers wrapping around the cold aluminum of another soda. The chill bit pleasantly into your fingertips.

You smiled. "There you are."

With one last appreciative puff of cool air washing over you, you nudged the fridge shut with your elbow.

Thunk.

Content, you turned back toward your bed, eyes catching something fuzzy under the chair of your desk. Your head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly before you smiled. 

“Thought I lost you,” you giggled, pulling a pair of soft, fluffy socks from where they’d apparently hidden.

With all the grace of someone who forgot how their body worked, you fought with both socks and your feet in order to slip them on. You hadn’t even realized you’d growled when your left foot nearly refused to go into the end of the sock.

“Stop twitching,” you grumbled, finally managing to shove your foot into the sock. 

Your triumph lasted all of five seconds after grabbing the can of soda again, eyes finding your bed.

Your smile faded, quickly.

The bed.

Was over there.

You blinked once.

Twice.

"...Oh."

It looked...

Farther.

Hadn't it been closer before? You were almost certain it had.

You stared at it suspiciously. "...You moved."

The bed, much like the refrigerator, refused to defend itself. You looked between the two pieces of furniture.

Then back at the bed.

"So..."

Your voice was quiet now, thoughtful. "I have to go all the way back."

The realization settled over you with astonishing weight. You looked down at the soda in your hand.

Then at the bed again.

"...And then..." Your eyes drifted upward toward the mattress. "...I have to get up there."

The words came out barely above a whisper.

The bed suddenly seemed... taller. Not by much. Just enough. Enough that you found yourself tilting your head back to look at it.

"...That's unfortunate."

You considered your options.

Standing. Possible. Maybe.

Climbing. Also possible. Probably.

Neither sounded particularly appealing.

Your gaze lingered on the mattress.

Soft.

Warm.

Covered in snacks.

You wanted to be back in it more than almost anything.

But first...

You had to conquer it.

You sighed with the quiet resignation of someone accepting a quest they hadn't asked for.

"...One mountain at a time."

Clutching your soda like a hard-earned prize, you dropped your free hand back to the floor and started crawling toward base camp.

The journey back somehow felt longer, perhaps because you were carrying cargo this time.

The can of soda remained firmly clutched in one hand while the other planted itself against the floor, pulling you steadily across the concrete one careful movement at a time.

The aluminum clicked softly against your palm every now and then. You smiled. At least the soda had cooperated, unlike certain other pieces of furniture.

When you finally reached the side of the bed, you let out a quiet breath of relief, sitting back on your heels as though you'd just completed an exhausting expedition.

"There."

Mission accomplished.

For several long moments, you simply looked at the mattress.

It looked...

Comfortable. Wonderfully comfortable. The blankets spilled over the edge in soft folds, practically inviting you back.

"...Hi."

The bed remained as welcoming as ever. You smiled at it. Then your eyes drifted upward.

It...

Was higher than you'd remembered. Not impossibly high.

Just...

Enough.

Your smile slowly faded. "...Oh."

You hadn't actually thought this part through. Carefully, you set the unopened soda on the floor beside you.

Safety first.

Then you placed both hands on the edge of the mattress. The comforter bunched pleasantly beneath your fingers.

Soft.

You gave it an experimental tug.

Nothing.

"Hm."

You frowned thoughtfully.

Maybe...

You scooted a little closer until your knees bumped the bedframe.

That seemed promising.

Both hands found the mattress again. You pulled.

Your shoulders lifted. Your chest made it almost to mattress height.

Then...

Nothing else did.

Your legs stubbornly remained exactly where they were.

You blinked.

"...Rude."

You tried again. This time with more determination.

Your arms did their part admirably, hauling your upper body farther onto the bed until your ribs rested against the edge.

Success!

...Mostly.

From the waist down, however, the rest of you seemed to have entirely different plans. Your feet searched blindly behind you for something to push against. Finding only smooth concrete, they slipped, thanks to the fluffy socks.

You frowned harder. "No..."

One foot stretched farther back. Maybe there was better leverage.

There wasn't.

The other tried. Equally unsuccessful. You gave another determined pull with your arms. Your body slid forward exactly...

Maybe an inch.

"...Progress."

You were breathing a little harder now.

Not because this was particularly strenuous. Because you were absolutely convinced there had to be an easier way.

Your legs kicked once behind you.

Then again.

Neither accomplished anything beyond making your socks slide against the floor.

You stopped.

Thought about it.

Then looked over one shoulder at your own feet. "...Guys."

Your voice carried all the patient disappointment of someone addressing particularly unhelpful coworkers.

"I need you."

Your feet offered no indication they'd heard you.

You sighed. "Come on."

Nothing.

Your fingers tightened in the comforter. With another determined little grunt, you hauled yourself forward again.

Your stomach slid onto the mattress this time.

Your hips reached the edge.

Your legs...

Still dangled uselessly behind you.

You let your head fall sideways onto the blankets.

"...We're close."

Very close. You could feel victory. You just needed...

One...

Good...

Push.

Your eyes drifted downward.

The floor.

Then your knees.

Then back to the bed.

An idea.

Slowly, you tucked one knee underneath yourself as much as the awkward angle allowed.

It wasn't graceful. Not even a little. Your sock caught on the edge of the bedframe.

"...Ow."

You frowned at the offending piece of furniture. "That wasn't nice."

Undeterred, you tried again. This time your knee finally found the edge of the mattress.

"There!" The single word came out triumphantly.

Before the opportunity could escape you, you shoved downward with everything that leg was willing to contribute.

Suddenly—

Your entire body flopped forward onto the bed.

Face first.

The mattress caught you with a muffled whump. Blankets puffed around you. One pillow bounced lightly beneath your cheek.

For a few blissful seconds, you simply lay there, arms stretched overhead, breathing into the comforter.

"...I win." Your words came out muffled by the blanket. You weren't entirely sure who'd been keeping score.

The bed, probably. Maybe the fridge who’d been rude earlier. You were fairly certain the bed had put up a respectable fight.

Eventually, after allowing yourself an entirely reasonable amount of recovery time, you rolled onto your side with all the lazy satisfaction of a cat settling into its favorite sunny spot.

One arm dangled over the edge.

Your eyes found the soda still sitting faithfully on the floor.

...

You stared at it.

"..."

Another beat passed.

"...I forgot the drink."

A long, dramatic sigh escaped you.

"...You've gotta be kidding me."

The rumble of the Impala echoed in the garage before the engine settled into its familiar idle, then silence as Dean killed the engine and pocketed the keys.

A moment later, the driver's door slammed.

Then the passenger's.

"...I'm just saying," Dean's voice carried easily through the garage. "We didn't need this much."

"Oh, we absolutely did."

Metal clanged softly as doors opened, followed by the unmistakable rustle of far too many plastic grocery bags as they made their way to the kitchen.

Dean came through first.

Or rather, the bags did.

His arms were so loaded down they nearly obscured his face, plastic handles looped from both hands nearly to his elbows. Boxes of cereal threatened to tumble from the top of one bag while a loaf of bread leaned precariously against a package of paper towels.

Behind him came Sam, equally burdened, though somehow looking considerably less annoyed about it.

Dean was already moving with all the intent of a man who refused to make two trips. "I can't feel my fingers."

"That's because you're carrying half the store."

"I wouldn't be carrying half the store if somebody hadn't kept throwing things into the cart."

Sam let out an incredulous laugh. "I kept throwing things into the cart?"

Dean shot him a look over the mountain of groceries. "You did."

"You mean things like toilet paper?"

"We had some."

"We had one roll."

Dean shrugged. "One's not none."

Sam stared at him. "...Dean."

"What?"

"One roll for three people."

"It would've lasted."

"It absolutely would've not."

Dean grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like rationing builds character.

Sam rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't stick.

"You know," he said as they rounded the corner into the kitchen, "if you didn't insist on waiting until we're out of literally everything before shopping, we wouldn't have to buy enough groceries to survive a nuclear winter."

Dean snorted. "We weren't out of everything."

"We were out of coffee."

Dean stopped walking. "...Okay." He’d made the last pot that very morning, making sure to leave you enough for two cups.

"We were out of eggs."

"...Yeah."

"No bread."

Dean sighed. "I know."

"No milk."

"I know."

"No detergent."

"I know."

"No dishwasher pods."

Dean shifted the bags higher on his arms. "Are you done?"

Sam smiled. "Almost."

He set his groceries onto the kitchen island with a chorus of plastic rustling against polished metal.

"No paper towels."

Dean deposited his own load with considerably less grace. Several bags toppled sideways. "I got 'em, didn't I?"

"Eventually."

Dean pointed a finger at him. "You're real smug for somebody who made me carry the drinks."

"You volunteered."

"I was manipulated."

"You said, and I quote, 'I've got this.'"

Dean frowned. "...That does sound like something I'd say."

Sam chuckled as he started unpacking one of the bags, lining canned goods neatly along the counter before opening the pantry.

Dean, meanwhile, reached automatically for the coffee. "Priority one."

"You literally just proved my point."

"Priority one," Dean repeated, completely ignoring him.

He'd barely managed to get the fresh can of coffee onto the counter before something else caught his eye.

"...Oh."

The plastic container still sat exactly where Charlie had left it in the middle of the island.

Dean's expression immediately softened into a grin. "She actually did it."

Sam looked over from the pantry. "What?"

Dean picked up the folded note, already laughing before he'd even opened it. "'You win. Never betting you again.'" He barked out another laugh. "I told her."

"Told her what?"

Dean shook his head. "Charlie got it in her head that she could make brownies better than Mom."

Sam smiled. "She challenged Mary Winchester to a bake-off?"

"Nah." Dean set the note back down. "Mom wasn't allowed to judge. Said she'd be biased."

"So who did?"

Dean looked thoroughly pleased with himself. "Me."

Sam laughed. "Of course you did."

"I've got standards."

"You've got a sweet tooth."

"Same thing." Sam just shook his head, smiling as he returned to putting groceries away.

Dean lifted the lid from the container. "...Huh."

"What?"

Dean frowned. "There're only six."

Sam looked over again. "Is that a problem?"

"How many does it look like there should be?"

Sam studied the size of the neatly cut pieces, considering pan sizes. “Well, considering everything, there should probably be eight.”

Dean counted once more anyway. "...Definitely six."

Sam shrugged. "Y/N probably found them."

Dean smiled. "Wouldn't surprise me."

"She does have a weakness for chocolate."

Dean chuckled as he snapped the lid closed again. "Yeah, but she'd know better than to eat those."

Sam paused, a box of pasta halfway to the pantry shelf. "What do you mean?"

Dean looked at him like it was obvious. "They're pot brownies."

Sam blinked. "...Charlie left pot brownies sitting on the kitchen island?"

"They were for me," Dean said it as though that explained absolutely everything.

Sam stared. "It... actually explains almost nothing."

Dean laughed. "Relax."

"I'm trying."

"Besides," Dean continued, grabbing a jar of pasta sauce from one of the bags, "there's no way Y/N touched 'em."

"We just established she likes chocolate."

"Yeah, but she's also got the nose of a feline." He twisted the lid absently, checking it before placing it into the pantry. "She would've smelled the weed a mile away."

Sam considered that. "...Maybe."

Dean snorted. "Not maybe." He shut the pantry door with his hip. "Trust me. Charlie probably just kept two."

The bunker settled around them once more as they continued unpacking groceries.

For one blissfully ordinary moment...

Everything was quiet.

Then—

THUD!

The sound cracked through the bunker like a gunshot.

Heavy. Solid.

Definitely not something simply falling off a shelf. Dean's head snapped toward the hallway leading into the war room. Sam's did the same.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't have to.

Years of hunting had burned the reaction into muscle memory long before either of them had ever stepped foot inside the bunker.

The jar of pasta sauce hit the counter with a dull thunk as Dean released it without a second thought. Sam let the box of pasta slip from his fingers beside the open pantry. Almost as one, their hands disappeared beneath the backs of their flannels.

Metal whispered against denim. Two pistols cleared their waistbands in one smooth, practiced motion.

Dean moved first, taking two careful steps toward the kitchen entrance before stopping just shy of exposing himself to the hallway beyond.

Sam instinctively shifted to cover the opposite angle, the familiar rhythm between them requiring neither discussion nor instruction.

They listened. The bunker answered with silence.

Dean's grip tightened fractionally around the handle of his pistol. His eyes swept the empty stretch of hallway leading toward the war room.

Nothing moved.

Nothing breathed.

Nothing—

A snort.

Then...

Laughter.

It burst down the hallway without warning. Bright. Unrestrained. The kind of laughter that stole your breath and refused to let go.

It echoed off the concrete walls, filling the bunker with a sound so completely at odds with the heavy thud that had preceded it that both brothers simply... blinked.

Another peal of laughter followed, somehow even harder than the first.

Dean slowly lowered the barrel of his pistol an inch. "...Was that..."

"Y/N," Sam finished quietly.

More laughter. Not nervous. Not forced. Honest-to-God, can't-catch-your-breath laughter.

Dean frowned. "...What the hell..."

The concern hadn't left his face. If anything, it had deepened.

People didn't usually laugh like that immediately after making a noise loud enough to send two hunters reaching for their guns.

Unless...

"No," Dean muttered.

Sam looked at him. "What?"

Dean shook his head almost immediately. "Nothing." He wasn’t about to voice what he'd been about to say. Not yet.

Another fit of giggles drifted toward them, punctuated by what sounded suspiciously like someone trying—and failing—to say something intelligible before dissolving into laughter all over again.

Dean exhaled through his nose.

The tension in his shoulders eased just enough for him to thumb the safety back into place before smoothly sliding the pistol into the waistband of his jeans.

Sam mirrored the motion a heartbeat later.

The kitchen looked as though someone had simply walked away in the middle of unpacking. The pantry door still stood open. Half the groceries remained scattered across the island. The refrigerator door hadn't even been closed all the way.

Neither brother spared any of it a second glance. Dean was already moving.

Not running.

Just walking with long, purposeful strides toward the war room. Sam fell into step beside him. Their boots echoed softly across the concrete floor.

For a few moments, neither of them said anything. The only sounds were the quiet rhythm of their footsteps...

...and the occasional burst of laughter still drifting from somewhere farther down the hall.

Dean finally broke the silence. "I swear..."

"What?"

"If she's laughing because she dropped a book on her foot again..."

Sam couldn't quite suppress the corner of his mouth from twitching. "You don't sound very convinced."

"I'm trying to be optimistic."

Another snort of laughter floated toward them.

Dean sighed. "...I'm rapidly running out of optimism."

They rounded the edge of the war room together. The hallway beyond stretched ahead of them.

Halfway down...

Your bedroom door stood wide open, soft light spilling across the hallway floor.

Dean slowed. His brow furrowed. "...Doesn’t she usually keep that closed?"

Sam glanced toward it. "...Yeah."

Another burst of laughter spilled through the open doorway. This one was followed by a muffled, dramatically offended-sounding...

"...Rude."

The brothers exchanged one more thoroughly bewildered look...

...and continued down the hallway.

Part 2 Brownies Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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Inside the diner, the scent of frying bacon and coffee mingles with the faint tang of cleaner, leaving an undercurrent of something both comforting and antiseptic. You settle into the back corner booth, laptop balanced on the edge of the table, and push your hair behind your ears, only for loose strands to fall back in front of your face. 

The screen glows softly against the window light, highlighting the curve of your cheek and the concentration in your eyes as you cross-reference property records with church volunteer rosters tied to the victims. Your coffee steams faintly, cooling untouched beside you, a small reminder that you’ve been here long enough to sink into the rhythm of your work.

A bell jingles sharply above the door.

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. The movement of the diner's morning traffic is a background hum, something to filter out. Your foot bounces restlessly beneath the table, betraying the impatience threading through your thoughts.

Voices drift across the room—low, familiar in cadence, almost imperceptibly measured, carrying with them the weight of experience. Something about the tone makes the fine hairs at the back of your neck prickle, but you force yourself to ignore it. Hunters move through towns all the time. They leave faint patterns behind, footprints and energy that you’ve learned to read, to ignore when necessary.

Across the room, Dean’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly when his eyes catch the sleek black Charger parked outside the window. It sits too deliberately, almost casual in the lot, yet somehow impossible to miss. He exhales through his nose, his gaze sharpening instinctively. Parked again.

Sam follows his brother’s line of sight, noting the car’s color, the angle, the way it reflects the morning sun. His eyes sweep the diner carefully, settling on the back corner booth. Even without thinking, he registers her posture—head bowed, hair loose today, cascading down past her shoulders in soft waves. He can’t see her face from this angle, and maybe that’s better.

Dean doesn’t turn fully. He won’t trust himself to. He’s too aware, too wound tight, of the instinct rising just below the surface—something primal that has nothing to do with the case.

The two of them slide into a booth on the opposite side of the diner, the vinyl seats creaking faintly under their weight. The waitress passes between the tables, carrying a steaming plate to a family near the window, and for a moment, the line of sight is broken. A child darts past, giggling, and a trucker stands, stretching as he moves toward the counter. Small, mundane movements, but they fragment the space enough to keep proximity just out of reach.

Your waitress passes between the tables, blocking clear sightlines. A trucker at the counter stands to leave. A child darts through the aisle.

You shift slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and glancing down at a figure of speech in your notes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, tracing an invisible line from one set of data to another. By the time Dean finally allows himself a glance, you’re closing your laptop, body turned away from him, a slow, deliberate movement that feels like the last beat of a drum before silence.

You rise, sliding your jacket over your shoulders, the leather soft and worn. Keys rattle against your hip as you sling your bag over your shoulder. You move toward the door without so much as a glance in their direction, shoulders set, mind elsewhere, tracing patterns only you can see.

The bell jingles again.

Dean’s jaw tightens.

Too slow.

A tension lingers in the air, almost solid, as if the space between the two of you could snap under pressure. But it doesn’t. Not yet. You step out into the street, leaving only the faint trace of your presence in the diner's smell of coffee and fried grease, in the stir of the air, and in the shadows that catch Dean’s eyes a fraction too long.

He watches the door swing closed, his body still braced as if you’re still there, somewhere, just out of reach.

And for a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, he wonders how it’s possible that the world can fold like this—that something familiar can exist in plain sight, and yet remain untouchable.

The evening carries a chill, a soft bite that rides on the wind rolling off the nearby trees. The sky has dimmed to deep slate, the clouds heavy and low, and the smell of wet asphalt mixes with the faint scent of pine drifting from yards along the street. The church parking lot is busier than you expected, a patchwork of cars tucked into spaces along the gravel and asphalt, headlights reflecting off the damp surface in tiny bursts.

You linger near the side entrance, just under the overhang, where the light is warm and forgiving. Families filter past you, children laughing or tugging at parents’ hands, their coats damp from the lingering drizzle. 

The sound of shoes squeaking lightly on wet pavement mixes with the distant low hum of a car engine, the murmurs of conversation, and the occasional bark of a dog from down the street. 

Your hands rest at your sides, one brushing lightly over the silver band on your ring finger, the other tucked into your jacket pocket. Timing occupies your thoughts—three days. If the pattern holds, the next strike will come soon. You just don’t know where.

Through the open doors, the pastor’s voice reaches you, warm and steady. He’s greeting congregants, shaking hands, offering brief smiles that seem to hold genuine kindness. The words themselves carry a calm authority, but it’s the cadence, the subtle reassurance in tone, that makes you pause for the briefest moment. Even from outside, you sense a weight of presence—one that could hold sway over people’s trust, their actions.

Across the lot, the Impala rolls in, tires whispering over wet asphalt. Dean’s eyes lock on the sleek black Charger immediately, parked with deliberate ease in a small space closer to the main doors. His jaw tightens, just enough for Sam to notice. There’s a flicker of instinct, the kind that doesn’t require words. Sam says nothing, simply watching Dean’s posture, the way his shoulders stiffen and his hands twitch near the door handle, a silent counting of seconds and distance.

The brothers step out of the Impala at the exact moment your boot brushes the threshold of the side door. You slip inside, unnoticed except for the faint scraping of your sneakers on the floor. For a heartbeat, for a single breath stretched out like elastic, the three of you are separated by nothing more than a thin wall and a timing measured in seconds.

You move down the aisle, careful, silent, slipping into a back pew where the shadows from the windowed panels pool across the worn wood. Your eyes scan exits, the congregation, anything that might give you an advantage. The sermon begins in earnest; the pastor’s voice fills the space, steady, calm, carrying through the cool air and echoing faintly off the high ceilings.

Dean and Sam enter through the main doors, a faint rustle of coats, a low click of shoes against the wooden floorboards. Dean’s attention drifts toward the back rows more than once, but every glimpse is blocked. A hat tilts at the perfect moment. A shoulder shifts. A congregant rises in prayer, the movement breaking any chance of seeing your face.

You stay through only part of the service, measuring patterns, listening to the pastor’s words more for tone than meaning. When the final hymn begins, you slip away, feet light, coat brushing against your thighs, back straight, careful not to draw notice. The rain has stopped in the short time you’ve been inside, leaving a faint scent of wet leaves and asphalt in the air.

By the time the brothers step outside, stretching and brushing drizzle from their jackets, the Charger is gone. The faint trail of its presence hangs in the damp air, subtle but unmistakable. Dean exhales, almost a grunt, and Sam’s eyes sweep the lot one more time, but there’s nothing to mark where it had been.

Later that night, the motel lot smells faintly of damp concrete, mingling with the faint remnants of cleaning supplies and the occasional waft of fried food from a neighboring room. The lights overhead flicker intermittently, casting uneven shadows across the sidewalk. You move carefully, the paper bag of takeout balanced in one hand, keys clutched in the other, mind preoccupied with the pastor’s words from earlier, dissecting tone, timing, subtext. Every syllable seems to hover, waiting for you to catch something you missed.

The door for the room next to yours creaks open. Sam steps out first, coin flipping lazily in his fingers, the small metallic clink barely audible over the soft hum of the motel’s night air. Dean follows, shrugging into his jacket, shoulders tense with that familiar hunter rhythm—watch, notice, calculate.

You pause to shift the bag in your grip as your own door protests with a momentary stick, shifting so your back is toward the other room. The hinge groans softly, breaking the quiet in just the right way. Dean’s head tilts at the sound, a subtle jerk of awareness, but the angle is off. The overhead light flickers again, shadows slicing across you and the narrow strip of concrete.

Dean hears it and glances up.

By the time his eyes adjust, you’re already moving through your doorway. The door swings closed, and all he catches is the briefest impression of movement—dark hair, a figure small against the height of the door, a posture that stirs something he can’t name. It’s enough to make him pause, instinctively, before he tells himself it’s nothing.

Inside, you set the takeout on the small table by the window, the faint hum of the mini fridge filling the silence. The room smells faintly of worn carpet, old wood, and the lingering aroma of food. You don’t notice how close you had been to intersecting paths with two hunters, how nearly your world had overlapped with theirs. You don’t notice the moment that passed like a ghost, the brush of shared space that might have rewritten everything.

The quiet of the night wraps around you. Outside, the moonless sky presses down on the parking lot, leaving only the occasional drip from the gutters to remind you the world is still moving, still alive. And for now, that’s enough.

The next morning at the gas station, the air smells like gasoline, warmed asphalt, and the faint tang of motor oil lingering from yesterday’s pumps. The sun presses down in soft, diffuse rays, glinting off metal surfaces and small puddles left over from the night before. You move with careful precision, topping off your tank, one hand steady on the nozzle, the other brushing loose strands of hair from your face. Your eyes scan the road without appearing to, catching the flicker of motion in your peripheral vision while your mind races three steps ahead—contingency plans for the next victim, for the next mistake, for what might be hiding just out of reach.

Seconds behind you, the Impala rolls onto the same street, tires humming over worn asphalt. You slide into the driver’s seat and twist the key, the engine purring to life just as the dark shape of another car swings into the lot behind you. Black, sleek, deliberate. 

Dean’s gaze catches the Charger immediately, sharp and unyielding. Again. Just ahead, just behind, a shadow in motion that keeps threading through his path.

You pull out onto the road without glancing back at the pumps. The Impala rolls into the space you just vacated. For a fleeting second, the two cars pass within feet of each other, mirrors brushing metaphorical edges, windshields catching sunlight in hard glints that hide faces and blur features. Dean turns his head slightly, scanning, but the light slices across the interior at just the wrong angle.

You don’t glance over. You can feel the rhythm of the day, the pulse of the town, the gentle tug of a thread you haven’t fully identified. By the time the moment passes, you’re already halfway down the road, tires humming against the asphalt, the scent of fuel trailing behind you.

Sam watches the Charger disappear into traffic, eyebrows knit. “This is getting weird,” he mutters, voice low, uncertain.

Dean doesn’t answer. He can’t. The randomness has thinned, replaced with a pattern he feels in his chest rather than sees. It’s no longer coincidence. It feels deliberate, a slow, orbiting motion.

Something—or someone—keeps threading them into the same narrow stretch of space, the same rhythm of movement, without ever allowing them to collide. And for once, Dean doesn’t know whether to feel relief or frustration at the pull that keeps tugging them together, always near, always just out of reach.

Chapter 3 ----- Chapter 5 Doppelganger Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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