describe yourself in two words. humble, splendid..

Verbundene Seele 🐺🤍

Pairing: Dean Winchester x original female character; werewolf!Original male character x original female character (Alex x V)

Summary: V Singer grew up among hunters. Her rules were simple: monsters kill, and a hunter’s duty is to destroy them. Her world was the smell of gun oil, anatomy textbooks, and the ever-elusive Dean Winchester, whose life was the road, his father, and an endless war.

Tags & Warnings: (18+), romance, slow burn, soulmates, werewolf, enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, pre-canon (before 1st season)

AN: English is not my first language; this work was translated with the help of DeepSeek.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

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The circle starts again 🎪🎠🥀

Pairing: original male character x original female character (VII × XIII)

Summary: A young woman with no past wakes up in an endless cornfield under an eternal night sky, finding the number XIII branded on her forearm. Together with a grumpy clown-mechanic Seven, she must survive in an abandoned amusement park inhabited by Shadows and faceless mannequins, seek answers in the Joker's card layouts, and try to remember who she was before becoming part of the Circus of Forgotten Souls.

Tags & Warnings: (18+), Original Fiction, Dark Mystery, Psychological Horror, Circus Aesthetic, Amnesia.

AN: English is not my first language; this work was translated with the help of DeepSeek.

Part 4 (Post-smut fluff!)

Summary: In the cramped heat of the Impala, surrounded by the smell of leather and pine, V and Dean exist in their own private space — post-intimacy, when the tension has dissolved and only weary tenderness remains. His hands stroking her back say more than any words: there's gratitude, acknowledgment, and a silent stay. In this moment, there's no room for fears or doubts — just two people who found each other in a vast world, where he is simultaneously her home and her endless road.

Sunlight, filtering through the pine branches, made the dust on the Impala's dashboard glow like gold. The engine had been cut, and the forest silence was broken only by the occasional bird chirp and the heavy breathing inside the car.

The air was thick, filled with the smell of heated leather, the old upholstery, and the sweet scent of the pines. V sat on Dean's lap, face to face, her thighs wrapped tightly around him. Their jeans—his and hers—lay in a crumpled heap of fabric on the floor by her feet. Her palms rested on his hot, sweat-slicked chest, feeling the frantic drumming of his heart beneath his ribs.

Her own heart was pounding somewhere in her throat. Every breath came hard, her body trembling from exertion and the sudden rush of exhaustion. She looped her arms around his neck, dropping her forehead onto his sweat-damp shoulder. The muscles under her cheek were solid as stone. He was pure tension, even now.

His large, rough hands moved slowly, almost hypnotically, up and down her back through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. From her lower back to her shoulder blades and back again. A soothing, reconciling motion—nothing like the frantic grip from minutes ago.

"Hmm," she murmured, her voice hoarse and muffled against his shoulder. "Baby held up after all."

Dean let out a short, strangled sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a groan. His chest shuddered beneath her.

"She's... held up through worse," he rasped, and V felt the vibration of his vocal cords.

It wasn't true. Or rather, she knew that tone. The tone he used when he tried to cover something too vulnerable, too real with a joke. His hands on her back said more. In those slow, almost hesitant strokes was gratitude. Acknowledgment. A silent stay.

She let herself go limp, transferring all her weight to him. He took it without hesitation, only his breath hitching for a second. They sat there, fused together, sticky, ridiculous in the cramped space of the legendary car. Sex with Dean was always like this: straightforward, a little rough, physically uncomfortable at times, but emotionally incredibly intense. There was no room for games or fantasies—just a hungry, desperate confirmation that they were both here, alive, and for this moment, belonged only to each other.

A sunbeam shifted and landed right on her neck. She squinted.

"Dean."

"Mm?"

"In five minutes, my legs are going to fall asleep. Yours too."

"I know."

"And we're both going to smell like sweat in this car for the rest of the day."

"Uh-huh."

"And this was predictable and simple."

This time he really laughed—low, from his chest, and she smiled against his skin.

"But you missed me," he reminded her, and that familiar smirk was back in his voice.

"But I missed you," she agreed quietly, not lifting her head.

His palms on her back stilled, then started their slow, upward-downward motion again. Like he was smoothing the tension out of each vertebra. In this cramped space, in this silence smelling of leather and pine, there was no room for her fears about his infidelity, his aggression, his instability. There was only this simple, straight-as-a-ruler man who had found her in this huge, foreign forest and now held her so tightly, as if afraid she'd dissolve the moment he let go.

And she, for whom Dean was always "too much," didn't want to be anywhere else in that moment. But here. In this stuffy, gently rocking Baby, on the lap of the man who was simultaneously her home and her endless road.

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Part 3

Summary: Dean bursts into V's room in the middle of the night without warning, bringing the smell of the road, sweat, and death with him. But before she lets him touch her, she sends him to shower, then hands him soft grey pajamas—her quiet gesture of desperation and an attempt to create a "home" for him. As he falls asleep beside her, clean and smelling of her soap, V allows herself a brief moment to believe that this dangerous, alien man might be a little bit hers.

The full moon flooded V's room with cold light, picking out the contours of the terrarium, the bookshelves, and her figure under the blanket from the darkness. The house was silent, broken only by Bobby's steady snoring through the wall and the peaceful click-clack of cat claws somewhere in the hallway.

The silence was shattered not by a ring, but by the creak of the porch steps, then the faint click of a pick in the lock. Footsteps in the hall, heavy, tired. Her bedroom door opened without a knock, letting in a long shadow and a smell.

Oh, that smell. It wasn't just the scent of the road. It was a cocktail: highway dust, cheap motel soap, sweat, gun oil, and underneath it all — the sweetish, metallic whisper of death. The smell of his world.

He dropped his jacket on the floor where it landed with a dull thud and, without a word, flopped onto the edge of her bed, starting to yank off his boots.

"Dean," her voice cut through the silence — not a startled exclamation, but a calm, cool statement of fact. She hadn't even moved.

"Hey there, sunshine," he rasped, collapsing onto the pillow next to her and trying to pull her into a hug through the blanket. "Surprise."

She sat up abruptly, pulling away. In the moonlight, her face was like a mask carved from marble: beautiful, impassive, and utterly unapproachable.

"Shower," she said flatly, without inflection. "Now."

"What? V, I just drove nine hundred miles, I'm—" he started to protest, but his voice died out from exhaustion.

"You stink," she cut him off. A statement of fact. Like a theorem. "You stink of dust, sweat, and dead things. I can smell it from three feet away. Shower. Or the couch in the living room."

He muttered something about "dramatics" but got up from the bed anyway, trudging obediently to the bathroom. She heard the water start and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. No joy at the "surprise." Just an intrusion into her orderly, clean world. Where every smell, sound, and thing had its place. And he was walking chaos, bringing the aroma of a slaughterhouse with him.

While he washed, she got up, picked his jacket off the floor — heavy, smelling of iron and danger — and carefully hung it over the back of a chair. Then she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and pulled out a bundle. Soft grey cotton pajamas. Plain, no patterns. She'd bought them a month after they started dating.

The gift was a gesture of desperation and an attempt to set boundaries. Symbolic ones. He hadn't had a home since he was four. No place where you put on pajamas. She wanted to give him that place. Here. In her room. And practical ones. The thought of him climbing into her clean bed in the same jeans he'd used to crawl through basements, climb into graves, or fall in mud next to dismembered bodies triggered a quiet panic attack. It violated every rule of hygiene and order she had.

Dean came out of the bathroom, wearing old sweatpants, a towel over his shoulders. His hair was wet. Now he smelled like her green tea shower gel. Foreign and yet reassuring.

"So, quarantine over?" he tried to smirk, but bone-deep exhaustion was written all over his face.

Silently, she held out the bundle. He took it, unfolded it, and his face took on the bewildered expression she'd expected.

"This is... pajamas?" he clarified, as if she'd shown him an unfamiliar hunting tool.

"Yes," V nodded, getting back into bed. "Put them on. And lose the sweats. They've been in the car too, where you probably haven't cleaned in a month."

"V, this is..." he wanted to say "stupid," but he caught her look. Calm. Unwavering. The look Bobby got when he explained why you couldn't use table salt instead of consecrated salt. Non-negotiable.

He sighed, shrugging. Fine, I'll humor the weirdo, his gesture said. He turned off the light and changed in the dark. The fabric was soft, strangely gentle against skin used to rough denim and flannel.

He slid under the covers. Now he smelled like her. Like home. He reached for her, and this time she didn't pull away. His body was warm, relaxed after the shower. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, and within a minute, his breathing was steady and deep.

She lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his weight beside her. The enemy of her peace and order. The man who brought the smell of death into her bedroom. But now, in those soft pajamas and smelling like her soap, he seemed a little less foreign. A little more hers. For one night. Until his next sudden escape into that world whose smell made her heart clench. She carefully adjusted the blanket over his shoulder and closed her eyes, listening to him breathe.

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Part 2

Summary: V is studying in the quiet of Bobby's house when Dean calls. His voice comes through against a noisy background, and she catches the sound of a woman's laughter somewhere nearby. The familiar, exhausting fear splits in two: fear for his life and fear of his betrayal. Her only anchor is a brief text exchange with Sam—her silent ally in this endless waiting game.

Bobby's living room had settled into its evening doze. From the kitchen came the steady thump of a knife on a cutting board — the man of the house was making dinner. V sat at the table, surrounded by open anatomy textbooks. Her mobile phone lay in front of her. Next to the books sat a small, slightly pathetic collection: a seashell from the Florida coast, a smooth stone from Arizona, a cactus magnet from Texas. Trinkets. Proof of his route.

Her phone finally came to life, playing its standard, boring ringtone. She took a deep breath, as if about to dive into icy water, and accepted the call.

"Hey," her voice came out even, businesslike. The background on the other end was noisy — music, laughter, the clink of glass. A motel. A bar. Always some kind of background.

"Hey there, sunshine!" Dean's voice cut through the din. It was upbeat, a little raspy from recent laughter. It was his "public" voice. His voice for the world. "You won't believe what went down today! Three suicidal ghosts at an abandoned ferry landing. I gave 'em such a..."

He launched into the story enthusiastically. V listened, tracing the outline of a heart in her notes. She heard not just his words, but the space around him. Caught the distant, flirtatious laugh of a woman. Her fingers tightened involuntarily around her pencil.

"...and Sam, as always, with his eternal whining 'we need to research, we need to document'..." Dean continued.

Sam's there, V noted mentally. So Dean wasn't alone. And that meant later she could text Sam a quick "Everything okay?" and he'd reply with dry, honest honesty: "So far, yeah. No waitresses." Their silent conspiracy kept her afloat.

"Sounds horrifying," she finally interjected when he paused to catch his breath. There was no horror or excitement in her tone. Just an observation. "You didn't get hurt?"

"Pfft, me?" he snorted. "Scratch. Already healing. So how are your... what do you got? College, those... bugs of yours?"

He remembered facts about her life the way he'd memorize a complex hunting lore — without feeling, but with strained diligence. She told him about her pharmacology class, about the new katydid that had molted poorly. He listened, but she could feel his attention drifting, caught by some movement behind him. Her answers grew shorter.

"Okay, I won't keep you," she finally said, glancing at her unfinished notes. "I still have half a chapter left.

"Oh, yeah, sure. School's important stuff," he agreed hastily, and she heard the relief in his voice. "Listen, I'll call you later, okay? Or text."

You'll text me stupid things at three in the morning your time when you've been drinking, and forget about it by morning, she thought.

"Okay. Take care of yourself. Say hi to Sam."

"Will do. Love you."

The line went dead. The silence in the room, once cozy, now felt thick and oppressive. She set the phone down, staring at the seashell from Florida. He'd been there, in that warm, humid state, full of temptations and neon lights. And she was here, in Sioux Falls, where the only lights were the neon of the gas station sign and the glow of her desk lamp.

She felt the familiar, exhausting weight settle on her chest. Her fear was twofold, sharp as a blade's edge:

1. Fear for his life. Concrete, acute. A bullet, a claw, a fall from a height. She mentally ran through the contents of their field med kit — the one she'd packed herself.

2. Fear of his betrayal. Dull, corrosive. The thought that right this second, his hand might not be on the hilt of a knife, but on someone's waist. That his intensity, his insatiable need for physical contact, for proof that he was alive, would find another outlet.

He drained resources. Even from a distance. Her thoughts, her energy, her peace of mind. While he lived in "hunt-survive-instant gratification" mode, she had to be his home base: stable, predictable, waiting. The very "anchor" he sometimes rebelled against, but couldn't function without.

She opened her chat with Sam. Typed quickly: "Dean called. Sounded... lively. Everything ok?"

The reply came a minute later. Dry. Reassuring: "Everything's under control. No extras. Just happy the hunt went well. How's your katydid?"

The corners of her mouth twitched. Sam. Her anchor in the stormy sea of his brother's personality. She replied about the katydid, closed the chat, and dove back into her textbook. She could let him drain her worry. But not her time. Not her future. She traced another artery on the diagram, trying to reclaim control. Over at least this sheet of paper.

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Part 1

Summary: While Bobby and Dean try to resurrect V's old green Toyota Corolla, nicknamed "The Toad," V watches the familiar ritual from the sidelines: her men curse, fix the heap, and grumble, but always manage to bring the wreck back to life.

The Toyota sat up on the jack, its green, peeling side radiating silent suffering. From underneath it came a stream of not particularly inventive, but very heartfelt, curses.

“…and this hose… for the love of… Bobby, let me see it!” Dean’s voice, muffled by metal, was full of dramatic despair.

V sat on a beat-up car seat that served as a garden bench, calmly drinking a soda. She watched as her father’s grease-stained hand periodically reached out from under the car to grab another wrench from the arsenal laid out on the ground.

“Easy there, drama queen,” she drawled lazily in the direction of Dean’s feet. “You’re gonna upset her. She’s depressed enough as it is.”

“She’s not depressed, she’s in a coma!” came the reply from under the chassis. “Baby gets an oil change once in a blue moon, and that’s it. But this… this green toad discovers a new letter in the repair manual every single month!”

Bobby, his head still buried under the hood, growled hoarsely, “Less yapping, Winchester, more wrenching.”

V smiled. The ritual was achingly familiar. The Toad would break, her men would curse, fix it, and she played the role of medic and moral support. She got up, grabbed a beer bottle from the old fridge by the workshop door, twisted off the cap, and crouching down next to Dean’s legs sticking out from under the car, shoved the bottle into his hand.

“Hydrate. Your panic-breathing is messing with the climate control for a mile.”

Dean grumbled something but took the bottle. A second later, a satisfied glug was heard. V pulled an old, greasy rag from her pocket and, without a second thought, leaned down to wipe the sweat trickling from his temple down his neck. Dean froze for a second. These rare, practical moments of tenderness from her always caught him off guard.

“Don’t tell me you’re starting to like this,” he grumbled, but the edge was gone from his voice.

“I like watching you suffer,” she retorted, walking back to her seat. “Especially when you volunteered for it. Dad could’ve handled it himself.”

“Himself? This rust bucket can barely handle one Bobby Singer, let alone two!” Dean was back in character. “I swear, its heart is made of tin cans, and its nerves are from… from shreds of this very hose!”

“Yeah, but it’s got character, just like its owner,” Bobby interjected calmly, finally surfacing from under the hood with some kind of black component in his hands. “Stubborn. Demands respect.”

“Respect?” Dean carefully rolled out from under the car, his face and t-shirt smudged with dirt and grease. He sat up, clutching the bottle. “What, am I supposed to applaud every time it actually starts? It’s a Corolla, not a Cadillac.”

V watched him—big, sweaty, constantly complaining, yet selflessly digging into the junk heap that was her first car. She watched her father, patiently enduring this concert. She watched her green, beat-up, perpetually broken-down little Toad, which wasn't a luxury for her, but freedom itself. Bought not with money, but with her father's sleepless nights in the garage.

“Maybe you should,” she said quietly. “It does start. Against all odds. Kind of like us.”

Dean fell silent, staring at his bottle. Bobby snorted, but something soft flickered in his eyes. He tossed Dean a clean rag.

“Alright, philosophers. Clean up and get back under there. We gotta get this carburetor back in place. Or else your 'Baby' over there, jealous you've been pawing another car for two hours, has probably already let all her tires down by now.”

“Aw, don’t even say that…” Dean muttered with genuine concern, already mechanically wiping his hands and glancing over at where his gleaming beauty was parked.

V caught her father’s eye. They both barely held back a smile. The ritual was complete. The Toad would run soon. And Dean would gripe for another hour, but he'd look at it not with disdain anymore, but with something like weary respect. Like an equal in this eternal, hopeless, and utterly necessary war against rust, the laws of physics, and their own stubbornness.

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