...straight on till morning

Judging by his progress so far, you honestly give him another ten more minutes before he starts reorganizing those binders alphabetically out of spite (and to scratch that slightly OCD itch in his brain. No judgement here – you certainly feel it too when looking at those eight monstrosities).

It’s been three hours of tranquility so far since Dean’s not back yet from his little trip to hide the cursed sword. 

Admittedly, it’s almost too quiet and peaceful now in this room without his annoying habits around to distract you. It’s weird what you can miss once it’s gone, but you’re sure the green-eyed hunter will return soon enough and make you regret those words again with his charmingly irritating presence.

You, on the other hand, have claimed the bed and excused yourself from tediously sifting through museum catalogues by pulling out your tarot deck and doing your own version of research. 

In this case, your focus doesn’t lie with the sword or even the victims but on the man himself – the mysterious headless horseman. If you can get some hints on his identity and fate, maybe you and Sam can figure out a way to break the curse.

The cards slide easily between your fingers as you shuffle, your brain latching onto the calming rhythm until the noise in your head quiets just enough. And then, you draw your first card.

Ten of Swords.

Well, that card ain’t exactly subtle, is it? It portrays a body lying face down with ten blades driven into his back, like Brutus himself got carried away with stabbing Caesar during the Ides of March. Whoever murdered this poor fella wanted to ensure he stayed down. Decapitating someone would probably do the trick. The card doesn’t mean just death – it stands for betrayal.

The next card that comes up then is Justice. 

And that? Franky, it almost makes you laugh at this point. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s freaking ironic in a way that feels borderline offensive. Justice upright is supposed to mean fairness, balance, and truth being upheld. All great things, right?

Except, historically, it usually just means someone decided they were right. Doesn’t mean they really were, though. It more likely describes a mob of people with their pitchforks raised high, reflecting your own hometown’s dark history. 

The last card is the Five of Swords, which causes you to tilt your head slightly, studying the smug little asshole on it who’s clutching his stolen victory. This dude’s seriously the worst. The card means he only won by being the most ruthless person in the room. There’s no honor or fairness, just cold outcome. 

You lean back against the headboard, eyes fixing on the pattern splayed out in front of you. 

Betrayed by his own. Judged publicly. And whoever did it walked away convinced they were justified.

The door opens before you can ruminate in it any longer.

Dean strolls in like he just ran a routine errand instead of relocating a cursed murder weapon, brushing his hands together as if that somehow closes the chapter. But you notice his shoulders are a little too stiff, his movements a little too controlled, and the petunia-purple rope is still wrapped around his neck, the noose tightening. 

“Alright,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Sword’s hidden. No more public decapitations for the day.”

Sam slowly looks up from the catalogue. “You feel anything yet? Hear anything?”

Dean casually shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Nope. No whispers, no ghost horses, no sudden urge to, I don’t know, lose my head. Maybe I got lucky.”

Man, you almost admire that confidence.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re still very much cursed,” you tell him with an amused smile.

He raises a brow and gestures at his neck. “Still got that purple rope thingy, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Great,” he sighs and rolls his eyes. 

Sam exhales a long breath as well, sliding one of the binders toward him. “Then we don’t have time to waste. Start flipping. We need to find out who that sword belonged to. Unless you wanna lose your head in the next few hours.”

Dean shoots him a boyish grin. “Could turn my melon into a pumpkin just in time for your favorite holiday, man.”

“Dean–” Sam doesn’t finish, just cuts the sentence off, and shoves the binder an inch closer. 

Dean gapes at it, clearly seeing it for the plight that it is. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Dean doesn’t respond to that and simply drags himself over to the couch with a resigned sigh, flopping down and opening the binder with all the enthusiasm of someone being punished for a crime they didn’t commit. The pages flip lazily, and it’s honestly more irritating noise than actual progress, while Sam seems as studious and dedicated as ever. 

They couldn’t be more different, could they? 

And you? Well, you still feel the weight of the cards in your hands and decide it’s the perfect opportunity to do a little bonus reading since both brothers are in the room, distracted, and somewhat sitting still. Auras and glimpses of their personalities aside, there’s still a lot you don’t know about them. It’s time to let the cards do their magic. 

You reshuffle and let your attention drift toward Sam. You quietly draw three cards, laying them out where only you can see, hiding them a little behind a bump in the covers – just in case. You’ve already noticed Dean discreetly sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye. 

Sam’s first card? The Magician. 

This little wizard is basically ambition incarnated. It’s raw capability, focus, and willpower. It’s precision and skill. Sam’s always ten steps ahead, already building something in his head while everyone else is still trying to understand the problem. It sounds impressive, but you honestly find it a little more terrifying. Because if intellect is paired with intent, it’s always a slightly concerning combination. 

It means Sam doesn’t just know things – he uses them. Plenty of people are smart, but fewer people are actually strategic about it. And even fewer are willing to push that strategy as far as it’ll go. It’s learned, sharpened, and probably comes at the expense of something softer.

You’re kind of worried now you might be that soft thing. 

You chew on your lip and glance at the next card, tilting your head a little because it’s suspiciously contrasting to the first one. 

The Ace of Cups.

God, that is almost wholesome. It stands for pure emotion. It’s empathy and compassion – the ability to care deeply and fucking mean it. 

You steal a glimpse at him and know it’s there – under the logic, under the research mode, and under the calm voice. You’ve seen it with your own eyes in the way he talks, the way he listens, and the way he looks at people like they’re worth understanding instead of just solving.

But at the last card, you don’t even try to hide your grimace this time. Jesus fucking Antichrist…

The Devil.

Welp, you almost feel reaffirmed in your initial read of him. Balance is restored. You’re back in familiar territory again. 

Because The Devil? Needless to say, this guy doesn’t do subtlety well either. Doesn’t even pretend to. Obsession and addiction spring to mind. It’s essentially being chained to something you know isn’t good for you, but you still can’t let it go. 

Yeah, that tracks…

So what’s got its claws in Sam? Is it purpose? Revenge? Control? Maybe it’s all of the above. 

The Magician builds. The Ace of Cups cares. The Devil clings. And that? That’s a dangerous fucking combination. 

Whatever he’s chasing, he’s not walking away from it. Not halfway. Not even when it starts costing him more than he can goddamn afford. 

Sam’s the kind of guy who would sacrifice himself, who would justify anything if it gets him where he needs to go. Or worse – he decides it’s worth sacrificing someone else. 

God, you hope that someone isn’t you, remembering Dean’s words of warning at the lab. 

Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.

He’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.

Oh, you definitely can’t trust Sam with your life, can you? He’d sell you to the highest bidder in a heartbeat if it gets him the prize he wants. 

Now, you’re honestly curious about Dean’s cards. If they’re as bad as his little brother’s, you’re surely bolting out of that gothic hellhole and slamming the door firmly shut behind you. 

You shuffle the cards again and pull your next set. And man, Dean’s first card? It actually makes you snort out loud, earning you a curious little glimpse from the hunter himself. 

God, it’s so painfully obvious. Could you be more on the nose?

The Emperor.

Sounds mighty, fearsome, maybe even a little ominous, right? But the translation? This guy’s all about authoritative control. 

Dean takes charge whether anyone asked him to or not. There’s a rigidity to him – a need to keep things contained, predictable, handled. Not because he necessarily enjoys control, but because he doesn’t trust anything else to actually hold. He’s the man who builds himself into a wall and then wonders why everything hurts when it inevitably cracks. 

It means he’s protective as well, but not particularly in a soft and gentle way. More like “stand behind me or get the hell out of the way.”

My way or the highway…

Dean’s solid, grounded in way that feels almost immovable. In other words, he’s the boulder Sisyphus tried to roll up a hill. He doesn’t bend; he holds (and probably breaks before ever admitting he’s wrong).

As you flip the next card, however, you stump a little. It’s a real wildcard. You certainly didn’t expect that one to show up for him.

King of Cups.

You almost snort again, because it essentially stands for emotional stability. And what you’ve seen so far from Dean? Yeah, he definitely ain’t stable. He honestly seems to have the emotional regulation of a lit match in a fireworks factory. 

To be fair, though, it’s a little about control as well, so you could possibly see that for him. It’s usually about people who feel everything but keep it all contained and locked up tight. It’s not about what’s visible on the outside. It’s about what’s underneath the surface. 

Dean may not talk about his feelings, but they still drive everything he does. He keeps it together so others don’t have to.

Basically, it’s the guy who hands you a burger instead of asking if you’re okay.

It means he doesn’t say much when it matters – deflects, jokes, gets sarcastic. But he acts. He protects. He notices things he pretends not to, like whether you’ve eaten, if you’re about to walk into something stupid, if–

…Oh.

Wait… Does he–

Does he actually care about you? Because for a guy who allegedly claims to hate you, he’s been annoyingly attentive today. 

Alright, so he’s not a complete lost cause after all. He’s not emotionally unavailable. He’s just… emotionally constipated. Gotcha.

You honestly still can’t tell if that’s worse or better, though. 

The third card is less funny, however. It’s the Five of Cups. And that one, well… it’s grief. Loss.

If you had to take a wild guess, Dean’s probably fixating on what’s gone instead of what’s still there. The hardest thing about this card?

You can relate to it. 

He’s been carrying all this pain around for so long he actually forgot it wasn’t supposed to be permanent. And it explains a lot about him – the edge, the temper, even the control issues. Dean’s viewpoint of the world is that it already took too much from him, and he’s just waiting to see what it steals next. 

And you can see it, too. There’s something about him that just feels incredibly… heavy. Even his aura sometimes feels suffocating to you. But instead of dealing with his losses, he just keeps moving, keeps going, keeps doing because stopping would mean he actually has to feel it.

That’s why he’s so restless and can’t exist in stillness. If he never has to slow down, he doesn’t have to sit with what’s missing. 

You glance down at the three cards once more, all laid out beside each other, and then spread them out a little more evenly on the mattress as if the spacing will help make them more sense.

The Emperor holds the line. The King of Cups buries the storm. The Five of Cups never forgets what it lost. 

The picture of him becomes sharper, but it doesn’t match the one you had in your head before. He’s more than the asshole you think he is, isn’t he? Still bossy, but also sad. It’s… layered bossy. 

His ribcage isn’t an empty husk full of spiderwebs. There’s feeling there. A lot of it, actually. He just keeps it on a leash so short it’s practically choking him. He turned his loss into rules, into walls, and into don’t touch that, don’t trust that, don’t get close to that.

Because last time? It cost him something he couldn’t get back.

So yeah, he’s controlling, he’s stubborn, and he’s got about five damn emotional defense mechanisms layered on top of each other. But it’s not because he doesn’t feel. It’s because he feels too goddamn much, and if he ever actually lets it slip, there’s a real chance it’ll wreck him.

Yeah, Dean not just simply being an asshole but actually being a super sad asshole honestly takes all the joy out of you. How are you supposed to tease him now, let alone hate him with an unmatched passion?

You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck. 

Well, that was an enlightening reading…

Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”

“Working,” you reply quickly. 

“Looks like scrapbooking.”

“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”

“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck. But then, another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress. 

Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore. 

You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply. 

The Lovers.

For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–

No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.

Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?

Really?!

The Lovers doesn’t implicate romance alone. It doesn’t foreshadow steamy one-night stands or casual hook-ups. It’s about choice. Connection. Alignment. It’s about a bond that actually matters – that means something. It’s the “this will ruin your life in a meaningful way” card. Emotional, physical, spiritual – take your pick because this one covers all bases. 

And honestly, all those things would be fine. Who doesn’t want to meet their soulmate? But in this particular case, it feels more like the damn card strolled into the room, pointed at the green-eyed hunter, and went that one. 

This is clearly a mistake. A glitch. It’s just statistically improbable nonsense. Either the cards are broken, or the universe (or whatever cosmic entity is apparently in charge of your tarot deck) has a dark sense of humor. 

Because, seriously, out of everyone in this room, it picked him?! The guy who’s been antagonizing you since day one. The guy who thought you were dangerous enough to kill not that long ago. The guy who still looks at you like you’re one wrong move away from proving him goddamn right about everything. And the deck goes, Yes, that one? 

You barely tolerate each other half the time, and Dean still flinches every time you do anything even remotely magical. 

This is crazy. It’s an anomaly. 

Just as you chalk it off to the universe playing a cruel prank on you and move to put the card quickly back into its deck, yet another one slips and fall right on top of the other, like it’s doubling down on the unfathomable audacity.

Ten of Cups.

Well, now this thing’s just being offensive. You honestly don’t know if you should laugh, scream, or cry. 

Because this card? It stands for happiness, fulfillment, stability, and belonging. It’s basically the happily ever after starter pack. The whole “ride off into the sunset and build a life that doesn’t implode every five minutes” fantasy. It’s not fleeting or surface-level. This one’s lasting. 

It’s the kind of apple-pie life people dream about but rarely ever get. The kind that looks steady, warm, and full. The kind that obviously doesn’t fit anywhere near your current situation.

You stare at both cards for a long time, your jaw feeling a little too loose, your mind chewing on their meaning. 

Connection leading to domestic bliss and long-term happiness. Love leading to a… home.

With him.

Yeah, nope, you’re not doing that. You’re not even entertaining this for a second longer. Dean hates you, and you’re for sure as hell not lining up to prove him wrong on that front either. The tarot is simply wrong. It happens. That’s it. 

You grimace as you quickly snatch the cards and shove them back into your deck before either brother can catch you, even though there’s no way they would even know what you were doing here. This whole thing is completely absurd. 

In your periphery, you catch Dean stealing glimpses again, still tracking your reactions. When you glance up and meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away this time, though. 

“What now?” Dean asks rather gruffly, brow woven into intense knits.

You quickly avert your eyes and shake your head, giving him a subtle shrug. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“It was nothing,” you brush off and scratch your collarbone where the strap of your tank top cuts slightly into the skin. 

God, it’s downright sweltering in here and almost resembling a tropical rainforest. The B&B’s old bones do nothing to keep the summer heat outside. 

But then, you catch another pair of eyes on you this time in your periphery and look over to find the younger Winchester staring at you. But his gaze isn’t fixed on your face.

Wait… Is he staring at your tits?

“Uhm, Sam…” You clear your throat subtly. “Why are you staring at my cleavage?”

Sam’s head snaps up in an instant, hazel eyes wide and full of flustered panic. “I–”

“Dude,” Dean cuts in scoldingly before his little brother even has a chance to find an excuse. You’re surprised at his reaction for all of five seconds before he opens his mouth again. “What are you doing? What’d I tell you when you turned fourteen, huh? Corner of your eye, man. Never directly. And no longer than three seconds max.”

You frown slightly at that response. “Well, that’s just problematic in a different way now.”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times, scrambling for words. “No, I–… I wasn’t–…”

Both you and Dean stare at him now, patiently waiting for an explanation. 

Sam takes a deep breath and starts anew. “I wasn’t looking at… you know,” he elaborates with a swallow. “I was just–… The birthmark on your collarbone. It’s your family rune, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” You flinch unnoticeably, your hand automatically covering the spot, feeling a little exposed, especially since Dean decided to peek as well now. “Yeah, it is. Everyone in my family had it.”

“Like the legend,” Sam mutters, more to himself than you, as if he just realized something. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. You kind of feel like evidence under a microscope with both their eyes fixed on you now. 

Luckily, a sharp look from Dean that unmistakably says drop it keeps his little brother from asking whatever questions wanted to spill out next. You’re sort of grateful for that. 

Sam then decides to let it go and switch lanes. “So, uh, you find anything useful yet?”

God, you latch onto that distraction in a damn heartbeat, shifting gears without a single drop of hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you say, swiftly storing the tarot deck back into your bag. “Our guy was betrayed. Accused, judged. Probably publicly.”

Sam’s interest sharpens slightly, musing. “Scapegoat.”

“Yup, would be my guess.”

“So we’re dealing with a vengeful spirit tied to an object,” he deduces. 

Dean warily watches you for another beat, seemingly trying to catch whatever you just buried. But luckily, he huffs a breath a second later and focuses back on the binder in his lap. 

“Great,” he mutters dryly. “Love a revenge arc.”

You don’t respond, you don’t look at the cards again either, and you definitely pretend they don’t mean anything at all – zero, zip, zilch, nada. 

You wanted to get a new deck soon anyways. This one’s system is clearly breaking down. 

After hours of wading through those binders and staring at that eyesore of chicken-scratch handwriting, trying to decipher just a syllable of it, the three of you finally called it a night after Dean kept complaining about his eyes burning. Sam then figured it was safe enough for now, considering Dean still hadn’t heard any horses yet. 

He used to like horses. Now? Not so much.

His eyes closed easily that night, considering he was cursed and all, but he was beat after trying to hide a damn sword in the woods behind the museum. He even tried to salt and burn the thing, melt it down to a little clump of metal, but it wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t dent, wouldn’t even fucking scratch. 

But Dean already regrets taking those forty peaceful winks when he finds himself back in familiar territory. Or should he say unfamiliar because he certainly knows it never actually happened and he’s never been to that place before?

Yeah, he’s back in unfamiliar territory. However, the milky, coral filter is still the same. 

Coral, he scoffs and rolls his eyes at his own thoughts. Jesus Christ, you’re starting to rub off on him with that stupid color coding system of yours. Before you, the only color he knew was orange and the only thing he associated with something like coral were damn rocks in the ocean. 

Wait… are corals rocks? Sam would probably know that. 

This time, though, Dean’s not down by the pond anymore. Instead, he feels the tall grass brush his legs as he trudges back up the hill. Soon enough, the house comes into view, and for a while, he thinks about going inside and pretending today never happened. Pretending he didn’t say what he said. Pretending you didn’t look at him the way you did. 

That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?

But there’s a twinge in his ribcage that won’t let go. It’s squeezing something inside of him to a painful degree and keeps him tethered to the spot, forcing his eyes to drift around the endless field of greenery and look. 

Look for you. 

Even with everything that happened, with all the words he said that he shouldn’t have said, deep down, he knows you wouldn’t wander too far. You wouldn’t leave him. At least, not really.

Right?

But maybe he took it too far this time, said something he can’t erase or even fix, and the pang in his chest grows in intensity till he spots a small movement to his right, where the grass grows even taller and wilder, untamed by footsteps and paths. 

And there you are – off to the side, a little ways from the house, under the willow tree. 

The long branches hang lowly, swaying gently in the evening breeze, curtains of deep green that catch the sunlight and turn it molten at the edges. You’re sitting beneath it, half-hidden in the shade, knees drawn in and arms wrapped around them. You’ve folded into yourself like you’re trying to take up less space than you normally do.

The wind puffs, the branches flutter, and the warm and golden sunlight glistens through the leaves, but you don’t. You’re stillness personified. 

Too still. 

Dean doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like knowing, without even seeing your face, that you’re upset. Because of him. 

You’re upset because of him. 

He slows on instinct, almost bracing himself for whatever is waiting for him under that tree, but the annoying thing in his chest pulls tighter with every step he doesn’t take. 

So, the grass parts under his sneakers as he makes his way toward you. He’s careful and slow about it, though, some might almost call it tentative, but he doesn’t want to spook you. He doesn’t want you to run from him again before he has a chance to say something. 

The branches of the willow sway and brush against his shoulders as he ducks under the tree. The air is cooler in the shade, keeping the summer heat successfully locked out. He knows it’s one of your favorite spots around here. The first one, however, is the waterfall in the woods, but it’s past the fence line, and you’re not allowed to wander out there after dark, so you probably figured the willow would make a decent enough place to drown in your sorrow. 

You don’t react when he approaches. There’s not a blink or flinch in sight. You don’t even bother looking up to see who came to disturb your peace as if you already know it’s him and deemed his presence not worthy of your time. 

He purses his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets, not really knowing what else to do with them. His shoulders are damn tight like he’s got rocks under his skin, and his throat suddenly feels unnaturally dry like he swallowed several cotton balls dunked in desert sand. 

He clears the arid lump, but you still don’t even twitch a single muscle. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, not daring to speak at a louder volume than that, but now he’s almost afraid you didn’t hear it, the tree swallowing the sound before it even reached you. 

You still don’t glance up. You don’t answer either. All you do is stare at that patch of grass in front of you. Your whole posture is closed off. 

Dean’s never seen you like this before. It scares him. What if you can’t forgive him and go back to the way the two of you used to be before all of this? What if he doesn’t get his friend back?

Because, aside from Sammy, you’re the only friend he’s ever had, which makes you also the only one who truly counts. Sam loves him because his little brother really doesn’t have another choice. They’re family. It’s different. 

But you? You don’t love him because you have to. No one’s making you. It’s not some universal rule you have to follow. No, you love him because you choose to. Because you always just did. 

And Dean, well, he… cares about you, too. Although, he wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud.

He shuffles uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze flicking away for a second before fixing back on you with quite an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Hey,” he repeats, swallowing once more because the lump still won’t go anywhere. “I didn’t mean that.”

The words feel clumsy again the second they leave his mouth. He knows they’re not enough.

“You said it,” you say, voice clear but flat. The sweetness that usually laces it is gone. Now it sounds like it’s so tight and thin underneath that it could snap if you’re pushed the wrong way. 

Dean winces, rubbing the back of his neck before his hand drops to his side again. The guilt sinks deeper into his gut and becomes sharper, like tiny little daggers ready to cut him open from the inside out.

“Yeah, well…” he mutters, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt as he tentatively steps a little closer. “I was being an idiot, okay?”

He shilly-shallies for a second before sitting down. He’s not entirely sure anymore if he’s still allowed to, but before he can overthink it, he lowers himself on the ground beside you, the grass bending under his weight. He picks a spot not too close, but not too far either. It’s still close enough that his shoulder could almost touch yours. 

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly but doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes trained on the same patch of grass as you. 

You don’t glance at him right away, either. The silence lasts long enough to make him wonder if he should say something else, if he should try harder, if he already screwed this up beyond fixing.

“Then why are you acting like you do?”

The question hits deeply, but it’s not spoken harshly. There’s no accusation detectable in your tone. There’s only confusion, as if you’re trying to make sense of something that doesn’t add up.

Dean lets out a long breath, his gaze dropping to the grass between his hands. His fingers fiddle without thinking, brushing over the blades, bending them, letting them slip back into place.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually.

It might not be a satisfying answer, but it’s the truth. It’s the best he’s got, but it still doesn’t feel enough. Nothing he does is ever enough.

“It’s just… different now.” He shrugs his shoulders a little, hoping that at least explains something, but he knows it won’t truly fill in the gaps he can’t put into words.

He’s about to give up and leave you alone when you finally turn your head and look straight at him. 

And geez, it’s so much worse than when you were ignoring him. 

The weight of your gaze feels heavy, your eyes guarded and yet searching, careful and still a little hurt. That thing behind his ribs twinges again. He glances at you, then away, then back again because holding your gaze for too long might force him to say something he doesn’t know how to say.

At least not at twelve. 

“You just… freaked me out a little, okay?” he adds, the words certainly awkward but still honest. “I’m–… I’m sorry. But you’re still… you, you know? You’re still my friend.”

And that’s also the part he’s holding onto – the only part that makes any of this worth fixing it. You’re his friend because you’re so uniquely you and no one else.

You study him, even squinting your eyes slightly like the sunshine could warm him. You’re seemingly trying to decide if he truly means it – if it is sincere or just another thing he’ll take back later.

“Okay,” you say suddenly, the word barely reaching his ears because it sounds so small and careful. 

He wouldn’t exactly call it forgiveness, but it’s not downright rejection either, right? He might even call it a win because he’s winning you back – at least back enough to give him another shot towards full redemption. 

And that? Man, that finally eases that uncomfortable throb in his chest, and he can breathe better again. 

Dean nods to himself, remotely acknowledging something he doesn’t fully understand. Relief rushes through his veins, but he doesn’t quite trust the peace yet.

“So…” he starts with another clear of his throat that finally rids it of the nasty lump stuck in it. He shoots you a careful sideways glance. “What can you do now?”

The change in you is almost instant. You’re not quite fully back to your old self yet, but he can feel the familiar excitement vibrating in your blood again. Your shoulders lift, and your posture loosens. It feels like you’re cautiously unfurling again. 

“I can show you,” you say, but there’s still hesitation in your voice. “If you want to…”

He gives you a tiny but encouraging nod and watches the smile rise on your lips again. He missed that smile. He’s glad it’s back. 

You then straighten your spine a little and rest your hands in your lap, your eyes fluttering softly shut.

And Dean? He can’t take his eyes off you.

He takes in the way your lashes brush against your cheeks, the way the caramel-syrupy sunlight weaves through the willow branches and catches in your hair, and the way you go still like you’re listening to something he can’t hear.

For a moment, nothing happens.

All he hears is the wind through the breeze and the crickets in the grass and the sound of your calm breathing.

But then, slowly and bit by bit, something pushes through the weeds near your knee. A tiny blossom, lilac and soft, unfurls in front of his eyes. 

And it doesn’t stop there. 

The lonely blossom is soon joined by others, spreading over the field, a sea of flowers suddenly blooming around him and painting what once was a clover-green canvas with more colors than he’s ever seen before in his entire life. 

There are bright yellows, deep reds, mesmerizing blues, soft pinks, and about eight different shades of violet. There are too many to count them all. The earth came alive right in front of his eyes, and it feels natural and impossible all at once.

Dean leans forward, his eyes spellbound by everything they see, tracking the way the blossoms sway and the wind now carries a sweet floral scent.

“Okay,” he says after a heartbeat, aiming for casual but missing it by a mile. “That’s pretty… cool.”

You open your eyes, and there’s the smile again. Brighter than before, softer too, and it’s more beautiful than the plethora of flowers in front of him. Nothing could beat that smile. 

His gaze drops to the ground, catching on one of the flowers near his hand. It’s a daisy. 

Simple. Pretty. White petals, yellow center. He reaches for it, plucking it carefully, turning it between his fingers for a moment as his mind’s trying to figure something out.

Then he looks back at you, and you’re watching him now, a curious and yet uncertain gleam in your eyes. And then he just goes for it and leans in, tucking the daisy into your hair just above your ear.

You wrinkle your nose like it tickled, giggling a little. “Daisies are the most boring flowers.”

Dean scoffs a soft laugh. “No, they’re not.”

“Yeah, they are.”

He shakes his head, his gaze staying on you.

“No,” he says quietly. “They’re the prettiest…” He pauses and bites the inside of his cheek before the next words slip out. “You know… like you.”

You bite the smile on your lip and shyly avert your eyes, a blush creeping to your cheeks. 

And Dean feels it again – that warmth behind his ribs, spreading outward and turning the brightness up on the rest of the world. It feels steady and easy. 

It feels good.

For a long moment, everything feels like it’s supposed to again. Just you and him, sitting side by side in the honey-warm sunlight. 

But the peace is only ephemeral. There’s suddenly a sound that doesn’t belong to this place – to this dream world.

Hooves.

It sounds distant and hollow and ultimately wrong. 

Dean’s head cocks a little, brow furrowing as he looks out past the slope of the hill, toward the tree line where the light begins to thin.

“You hear that?” he asks without glancing at you, his gaze still trained on the invisible danger past the horizon.

But the second the words exit his mouth, the sound of them leave him bewildered. They come out too deeply and roughly. It’s not a child’s voice anymore.

It’s his – fully grown and perfectly raspy. 

Confused, his gaze drops down to his hands, and they’re larger, broader, and calloused now in ways they weren’t a second ago. His sneakers are replaced by boots, the grass stains on denim gone from his knees. 

Dean straightens abruptly and flexes his fingers a few times, as if that could possibly reset something. But it doesn’t work. The weight of himself feels older and heavier now.

“What the–”

His head then finally snaps to you. And you–

You’re not seven anymore, either.

You’re sitting exactly where you were, in the same patch of grass beneath the willow, but you’ve changed, too. Grown into yourself in an instant. Twenty-two. The softness is still there, but it’s shaped differently now. 

You’re wearing a bright yellow summer dress now instead of your short denim overalls, the fabric thin and airy and sun-washed, catching the breeze as it moves around you. Your hair falls longer now as well, loose and slightly tangled from the wind.

And for a heartbeat, Dean forgets everything else around him, including the strange noises.

His gaze fixes on the way the hem of your dress brushes the weeds, the way the sunlight illuminates your skin, and the way you look… older – not just in years, but in presence.

Shit.

Okay. Yeah, no. That’s new.

His brain scrambles for footing, trying to reorient, to file this under something that makes sense, but it doesn’t quite get there before his thoughts take a sharp, unhelpful left turn.

His eyes flicker to your lips, soft and plush and inviting. There’s suddenly a strange urge there to do something about it – like connecting his own to yours. He wants to know what they taste like, if they’re as sweet and warm as your voice. 

What the hell kind of dream is this…

The thought dies instantly, however, when the sound of hooves reverberates through the air again, coming closer and closer. 

The sunlight then morphs from amber and gold to blue and gray, the wind picks up on speed like a storm brewing, and the air feels a lot colder and more brittle now. 

The warmth is gone.

Dean’s posture changes instantly, every muscle in his body tensing with instinct. His gaze snaps toward the hill again, scanning and calculating, something old and ingrained rising to the surface before he can even think it through.

This isn’t right. This isn’t just a dream, is it?

You shift beside him, your brows meeting in the middle as you glance at him and then out toward the same direction. “Dean? What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer, though. His jaw locks, pulse thundering in his ears, adrenaline flooding his blood as the realization dawns on him with a terrifying clarity.

The hooves strike once more, and everything drops away around him in the blink of an eye.

Dean jolts awake on the couch, like he’s been yanked back into his body by God himself.

The change in the air feels violent.  

He feels slightly disoriented as he blinks his eyes awake, the golden dreamscape he found himself in a minute ago suddenly replaced by the dusty and gothic interior of a New England bed and breakfast. 

But the sound? Oh, that followed him all the way to reality. 

The hooves and something that sounds suspiciously like clattering metal are still there, and it’s definitely not in his head. It’s goddamn real. 

Dean’s breathing comes out harshly as he pushes himself upright on the couch, eyes darting to the window, already expecting to see a horse with a headless rider out there in the dark. His heart is racing a mile a minute, the adrenaline spiking.

“Sam?” he calls and runs a hand through his messy locks. “Hey–… Sam? Guys? Wake up.”

The sheets on both beds begin to rustle and move. 

Sam’s up first, already halfway out of bed before he’s even fully conscious, hearing the urgency (and slight panic) in his brother’s tone. “Dean? What? What’s wrong?”

You, on the other hand, are slower only by half a second, sitting up with the softest groan Dean’s ever heard someone utter. Your hair is a bit mussed, falling into your face as one of those oversized sleep shirts slips off one shoulder. 

It’s distracting enough to be inconvenient right now.

Because your hair falls over that same shoulder, so he can’t really tell if there’s a bra strap underneath it or not. The not is what concerns him the most, though. You certainly weren’t wearing one under that yellow sundress in his dream.

Man, his brain has excellent timing, doesn’t it?

Get it together.

He drags his focus back where it belongs, and his jaw clenches tightly upon the next wave of sounds. “You guys hear that?”

The room stills, as do you and Sam, trying to listen, eyes narrowing slightly. Dean hears it again, but he already sees how both you and his little brother begin to slowly shake your heads. 

“I don’t hear anything,” you confirm Dean’s worst suspicions that this thing’s only coming for him. 

Sam’s head bobs in recognition. “Guess that means it’s starting.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean scoffs and jumps on his feet, overtaken by a burst of restless energy he’s familiar with during hunts, his body entering into fight or flight mode. “Think he’s close, guys. Any ideas would be greatly appreciated now.”

You push yourself out of bed as well, the last traces of sleep burning off fast as your gaze lands on Dean. He feels like he’s going crazy because he could swear there’s even a trace of concern gleaming in your eyes. 

“Your aura’s tighter. Something’s pulling at it,” you note.

Dean scowls. “Thanks for the visual.”

“We need to find out who that sword belonged to as fast as possible before it takes Dean’s head,” Sam says and already grabs one of the binders again, hands flipping pages at record speed. 

“How?” you ask, your voice slightly rising as the panic rises with it. “Look at those things, Sam! There’s no way we’re gonna find the right page in time.”

“Love the enthusiasm,” Dean mutters, earning him a dry look from you. Then he purses his lips, however, and God, he already hates saying it. “But she’s right, Sammy. We don’t exactly have time for a full-on research montage right now.”

“I know that, Dean,” Sam huffs. “But what do you suggest, huh? The only way to end this is finding out who or what we’re dealing with. You already tried salting and burning the sword, and it didn’t work, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be something else. Think, man! C’mon, you’re the brains, and I’m the brawn. Just do what you do best!”

“Like, what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Guys!” You suddenly cut into their argument, forcing the brothers to focus on you instead. “I think I’ve got it!”

You don’t elaborate on what exactly you’ve got, though, which slightly tests Dean’s patience. He hates when Sam does that shit, too. Is it too much to ask for people to finish a damn thought around here?

Before he can question it, however, he watches you rush to your bag and hurriedly rummage through it till you pull out your little notebook. 

He arches an eyebrow at you, skeptical as ever. “What, you’re gonna write another spell?”

It’s honestly not the worst idea, but he can’t give you the satisfaction of knowing that. God knows one little spell only leads to more. 

“Actually, I don’t have to,” you say, hastily flipping pages back and forth as if you were looking for something specific. The notebook is an explosion of color, inked in different shades as glitter catches the dim light in the room. 

“You wrote something?” Sam asks.

“In college,” you reply with a quick nod, eyes scanning and skimming, fingers flipping even faster. “I used to hate digging through library archives, so I made a spell that pulls the exact information I’m looking for from a text. It’s kind of like a magical Ctrl+F.”

Why is Dean not even a little bit surprised? Of course you would do something like that.

Your fingers then stop their movements abruptly, eyes lighting up. “Found it.”

The ink is a brightly glistening sunny yellow. The color almost feels obnoxiously cheerful for a possible decapitation by a headless dude on a horse at three in the morning.

Dean’s brow raises as he nods to the page. “What’s yellow stand for?”

“Academic magic,” you mutter without glancing up.

Dean doesn’t say anything more to that. He just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, shifting his weight slightly as he watches you spread all eight binders evenly on the small table. That uncomfortable and familiar feeling creeps back into his veins at the thought of your magic, but he knows this might be the only thing keeping his head attached to his body right now. It still doesn’t sit right with him, though. 

You murmur the words under your breath, and the effect is practically immediate this time. The third binder on the left jerks open with a loud thud before pages start flipping on their own with the force of a hurricane blowing through them. Then it abruptly stops on a page, and a section of it begins to glow like yellow sunshine. 

Sam leans in over the open binder, checks the marked section, and a smile begins to rise. “That’s it. Elias Whittaker. Says here he was a Union soldier in the Civil War.”

“Great.” You exhale a relieved breath and smile as well. 

Dean’s jaw, though, tightens the slightest bit before he pushes it down. Why does every win of yours bother him so much? He should be glad they found what they were looking for. He should be glad they can save him now. But instead, what he feels almost comes close to dread. 

Sam rips the page out of the binder and grabs his jacket. “We should take this to the library. Cross-reference, get everything we can on him. Maybe we find his burial site.” 

Dean grimaces at the idea. “Yeah, you have fun with that.” He grabs his keys, heading for the door. “I’m getting the sword back. If that dude’s coming for me, it’s probably best if he isn’t fully armed. Maybe we can stall him that way.”

Sam gives him a quick nod. “Good idea.” Then his gaze shifts to you. “You go with him.”

Both yours and Dean’s heads snap toward his little brother with raised brows and wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean checks and sees you make a face in his periphery as well. 

You wrinkle your nose as you look at Sam. “Do I have to?”

Dean turns his head sharply at that, his skin prickling. “Wow. Good to know where I rank,” he scoffs.

You shoot him a look. “You’re being hunted by a headless ghost with a sword. Forgive me for not volunteering enthusiastically.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled you’re so concerned about me, Sabrina,” he fires back dryly. “Relax. It’s not a date.”  

“Could’ve fooled me with how happy you sound,” you mutter. 

Dean’s mouth is already opening with a comeback before Sam cuts in, stopping this little argument from spiraling any further. 

Sam looks at you with his best puppy eyes again. “Look, you’re the only one who might be able to slow this thing down if it shows up.” 

“With what?” you shoot back. “Strongly worded encouragement? It’s a ghost. I don’t exactly have a game plan or a spell lying around for that.”

Sam just offers you a shrug. “You’re smart. You’ll figure something out. Improvise.”

“Improvise?!” You gape at his little brother before your eyes snap to Dean. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah, he is. He does that sometimes,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck.

“Haven’t gotten you killed so far, though,” Sam quips.

“Last time, you almost let me get run over by a ghost truck on a hunch, man.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You let out a deep groan as you grab your jacket and bag. “I’d just like to officially put it on record that this is a terrible, terrible idea.”

“Yeah, most of ours are, actually. You’ll get used to it.” Dean grins, holding the door open for you. 

“Awesome. Good to know.”

The moon hangs lowly just above the horizon, where the night’s indigo blue is slowly bleeding into a dawning gray. Fog curls over the asphalt and catches in Baby’s headlights like a ghostly sheen as the road weaves through the quiet outskirts of town, bordered by dense foliage and ancient trees on each side. 

Dean’s grip on the wheel is steady, although he feels the tension underneath it in his forearms and shoulders. The familiar hum of the engine grounds him, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of hooves in the back of his skull entirely. 

Oh, this thing’s coming for him, alright. 

He exhales slowly through his nose and rolls one shoulder, even trying to physically shake the sound loose. It doesn’t help, though. 

Next to him, you’re folded slightly into your seat, your notebook open across your lap. The dim glow from the dashboard spills over the page, catching on streaks of glitter ink that shimmer every time your pen moves. You keep tapping it against the margin in an uneven rhythm, faster when you’re thinking harder and slower when you hit a wall. But the sound at least soothes him a little. 

Your hair is still carrying a hint of sleep in it, loose and a little unruly, falling around your face in soft waves. Your brow is furrowed, lips pressed together, gaze seemingly fixed on something only you can see. There’s something about the way you look right now – barefaced, focused, completely absorbed – that feels disarmingly normal.

Dean clears his throat, shooting you a sideways glance. “You planning my funeral over there, or…?”

You snort a quiet laugh but don’t answer him right away, still staring at the page like it might rearrange itself into something useful. “Thinking,” you say after a beat, voice still rough with leftover sleep. “About spells.”

That pulls a small huff out of him, though it lacks its usual edge. “Yeah? That supposed to make me feel better?”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes swerving to him. “Depends,” you say, tapping the pen once more. “How open are you to being a magical test subject? I’m trying to figure out if there’s something I can do to keep it away from you. I just don’t know how ghosts respond to most of what I can do, though.”

Dean lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking his head as he looks back at the road. “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and veto that,” he says. “No offense, but I’d rather not be your guinea pig for experimental witchcraft at five in the morning.”

He mostly means it as a joke, but there’s still that undercurrent, that instinctive recoil he can’t quite scrub out of himself. Years of training don’t just disappear because you’ve got a cute notebook and a nervous habit of tapping your pen.

“Fair enough,” you say and accept his answer with a nod. “Not sure I’d wanna be, either.”

Your gaze drops back to the page for a moment, your pen stilling. 

“It’s just–… I don’t know what to do against something like that,” you admit, dragging the pen absently along the margin. The frustration is clearer now in your voice. “Plants, sure. Spells, fine. But ghosts?” You shake your head, lips pressing together. “That’s not exactly in my wheelhouse. I don’t know what your brother was thinking.”

Dean glances over again, a little slower this time, really looking at you instead of just checking. He takes note of the tension in your shoulders and how your fingers curl a little tighter around the pen as if you’re trying to grip onto a solution that won’t quite stick. The thing that bugs him the most, however, is not that you don’t know what to do, but that you’re downright bothered by not knowing.

Because of him.

Three weeks ago, he had a gun aimed at your head because everything he’d been raised on told him that was the right call – witch, potential threat, end of story. And now you’re sitting next to him in the middle of the night, visibly frustrated that you can’t figure out how to keep him alive.

It’s almost absurd – your concern for him. You should be celebrating right now and not worrying. Most of all, he hates the feeling it causes in his gut. Guilt – real, actual guilt and not the one he’s usually good at shoving aside. You suck for that – for caring. 

He doesn’t say any of that aloud, obviously.

“Hey,” he says but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “It’s fine, alright? I got it.”

You turn your head toward him, brows knitting. “You’ve got it?”

He chuckles lightly at your doubt and jerks his chin toward the backseat. “Shotgun.”

That earns him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and mild concern for his sanity. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Wait…” Your brow creases a little more, probably trying to decide if this is another bit of his or a cry for help. “Do bullets actually hurt ghosts? Kinda defeats the purpose of being dead.”

He snorts and grins a little. “Regular bullets? No. Rock salt? Whole different story.”

You blink. “Rock salt?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you again. “Load it up, it’ll mess ‘em up. Not a permanent solution, but it buys time.”

You stare at him for a second longer, clearly recalibrating your entire understanding of how the world works. “That is… the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He scoffs a chuckle. “And yet, it works.”

An actual laugh slips out of you at that, lifting the tension in the car just a smidge. It’s also apparently enough for you to open a conversation instead of drifting back into silence. 

“So, uhm, Sam told me he went to Stanford until a year ago,” you note, your voice more cautious than before, as if you’re not sure small talk was allowed yet. 

“Yeah, he’s a big nerd. The kid practically lives in libraries,” Dean retorts, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“What about you? Did you go to college?”

He snorts, amused, and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why?”

Dean shoots you a quick glance, then shrugs. “Never was on my radar. Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Your dad didn’t want you to go?”

He barks a laugh at that. If you only knew his father as well as he did, you probably wouldn’t have even asked that question. “You kidding? The old man barely wanted Sammy to go.”

And even that is the understatement of the goddamn century. He still remembers that blow-up fight like it was yesterday.

Your head bobs in thought. “So you’ve always just done… this? Hunting?”

“Yup.”

“You never wanted to do anything else?” 

“Nope.” 

Alright, that might’ve been a lie. There are surely a few things Dean dreamt of doing when he was younger – fireman, mechanic, rock star. But real life got in the way and made that decision for him. Not like anyone ever asked him what he wanted, either. This whole thing was just shoved into his lap, but he never mulled too long over it. 

His gaze then absentmindedly drifts to your lap as you shift the notebook and then stops abruptly. He almost hits the brakes on accident as his eyes land on a small flower peeking out between the pages – white petals and a yellow center. 

A daisy.

His brain pretty much trips over itself like it missed a step. He blinks, looks back to the road, then back at the notebook again, and slowly comes to the realization that he hasn’t imagined it. 

It’s definitely still there and very real. 

And suddenly, his thoughts start stacking on top of each other, his stomach dropping slightly as his dream comes crashing back like a flood. 

There’s no need to panic, though, right? So, what? It’s a flower. People have flowers. Kids press flowers into books all the damn time. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s completely normal. Not to mention that daisies are pretty much the most common flowers out there. 

But what if it’s not just any flower. What if it’s the flower? What if it’s the one he picked for y–

No, stop it!

He cuts his thoughts off. There’s no way this is the flower from his dream because those dreams aren’t real. He never actually picked a daisy for you because he hadn’t even known you existed until three weeks ago. It’s not possible. He probably just saw that flower in your notebook once beforehand, at the B&B or wherever, and his brain latched onto it again for some reason he still can’t understand. 

Nevertheless, Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers as his eyes flick up almost involuntarily to your face and then a little higher to your hair.

To that exact spot just above your ear.

It’s empty, but of course it’s empty now. Why wouldn’t it be?

But then his brain, stupid thing that it is, overlays it with something else. There’s summer sunlight instead of the dashboard glow now, warm gold instead of cold blue, your hair reflecting it like it’s lit from the inside. He sees his own hand moving slowly and carefully in a way that doesn’t match him at all and tucking that same stupid flower into your hair again.

And the feeling that comes with it is worse than panic, fear, or confusion – it’s warmth. Feels like something clicking into place that he didn’t even know was missing.

Which is stupid, needless to say. It’s insane. He’s going crazy and not just due to the dumb horse noises in his head. 

Dean inhales sharply through his nose. Nope. He’s still not doing this. 

It’s still only a dream. That’s it. His brain’s just grabbing random crap and stitching it together into something weirdly sentimental. His mind just simply clocked it, stored it, recycled it. That’s all this is.

That has to be all this is, right? Because the alternative? 

Yeah, no. Hard pass.

He clears his throat, forcing his tone back into something casual as he gestures his chin toward your lap, even though he already hates himself for not resisting harder and prodding further. “What’s that?”

You follow his gaze, blinking once before you realize what he means. Your fingers brush lightly over the page, delicately tracing the stem of the dried flower. Your expression softens into something almost private, like you’re getting lost in your thoughts for a second and forgot he was even still there. 

“Oh, that?” you say and give a shrug, a secret smile beginning to bloom on your lips nonetheless. “It’s just some flower. It’s been there forever. I put it in there as a kid.” You pause for a beat, thumb tracing one of the petals now before you shake your head at yourself, a small huff of amusement leaving you. “I honestly don’t know why I kept it. Daisies aren’t even my favorite. But it’s from home, so…”

“Oh.” Dean nods slowly and swallows, throat so much tighter than it should be for such a simple explanation.

His gaze stays on it for another minute, then drifts back up to your face before he can stop it.

“It’s–, uhm, it’s pretty.”

The words slip out, and his eyes snap to the road, pretending to be oh-so causal about a crazy comment like that, even though he’s cursing himself for ever saying it. 

Why the hell did he, though? What on earth is going on here?

He knew daisies weren’t your favorite because the dream told him, but he couldn’t have known that, right? Is this a coincidence? Just a lucky guess his brain made?

Shit.

You wrinkle your nose slightly and arch a brow, surprised. “You think so?”

Dean shrugs quickly and clears his throat offensively loudly. “Sure, yeah.”

And just like that, the air changes in the car, and there’s a different kind of tension now. 

You shift slightly in your seat, and he adjusts his grip on the wheel, both of you suddenly aware of the other in a way that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Dean exhales more sharply this time and swiftly reaches for the radio. A second later, the car fills with the opening riff of Ramble On. It cuts straight through the awkward silence, through the tension, and through the weird, lingering pull in his ribcage that he refuses to examine too closely.

Ah, that’s better.

He nods once to himself, settling the issue, and fixes his eyes firmly on the road ahead as the music takes over.

Dean’s had worse mornings.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he trudges through damp underbrush at an hour no sane person should be conscious.

Why did he pick this job again? Oh, right. Like he told you, it picked him.  

The sky is still caught somewhere between night and dawn, the gray reaching higher and lighter at the horizon. The woods behind the museum stretch out endlessly through shadows and mist, all of it tinted in that deep, cold blue that makes everything look a little more spooky than it would be during daylight. 

Hell, when he was here during the day, these woods could’ve even been considered beautiful. Like that meadow where Bambi lives. Now it’s a horror movie come to life, though. 

The hooting owls and rustling branches don’t help either. 

Behind him, you carefully step over a large branch, your sneakers crunching on the forest floor. While you haven’t said anything since the car, Dean can still hear the reluctance in each of your steps and the occasional hitch of your breath.

You’re definitely jumpy, but he tries not to let his amusement show, even though it’s ridiculously adorable. 

He steals a glimpse over his shoulder and catches the way your eyes briefly swerve toward a darker stretch of trees to the left, surely expecting something to jump out of there. Your hands tug on the sleeves of your jacket repeatedly, probably trying to calm yourself in some way. 

Dean bites back a smirk. “Wow,” he mutters, pushing a low branch out of his way. “Didn’t peg you for the easily spooked type.”

“I’m not,” you shoot back a little too quickly for his taste.

As you gracefully step over a root, your foot snags on another one hidden beneath the leaves. You fall forward with a quiet “whoa–,” and Dean reacts instinctively and spins just in time to catch you by your arms before you can fully eat dirt. The impact brings you closer than either of you probably intended, your weight tipping into him for the tiniest second before you steady yourself and quickly pull back, but it’s not far enough.

You’re close. Real close. 

He can see the small crease between your brows, the way your lashes soak up what little light there is, and the soft flush in your cheeks. Your face looks… annoyingly good.

A clear of his throat breaks the awkward silence. “You were saying?”

You blink, then straighten quickly, brushing past him like nothing happened. And maybe it didn’t. 

“I said I’m not scared,” you repeat. “It’s just–” you gesture at the trees around you, “–this is not exactly my usual environment.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks and continues his march forward. “What is your usual environment? Labs and scented candles?”

You huff a soft laugh behind him. “For your information, the scariest thing I’ve dealt with before this was a ghost tour in Salem.”

Dean snorts loudly and raises a brow at you over his shoulder. “A ghost tour?”

“Yup. It was at night, alright?” you defend. “And the guide had a lantern and everything. There were sound effects.”

“Wow. Terrifying.”

“There was a reenactment of the witch trials. Very much scary for someone like me,” you add as if that helps your case.

It doesn’t. 

Dean gives a shake of his head, but his lips are twitching around a smile. “Yeah, alright. Remind me to never question your bravery again.”

Another owl then calls somewhere deeper in the woods, and you go just a little too still for a second before forcing yourself to keep walking. Dean notices that too, but something else spreads under the amusement. He knows you’re out of your depth here. This isn’t your world – the dark, the hunt, and all the things that move where and when they shouldn’t.

And yet, you still came along for the ride in an attempt to save his life. He’s at least willing to give you credit for that.

“You’re good,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter than before. “Just… watch your step.”

You meet his eyes, slightly surprised, but then nod once. “Yeah, okay.”

The two of you then fall into a rhythm after that, the banter easing into something more comfortable and less forced. The shed behind the museum where he hid the sword then comes into view through the fog a minute later. It’s pretty rundown and honestly only one strong breeze away from collapsing entirely, but he’d figured that was probably an advantage, meaning no one would snoop around here and accidentally find the cursed blade again. 

Dean stops and scans the area automatically. “This is it.”

“Charming,” you murmur.

He circles around the back, boots sinking slightly into the softer and moss-covered ground, until he spots an old wooden trunk, half-hidden behind tall weeds and debris. He figured the sword would probably be safest in there. But as he crouches and flips the lid open, he stills abruptly. 

Empty.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He probably should’ve expected a wooden box like that wouldn’t keep a ghost out, but he figured at least all the salt he poured into the trunk would’ve helped. 

“What?” you check, stepping closer.

“It’s gone.”

The words barely leave his mouth before a very distinct sound hits him – and it’s not the owls this time. 

Hooves.

Dean’s head snaps up, the noise so much closer now than it was back at the room or even the car, his whole body flying into high alert in an instant. The noise of clinking metal, which surely comes from the missing blade, almost rings like a warning bell.

“Did you hear–”

But Dean doesn’t even get to finish that sentence. He sees your eyes widen to the size of little moons, and the next thing he knows, you’re slamming into him at full speed, hard enough to knock the oxygen right out of his lungs as you tackle him to the ground. The impact of the cold forest floor tears through his bones as your weight lands on top of him before something whooshes through the empty air above where his head used to be only a second ago. 

As his eyes snap upwards, a mighty black stallion rears above the two of you and neighs loudly. Its breath steams in the suddenly freezing air, while its rider is clearly headless. 

Dean doesn’t have too much time, though, to take a longer peek before his gaze flicks to the horseman’s hand and the sharp sword in it. 

“Move!” he barks, adrenaline rushing into his blood as the blade comes down again.

He rolls both of you hard to the side, flipping positions so he’s on top just as the sword buries itself into the dirt only a mere inch away from your shoulder, the ground trembling with the sheer force of the assault.

“Up! Go!” he yells, scrambling to his feet and quickly hauling you up with him as the rider yanks the blade free again.

And then? Well, there’s really only running left. His shotgun flew out of reach and landed somewhere in the bushes when you tackled him, so he really doesn’t see any other immediate options for now.

He grabs hold of your wrist and drags you with him through the woods, branches whipping past the two of you as you both navigate a sea of overgrown roots without stumbling. But Dean doesn’t need to look back to know this thing’s still gaining speed and catching up fast.

“Do something!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do!”

“Then think of something!”

The horse neighs too closely behind him, and Dean turns around just in time to see the rider swing again. He ducks quickly, the blade slicing through the air above him before slamming into a tree trunk with a loud crack. The noise reverberates through the silence as wood splinters and bark goes flying in all directions.

“Ha! Missed!” Dean smirks tauntingly at the rider. He’s not sure the poor fella can even see him, considering the guy’s missing his whole head. “Ain’t that easy to kill me. Gotta have to try harder.”

“Why are you provoking it?!” you rebuke him. 

Dean opens his mouth to retort but stops when the horseman rips the sword free like the damn tree meant nothing.

“Okay, less talking, more magic!” he shouts, retreating until his back hits another tree, nowhere left to go as the rider closes in again.

The sword lifts.

“Right about now would be awesome!” he snaps.

And then, the ground suddenly answers for you.

It starts as a slight tremor beneath his boots, subtle at first but rising fast as the soil cracks open like a fault line during an earthquake. Thick, gnarled, and ancient roots then tear through the earth, snapping upward with violent force.

They lash around the rider’s arm and curl tightly just as the blade begins its descent, jerking it back mid-swing. More roots shoot out of the ground after and wrap around the horse’s legs, locking it in place as it thrashes and screams wildly against its restraints.

And Dean? He kind of just stares for a second in stunned bewilderment, his brow twitching, chest heaving with leftover adrenaline. “Huh.”

You seem just as startled by your own work next to him, blinking down at your hands. “Huh,” you echo breathlessly. “Never done that before. Guess I can improvise.”

Before Dean can answer, however, the horseman and his loyal stallion roar furiously, the roots already starting to crack around their limbs. 

“Yup, great breakthrough,” he quips, already tugging at your sleeve. “We should probably go before this thing tears itself free again.”

“Good idea. He does seem rather angry, although it’s hard to tell without a face,” you say and tilt your head at the rider like you’re trying to analyze him – or maybe read his aura. 

Dean’s not entirely sure, but he doesn’t wait for you to finish your philosophical pondering and grabs your wrist once more, bolting back to the Impala with you in tow. 

Neither of you looks back as the sound of splintering roots echoes through the forest behind you.

When you push through the library doors, you still feel a little winded from all that running and Dean’s rather erratic driving, your hands still trembling from leftover adrenaline or shock. Maybe both. 

And speaking of the green-eyed hunter, he’s right behind you, feeling his labored breaths and the residual warmth of him at your back, which is a little distracting but less than the drumming against the steering wheel and the loud singing in the car. He’s still restless, his aura green but threaded with streaks of red from his survival instincts, pacing like a caged animal that hasn’t realized it’s safe yet. 

Sam looks up from his pile of books and notes the second you approach, seemingly waiting on a spring, judging by how fast he jumps out of his seat. His eyes quickly assess you and his brother from head to toe as if he’s checking for injuries and counting limbs.

“You guys okay?” he asks.

“Define okay,” you reply with a huff, exhaustively dropping into the chair across from him. “Because if the scale includes ‘not currently being hunted by a headless horseman,’ then yeah, we’re doing great.”

Dean exhales a long breath next to you, dragging a hand down his face before dropping into the chair beside you. “Sword’s gone. And the guy attached to it? Very stabby.”

You nod, rubbing your hands together, still feeling the dirt and adrenaline prickling under your skin. “Yeah, he’s fast. And persistent. And apparently not a fan of improvisation via landscaping.”

Sam’s brows crease. “What?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I’ll explain later.”

There’s a flash in Dean’s aura when you say that, the green fringed with something warmer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost claim he seems impressed, but it disappears as fast as it came when Sam braces his elbows on the table, already switching fully into research mode.

“Okay,” he says, flipping his laptop around toward you. “I think I found our guy.”

He taps the screen, and you lean in, eyes scanning the old photograph and text.

“Name’s Elias Whitaker,” Sam continues. “He was a Union soldier and stationed just outside what used to be the original town in 1863. From what I can piece together, he was accused of being a Confederate sympathizer – passing information, sabotaging movements, the whole deal.”

You tilt your head skeptically, thinking back to the cards you drew. “Was he?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope, doesn’t look like it. Records are messy, but there’s a consistent thread. His commanding officer, Captain Harlan Pike, had a pretty good motive. See, Whitaker was engaged, and apparently, Pike had a thing for the fiancée.”

You groan. “‘Course he did.”

“The guy’s name was Harlan? Talk about a villain name,” Dean quips.

“Yup,” Sam agrees. “So get this – he frames Whitaker, stirs up suspicion, and turns the whole town against him. Pike had rank and influence. I mean, back then, that’s basically all it took. No trial, no proof. All he needed was fear and a mob. They dragged Whitaker out to the woods. And according to one account, he swore that he’d come back and kill every man who judged him without cause.”

Dean scoffs under his breath. “Guess he kept his word.”

“They executed him with his own sword and left the blade and the head at the site,” Sam adds. “The body was buried later in the town cemetery because his fiancée insisted on it.”

You lean back in your chair, processing. “So the sword stayed buried with the head?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sam replies. “But a few weeks ago, a local survey crew apparently uncovered the sword in the woods. It got turned over, cleaned up, and was donated to the museum.”

“So that’s when the curse kicked in,” Dean surmises.

Sam nods and then continues, “But there’s something else.”

You look at him. “You found out how the victims are connected?”

“Yup, I think so,” Sam says, his lips twitching slightly, seemingly amused by his findings. “I went back over the victims. Not just cause of death, but who they were. After you guys talked to that witness at the crime scene, I figured it probably had to do with their personalities, tying back to Whitaker somehow.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly, scratching the nape of his neck. “What d’you find?”

“Well, something they all seemed to have in common was being judgmental,” Sam says and gives his brother a tight smile, clearly waiting for Dean to catch on. “The first victim, a guy named Daniel Hodge, got fired last year for repeatedly harassing a coworker. I’m talking HR complaints, sexist remarks, the works. He claimed he was justified.”

You grimace. “Charming.”

“The second victim then was Reverend Collins,” Sam continues. “He ran a small church outside town and preached a lot about purity, damnation… He had a habit of publicly calling people out for ‘sinning.’”

“Yikes.”

“And the third victim was a local business owner, who refused service to… certain customers.”

You purse your lips. “So he was a racist.”

“Yup.”

You let out a long breath. “So the victims are all people who judged others, like Whitaker was judged.”

“Seems that way, yes,” Sam confirms. 

Your eyes flick to Dean, shooting him a raised look. “Well, guess we know why you got cursed now.”

Dean scoffs immediately. “Oh, come on–”

You turn more fully toward him, brows lifting. “There’s a reason I called you a Puritan, you know. You were one pitchfork away from burning me at the stake.”

Sam’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin.

Dean tries to laugh it off, but you can tell by the flares in his aura that he clearly feels uncomfortable in his skin now. “C’mon, I wasn’t actually trying to shoot you.”

“Weren’t you, though?” you fire back, cocking your head. “Because from where I was standing, it felt pretty historically authentic. You pointed a gun to my head.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it, alright?” 

You shrug your shoulders. “Doesn’t seem to matter to the ghost. Just saying, you might wanna reflect on your choices a little.”

He opens his mouth to argue again but falters halfway. He clicks his tongue and turns to Sam instead. “So, how do we stop this thing from publicly executing me now? Please tell me you found something.”

Sam clears his throat a little, steering things back as he pulls up a site on his laptop. “There’s a ritual. It’s not super common, but it lines up with vengeance hauntings and cursed objects. Since salting and burning didn’t work, maybe laying the spirit to rest will. Basically, we reunite the remains, body and head, and cleanse the weapon that anchored the spirit. That should break the cycle.”

“Sounds simple when you say it like that, but I’m guessing it’s not,” you say, already fearing where this is going.

“Unfortunately, no,” Sam replies. “We need the sword. And we need to find the head.” He taps the map on his screen. “Body’s in the cemetery. That part’s easy. The head, though – records say he was executed in the woods just outside town. Same general area where the sword was found.”

“So probably still out there,” you murmur.

“Probably,” Sam agrees. Then his gaze drifts fully to you, a little more careful now. “And the ritual… it needs someone who can actually perform it. Someone with… your kind of skillset.”

You blink at him. “My ‘kind of skillset’ is mostly keeping houseplants alive and occasionally finding lost earrings.”

“You did more than that out there,” Dean mutters under his breath, surprising you slightly. 

Out of the two of them, you honestly believed he wouldn’t vote for that, considering he’s been doubting every single move you made so far. 

You glance at him, then back at Sam, slightly overwhelmed. “I–I mean, I can try. I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t even really use structured rituals. I kind of just… make things up and hope they work.”

Sam nods, not discouraged in the slightest. “That’s okay. You understand the mechanics. You can adapt it.”

You let out a nervous breath. “Adapt it. Right, no pressure.”

Dean leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “So what’s the play here?”

“Split up, I think,” Sam suggests. “You guys go to the site where they found the sword. I figured we could use another spell to find the head faster. Once you got it, you can bring it to the cemetery. I’ll dig up the grave. Since Whitaker is after Dean, we can draw him out that way and get the sword back.”

You furrow your brow wildly. “Wait, hold on… Draw him out? You wanna use Dean as ghost bait?”

“Ain’t the first time. Kinda my thing,” the green-eyed hunter mutters next to you and shoots you a cocky grin.

“That should so not be your thing,” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head. “You guys are being way too casual about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam tries to assure you. “We’ll be ready. As soon as we have the sword, you can start the ritual while we keep the spirit occupied.”

“Occupied?” you parrot, arching an eyebrow at them.

Dean just gives you a casual shrug, offering you a crooked smirk. “We’re pretty good at that.”

After another quick location spell to find a human skull (a first for you), you and Dean meet up with Sam at Sleepy Hollow’s cemetery, which unsurprisingly leans pretty heavily into its haunted aesthetic. It’s frankly even creepier than the rest of this town, and that’s truly saying something.

It’s already dusk when you arrive, the sky fading from clear blue into a bruised violet as the last sunlight clings to the horizon. Most of the headstones are crooked and tilt at odd angles, moss and ivy crawling up their sides. The stubborn fog doesn’t help the overall vibe, either. You honestly half-expect something to crawl out of the ground even without supernatural interference. 

Dean, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed by the graveyard environment, strolling almost cheerfully ahead. He casually carries the skull, sometimes playing with it like a ball and juggling it from one hand into the other, treating it like a damn prop. You already told him to stop doing that, but he obviously ignored you. 

It seems like you have officially upgraded from “girl who writes spells with glitter gel pens” to “girl who retrieves decapitated heads before dinner.”

By the time the two of you reach Whitaker’s grave, Sam is already halfway done digging, standing in a shallow pit with his sleeves rolled up and dirt smudged across his arms and face. Clearly, he’s been at it for a while.

“Hey, Sammy! Heads up!” Dean calls with a bright grin, and before your brain can even process what he’s about to do, he tosses the skull in a short arc toward his little brother.

“Dean!” you snap at the exact same time Sam goes, “Dude, seriously?” and fumbles the catch, barely managing to grab the skull before it hits the ground.

Sam glares, you glare, and Dean lifts both hands in surrender, entirely unrepentant.

“What?” Dean shrugs his shoulders as if his actions are even remotely defensible. “He caught it.”

“You threw a human head,” you scold his cemetery behavior, which he apparently deemed entirely appropriate. 

These boys clearly spend too much time in places like this to be this freaking comfortable around human remains. 

“Former human,” Dean corrects under his breath.

And you? Yeah, you don’t even dignify that with a response and only roll your eyes.

Sam exhales sharply as he climbs out of the grave, setting the skull down with a lot more care than it was afforded by his brother, then gestures at the shovel. “Here. Switch.”

Dean looks down into the hole, then back at Sam. “Oh, now it’s my turn? C’mon, I’m practically on my deathbed, man.”

But Sam only offers him a deadpan look and holds the shovel out to his brother. Dean grabs it with a resigned sigh before you suddenly stop him with a hand on his arm.  

“Wait.”

Both of them look at you expectantly. 

“I think I can make this faster.” 

Dean’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t argue for once, probably relieved about skipping all that digging, whereas Sam just watches you full of curiosity.

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer to the grave. You then close your eyes, tethering yourself to the earth beneath your feet as you always do. Soil should be a lot easier than roots, but you can’t exactly say you’ve done this before either. 

Then again, you never needed to dig up a grave in your life beforehand. 

The dirt loosens and shifts, beginning to part like the Red Sea, trickling away in soft waves till the coffin peeks out through the soil. Clumps slide down the sides of the grave, pebbles clicking against the wood until the whole coffin is fully revealed without another shovel needing to hit the ground.

When you open your eyes again with a satisfied smile, you find both brothers staring at you, mouths agape. 

“Okay…” Dean surprisingly even lets out a low whistle. “That’s admittedly kinda awesome.”

“Thank you.” You bite back a grin, trying not to look too pleased with yourself at his praise, but it honestly feels a little like getting a compliment from your school bully. 

Sam, however, downright looks like he’s regretting ever touching a shovel in his life. 

Dean then hops down into the grave and crouches by the coffin, brushing some remaining dirt off the lid before prying it open with a crowbar. But something in him changes suddenly, head lifting, forest green eyes fixing on something in the distance beyond the trees. His aura sharpens as well, colors morphing into high alert.

You don’t need to see his face to know something’s wrong, and a second later, you can hear it, too.

Hooves. 

“He’s coming back,” Dean says and jumps out of the hole, finding your eyes. “Got everything we need?”

You nod frantically and reach into your jacket pocket for the folded piece of paper with the modified spell on it. 

“Good. Showtime,” he says with a smirk, and you almost think he’s enjoying getting nearly decapitated a little too much. Who on Earth is that insane?

Sam then moves fast, grabbing the skull and placing it into the coffin with the body, adjusting it with surprising care for someone working under a ticking clock.

You’re scrambling as well, pulling four white candles from your bag and placing them at the corners of the coffin. Your fingers are only steady out of sheer necessity before you magically light all wicks at the same time. The flames flicker weakly at first and then stretch taller as the wind begins to pick up.

The Latin script on the paper in your hands stares at you, unfamiliar in shape but not in intention. You don’t usually do spells like this – structured, inherited, borrowed. Luckily, you had enough Latin in school to push through and understand at least half of it. 

God, you hope that counts for something. 

The moment the rider breaks through the trees, Dean doesn’t wait and starts to sprint. He only dodges the first swing by a margin that is entirely uncomfortable to witness. You’re trying not to watch as you pull out a small cast-iron bowl from your bag (you refuse to call it a cauldron) and an assortment of herbs. At least, Dean’s faster than he looks when he seems to be motivated by imminent decapitation, which is somewhat reassuring. 

He ducks again, twists out of the way as the blade cuts through the air where his head was a second ago, boots skidding in the dirt as he regains his footing. The sword then comes into play in a blur of motion – Dean lunges forward, gracefully ducks another swing, grabs the hilt, and yanks it free with a grunt, stumbling back just far enough to avoid immediate retaliation.

And then, that maniac actually throws the sharp blade right at his little brother. You flinch, heart stopping and breath halting, only exhaling when Sam manages to catch it without breaking a sweat. 

Jesus Christ, those boys will be the death of your low heart rate. 

Who the hell just throws a sword at someone?

Sam places it into the coffin and then looks at you. “Go!”

Right. Spell. 

You glance at the ingredients in the bowl, a mix of herbs you remember from your mother’s teachings: crushed sage for cleansing, rosemary for remembrance, lavender for peace, and a pinch of salt to anchor it all. You incinerate it and let the herbs smolder for a second till trails of smoke billow and fuse with the cool evening air. 

As you mutter the words on the page, your voice sounds strange around the Latin, as if your tongue is borrowing someone else’s shape, but it seems to work as the wind begins to pick up, threading through the trees and rustling leaves. The smoke thickens and spills over the bowl, the candle flames dancing harder and faster as if they’re trying to keep up with your voice. 

You grab the bowl and then pour it into the grave, letting the ash and embers fall into the coffin, dusting the sword and bones alike. Just as you place it down on the ground again, something crashes hard into a headstone behind you, but you try not to look back to check which brother got tossed and concentrate on finishing the spell. 

The final lines come quicker than you expect, the wind howling louder before it all breaks.

The wind drops. The candle flames steady. The horse halts. 

You spin just in time to see the horse rear back, hooves striking the air where Dean had been a heartbeat ago. He stumbles back, barely avoiding getting trampled, and then the rider stills as well.

For a moment, everything goes quiet before a head fades into place where none was before. 

The rider then turns toward you and inclines his newly attached head, his eyes gleaming with gratitude as they find yours. Then the edges of him begin to soften, dissolving into a warm, golden light. The horse follows, form fading into the same glow. Together they then seem to turn toward something you can’t quite see and ride off into it.

The light fades a minute later, and they’re gone. Just like that.

You rise to your feet, dusting off your jeans as you stare at spot where the light used to be. “Aw, he looked happy,” you note, the adrenaline in your blood slowly waning. “Is it always this peaceful?”

Dean’s eyes find you, hands on his knees as he’s trying hard to catch his breath. “Nope.”

Sam shakes his head, equally thrown, judging by the same crease in his brow. “Not even a little.”

You nod, lips pursing. “Good to know.”

Dean’s seen a lot of weird endings to hunts, and usually, it’s messier than this. But there’s no blood, no ambulance lights, or even a half-burned corpse today. 

He leans back against the Impala a few feet away, arms crossed as he tells himself he’s just keeping an eye on things without making it too obvious. He watches as you stuff your bag into the back of your beat-up and blue Aveo, calmly packing up like this was simply some strange weekend getaway and not technically a grave robbery, ghost exorcism, and almost getting trampled by a cursed horseman before breakfast combined.

You’ve traded in the grass-stained jeans and t-shirt for something softer, an oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, your boots still dusted with graveyard dirt from the woods. Your hair’s a little messy, probably from the wind earlier, a few strands catching in the porch light outside the B&B. 

Sam stands a little closer to you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture more relaxed than before after things finally wound down. “So…” He clears his throat lightly. “First hunt. What’s the verdict?” 

Dean watches your face instead of Sam’s, because your answer matters more than the question. 

You close the trunk with a soft thud, brushing your hands together like you’re still shaking off dirt. “Honestly? It was… interesting,” you admit, tucking your hair behind your ears. “In a ‘wow, I almost died’ kind of way.” A crooked smile rises on your lips. “But not exactly something I’d want to make a habit out of.” 

Dean huffs under his breath at that, gaze dropping to the gravel by his boots. 

Good. Smart answer.

Sam gives you a smile, but it’s got a certain shade to it now, and Dean recognizes it as his little brother’s but what if smile. He knows exactly where this is going before Sam even opens his mouth again.

“You handled yourself really well,” Sam says. “The spell, the ritual… you picked it up fast.”

“Yeah, you weren’t half bad,” Dean adds, but there’s a slight tease to his smile. 

Admittedly, you handled yourself well out there – better than most rookies would. Better than some hunters, if he’s being totally honest. Obviously, he won’t say that out loud in a million years. 

“Seriously, thanks,” Sam says. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Think we would’ve made due.”

You don’t seem to take offense to that comment, though, lips twitching in amusement. “You’re welcome for saving that coconut of yours.”

“So, uh…” Sam scratches the back of his neck, eyes finding yours. “Your mom’s letter, the ritual… have you thought more about it? Really could use your help, you know.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, watching as your shoulders draw in the tiniest bit, hesitation flashing across your face. You’re clearly unsure how to answer that one without disappointing someone – well, mostly Sam because Dean would be just fine with you saying no and telling his little brother to go screw himself. 

“Sam,” Dean cuts in, choosing not to let this play out. 

Sam meets his stare. “What?”

“She already gave you an answer.” Dean finally pushes off the car. “Take it.”

Sam’s brows draw into a small frown. “I’m just asking–”

“Yeah, and I’m just saying drop it,” Dean barks, his voice a little sharper now. “She heard you the first time. She doesn’t need a sales pitch.”

The tension is almost tangible in the air now, but as his gaze drifts back to you, there’s a newfound softness in your expression. He would almost call it gratitude, but it evokes a weird flutter in his chest, so he rejects that thought on principle and breaks eye contact first. 

You clear your throat softly. “Look, I meant what I said, alright?” you tell Sam gently, but there’s a firmness underneath. “I’ll think about it, but that’s all I can promise right now.”

Sam studies you for a moment, probably weighing whether to push again or not, but Dean really hopes he doesn’t. Otherwise, he’ll have to clock Sam with the back of his gun and drive back to South Dakota with his little brother in Baby’s trunk. 

“Okay, fair enough.” Sam nods after a beat and accepts your answer, although he’s obviously not done with the idea.

Dean is, though.

“Call if you need anything, alright?” Sam adds and steps back.

You nod, even manage a smile, and give a small wave of your hand that’s slightly awkward. 

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t stick around for a grand goodbye. He gives you a tight nod and then turns on his heel, heading back toward the Impala, the only true safe zone he’s ever known. 

But halfway there, his hand brushes against his jacket pocket, and he feels the folded paper sitting there.

Right. That.

He’d written it earlier at the B&B, while Sam was buried in books and you were flipping through that glitter-covered notebook of yours, muttering about herbs and Latin. Dean had sat at the table, pretending not to listen, and suddenly found himself scribbling down the standard exorcism. He might’ve then thrown in the Devil’s Trap, too. 

He didn’t really plan on giving it to you. It was more supposed to be a just-in-case, emergencies-only thing. But there’s this gnawing, annoying little thought in the back of his skull that refuses to disappear. 

You’re in it now, aren’t you? Whether you like it or not, or even whether he likes it or not. No thanks to his little brother and him, you’ve got a target on your back now. Dean knows better than anyone that this shit lingers, follows, and finds you again when you least expect it. And well, leaving you with nothing to defend yourself feels simply… wrong. 

“Son of a–” Dean mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply. 

And then, he turns around.

You’re halfway to your car, keys in hand, and for a second, he almost lets you go. Walking away would be so much easier and cleaner, wouldn’t it?

But he didn’t let you go in the dream either, did he? And even though, that never happened, there’s a strange pang in his chest that keeps his eyes locked on you and his feet rooted to the ground. 

“Hey, wait–”

You stop, spinning back with a small frown on your face, clearly not expecting that. Dean quickly walks back to you, wanting to get this part over with as soon as possible. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the folded piece of motel stationary, holding it out to you without ceremony.

“Here.”

You blink but take it reluctantly, brows knitting as you unfold it carefully. Your eyes skim over the Latin and the symbol sketched beneath it. “What’s this?”

“Insurance,” he replies, shrugging one shoulder to avoid making a big deal out of this. “Basic exorcism. Latin. That symbol’s a Devil’s Trap,” he explains, clearing his throat subtly. God, what’s with the air in this town? Why is it so damn dry here? “Paint it under that small rug you got by your front door. If something comes in, it’s stuck there. Then you read the words, send it back where it came from.”

Your eyes glance over the page, then back up at him, brow raising slightly like you’re still trying to make sense of his words.

He shifts his weight, swallowing. “Also, uhm, put a salt line along your windowsills. Doors if you wanna be extra. Keeps most crap out. You got that?”

There’s a small pause before you nod slowly, but you’re looking at him in that weird way of yours again – like you’re seeing past his words. Dream-child you did that shit as well. And before he knows it, there’s a tiny smirk hitching on your lips. 

“King of Cups…” you mutter under your breath, barely audible. 

Dean scowls. “What?”

“Nothing.” You shrug casually, but that stupid smile doesn’t disappear. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him like evidence under a microscope. “Wouldn’t simply apologizing be easier?”

“Apologize for what?” Dean scoffs, averting his gaze. It’s the default setting. Armor. 

“Never mind,” you sigh like you expected that response, ready to give up on him. “And to think, I almost started to like you…”

He rolls his eyes, but his jaw tightens visibly. Technically, he knows what he has to do. The dream already told him. But it still seems a lot harder in practice than it does in theory.

“Fine,” he caves at last with a reluctant breath out. “I’m… sorry for, uhm–” he motions roughly at you, already hating it, “–almost… shooting you, alright?” He smacks his lips. “There. Happy now?”

You don’t even try to hide the unimpressed look, but he swears there’s almost some amusement underneath it.

“Wow,” you say wryly. “How sweet of you. That must’ve cost you a lot.”

Dean purses his lips, head bobbing, the irritation hopefully covering anything else. “Alright, we’re done here. Try not to die.”

He spins around before you can answer, heading straight for the Impala without stopping this time. But behind him, he can hear Sam mutter, “Just think about it, okay?” 

Dean yanks open the driver’s door and pauses just long enough to glance back. He sees you nodding, but it’s rather noncommittal and seems frankly very uncomfortable. 

“Sam,” Dean calls gruffly, jerking his head toward the car.

Sam sighs but obeys, jogging back over.

Dean then slides into the driver’s seat, hands settling on the wheel as his gaze lands on the rearview mirror, watching you climb into your car. The interior light switches on, illuminating you in soft gold before the door shuts and the engine turns over. His eyes remain fixed on the mirror till your taillights disappear down the road. 

As Sam gets into the car, he shuts the passenger door harder than necessary. “What did you say to her?”

Dean doesn’t even bother to look at his little brother and plainly turns the key in the ignition. “Nothing.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Sam shoots back, frustrated. “You were being a dick to her on purpose, so she wouldn’t want to stick around. You were trying to scare her off.”

Dean snorts, pulling onto the road. “Yeah, ‘cause telling someone to salt their windows is real intimidating.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sam says. “You don’t want her involved.”

Dean grips the wheel a little tighter. “No, I don’t.”

“You probably talked her out of the ritual, too,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Big bad dream crusher.”

“Dean–”

“I didn’t say anything she wasn’t already thinking, alright?” he snaps. 

“She said she’d think about it.”

“Yeah,” Dean fires back, “and if you can stop hovering over her like a damn guidance counselor, maybe she actually will.”

Sam exhales a deep sigh. “She’s strong. You saw what she did tonight. She could help people, Dean.”

Dean almost wants to scoff. He certainly saw what you did tonight – during this entire case, actually. Sammy doesn’t even know about the thing you did with the roots in the woods, and Dean’s not volunteering to tell him either. Sam’s head would probably explode with ideas if he knew how powerful you truly were. 

“Yeah,” Dean huffs instead, shaking his head. “Or get herself killed.”

“She can handle it.”

“Barely.”

“She’ll learn.”

“And what happens when she runs into something she can’t learn her way out of, huh?” Dean counters. “What then?”

“That’s not your call to make,” Sam mutters.  

“No, but it is my problem,” Dean snaps. “Man, you told her about all of this. About demons, hunts, everything… You think that just goes away? You think nothing’s ever gonna come looking? It’s not if something happens to her, Sam. It’s when.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “So what, you just cut her loose and hope for the best? That’s your solution?”

“No, my solution is not dragging her deeper into this mess. I gave her what she needs to not be completely defenseless,” Dean says. “That’s more than most people get. She’s got a life, Sammy. A normal one.”

“I know that,” Sam says. “But life doesn’t always work that way.”

Dean scoffs a humorless laugh. “So, what? She’s just supposed to give it all up because she’s got powers?”

“I’m saying she has a choice, Dean,” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah, and you’re not exactly making it easy for her to say no,” Dean shoots back. “Guilt-tripping her with her family? Low hanging fruit, Sam.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam defends. “I was just trying to prepare her.”

“No, you know what’s not fair? You thinking this is gonna end well,” Dean snaps. “‘Cause it doesn’t. It never does. You of all people should know that. At least, I’m trying to keep her alive.”

Sam goes suspiciously quiet after that, leaning back as he studies Dean. “You didn’t seem too concerned about that when you invited her along.”

“Oh, don’t even–” Dean’s jaw ticks. “You told her first, man. You put her on the board. Not me. I just made sure she didn’t get blindsided. You wanna chase this demon? Fine. You wanna burn everything down to get it? Fine. But don’t drag her into it like she’s just another tool in the box.”

Sam grits his teeth. “That’s not what this is.”

“Really?” Dean shoots him a scrutinizing look. “’Cause it sounds a lot like you’re willing to risk whatever it takes to win. This is our mess. She’s not part of this, Sammy. Not if I can help it.”

Sam doesn’t answer this time, and that’s honestly answer enough.

He slumps back in his seat, crosses his arms, and scoffs quietly. “This isn’t over.”

Dean nearly snorts a laugh. “Wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

Before Sam can find his next argument, Dean reaches forward and cranks up the stereo, letting the sound of classic rock flood the Impala and drown out the rest. 

The road stretches ahead, dark and endless, and everything’s supposed to go back to normal again. But his mind keeps drifting back to you – standing under that streetlight in the middle of the night, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, looking at him like you knew exactly what that note meant. 

He hopes you stay out of this. Hopes that piece of paper he gave you can keep the world away from you. Hopes it’s enough. He really does, even though he knows it’s not – but it’s the best he’s got.

However, there’s a stubborn, quiet part of him that already knows he’s going to see you again. And honestly? He’s not sure if that’s something to dread, or something to look forward to.

▶️ Chapter 6: East Atlantic Breeze – July 3

We have our first case under the belt and a reluctant friendship was born 😂🫶

How did you enjoy Dean's latest dream? Is anyone aside from him still convinced those aren't actually real memories resurfacing? (And how long will he keep them to himself? lol) What did you think of reader's tarot reading and do you agree with the boys' cards? And what about the two that slipped out – are they really a glitch in the system? 👀

Another puzzle piece is coming next Friday, where we might get an unwanted visitor... 😬

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Dean’s on his feet before even being fully awake.

“Sammy.” His deep voice comes out rougher than usual as he grabs Sam’s shoulder hard enough to shake him. “Sam.”

Sam jolts awake with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instantly to his forehead. His breathing comes uneven and shallow, pain still written all over his face.

Dean’s stomach drops, heart pounding. He already knows it’s not a nightmare but another vision.

“You with me?” he checks sternly.

Sam nods quickly between ragged breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before forcing out a strained, “Yeah.”

“What happened? What’d you see?”

Dean then waits for an answer, stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Finally, Sam looks up at him, and Dean can see the fear sitting naked and clear behind his little brother’s hazel eyes, turning his blood ice-cold before your name bleeds from Sam’s lips.

Every muscle in Dean’s body locks up in an instant.

“A demon found her,” Sam says hoarsely, swallowing harshly. “She was at the lab. It had Mia and Paige, too. I saw blood, black eyes–…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “Dean, she was screaming.”

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Judging by his progress so far, you honestly give him another ten more minutes before he starts reorganizing those binders alphabetically out of spite (and to scratch that slightly OCD itch in his brain. No judgement here – you certainly feel it too when looking at those eight monstrosities).

It’s been three hours of tranquility so far since Dean’s not back yet from his little trip to hide the cursed sword. 

Admittedly, it’s almost too quiet and peaceful now in this room without his annoying habits around to distract you. It’s weird what you can miss once it’s gone, but you’re sure the green-eyed hunter will return soon enough and make you regret those words again with his charmingly irritating presence.

You, on the other hand, have claimed the bed and excused yourself from tediously sifting through museum catalogues by pulling out your tarot deck and doing your own version of research. 

In this case, your focus doesn’t lie with the sword or even the victims but on the man himself – the mysterious headless horseman. If you can get some hints on his identity and fate, maybe you and Sam can figure out a way to break the curse.

The cards slide easily between your fingers as you shuffle, your brain latching onto the calming rhythm until the noise in your head quiets just enough. And then, you draw your first card.

Ten of Swords.

Well, that card ain’t exactly subtle, is it? It portrays a body lying face down with ten blades driven into his back, like Brutus himself got carried away with stabbing Caesar during the Ides of March. Whoever murdered this poor fella wanted to ensure he stayed down. Decapitating someone would probably do the trick. The card doesn’t mean just death – it stands for betrayal.

The next card that comes up then is Justice. 

And that? Franky, it almost makes you laugh at this point. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s freaking ironic in a way that feels borderline offensive. Justice upright is supposed to mean fairness, balance, and truth being upheld. All great things, right?

Except, historically, it usually just means someone decided they were right. Doesn’t mean they really were, though. It more likely describes a mob of people with their pitchforks raised high, reflecting your own hometown’s dark history. 

The last card is the Five of Swords, which causes you to tilt your head slightly, studying the smug little asshole on it who’s clutching his stolen victory. This dude’s seriously the worst. The card means he only won by being the most ruthless person in the room. There’s no honor or fairness, just cold outcome. 

You lean back against the headboard, eyes fixing on the pattern splayed out in front of you. 

Betrayed by his own. Judged publicly. And whoever did it walked away convinced they were justified.

The door opens before you can ruminate in it any longer.

Dean strolls in like he just ran a routine errand instead of relocating a cursed murder weapon, brushing his hands together as if that somehow closes the chapter. But you notice his shoulders are a little too stiff, his movements a little too controlled, and the petunia-purple rope is still wrapped around his neck, the noose tightening. 

“Alright,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Sword’s hidden. No more public decapitations for the day.”

Sam slowly looks up from the catalogue. “You feel anything yet? Hear anything?”

Dean casually shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Nope. No whispers, no ghost horses, no sudden urge to, I don’t know, lose my head. Maybe I got lucky.”

Man, you almost admire that confidence.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re still very much cursed,” you tell him with an amused smile.

He raises a brow and gestures at his neck. “Still got that purple rope thingy, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Great,” he sighs and rolls his eyes. 

Sam exhales a long breath as well, sliding one of the binders toward him. “Then we don’t have time to waste. Start flipping. We need to find out who that sword belonged to. Unless you wanna lose your head in the next few hours.”

Dean shoots him a boyish grin. “Could turn my melon into a pumpkin just in time for your favorite holiday, man.”

“Dean–” Sam doesn’t finish, just cuts the sentence off, and shoves the binder an inch closer. 

Dean gapes at it, clearly seeing it for the plight that it is. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Dean doesn’t respond to that and simply drags himself over to the couch with a resigned sigh, flopping down and opening the binder with all the enthusiasm of someone being punished for a crime they didn’t commit. The pages flip lazily, and it’s honestly more irritating noise than actual progress, while Sam seems as studious and dedicated as ever. 

They couldn’t be more different, could they? 

And you? Well, you still feel the weight of the cards in your hands and decide it’s the perfect opportunity to do a little bonus reading since both brothers are in the room, distracted, and somewhat sitting still. Auras and glimpses of their personalities aside, there’s still a lot you don’t know about them. It’s time to let the cards do their magic. 

You reshuffle and let your attention drift toward Sam. You quietly draw three cards, laying them out where only you can see, hiding them a little behind a bump in the covers – just in case. You’ve already noticed Dean discreetly sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye. 

Sam’s first card? The Magician. 

This little wizard is basically ambition incarnated. It’s raw capability, focus, and willpower. It’s precision and skill. Sam’s always ten steps ahead, already building something in his head while everyone else is still trying to understand the problem. It sounds impressive, but you honestly find it a little more terrifying. Because if intellect is paired with intent, it’s always a slightly concerning combination. 

It means Sam doesn’t just know things – he uses them. Plenty of people are smart, but fewer people are actually strategic about it. And even fewer are willing to push that strategy as far as it’ll go. It’s learned, sharpened, and probably comes at the expense of something softer.

You’re kind of worried now you might be that soft thing. 

You chew on your lip and glance at the next card, tilting your head a little because it’s suspiciously contrasting to the first one. 

The Ace of Cups.

God, that is almost wholesome. It stands for pure emotion. It’s empathy and compassion – the ability to care deeply and fucking mean it. 

You steal a glimpse at him and know it’s there – under the logic, under the research mode, and under the calm voice. You’ve seen it with your own eyes in the way he talks, the way he listens, and the way he looks at people like they’re worth understanding instead of just solving.

But at the last card, you don’t even try to hide your grimace this time. Jesus fucking Antichrist…

The Devil.

Welp, you almost feel reaffirmed in your initial read of him. Balance is restored. You’re back in familiar territory again. 

Because The Devil? Needless to say, this guy doesn’t do subtlety well either. Doesn’t even pretend to. Obsession and addiction spring to mind. It’s essentially being chained to something you know isn’t good for you, but you still can’t let it go. 

Yeah, that tracks…

So what’s got its claws in Sam? Is it purpose? Revenge? Control? Maybe it’s all of the above. 

The Magician builds. The Ace of Cups cares. The Devil clings. And that? That’s a dangerous fucking combination. 

Whatever he’s chasing, he’s not walking away from it. Not halfway. Not even when it starts costing him more than he can goddamn afford. 

Sam’s the kind of guy who would sacrifice himself, who would justify anything if it gets him where he needs to go. Or worse – he decides it’s worth sacrificing someone else. 

God, you hope that someone isn’t you, remembering Dean’s words of warning at the lab. 

Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.

He’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.

Oh, you definitely can’t trust Sam with your life, can you? He’d sell you to the highest bidder in a heartbeat if it gets him the prize he wants. 

Now, you’re honestly curious about Dean’s cards. If they’re as bad as his little brother’s, you’re surely bolting out of that gothic hellhole and slamming the door firmly shut behind you. 

You shuffle the cards again and pull your next set. And man, Dean’s first card? It actually makes you snort out loud, earning you a curious little glimpse from the hunter himself. 

God, it’s so painfully obvious. Could you be more on the nose?

The Emperor.

Sounds mighty, fearsome, maybe even a little ominous, right? But the translation? This guy’s all about authoritative control. 

Dean takes charge whether anyone asked him to or not. There’s a rigidity to him – a need to keep things contained, predictable, handled. Not because he necessarily enjoys control, but because he doesn’t trust anything else to actually hold. He’s the man who builds himself into a wall and then wonders why everything hurts when it inevitably cracks. 

It means he’s protective as well, but not particularly in a soft and gentle way. More like “stand behind me or get the hell out of the way.”

My way or the highway…

Dean’s solid, grounded in way that feels almost immovable. In other words, he’s the boulder Sisyphus tried to roll up a hill. He doesn’t bend; he holds (and probably breaks before ever admitting he’s wrong).

As you flip the next card, however, you stump a little. It’s a real wildcard. You certainly didn’t expect that one to show up for him.

King of Cups.

You almost snort again, because it essentially stands for emotional stability. And what you’ve seen so far from Dean? Yeah, he definitely ain’t stable. He honestly seems to have the emotional regulation of a lit match in a fireworks factory. 

To be fair, though, it’s a little about control as well, so you could possibly see that for him. It’s usually about people who feel everything but keep it all contained and locked up tight. It’s not about what’s visible on the outside. It’s about what’s underneath the surface. 

Dean may not talk about his feelings, but they still drive everything he does. He keeps it together so others don’t have to.

Basically, it’s the guy who hands you a burger instead of asking if you’re okay.

It means he doesn’t say much when it matters – deflects, jokes, gets sarcastic. But he acts. He protects. He notices things he pretends not to, like whether you’ve eaten, if you’re about to walk into something stupid, if–

…Oh.

Wait… Does he–

Does he actually care about you? Because for a guy who allegedly claims to hate you, he’s been annoyingly attentive today. 

Alright, so he’s not a complete lost cause after all. He’s not emotionally unavailable. He’s just… emotionally constipated. Gotcha.

You honestly still can’t tell if that’s worse or better, though. 

The third card is less funny, however. It’s the Five of Cups. And that one, well… it’s grief. Loss.

If you had to take a wild guess, Dean’s probably fixating on what’s gone instead of what’s still there. The hardest thing about this card?

You can relate to it. 

He’s been carrying all this pain around for so long he actually forgot it wasn’t supposed to be permanent. And it explains a lot about him – the edge, the temper, even the control issues. Dean’s viewpoint of the world is that it already took too much from him, and he’s just waiting to see what it steals next. 

And you can see it, too. There’s something about him that just feels incredibly… heavy. Even his aura sometimes feels suffocating to you. But instead of dealing with his losses, he just keeps moving, keeps going, keeps doing because stopping would mean he actually has to feel it.

That’s why he’s so restless and can’t exist in stillness. If he never has to slow down, he doesn’t have to sit with what’s missing. 

You glance down at the three cards once more, all laid out beside each other, and then spread them out a little more evenly on the mattress as if the spacing will help make them more sense.

The Emperor holds the line. The King of Cups buries the storm. The Five of Cups never forgets what it lost. 

The picture of him becomes sharper, but it doesn’t match the one you had in your head before. He’s more than the asshole you think he is, isn’t he? Still bossy, but also sad. It’s… layered bossy. 

His ribcage isn’t an empty husk full of spiderwebs. There’s feeling there. A lot of it, actually. He just keeps it on a leash so short it’s practically choking him. He turned his loss into rules, into walls, and into don’t touch that, don’t trust that, don’t get close to that.

Because last time? It cost him something he couldn’t get back.

So yeah, he’s controlling, he’s stubborn, and he’s got about five damn emotional defense mechanisms layered on top of each other. But it’s not because he doesn’t feel. It’s because he feels too goddamn much, and if he ever actually lets it slip, there’s a real chance it’ll wreck him.

Yeah, Dean not just simply being an asshole but actually being a super sad asshole honestly takes all the joy out of you. How are you supposed to tease him now, let alone hate him with an unmatched passion?

You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck. 

Well, that was an enlightening reading…

Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”

“Working,” you reply quickly. 

“Looks like scrapbooking.”

“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”

“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck. But then, another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress. 

Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore. 

You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply. 

The Lovers.

For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–

No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.

Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?

Really?!

The Lovers doesn’t implicate romance alone. It doesn’t foreshadow steamy one-night stands or casual hook-ups. It’s about choice. Connection. Alignment. It’s about a bond that actually matters – that means something. It’s the “this will ruin your life in a meaningful way” card. Emotional, physical, spiritual – take your pick because this one covers all bases. 

And honestly, all those things would be fine. Who doesn’t want to meet their soulmate? But in this particular case, it feels more like the damn card strolled into the room, pointed at the green-eyed hunter, and went that one. 

This is clearly a mistake. A glitch. It’s just statistically improbable nonsense. Either the cards are broken, or the universe (or whatever cosmic entity is apparently in charge of your tarot deck) has a dark sense of humor. 

Because, seriously, out of everyone in this room, it picked him?! The guy who’s been antagonizing you since day one. The guy who thought you were dangerous enough to kill not that long ago. The guy who still looks at you like you’re one wrong move away from proving him goddamn right about everything. And the deck goes, Yes, that one? 

You barely tolerate each other half the time, and Dean still flinches every time you do anything even remotely magical. 

This is crazy. It’s an anomaly. 

Just as you chalk it off to the universe playing a cruel prank on you and move to put the card quickly back into its deck, yet another one slips and fall right on top of the other, like it’s doubling down on the unfathomable audacity.

Ten of Cups.

Well, now this thing’s just being offensive. You honestly don’t know if you should laugh, scream, or cry. 

Because this card? It stands for happiness, fulfillment, stability, and belonging. It’s basically the happily ever after starter pack. The whole “ride off into the sunset and build a life that doesn’t implode every five minutes” fantasy. It’s not fleeting or surface-level. This one’s lasting. 

It’s the kind of apple-pie life people dream about but rarely ever get. The kind that looks steady, warm, and full. The kind that obviously doesn’t fit anywhere near your current situation.

You stare at both cards for a long time, your jaw feeling a little too loose, your mind chewing on their meaning. 

Connection leading to domestic bliss and long-term happiness. Love leading to a… home.

With him.

Yeah, nope, you’re not doing that. You’re not even entertaining this for a second longer. Dean hates you, and you’re for sure as hell not lining up to prove him wrong on that front either. The tarot is simply wrong. It happens. That’s it. 

You grimace as you quickly snatch the cards and shove them back into your deck before either brother can catch you, even though there’s no way they would even know what you were doing here. This whole thing is completely absurd. 

In your periphery, you catch Dean stealing glimpses again, still tracking your reactions. When you glance up and meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away this time, though. 

“What now?” Dean asks rather gruffly, brow woven into intense knits.

You quickly avert your eyes and shake your head, giving him a subtle shrug. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“It was nothing,” you brush off and scratch your collarbone where the strap of your tank top cuts slightly into the skin. 

God, it’s downright sweltering in here and almost resembling a tropical rainforest. The B&B’s old bones do nothing to keep the summer heat outside. 

But then, you catch another pair of eyes on you this time in your periphery and look over to find the younger Winchester staring at you. But his gaze isn’t fixed on your face.

Wait… Is he staring at your tits?

“Uhm, Sam…” You clear your throat subtly. “Why are you staring at my cleavage?”

Sam’s head snaps up in an instant, hazel eyes wide and full of flustered panic. “I–”

“Dude,” Dean cuts in scoldingly before his little brother even has a chance to find an excuse. You’re surprised at his reaction for all of five seconds before he opens his mouth again. “What are you doing? What’d I tell you when you turned fourteen, huh? Corner of your eye, man. Never directly. And no longer than three seconds max.”

You frown slightly at that response. “Well, that’s just problematic in a different way now.”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times, scrambling for words. “No, I–… I wasn’t–…”

Both you and Dean stare at him now, patiently waiting for an explanation. 

Sam takes a deep breath and starts anew. “I wasn’t looking at… you know,” he elaborates with a swallow. “I was just–… The birthmark on your collarbone. It’s your family rune, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” You flinch unnoticeably, your hand automatically covering the spot, feeling a little exposed, especially since Dean decided to peek as well now. “Yeah, it is. Everyone in my family had it.”

“Like the legend,” Sam mutters, more to himself than you, as if he just realized something. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. You kind of feel like evidence under a microscope with both their eyes fixed on you now. 

Luckily, a sharp look from Dean that unmistakably says drop it keeps his little brother from asking whatever questions wanted to spill out next. You’re sort of grateful for that. 

Sam then decides to let it go and switch lanes. “So, uh, you find anything useful yet?”

God, you latch onto that distraction in a damn heartbeat, shifting gears without a single drop of hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you say, swiftly storing the tarot deck back into your bag. “Our guy was betrayed. Accused, judged. Probably publicly.”

Sam’s interest sharpens slightly, musing. “Scapegoat.”

“Yup, would be my guess.”

“So we’re dealing with a vengeful spirit tied to an object,” he deduces. 

Dean warily watches you for another beat, seemingly trying to catch whatever you just buried. But luckily, he huffs a breath a second later and focuses back on the binder in his lap. 

“Great,” he mutters dryly. “Love a revenge arc.”

You don’t respond, you don’t look at the cards again either, and you definitely pretend they don’t mean anything at all – zero, zip, zilch, nada. 

You wanted to get a new deck soon anyways. This one’s system is clearly breaking down. 

After hours of wading through those binders and staring at that eyesore of chicken-scratch handwriting, trying to decipher just a syllable of it, the three of you finally called it a night after Dean kept complaining about his eyes burning. Sam then figured it was safe enough for now, considering Dean still hadn’t heard any horses yet. 

He used to like horses. Now? Not so much.

His eyes closed easily that night, considering he was cursed and all, but he was beat after trying to hide a damn sword in the woods behind the museum. He even tried to salt and burn the thing, melt it down to a little clump of metal, but it wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t dent, wouldn’t even fucking scratch. 

But Dean already regrets taking those forty peaceful winks when he finds himself back in familiar territory. Or should he say unfamiliar because he certainly knows it never actually happened and he’s never been to that place before?

Yeah, he’s back in unfamiliar territory. However, the milky, coral filter is still the same. 

Coral, he scoffs and rolls his eyes at his own thoughts. Jesus Christ, you’re starting to rub off on him with that stupid color coding system of yours. Before you, the only color he knew was orange and the only thing he associated with something like coral were damn rocks in the ocean. 

Wait… are corals rocks? Sam would probably know that. 

This time, though, Dean’s not down by the pond anymore. Instead, he feels the tall grass brush his legs as he trudges back up the hill. Soon enough, the house comes into view, and for a while, he thinks about going inside and pretending today never happened. Pretending he didn’t say what he said. Pretending you didn’t look at him the way you did. 

That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?

But there’s a twinge in his ribcage that won’t let go. It’s squeezing something inside of him to a painful degree and keeps him tethered to the spot, forcing his eyes to drift around the endless field of greenery and look. 

Look for you. 

Even with everything that happened, with all the words he said that he shouldn’t have said, deep down, he knows you wouldn’t wander too far. You wouldn’t leave him. At least, not really.

Right?

But maybe he took it too far this time, said something he can’t erase or even fix, and the pang in his chest grows in intensity till he spots a small movement to his right, where the grass grows even taller and wilder, untamed by footsteps and paths. 

And there you are – off to the side, a little ways from the house, under the willow tree. 

The long branches hang lowly, swaying gently in the evening breeze, curtains of deep green that catch the sunlight and turn it molten at the edges. You’re sitting beneath it, half-hidden in the shade, knees drawn in and arms wrapped around them. You’ve folded into yourself like you’re trying to take up less space than you normally do.

The wind puffs, the branches flutter, and the warm and golden sunlight glistens through the leaves, but you don’t. You’re stillness personified. 

Too still. 

Dean doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like knowing, without even seeing your face, that you’re upset. Because of him. 

You’re upset because of him. 

He slows on instinct, almost bracing himself for whatever is waiting for him under that tree, but the annoying thing in his chest pulls tighter with every step he doesn’t take. 

So, the grass parts under his sneakers as he makes his way toward you. He’s careful and slow about it, though, some might almost call it tentative, but he doesn’t want to spook you. He doesn’t want you to run from him again before he has a chance to say something. 

The branches of the willow sway and brush against his shoulders as he ducks under the tree. The air is cooler in the shade, keeping the summer heat successfully locked out. He knows it’s one of your favorite spots around here. The first one, however, is the waterfall in the woods, but it’s past the fence line, and you’re not allowed to wander out there after dark, so you probably figured the willow would make a decent enough place to drown in your sorrow. 

You don’t react when he approaches. There’s not a blink or flinch in sight. You don’t even bother looking up to see who came to disturb your peace as if you already know it’s him and deemed his presence not worthy of your time. 

He purses his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets, not really knowing what else to do with them. His shoulders are damn tight like he’s got rocks under his skin, and his throat suddenly feels unnaturally dry like he swallowed several cotton balls dunked in desert sand. 

He clears the arid lump, but you still don’t even twitch a single muscle. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, not daring to speak at a louder volume than that, but now he’s almost afraid you didn’t hear it, the tree swallowing the sound before it even reached you. 

You still don’t glance up. You don’t answer either. All you do is stare at that patch of grass in front of you. Your whole posture is closed off. 

Dean’s never seen you like this before. It scares him. What if you can’t forgive him and go back to the way the two of you used to be before all of this? What if he doesn’t get his friend back?

Because, aside from Sammy, you’re the only friend he’s ever had, which makes you also the only one who truly counts. Sam loves him because his little brother really doesn’t have another choice. They’re family. It’s different. 

But you? You don’t love him because you have to. No one’s making you. It’s not some universal rule you have to follow. No, you love him because you choose to. Because you always just did. 

And Dean, well, he… cares about you, too. Although, he wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud.

He shuffles uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze flicking away for a second before fixing back on you with quite an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Hey,” he repeats, swallowing once more because the lump still won’t go anywhere. “I didn’t mean that.”

The words feel clumsy again the second they leave his mouth. He knows they’re not enough.

“You said it,” you say, voice clear but flat. The sweetness that usually laces it is gone. Now it sounds like it’s so tight and thin underneath that it could snap if you’re pushed the wrong way. 

Dean winces, rubbing the back of his neck before his hand drops to his side again. The guilt sinks deeper into his gut and becomes sharper, like tiny little daggers ready to cut him open from the inside out.

“Yeah, well…” he mutters, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt as he tentatively steps a little closer. “I was being an idiot, okay?”

He shilly-shallies for a second before sitting down. He’s not entirely sure anymore if he’s still allowed to, but before he can overthink it, he lowers himself on the ground beside you, the grass bending under his weight. He picks a spot not too close, but not too far either. It’s still close enough that his shoulder could almost touch yours. 

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly but doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes trained on the same patch of grass as you. 

You don’t glance at him right away, either. The silence lasts long enough to make him wonder if he should say something else, if he should try harder, if he already screwed this up beyond fixing.

“Then why are you acting like you do?”

The question hits deeply, but it’s not spoken harshly. There’s no accusation detectable in your tone. There’s only confusion, as if you’re trying to make sense of something that doesn’t add up.

Dean lets out a long breath, his gaze dropping to the grass between his hands. His fingers fiddle without thinking, brushing over the blades, bending them, letting them slip back into place.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually.

It might not be a satisfying answer, but it’s the truth. It’s the best he’s got, but it still doesn’t feel enough. Nothing he does is ever enough.

“It’s just… different now.” He shrugs his shoulders a little, hoping that at least explains something, but he knows it won’t truly fill in the gaps he can’t put into words.

He’s about to give up and leave you alone when you finally turn your head and look straight at him. 

And geez, it’s so much worse than when you were ignoring him. 

The weight of your gaze feels heavy, your eyes guarded and yet searching, careful and still a little hurt. That thing behind his ribs twinges again. He glances at you, then away, then back again because holding your gaze for too long might force him to say something he doesn’t know how to say.

At least not at twelve. 

“You just… freaked me out a little, okay?” he adds, the words certainly awkward but still honest. “I’m–… I’m sorry. But you’re still… you, you know? You’re still my friend.”

And that’s also the part he’s holding onto – the only part that makes any of this worth fixing it. You’re his friend because you’re so uniquely you and no one else.

You study him, even squinting your eyes slightly like the sunshine could warm him. You’re seemingly trying to decide if he truly means it – if it is sincere or just another thing he’ll take back later.

“Okay,” you say suddenly, the word barely reaching his ears because it sounds so small and careful. 

He wouldn’t exactly call it forgiveness, but it’s not downright rejection either, right? He might even call it a win because he’s winning you back – at least back enough to give him another shot towards full redemption. 

And that? Man, that finally eases that uncomfortable throb in his chest, and he can breathe better again. 

Dean nods to himself, remotely acknowledging something he doesn’t fully understand. Relief rushes through his veins, but he doesn’t quite trust the peace yet.

“So…” he starts with another clear of his throat that finally rids it of the nasty lump stuck in it. He shoots you a careful sideways glance. “What can you do now?”

The change in you is almost instant. You’re not quite fully back to your old self yet, but he can feel the familiar excitement vibrating in your blood again. Your shoulders lift, and your posture loosens. It feels like you’re cautiously unfurling again. 

“I can show you,” you say, but there’s still hesitation in your voice. “If you want to…”

He gives you a tiny but encouraging nod and watches the smile rise on your lips again. He missed that smile. He’s glad it’s back. 

You then straighten your spine a little and rest your hands in your lap, your eyes fluttering softly shut.

And Dean? He can’t take his eyes off you.

He takes in the way your lashes brush against your cheeks, the way the caramel-syrupy sunlight weaves through the willow branches and catches in your hair, and the way you go still like you’re listening to something he can’t hear.

For a moment, nothing happens.

All he hears is the wind through the breeze and the crickets in the grass and the sound of your calm breathing.

But then, slowly and bit by bit, something pushes through the weeds near your knee. A tiny blossom, lilac and soft, unfurls in front of his eyes. 

And it doesn’t stop there. 

The lonely blossom is soon joined by others, spreading over the field, a sea of flowers suddenly blooming around him and painting what once was a clover-green canvas with more colors than he’s ever seen before in his entire life. 

There are bright yellows, deep reds, mesmerizing blues, soft pinks, and about eight different shades of violet. There are too many to count them all. The earth came alive right in front of his eyes, and it feels natural and impossible all at once.

Dean leans forward, his eyes spellbound by everything they see, tracking the way the blossoms sway and the wind now carries a sweet floral scent.

“Okay,” he says after a heartbeat, aiming for casual but missing it by a mile. “That’s pretty… cool.”

You open your eyes, and there’s the smile again. Brighter than before, softer too, and it’s more beautiful than the plethora of flowers in front of him. Nothing could beat that smile. 

His gaze drops to the ground, catching on one of the flowers near his hand. It’s a daisy. 

Simple. Pretty. White petals, yellow center. He reaches for it, plucking it carefully, turning it between his fingers for a moment as his mind’s trying to figure something out.

Then he looks back at you, and you’re watching him now, a curious and yet uncertain gleam in your eyes. And then he just goes for it and leans in, tucking the daisy into your hair just above your ear.

You wrinkle your nose like it tickled, giggling a little. “Daisies are the most boring flowers.”

Dean scoffs a soft laugh. “No, they’re not.”

“Yeah, they are.”

He shakes his head, his gaze staying on you.

“No,” he says quietly. “They’re the prettiest…” He pauses and bites the inside of his cheek before the next words slip out. “You know… like you.”

You bite the smile on your lip and shyly avert your eyes, a blush creeping to your cheeks. 

And Dean feels it again – that warmth behind his ribs, spreading outward and turning the brightness up on the rest of the world. It feels steady and easy. 

It feels good.

For a long moment, everything feels like it’s supposed to again. Just you and him, sitting side by side in the honey-warm sunlight. 

But the peace is only ephemeral. There’s suddenly a sound that doesn’t belong to this place – to this dream world.

Hooves.

It sounds distant and hollow and ultimately wrong. 

Dean’s head cocks a little, brow furrowing as he looks out past the slope of the hill, toward the tree line where the light begins to thin.

“You hear that?” he asks without glancing at you, his gaze still trained on the invisible danger past the horizon.

But the second the words exit his mouth, the sound of them leave him bewildered. They come out too deeply and roughly. It’s not a child’s voice anymore.

It’s his – fully grown and perfectly raspy. 

Confused, his gaze drops down to his hands, and they’re larger, broader, and calloused now in ways they weren’t a second ago. His sneakers are replaced by boots, the grass stains on denim gone from his knees. 

Dean straightens abruptly and flexes his fingers a few times, as if that could possibly reset something. But it doesn’t work. The weight of himself feels older and heavier now.

“What the–”

His head then finally snaps to you. And you–

You’re not seven anymore, either.

You’re sitting exactly where you were, in the same patch of grass beneath the willow, but you’ve changed, too. Grown into yourself in an instant. Twenty-two. The softness is still there, but it’s shaped differently now. 

You’re wearing a bright yellow summer dress now instead of your short denim overalls, the fabric thin and airy and sun-washed, catching the breeze as it moves around you. Your hair falls longer now as well, loose and slightly tangled from the wind.

And for a heartbeat, Dean forgets everything else around him, including the strange noises.

His gaze fixes on the way the hem of your dress brushes the weeds, the way the sunlight illuminates your skin, and the way you look… older – not just in years, but in presence.

Shit.

Okay. Yeah, no. That’s new.

His brain scrambles for footing, trying to reorient, to file this under something that makes sense, but it doesn’t quite get there before his thoughts take a sharp, unhelpful left turn.

His eyes flicker to your lips, soft and plush and inviting. There’s suddenly a strange urge there to do something about it – like connecting his own to yours. He wants to know what they taste like, if they’re as sweet and warm as your voice. 

What the hell kind of dream is this…

The thought dies instantly, however, when the sound of hooves reverberates through the air again, coming closer and closer. 

The sunlight then morphs from amber and gold to blue and gray, the wind picks up on speed like a storm brewing, and the air feels a lot colder and more brittle now. 

The warmth is gone.

Dean’s posture changes instantly, every muscle in his body tensing with instinct. His gaze snaps toward the hill again, scanning and calculating, something old and ingrained rising to the surface before he can even think it through.

This isn’t right. This isn’t just a dream, is it?

You shift beside him, your brows meeting in the middle as you glance at him and then out toward the same direction. “Dean? What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer, though. His jaw locks, pulse thundering in his ears, adrenaline flooding his blood as the realization dawns on him with a terrifying clarity.

The hooves strike once more, and everything drops away around him in the blink of an eye.

Dean jolts awake on the couch, like he’s been yanked back into his body by God himself.

The change in the air feels violent.  

He feels slightly disoriented as he blinks his eyes awake, the golden dreamscape he found himself in a minute ago suddenly replaced by the dusty and gothic interior of a New England bed and breakfast. 

But the sound? Oh, that followed him all the way to reality. 

The hooves and something that sounds suspiciously like clattering metal are still there, and it’s definitely not in his head. It’s goddamn real. 

Dean’s breathing comes out harshly as he pushes himself upright on the couch, eyes darting to the window, already expecting to see a horse with a headless rider out there in the dark. His heart is racing a mile a minute, the adrenaline spiking.

“Sam?” he calls and runs a hand through his messy locks. “Hey–… Sam? Guys? Wake up.”

The sheets on both beds begin to rustle and move. 

Sam’s up first, already halfway out of bed before he’s even fully conscious, hearing the urgency (and slight panic) in his brother’s tone. “Dean? What? What’s wrong?”

You, on the other hand, are slower only by half a second, sitting up with the softest groan Dean’s ever heard someone utter. Your hair is a bit mussed, falling into your face as one of those oversized sleep shirts slips off one shoulder. 

It’s distracting enough to be inconvenient right now.

Because your hair falls over that same shoulder, so he can’t really tell if there’s a bra strap underneath it or not. The not is what concerns him the most, though. You certainly weren’t wearing one under that yellow sundress in his dream.

Man, his brain has excellent timing, doesn’t it?

Get it together.

He drags his focus back where it belongs, and his jaw clenches tightly upon the next wave of sounds. “You guys hear that?”

The room stills, as do you and Sam, trying to listen, eyes narrowing slightly. Dean hears it again, but he already sees how both you and his little brother begin to slowly shake your heads. 

“I don’t hear anything,” you confirm Dean’s worst suspicions that this thing’s only coming for him. 

Sam’s head bobs in recognition. “Guess that means it’s starting.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean scoffs and jumps on his feet, overtaken by a burst of restless energy he’s familiar with during hunts, his body entering into fight or flight mode. “Think he’s close, guys. Any ideas would be greatly appreciated now.”

You push yourself out of bed as well, the last traces of sleep burning off fast as your gaze lands on Dean. He feels like he’s going crazy because he could swear there’s even a trace of concern gleaming in your eyes. 

“Your aura’s tighter. Something’s pulling at it,” you note.

Dean scowls. “Thanks for the visual.”

“We need to find out who that sword belonged to as fast as possible before it takes Dean’s head,” Sam says and already grabs one of the binders again, hands flipping pages at record speed. 

“How?” you ask, your voice slightly rising as the panic rises with it. “Look at those things, Sam! There’s no way we’re gonna find the right page in time.”

“Love the enthusiasm,” Dean mutters, earning him a dry look from you. Then he purses his lips, however, and God, he already hates saying it. “But she’s right, Sammy. We don’t exactly have time for a full-on research montage right now.”

“I know that, Dean,” Sam huffs. “But what do you suggest, huh? The only way to end this is finding out who or what we’re dealing with. You already tried salting and burning the sword, and it didn’t work, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be something else. Think, man! C’mon, you’re the brains, and I’m the brawn. Just do what you do best!”

“Like, what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Guys!” You suddenly cut into their argument, forcing the brothers to focus on you instead. “I think I’ve got it!”

You don’t elaborate on what exactly you’ve got, though, which slightly tests Dean’s patience. He hates when Sam does that shit, too. Is it too much to ask for people to finish a damn thought around here?

Before he can question it, however, he watches you rush to your bag and hurriedly rummage through it till you pull out your little notebook. 

He arches an eyebrow at you, skeptical as ever. “What, you’re gonna write another spell?”

It’s honestly not the worst idea, but he can’t give you the satisfaction of knowing that. God knows one little spell only leads to more. 

“Actually, I don’t have to,” you say, hastily flipping pages back and forth as if you were looking for something specific. The notebook is an explosion of color, inked in different shades as glitter catches the dim light in the room. 

“You wrote something?” Sam asks.

“In college,” you reply with a quick nod, eyes scanning and skimming, fingers flipping even faster. “I used to hate digging through library archives, so I made a spell that pulls the exact information I’m looking for from a text. It’s kind of like a magical Ctrl+F.”

Why is Dean not even a little bit surprised? Of course you would do something like that.

Your fingers then stop their movements abruptly, eyes lighting up. “Found it.”

The ink is a brightly glistening sunny yellow. The color almost feels obnoxiously cheerful for a possible decapitation by a headless dude on a horse at three in the morning.

Dean’s brow raises as he nods to the page. “What’s yellow stand for?”

“Academic magic,” you mutter without glancing up.

Dean doesn’t say anything more to that. He just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, shifting his weight slightly as he watches you spread all eight binders evenly on the small table. That uncomfortable and familiar feeling creeps back into his veins at the thought of your magic, but he knows this might be the only thing keeping his head attached to his body right now. It still doesn’t sit right with him, though. 

You murmur the words under your breath, and the effect is practically immediate this time. The third binder on the left jerks open with a loud thud before pages start flipping on their own with the force of a hurricane blowing through them. Then it abruptly stops on a page, and a section of it begins to glow like yellow sunshine. 

Sam leans in over the open binder, checks the marked section, and a smile begins to rise. “That’s it. Elias Whittaker. Says here he was a Union soldier in the Civil War.”

“Great.” You exhale a relieved breath and smile as well. 

Dean’s jaw, though, tightens the slightest bit before he pushes it down. Why does every win of yours bother him so much? He should be glad they found what they were looking for. He should be glad they can save him now. But instead, what he feels almost comes close to dread. 

Sam rips the page out of the binder and grabs his jacket. “We should take this to the library. Cross-reference, get everything we can on him. Maybe we find his burial site.” 

Dean grimaces at the idea. “Yeah, you have fun with that.” He grabs his keys, heading for the door. “I’m getting the sword back. If that dude’s coming for me, it’s probably best if he isn’t fully armed. Maybe we can stall him that way.”

Sam gives him a quick nod. “Good idea.” Then his gaze shifts to you. “You go with him.”

Both yours and Dean’s heads snap toward his little brother with raised brows and wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean checks and sees you make a face in his periphery as well. 

You wrinkle your nose as you look at Sam. “Do I have to?”

Dean turns his head sharply at that, his skin prickling. “Wow. Good to know where I rank,” he scoffs.

You shoot him a look. “You’re being hunted by a headless ghost with a sword. Forgive me for not volunteering enthusiastically.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled you’re so concerned about me, Sabrina,” he fires back dryly. “Relax. It’s not a date.”  

“Could’ve fooled me with how happy you sound,” you mutter. 

Dean’s mouth is already opening with a comeback before Sam cuts in, stopping this little argument from spiraling any further. 

Sam looks at you with his best puppy eyes again. “Look, you’re the only one who might be able to slow this thing down if it shows up.” 

“With what?” you shoot back. “Strongly worded encouragement? It’s a ghost. I don’t exactly have a game plan or a spell lying around for that.”

Sam just offers you a shrug. “You’re smart. You’ll figure something out. Improvise.”

“Improvise?!” You gape at his little brother before your eyes snap to Dean. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah, he is. He does that sometimes,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck.

“Haven’t gotten you killed so far, though,” Sam quips.

“Last time, you almost let me get run over by a ghost truck on a hunch, man.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You let out a deep groan as you grab your jacket and bag. “I’d just like to officially put it on record that this is a terrible, terrible idea.”

“Yeah, most of ours are, actually. You’ll get used to it.” Dean grins, holding the door open for you. 

“Awesome. Good to know.”

The moon hangs lowly just above the horizon, where the night’s indigo blue is slowly bleeding into a dawning gray. Fog curls over the asphalt and catches in Baby’s headlights like a ghostly sheen as the road weaves through the quiet outskirts of town, bordered by dense foliage and ancient trees on each side. 

Dean’s grip on the wheel is steady, although he feels the tension underneath it in his forearms and shoulders. The familiar hum of the engine grounds him, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of hooves in the back of his skull entirely. 

Oh, this thing’s coming for him, alright. 

He exhales slowly through his nose and rolls one shoulder, even trying to physically shake the sound loose. It doesn’t help, though. 

Next to him, you’re folded slightly into your seat, your notebook open across your lap. The dim glow from the dashboard spills over the page, catching on streaks of glitter ink that shimmer every time your pen moves. You keep tapping it against the margin in an uneven rhythm, faster when you’re thinking harder and slower when you hit a wall. But the sound at least soothes him a little. 

Your hair is still carrying a hint of sleep in it, loose and a little unruly, falling around your face in soft waves. Your brow is furrowed, lips pressed together, gaze seemingly fixed on something only you can see. There’s something about the way you look right now – barefaced, focused, completely absorbed – that feels disarmingly normal.

Dean clears his throat, shooting you a sideways glance. “You planning my funeral over there, or…?”

You snort a quiet laugh but don’t answer him right away, still staring at the page like it might rearrange itself into something useful. “Thinking,” you say after a beat, voice still rough with leftover sleep. “About spells.”

That pulls a small huff out of him, though it lacks its usual edge. “Yeah? That supposed to make me feel better?”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes swerving to him. “Depends,” you say, tapping the pen once more. “How open are you to being a magical test subject? I’m trying to figure out if there’s something I can do to keep it away from you. I just don’t know how ghosts respond to most of what I can do, though.”

Dean lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking his head as he looks back at the road. “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and veto that,” he says. “No offense, but I’d rather not be your guinea pig for experimental witchcraft at five in the morning.”

He mostly means it as a joke, but there’s still that undercurrent, that instinctive recoil he can’t quite scrub out of himself. Years of training don’t just disappear because you’ve got a cute notebook and a nervous habit of tapping your pen.

“Fair enough,” you say and accept his answer with a nod. “Not sure I’d wanna be, either.”

Your gaze drops back to the page for a moment, your pen stilling. 

“It’s just–… I don’t know what to do against something like that,” you admit, dragging the pen absently along the margin. The frustration is clearer now in your voice. “Plants, sure. Spells, fine. But ghosts?” You shake your head, lips pressing together. “That’s not exactly in my wheelhouse. I don’t know what your brother was thinking.”

Dean glances over again, a little slower this time, really looking at you instead of just checking. He takes note of the tension in your shoulders and how your fingers curl a little tighter around the pen as if you’re trying to grip onto a solution that won’t quite stick. The thing that bugs him the most, however, is not that you don’t know what to do, but that you’re downright bothered by not knowing.

Because of him.

Three weeks ago, he had a gun aimed at your head because everything he’d been raised on told him that was the right call – witch, potential threat, end of story. And now you’re sitting next to him in the middle of the night, visibly frustrated that you can’t figure out how to keep him alive.

It’s almost absurd – your concern for him. You should be celebrating right now and not worrying. Most of all, he hates the feeling it causes in his gut. Guilt – real, actual guilt and not the one he’s usually good at shoving aside. You suck for that – for caring. 

He doesn’t say any of that aloud, obviously.

“Hey,” he says but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “It’s fine, alright? I got it.”

You turn your head toward him, brows knitting. “You’ve got it?”

He chuckles lightly at your doubt and jerks his chin toward the backseat. “Shotgun.”

That earns him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and mild concern for his sanity. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Wait…” Your brow creases a little more, probably trying to decide if this is another bit of his or a cry for help. “Do bullets actually hurt ghosts? Kinda defeats the purpose of being dead.”

He snorts and grins a little. “Regular bullets? No. Rock salt? Whole different story.”

You blink. “Rock salt?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you again. “Load it up, it’ll mess ‘em up. Not a permanent solution, but it buys time.”

You stare at him for a second longer, clearly recalibrating your entire understanding of how the world works. “That is… the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He scoffs a chuckle. “And yet, it works.”

An actual laugh slips out of you at that, lifting the tension in the car just a smidge. It’s also apparently enough for you to open a conversation instead of drifting back into silence. 

“So, uhm, Sam told me he went to Stanford until a year ago,” you note, your voice more cautious than before, as if you’re not sure small talk was allowed yet. 

“Yeah, he’s a big nerd. The kid practically lives in libraries,” Dean retorts, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“What about you? Did you go to college?”

He snorts, amused, and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why?”

Dean shoots you a quick glance, then shrugs. “Never was on my radar. Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Your dad didn’t want you to go?”

He barks a laugh at that. If you only knew his father as well as he did, you probably wouldn’t have even asked that question. “You kidding? The old man barely wanted Sammy to go.”

And even that is the understatement of the goddamn century. He still remembers that blow-up fight like it was yesterday.

Your head bobs in thought. “So you’ve always just done… this? Hunting?”

“Yup.”

“You never wanted to do anything else?” 

“Nope.” 

Alright, that might’ve been a lie. There are surely a few things Dean dreamt of doing when he was younger – fireman, mechanic, rock star. But real life got in the way and made that decision for him. Not like anyone ever asked him what he wanted, either. This whole thing was just shoved into his lap, but he never mulled too long over it. 

His gaze then absentmindedly drifts to your lap as you shift the notebook and then stops abruptly. He almost hits the brakes on accident as his eyes land on a small flower peeking out between the pages – white petals and a yellow center. 

A daisy.

His brain pretty much trips over itself like it missed a step. He blinks, looks back to the road, then back at the notebook again, and slowly comes to the realization that he hasn’t imagined it. 

It’s definitely still there and very real. 

And suddenly, his thoughts start stacking on top of each other, his stomach dropping slightly as his dream comes crashing back like a flood. 

There’s no need to panic, though, right? So, what? It’s a flower. People have flowers. Kids press flowers into books all the damn time. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s completely normal. Not to mention that daisies are pretty much the most common flowers out there. 

But what if it’s not just any flower. What if it’s the flower? What if it’s the one he picked for y–

No, stop it!

He cuts his thoughts off. There’s no way this is the flower from his dream because those dreams aren’t real. He never actually picked a daisy for you because he hadn’t even known you existed until three weeks ago. It’s not possible. He probably just saw that flower in your notebook once beforehand, at the B&B or wherever, and his brain latched onto it again for some reason he still can’t understand. 

Nevertheless, Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers as his eyes flick up almost involuntarily to your face and then a little higher to your hair.

To that exact spot just above your ear.

It’s empty, but of course it’s empty now. Why wouldn’t it be?

But then his brain, stupid thing that it is, overlays it with something else. There’s summer sunlight instead of the dashboard glow now, warm gold instead of cold blue, your hair reflecting it like it’s lit from the inside. He sees his own hand moving slowly and carefully in a way that doesn’t match him at all and tucking that same stupid flower into your hair again.

And the feeling that comes with it is worse than panic, fear, or confusion – it’s warmth. Feels like something clicking into place that he didn’t even know was missing.

Which is stupid, needless to say. It’s insane. He’s going crazy and not just due to the dumb horse noises in his head. 

Dean inhales sharply through his nose. Nope. He’s still not doing this. 

It’s still only a dream. That’s it. His brain’s just grabbing random crap and stitching it together into something weirdly sentimental. His mind just simply clocked it, stored it, recycled it. That’s all this is.

That has to be all this is, right? Because the alternative? 

Yeah, no. Hard pass.

He clears his throat, forcing his tone back into something casual as he gestures his chin toward your lap, even though he already hates himself for not resisting harder and prodding further. “What’s that?”

You follow his gaze, blinking once before you realize what he means. Your fingers brush lightly over the page, delicately tracing the stem of the dried flower. Your expression softens into something almost private, like you’re getting lost in your thoughts for a second and forgot he was even still there. 

“Oh, that?” you say and give a shrug, a secret smile beginning to bloom on your lips nonetheless. “It’s just some flower. It’s been there forever. I put it in there as a kid.” You pause for a beat, thumb tracing one of the petals now before you shake your head at yourself, a small huff of amusement leaving you. “I honestly don’t know why I kept it. Daisies aren’t even my favorite. But it’s from home, so…”

“Oh.” Dean nods slowly and swallows, throat so much tighter than it should be for such a simple explanation.

His gaze stays on it for another minute, then drifts back up to your face before he can stop it.

“It’s–, uhm, it’s pretty.”

The words slip out, and his eyes snap to the road, pretending to be oh-so causal about a crazy comment like that, even though he’s cursing himself for ever saying it. 

Why the hell did he, though? What on earth is going on here?

He knew daisies weren’t your favorite because the dream told him, but he couldn’t have known that, right? Is this a coincidence? Just a lucky guess his brain made?

Shit.

You wrinkle your nose slightly and arch a brow, surprised. “You think so?”

Dean shrugs quickly and clears his throat offensively loudly. “Sure, yeah.”

And just like that, the air changes in the car, and there’s a different kind of tension now. 

You shift slightly in your seat, and he adjusts his grip on the wheel, both of you suddenly aware of the other in a way that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Dean exhales more sharply this time and swiftly reaches for the radio. A second later, the car fills with the opening riff of Ramble On. It cuts straight through the awkward silence, through the tension, and through the weird, lingering pull in his ribcage that he refuses to examine too closely.

Ah, that’s better.

He nods once to himself, settling the issue, and fixes his eyes firmly on the road ahead as the music takes over.

Dean’s had worse mornings.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he trudges through damp underbrush at an hour no sane person should be conscious.

Why did he pick this job again? Oh, right. Like he told you, it picked him.  

The sky is still caught somewhere between night and dawn, the gray reaching higher and lighter at the horizon. The woods behind the museum stretch out endlessly through shadows and mist, all of it tinted in that deep, cold blue that makes everything look a little more spooky than it would be during daylight. 

Hell, when he was here during the day, these woods could’ve even been considered beautiful. Like that meadow where Bambi lives. Now it’s a horror movie come to life, though. 

The hooting owls and rustling branches don’t help either. 

Behind him, you carefully step over a large branch, your sneakers crunching on the forest floor. While you haven’t said anything since the car, Dean can still hear the reluctance in each of your steps and the occasional hitch of your breath.

You’re definitely jumpy, but he tries not to let his amusement show, even though it’s ridiculously adorable. 

He steals a glimpse over his shoulder and catches the way your eyes briefly swerve toward a darker stretch of trees to the left, surely expecting something to jump out of there. Your hands tug on the sleeves of your jacket repeatedly, probably trying to calm yourself in some way. 

Dean bites back a smirk. “Wow,” he mutters, pushing a low branch out of his way. “Didn’t peg you for the easily spooked type.”

“I’m not,” you shoot back a little too quickly for his taste.

As you gracefully step over a root, your foot snags on another one hidden beneath the leaves. You fall forward with a quiet “whoa–,” and Dean reacts instinctively and spins just in time to catch you by your arms before you can fully eat dirt. The impact brings you closer than either of you probably intended, your weight tipping into him for the tiniest second before you steady yourself and quickly pull back, but it’s not far enough.

You’re close. Real close. 

He can see the small crease between your brows, the way your lashes soak up what little light there is, and the soft flush in your cheeks. Your face looks… annoyingly good.

A clear of his throat breaks the awkward silence. “You were saying?”

You blink, then straighten quickly, brushing past him like nothing happened. And maybe it didn’t. 

“I said I’m not scared,” you repeat. “It’s just–” you gesture at the trees around you, “–this is not exactly my usual environment.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks and continues his march forward. “What is your usual environment? Labs and scented candles?”

You huff a soft laugh behind him. “For your information, the scariest thing I’ve dealt with before this was a ghost tour in Salem.”

Dean snorts loudly and raises a brow at you over his shoulder. “A ghost tour?”

“Yup. It was at night, alright?” you defend. “And the guide had a lantern and everything. There were sound effects.”

“Wow. Terrifying.”

“There was a reenactment of the witch trials. Very much scary for someone like me,” you add as if that helps your case.

It doesn’t. 

Dean gives a shake of his head, but his lips are twitching around a smile. “Yeah, alright. Remind me to never question your bravery again.”

Another owl then calls somewhere deeper in the woods, and you go just a little too still for a second before forcing yourself to keep walking. Dean notices that too, but something else spreads under the amusement. He knows you’re out of your depth here. This isn’t your world – the dark, the hunt, and all the things that move where and when they shouldn’t.

And yet, you still came along for the ride in an attempt to save his life. He’s at least willing to give you credit for that.

“You’re good,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter than before. “Just… watch your step.”

You meet his eyes, slightly surprised, but then nod once. “Yeah, okay.”

The two of you then fall into a rhythm after that, the banter easing into something more comfortable and less forced. The shed behind the museum where he hid the sword then comes into view through the fog a minute later. It’s pretty rundown and honestly only one strong breeze away from collapsing entirely, but he’d figured that was probably an advantage, meaning no one would snoop around here and accidentally find the cursed blade again. 

Dean stops and scans the area automatically. “This is it.”

“Charming,” you murmur.

He circles around the back, boots sinking slightly into the softer and moss-covered ground, until he spots an old wooden trunk, half-hidden behind tall weeds and debris. He figured the sword would probably be safest in there. But as he crouches and flips the lid open, he stills abruptly. 

Empty.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He probably should’ve expected a wooden box like that wouldn’t keep a ghost out, but he figured at least all the salt he poured into the trunk would’ve helped. 

“What?” you check, stepping closer.

“It’s gone.”

The words barely leave his mouth before a very distinct sound hits him – and it’s not the owls this time. 

Hooves.

Dean’s head snaps up, the noise so much closer now than it was back at the room or even the car, his whole body flying into high alert in an instant. The noise of clinking metal, which surely comes from the missing blade, almost rings like a warning bell.

“Did you hear–”

But Dean doesn’t even get to finish that sentence. He sees your eyes widen to the size of little moons, and the next thing he knows, you’re slamming into him at full speed, hard enough to knock the oxygen right out of his lungs as you tackle him to the ground. The impact of the cold forest floor tears through his bones as your weight lands on top of him before something whooshes through the empty air above where his head used to be only a second ago. 

As his eyes snap upwards, a mighty black stallion rears above the two of you and neighs loudly. Its breath steams in the suddenly freezing air, while its rider is clearly headless. 

Dean doesn’t have too much time, though, to take a longer peek before his gaze flicks to the horseman’s hand and the sharp sword in it. 

“Move!” he barks, adrenaline rushing into his blood as the blade comes down again.

He rolls both of you hard to the side, flipping positions so he’s on top just as the sword buries itself into the dirt only a mere inch away from your shoulder, the ground trembling with the sheer force of the assault.

“Up! Go!” he yells, scrambling to his feet and quickly hauling you up with him as the rider yanks the blade free again.

And then? Well, there’s really only running left. His shotgun flew out of reach and landed somewhere in the bushes when you tackled him, so he really doesn’t see any other immediate options for now.

He grabs hold of your wrist and drags you with him through the woods, branches whipping past the two of you as you both navigate a sea of overgrown roots without stumbling. But Dean doesn’t need to look back to know this thing’s still gaining speed and catching up fast.

“Do something!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do!”

“Then think of something!”

The horse neighs too closely behind him, and Dean turns around just in time to see the rider swing again. He ducks quickly, the blade slicing through the air above him before slamming into a tree trunk with a loud crack. The noise reverberates through the silence as wood splinters and bark goes flying in all directions.

“Ha! Missed!” Dean smirks tauntingly at the rider. He’s not sure the poor fella can even see him, considering the guy’s missing his whole head. “Ain’t that easy to kill me. Gotta have to try harder.”

“Why are you provoking it?!” you rebuke him. 

Dean opens his mouth to retort but stops when the horseman rips the sword free like the damn tree meant nothing.

“Okay, less talking, more magic!” he shouts, retreating until his back hits another tree, nowhere left to go as the rider closes in again.

The sword lifts.

“Right about now would be awesome!” he snaps.

And then, the ground suddenly answers for you.

It starts as a slight tremor beneath his boots, subtle at first but rising fast as the soil cracks open like a fault line during an earthquake. Thick, gnarled, and ancient roots then tear through the earth, snapping upward with violent force.

They lash around the rider’s arm and curl tightly just as the blade begins its descent, jerking it back mid-swing. More roots shoot out of the ground after and wrap around the horse’s legs, locking it in place as it thrashes and screams wildly against its restraints.

And Dean? He kind of just stares for a second in stunned bewilderment, his brow twitching, chest heaving with leftover adrenaline. “Huh.”

You seem just as startled by your own work next to him, blinking down at your hands. “Huh,” you echo breathlessly. “Never done that before. Guess I can improvise.”

Before Dean can answer, however, the horseman and his loyal stallion roar furiously, the roots already starting to crack around their limbs. 

“Yup, great breakthrough,” he quips, already tugging at your sleeve. “We should probably go before this thing tears itself free again.”

“Good idea. He does seem rather angry, although it’s hard to tell without a face,” you say and tilt your head at the rider like you’re trying to analyze him – or maybe read his aura. 

Dean’s not entirely sure, but he doesn’t wait for you to finish your philosophical pondering and grabs your wrist once more, bolting back to the Impala with you in tow. 

Neither of you looks back as the sound of splintering roots echoes through the forest behind you.

When you push through the library doors, you still feel a little winded from all that running and Dean’s rather erratic driving, your hands still trembling from leftover adrenaline or shock. Maybe both. 

And speaking of the green-eyed hunter, he’s right behind you, feeling his labored breaths and the residual warmth of him at your back, which is a little distracting but less than the drumming against the steering wheel and the loud singing in the car. He’s still restless, his aura green but threaded with streaks of red from his survival instincts, pacing like a caged animal that hasn’t realized it’s safe yet. 

Sam looks up from his pile of books and notes the second you approach, seemingly waiting on a spring, judging by how fast he jumps out of his seat. His eyes quickly assess you and his brother from head to toe as if he’s checking for injuries and counting limbs.

“You guys okay?” he asks.

“Define okay,” you reply with a huff, exhaustively dropping into the chair across from him. “Because if the scale includes ‘not currently being hunted by a headless horseman,’ then yeah, we’re doing great.”

Dean exhales a long breath next to you, dragging a hand down his face before dropping into the chair beside you. “Sword’s gone. And the guy attached to it? Very stabby.”

You nod, rubbing your hands together, still feeling the dirt and adrenaline prickling under your skin. “Yeah, he’s fast. And persistent. And apparently not a fan of improvisation via landscaping.”

Sam’s brows crease. “What?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I’ll explain later.”

There’s a flash in Dean’s aura when you say that, the green fringed with something warmer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost claim he seems impressed, but it disappears as fast as it came when Sam braces his elbows on the table, already switching fully into research mode.

“Okay,” he says, flipping his laptop around toward you. “I think I found our guy.”

He taps the screen, and you lean in, eyes scanning the old photograph and text.

“Name’s Elias Whitaker,” Sam continues. “He was a Union soldier and stationed just outside what used to be the original town in 1863. From what I can piece together, he was accused of being a Confederate sympathizer – passing information, sabotaging movements, the whole deal.”

You tilt your head skeptically, thinking back to the cards you drew. “Was he?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope, doesn’t look like it. Records are messy, but there’s a consistent thread. His commanding officer, Captain Harlan Pike, had a pretty good motive. See, Whitaker was engaged, and apparently, Pike had a thing for the fiancée.”

You groan. “‘Course he did.”

“The guy’s name was Harlan? Talk about a villain name,” Dean quips.

“Yup,” Sam agrees. “So get this – he frames Whitaker, stirs up suspicion, and turns the whole town against him. Pike had rank and influence. I mean, back then, that’s basically all it took. No trial, no proof. All he needed was fear and a mob. They dragged Whitaker out to the woods. And according to one account, he swore that he’d come back and kill every man who judged him without cause.”

Dean scoffs under his breath. “Guess he kept his word.”

“They executed him with his own sword and left the blade and the head at the site,” Sam adds. “The body was buried later in the town cemetery because his fiancée insisted on it.”

You lean back in your chair, processing. “So the sword stayed buried with the head?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sam replies. “But a few weeks ago, a local survey crew apparently uncovered the sword in the woods. It got turned over, cleaned up, and was donated to the museum.”

“So that’s when the curse kicked in,” Dean surmises.

Sam nods and then continues, “But there’s something else.”

You look at him. “You found out how the victims are connected?”

“Yup, I think so,” Sam says, his lips twitching slightly, seemingly amused by his findings. “I went back over the victims. Not just cause of death, but who they were. After you guys talked to that witness at the crime scene, I figured it probably had to do with their personalities, tying back to Whitaker somehow.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly, scratching the nape of his neck. “What d’you find?”

“Well, something they all seemed to have in common was being judgmental,” Sam says and gives his brother a tight smile, clearly waiting for Dean to catch on. “The first victim, a guy named Daniel Hodge, got fired last year for repeatedly harassing a coworker. I’m talking HR complaints, sexist remarks, the works. He claimed he was justified.”

You grimace. “Charming.”

“The second victim then was Reverend Collins,” Sam continues. “He ran a small church outside town and preached a lot about purity, damnation… He had a habit of publicly calling people out for ‘sinning.’”

“Yikes.”

“And the third victim was a local business owner, who refused service to… certain customers.”

You purse your lips. “So he was a racist.”

“Yup.”

You let out a long breath. “So the victims are all people who judged others, like Whitaker was judged.”

“Seems that way, yes,” Sam confirms. 

Your eyes flick to Dean, shooting him a raised look. “Well, guess we know why you got cursed now.”

Dean scoffs immediately. “Oh, come on–”

You turn more fully toward him, brows lifting. “There’s a reason I called you a Puritan, you know. You were one pitchfork away from burning me at the stake.”

Sam’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin.

Dean tries to laugh it off, but you can tell by the flares in his aura that he clearly feels uncomfortable in his skin now. “C’mon, I wasn’t actually trying to shoot you.”

“Weren’t you, though?” you fire back, cocking your head. “Because from where I was standing, it felt pretty historically authentic. You pointed a gun to my head.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it, alright?” 

You shrug your shoulders. “Doesn’t seem to matter to the ghost. Just saying, you might wanna reflect on your choices a little.”

He opens his mouth to argue again but falters halfway. He clicks his tongue and turns to Sam instead. “So, how do we stop this thing from publicly executing me now? Please tell me you found something.”

Sam clears his throat a little, steering things back as he pulls up a site on his laptop. “There’s a ritual. It’s not super common, but it lines up with vengeance hauntings and cursed objects. Since salting and burning didn’t work, maybe laying the spirit to rest will. Basically, we reunite the remains, body and head, and cleanse the weapon that anchored the spirit. That should break the cycle.”

“Sounds simple when you say it like that, but I’m guessing it’s not,” you say, already fearing where this is going.

“Unfortunately, no,” Sam replies. “We need the sword. And we need to find the head.” He taps the map on his screen. “Body’s in the cemetery. That part’s easy. The head, though – records say he was executed in the woods just outside town. Same general area where the sword was found.”

“So probably still out there,” you murmur.

“Probably,” Sam agrees. Then his gaze drifts fully to you, a little more careful now. “And the ritual… it needs someone who can actually perform it. Someone with… your kind of skillset.”

You blink at him. “My ‘kind of skillset’ is mostly keeping houseplants alive and occasionally finding lost earrings.”

“You did more than that out there,” Dean mutters under his breath, surprising you slightly. 

Out of the two of them, you honestly believed he wouldn’t vote for that, considering he’s been doubting every single move you made so far. 

You glance at him, then back at Sam, slightly overwhelmed. “I–I mean, I can try. I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t even really use structured rituals. I kind of just… make things up and hope they work.”

Sam nods, not discouraged in the slightest. “That’s okay. You understand the mechanics. You can adapt it.”

You let out a nervous breath. “Adapt it. Right, no pressure.”

Dean leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “So what’s the play here?”

“Split up, I think,” Sam suggests. “You guys go to the site where they found the sword. I figured we could use another spell to find the head faster. Once you got it, you can bring it to the cemetery. I’ll dig up the grave. Since Whitaker is after Dean, we can draw him out that way and get the sword back.”

You furrow your brow wildly. “Wait, hold on… Draw him out? You wanna use Dean as ghost bait?”

“Ain’t the first time. Kinda my thing,” the green-eyed hunter mutters next to you and shoots you a cocky grin.

“That should so not be your thing,” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head. “You guys are being way too casual about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam tries to assure you. “We’ll be ready. As soon as we have the sword, you can start the ritual while we keep the spirit occupied.”

“Occupied?” you parrot, arching an eyebrow at them.

Dean just gives you a casual shrug, offering you a crooked smirk. “We’re pretty good at that.”

After another quick location spell to find a human skull (a first for you), you and Dean meet up with Sam at Sleepy Hollow’s cemetery, which unsurprisingly leans pretty heavily into its haunted aesthetic. It’s frankly even creepier than the rest of this town, and that’s truly saying something.

It’s already dusk when you arrive, the sky fading from clear blue into a bruised violet as the last sunlight clings to the horizon. Most of the headstones are crooked and tilt at odd angles, moss and ivy crawling up their sides. The stubborn fog doesn’t help the overall vibe, either. You honestly half-expect something to crawl out of the ground even without supernatural interference. 

Dean, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed by the graveyard environment, strolling almost cheerfully ahead. He casually carries the skull, sometimes playing with it like a ball and juggling it from one hand into the other, treating it like a damn prop. You already told him to stop doing that, but he obviously ignored you. 

It seems like you have officially upgraded from “girl who writes spells with glitter gel pens” to “girl who retrieves decapitated heads before dinner.”

By the time the two of you reach Whitaker’s grave, Sam is already halfway done digging, standing in a shallow pit with his sleeves rolled up and dirt smudged across his arms and face. Clearly, he’s been at it for a while.

“Hey, Sammy! Heads up!” Dean calls with a bright grin, and before your brain can even process what he’s about to do, he tosses the skull in a short arc toward his little brother.

“Dean!” you snap at the exact same time Sam goes, “Dude, seriously?” and fumbles the catch, barely managing to grab the skull before it hits the ground.

Sam glares, you glare, and Dean lifts both hands in surrender, entirely unrepentant.

“What?” Dean shrugs his shoulders as if his actions are even remotely defensible. “He caught it.”

“You threw a human head,” you scold his cemetery behavior, which he apparently deemed entirely appropriate. 

These boys clearly spend too much time in places like this to be this freaking comfortable around human remains. 

“Former human,” Dean corrects under his breath.

And you? Yeah, you don’t even dignify that with a response and only roll your eyes.

Sam exhales sharply as he climbs out of the grave, setting the skull down with a lot more care than it was afforded by his brother, then gestures at the shovel. “Here. Switch.”

Dean looks down into the hole, then back at Sam. “Oh, now it’s my turn? C’mon, I’m practically on my deathbed, man.”

But Sam only offers him a deadpan look and holds the shovel out to his brother. Dean grabs it with a resigned sigh before you suddenly stop him with a hand on his arm.  

“Wait.”

Both of them look at you expectantly. 

“I think I can make this faster.” 

Dean’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t argue for once, probably relieved about skipping all that digging, whereas Sam just watches you full of curiosity.

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer to the grave. You then close your eyes, tethering yourself to the earth beneath your feet as you always do. Soil should be a lot easier than roots, but you can’t exactly say you’ve done this before either. 

Then again, you never needed to dig up a grave in your life beforehand. 

The dirt loosens and shifts, beginning to part like the Red Sea, trickling away in soft waves till the coffin peeks out through the soil. Clumps slide down the sides of the grave, pebbles clicking against the wood until the whole coffin is fully revealed without another shovel needing to hit the ground.

When you open your eyes again with a satisfied smile, you find both brothers staring at you, mouths agape. 

“Okay…” Dean surprisingly even lets out a low whistle. “That’s admittedly kinda awesome.”

“Thank you.” You bite back a grin, trying not to look too pleased with yourself at his praise, but it honestly feels a little like getting a compliment from your school bully. 

Sam, however, downright looks like he’s regretting ever touching a shovel in his life. 

Dean then hops down into the grave and crouches by the coffin, brushing some remaining dirt off the lid before prying it open with a crowbar. But something in him changes suddenly, head lifting, forest green eyes fixing on something in the distance beyond the trees. His aura sharpens as well, colors morphing into high alert.

You don’t need to see his face to know something’s wrong, and a second later, you can hear it, too.

Hooves. 

“He’s coming back,” Dean says and jumps out of the hole, finding your eyes. “Got everything we need?”

You nod frantically and reach into your jacket pocket for the folded piece of paper with the modified spell on it. 

“Good. Showtime,” he says with a smirk, and you almost think he’s enjoying getting nearly decapitated a little too much. Who on Earth is that insane?

Sam then moves fast, grabbing the skull and placing it into the coffin with the body, adjusting it with surprising care for someone working under a ticking clock.

You’re scrambling as well, pulling four white candles from your bag and placing them at the corners of the coffin. Your fingers are only steady out of sheer necessity before you magically light all wicks at the same time. The flames flicker weakly at first and then stretch taller as the wind begins to pick up.

The Latin script on the paper in your hands stares at you, unfamiliar in shape but not in intention. You don’t usually do spells like this – structured, inherited, borrowed. Luckily, you had enough Latin in school to push through and understand at least half of it. 

God, you hope that counts for something. 

The moment the rider breaks through the trees, Dean doesn’t wait and starts to sprint. He only dodges the first swing by a margin that is entirely uncomfortable to witness. You’re trying not to watch as you pull out a small cast-iron bowl from your bag (you refuse to call it a cauldron) and an assortment of herbs. At least, Dean’s faster than he looks when he seems to be motivated by imminent decapitation, which is somewhat reassuring. 

He ducks again, twists out of the way as the blade cuts through the air where his head was a second ago, boots skidding in the dirt as he regains his footing. The sword then comes into play in a blur of motion – Dean lunges forward, gracefully ducks another swing, grabs the hilt, and yanks it free with a grunt, stumbling back just far enough to avoid immediate retaliation.

And then, that maniac actually throws the sharp blade right at his little brother. You flinch, heart stopping and breath halting, only exhaling when Sam manages to catch it without breaking a sweat. 

Jesus Christ, those boys will be the death of your low heart rate. 

Who the hell just throws a sword at someone?

Sam places it into the coffin and then looks at you. “Go!”

Right. Spell. 

You glance at the ingredients in the bowl, a mix of herbs you remember from your mother’s teachings: crushed sage for cleansing, rosemary for remembrance, lavender for peace, and a pinch of salt to anchor it all. You incinerate it and let the herbs smolder for a second till trails of smoke billow and fuse with the cool evening air. 

As you mutter the words on the page, your voice sounds strange around the Latin, as if your tongue is borrowing someone else’s shape, but it seems to work as the wind begins to pick up, threading through the trees and rustling leaves. The smoke thickens and spills over the bowl, the candle flames dancing harder and faster as if they’re trying to keep up with your voice. 

You grab the bowl and then pour it into the grave, letting the ash and embers fall into the coffin, dusting the sword and bones alike. Just as you place it down on the ground again, something crashes hard into a headstone behind you, but you try not to look back to check which brother got tossed and concentrate on finishing the spell. 

The final lines come quicker than you expect, the wind howling louder before it all breaks.

The wind drops. The candle flames steady. The horse halts. 

You spin just in time to see the horse rear back, hooves striking the air where Dean had been a heartbeat ago. He stumbles back, barely avoiding getting trampled, and then the rider stills as well.

For a moment, everything goes quiet before a head fades into place where none was before. 

The rider then turns toward you and inclines his newly attached head, his eyes gleaming with gratitude as they find yours. Then the edges of him begin to soften, dissolving into a warm, golden light. The horse follows, form fading into the same glow. Together they then seem to turn toward something you can’t quite see and ride off into it.

The light fades a minute later, and they’re gone. Just like that.

You rise to your feet, dusting off your jeans as you stare at spot where the light used to be. “Aw, he looked happy,” you note, the adrenaline in your blood slowly waning. “Is it always this peaceful?”

Dean’s eyes find you, hands on his knees as he’s trying hard to catch his breath. “Nope.”

Sam shakes his head, equally thrown, judging by the same crease in his brow. “Not even a little.”

You nod, lips pursing. “Good to know.”

Dean’s seen a lot of weird endings to hunts, and usually, it’s messier than this. But there’s no blood, no ambulance lights, or even a half-burned corpse today. 

He leans back against the Impala a few feet away, arms crossed as he tells himself he’s just keeping an eye on things without making it too obvious. He watches as you stuff your bag into the back of your beat-up and blue Aveo, calmly packing up like this was simply some strange weekend getaway and not technically a grave robbery, ghost exorcism, and almost getting trampled by a cursed horseman before breakfast combined.

You’ve traded in the grass-stained jeans and t-shirt for something softer, an oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, your boots still dusted with graveyard dirt from the woods. Your hair’s a little messy, probably from the wind earlier, a few strands catching in the porch light outside the B&B. 

Sam stands a little closer to you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture more relaxed than before after things finally wound down. “So…” He clears his throat lightly. “First hunt. What’s the verdict?” 

Dean watches your face instead of Sam’s, because your answer matters more than the question. 

You close the trunk with a soft thud, brushing your hands together like you’re still shaking off dirt. “Honestly? It was… interesting,” you admit, tucking your hair behind your ears. “In a ‘wow, I almost died’ kind of way.” A crooked smile rises on your lips. “But not exactly something I’d want to make a habit out of.” 

Dean huffs under his breath at that, gaze dropping to the gravel by his boots. 

Good. Smart answer.

Sam gives you a smile, but it’s got a certain shade to it now, and Dean recognizes it as his little brother’s but what if smile. He knows exactly where this is going before Sam even opens his mouth again.

“You handled yourself really well,” Sam says. “The spell, the ritual… you picked it up fast.”

“Yeah, you weren’t half bad,” Dean adds, but there’s a slight tease to his smile. 

Admittedly, you handled yourself well out there – better than most rookies would. Better than some hunters, if he’s being totally honest. Obviously, he won’t say that out loud in a million years. 

“Seriously, thanks,” Sam says. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Think we would’ve made due.”

You don’t seem to take offense to that comment, though, lips twitching in amusement. “You’re welcome for saving that coconut of yours.”

“So, uh…” Sam scratches the back of his neck, eyes finding yours. “Your mom’s letter, the ritual… have you thought more about it? Really could use your help, you know.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, watching as your shoulders draw in the tiniest bit, hesitation flashing across your face. You’re clearly unsure how to answer that one without disappointing someone – well, mostly Sam because Dean would be just fine with you saying no and telling his little brother to go screw himself. 

“Sam,” Dean cuts in, choosing not to let this play out. 

Sam meets his stare. “What?”

“She already gave you an answer.” Dean finally pushes off the car. “Take it.”

Sam’s brows draw into a small frown. “I’m just asking–”

“Yeah, and I’m just saying drop it,” Dean barks, his voice a little sharper now. “She heard you the first time. She doesn’t need a sales pitch.”

The tension is almost tangible in the air now, but as his gaze drifts back to you, there’s a newfound softness in your expression. He would almost call it gratitude, but it evokes a weird flutter in his chest, so he rejects that thought on principle and breaks eye contact first. 

You clear your throat softly. “Look, I meant what I said, alright?” you tell Sam gently, but there’s a firmness underneath. “I’ll think about it, but that’s all I can promise right now.”

Sam studies you for a moment, probably weighing whether to push again or not, but Dean really hopes he doesn’t. Otherwise, he’ll have to clock Sam with the back of his gun and drive back to South Dakota with his little brother in Baby’s trunk. 

“Okay, fair enough.” Sam nods after a beat and accepts your answer, although he’s obviously not done with the idea.

Dean is, though.

“Call if you need anything, alright?” Sam adds and steps back.

You nod, even manage a smile, and give a small wave of your hand that’s slightly awkward. 

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t stick around for a grand goodbye. He gives you a tight nod and then turns on his heel, heading back toward the Impala, the only true safe zone he’s ever known. 

But halfway there, his hand brushes against his jacket pocket, and he feels the folded paper sitting there.

Right. That.

He’d written it earlier at the B&B, while Sam was buried in books and you were flipping through that glitter-covered notebook of yours, muttering about herbs and Latin. Dean had sat at the table, pretending not to listen, and suddenly found himself scribbling down the standard exorcism. He might’ve then thrown in the Devil’s Trap, too. 

He didn’t really plan on giving it to you. It was more supposed to be a just-in-case, emergencies-only thing. But there’s this gnawing, annoying little thought in the back of his skull that refuses to disappear. 

You’re in it now, aren’t you? Whether you like it or not, or even whether he likes it or not. No thanks to his little brother and him, you’ve got a target on your back now. Dean knows better than anyone that this shit lingers, follows, and finds you again when you least expect it. And well, leaving you with nothing to defend yourself feels simply… wrong. 

“Son of a–” Dean mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply. 

And then, he turns around.

You’re halfway to your car, keys in hand, and for a second, he almost lets you go. Walking away would be so much easier and cleaner, wouldn’t it?

But he didn’t let you go in the dream either, did he? And even though, that never happened, there’s a strange pang in his chest that keeps his eyes locked on you and his feet rooted to the ground. 

“Hey, wait–”

You stop, spinning back with a small frown on your face, clearly not expecting that. Dean quickly walks back to you, wanting to get this part over with as soon as possible. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the folded piece of motel stationary, holding it out to you without ceremony.

“Here.”

You blink but take it reluctantly, brows knitting as you unfold it carefully. Your eyes skim over the Latin and the symbol sketched beneath it. “What’s this?”

“Insurance,” he replies, shrugging one shoulder to avoid making a big deal out of this. “Basic exorcism. Latin. That symbol’s a Devil’s Trap,” he explains, clearing his throat subtly. God, what’s with the air in this town? Why is it so damn dry here? “Paint it under that small rug you got by your front door. If something comes in, it’s stuck there. Then you read the words, send it back where it came from.”

Your eyes glance over the page, then back up at him, brow raising slightly like you’re still trying to make sense of his words.

He shifts his weight, swallowing. “Also, uhm, put a salt line along your windowsills. Doors if you wanna be extra. Keeps most crap out. You got that?”

There’s a small pause before you nod slowly, but you’re looking at him in that weird way of yours again – like you’re seeing past his words. Dream-child you did that shit as well. And before he knows it, there’s a tiny smirk hitching on your lips. 

“King of Cups…” you mutter under your breath, barely audible. 

Dean scowls. “What?”

“Nothing.” You shrug casually, but that stupid smile doesn’t disappear. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him like evidence under a microscope. “Wouldn’t simply apologizing be easier?”

“Apologize for what?” Dean scoffs, averting his gaze. It’s the default setting. Armor. 

“Never mind,” you sigh like you expected that response, ready to give up on him. “And to think, I almost started to like you…”

He rolls his eyes, but his jaw tightens visibly. Technically, he knows what he has to do. The dream already told him. But it still seems a lot harder in practice than it does in theory.

“Fine,” he caves at last with a reluctant breath out. “I’m… sorry for, uhm–” he motions roughly at you, already hating it, “–almost… shooting you, alright?” He smacks his lips. “There. Happy now?”

You don’t even try to hide the unimpressed look, but he swears there’s almost some amusement underneath it.

“Wow,” you say wryly. “How sweet of you. That must’ve cost you a lot.”

Dean purses his lips, head bobbing, the irritation hopefully covering anything else. “Alright, we’re done here. Try not to die.”

He spins around before you can answer, heading straight for the Impala without stopping this time. But behind him, he can hear Sam mutter, “Just think about it, okay?” 

Dean yanks open the driver’s door and pauses just long enough to glance back. He sees you nodding, but it’s rather noncommittal and seems frankly very uncomfortable. 

“Sam,” Dean calls gruffly, jerking his head toward the car.

Sam sighs but obeys, jogging back over.

Dean then slides into the driver’s seat, hands settling on the wheel as his gaze lands on the rearview mirror, watching you climb into your car. The interior light switches on, illuminating you in soft gold before the door shuts and the engine turns over. His eyes remain fixed on the mirror till your taillights disappear down the road. 

As Sam gets into the car, he shuts the passenger door harder than necessary. “What did you say to her?”

Dean doesn’t even bother to look at his little brother and plainly turns the key in the ignition. “Nothing.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Sam shoots back, frustrated. “You were being a dick to her on purpose, so she wouldn’t want to stick around. You were trying to scare her off.”

Dean snorts, pulling onto the road. “Yeah, ‘cause telling someone to salt their windows is real intimidating.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sam says. “You don’t want her involved.”

Dean grips the wheel a little tighter. “No, I don’t.”

“You probably talked her out of the ritual, too,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Big bad dream crusher.”

“Dean–”

“I didn’t say anything she wasn’t already thinking, alright?” he snaps. 

“She said she’d think about it.”

“Yeah,” Dean fires back, “and if you can stop hovering over her like a damn guidance counselor, maybe she actually will.”

Sam exhales a deep sigh. “She’s strong. You saw what she did tonight. She could help people, Dean.”

Dean almost wants to scoff. He certainly saw what you did tonight – during this entire case, actually. Sammy doesn’t even know about the thing you did with the roots in the woods, and Dean’s not volunteering to tell him either. Sam’s head would probably explode with ideas if he knew how powerful you truly were. 

“Yeah,” Dean huffs instead, shaking his head. “Or get herself killed.”

“She can handle it.”

“Barely.”

“She’ll learn.”

“And what happens when she runs into something she can’t learn her way out of, huh?” Dean counters. “What then?”

“That’s not your call to make,” Sam mutters.  

“No, but it is my problem,” Dean snaps. “Man, you told her about all of this. About demons, hunts, everything… You think that just goes away? You think nothing’s ever gonna come looking? It’s not if something happens to her, Sam. It’s when.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “So what, you just cut her loose and hope for the best? That’s your solution?”

“No, my solution is not dragging her deeper into this mess. I gave her what she needs to not be completely defenseless,” Dean says. “That’s more than most people get. She’s got a life, Sammy. A normal one.”

“I know that,” Sam says. “But life doesn’t always work that way.”

Dean scoffs a humorless laugh. “So, what? She’s just supposed to give it all up because she’s got powers?”

“I’m saying she has a choice, Dean,” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah, and you’re not exactly making it easy for her to say no,” Dean shoots back. “Guilt-tripping her with her family? Low hanging fruit, Sam.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam defends. “I was just trying to prepare her.”

“No, you know what’s not fair? You thinking this is gonna end well,” Dean snaps. “‘Cause it doesn’t. It never does. You of all people should know that. At least, I’m trying to keep her alive.”

Sam goes suspiciously quiet after that, leaning back as he studies Dean. “You didn’t seem too concerned about that when you invited her along.”

“Oh, don’t even–” Dean’s jaw ticks. “You told her first, man. You put her on the board. Not me. I just made sure she didn’t get blindsided. You wanna chase this demon? Fine. You wanna burn everything down to get it? Fine. But don’t drag her into it like she’s just another tool in the box.”

Sam grits his teeth. “That’s not what this is.”

“Really?” Dean shoots him a scrutinizing look. “’Cause it sounds a lot like you’re willing to risk whatever it takes to win. This is our mess. She’s not part of this, Sammy. Not if I can help it.”

Sam doesn’t answer this time, and that’s honestly answer enough.

He slumps back in his seat, crosses his arms, and scoffs quietly. “This isn’t over.”

Dean nearly snorts a laugh. “Wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

Before Sam can find his next argument, Dean reaches forward and cranks up the stereo, letting the sound of classic rock flood the Impala and drown out the rest. 

The road stretches ahead, dark and endless, and everything’s supposed to go back to normal again. But his mind keeps drifting back to you – standing under that streetlight in the middle of the night, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, looking at him like you knew exactly what that note meant. 

He hopes you stay out of this. Hopes that piece of paper he gave you can keep the world away from you. Hopes it’s enough. He really does, even though he knows it’s not – but it’s the best he’s got.

However, there’s a stubborn, quiet part of him that already knows he’s going to see you again. And honestly? He’s not sure if that’s something to dread, or something to look forward to.

▶️ Chapter 6: East Atlantic Breeze – July 3

We have our first case under the belt and a reluctant friendship was born 😂🫶

How did you enjoy Dean's latest dream? Is anyone aside from him still convinced those aren't actually real memories resurfacing? (And how long will he keep them to himself? lol) What did you think of reader's tarot reading and do you agree with the boys' cards? And what about the two that slipped out – are they really a glitch in the system? 👀

Another puzzle piece is coming next Sunday, where we might get an unwanted visitor... 😬

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Dean’s on his feet before even being fully awake.

“Sammy.” His deep voice comes out rougher than usual as he grabs Sam’s shoulder hard enough to shake him. “Sam.”

Sam jolts awake with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instantly to his forehead. His breathing comes uneven and shallow, pain still written all over his face.

Dean’s stomach drops, heart pounding. He already knows it’s not a nightmare but another vision.

“You with me?” he checks sternly.

Sam nods quickly between ragged breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before forcing out a strained, “Yeah.”

“What happened? What’d you see?”

Dean then waits for an answer, stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Finally, Sam looks up at him, and Dean can see the fear sitting naked and clear behind his little brother’s hazel eyes, turning his blood ice-cold before your name bleeds from Sam’s lips.

Every muscle in Dean’s body locks up in an instant.

“A demon found her,” Sam says hoarsely, swallowing harshly. “She was at the lab. It had Mia and Paige, too. I saw blood, black eyes–…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “Dean, she was screaming.”

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Judging by his progress so far, you honestly give him another ten more minutes before he starts reorganizing those binders alphabetically out of spite (and to scratch that slightly OCD itch in his brain. No judgement here – you certainly feel it too when looking at those eight monstrosities).

It’s been three hours of tranquility so far since Dean’s not back yet from his little trip to hide the cursed sword. 

Admittedly, it’s almost too quiet and peaceful now in this room without his annoying habits around to distract you. It’s weird what you can miss once it’s gone, but you’re sure the green-eyed hunter will return soon enough and make you regret those words again with his charmingly irritating presence.

You, on the other hand, have claimed the bed and excused yourself from tediously sifting through museum catalogues by pulling out your tarot deck and doing your own version of research. 

In this case, your focus doesn’t lie with the sword or even the victims but on the man himself – the mysterious headless horseman. If you can get some hints on his identity and fate, maybe you and Sam can figure out a way to break the curse.

The cards slide easily between your fingers as you shuffle, your brain latching onto the calming rhythm until the noise in your head quiets just enough. And then, you draw your first card.

Ten of Swords.

Well, that card ain’t exactly subtle, is it? It portrays a body lying face down with ten blades driven into his back, like Brutus himself got carried away with stabbing Caesar during the Ides of March. Whoever murdered this poor fella wanted to ensure he stayed down. Decapitating someone would probably do the trick. The card doesn’t mean just death – it stands for betrayal.

The next card that comes up then is Justice. 

And that? Franky, it almost makes you laugh at this point. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s freaking ironic in a way that feels borderline offensive. Justice upright is supposed to mean fairness, balance, and truth being upheld. All great things, right?

Except, historically, it usually just means someone decided they were right. Doesn’t mean they really were, though. It more likely describes a mob of people with their pitchforks raised high, reflecting your own hometown’s dark history. 

The last card is the Five of Swords, which causes you to tilt your head slightly, studying the smug little asshole on it who’s clutching his stolen victory. This dude’s seriously the worst. The card means he only won by being the most ruthless person in the room. There’s no honor or fairness, just cold outcome. 

You lean back against the headboard, eyes fixing on the pattern splayed out in front of you. 

Betrayed by his own. Judged publicly. And whoever did it walked away convinced they were justified.

The door opens before you can ruminate in it any longer.

Dean strolls in like he just ran a routine errand instead of relocating a cursed murder weapon, brushing his hands together as if that somehow closes the chapter. But you notice his shoulders are a little too stiff, his movements a little too controlled, and the petunia-purple rope is still wrapped around his neck, the noose tightening. 

“Alright,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Sword’s hidden. No more public decapitations for the day.”

Sam slowly looks up from the catalogue. “You feel anything yet? Hear anything?”

Dean casually shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Nope. No whispers, no ghost horses, no sudden urge to, I don’t know, lose my head. Maybe I got lucky.”

Man, you almost admire that confidence.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re still very much cursed,” you tell him with an amused smile.

He raises a brow and gestures at his neck. “Still got that purple rope thingy, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Great,” he sighs and rolls his eyes. 

Sam exhales a long breath as well, sliding one of the binders toward him. “Then we don’t have time to waste. Start flipping. We need to find out who that sword belonged to. Unless you wanna lose your head in the next few hours.”

Dean shoots him a boyish grin. “Could turn my melon into a pumpkin just in time for your favorite holiday, man.”

“Dean–” Sam doesn’t finish, just cuts the sentence off, and shoves the binder an inch closer. 

Dean gapes at it, clearly seeing it for the plight that it is. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Dean doesn’t respond to that and simply drags himself over to the couch with a resigned sigh, flopping down and opening the binder with all the enthusiasm of someone being punished for a crime they didn’t commit. The pages flip lazily, and it’s honestly more irritating noise than actual progress, while Sam seems as studious and dedicated as ever. 

They couldn’t be more different, could they? 

And you? Well, you still feel the weight of the cards in your hands and decide it’s the perfect opportunity to do a little bonus reading since both brothers are in the room, distracted, and somewhat sitting still. Auras and glimpses of their personalities aside, there’s still a lot you don’t know about them. It’s time to let the cards do their magic. 

You reshuffle and let your attention drift toward Sam. You quietly draw three cards, laying them out where only you can see, hiding them a little behind a bump in the covers – just in case. You’ve already noticed Dean discreetly sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye. 

Sam’s first card? The Magician. 

This little wizard is basically ambition incarnated. It’s raw capability, focus, and willpower. It’s precision and skill. Sam’s always ten steps ahead, already building something in his head while everyone else is still trying to understand the problem. It sounds impressive, but you honestly find it a little more terrifying. Because if intellect is paired with intent, it’s always a slightly concerning combination. 

It means Sam doesn’t just know things – he uses them. Plenty of people are smart, but fewer people are actually strategic about it. And even fewer are willing to push that strategy as far as it’ll go. It’s learned, sharpened, and probably comes at the expense of something softer.

You’re kind of worried now you might be that soft thing. 

You chew on your lip and glance at the next card, tilting your head a little because it’s suspiciously contrasting to the first one. 

The Ace of Cups.

God, that is almost wholesome. It stands for pure emotion. It’s empathy and compassion – the ability to care deeply and fucking mean it. 

You steal a glimpse at him and know it’s there – under the logic, under the research mode, and under the calm voice. You’ve seen it with your own eyes in the way he talks, the way he listens, and the way he looks at people like they’re worth understanding instead of just solving.

But at the last card, you don’t even try to hide your grimace this time. Jesus fucking Antichrist…

The Devil.

Welp, you almost feel reaffirmed in your initial read of him. Balance is restored. You’re back in familiar territory again. 

Because The Devil? Needless to say, this guy doesn’t do subtlety well either. Doesn’t even pretend to. Obsession and addiction spring to mind. It’s essentially being chained to something you know isn’t good for you, but you still can’t let it go. 

Yeah, that tracks…

So what’s got its claws in Sam? Is it purpose? Revenge? Control? Maybe it’s all of the above. 

The Magician builds. The Ace of Cups cares. The Devil clings. And that? That’s a dangerous fucking combination. 

Whatever he’s chasing, he’s not walking away from it. Not halfway. Not even when it starts costing him more than he can goddamn afford. 

Sam’s the kind of guy who would sacrifice himself, who would justify anything if it gets him where he needs to go. Or worse – he decides it’s worth sacrificing someone else. 

God, you hope that someone isn’t you, remembering Dean’s words of warning at the lab. 

Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.

He’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.

Oh, you definitely can’t trust Sam with your life, can you? He’d sell you to the highest bidder in a heartbeat if it gets him the prize he wants. 

Now, you’re honestly curious about Dean’s cards. If they’re as bad as his little brother’s, you’re surely bolting out of that gothic hellhole and slamming the door firmly shut behind you. 

You shuffle the cards again and pull your next set. And man, Dean’s first card? It actually makes you snort out loud, earning you a curious little glimpse from the hunter himself. 

God, it’s so painfully obvious. Could you be more on the nose?

The Emperor.

Sounds mighty, fearsome, maybe even a little ominous, right? But the translation? This guy’s all about authoritative control. 

Dean takes charge whether anyone asked him to or not. There’s a rigidity to him – a need to keep things contained, predictable, handled. Not because he necessarily enjoys control, but because he doesn’t trust anything else to actually hold. He’s the man who builds himself into a wall and then wonders why everything hurts when it inevitably cracks. 

It means he’s protective as well, but not particularly in a soft and gentle way. More like “stand behind me or get the hell out of the way.”

My way or the highway…

Dean’s solid, grounded in way that feels almost immovable. In other words, he’s the boulder Sisyphus tried to roll up a hill. He doesn’t bend; he holds (and probably breaks before ever admitting he’s wrong).

As you flip the next card, however, you stump a little. It’s a real wildcard. You certainly didn’t expect that one to show up for him.

King of Cups.

You almost snort again, because it essentially stands for emotional stability. And what you’ve seen so far from Dean? Yeah, he definitely ain’t stable. He honestly seems to have the emotional regulation of a lit match in a fireworks factory. 

To be fair, though, it’s a little about control as well, so you could possibly see that for him. It’s usually about people who feel everything but keep it all contained and locked up tight. It’s not about what’s visible on the outside. It’s about what’s underneath the surface. 

Dean may not talk about his feelings, but they still drive everything he does. He keeps it together so others don’t have to.

Basically, it’s the guy who hands you a burger instead of asking if you’re okay.

It means he doesn’t say much when it matters – deflects, jokes, gets sarcastic. But he acts. He protects. He notices things he pretends not to, like whether you’ve eaten, if you’re about to walk into something stupid, if–

…Oh.

Wait… Does he–

Does he actually care about you? Because for a guy who allegedly claims to hate you, he’s been annoyingly attentive today. 

Alright, so he’s not a complete lost cause after all. He’s not emotionally unavailable. He’s just… emotionally constipated. Gotcha.

You honestly still can’t tell if that’s worse or better, though. 

The third card is less funny, however. It’s the Five of Cups. And that one, well… it’s grief. Loss.

If you had to take a wild guess, Dean’s probably fixating on what’s gone instead of what’s still there. The hardest thing about this card?

You can relate to it. 

He’s been carrying all this pain around for so long he actually forgot it wasn’t supposed to be permanent. And it explains a lot about him – the edge, the temper, even the control issues. Dean’s viewpoint of the world is that it already took too much from him, and he’s just waiting to see what it steals next. 

And you can see it, too. There’s something about him that just feels incredibly… heavy. Even his aura sometimes feels suffocating to you. But instead of dealing with his losses, he just keeps moving, keeps going, keeps doing because stopping would mean he actually has to feel it.

That’s why he’s so restless and can’t exist in stillness. If he never has to slow down, he doesn’t have to sit with what’s missing. 

You glance down at the three cards once more, all laid out beside each other, and then spread them out a little more evenly on the mattress as if the spacing will help make them more sense.

The Emperor holds the line. The King of Cups buries the storm. The Five of Cups never forgets what it lost. 

The picture of him becomes sharper, but it doesn’t match the one you had in your head before. He’s more than the asshole you think he is, isn’t he? Still bossy, but also sad. It’s… layered bossy. 

His ribcage isn’t an empty husk full of spiderwebs. There’s feeling there. A lot of it, actually. He just keeps it on a leash so short it’s practically choking him. He turned his loss into rules, into walls, and into don’t touch that, don’t trust that, don’t get close to that.

Because last time? It cost him something he couldn’t get back.

So yeah, he’s controlling, he’s stubborn, and he’s got about five damn emotional defense mechanisms layered on top of each other. But it’s not because he doesn’t feel. It’s because he feels too goddamn much, and if he ever actually lets it slip, there’s a real chance it’ll wreck him.

Yeah, Dean not just simply being an asshole but actually being a super sad asshole honestly takes all the joy out of you. How are you supposed to tease him now, let alone hate him with an unmatched passion?

You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck. 

Well, that was an enlightening reading…

Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”

“Working,” you reply quickly. 

“Looks like scrapbooking.”

“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”

“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck. But then, another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress. 

Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore. 

You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply. 

The Lovers.

For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–

No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.

Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?

Really?!

The Lovers doesn’t implicate romance alone. It doesn’t foreshadow steamy one-night stands or casual hook-ups. It’s about choice. Connection. Alignment. It’s about a bond that actually matters – that means something. It’s the “this will ruin your life in a meaningful way” card. Emotional, physical, spiritual – take your pick because this one covers all bases. 

And honestly, all those things would be fine. Who doesn’t want to meet their soulmate? But in this particular case, it feels more like the damn card strolled into the room, pointed at the green-eyed hunter, and went that one. 

This is clearly a mistake. A glitch. It’s just statistically improbable nonsense. Either the cards are broken, or the universe (or whatever cosmic entity is apparently in charge of your tarot deck) has a dark sense of humor. 

Because, seriously, out of everyone in this room, it picked him?! The guy who’s been antagonizing you since day one. The guy who thought you were dangerous enough to kill not that long ago. The guy who still looks at you like you’re one wrong move away from proving him goddamn right about everything. And the deck goes, Yes, that one? 

You barely tolerate each other half the time, and Dean still flinches every time you do anything even remotely magical. 

This is crazy. It’s an anomaly. 

Just as you chalk it off to the universe playing a cruel prank on you and move to put the card quickly back into its deck, yet another one slips and fall right on top of the other, like it’s doubling down on the unfathomable audacity.

Ten of Cups.

Well, now this thing’s just being offensive. You honestly don’t know if you should laugh, scream, or cry. 

Because this card? It stands for happiness, fulfillment, stability, and belonging. It’s basically the happily ever after starter pack. The whole “ride off into the sunset and build a life that doesn’t implode every five minutes” fantasy. It’s not fleeting or surface-level. This one’s lasting. 

It’s the kind of apple-pie life people dream about but rarely ever get. The kind that looks steady, warm, and full. The kind that obviously doesn’t fit anywhere near your current situation.

You stare at both cards for a long time, your jaw feeling a little too loose, your mind chewing on their meaning. 

Connection leading to domestic bliss and long-term happiness. Love leading to a… home.

With him.

Yeah, nope, you’re not doing that. You’re not even entertaining this for a second longer. Dean hates you, and you’re for sure as hell not lining up to prove him wrong on that front either. The tarot is simply wrong. It happens. That’s it. 

You grimace as you quickly snatch the cards and shove them back into your deck before either brother can catch you, even though there’s no way they would even know what you were doing here. This whole thing is completely absurd. 

In your periphery, you catch Dean stealing glimpses again, still tracking your reactions. When you glance up and meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away this time, though. 

“What now?” Dean asks rather gruffly, brow woven into intense knits.

You quickly avert your eyes and shake your head, giving him a subtle shrug. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“It was nothing,” you brush off and scratch your collarbone where the strap of your tank top cuts slightly into the skin. 

God, it’s downright sweltering in here and almost resembling a tropical rainforest. The B&B’s old bones do nothing to keep the summer heat outside. 

But then, you catch another pair of eyes on you this time in your periphery and look over to find the younger Winchester staring at you. But his gaze isn’t fixed on your face.

Wait… Is he staring at your tits?

“Uhm, Sam…” You clear your throat subtly. “Why are you staring at my cleavage?”

Sam’s head snaps up in an instant, hazel eyes wide and full of flustered panic. “I–”

“Dude,” Dean cuts in scoldingly before his little brother even has a chance to find an excuse. You’re surprised at his reaction for all of five seconds before he opens his mouth again. “What are you doing? What’d I tell you when you turned fourteen, huh? Corner of your eye, man. Never directly. And no longer than three seconds max.”

You frown slightly at that response. “Well, that’s just problematic in a different way now.”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times, scrambling for words. “No, I–… I wasn’t–…”

Both you and Dean stare at him now, patiently waiting for an explanation. 

Sam takes a deep breath and starts anew. “I wasn’t looking at… you know,” he elaborates with a swallow. “I was just–… The birthmark on your collarbone. It’s your family rune, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” You flinch unnoticeably, your hand automatically covering the spot, feeling a little exposed, especially since Dean decided to peek as well now. “Yeah, it is. Everyone in my family had it.”

“Like the legend,” Sam mutters, more to himself than you, as if he just realized something. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. You kind of feel like evidence under a microscope with both their eyes fixed on you now. 

Luckily, a sharp look from Dean that unmistakably says drop it keeps his little brother from asking whatever questions wanted to spill out next. You’re sort of grateful for that. 

Sam then decides to let it go and switch lanes. “So, uh, you find anything useful yet?”

God, you latch onto that distraction in a damn heartbeat, shifting gears without a single drop of hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you say, swiftly storing the tarot deck back into your bag. “Our guy was betrayed. Accused, judged. Probably publicly.”

Sam’s interest sharpens slightly, musing. “Scapegoat.”

“Yup, would be my guess.”

“So we’re dealing with a vengeful spirit tied to an object,” he deduces. 

Dean warily watches you for another beat, seemingly trying to catch whatever you just buried. But luckily, he huffs a breath a second later and focuses back on the binder in his lap. 

“Great,” he mutters dryly. “Love a revenge arc.”

You don’t respond, you don’t look at the cards again either, and you definitely pretend they don’t mean anything at all – zero, zip, zilch, nada. 

You wanted to get a new deck soon anyways. This one’s system is clearly breaking down. 

After hours of wading through those binders and staring at that eyesore of chicken-scratch handwriting, trying to decipher just a syllable of it, the three of you finally called it a night after Dean kept complaining about his eyes burning. Sam then figured it was safe enough for now, considering Dean still hadn’t heard any horses yet. 

He used to like horses. Now? Not so much.

His eyes closed easily that night, considering he was cursed and all, but he was beat after trying to hide a damn sword in the woods behind the museum. He even tried to salt and burn the thing, melt it down to a little clump of metal, but it wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t dent, wouldn’t even fucking scratch. 

But Dean already regrets taking those forty peaceful winks when he finds himself back in familiar territory. Or should he say unfamiliar because he certainly knows it never actually happened and he’s never been to that place before?

Yeah, he’s back in unfamiliar territory. However, the milky, coral filter is still the same. 

Coral, he scoffs and rolls his eyes at his own thoughts. Jesus Christ, you’re starting to rub off on him with that stupid color coding system of yours. Before you, the only color he knew was orange and the only thing he associated with something like coral were damn rocks in the ocean. 

Wait… are corals rocks? Sam would probably know that. 

This time, though, Dean’s not down by the pond anymore. Instead, he feels the tall grass brush his legs as he trudges back up the hill. Soon enough, the house comes into view, and for a while, he thinks about going inside and pretending today never happened. Pretending he didn’t say what he said. Pretending you didn’t look at him the way you did. 

That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?

But there’s a twinge in his ribcage that won’t let go. It’s squeezing something inside of him to a painful degree and keeps him tethered to the spot, forcing his eyes to drift around the endless field of greenery and look. 

Look for you. 

Even with everything that happened, with all the words he said that he shouldn’t have said, deep down, he knows you wouldn’t wander too far. You wouldn’t leave him. At least, not really.

Right?

But maybe he took it too far this time, said something he can’t erase or even fix, and the pang in his chest grows in intensity till he spots a small movement to his right, where the grass grows even taller and wilder, untamed by footsteps and paths. 

And there you are – off to the side, a little ways from the house, under the willow tree. 

The long branches hang lowly, swaying gently in the evening breeze, curtains of deep green that catch the sunlight and turn it molten at the edges. You’re sitting beneath it, half-hidden in the shade, knees drawn in and arms wrapped around them. You’ve folded into yourself like you’re trying to take up less space than you normally do.

The wind puffs, the branches flutter, and the warm and golden sunlight glistens through the leaves, but you don’t. You’re stillness personified. 

Too still. 

Dean doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like knowing, without even seeing your face, that you’re upset. Because of him. 

You’re upset because of him. 

He slows on instinct, almost bracing himself for whatever is waiting for him under that tree, but the annoying thing in his chest pulls tighter with every step he doesn’t take. 

So, the grass parts under his sneakers as he makes his way toward you. He’s careful and slow about it, though, some might almost call it tentative, but he doesn’t want to spook you. He doesn’t want you to run from him again before he has a chance to say something. 

The branches of the willow sway and brush against his shoulders as he ducks under the tree. The air is cooler in the shade, keeping the summer heat successfully locked out. He knows it’s one of your favorite spots around here. The first one, however, is the waterfall in the woods, but it’s past the fence line, and you’re not allowed to wander out there after dark, so you probably figured the willow would make a decent enough place to drown in your sorrow. 

You don’t react when he approaches. There’s not a blink or flinch in sight. You don’t even bother looking up to see who came to disturb your peace as if you already know it’s him and deemed his presence not worthy of your time. 

He purses his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets, not really knowing what else to do with them. His shoulders are damn tight like he’s got rocks under his skin, and his throat suddenly feels unnaturally dry like he swallowed several cotton balls dunked in desert sand. 

He clears the arid lump, but you still don’t even twitch a single muscle. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, not daring to speak at a louder volume than that, but now he’s almost afraid you didn’t hear it, the tree swallowing the sound before it even reached you. 

You still don’t glance up. You don’t answer either. All you do is stare at that patch of grass in front of you. Your whole posture is closed off. 

Dean’s never seen you like this before. It scares him. What if you can’t forgive him and go back to the way the two of you used to be before all of this? What if he doesn’t get his friend back?

Because, aside from Sammy, you’re the only friend he’s ever had, which makes you also the only one who truly counts. Sam loves him because his little brother really doesn’t have another choice. They’re family. It’s different. 

But you? You don’t love him because you have to. No one’s making you. It’s not some universal rule you have to follow. No, you love him because you choose to. Because you always just did. 

And Dean, well, he… cares about you, too. Although, he wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud.

He shuffles uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze flicking away for a second before fixing back on you with quite an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Hey,” he repeats, swallowing once more because the lump still won’t go anywhere. “I didn’t mean that.”

The words feel clumsy again the second they leave his mouth. He knows they’re not enough.

“You said it,” you say, voice clear but flat. The sweetness that usually laces it is gone. Now it sounds like it’s so tight and thin underneath that it could snap if you’re pushed the wrong way. 

Dean winces, rubbing the back of his neck before his hand drops to his side again. The guilt sinks deeper into his gut and becomes sharper, like tiny little daggers ready to cut him open from the inside out.

“Yeah, well…” he mutters, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt as he tentatively steps a little closer. “I was being an idiot, okay?”

He shilly-shallies for a second before sitting down. He’s not entirely sure anymore if he’s still allowed to, but before he can overthink it, he lowers himself on the ground beside you, the grass bending under his weight. He picks a spot not too close, but not too far either. It’s still close enough that his shoulder could almost touch yours. 

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly but doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes trained on the same patch of grass as you. 

You don’t glance at him right away, either. The silence lasts long enough to make him wonder if he should say something else, if he should try harder, if he already screwed this up beyond fixing.

“Then why are you acting like you do?”

The question hits deeply, but it’s not spoken harshly. There’s no accusation detectable in your tone. There’s only confusion, as if you’re trying to make sense of something that doesn’t add up.

Dean lets out a long breath, his gaze dropping to the grass between his hands. His fingers fiddle without thinking, brushing over the blades, bending them, letting them slip back into place.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually.

It might not be a satisfying answer, but it’s the truth. It’s the best he’s got, but it still doesn’t feel enough. Nothing he does is ever enough.

“It’s just… different now.” He shrugs his shoulders a little, hoping that at least explains something, but he knows it won’t truly fill in the gaps he can’t put into words.

He’s about to give up and leave you alone when you finally turn your head and look straight at him. 

And geez, it’s so much worse than when you were ignoring him. 

The weight of your gaze feels heavy, your eyes guarded and yet searching, careful and still a little hurt. That thing behind his ribs twinges again. He glances at you, then away, then back again because holding your gaze for too long might force him to say something he doesn’t know how to say.

At least not at twelve. 

“You just… freaked me out a little, okay?” he adds, the words certainly awkward but still honest. “I’m–… I’m sorry. But you’re still… you, you know? You’re still my friend.”

And that’s also the part he’s holding onto – the only part that makes any of this worth fixing it. You’re his friend because you’re so uniquely you and no one else.

You study him, even squinting your eyes slightly like the sunshine could warm him. You’re seemingly trying to decide if he truly means it – if it is sincere or just another thing he’ll take back later.

“Okay,” you say suddenly, the word barely reaching his ears because it sounds so small and careful. 

He wouldn’t exactly call it forgiveness, but it’s not downright rejection either, right? He might even call it a win because he’s winning you back – at least back enough to give him another shot towards full redemption. 

And that? Man, that finally eases that uncomfortable throb in his chest, and he can breathe better again. 

Dean nods to himself, remotely acknowledging something he doesn’t fully understand. Relief rushes through his veins, but he doesn’t quite trust the peace yet.

“So…” he starts with another clear of his throat that finally rids it of the nasty lump stuck in it. He shoots you a careful sideways glance. “What can you do now?”

The change in you is almost instant. You’re not quite fully back to your old self yet, but he can feel the familiar excitement vibrating in your blood again. Your shoulders lift, and your posture loosens. It feels like you’re cautiously unfurling again. 

“I can show you,” you say, but there’s still hesitation in your voice. “If you want to…”

He gives you a tiny but encouraging nod and watches the smile rise on your lips again. He missed that smile. He’s glad it’s back. 

You then straighten your spine a little and rest your hands in your lap, your eyes fluttering softly shut.

And Dean? He can’t take his eyes off you.

He takes in the way your lashes brush against your cheeks, the way the caramel-syrupy sunlight weaves through the willow branches and catches in your hair, and the way you go still like you’re listening to something he can’t hear.

For a moment, nothing happens.

All he hears is the wind through the breeze and the crickets in the grass and the sound of your calm breathing.

But then, slowly and bit by bit, something pushes through the weeds near your knee. A tiny blossom, lilac and soft, unfurls in front of his eyes. 

And it doesn’t stop there. 

The lonely blossom is soon joined by others, spreading over the field, a sea of flowers suddenly blooming around him and painting what once was a clover-green canvas with more colors than he’s ever seen before in his entire life. 

There are bright yellows, deep reds, mesmerizing blues, soft pinks, and about eight different shades of violet. There are too many to count them all. The earth came alive right in front of his eyes, and it feels natural and impossible all at once.

Dean leans forward, his eyes spellbound by everything they see, tracking the way the blossoms sway and the wind now carries a sweet floral scent.

“Okay,” he says after a heartbeat, aiming for casual but missing it by a mile. “That’s pretty… cool.”

You open your eyes, and there’s the smile again. Brighter than before, softer too, and it’s more beautiful than the plethora of flowers in front of him. Nothing could beat that smile. 

His gaze drops to the ground, catching on one of the flowers near his hand. It’s a daisy. 

Simple. Pretty. White petals, yellow center. He reaches for it, plucking it carefully, turning it between his fingers for a moment as his mind’s trying to figure something out.

Then he looks back at you, and you’re watching him now, a curious and yet uncertain gleam in your eyes. And then he just goes for it and leans in, tucking the daisy into your hair just above your ear.

You wrinkle your nose like it tickled, giggling a little. “Daisies are the most boring flowers.”

Dean scoffs a soft laugh. “No, they’re not.”

“Yeah, they are.”

He shakes his head, his gaze staying on you.

“No,” he says quietly. “They’re the prettiest…” He pauses and bites the inside of his cheek before the next words slip out. “You know… like you.”

You bite the smile on your lip and shyly avert your eyes, a blush creeping to your cheeks. 

And Dean feels it again – that warmth behind his ribs, spreading outward and turning the brightness up on the rest of the world. It feels steady and easy. 

It feels good.

For a long moment, everything feels like it’s supposed to again. Just you and him, sitting side by side in the honey-warm sunlight. 

But the peace is only ephemeral. There’s suddenly a sound that doesn’t belong to this place – to this dream world.

Hooves.

It sounds distant and hollow and ultimately wrong. 

Dean’s head cocks a little, brow furrowing as he looks out past the slope of the hill, toward the tree line where the light begins to thin.

“You hear that?” he asks without glancing at you, his gaze still trained on the invisible danger past the horizon.

But the second the words exit his mouth, the sound of them leave him bewildered. They come out too deeply and roughly. It’s not a child’s voice anymore.

It’s his – fully grown and perfectly raspy. 

Confused, his gaze drops down to his hands, and they’re larger, broader, and calloused now in ways they weren’t a second ago. His sneakers are replaced by boots, the grass stains on denim gone from his knees. 

Dean straightens abruptly and flexes his fingers a few times, as if that could possibly reset something. But it doesn’t work. The weight of himself feels older and heavier now.

“What the–”

His head then finally snaps to you. And you–

You’re not seven anymore, either.

You’re sitting exactly where you were, in the same patch of grass beneath the willow, but you’ve changed, too. Grown into yourself in an instant. Twenty-two. The softness is still there, but it’s shaped differently now. 

You’re wearing a bright yellow summer dress now instead of your short denim overalls, the fabric thin and airy and sun-washed, catching the breeze as it moves around you. Your hair falls longer now as well, loose and slightly tangled from the wind.

And for a heartbeat, Dean forgets everything else around him, including the strange noises.

His gaze fixes on the way the hem of your dress brushes the weeds, the way the sunlight illuminates your skin, and the way you look… older – not just in years, but in presence.

Shit.

Okay. Yeah, no. That’s new.

His brain scrambles for footing, trying to reorient, to file this under something that makes sense, but it doesn’t quite get there before his thoughts take a sharp, unhelpful left turn.

His eyes flicker to your lips, soft and plush and inviting. There’s suddenly a strange urge there to do something about it – like connecting his own to yours. He wants to know what they taste like, if they’re as sweet and warm as your voice. 

What the hell kind of dream is this…

The thought dies instantly, however, when the sound of hooves reverberates through the air again, coming closer and closer. 

The sunlight then morphs from amber and gold to blue and gray, the wind picks up on speed like a storm brewing, and the air feels a lot colder and more brittle now. 

The warmth is gone.

Dean’s posture changes instantly, every muscle in his body tensing with instinct. His gaze snaps toward the hill again, scanning and calculating, something old and ingrained rising to the surface before he can even think it through.

This isn’t right. This isn’t just a dream, is it?

You shift beside him, your brows meeting in the middle as you glance at him and then out toward the same direction. “Dean? What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer, though. His jaw locks, pulse thundering in his ears, adrenaline flooding his blood as the realization dawns on him with a terrifying clarity.

The hooves strike once more, and everything drops away around him in the blink of an eye.

Dean jolts awake on the couch, like he’s been yanked back into his body by God himself.

The change in the air feels violent.  

He feels slightly disoriented as he blinks his eyes awake, the golden dreamscape he found himself in a minute ago suddenly replaced by the dusty and gothic interior of a New England bed and breakfast. 

But the sound? Oh, that followed him all the way to reality. 

The hooves and something that sounds suspiciously like clattering metal are still there, and it’s definitely not in his head. It’s goddamn real. 

Dean’s breathing comes out harshly as he pushes himself upright on the couch, eyes darting to the window, already expecting to see a horse with a headless rider out there in the dark. His heart is racing a mile a minute, the adrenaline spiking.

“Sam?” he calls and runs a hand through his messy locks. “Hey–… Sam? Guys? Wake up.”

The sheets on both beds begin to rustle and move. 

Sam’s up first, already halfway out of bed before he’s even fully conscious, hearing the urgency (and slight panic) in his brother’s tone. “Dean? What? What’s wrong?”

You, on the other hand, are slower only by half a second, sitting up with the softest groan Dean’s ever heard someone utter. Your hair is a bit mussed, falling into your face as one of those oversized sleep shirts slips off one shoulder. 

It’s distracting enough to be inconvenient right now.

Because your hair falls over that same shoulder, so he can’t really tell if there’s a bra strap underneath it or not. The not is what concerns him the most, though. You certainly weren’t wearing one under that yellow sundress in his dream.

Man, his brain has excellent timing, doesn’t it?

Get it together.

He drags his focus back where it belongs, and his jaw clenches tightly upon the next wave of sounds. “You guys hear that?”

The room stills, as do you and Sam, trying to listen, eyes narrowing slightly. Dean hears it again, but he already sees how both you and his little brother begin to slowly shake your heads. 

“I don’t hear anything,” you confirm Dean’s worst suspicions that this thing’s only coming for him. 

Sam’s head bobs in recognition. “Guess that means it’s starting.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean scoffs and jumps on his feet, overtaken by a burst of restless energy he’s familiar with during hunts, his body entering into fight or flight mode. “Think he’s close, guys. Any ideas would be greatly appreciated now.”

You push yourself out of bed as well, the last traces of sleep burning off fast as your gaze lands on Dean. He feels like he’s going crazy because he could swear there’s even a trace of concern gleaming in your eyes. 

“Your aura’s tighter. Something’s pulling at it,” you note.

Dean scowls. “Thanks for the visual.”

“We need to find out who that sword belonged to as fast as possible before it takes Dean’s head,” Sam says and already grabs one of the binders again, hands flipping pages at record speed. 

“How?” you ask, your voice slightly rising as the panic rises with it. “Look at those things, Sam! There’s no way we’re gonna find the right page in time.”

“Love the enthusiasm,” Dean mutters, earning him a dry look from you. Then he purses his lips, however, and God, he already hates saying it. “But she’s right, Sammy. We don’t exactly have time for a full-on research montage right now.”

“I know that, Dean,” Sam huffs. “But what do you suggest, huh? The only way to end this is finding out who or what we’re dealing with. You already tried salting and burning the sword, and it didn’t work, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be something else. Think, man! C’mon, you’re the brains, and I’m the brawn. Just do what you do best!”

“Like, what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Guys!” You suddenly cut into their argument, forcing the brothers to focus on you instead. “I think I’ve got it!”

You don’t elaborate on what exactly you’ve got, though, which slightly tests Dean’s patience. He hates when Sam does that shit, too. Is it too much to ask for people to finish a damn thought around here?

Before he can question it, however, he watches you rush to your bag and hurriedly rummage through it till you pull out your little notebook. 

He arches an eyebrow at you, skeptical as ever. “What, you’re gonna write another spell?”

It’s honestly not the worst idea, but he can’t give you the satisfaction of knowing that. God knows one little spell only leads to more. 

“Actually, I don’t have to,” you say, hastily flipping pages back and forth as if you were looking for something specific. The notebook is an explosion of color, inked in different shades as glitter catches the dim light in the room. 

“You wrote something?” Sam asks.

“In college,” you reply with a quick nod, eyes scanning and skimming, fingers flipping even faster. “I used to hate digging through library archives, so I made a spell that pulls the exact information I’m looking for from a text. It’s kind of like a magical Ctrl+F.”

Why is Dean not even a little bit surprised? Of course you would do something like that.

Your fingers then stop their movements abruptly, eyes lighting up. “Found it.”

The ink is a brightly glistening sunny yellow. The color almost feels obnoxiously cheerful for a possible decapitation by a headless dude on a horse at three in the morning.

Dean’s brow raises as he nods to the page. “What’s yellow stand for?”

“Academic magic,” you mutter without glancing up.

Dean doesn’t say anything more to that. He just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, shifting his weight slightly as he watches you spread all eight binders evenly on the small table. That uncomfortable and familiar feeling creeps back into his veins at the thought of your magic, but he knows this might be the only thing keeping his head attached to his body right now. It still doesn’t sit right with him, though. 

You murmur the words under your breath, and the effect is practically immediate this time. The third binder on the left jerks open with a loud thud before pages start flipping on their own with the force of a hurricane blowing through them. Then it abruptly stops on a page, and a section of it begins to glow like yellow sunshine. 

Sam leans in over the open binder, checks the marked section, and a smile begins to rise. “That’s it. Elias Whittaker. Says here he was a Union soldier in the Civil War.”

“Great.” You exhale a relieved breath and smile as well. 

Dean’s jaw, though, tightens the slightest bit before he pushes it down. Why does every win of yours bother him so much? He should be glad they found what they were looking for. He should be glad they can save him now. But instead, what he feels almost comes close to dread. 

Sam rips the page out of the binder and grabs his jacket. “We should take this to the library. Cross-reference, get everything we can on him. Maybe we find his burial site.” 

Dean grimaces at the idea. “Yeah, you have fun with that.” He grabs his keys, heading for the door. “I’m getting the sword back. If that dude’s coming for me, it’s probably best if he isn’t fully armed. Maybe we can stall him that way.”

Sam gives him a quick nod. “Good idea.” Then his gaze shifts to you. “You go with him.”

Both yours and Dean’s heads snap toward his little brother with raised brows and wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean checks and sees you make a face in his periphery as well. 

You wrinkle your nose as you look at Sam. “Do I have to?”

Dean turns his head sharply at that, his skin prickling. “Wow. Good to know where I rank,” he scoffs.

You shoot him a look. “You’re being hunted by a headless ghost with a sword. Forgive me for not volunteering enthusiastically.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled you’re so concerned about me, Sabrina,” he fires back dryly. “Relax. It’s not a date.”  

“Could’ve fooled me with how happy you sound,” you mutter. 

Dean’s mouth is already opening with a comeback before Sam cuts in, stopping this little argument from spiraling any further. 

Sam looks at you with his best puppy eyes again. “Look, you’re the only one who might be able to slow this thing down if it shows up.” 

“With what?” you shoot back. “Strongly worded encouragement? It’s a ghost. I don’t exactly have a game plan or a spell lying around for that.”

Sam just offers you a shrug. “You’re smart. You’ll figure something out. Improvise.”

“Improvise?!” You gape at his little brother before your eyes snap to Dean. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah, he is. He does that sometimes,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck.

“Haven’t gotten you killed so far, though,” Sam quips.

“Last time, you almost let me get run over by a ghost truck on a hunch, man.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You let out a deep groan as you grab your jacket and bag. “I’d just like to officially put it on record that this is a terrible, terrible idea.”

“Yeah, most of ours are, actually. You’ll get used to it.” Dean grins, holding the door open for you. 

“Awesome. Good to know.”

The moon hangs lowly just above the horizon, where the night’s indigo blue is slowly bleeding into a dawning gray. Fog curls over the asphalt and catches in Baby’s headlights like a ghostly sheen as the road weaves through the quiet outskirts of town, bordered by dense foliage and ancient trees on each side. 

Dean’s grip on the wheel is steady, although he feels the tension underneath it in his forearms and shoulders. The familiar hum of the engine grounds him, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of hooves in the back of his skull entirely. 

Oh, this thing’s coming for him, alright. 

He exhales slowly through his nose and rolls one shoulder, even trying to physically shake the sound loose. It doesn’t help, though. 

Next to him, you’re folded slightly into your seat, your notebook open across your lap. The dim glow from the dashboard spills over the page, catching on streaks of glitter ink that shimmer every time your pen moves. You keep tapping it against the margin in an uneven rhythm, faster when you’re thinking harder and slower when you hit a wall. But the sound at least soothes him a little. 

Your hair is still carrying a hint of sleep in it, loose and a little unruly, falling around your face in soft waves. Your brow is furrowed, lips pressed together, gaze seemingly fixed on something only you can see. There’s something about the way you look right now – barefaced, focused, completely absorbed – that feels disarmingly normal.

Dean clears his throat, shooting you a sideways glance. “You planning my funeral over there, or…?”

You snort a quiet laugh but don’t answer him right away, still staring at the page like it might rearrange itself into something useful. “Thinking,” you say after a beat, voice still rough with leftover sleep. “About spells.”

That pulls a small huff out of him, though it lacks its usual edge. “Yeah? That supposed to make me feel better?”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes swerving to him. “Depends,” you say, tapping the pen once more. “How open are you to being a magical test subject? I’m trying to figure out if there’s something I can do to keep it away from you. I just don’t know how ghosts respond to most of what I can do, though.”

Dean lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking his head as he looks back at the road. “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and veto that,” he says. “No offense, but I’d rather not be your guinea pig for experimental witchcraft at five in the morning.”

He mostly means it as a joke, but there’s still that undercurrent, that instinctive recoil he can’t quite scrub out of himself. Years of training don’t just disappear because you’ve got a cute notebook and a nervous habit of tapping your pen.

“Fair enough,” you say and accept his answer with a nod. “Not sure I’d wanna be, either.”

Your gaze drops back to the page for a moment, your pen stilling. 

“It’s just–… I don’t know what to do against something like that,” you admit, dragging the pen absently along the margin. The frustration is clearer now in your voice. “Plants, sure. Spells, fine. But ghosts?” You shake your head, lips pressing together. “That’s not exactly in my wheelhouse. I don’t know what your brother was thinking.”

Dean glances over again, a little slower this time, really looking at you instead of just checking. He takes note of the tension in your shoulders and how your fingers curl a little tighter around the pen as if you’re trying to grip onto a solution that won’t quite stick. The thing that bugs him the most, however, is not that you don’t know what to do, but that you’re downright bothered by not knowing.

Because of him.

Three weeks ago, he had a gun aimed at your head because everything he’d been raised on told him that was the right call – witch, potential threat, end of story. And now you’re sitting next to him in the middle of the night, visibly frustrated that you can’t figure out how to keep him alive.

It’s almost absurd – your concern for him. You should be celebrating right now and not worrying. Most of all, he hates the feeling it causes in his gut. Guilt – real, actual guilt and not the one he’s usually good at shoving aside. You suck for that – for caring. 

He doesn’t say any of that aloud, obviously.

“Hey,” he says but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “It’s fine, alright? I got it.”

You turn your head toward him, brows knitting. “You’ve got it?”

He chuckles lightly at your doubt and jerks his chin toward the backseat. “Shotgun.”

That earns him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and mild concern for his sanity. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Wait…” Your brow creases a little more, probably trying to decide if this is another bit of his or a cry for help. “Do bullets actually hurt ghosts? Kinda defeats the purpose of being dead.”

He snorts and grins a little. “Regular bullets? No. Rock salt? Whole different story.”

You blink. “Rock salt?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you again. “Load it up, it’ll mess ‘em up. Not a permanent solution, but it buys time.”

You stare at him for a second longer, clearly recalibrating your entire understanding of how the world works. “That is… the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He scoffs a chuckle. “And yet, it works.”

An actual laugh slips out of you at that, lifting the tension in the car just a smidge. It’s also apparently enough for you to open a conversation instead of drifting back into silence. 

“So, uhm, Sam told me he went to Stanford until a year ago,” you note, your voice more cautious than before, as if you’re not sure small talk was allowed yet. 

“Yeah, he’s a big nerd. The kid practically lives in libraries,” Dean retorts, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“What about you? Did you go to college?”

He snorts, amused, and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why?”

Dean shoots you a quick glance, then shrugs. “Never was on my radar. Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Your dad didn’t want you to go?”

He barks a laugh at that. If you only knew his father as well as he did, you probably wouldn’t have even asked that question. “You kidding? The old man barely wanted Sammy to go.”

And even that is the understatement of the goddamn century. He still remembers that blow-up fight like it was yesterday.

Your head bobs in thought. “So you’ve always just done… this? Hunting?”

“Yup.”

“You never wanted to do anything else?” 

“Nope.” 

Alright, that might’ve been a lie. There are surely a few things Dean dreamt of doing when he was younger – fireman, mechanic, rock star. But real life got in the way and made that decision for him. Not like anyone ever asked him what he wanted, either. This whole thing was just shoved into his lap, but he never mulled too long over it. 

His gaze then absentmindedly drifts to your lap as you shift the notebook and then stops abruptly. He almost hits the brakes on accident as his eyes land on a small flower peeking out between the pages – white petals and a yellow center. 

A daisy.

His brain pretty much trips over itself like it missed a step. He blinks, looks back to the road, then back at the notebook again, and slowly comes to the realization that he hasn’t imagined it. 

It’s definitely still there and very real. 

And suddenly, his thoughts start stacking on top of each other, his stomach dropping slightly as his dream comes crashing back like a flood. 

There’s no need to panic, though, right? So, what? It’s a flower. People have flowers. Kids press flowers into books all the damn time. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s completely normal. Not to mention that daisies are pretty much the most common flowers out there. 

But what if it’s not just any flower. What if it’s the flower? What if it’s the one he picked for y–

No, stop it!

He cuts his thoughts off. There’s no way this is the flower from his dream because those dreams aren’t real. He never actually picked a daisy for you because he hadn’t even known you existed until three weeks ago. It’s not possible. He probably just saw that flower in your notebook once beforehand, at the B&B or wherever, and his brain latched onto it again for some reason he still can’t understand. 

Nevertheless, Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers as his eyes flick up almost involuntarily to your face and then a little higher to your hair.

To that exact spot just above your ear.

It’s empty, but of course it’s empty now. Why wouldn’t it be?

But then his brain, stupid thing that it is, overlays it with something else. There’s summer sunlight instead of the dashboard glow now, warm gold instead of cold blue, your hair reflecting it like it’s lit from the inside. He sees his own hand moving slowly and carefully in a way that doesn’t match him at all and tucking that same stupid flower into your hair again.

And the feeling that comes with it is worse than panic, fear, or confusion – it’s warmth. Feels like something clicking into place that he didn’t even know was missing.

Which is stupid, needless to say. It’s insane. He’s going crazy and not just due to the dumb horse noises in his head. 

Dean inhales sharply through his nose. Nope. He’s still not doing this. 

It’s still only a dream. That’s it. His brain’s just grabbing random crap and stitching it together into something weirdly sentimental. His mind just simply clocked it, stored it, recycled it. That’s all this is.

That has to be all this is, right? Because the alternative? 

Yeah, no. Hard pass.

He clears his throat, forcing his tone back into something casual as he gestures his chin toward your lap, even though he already hates himself for not resisting harder and prodding further. “What’s that?”

You follow his gaze, blinking once before you realize what he means. Your fingers brush lightly over the page, delicately tracing the stem of the dried flower. Your expression softens into something almost private, like you’re getting lost in your thoughts for a second and forgot he was even still there. 

“Oh, that?” you say and give a shrug, a secret smile beginning to bloom on your lips nonetheless. “It’s just some flower. It’s been there forever. I put it in there as a kid.” You pause for a beat, thumb tracing one of the petals now before you shake your head at yourself, a small huff of amusement leaving you. “I honestly don’t know why I kept it. Daisies aren’t even my favorite. But it’s from home, so…”

“Oh.” Dean nods slowly and swallows, throat so much tighter than it should be for such a simple explanation.

His gaze stays on it for another minute, then drifts back up to your face before he can stop it.

“It’s–, uhm, it’s pretty.”

The words slip out, and his eyes snap to the road, pretending to be oh-so causal about a crazy comment like that, even though he’s cursing himself for ever saying it. 

Why the hell did he, though? What on earth is going on here?

He knew daisies weren’t your favorite because the dream told him, but he couldn’t have known that, right? Is this a coincidence? Just a lucky guess his brain made?

Shit.

You wrinkle your nose slightly and arch a brow, surprised. “You think so?”

Dean shrugs quickly and clears his throat offensively loudly. “Sure, yeah.”

And just like that, the air changes in the car, and there’s a different kind of tension now. 

You shift slightly in your seat, and he adjusts his grip on the wheel, both of you suddenly aware of the other in a way that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Dean exhales more sharply this time and swiftly reaches for the radio. A second later, the car fills with the opening riff of Ramble On. It cuts straight through the awkward silence, through the tension, and through the weird, lingering pull in his ribcage that he refuses to examine too closely.

Ah, that’s better.

He nods once to himself, settling the issue, and fixes his eyes firmly on the road ahead as the music takes over.

Dean’s had worse mornings.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he trudges through damp underbrush at an hour no sane person should be conscious.

Why did he pick this job again? Oh, right. Like he told you, it picked him.  

The sky is still caught somewhere between night and dawn, the gray reaching higher and lighter at the horizon. The woods behind the museum stretch out endlessly through shadows and mist, all of it tinted in that deep, cold blue that makes everything look a little more spooky than it would be during daylight. 

Hell, when he was here during the day, these woods could’ve even been considered beautiful. Like that meadow where Bambi lives. Now it’s a horror movie come to life, though. 

The hooting owls and rustling branches don’t help either. 

Behind him, you carefully step over a large branch, your sneakers crunching on the forest floor. While you haven’t said anything since the car, Dean can still hear the reluctance in each of your steps and the occasional hitch of your breath.

You’re definitely jumpy, but he tries not to let his amusement show, even though it’s ridiculously adorable. 

He steals a glimpse over his shoulder and catches the way your eyes briefly swerve toward a darker stretch of trees to the left, surely expecting something to jump out of there. Your hands tug on the sleeves of your jacket repeatedly, probably trying to calm yourself in some way. 

Dean bites back a smirk. “Wow,” he mutters, pushing a low branch out of his way. “Didn’t peg you for the easily spooked type.”

“I’m not,” you shoot back a little too quickly for his taste.

As you gracefully step over a root, your foot snags on another one hidden beneath the leaves. You fall forward with a quiet “whoa–,” and Dean reacts instinctively and spins just in time to catch you by your arms before you can fully eat dirt. The impact brings you closer than either of you probably intended, your weight tipping into him for the tiniest second before you steady yourself and quickly pull back, but it’s not far enough.

You’re close. Real close. 

He can see the small crease between your brows, the way your lashes soak up what little light there is, and the soft flush in your cheeks. Your face looks… annoyingly good.

A clear of his throat breaks the awkward silence. “You were saying?”

You blink, then straighten quickly, brushing past him like nothing happened. And maybe it didn’t. 

“I said I’m not scared,” you repeat. “It’s just–” you gesture at the trees around you, “–this is not exactly my usual environment.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks and continues his march forward. “What is your usual environment? Labs and scented candles?”

You huff a soft laugh behind him. “For your information, the scariest thing I’ve dealt with before this was a ghost tour in Salem.”

Dean snorts loudly and raises a brow at you over his shoulder. “A ghost tour?”

“Yup. It was at night, alright?” you defend. “And the guide had a lantern and everything. There were sound effects.”

“Wow. Terrifying.”

“There was a reenactment of the witch trials. Very much scary for someone like me,” you add as if that helps your case.

It doesn’t. 

Dean gives a shake of his head, but his lips are twitching around a smile. “Yeah, alright. Remind me to never question your bravery again.”

Another owl then calls somewhere deeper in the woods, and you go just a little too still for a second before forcing yourself to keep walking. Dean notices that too, but something else spreads under the amusement. He knows you’re out of your depth here. This isn’t your world – the dark, the hunt, and all the things that move where and when they shouldn’t.

And yet, you still came along for the ride in an attempt to save his life. He’s at least willing to give you credit for that.

“You’re good,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter than before. “Just… watch your step.”

You meet his eyes, slightly surprised, but then nod once. “Yeah, okay.”

The two of you then fall into a rhythm after that, the banter easing into something more comfortable and less forced. The shed behind the museum where he hid the sword then comes into view through the fog a minute later. It’s pretty rundown and honestly only one strong breeze away from collapsing entirely, but he’d figured that was probably an advantage, meaning no one would snoop around here and accidentally find the cursed blade again. 

Dean stops and scans the area automatically. “This is it.”

“Charming,” you murmur.

He circles around the back, boots sinking slightly into the softer and moss-covered ground, until he spots an old wooden trunk, half-hidden behind tall weeds and debris. He figured the sword would probably be safest in there. But as he crouches and flips the lid open, he stills abruptly. 

Empty.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He probably should’ve expected a wooden box like that wouldn’t keep a ghost out, but he figured at least all the salt he poured into the trunk would’ve helped. 

“What?” you check, stepping closer.

“It’s gone.”

The words barely leave his mouth before a very distinct sound hits him – and it’s not the owls this time. 

Hooves.

Dean’s head snaps up, the noise so much closer now than it was back at the room or even the car, his whole body flying into high alert in an instant. The noise of clinking metal, which surely comes from the missing blade, almost rings like a warning bell.

“Did you hear–”

But Dean doesn’t even get to finish that sentence. He sees your eyes widen to the size of little moons, and the next thing he knows, you’re slamming into him at full speed, hard enough to knock the oxygen right out of his lungs as you tackle him to the ground. The impact of the cold forest floor tears through his bones as your weight lands on top of him before something whooshes through the empty air above where his head used to be only a second ago. 

As his eyes snap upwards, a mighty black stallion rears above the two of you and neighs loudly. Its breath steams in the suddenly freezing air, while its rider is clearly headless. 

Dean doesn’t have too much time, though, to take a longer peek before his gaze flicks to the horseman’s hand and the sharp sword in it. 

“Move!” he barks, adrenaline rushing into his blood as the blade comes down again.

He rolls both of you hard to the side, flipping positions so he’s on top just as the sword buries itself into the dirt only a mere inch away from your shoulder, the ground trembling with the sheer force of the assault.

“Up! Go!” he yells, scrambling to his feet and quickly hauling you up with him as the rider yanks the blade free again.

And then? Well, there’s really only running left. His shotgun flew out of reach and landed somewhere in the bushes when you tackled him, so he really doesn’t see any other immediate options for now.

He grabs hold of your wrist and drags you with him through the woods, branches whipping past the two of you as you both navigate a sea of overgrown roots without stumbling. But Dean doesn’t need to look back to know this thing’s still gaining speed and catching up fast.

“Do something!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do!”

“Then think of something!”

The horse neighs too closely behind him, and Dean turns around just in time to see the rider swing again. He ducks quickly, the blade slicing through the air above him before slamming into a tree trunk with a loud crack. The noise reverberates through the silence as wood splinters and bark goes flying in all directions.

“Ha! Missed!” Dean smirks tauntingly at the rider. He’s not sure the poor fella can even see him, considering the guy’s missing his whole head. “Ain’t that easy to kill me. Gotta have to try harder.”

“Why are you provoking it?!” you rebuke him. 

Dean opens his mouth to retort but stops when the horseman rips the sword free like the damn tree meant nothing.

“Okay, less talking, more magic!” he shouts, retreating until his back hits another tree, nowhere left to go as the rider closes in again.

The sword lifts.

“Right about now would be awesome!” he snaps.

And then, the ground suddenly answers for you.

It starts as a slight tremor beneath his boots, subtle at first but rising fast as the soil cracks open like a fault line during an earthquake. Thick, gnarled, and ancient roots then tear through the earth, snapping upward with violent force.

They lash around the rider’s arm and curl tightly just as the blade begins its descent, jerking it back mid-swing. More roots shoot out of the ground after and wrap around the horse’s legs, locking it in place as it thrashes and screams wildly against its restraints.

And Dean? He kind of just stares for a second in stunned bewilderment, his brow twitching, chest heaving with leftover adrenaline. “Huh.”

You seem just as startled by your own work next to him, blinking down at your hands. “Huh,” you echo breathlessly. “Never done that before. Guess I can improvise.”

Before Dean can answer, however, the horseman and his loyal stallion roar furiously, the roots already starting to crack around their limbs. 

“Yup, great breakthrough,” he quips, already tugging at your sleeve. “We should probably go before this thing tears itself free again.”

“Good idea. He does seem rather angry, although it’s hard to tell without a face,” you say and tilt your head at the rider like you’re trying to analyze him – or maybe read his aura. 

Dean’s not entirely sure, but he doesn’t wait for you to finish your philosophical pondering and grabs your wrist once more, bolting back to the Impala with you in tow. 

Neither of you looks back as the sound of splintering roots echoes through the forest behind you.

When you push through the library doors, you still feel a little winded from all that running and Dean’s rather erratic driving, your hands still trembling from leftover adrenaline or shock. Maybe both. 

And speaking of the green-eyed hunter, he’s right behind you, feeling his labored breaths and the residual warmth of him at your back, which is a little distracting but less than the drumming against the steering wheel and the loud singing in the car. He’s still restless, his aura green but threaded with streaks of red from his survival instincts, pacing like a caged animal that hasn’t realized it’s safe yet. 

Sam looks up from his pile of books and notes the second you approach, seemingly waiting on a spring, judging by how fast he jumps out of his seat. His eyes quickly assess you and his brother from head to toe as if he’s checking for injuries and counting limbs.

“You guys okay?” he asks.

“Define okay,” you reply with a huff, exhaustively dropping into the chair across from him. “Because if the scale includes ‘not currently being hunted by a headless horseman,’ then yeah, we’re doing great.”

Dean exhales a long breath next to you, dragging a hand down his face before dropping into the chair beside you. “Sword’s gone. And the guy attached to it? Very stabby.”

You nod, rubbing your hands together, still feeling the dirt and adrenaline prickling under your skin. “Yeah, he’s fast. And persistent. And apparently not a fan of improvisation via landscaping.”

Sam’s brows crease. “What?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I’ll explain later.”

There’s a flash in Dean’s aura when you say that, the green fringed with something warmer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost claim he seems impressed, but it disappears as fast as it came when Sam braces his elbows on the table, already switching fully into research mode.

“Okay,” he says, flipping his laptop around toward you. “I think I found our guy.”

He taps the screen, and you lean in, eyes scanning the old photograph and text.

“Name’s Elias Whitaker,” Sam continues. “He was a Union soldier and stationed just outside what used to be the original town in 1863. From what I can piece together, he was accused of being a Confederate sympathizer – passing information, sabotaging movements, the whole deal.”

You tilt your head skeptically, thinking back to the cards you drew. “Was he?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope, doesn’t look like it. Records are messy, but there’s a consistent thread. His commanding officer, Captain Harlan Pike, had a pretty good motive. See, Whitaker was engaged, and apparently, Pike had a thing for the fiancée.”

You groan. “‘Course he did.”

“The guy’s name was Harlan? Talk about a villain name,” Dean quips.

“Yup,” Sam agrees. “So get this – he frames Whitaker, stirs up suspicion, and turns the whole town against him. Pike had rank and influence. I mean, back then, that’s basically all it took. No trial, no proof. All he needed was fear and a mob. They dragged Whitaker out to the woods. And according to one account, he swore that he’d come back and kill every man who judged him without cause.”

Dean scoffs under his breath. “Guess he kept his word.”

“They executed him with his own sword and left the blade and the head at the site,” Sam adds. “The body was buried later in the town cemetery because his fiancée insisted on it.”

You lean back in your chair, processing. “So the sword stayed buried with the head?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sam replies. “But a few weeks ago, a local survey crew apparently uncovered the sword in the woods. It got turned over, cleaned up, and was donated to the museum.”

“So that’s when the curse kicked in,” Dean surmises.

Sam nods and then continues, “But there’s something else.”

You look at him. “You found out how the victims are connected?”

“Yup, I think so,” Sam says, his lips twitching slightly, seemingly amused by his findings. “I went back over the victims. Not just cause of death, but who they were. After you guys talked to that witness at the crime scene, I figured it probably had to do with their personalities, tying back to Whitaker somehow.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly, scratching the nape of his neck. “What d’you find?”

“Well, something they all seemed to have in common was being judgmental,” Sam says and gives his brother a tight smile, clearly waiting for Dean to catch on. “The first victim, a guy named Daniel Hodge, got fired last year for repeatedly harassing a coworker. I’m talking HR complaints, sexist remarks, the works. He claimed he was justified.”

You grimace. “Charming.”

“The second victim then was Reverend Collins,” Sam continues. “He ran a small church outside town and preached a lot about purity, damnation… He had a habit of publicly calling people out for ‘sinning.’”

“Yikes.”

“And the third victim was a local business owner, who refused service to… certain customers.”

You purse your lips. “So he was a racist.”

“Yup.”

You let out a long breath. “So the victims are all people who judged others, like Whitaker was judged.”

“Seems that way, yes,” Sam confirms. 

Your eyes flick to Dean, shooting him a raised look. “Well, guess we know why you got cursed now.”

Dean scoffs immediately. “Oh, come on–”

You turn more fully toward him, brows lifting. “There’s a reason I called you a Puritan, you know. You were one pitchfork away from burning me at the stake.”

Sam’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin.

Dean tries to laugh it off, but you can tell by the flares in his aura that he clearly feels uncomfortable in his skin now. “C’mon, I wasn’t actually trying to shoot you.”

“Weren’t you, though?” you fire back, cocking your head. “Because from where I was standing, it felt pretty historically authentic. You pointed a gun to my head.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it, alright?” 

You shrug your shoulders. “Doesn’t seem to matter to the ghost. Just saying, you might wanna reflect on your choices a little.”

He opens his mouth to argue again but falters halfway. He clicks his tongue and turns to Sam instead. “So, how do we stop this thing from publicly executing me now? Please tell me you found something.”

Sam clears his throat a little, steering things back as he pulls up a site on his laptop. “There’s a ritual. It’s not super common, but it lines up with vengeance hauntings and cursed objects. Since salting and burning didn’t work, maybe laying the spirit to rest will. Basically, we reunite the remains, body and head, and cleanse the weapon that anchored the spirit. That should break the cycle.”

“Sounds simple when you say it like that, but I’m guessing it’s not,” you say, already fearing where this is going.

“Unfortunately, no,” Sam replies. “We need the sword. And we need to find the head.” He taps the map on his screen. “Body’s in the cemetery. That part’s easy. The head, though – records say he was executed in the woods just outside town. Same general area where the sword was found.”

“So probably still out there,” you murmur.

“Probably,” Sam agrees. Then his gaze drifts fully to you, a little more careful now. “And the ritual… it needs someone who can actually perform it. Someone with… your kind of skillset.”

You blink at him. “My ‘kind of skillset’ is mostly keeping houseplants alive and occasionally finding lost earrings.”

“You did more than that out there,” Dean mutters under his breath, surprising you slightly. 

Out of the two of them, you honestly believed he wouldn’t vote for that, considering he’s been doubting every single move you made so far. 

You glance at him, then back at Sam, slightly overwhelmed. “I–I mean, I can try. I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t even really use structured rituals. I kind of just… make things up and hope they work.”

Sam nods, not discouraged in the slightest. “That’s okay. You understand the mechanics. You can adapt it.”

You let out a nervous breath. “Adapt it. Right, no pressure.”

Dean leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “So what’s the play here?”

“Split up, I think,” Sam suggests. “You guys go to the site where they found the sword. I figured we could use another spell to find the head faster. Once you got it, you can bring it to the cemetery. I’ll dig up the grave. Since Whitaker is after Dean, we can draw him out that way and get the sword back.”

You furrow your brow wildly. “Wait, hold on… Draw him out? You wanna use Dean as ghost bait?”

“Ain’t the first time. Kinda my thing,” the green-eyed hunter mutters next to you and shoots you a cocky grin.

“That should so not be your thing,” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head. “You guys are being way too casual about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam tries to assure you. “We’ll be ready. As soon as we have the sword, you can start the ritual while we keep the spirit occupied.”

“Occupied?” you parrot, arching an eyebrow at them.

Dean just gives you a casual shrug, offering you a crooked smirk. “We’re pretty good at that.”

After another quick location spell to find a human skull (a first for you), you and Dean meet up with Sam at Sleepy Hollow’s cemetery, which unsurprisingly leans pretty heavily into its haunted aesthetic. It’s frankly even creepier than the rest of this town, and that’s truly saying something.

It’s already dusk when you arrive, the sky fading from clear blue into a bruised violet as the last sunlight clings to the horizon. Most of the headstones are crooked and tilt at odd angles, moss and ivy crawling up their sides. The stubborn fog doesn’t help the overall vibe, either. You honestly half-expect something to crawl out of the ground even without supernatural interference. 

Dean, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed by the graveyard environment, strolling almost cheerfully ahead. He casually carries the skull, sometimes playing with it like a ball and juggling it from one hand into the other, treating it like a damn prop. You already told him to stop doing that, but he obviously ignored you. 

It seems like you have officially upgraded from “girl who writes spells with glitter gel pens” to “girl who retrieves decapitated heads before dinner.”

By the time the two of you reach Whitaker’s grave, Sam is already halfway done digging, standing in a shallow pit with his sleeves rolled up and dirt smudged across his arms and face. Clearly, he’s been at it for a while.

“Hey, Sammy! Heads up!” Dean calls with a bright grin, and before your brain can even process what he’s about to do, he tosses the skull in a short arc toward his little brother.

“Dean!” you snap at the exact same time Sam goes, “Dude, seriously?” and fumbles the catch, barely managing to grab the skull before it hits the ground.

Sam glares, you glare, and Dean lifts both hands in surrender, entirely unrepentant.

“What?” Dean shrugs his shoulders as if his actions are even remotely defensible. “He caught it.”

“You threw a human head,” you scold his cemetery behavior, which he apparently deemed entirely appropriate. 

These boys clearly spend too much time in places like this to be this freaking comfortable around human remains. 

“Former human,” Dean corrects under his breath.

And you? Yeah, you don’t even dignify that with a response and only roll your eyes.

Sam exhales sharply as he climbs out of the grave, setting the skull down with a lot more care than it was afforded by his brother, then gestures at the shovel. “Here. Switch.”

Dean looks down into the hole, then back at Sam. “Oh, now it’s my turn? C’mon, I’m practically on my deathbed, man.”

But Sam only offers him a deadpan look and holds the shovel out to his brother. Dean grabs it with a resigned sigh before you suddenly stop him with a hand on his arm.  

“Wait.”

Both of them look at you expectantly. 

“I think I can make this faster.” 

Dean’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t argue for once, probably relieved about skipping all that digging, whereas Sam just watches you full of curiosity.

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer to the grave. You then close your eyes, tethering yourself to the earth beneath your feet as you always do. Soil should be a lot easier than roots, but you can’t exactly say you’ve done this before either. 

Then again, you never needed to dig up a grave in your life beforehand. 

The dirt loosens and shifts, beginning to part like the Red Sea, trickling away in soft waves till the coffin peeks out through the soil. Clumps slide down the sides of the grave, pebbles clicking against the wood until the whole coffin is fully revealed without another shovel needing to hit the ground.

When you open your eyes again with a satisfied smile, you find both brothers staring at you, mouths agape. 

“Okay…” Dean surprisingly even lets out a low whistle. “That’s admittedly kinda awesome.”

“Thank you.” You bite back a grin, trying not to look too pleased with yourself at his praise, but it honestly feels a little like getting a compliment from your school bully. 

Sam, however, downright looks like he’s regretting ever touching a shovel in his life. 

Dean then hops down into the grave and crouches by the coffin, brushing some remaining dirt off the lid before prying it open with a crowbar. But something in him changes suddenly, head lifting, forest green eyes fixing on something in the distance beyond the trees. His aura sharpens as well, colors morphing into high alert.

You don’t need to see his face to know something’s wrong, and a second later, you can hear it, too.

Hooves. 

“He’s coming back,” Dean says and jumps out of the hole, finding your eyes. “Got everything we need?”

You nod frantically and reach into your jacket pocket for the folded piece of paper with the modified spell on it. 

“Good. Showtime,” he says with a smirk, and you almost think he’s enjoying getting nearly decapitated a little too much. Who on Earth is that insane?

Sam then moves fast, grabbing the skull and placing it into the coffin with the body, adjusting it with surprising care for someone working under a ticking clock.

You’re scrambling as well, pulling four white candles from your bag and placing them at the corners of the coffin. Your fingers are only steady out of sheer necessity before you magically light all wicks at the same time. The flames flicker weakly at first and then stretch taller as the wind begins to pick up.

The Latin script on the paper in your hands stares at you, unfamiliar in shape but not in intention. You don’t usually do spells like this – structured, inherited, borrowed. Luckily, you had enough Latin in school to push through and understand at least half of it. 

God, you hope that counts for something. 

The moment the rider breaks through the trees, Dean doesn’t wait and starts to sprint. He only dodges the first swing by a margin that is entirely uncomfortable to witness. You’re trying not to watch as you pull out a small cast-iron bowl from your bag (you refuse to call it a cauldron) and an assortment of herbs. At least, Dean’s faster than he looks when he seems to be motivated by imminent decapitation, which is somewhat reassuring. 

He ducks again, twists out of the way as the blade cuts through the air where his head was a second ago, boots skidding in the dirt as he regains his footing. The sword then comes into play in a blur of motion – Dean lunges forward, gracefully ducks another swing, grabs the hilt, and yanks it free with a grunt, stumbling back just far enough to avoid immediate retaliation.

And then, that maniac actually throws the sharp blade right at his little brother. You flinch, heart stopping and breath halting, only exhaling when Sam manages to catch it without breaking a sweat. 

Jesus Christ, those boys will be the death of your low heart rate. 

Who the hell just throws a sword at someone?

Sam places it into the coffin and then looks at you. “Go!”

Right. Spell. 

You glance at the ingredients in the bowl, a mix of herbs you remember from your mother’s teachings: crushed sage for cleansing, rosemary for remembrance, lavender for peace, and a pinch of salt to anchor it all. You incinerate it and let the herbs smolder for a second till trails of smoke billow and fuse with the cool evening air. 

As you mutter the words on the page, your voice sounds strange around the Latin, as if your tongue is borrowing someone else’s shape, but it seems to work as the wind begins to pick up, threading through the trees and rustling leaves. The smoke thickens and spills over the bowl, the candle flames dancing harder and faster as if they’re trying to keep up with your voice. 

You grab the bowl and then pour it into the grave, letting the ash and embers fall into the coffin, dusting the sword and bones alike. Just as you place it down on the ground again, something crashes hard into a headstone behind you, but you try not to look back to check which brother got tossed and concentrate on finishing the spell. 

The final lines come quicker than you expect, the wind howling louder before it all breaks.

The wind drops. The candle flames steady. The horse halts. 

You spin just in time to see the horse rear back, hooves striking the air where Dean had been a heartbeat ago. He stumbles back, barely avoiding getting trampled, and then the rider stills as well.

For a moment, everything goes quiet before a head fades into place where none was before. 

The rider then turns toward you and inclines his newly attached head, his eyes gleaming with gratitude as they find yours. Then the edges of him begin to soften, dissolving into a warm, golden light. The horse follows, form fading into the same glow. Together they then seem to turn toward something you can’t quite see and ride off into it.

The light fades a minute later, and they’re gone. Just like that.

You rise to your feet, dusting off your jeans as you stare at spot where the light used to be. “Aw, he looked happy,” you note, the adrenaline in your blood slowly waning. “Is it always this peaceful?”

Dean’s eyes find you, hands on his knees as he’s trying hard to catch his breath. “Nope.”

Sam shakes his head, equally thrown, judging by the same crease in his brow. “Not even a little.”

You nod, lips pursing. “Good to know.”

Dean’s seen a lot of weird endings to hunts, and usually, it’s messier than this. But there’s no blood, no ambulance lights, or even a half-burned corpse today. 

He leans back against the Impala a few feet away, arms crossed as he tells himself he’s just keeping an eye on things without making it too obvious. He watches as you stuff your bag into the back of your beat-up and blue Aveo, calmly packing up like this was simply some strange weekend getaway and not technically a grave robbery, ghost exorcism, and almost getting trampled by a cursed horseman before breakfast combined.

You’ve traded in the grass-stained jeans and t-shirt for something softer, an oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, your boots still dusted with graveyard dirt from the woods. Your hair’s a little messy, probably from the wind earlier, a few strands catching in the porch light outside the B&B. 

Sam stands a little closer to you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture more relaxed than before after things finally wound down. “So…” He clears his throat lightly. “First hunt. What’s the verdict?” 

Dean watches your face instead of Sam’s, because your answer matters more than the question. 

You close the trunk with a soft thud, brushing your hands together like you’re still shaking off dirt. “Honestly? It was… interesting,” you admit, tucking your hair behind your ears. “In a ‘wow, I almost died’ kind of way.” A crooked smile rises on your lips. “But not exactly something I’d want to make a habit out of.” 

Dean huffs under his breath at that, gaze dropping to the gravel by his boots. 

Good. Smart answer.

Sam gives you a smile, but it’s got a certain shade to it now, and Dean recognizes it as his little brother’s but what if smile. He knows exactly where this is going before Sam even opens his mouth again.

“You handled yourself really well,” Sam says. “The spell, the ritual… you picked it up fast.”

“Yeah, you weren’t half bad,” Dean adds, but there’s a slight tease to his smile. 

Admittedly, you handled yourself well out there – better than most rookies would. Better than some hunters, if he’s being totally honest. Obviously, he won’t say that out loud in a million years. 

“Seriously, thanks,” Sam says. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Think we would’ve made due.”

You don’t seem to take offense to that comment, though, lips twitching in amusement. “You’re welcome for saving that coconut of yours.”

“So, uh…” Sam scratches the back of his neck, eyes finding yours. “Your mom’s letter, the ritual… have you thought more about it? Really could use your help, you know.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, watching as your shoulders draw in the tiniest bit, hesitation flashing across your face. You’re clearly unsure how to answer that one without disappointing someone – well, mostly Sam because Dean would be just fine with you saying no and telling his little brother to go screw himself. 

“Sam,” Dean cuts in, choosing not to let this play out. 

Sam meets his stare. “What?”

“She already gave you an answer.” Dean finally pushes off the car. “Take it.”

Sam’s brows draw into a small frown. “I’m just asking–”

“Yeah, and I’m just saying drop it,” Dean barks, his voice a little sharper now. “She heard you the first time. She doesn’t need a sales pitch.”

The tension is almost tangible in the air now, but as his gaze drifts back to you, there’s a newfound softness in your expression. He would almost call it gratitude, but it evokes a weird flutter in his chest, so he rejects that thought on principle and breaks eye contact first. 

You clear your throat softly. “Look, I meant what I said, alright?” you tell Sam gently, but there’s a firmness underneath. “I’ll think about it, but that’s all I can promise right now.”

Sam studies you for a moment, probably weighing whether to push again or not, but Dean really hopes he doesn’t. Otherwise, he’ll have to clock Sam with the back of his gun and drive back to South Dakota with his little brother in Baby’s trunk. 

“Okay, fair enough.” Sam nods after a beat and accepts your answer, although he’s obviously not done with the idea.

Dean is, though.

“Call if you need anything, alright?” Sam adds and steps back.

You nod, even manage a smile, and give a small wave of your hand that’s slightly awkward. 

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t stick around for a grand goodbye. He gives you a tight nod and then turns on his heel, heading back toward the Impala, the only true safe zone he’s ever known. 

But halfway there, his hand brushes against his jacket pocket, and he feels the folded paper sitting there.

Right. That.

He’d written it earlier at the B&B, while Sam was buried in books and you were flipping through that glitter-covered notebook of yours, muttering about herbs and Latin. Dean had sat at the table, pretending not to listen, and suddenly found himself scribbling down the standard exorcism. He might’ve then thrown in the Devil’s Trap, too. 

He didn’t really plan on giving it to you. It was more supposed to be a just-in-case, emergencies-only thing. But there’s this gnawing, annoying little thought in the back of his skull that refuses to disappear. 

You’re in it now, aren’t you? Whether you like it or not, or even whether he likes it or not. No thanks to his little brother and him, you’ve got a target on your back now. Dean knows better than anyone that this shit lingers, follows, and finds you again when you least expect it. And well, leaving you with nothing to defend yourself feels simply… wrong. 

“Son of a–” Dean mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply. 

And then, he turns around.

You’re halfway to your car, keys in hand, and for a second, he almost lets you go. Walking away would be so much easier and cleaner, wouldn’t it?

But he didn’t let you go in the dream either, did he? And even though, that never happened, there’s a strange pang in his chest that keeps his eyes locked on you and his feet rooted to the ground. 

“Hey, wait–”

You stop, spinning back with a small frown on your face, clearly not expecting that. Dean quickly walks back to you, wanting to get this part over with as soon as possible. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the folded piece of motel stationary, holding it out to you without ceremony.

“Here.”

You blink but take it reluctantly, brows knitting as you unfold it carefully. Your eyes skim over the Latin and the symbol sketched beneath it. “What’s this?”

“Insurance,” he replies, shrugging one shoulder to avoid making a big deal out of this. “Basic exorcism. Latin. That symbol’s a Devil’s Trap,” he explains, clearing his throat subtly. God, what’s with the air in this town? Why is it so damn dry here? “Paint it under that small rug you got by your front door. If something comes in, it’s stuck there. Then you read the words, send it back where it came from.”

Your eyes glance over the page, then back up at him, brow raising slightly like you’re still trying to make sense of his words.

He shifts his weight, swallowing. “Also, uhm, put a salt line along your windowsills. Doors if you wanna be extra. Keeps most crap out. You got that?”

There’s a small pause before you nod slowly, but you’re looking at him in that weird way of yours again – like you’re seeing past his words. Dream-child you did that shit as well. And before he knows it, there’s a tiny smirk hitching on your lips. 

“King of Cups…” you mutter under your breath, barely audible. 

Dean scowls. “What?”

“Nothing.” You shrug casually, but that stupid smile doesn’t disappear. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him like evidence under a microscope. “Wouldn’t simply apologizing be easier?”

“Apologize for what?” Dean scoffs, averting his gaze. It’s the default setting. Armor. 

“Never mind,” you sigh like you expected that response, ready to give up on him. “And to think, I almost started to like you…”

He rolls his eyes, but his jaw tightens visibly. Technically, he knows what he has to do. The dream already told him. But it still seems a lot harder in practice than it does in theory.

“Fine,” he caves at last with a reluctant breath out. “I’m… sorry for, uhm–” he motions roughly at you, already hating it, “–almost… shooting you, alright?” He smacks his lips. “There. Happy now?”

You don’t even try to hide the unimpressed look, but he swears there’s almost some amusement underneath it.

“Wow,” you say wryly. “How sweet of you. That must’ve cost you a lot.”

Dean purses his lips, head bobbing, the irritation hopefully covering anything else. “Alright, we’re done here. Try not to die.”

He spins around before you can answer, heading straight for the Impala without stopping this time. But behind him, he can hear Sam mutter, “Just think about it, okay?” 

Dean yanks open the driver’s door and pauses just long enough to glance back. He sees you nodding, but it’s rather noncommittal and seems frankly very uncomfortable. 

“Sam,” Dean calls gruffly, jerking his head toward the car.

Sam sighs but obeys, jogging back over.

Dean then slides into the driver’s seat, hands settling on the wheel as his gaze lands on the rearview mirror, watching you climb into your car. The interior light switches on, illuminating you in soft gold before the door shuts and the engine turns over. His eyes remain fixed on the mirror till your taillights disappear down the road. 

As Sam gets into the car, he shuts the passenger door harder than necessary. “What did you say to her?”

Dean doesn’t even bother to look at his little brother and plainly turns the key in the ignition. “Nothing.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Sam shoots back, frustrated. “You were being a dick to her on purpose, so she wouldn’t want to stick around. You were trying to scare her off.”

Dean snorts, pulling onto the road. “Yeah, ‘cause telling someone to salt their windows is real intimidating.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sam says. “You don’t want her involved.”

Dean grips the wheel a little tighter. “No, I don’t.”

“You probably talked her out of the ritual, too,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Big bad dream crusher.”

“Dean–”

“I didn’t say anything she wasn’t already thinking, alright?” he snaps. 

“She said she’d think about it.”

“Yeah,” Dean fires back, “and if you can stop hovering over her like a damn guidance counselor, maybe she actually will.”

Sam exhales a deep sigh. “She’s strong. You saw what she did tonight. She could help people, Dean.”

Dean almost wants to scoff. He certainly saw what you did tonight – during this entire case, actually. Sammy doesn’t even know about the thing you did with the roots in the woods, and Dean’s not volunteering to tell him either. Sam’s head would probably explode with ideas if he knew how powerful you truly were. 

“Yeah,” Dean huffs instead, shaking his head. “Or get herself killed.”

“She can handle it.”

“Barely.”

“She’ll learn.”

“And what happens when she runs into something she can’t learn her way out of, huh?” Dean counters. “What then?”

“That’s not your call to make,” Sam mutters.  

“No, but it is my problem,” Dean snaps. “Man, you told her about all of this. About demons, hunts, everything… You think that just goes away? You think nothing’s ever gonna come looking? It’s not if something happens to her, Sam. It’s when.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “So what, you just cut her loose and hope for the best? That’s your solution?”

“No, my solution is not dragging her deeper into this mess. I gave her what she needs to not be completely defenseless,” Dean says. “That’s more than most people get. She’s got a life, Sammy. A normal one.”

“I know that,” Sam says. “But life doesn’t always work that way.”

Dean scoffs a humorless laugh. “So, what? She’s just supposed to give it all up because she’s got powers?”

“I’m saying she has a choice, Dean,” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah, and you’re not exactly making it easy for her to say no,” Dean shoots back. “Guilt-tripping her with her family? Low hanging fruit, Sam.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam defends. “I was just trying to prepare her.”

“No, you know what’s not fair? You thinking this is gonna end well,” Dean snaps. “‘Cause it doesn’t. It never does. You of all people should know that. At least, I’m trying to keep her alive.”

Sam goes suspiciously quiet after that, leaning back as he studies Dean. “You didn’t seem too concerned about that when you invited her along.”

“Oh, don’t even–” Dean’s jaw ticks. “You told her first, man. You put her on the board. Not me. I just made sure she didn’t get blindsided. You wanna chase this demon? Fine. You wanna burn everything down to get it? Fine. But don’t drag her into it like she’s just another tool in the box.”

Sam grits his teeth. “That’s not what this is.”

“Really?” Dean shoots him a scrutinizing look. “’Cause it sounds a lot like you’re willing to risk whatever it takes to win. This is our mess. She’s not part of this, Sammy. Not if I can help it.”

Sam doesn’t answer this time, and that’s honestly answer enough.

He slumps back in his seat, crosses his arms, and scoffs quietly. “This isn’t over.”

Dean nearly snorts a laugh. “Wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

Before Sam can find his next argument, Dean reaches forward and cranks up the stereo, letting the sound of classic rock flood the Impala and drown out the rest. 

The road stretches ahead, dark and endless, and everything’s supposed to go back to normal again. But his mind keeps drifting back to you – standing under that streetlight in the middle of the night, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, looking at him like you knew exactly what that note meant. 

He hopes you stay out of this. Hopes that piece of paper he gave you can keep the world away from you. Hopes it’s enough. He really does, even though he knows it’s not – but it’s the best he’s got.

However, there’s a stubborn, quiet part of him that already knows he’s going to see you again. And honestly? He’s not sure if that’s something to dread, or something to look forward to.

▶️ Chapter 6: East Atlantic Breeze – July 3

We have our first case under the belt and a reluctant friendship was born 😂🫶

How did you enjoy Dean's latest dream? Is anyone aside from him still convinced those aren't actually real memories resurfacing? (And how long will he keep them to himself? lol) What did you think of reader's tarot reading and do you agree with the boys' cards? And what about the two that slipped out – are they really a glitch in the system? 👀

Another puzzle piece is coming next Sunday, where we might get an unwanted visitor... 😬

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Dean’s on his feet before even being fully awake.

“Sammy.” His deep voice comes out rougher than usual as he grabs Sam’s shoulder hard enough to shake him. “Sam.”

Sam jolts awake with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instantly to his forehead. His breathing comes uneven and shallow, pain still written all over his face.

Dean’s stomach drops, heart pounding. He already knows it’s not a nightmare but another vision.

“You with me?” he checks sternly.

Sam nods quickly between ragged breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before forcing out a strained, “Yeah.”

“What happened? What’d you see?”

Dean then waits for an answer, stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Finally, Sam looks up at him, and Dean can see the fear sitting naked and clear behind his little brother’s hazel eyes, turning his blood ice-cold before your name bleeds from Sam’s lips.

Every muscle in Dean’s body locks up in an instant.

“A demon found her,” Sam says hoarsely, swallowing harshly. “She was at the lab. It had Mia and Paige, too. I saw blood, black eyes–…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “Dean, she was screaming.”

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@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

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@spnaquakindgdom @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2

The inside doesn’t help its reputation, either. 

There’s floral wallpaper that’s seen better decades and dark wood furniture with too many carvings. And doilies. So many damn doilies… 

A super creepy porcelain doll even sat on a shelf in the hallway, which Dean already snatched and hid under Sam’s covers as a prank.

And Sam, nice and accommodating as he is, still asked the older lady at the reception for another room for you. Fully booked, she told you due to the media spectacle, though, because everyone and their mom decided Sleepy Hollow is the place to be right now. At least that means Dean can still catch some sleep and doesn’t have to worry about your car starting in the middle of the night. 

He then dropped his duffel on the floor, took one look at the setup – two beds, one couch – and made the decision in about half a second.

“You take the bed.”

You cocked a brow at him, immediately suspicious. Smart.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he shot back, already kicking off his boots. “Couch is closer to the door.”

Which is true.

Also happens to mean he’s got a clear line of sight to the exit, the bathroom door (which leads to the bathroom window), and you. Not that he says that part out loud. Doesn’t need to. But he’ll know when you try to sneak past him. In other words:

If you decide to go tinkle, tinkle, little star, he’s gonna watch you where you are. 

Not in a creepy way, though – he’d like to emphasize that part. He’s going to let you pee in peace, but he will listen to a potential window opening and your feet leaving the tiled floor. 

You rolled your eyes at his response but took the offer anyway, muttering something under your breath about “paranoia,” “control issues,” and “serial killer vibes.”

Dean ignored that. Well, for the most part, he did.

Sam, of course, played peacekeeper like always, offering to grab extra blankets and takeout, making it all sound so goddamn normal as if this isn’t the weirdest setup they’ve had in a while.

And then, somehow, despite everything, you and Sam kept… chatting.

At first, it was only case-related, and Dean was able to live with that. It should’ve stayed that way. But then it drifted to little comments, quiet jokes, and shared looks Dean doesn’t like one bit. The two of you acted like you’ve known each other longer than a couple of awkward run-ins and one coffee.

Dean stayed out of it. On purpose. Sat on the arm of the couch, cleaning his gun and pretending not to listen. Didn’t entirely work, though.

Because, every now and then, you’d laugh.

Annoyingly so, because then that stupid feeling – that quiet, irritating little twist in his chest that makes zero sense and pisses him off more the longer it sticks around – came rushing back. 

But it’s all just noise. Dean knows that. It’s just Sam being Sam, and you being… whatever the hell you are.

Eventually, the room settles, however, and the lights finally go out.

Sam’s out first while you take a little longer. Dean can hear the subtle shifts, the occasional sigh, and the mattress creaking softly as you get comfortable. For a few minutes, he wonders if you’re actually gonna try something – bolt, pull a trick, or disappear into thin air.

You don’t, though.

Somewhere between keeping one eye half-open to watch you, Dean’s thoughts then start to blur. The last thing he registers is your silhouette on the bed, half-lit by moonlight slipping in through the too-narrow windows.

And then, the fuzzy edges and orange filter are back, which means his watchful eyes have finally fallen shut, and he finds himself right back in bizarro-dreamland again.

Great. Is it too much to ask to get some peaceful rest every now and then?

This time, he’s down at the pond, still about twelve years old. It sits at the edge of the trees, the surface still, only breaking in ripples where the breeze skims across it. The sunlight is softer and golden now where it spills through the brush, and the heat of the day has dulled into something easier, a late-summer hush settling over everything as the world is winding down for the day.

Dean isn’t, though. His thoughts are still racing.

Usually, it feels peaceful down here, but now it feels like he swallowed a stone and it got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. He still doesn’t have the words for it at twelve, doesn’t really know how to name that feeling yet, but he knows he doesn’t like it. 

He sits at the edge of the pond in the tall grass, one knee pulled up, the other stretched out, heel digging absentmindedly into the dirt. The blades of weed bend under his fingers where he’s been pulling at them, stripping them down to nothing and letting the pieces fall again. There’s also a small scatter of stones beside him. A few skipped over the water, but most of them sunk. He scuffs the toe of his boot against the dirt again and watches it crumble.

Behind him, the world feels far away, discolored and muted. The house is out of reach. But still, every once in a while, yours and Sam’s voices carry over the distance, your laughter echoing down the hill. 

But Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the water in front of him, jaw tight, trying not to think about it. About you. About the way you said it.

My magic.

It all still sounds damn wrong in his head.

He frowns at himself, picking up a small rock and tossing it into the pond. It skips once, twice, then sinks again. And then–

“There you are!” your voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, bright and breathless.

Dean stiffens in an instant before his eyes wander over his shoulder to steal a glimpse. He sees you come running down the slope toward him, a little unsteady on the hill, cautious enough not to trip, but determined nonetheless. One strap of your short denim overalls is twisted, the other hanging off your shoulder. A few strands of hair stick to your forehead from running. There’s also dirt along your arm and a little on your cheek now from whatever activity you and Sammy have been up to. 

And you’re smiling. 

It’s as if nothing’s wrong and that whole conversation a few hours ago never happened. The smile is wide and easy and a little crooked. It doesn’t look like it takes any effort. It looks like it’s solely meant for him.

“I was looking for you,” you say, slowing as you get closer. “You wanna come play now? Me and Sammy wanna catch fireflies.”

When Dean sneaks another peek at you, you admittedly still seem the same. Same dirt-smudged knees. Same bright eyes. Same hopeful expression that assumes he’ll say yes like he always has before.

And for a heartbeat, something in him wavers. He pictures it without meaning to – tiny lights blinking in the dark, you chasing them across the yard, laughing, dragging Sammy along with you. It should sound fun. It probably would’ve been. 

Before.

Because then, the word comes flying back.

Witch.

It spreads over everything, dimming the edges of your smile and turning something that used to feel easy into something complicated and wrong.

“No, thanks,” he mutters, averting his eyes back to the water, his heel digging more into the dirt. “Told you I don’t wanna play.” He grabs another rock, throws it harder this time. It doesn’t skip, though, just sinks. “Just go with Sam. Leave me alone, okay?”

The words land blunt and cold. He knows it the second they leave his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back.

Then, there’s a long pause behind him. He still doesn’t dare to look back at you.

“Why are you being weird?”

He scoffs to deflect, keeping his gaze fixed on the water. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you insist and step even closer. He can feel you there now, just off to his side, small but impossible to ignore. “You won’t even look at me and your aura is different, too.”

Dean’s frown deepens. “My, what?”

“It’s pine green,” you say like that explains everything. “But usually, it’s apple green. You’re sad.”

Bullseye. 

He straightens a little, shoulders going rigid. His grip tightens around another stone in his palm. “I’m not sad,” he snaps, pushing himself up to his feet in one swift motion. “Stop reading me.”

He finally looks at you then, but it’s quick and guarded. The eye contact is only necessary to get his point across and not something he actually wants. He brushes his hands off on his jeans to break it again, hoping he can wipe that strange feeling away along with the dirt.

“Maybe I just don’t wanna hang out with you anymore,” he adds for emphasis and clarity. 

His only option here is to double down because he doesn’t know how else to handle this – you standing there and looking at him like you can see every damn thing he doesn’t want you to see.

That one finally seems to hit and reaches the desired effect. He sees it this time – the way your face falls and confusion gives way to hurt.

“Why?”

It’s so quiet and careful he barely hears it. You’re asking a question you’re not sure you want the answer to. Your voice doesn’t match the way you looked when you first came down the hill – happy.

The smile is gone.

Instead, your mouth is pressed into a tight line, trying to hold it together. Your eyes are glistening as if the setting sun is catching them at the wrong angle, but Dean knows it’s not actually the light. 

There’s a part of him that knows this is the moment to backtrack. To shrug it off. To say something else. But that knot in his chest pulls tighter instead and twists more and more.

You’re not supposed to be like this. You were normal. 

Before you started talking about magic and auras and things he can’t see but knows are real because his dad told him they are – and that they’re bad. Dangerous. Evil.

Things you don’t trust. Things you don’t get close to.

But he hates that look on your face right now. Hates that he’s the reason for it. It makes him feel… bad. So, if you’re bad and he’s bad, what does that mean?

The feeling doesn’t go away. It just mixes with everything else – the confusion and the frustration and the anger and the sadness. 

You’re the one who changed. This is your fault, not his. He hasn’t changed. He’s still the same. And if you hadn’t done that, if you were still normal, then he wouldn’t have to feel this way. Why is he the bad guy here? 

“Because you’re weird now, okay?” he blurts out, the words coming out rougher than he means them to, pushed by something he doesn’t fully understand. “You’re all… witchy and stuff.”

It sounds stupid even as he says it, but he doesn’t have better words for. Doesn’t have the language for what he’s trying to explain. So it comes out like that instead.

Blunt. Clumsy. Mean.

When your lip trembles, he’s flooded with instant regret, but he has no idea how to take something like that back either.

“Do you hate me?”

The question is so small it almost gets lost in the canyon between the two of you. He doesn’t know why, but it knocks the air out of his lungs. It gets harder and harder to breathe. 

Because the answer? The answer isn’t simple. 

He doesn’t hate you. He knows that much, deep down, even if everything else is in disorder. But you’re asking him like it’s yes or no – and it’s not.

It’s confusing and weird and uncomfortable and he doesn’t understand it, and the more he tries to, the worse it just feels. But there’s something scared and stubborn and taught in him that recoils when he thinks about you now. He doesn’t know how to explain that. Doesn’t know how to say anything that makes sense of the mess inside of him.

And you? You’re standing there, looking at him like you need an answer he doesn’t know how to give.

So, he ends up saying nothing at all. Just stares somewhere past your shoulder, jaw tight, completely silent.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees your face change, though. Sees the moment it sinks in.

Why does that make the feeling in his chest worse instead of better? This was supposed to help and not backfire. 

It hurts. Like, a lot. 

“Fine,” you finally snap, voice wobbling despite the anger that flashes across your face. “Then I don’t like you anymore either.”

Dean winces, barely noticeable from the outside, but he definitely feels it on the inside. 

“You’re mean and stupid,” you add with another huff. 

The words hit, but not in the way insults usually do. Oh no, these ones? They stick and sink somewhere deeper than they should.

Something broke, but you turn on your heel before he can fix it. Before he can react and figure out what to say – or even try to. 

And then, you’re running.

Back up the hill, away from the pond, away from him. You become smaller with every step until the trees start to swallow you up whole.

And Dean? He just stands there at the edge of the water, shoves his hands into his pockets, balls them into fists, and watches you go.

Dean’s barely awake. 

In fact, he’s not anywhere close to even opening his eyes to little slits yet. If there’s a stage between dead asleep and pre-awake, he’s probably in that one. His body surely hasn’t caught up to any signs of alertness at all, the morning thick, his head heavy, thoughts slow. He just lies there on the couch, one arm slung over his tummy, the other hanging off the edge, fingertips brushing the rough fabric.

But his brain’s becoming more and more vigilant, picking up on the background murmur. There’s two voices pulling at him – Sam’s and yours.

“…no connection between any of them?” you’re asking. Your voice is clearer than the rest, sweeter too, like honey in Earl Grey tea. It cuts through the fog easier, almost like sunshine.

Dean breathes out slowly through his nose, still not moving, but his lips twitch a little. Something else wakes up too, stretching under the blanket and under his boxer briefs. 

To be clear, though, that’s got nothing to do with you personally. Happens every morning whether you’re here or not. It’s just a natural occurrence. And yeah, sure, the nice timbre of your voice facilitates that a little, especially when he imagines what it could say instead of case-related words. Like, harder please or fuck, Dean, right there. 

Okay, fine, now he’s really just making it worse on purpose. He tries to refocus and hears papers shuffling. 

“None that I could find so far,” Sam answers with a sigh, frustration lacing his tone. “Different jobs, different neighborhoods. No shared hobbies, no family overlap, nothing obvious.”

“So… random?”

“Maybe not random,” Sam says. “Just… something else.”

Dean’s brow twitches slightly at that. Yeah, no kidding.

“You said ghost yesterday,” you say after a small pause, more thoughtful this time. 

“Could be a poltergeist, too.”

“What’s the difference?”

Dean huffs quietly under his breath, eyes still closed. Cute.

“Ghosts are usually tied to a place or an object,” Sam explains, shifting in his chair slightly, judging by the squeaks. “Poltergeists are more… aggressive. They throw things, move stuff around, escalate faster. They’re more chaotic and less focused.”

“Huh.” 

Dean can hear the pen in your hand tapping lightly against the table. Thinking. Always thinking.

“Decapitation doesn’t exactly scream ‘random chaos,’ though,” you add after a second. “Feels more premeditated than spur-of-the-moment.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth tug slightly upward. Yeah, exactly.

But then, something else sneaks through the cracks in his mind – ripples in the water, sunlight through the trees, a tinier voice. 

Do you hate me?

Dean’s eyes tighten shut for half a beat. Then, he pushes himself up before his brain can wander any further, the couch creaking under his weight as he sits forward and rubs a hand down his tired face. His neck twinges, but he ignores it.

“Depends what you’re dealing with,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

Both you and Sam look over. The two of you are seated at the small dining table like this is some kind of domestic morning routine Dean definitely didn’t sign up for. Papers are spread out between you, a laptop open, coffee cups half-empty, and a plate with what looks like actual breakfast sits in the middle.

Dean stretches his arms over his head with a quiet groan, maybe a yawn, back popping, making no effort to hide the fact that he just woke up on a couch that feels like it was designed by someone who hates spines.

“Morning,” Sam says.

“Debatable,” Dean mutters.

You’re already watching him, that familiar hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Look who finally joined the land of the living.”

Dean drops his arms and squints at you. “Yeah, yeah. Some of us don’t wake up at the crack of dawn for fun.”

“It’s not dawn,” Sam interjects.

“Feels like it.”

“You sleep like a bear, you know that?” you add casually and rise from your seat, grabbing a third coffee cup from the tray.

Dean frowns. “I do not.”

“Oh, you do,” you insist as you snatch a paper bag as well. It’s perfectly greasy at the bottom, the delicious smell of bacon winding up his nose, and his stomach reacts before his weary brain has even caught up to it. “Didn’t even stir when I left.”

That finally cuts through the last of the grogginess.

Dean straightens, brows lifting. “You left?”

“Mhm.” You hum as you casually stroll his way. “Figured if I’m stuck with you two, I might as well make sure you don’t starve… or actually have food that isn’t gas station jerky.”

“You went out?” he asks, tone sharpening just a notch. “By yourself?”

“Yeah,” you say, a smirk rising on your lips. “Crazy concept, I know.”

Dean exhales through his nose, pushing himself fully to his feet now. “But that’s–”

“What?” You tilt your head, brow arching. “Illegal?”

“No, that’s not–” He shakes his head clear. All the different smells hitting him at once make it hard to concentrate, and he doesn’t even know if it’s the coffee, the food, or you, but you’re definitely getting too close for his liking. “You’re not supposed to just–”

“Exist without supervision?” You’re clearly teasing him now, a playfulness gleaming in your eyes as you hold the coffee cup and brown bag out to him. “Don’t get your panties twisted now. You didn’t even notice I was gone.”

“I noticed,” he mutters as he takes the items, accepting them almost like a peace offering. 

“Sure you did.” The smile on your lips, however, clearly states that you don’t believe him one bit. 

“I said I’d keep an eye on you,” he grumbles before taking a gracious sniff of the food inside the bag.

God, that smells good. His stomach’s growling. 

“And you did,” you reply, shrugging lightly, but the teasing edge in your smile is still there. “You just weren’t very good at it.”

“I was asleep.”

“Exactly.”

He grimaces but stops arguing further. You’re already half a coffee into the morning while he hasn’t even had his first drop yet. He knows when he’s in a losing battle. So, he glances down at the cup in his hands before taking a sip.

Black. No sugar. No cream. Exactly right.

His eyes drift back to you, slightly bewildered. “How’d you know?”

“Oh, your aura told me you take it as black as your soul.”

Dean squints. “Wait… It did?”

Your face stays completely serious for several seconds before the first crack shows in the façade, and a snort escapes your throat. 

“No, I’m just messing with you,” you retort with a bubble of laughter. “Sam told me you like it as black as your soul. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

Dean turns his head slowly toward his little brother, who conveniently doesn’t look up from the papers in front of him.

Traitor.

He scoffs under his breath, but there’s no real heat behind it as he takes another sip. You hum, satisfied, already turning away and heading back to the table. He watches you sit down, pick up your pen, and slide right back into it with Sam, all easy and natural, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

It shouldn’t look like that. Shouldn’t feel like that.

And then, for the tiniest second, the image overlaps with a smaller version of you again, younger, looking at him like–

Do you hate me?

His jaw tightens slightly around the rim of the cup.

Mean and stupid.

Dean takes another gulp, harder this time till he almost chokes on it or burns his tongue, which ever comes first, and shoves the weird feelings in his chest down again with the caffeine.

“Crap,” Sam mutters all of a sudden, breaking the moment as he flips his laptop around. “Guys, we’ve got another one.”

Your attention snaps to him immediately. “Another body?”

“Yup, found this morning. We should go to the crime scene right now. Local PD got there less than an hour ago.”

“Awesome.”

Dean’s head snaps toward you, finding a bright grin on your lips. You’re not horrified. You’re not even fazed. If anything, you look… excited. 

He cocks a brow at you. “Awesome? A guy died.”

“Actually, it’s a woman,” Sam chimes in. 

“Same difference.”

“What?” You shrug your shoulders, looking at him. “I’ve never worked a decapitation scene before. What’s the problem?” 

“You’re excited.”

“I’m interested,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Someone’s missing their head,” he points out dryly.

“Yes, which is objectively unusual.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Because, yeah, it admittedly is.

He spent half of yesterday going over the first three victims, trying to find a pattern that made sense. Clean decapitations like that aren’t exactly common in his line of work either when they’re not caused by other hunters. It is interesting. It’s a good case. He just–

“Still weird you’re this into it,” he mutters into his coffee.

Your eyes narrow slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Oh, and you’re not?”

Dean shrugs, taking another sip like it’s no big deal. “Meh. I mean, it’s a–… it’s a… case.”

Sam makes a noise that sounds like he’s trying not to laugh, but Dean ignores him skillfully. 

“Well, whether you’re into it or not, there’s an active crime scene waiting,” you say and push your chair back, grabbing your denim jacket.

Sam nods, already gathering his things as well. “Let’s go before they start clearing it.”

When going to a crime scene, the drives usually feel like routine. Dean keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the gearshift as he lets whatever surroundings roll past the windows – white picket fences, corn fields, woods. It doesn’t really matter when he focuses on the road ahead. 

Sam’s also in the passenger seat like always, half-turned with his laptop balanced against his knee, skimming through what little they have on the fourth victim.

But this drive’s still different than all the other ones that came before it, because, this time, Dean’s eyes keep drifting to the backseat and flicking to the rearview mirror every so often. 

When there’s a light rustle of fabric behind him, he sneaks another glance at you in the back and watches you pull on your CSI jacket – navy-blue, official, the three letters stamped across your front and back in yellow.

You smooth it down your arms, adjust the collar, and settle into it without hesitation, like you’ve done this your whole life. By the time Dean turns onto the street, you don’t look like someone tagging along anymore – you look like you belong.

Dean exhales hard through his nose and forces himself to concentrate back on the road again as he finds a space to park, eventually pulling in behind a patrol car.

Sam shuts his laptop with a soft click just as Dean kills the engine. “Fourth victim is like the others.”

“Still no connections?” Dean asks.

“None,” Sam sighs in frustration. “Think our best bet is a cursed object at this point, considering every victim was found at a different location.”

From the backseat, you hum lightly. “So no ghost or poltergeist?”

Sam smiles patiently. “Could still be either. But it’s definitely not tied to a body or burial ground. It’s moving around.”

“But the murders only started two weeks ago, so whatever we’re looking for, it’s gotta be new in town, right? Something must’ve triggered it,” you muse. 

Dean shoots you a look in the mirror. “You always this eager about headless bodies?”

You meet his stare head-on. “You always this grumpy before noon?”

He scoffs, not bothering to answer, and takes an assessing sweep around the street.

The fourth victim’s house sits dead center in the sort of neighborhood that seems to trim its hedges with a damn ruler. Everything is exact and perfect to a tee – lawn cut short and greener than it needs to be and flowerbeds arranged like a diagram. There’s not a single weed out of place, not a leaf where it shouldn’t be. It’s all tree-lined streets and white fences, radiating a curated postcard calm that feels a teeny-tiny bit too pure and sober, considering there’s a body waiting at the end of it.

Control freak, Dean notes internally as he jumps out of Baby and adjusts his suit jacket. Sam mirrors him and straightens his tie, slipping right into federal agent mode. 

“FBI,” Sam greets a patrol officer straightaway, flashing his badge as they approach the yellow tape. “Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

A subtle snort escapes you as you follow them, ducking under the tape.

Dean stops in his tracks and raises a brow at you. “You got something to add?”

“Yes,” you say with a long sigh. “Those names are ridiculous.”

“They’re fine.”

“They’re obvious, bad, and lazy,” you shoot back. “I clocked them the first time you showed up at my scene. Might as well introduce yourselves as walking classic rock playlists next time.”

Dean frowns. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t have to,” you counter with a challenging smirk. “I just called you Agents Metallica and Bon Jovi in my head the whole time.”

Sam exhales a long-suffering sigh that sounds suspiciously like agreement. “Told you.”

Dean shoots him a look. “Oh, c’mon–”

“They’re not subtle, Dean.”

Dean scoffs, slightly irritated by the sudden team-up. “They work.”

“They scream fake,” you and Sam argue at the same time.

Dean blinks between the two of you, outnumbered but refusing to acknowledge it. He brushes it off with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, and?” He shrugs defiantly. “What’re you going by, Sabrina?”

You hesitate a little before holding up your ID – your real one.

Dean lifts a stern brow. “You’re serious?”

“I don’t exactly carry fake IDs,” you say defensively.

Dean lets out another scoff, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, maybe you should. Using your real name? That’s how bad things find you.”

That one finally lands. Score for him. You don’t have a comeback for it, and Dean knows it. He doesn’t push further, just nods once like the point’s been made, and turns toward the house as the leading detective of this investigation approaches.