fawn•˚ ༘⋆

Autumn came in like a confession, soft and secret, curling its breath through the broken seams of the house.


The mornings were wet and silver, fog pressed against the windows like the ghost of something you almost remembered. The nights came early, and the light that fell between them was thin as milk, seeping over the fields where the corn had long since been cut down to bone.

You’d been with Bobby nearly four months. The house had learned you, and you had learned it. The way the pipes groaned when the water ran too hot. The places the floorboards dipped, where the carpet had been lifted years ago and never replaced. You’d grown into its loneliness until it fit you, the same way your father’s old jacket did— heavy, oil-slicked, and smelling faintly of pine and gasoline.

You got your first period in the first days of October. It came quietly, like everything else had that year— without warning, without fanfare. You’d been up before dawn, padding through the dim kitchen to pour a glass of water, when you felt the ache, low and sharp as a swallowed stone. By the time the sun rose, the world felt different.


It wasn’t dramatic— just smaller somehow. The same walls, same smell of coffee and motor oil and the faint sweetness of Bobby’s old syrup bottle, but they seemed to close around you in a new way, like the house knew something you didn’t want to admit.

You didn’t tell him at first. You washed your underwear in the sink and hung it behind the shed, the secret a soft, red thread winding through the day. You moved quieter than usual, afraid he’d see something in your face. You didn’t want pity, or fuss. You wanted your mama— no, not her, not really. You wanted what she was supposed to have been.

By evening, you’d gone pale. Bobby noticed while you were setting the table. “You all right, kid?”You nodded and avoided his eyes, palm resting on your abdomen. “’M fine.”He straightened up, brow furrowing. “You don’t look fine.”He waited a beat, then a longer one, before sighing. “You’re not sick, are you?”

That was when you started to cry. It wasn’t loud, not really crying at all— just the kind of quiet breaking that lives in your throat. Bobby froze, big and uncomfortable, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Then he moved slow, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Hey now,” he said, voice rough but soft around the edges. “What’s this about?” You shook your head, embarrassed, the words sticking. “It’s… it’s nothing. Just—” But he saw your hand placement, the tremor in your fingers, and it clicked. His expression shifted—understanding dawning with a kind of stunned tenderness. He cleared his throat. “Ah. Oh.”

For a long minute, neither of you spoke. Then, awkwardly, he reached into the fridge and pulled out the pancake mix. “Guess we better make you somethin’ sweet n’ warm,” he said gruffly. “My ma always said you’re supposed to eat good when—well, you know.”

You sat at the counter while he cooked. He didn’t look at you, but every movement was careful: how he flipped the pancakes, how he set the plate in front of you, how he poured syrup like it might mean something. When you took a bite, he said, “You’re still my kid, Birdy. You hear? Doesn’t matter what else changes.” You nodded, eyes stinging again.

Childhood had fallen away from you like summer— quietly, without anyone noticing— but Bobby had. He’d noticed. And that made all the difference.

You spent your mornings patching the house beside him— fixing screens, sorting nails, raking what the wind kept bringing back—and your afternoons wandering the dirt road that led to the graveyard on the hill. It wasn’t far, just past the line of cottonwoods, where the air began to smell of damp stone and rust.


The graves there leaned toward each other as if in gossip. You’d taken to memorizing their names, tracing the carved letters with the pads of your fingers, whispering them under your breath until they felt like hymns.

Sometimes you brought your sketchbook, sometimes a jar for whatever small, perfect corpse you might find— a moth, a beetle, a bird skull half sunk in the mud. You pinned them at night beneath the dim bulb on your desk, cataloguing their stillness. You didn’t think of it as morbid, not really. It felt like reverence. The only kind you knew.

The church on the far side of the cemetery had become another haunt of yours. Abandoned for decades, its windows boarded, its steeple bowed under the weight of years. Inside, the air was cool and wet, thick with the scent of rot and old wood. Mold climbed the walls like ivy. It was quiet there, holy in a way the world outside had forgotten to be.

You’d sit in the front pew, the dust soft beneath your hands, and listen to water drip through the rafters. Each drop was slow, deliberate, a heartbeat you could almost match your own to.

You wondered sometimes if God had ever loved this place. Or if he’d left it long ago, the way everyone eventually left.

By mid-October, the trees were turning brittle, their color fading to ash. You’d started sleeping in your father’s jacket, the lining worn smooth against your arms. Bobby said it was foolish to wear it indoors, but you liked how it smelled— like the shadow of something lost.

On the porch at dusk, he smoked while you watched the clouds bruise pink and purple above the fields. “Storm coming,” he said one evening, his voice low, steady as gravel. “Smell it?”

You nodded, though what you smelled wasn’t rain. It was earth gone soft again, mold waking up under the boards. The faint sweetness of things breaking down.

You’d filled your room with it— the scent, the stillness, the silence. Jars lined your shelves in careful rows: beetles pinned like jewels, moths folded like prayers. Sometimes, when you lit a candle, the wax ran down the glass and looked like tears. You liked to think the house cried with you.

At night, you wrote in your notebook, trying to make sense of the quiet. Lines came out in fragments, like messages half-decayed: The dead sleep best when no one remembers their names. Mildew is a kind of mercy— it eats what the light no longer wants.

Outside, the wind rattled the eaves, and sometimes, faintly, you thought you heard an engine hum on the far road. You told yourself it was only the wind, or your mind filling the stillness with memory. But you always looked toward the window anyway.

It had been four months since the brothers left, four months since the sound of laughter had hollowed itself out of the halls. You told yourself you didn’t care if they came back. That they were just passing through, like storms. You told yourself that so often you started to believe it— until the lie began to taste like truth.

That afternoon, the light was pale and cold. You were sitting by the window with your sketchbook open, a dead cicada resting in your palm, when you heard it.


A low rumble first, then the distinct growl of an engine that didn’t belong to any of the farmers nearby. Your breath caught before your thoughts did.

Through the lace curtain, you saw it, your pulse moved strange in your throat, a slow ache that felt like recognition.

The Impala sat in the yard like something from another life-long, black, and humming faintly, even after its engine died.

You watched from the window as the wind pushed at the hem of your curtain, as though it too wanted to see what had come back.

Bobby was already outside, his voice deep and warm in a way you didn't hear often. He clapped Dean on the shoulder, shook their father's hand, and said something that made Sam laugh. The air felt swollen with dust and sunlight. You could smell the exhaust drifting through the half-open glass, thick and metallic, like rain on old iron.

You told yourself you wouldn't go down right away. You told yourself you'd wait until they were inside, until the house had swallowed them and they were just another sound in the background.

But curiosity has its own kind of gravity, and before long you were on the stairs, fingers trailing the banister like a prayer bead.

From the bottom step, you saw them clearer. Sam had shot up another inch or two, his face all open and bright. He greeted you first, that same easy smile cutting through the hush. "Hey, Birdy." You nodded, tried to smile back. "Hey, Sam."

Then there was Dean. He stood near the door, duffel slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The look he gave you wasn't really a look at all, more a flicker, the kind of half-second that feels longer than it should. He said your name softly, almost to himself. "Birdy." It sounded strange in his mouth. Familiar, but older somehow, worn at the edges.

Bobby called everyone into the kitchen. The floor creaked under the sudden weight of so many steps. The house, long dormant, seemed to wake in protest, walls expanding, dust shaking loose from the beams. You could almost feel it breathe again.

Lunch was simple: cold meat, bread, a jar of mustard that had been sitting too long in the back of the fridge. The table felt smaller than you remembered. Sam talked the most, spilling stories about highways and diners, about a storm they'd driven through in Missouri.

John said little, his eyes moving between the three of you and the window beyond, as if already halfway gone. You barely ate. The hum of conversation slid past you like static.

Every now and then, Dean's voice would break through-low, rough, too close to the sound of summer. When you looked up, his gaze was already elsewhere.

It was the smallest things you noticed— the faint tan line at his wrist, the way his shoulders filled out his jacket differently now, how his laugh had deepened into something quieter. He didn't look older exactly, just... worn in. Like a song played too many times through an old radio.

Bobby asked about the drive. He asked about the weather down south. He asked how long they'd be staying this time. John answered, "Ten days or so, if it's no trouble."

Bobby waved the thought away. "You know this house has room enough for anyone who needs it." The silence that followed said what no one else did: that room was the least of what they needed.

After the plates were cleared, John leaned back in his chair, checked his watch. "I've got to head out soon," he said, tone casual but distant. "You boys help out when Bobby asks alright?" Sam nodded, with a little “Yeah, of course.” Dean didn't say much— just glanced toward the window, toward the car. Bobby waved him off with that easy, no-questions sort of grace. "You know where we are if you need us."

The man gave a short nod, then turned to the boys. "Be good." His hand fell heavy on Dean's shoulder, lighter on Sam's. Then he was gone— boots on wood, the door slamming shut, engine starting, the rumble fading down the long drive until all that was left was dust and quiet.

You felt the house shift again— the breath it had been holding released all at once.

Later, when the light shifted toward evening, you stepped outside. The sky was the color of watered-down honey, the kind of gold that bruises before it fades. You heard the faint clatter of tools from the workshop where Bobby was showing Sam something.

Then-footsteps behind you. You didn't turn right away. You could feel who it was by the weight of the air.

"Didn't think we'd see you again." Dean said. His tone was easy, but something about it pulled at the quiet inside you. "I didn't think you'd come back." He smiled, small and crooked. "Guess neither of us were right."

You looked out toward the fields, where the last of the sun was slipping behind the fence line. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and drying weeds. "You still chasing storms?" you asked. "Something like that," he said. "Dad keeps us moving." You nodded, but didn't say more. The distance between you felt deliberate, the kind built from time and half-spoken things.

Dean leaned against the porch rail, arms folded. "Bobby says you've been helping out around here. Keeping him out of trouble." Your lips twitched. "I try." You said, a little sharper than you meant to. He chuckled, and the sound did something strange to your chest.

You caught his reflection in the window— his face half-lit by the amber sky— and realized how easily memory lies. You'd thought you remembered him perfectly, but this version of him was touched by something restless. He wasn't the boy who had smiled over lunch four months ago. He wasn't someone you could name without shaking a little.

He kicked at the dirt, gaze slipping toward the trees. "You look different." You looked at him. "So do you." You replied almost in defence. "Not that much." His voice thick with mirth. "No," you said softly, "just enough."

The silence after that wasn't uncomfortable, just full. The kind that hummed between two people who didn't quite know what to do with it. Dean now turned towards you, arms still crossed. "You still this quiet?" You glanced at him, and his emerald eyes. "Only when I have something to say." He laughed softly, low in his throat. "Guess I'll have to wait for that."

"You don't seem patient." you half joked. "Not usually," he said. "But maybe for you, I could learn to be." The words hung there, simple but heavy, you looked away, eyes wondering away from his face.

When you looked at him again, his expression was unreadable— tired, maybe, but not unkind. You realized you hadn't seen anyone your age in weeks. You hadn't heard a laugh that didn't belong to Bobby in months. It made something restless stir in you, something that felt a little too alive. "Good to see you again, Birdy." He said at last.

You almost replied, but the words tangled in your throat. By the time you found them, he'd already turned back toward the yard, his figure melting into the growing dark.

You didn’t move until the shadows swallowed him, until the cicadas started to sing again, their chorus filling the empty places in your chest.

The had rain stopped, but the air inside the house felt different— charged somehow. You lingered in the kitchen, rinsing dishes that didn't need cleaning.

"But maybe for you, I could learn to be." Your brain had its claws deep into those words, you knew it wouldn't let you forget them anytime soon. So like a prayer for your aching heart, you repeated them over and over again.

You stood there a long while, water running cold over your hands. Heart beating a little too fast for no good reason.

You shook your head and thought about the graveyard, about the stones and names and all the quiet things buried beneath them.

And you thought about Dean— his voice, his stillness, the way he looked at you like he'd seen something he couldn't quite name.

You turned off the tap, the silence ringing in your ears, and whispered to no one in particular, "It's only ten days." But already, you weren't sure you believed it.

Inside, the house hummed with new life. Doors opened and closed, water ran, laughter spilled through the walls like smoke. You stood in the hallway, caught between wanting to belong and wanting to vanish. Somewhere above you, a floorboard groaned under someone's step.

The air smelled faintly of travel soap, sweat, gasoline, and the sweet rot of autumn seeping in through the cracks. It was strange, you thought, how quickly ghosts turned back into people.

And how, once they did, the house didn't feel haunted anymore, just full.

The first night after the rain, the house held its breath. The air still smelled of wet earth and smoke from the woodstove, and every sound seemed softened by the damp— the floorboards sighing, the wind brushing against the siding like a careful hand.

You stayed up later than you meant to, half reading, half listening. The others had gone to bed; even Sam’s laughter had dwindled to a mumble behind the wall. But Dean was awake somewhere—you could feel it, the way you felt a change in weather before the clouds broke.

When you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there at the table, sleeves rolled, nursing a mug of something that wasn’t quite coffee, tea maybe? He looked up, not startled, only a little surprised. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. You shook your head. “Too quiet.” He smiled faintly. “You’re the first person I’ve met who can’t sleep ‘cause it’s too darn quiet.”

You poured water, sat across from him. The lamplight threw long shadows between you; the table might as well have been an ocean. Outside, the rain had stopped but the gutters still whispered.

For a while you didn’t talk. Then he said, “Bobby says you read a lot. He found you in the attic with some old ghost stories.” You nodded, smiling softly as you traced the rim of your glass, eyes downcast. “I like the way they end. Everything falls apart, but it still means something, y’know?”

“Sounds about right,” he murmured. His voice was low, unhurried. You realized he wasn’t really talking about stories, either.

“Alright, well that’s me done, g’night Birdy.” When he rose to rinse his cup, the hem of his sleeve brushed your hand. Just fabric and accident, nothing more. But it stayed with you long after he’d gone upstairs.

The nights that followed gathered around small things: the scrape of a chair, the crackle of the fire, Bobby’s distant snore. The salvage yard gleamed dull and patient outside, like it was listening too.

Some evenings you’d find Dean on the porch, cigarette ember pulsing like a slow heartbeat. You started joining him, at first without speaking, later with words that carried no weight beyond the sound they made in the dark.

He’d ask about the graveyard— how far it was, what you saw there. You told him about the names carved into stone, how the letters filled with moss until you couldn’t tell if you were reading history or nature.


He said that sounded lonely. You said it was peaceful. “Same thing sometimes, but, i guess you have the dead to keep you company.” he replied. You laughed softly, surprised at how easy it felt. “You’re right, maybe I should start talking to them.” You only meant it as a joke, but you saw his jaw clench at your words.

By the fifth night, a cold front had swept in. The fields glittered with frost under a silver moon, and the air inside the house tasted of iron and pine.

Bobby and Sam had turned in early again. You were in the hallway, collecting the day’s quiet like loose change, when you saw Dean at the end of it, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

“You’re up late,” he said. You raised a playful eyebrow. “So are you.”He shrugged. “Habit.” There was a pause. Then, “You ever get the feeling you’re just… waiting for something? Even if you don’t know what?” He sounded more distant than usual, like his eyes were focused on something beyond your realm.

You considered it, all the signs that you saw, interpreted. “All the time.” You said honestly. He looked relieved by that, like he hadn’t expected you to understand. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a long moment you both watched the window. Outside, the yard was a faint blur of frost and shadow. The moonlight caught the dust in the air, turning it in silver snow.

You wanted to ask what he was waiting for. Instead, you said, “Bobby’ll be mad if we keep him up with our wandering.” He grinned— quick, real. “Then we’ll have to be real quiet.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and it took you a second before you gawked at him and slapped his shoulder. You walked back toward the kitchen together, steps soft, shoulders almost touching. “Tea?” You whispered still flustered by the innuendo. “Tea.” He confirmed with a mirthful undertone to his voice.

Later, in your room, you wrote a single line in your notebook before sleep: He talks like the night’s listening. You didn’t know what it meant yet. Only that when you closed your eyes, the house no longer felt too quiet— it felt full, humming with a low warmth you couldn’t name. And somewhere downstairs, the floor creaked once, as if answering you.

Morning came with a hush of pale light through the curtains, the kind that softened everything it touched— the dust on the dresser, the lace curtain trembling against the draft. The house always smelled faintly of coffee and motor oil, like Bobby himself had rubbed both into the walls.

You woke before the others and sat on the edge of your bed, tracing the pattern of mildew on the wallpaper. It looked almost like a map— rivers branching, lakes pooling, little veins of green-grey that led nowhere.

By the time you came downstairs, Bobby was already by a car he’d made his new project, muttering to himself as he checked the oil. Dean stood nearby, half-asleep, his flannel shirt unbuttoned enough to show a plain white tee beneath. There was grease on his wrist, a cigarette between two fingers he didn’t seem interested in smoking. Sam was still inside, spoon clinking lazily against a cereal bowl.

“Birdy,” Bobby called without looking up, “need you and Dean to run into town, pick up some paint thinner and nails. The hardware store closes early this time of year.”

You didn’t argue. You liked errands — the rhythm of them, the illusion of purpose. His words only hit you after a moment. You blinked at him through the thin morning mist. “Just us?” He nodded. “Sam’s got schoolwork, and I don’t trust him not to talk me into getting him comics instead. You two’ll be fine. It’s only a few miles. Don’t let that manic driving of his kill you.” Dean smirked. “She’ll be fine, old man. I drive like a saint.”

“You drive like a sinner who thinks he’s got time to repent,” Bobby shot back, and that made you laugh before you could stop yourself.

Dean’s eyes flicked toward you at the sound— assessing, like he was surprised to hear you join the noise of the world. Your eyes caught his— warm, amused, a little surprised— and the air suddenly felt thinner. “Guess it’s you and me, then, Birdy.” He said, straightening.

The idea of a car ride with Dean, quiet or not, felt like something you weren’t supposed to want but did anyway.

The truck coughed awake, a deep, familiar sound that seemed to shake the dust loose from the rafters. Inside, it smelled of engine grease, tobacco, and hay— the scent of work that never ends. The bench seat squeaked when you slid in beside him.

Dean fiddled with the radio until static gave way to a preacher’s voice talking about mercy and judgment in the same breath. He laughed under it, turned the volume down. “Only stations out here are sermons or silence.” He sighed, flicking through stations.

You shrugged “Silence isn’t so bad.” He cut you a look, amused. “You saying that ‘cause you mean it or ‘cause you’re trying to shut me up?” With a small smile you looked at him, tilting your head. “Both.” You said, and he laughed, the sound low and rough like the gravel road beneath you.

“Quiet makes me think too much.” His voice sounded distant for a second. You looked out the window at the highway unspooling ahead, the sky wide and washed clean. “Maybe that’s why I like it.” You said softly.

He hummed, tapping his thumb against the leather. “Yeah, but thinking too much gets you in trouble.” There was an easy pause. The kind that didn’t ask to be filled.

The speakers cracked, then filled with an old hymn-turned-rock song: steel guitar, a woman’s voice wailing about salvation and sin. You leaned your head against the window, watching telephone poles tick past like a rosary you couldn’t finish.

“Damn it, Christian rock? Really?” he said, eyes on the road. “Radio’s all fire-and-brimstone this far out.” You turned your head towards him. “It fits,” you said. “This place feels like it’s still waiting for the rapture.”

He barked a short laugh. “You talk like you’ve seen it.” You smiled, amused. “Maybe I have.” your voice light and breathy. He shot you a look— half teasing, half something else. “You’re strange, Birdy.”

You played with your mama’s engagement ring that sat on your middle finger. The black opal void of light, like it was an infinite pit of darkness. “Strange keeps me busy.” He nodded. “Fair enough.” He grinned, teeth bright against the gloom. “Strange makes the drive less boring.”

You leaned your head against the window, watching the trees slide past. The landscape had changed since summer: cornfields gone brittle, ditches blooming with rust colored weeds, the sky wide and washed-out like bleached bone. Dean drove one handed, eyes half on the road, half on the horizon.

You drove in silence for a while, but looking at the boy’s restless fingers tapping on the wheel, you could tell that wouldn’t last long.Dean turned the dial of the radio once more and the rock music followed— Led Zeppelin, maybe Muse— something with guitars that rolled like thunder.

“Now that’s more like it!” he said tapping his fingers to the beat. Then almost as if hit by realisation that you were in the truck with him, he glanced at you. “This fine with you?” He went to turn the dial to a new station, but was quickly stopped by your words. “It’s fine.” you said. “I like this.”He grinned, settling his hand over the steering wheel.

The lull in conversation that followed wasn’t heavy. It was the kind that fills in the space between people who don’t know what to say yet but mean it when they listen.

The fields on either side were brittle and gold, rows of corn cut down to stubble. The air shimmered with memories of summer heat, smelling faintly of diesel and damp soil.

Halfway to town, you passed the old church— the one with its roof half-collapsed and the cross still clinging stubbornly to the steeple. The sign out front, leaned like a man too tired to pray, still bearing the faded words Grace Tabernacle, 1956.

“That place gives me the creeps.” Dean muttered, glancing at it through the window. You tilted your head. “I think it’s beautiful.” He shot you a small, curious look. “Beautiful?” You nodded. “Feels honest, peaceful, even after being forgotten. There’s something holy about that. Like it isn’t pretending anymore.” You took a second to admire the once mighty house of God. “Now it just breathes with the world, unburdened by people and their prayers.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softly. “Guess you see things most people don’t.” You smiled at the glass, where your reflection wavered over the passing trees. “Or maybe I just need to look longer. To me it’s just a building that God packed up and left to crumble.” He shrugged.

“Look,” you gestured at the foundations still strong. “It’s still standing. Still trying.” You mused back at him, opening his eyes to your mind. “That supposed to be comforting?” He flicked his eyes from the church to you. “Depends who you ask.” You left the answer open ended.

He looked back at the road but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got this kinda weird way of speaking like you’re preaching some sort of gospel, you know that?” He laughed, shaking his head. “You’d make a hell of a preacher Birdy, that’s for sure.”

You let a breathy chuckle out. “I’ve been told.” Then, almost if worried about what he said coming across as an insult, Dean spoke. “Yeah, but not the bad kind. You’d help people.” You shook your head and settled with a small smile adorning your lips. “Wouldn’t have many believers.”

“Yeah,” he said, softer now, “but the ones you’d have— they’d listen. You just… see stuff different, I think that’s beautiful.” He said it easily, like it wasn’t meant to land as deeply as it did. But you caught the tone underneath— respect, maybe even admiration. The kind that sits quietly between words.

Town was little more than two streets and a grain elevator, everything bleached to the same dull beige by years of sun. The hardware store was half-empty, smelling of sawdust and approaching winter. You moved through the aisles in step — your hand grazing boxes of nails, his tracing the spines of sandpaper rolls. Dean grabbed a basket and started down the aisles, you trailed behind him as he read Bobby’s list aloud, his voice low and rhythmic.

“Nails, thinner, funnel. Real riveting stuff.” You raised an eyebrow. “You expected adventure?” you asked. He shrugged. “Kinda. Thought maybe we’d fight off a band of rogue screwdrivers.” You smiled despite yourself. “Heroic.” He nudged your shoulder. “Tragic, too. Death by paint supplies.” You rolled your eyes, but the corners of his mouth tugged higher. He liked making you do that— you could tell.

You wandered the aisles. The smell of metal and pine tar felt almost holy in its way— like the scent of work and faith mixed together. Dean found the paint thinner, held up a can with mock reverence. “Our salvation.” You shook your head. “You’re insufferable.” You said, smiling. “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m funny.” You crossed your arms and tilted your head. “Debatable.” He grinned wider. “You laughed.” He then proceeded to tick the thinner off the paper list.

“You ever think your uncle’s trying to keep us busy just so he can get a day without us breaking something?” he said putting some nails in the basket. “Wouldn’t blame him,” you replied, “you and Sam are loud.” He laughed— really laughed this time, head tilted back. “Alright, fair. But you’d miss it if we weren’t.” You didn’t answer, just carried the basket now, while he filled it. He looked over once, smiling to himself. “Yeah, you’d miss it.”

When you paid, the old man at the counter eyed Bobby’s F-350 keys, now hanging from Dean’s belt. “That your truck?” Green eyes glanced at the blue truck outside. “Borrowed,” Dean said, “she’s prettier than she runs.” The man grumbled in acknowledgment. “Sounds like most things worth keeping,” the old man replied, and you caught the ghost of a grin pass between them— men trading metaphors like currency.

When you left the store, he stopped by the vending machine, kicked it once to loosen a stuck can, and handed it to you. “Peace offering. For making you endure my driving.” You took it, popped the tab. “You’re not that bad.” He turned toward you eyebrows raised and smirk on his face. “Damn. High praise.”

Outside, when everything was loaded in the trunk, neither of you hurried to leave. The morning had stretched itself into something gentler, less cold. There was a bench near the storefront, facing the grain silos and the road home. You sat first; Dean joined after a beat.

“Bobby said your dad used to come by sometimes.” He said carefully, eyes on the distant fields. You nodded, hands folded in your lap. “They hunted together.” His expression turned grim. “Yeah,” he said. Then, quieter, “he ever tell you about that?” You shook your head. “No. Just that he left.”

He didn’t pry. You were grateful for that. Still, something in his expression softened— not pity, not quite, but a recognition. You wondered what he’d lost, too.

The sun warmed your knees through your skirt, and for a strange moment you felt almost ordinary— two young people sitting in the dull hum of late morning, sharing silence like communion.

The road home curved around the edge of town, past the graveyard you liked. You hesitated when you saw it, and Dean caught it immediately. “You wanna stop?” he asked. You nodded.

He pulled over without question. The gates creaked open with a noise that echoed in your bones. The grass had grown wild since the storm; the air smelled faintly of cedar and something older, sweeter, like decay turning back to earth.

You walked between the stones, fingers brushing the cool tops of names you didn’t know. Dean followed, a few steps behind, slower, hands in his pockets. “Is this the one you visit a lot?”

“When I can.” You said. “It’s quiet here. Peaceful.” He crouched beside one of the older stones, brushing away a film of moss. “Guess folks finally get some rest.” he nodded his head towards the headstone, Elizabeth O’Marley. “Not all of them,” you murmured. He looked up at you then, curious.

He hesitated with his question, like he knew something you didn’t. “You think some of them don’t?” You shrugged. “I think some places remember too much.” Dean stood, looking around at the tilted markers, the crows lined along the fence. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Some people too.” The way he said it made you ache. You didn’t ask who he meant.

“So you come here because it’s quiet?” He smiled and threw you questioning glance. “You like the quiet, right?” he said, not as a question but as a little knowing statement.

You smiled faintly. “It doesn’t lie. But that’s not the reason,” he looked at you perplexed, waiting for you to carry on. You looked at the sky above you and closed your eyes. “I come for their conversations, their company. They whisper through the trees, connected by the soil.” He looked at you for a long time then, sunlight cutting through his hair, and you could feel the air bend slightly under the weight of something unspoken— not quite longing, not yet. Just the recognition of another hollow place.

When you turned to go, you noticed he hesitated by one of the newer stones, tracing the carved date with his thumb. You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to.

A crow called somewhere above you, its cry cutting through the heavy air. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of woodsmoke from someone’s far-off fire. “C’mon. Bobby’ll think we fell in a hole.” You joked at Dean. He straightened, brushed his hands on his jeans, and both of you made your way to the old blue truck.

By the time you turned onto the dirt road leading home, the sun was low and amber, stretching shadows across the fields. The truck’s headlights caught the dust rising behind you, a golden haze in the rearview mirror.

Bobby stood on the porch, arms crossed. “Took you long enough. Town ain’t that far. Could’ve built the whole damn car yourselves.” He said, shaking his head. You only smiled apologetically. Dean grinned.

“Had to make a stop.” Dean said. “Birdy wanted to visit the dead.” You shot him a look. He smirked. Bobby just sighed. “Long as you didn’t bring any home with you.” Dean grinned. “Can’t make promises, old man.” You looked at the green eyed boy. Something between you had changed shape, quiet and irreversible as rot beneath paint.

Dinner smelled of fried onions and something sweet baking in the oven. The house felt small again, full of sound and life.

Sam found you the following hour, sitting on the couch with your knees pulled up, a book spread open but unread. “Whatcha reading?” he asked, flopping down beside you without waiting for permission. You showed him the cover— We Have Always Lived in the Castle. “Oh, man. That looks creepy.” He said, leaning over your shoulder. “You like weird stuff?”

“I like things that make me feel something,” you said. “Even if it’s uncomfortable.” He nodded, frowning like he was trying to understand. “Yeah— I— that’s how I feel about the road. I like it, but it feels bitter, unpleasant. Too fast.” He grimaced, as remembering unpleasant memories. “Dean loves it, I tell him that that it’s lonely, but he argues that it keeps him sharp.”

You smiled faintly. “He sounds like someone who’s never stopped moving long enough to know what stillness feels like.” Sam thought about that, chewing on his lip. “Maybe.” He said. “I think he just doesn’t know how to stop.”

You looked at him then, really looked— at the way he was trying to make sense of the people who raised him, the roads that carried him. You felt a small pull of kinship. “You’ll figure it out,” you said, “you’ve got time.” He gave you a crooked grin. “Thanks, Birdy.”

Later, when you lay in bed, the wind rattling the windowpane, you could still hear the truck settling outside— metal cooling, ticking like a heartbeat— and you could still hear his laugh echoing faintly in your mind. Threading through the engine, bright and unrepentant as sin.

The tenth morning broke pale and cold, the sky a thin sheet of pewter pressed low against the fields. You woke to the sound of dishes clinking downstairs, the faint smell of bacon and black coffee. Bobby always cooked big on the days that meant something— goodbyes, funerals, or just when silence had sat too heavy in the house for too long.

You dressed slow, listening. The brothers’ voices wove through the kitchen walls. Dean’s low, steady, almost teasing; Sam’s soft, bright, like he was trying to fill all the empty air before it could settle.

By the time you came down, they were already half done eating. Dean glanced up first, and there it was— that small look he gave you sometimes, the kind that lasted a heartbeat too long to be casual. You sat across from Sam, who smiled through a mouthful of toast.

“Morning, Birdy.” He said. “Morning.” You replied, pouring coffee. The radio murmured something about storms rolling through Kansas, and Bobby muttered under his breath about roads and timing. You could tell by the way he stirred his cup that he wasn’t ready to see them go, though he’d never say it.

After breakfast, the house fell into that strange half busy, half suspended rhythm of departure. The sound of zippers, boots on stairs, car doors testing their hinges. Outside, the air had that metallic taste that always came the season before snow.

You stepped out to the porch for air, clutching your mug. The fields beyond Bobby’s place had gone to pale straw, the old church spire leaning in the distance like a tired sentinel. You’d been there two nights ago— counting headstones, tracing the names of the forgotten— and you thought now of how still it had been, how even the wind had felt reluctant to move. You came back inside standing by the couch where Sam was talking about a book he’d picked up when he’d passed through Tennessee.

It wasn’t until the deep, steady rumble of an engine rolled up the drive that Sam’s chatter stopped. Through the living room’s window, you could see the Impala— black and gleaming like a memory that had never belonged to you— easing to a stop in front of the porch. The man behind the wheel didn’t get out right away. He just sat there, hand on the steering wheel, a dark shape behind the glass.

“That’ll be Dad,” Dean said softly. Bobby grunted in agreement. “Figures he’d show up early for once.” Outside, the world had gone quiet in that way it did before a storm. The air was sharp and metallic, the trees thin and skeletal against the horizon. You stood on the porch while they loaded the car— duffels, a box of ammunition, a flask that clinked against the metal like an unspoken word.

John climbed out at last, nodding at Bobby. They spoke briefly— words too low for you to hear, just the shapes of men who’d known each other too long to bother with pleasantries. You watched from the steps, mug held against your chest, steam rising between your fingers.

When Sam turned toward you, he looked uncertain, the way younger people do when they know they’ll miss something but don’t quite have the language for it yet. He kicked the frost with his boot and said, “Hey, Birdy?” You tilted your head.

He held out his hand. “Thanks for letting us stay.” You smiled, setting the mug aside on the porch steps. “Hold up.” You said, and ducked inside. When you returned, you were holding a small, worn paperback— the corners soft, the spine a pale ghost of its title. It was We Have Always Lived in the Castle.

Sam blinked, hand still outstretched. “You sure?” You nodded. “You seemed to like the cover when I was reading it. It’s a story about strange people in a strange house. Thought you might like it.” He grinned, cradling it as though it were something rare. “Thanks, Birdy. I’ll read it in the car.” You reached out and squeezed his arm lightly. “Maybe don’t read it at night.” He laughed, the sound breaking through the cold. “Yeah, probably not.”

Dean had been watching from the other side of the truck, arms crossed, shoulders hunched against the chill. When Sam climbed in, he walked over slowly, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. “Guess this is it, for now at least.” he said. “I guess so.” You said, a pang of something bitter pulling at your gut.

He looked around, like he wanted to remember what the place looked like— the leaning barn, the frost clinging to the weeds, the porch light still on though it was daylight. “Well I guess you’ll enjoy it more now that it’ll be quiet without all our talking.” he said with a half-smile.

No, you wouldn’t enjoy it. For the first time you didn’t want the quiet, you wanted the space to be filled with warm hushed voices and laughter. But you hummed. “I don’t know… I think I’ll miss the chaos.” Dean grinned. “Until next time, Birdy.” He turned to get into the slick, black car.

You felt something flicker in your chest, sharp and fond all at once. “Wait!” you said again. You reached into your pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped in torn linen— the kind of soft, secret thing you’d keep tucked away. He hesitated before taking it, unwrapping the cloth just enough to see what was inside.

A small glass locket, tarnished at the edges, holding a single, perfect moth wing— pale and iridescent, something you’d pinned yourself once but couldn’t bring yourself to keep. Dean stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at you. “This yours?” You nodded. “It was. Thought you might take care of it.”

He turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the glass. “You’re serious? Ain’t moths your favourite?” Your heart swelled at the fact that he remembered. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It’s not much, but it doesn’t belong here anymore.” Something passed over his face then— not quite a smile, not quite sorrow, but something softer than either.

He tucked the locket carefully into his pocket, like it was worth more than it was. “I’ll keep it safe,” he said. You smiled gently up at him. “I know.” He hesitated, then said, “See you around, Birdy.”You nodded an ache settling in your chest. “See you, Dean.”

And that was it— no grand goodbyes, no promises, just the sound of the Impala’s engine turning over, the crunch of tires over gravel, and the faint glint of sunlight catching on the chrome as it disappeared down the long dirt road.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. The house felt larger again, the air thinner somehow. Bobby’s snores came faintly from down the hall, but they couldn’t fill the quiet.

You sat by your window with the lamp turned low, notebook open, and wrote: He left with a piece of me, and I gave it freely. The frost doesn’t melt just because the morning asks it to.

You closed the notebook and looked out toward the fields, where the frost still glowed faintly in the moonlight. Somewhere, far beyond the curve of the road, you imagined the Impala cutting through the dark, the locket catching the dashboard light like a quiet secret.

And when the wind moved through the eaves, it almost sounded like the house sighing.

a/n: thank you all for reading! going forwards i think i’ll upload weekly, i don’t have a set day yet because i don’t want to put too much pressure on myself but it’ll likely be between tuesday and thursday!

yours forever,

fawn