#--oh shit wait! i did with sam/claire

[hyde-ur-monsters]

On account of me procrastinating and the idea of a Monster High and Danny Phantom crossover (with a focus on Sam and Clair) breathing down my neck, I had a tiny fic idea that i will now write instead of the assignment my grade depends on

Jackson and Claire were having a perfectly calm outing. It had been a while since they hung out, and they had a lot to catch up on. They decided to go to a nearby cafe; it had a nature theme going and Jackson was curious about it.

“You’re such a hipster,” Clair had teased him, poking him in the side.

The line was long, so they got ready for a long wait and talked in the meantime. Jackson was ranting about his biggest ongoing project (body duplication). About how he had the theory down, but so far all it would do is instantaneously produce an exact clone of the subject. He couldn’t figure out how to produce a double based on the subject’s thoughts and it was frustrating him to no end.

Jackson tended to lose track of his surroundings when he was talking about his Interests, and Clair was facing away from the line, so it was kinda his fault when they didn’t move along with the line and left a sizable gap in between them and the person in front of them.

Naturally, some guy who had just walked into the café saw the gap and thought, hey free real estate.

Clair caught the face Jackson made mid-rant, his i’m-annoyed-but-also-non-confrontational face, and turned around just in time to see the guy cut in line in front of them. Clair raised an eyebrow at the sheer audacity.

“Is he fucking serious?” She said this loud enough for the Opportunist Ass to hear.

Jackson grimaced when the guy squared his shoulders but made no inclination to move. Oh this was going to turn into a Thing, and he did not want it to turn into a Thing.

“It’s fine,” he whispered to Clair. “I got carried away and didn’t realize the line had moved.”

Clair turned to him with a glare.

“We’ve been waiting ten minutes in line, Jackson. He can take his turn like the rest of us instead cutting in line like a parasite,” she said annoyedly, before turning to the guy. “Dude, in case it somehow escaped your beady eyes, the line starts at the door.”

Instead of ignoring her this time, the guy glanced at them over his shoulder with an unimpressed look.

“Go somewhere else if it bothers you, freak. Not my fault you were wasting time talking about weird shit.”

Taken aback by his response, Clair scoffed in disbelief. She couldn’t think fast enough for something to say, so the guy turned back around and went back to ignoring them.

“Real original,” Jackson muttered under his breath with a roll of his eyes.

“I hate—”

“Clair, just leave it. We’ll get our coffee either way.”

Clair frowned, brow furrowing like she wanted to say more, but she kept quiet. She didn’t like arguing with strangers. It was more stress than it was worth. Besides, she knew Jackson hated making a scene. She could let it go.

“Hey, asshole!”

The two friends jumped at the shout, eyes wide. They slowly turned to look at a girl their age decked out in goth attire (a dark purple tank top paired with a loose, ghost-patterned cardigan, a long black skirt, and a pair of tall platform boots peeking out from under the hem). She wore heavy eyeliner that did nothing to make her look less terrifying as she glared directly at the line-cutter.

The guy glanced minutely behind him, intent on ignoring her, too.

“Yeah, you, dickhead. They told you where the line was, but I don’t see you moving.”

Everyone else in the line was turning to look at the scene, the goth girl’s shout having caught their attention. There were murmurs around and Jackson suddenly felt too many eyes on them.

The girl hadn’t moved an inch from her spot, but that didn’t take away from the feeling that she would drag him out of the spot if she could.

Oh please don’t let this turn into an altercation, Jackson pleaded silently. He wanted to melt into the ground as it was.

Clair on the other hand smirked at the goth girl. She felt braver now with someone else taking the stand, and she put a hand on her hip giving the guy a raised eyebrow.

“You heard her,” she said, too satisfied with herself.

The guy glared at them both.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he stated with a sudden air of confidence that made Clair scoff and the goth girl stomp her boot.

“I saw you cut in line, dumbass,” goth girl accused, pointing at him.

“Yeah, nice try, but we’re not blind. The line starts at the door,” Clair repeated, jabbing her thumb behind her.

“I don’t take orders from weirdos.”

“First time for everything. Get moving or get lost.”

Goth girl stared him down, but it wasn’t until other customers in the line started speaking up and telling him to “stop holding up the line” and that “people who cut in line have a special place in hell” that he finally moved, muttering angrily.

Someone from a table actually cheered.

Jackson wished he was Invisibilly so people wouldn’t keep staring at him. Clair looked deeply satisfied with the outcome.

“We’re paying for that girl’s coffee. Sorry for the mess, Jackson, but that was true goth girl solidarity. I either owe her coffee or my soul.”

He snorted despite himself.

“Preferably just coffee.”

They did pay for her tea, not coffee, and even invited her to sit with them when they realized there weren’t any other tables available.

The girl, Sam, was only there because it was the only cafe in town that had vegan options. This side of town, at least, but Jackson couldn’t tell her about the plethora of vegan food places in the monster side of town.

The three of them got to talking about what the town had to offer, because apparently Sam was here visiting a friend and didn’t know anything about the place. Then she started asking about the history of the town, saying she’d heard there were witch hunts back in the 1600s. Jackson and Clair had shared a look at this, but waved it off as rumors that came from tourists who confused Salem, Oregon with Salem, Massachusetts.

“Bummer, I really wanted to find some witch ghosts. Actually, do you guys have any spooky or haunted spots—”

Sam’s phone ringtone blared out— the Ghostbusters theme song —and she rolled her eyes at the caller ID.

“About time. Hey, Danny. Tucker with you? Cool, I’m at a cafe on the other side of town, I’ll head your way.”

She stood up, phone in one hand and tea in the other, and gave her temporary cafe buddies a friendly smile.

“Thanks for the tea, and for the satisfaction of telling an asshole off. See you guys around.”

They waved her off as she went back to the conversation on her phone. Clair thought she heard the word ‘ghosts’, but put the concern away. Lots of regular people were into the paranormal. There were even Ghost hunters all over Youtube. It was fun and dark and spooky. Clair used to watch them as a kid.

She never would’ve guessed she’d actually get to meet one, let alone be interviewed by said ghost. There was a lot in her life nowadays that she never thought she’d even get a chance to see, actually.

They sat in silence for a bit, before Jackson spoke up.

“Did- did she say she’d meet her friends on the other side of town?”

“Yup.”

They looked at each other. Jackson pressed his lips into a thin line.

“We should probably—”

Clair sighed.

“Yeah okay, fine. Let’s go.”

[castieldelamancha]

Dean points at one of the tapes on the filled to the brim shelves with a bright, enthusiastic, grin.

"Oh man, look sweetheart," the petname now rolling off his tongue easily, not a trace of the initial awkwardness he could feel when this things between them finally started in it, "I've to come back for this one, it's been years since I last saw a tape by this singer for sell."

He doesn't get a reply, which okay weird, but he knows Cas is listening, he turns around with the tape in his hands and he sees Cas has been typing away on his phone for a while, clearly lost in his own world. He has been doing this more and more lately, specially while being along with Dean out of the bunker.

"Huh, who are you texting man? Like, not for nothing, but you only know Sam and me, everyone else you know is dead," Dean winces at his own words, not an okay topic to joke about, he reminds himself.

Castiel looks like at him, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights, but then his expression changes, and he rolls his eyes, "I could be texting Claire for all you know."

Fair enough.

Dean only shrugs, he is kinda confused by Cas' behavior but he is also used to Cas' weird way of strolling through life so he isn't too worried about it.

Not until that very night, when, after falling asleep in the middle of a movie he so stubbornly claimed he wanted to watch, and even if he had declared he wasn't going to fall asleep watching it, he wakes up alone on the couch, their half empty pop corn bowl forgotten on the coffee table in front of it.

He rubs his eyes and stretches with a yawn, getting up and reaching for the remote, the movie already over, an obnoxiously loud melody playing as the credits roll by.

He turns off the lights as he walks out of the room and, soon enough, he finds himself following the muted rumble of two familiar voices having a conversation somewhere in the bunker.

"-so you have a whole list, then?" He catches, as he reaches the library's door.

"Yes, Sam, I don't want to purchase everything in one go, but I want you to help me found this tape on the Google, you know we don't really get along." Sam snorts at that, and that's pretty much the same reaction those words would get out of Dean too.

Also, did he say something about a tape?

"Only the tape then, nothing else?"

"Yes, Sam."

Dean, feeling bad for spying on them, decides to make his presence known then. He clears his throat, stepping into the room.

"Hey guys," and there it is, the deer caught in the headlights again, "Cas, man, you left before the movie ended."

"You fell asleep before the movie ended, Dean." Dean rolls his eyes.

"Everything okay?" Cas sends Sam a panicked look at that, nodding furiously.

"Of course, I was just helping Sam with his research, right Sam?"

Sam looks really done with their shit right now, but he nods along nonetheless.

"Vamps," he says, right as Cas says "demons."

Dean squints at them, because years of seeing Cas doing exactly that have rubbed on him, "that's a new one, vamp-demons, you guys suck at naming monsters."

Castiel walks towards him, lightly getting him to turn around and starting to gently push him out of the room, "you are right, it was Sam's idea, I told him we should have waited for you, but you know how he is, he never listens."

"Hey!"

"Good night, Sam." Castiel calls over his shoulder, ignoring Sam's offence.

Dean lets Castiel guide him out of the room and towards the one they share now and waits till the door closes behind them to turn around with an inquisitive look on his face, "everything okay?" He asks once more.

Castiel nods, busy moving the comforter out of the way so they can go to bed.

"Of course, Dean."

"You know," Dean scratches the back of his neck, he doesn't want Cas to know he was listening and that he knows they were lying to him, just because he doesn't want Cas to be mad at him, but he also would like to know if he has ever made Cas feel like he couldn't count on him for that kind of stuff, "I can help you find stuff on the internet too, right?" Castiel gives him an unreadable look at that, brushing non-existent dust off his pillow, "look I'm sorry but I kinda heard you talking to Sam and, well, if you need anything..." He trails off, looking at the floor, shrugging lightly. Castiel sighs from the other side of the room.

He doesn't look up until a firm hand closes around his chin, tilting his head up gently, "all I know about being human, I've learned it from you, you are the one that has taught me how to navigate this chaotic world, and I know you would help me with anything I need, and for that I am so grateful, but, well," he pauses, "you can't help me with this."

"Okay, then."

"You are going to make me ruin the surprise, aren't you?" Castiel steps back with a small smile on his face, shaking his head he makes his way to where his phone is charging on his nightstand. He makes his way back to Dean, all under his confused gaze, and shows him his phone screen.

It's the note app, Dean recognizes it, since he taught Cas how to download it and use it, it says "Dean" on the top of the screen and, right under it, the first thing he can read is the name of the singer from the tape he saw this morning while he was out with Cas.

"My memory isn't what it used to be, and I tend to get famous people's names mixed up, so I decided to write your favorite ones down, so I remember, I was going to get the tape for you too," he turns the phone around and scrolls down for a second, "I have the name of that roadside diner you claimed had the best pecan pie you had ever tried, so we can go together."

Dean doesn't think he can keep hearing what else Cas has deemed relevant about him, what other parts of him he has written there, he feels naked down to his very soul, observed, but is not making him uncomfortable.

On the contrary, he feels seen in a way no one has ever seen him before, through loving and caring eyes.

"You didn't have to do all that." He mutters.

"No," Castiel concedes, going back to his nightstand, "but I want to do it, it's the kind of thing you do for those you care for, I learned that from you too." He gets in the bed, using his hand to lift the covers on Dean's side, quietly waiting for him to join him.

"Good night, Dean."

"Night, Cas."

They turn off the lights and get closer to each other then, in the dark, Dean asks,

"So you weren't texting Claire after all?" He can't see Cas, but he still knows he is rolling his eyes.

"Go to sleep, Dean."

[welldonebeca]

Baby Jack's The Girl (1)

Summary: When he notices Claire misses being a child, Jack decides to gift her the opportunity of being little again. WC: 1.9k words Warnings: Fluff. Domestic Winchesters. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Age regression.

If you like my work, consider buying me a coffee or subscribing to my Patreon. It’s just $2 a month and I promise you won’t regret it.

Masterlist

"Look," Claire chuckled when she gave Jack her phone. "Watch that!"

She didn't laugh a lot in front of other people, it was something that she almost only did with Jack.

They were hanging out together, laying across his bed.

The little one in the video was running to her father, apparently upset that he had messed her up with her sister.

"Me Harper, daddy."

He laughed. Sometimes, Claire showed him a couple of videos that were not that funny - people getting scared, and failing compilations, and he laughed to impress her - but this video was actually nice.

"Yeah, I knew you'd like that one," she poked him on the arm.

Claire was always very cool to Jack. She was a skilled hunter and took no shit, always sassying Dean or Cas. She was very, very cool.

He raised his head when he heard a knock on the door, and Sam walked inside with two bowls in his hand.

"Hey, I brought you two a snack," he announced. "I thought you guys would like it, considering dinner won't be ready for a while."

Jack immediately sat up, excited. Apples! His favourite!

Claire didn't move, taking the bowl and still laying down.

"Dude, you are such a dad," she grabbed an apple slice and looked at Jack. "He is such a dad."

Jack frowned. What was wrong with that?

"And I'll be even more of one," Sam looked at her, not looking upset. "Sit up to eat, Clare, you don't want to choke."

She looked at him and then back at her phone, but he didn't move, and Jack could see she was feeling that.

"Fine," she grunted, sitting up and putting a pillow to support her back before leaning on the headboard of the bed. "God. You guys are so annoying."

Sam shook his head.

"Thank you, Claire," he said instead. "Enjoy your fruits."

He kissed Jack on his forehead before leaving, making him feel little inside. He wanted to whine that he wasn't small, but Sam always treated him the same, big or small.

"Let me know if you need anything," he affirmed.

He left and the moment the door closed Claire turned right to him.

"That's weird," she noted.

Jack almost blushed.

"Yeah, da- Sam can be a bit..."

Affectionate.

"Suffocating?"

"That's what Dean says," he joked instead of answering.

Jack ate his fruit, assuming Claire would do the same as they waited for dinner, but she didn't seem too happy lying around and doing nothing.

"Hey," she suddenly called. "You wanna go for a joy ride?"

He frowned, confused.

"What is that?"

She just smiled.

"Well, we get in the car and drive around," she told him. "For fun."

"Oh!" he exclaimed, understanding.

It sounded fun!

"I'll go tell Sam," he put his empty bowl aside.

Before he could, Claire grabbed his arm.

"Dude, listen," she stopped him. "I wasn't going to say anything, but just because you were born four years ago, it doesn't mean you are actually four, you know?"

Jack frowned. No, he didn't know.

"We are adults, come one," she reminded him. "Mommy Sam doesn't need to know where we are going!"

Well... Maybe it made sense? It wasn't like they would be gone for long.

"Okay?" he smiled weakly, and she grabbed his hand as they hurried out of his room.

Claire had a nice pickup truck that she drove around in, which she always said was good for hunting.

"Come on," she opened the door for him. "Let's see if there is anything to do around here."

There wasn't really anything, but Claire let the music play as they drove around, just stopping at a convenience store, and she was nice and paid for his nougat on her with her six-pack of beer.

Jack had had beer before, but once he started being little, he hadn't had any drinks like that.

She parked in a quiet place, and they sat outside, resting on the floor panel of the back of the truck while they drank.

"So, how's it been?" she asked suddenly, drinking from her can. "Since being God and... everything?"

He thought to himself.

"Well, I'm not really God, not anymore. Some of my powers are still there but it's not the same as before," he explained. "But it's nice that it changed. I hurt a lot of people before."

Jack thought for a moment about what he was going to say next, unsure.

"I Really wanted to fix everything when I had Chuck's power…. and then I started to think about Mary and my mum... Your mum too. I knew I could bring them back."

Claire sat straight up.

"What?!"

He gave her a sheepish look.

"And then I saw every pain, and suffering," he confessed, gasping, trying not to shake. "From the past and future. And I couldn't handle it."

"What the fuck, Jack," Claire huffed. "Is that why you gave it all up?"

He nodded meekly, drinking the rest of his can in one swing.

"I just... couldn't handle it," he panted, sniffing. "The only way I could was to scatter myself. Stop being myself and become one with the universe, but... I didn't want to leave. I like it here."

"Have you told them?" she asked softly, and the 'them' was obvious enough.

Jack shrugged, grabbing a second can, and playing with it a bit.

"I've already been too much for them," he mumbled. "I don't want to burden them more."

"Hey, don't say that," she punched his arm, as if that would take his bad feelings away. "They care about you! And whatever you did, it doesn’t matter. I mean... they have done a lot worse, come on."

He smiled a bit, calmer as her joke.

"I'm sorry about what happened with your family," he told her. "I guess we've both been dealt shitty hands."

Claire chuckled and patted his shoulder.

"Come on, there's still booze to drink."

He nodded along, and they finished the six-pack together, and Jack could feel himself a little buzzed.

"I like being around you so much," he confessed, laying down. "It's like having a sister."

"Awn," she cooed. "Thank you, Jack!"

She made silence for a moment, and sighed.

"I guess I always wanted a little brother," she admitted.

Jack smiled, and turned to his side when his phone rang in his jacket's pocket.

"Jack?" Sam asked on the other side, sounding relieved.

Oh, no. Was everything okay?

"No, Dean, he picked up!" he spoke quickly, not to him.

Jack sat up.

"What are you two?" Sam asked, so loud that Jack knew Claire had head him. "I've been texting you for an hour now, I was worried sick, baby!"

An hour? They have been out that long?!

Claire snatched the phone from his hand before he could answer.

"It's alright, Sam," she giggled, a little slowly, as if not to slur her words. "We'll be home before midnight."

"Wait," he heard from the phone. "Have you two been d-"

Claire hang up, and his eyes widened.

"Claire," he gasped. "Sam is going to be upset!"

Sam, not daddy, he reminded himself, struggling not to mix them up.

"What is he gonna do?" she joked. "Put us in timeout?"

Yes!

"I'm not scared of him," she decided.

"Jack," he heard, and jumped, startled.

Right behind him, Castiel was watching the two of them.

He wanted to hide behind Claire, but didn't, and just looked at Papa as he watched the two of them.

"Get in the car," he told them calmly. "We are going home."

Claire groaned but followed Jack into the truck, and he tried to control himself, so he wouldn't get small, but the alcohol didn't help him.

His head felt fuzzy and all he wanted was to drink some water and go to sleep.

Claire would think he was so lame and silly!

Once they got back to the bunker, papa held his hand on the way down the stairs, as if he knew his mind was smaller than his body, and Jack wanted to hide even more when he saw daddy pacing back and forth in the library while uncle Dean stood with his arms crossed.

"Oh, my baby," daddy sighed in relief, hurrying over to him.

Jack flushed.

"Claire, you should head to bed now, we need to talk to Jack," papa exclaimed calmly.

Claire didn't even move.

"Oh, come on, don't give him shit," she defended him, rolling her eyes. "He saved the world, he can have some beer!"

"This is not the problem, kid," Dean corrected her. "This is private."

Claire stomped, mad, and he knew she was about to yell just as Jack felt himself fit right in daddy's arms, small as be scooped him up.

"What. The. Hell."

He didn't want to turn to look at her, and hid in Sam's shirt, scared of what she was going to say.

"Claire, Jack has been through so much, and one way that helps him cope-" papa started explaining, but she stopped him.

"So what, he is your baby now?" she asked bitterly.

Was she... envious?

"When he wants to be," he said simply. "Yes."

"You think you can act like a dad when you ruined my life?" she cried, drunk enough that she could speak her true mind.  "When you took away my dad!"

Jack glanced at them, but Claire and papa were only looking at one another.

"Claire..." he sighed, eyes looking hurt, but not as hurt as hers.

She was crying now, with her eyes all wet.

"If anyone deserves another shot at being a kid, it should be me! But I don't get that, do I? I gotta live with how broken I am."

She stormed off into the bunker, most likely into her bedroom, and the room fell into dead silence before daddy got Jack's attention.

"Hey, baby," he spoke softly, getting his attention.

Jack looked up at him and pouted.

"I'm sorry, daddy," he mumbled. His head was so fuzzy.

"I'm just glad you are alright," daddy reassured him.

Uncle Dean chuckled.

"Do you think a baby can get a hangover?" he joked.

Jack looked for his papa, and he was still staring where Claire had stormed off to.

"Is Claire gonna be okay?"

Daddy sighed.

"I think she is sad, baby," he told him. "We will talk to her tomorrow, don't worry."

Jack fell with his head in her shoulder.

"I'm hungry," he mumbled.

Sam chuckled.

"Well, it’s a good thing uncle Dean finished dinner," he told him, handing him to Dean, who scooped him up.

He tickled his belly as he walked down to the kitchen.

"Did you have fun with your little joy ride?" he teased him.

Jack squealed, trying to push his hand away, but uncle Dean was crafty.

"I think you are going to like what I made tonight," he plopped him down on his highchair.

Jack waited as he set up his dinner, looking around for daddy and papa, but they weren't there, and when he looked back at the library they were talking in hushed whispers.

Jack wanted to know what they were saying, but couldn't. Papa looked very tired, and daddy seemed to know that, because he was rubbing his back and keeping him close.

"Hey, kiddo," Uncle Dean called. "Leave the adults to their own talk."

He put a plate of grilled cheese down, and Jack smiled happily. Oh, he really liked grilled cheese.

His mind moved to Claire as he ate his food. Jack understood her pain very much, they were both cheated out of childhood, but she didn't have his daddies and uncle or lean on.

She had Jody, yes, but Claire was never going to let herself be vulnerable to anyone.

But maybe... maybe Jack could give her a gift that would help.

He couldn't fix all the pain of the world, but maybe he could help hers.

. . .

Forever Tags: @emoryhemsworth​​ @amythyststorm33​​ @shaelyn102​​ @yknott81​​ ​​@maximofftrash​​ @kgbrenner​​ @thefridgeismybestie @magpiegirl80​ @mogaruke​ @shadowhunter7​​ @musicalcoffeebean @megasimpleplan4ever​​ @deemoriarty​​ @05spn18​​ @malindacath @kdcollinsauthor​​ @random-fandom-fangirl2112​​ @widowsfics @frozenhuntress67​​ @averyrogers83​​ @notyourtypicalrose @nerdypinupcrystal @giruvega Forever SFW tags: @waywardempathhairdosalad @newtospnfandom-blog @thewinterhunter @amillionfandoms-onlyoneme @fandomlover2000 @heartislubbingdubbin

​Supernatural tags: @its-daydreamer23 @imagefanfictionlover @smalltowndivaj @tayrae515 @afanofmanystuffs @oneshoeshort @andkatiethings @wakanda-sometimes @akshi8278 @xoxabs88xox @izbelross @isabelle-faith @flamencodiv @lyarr24  Supernatural SFW tags: @daft-not-punk​ @chloe-skywalker @teenwaywardasgardian

[bobwess]

The new chapter for Wait for the Ricochet is about 2/3 done, and has surpassed 5500 words, so she's gonna be a little long. Figured I could spare sharing a preview. Sneak peek at the beginning of Chapter 7. (DRAFT- not complete)

“Garth?”

“Howdy guys.” Garth circled the car, pulling Dean into a hug while he was still frozen with surprise. He quickly switched and met Jody with one right after. 

Jody smiled, pulling back. “It’s been what, five years since those vamps up in Kingsbury?” 

“Almost five exact.” 

“I hear you’re rocking a set of fangs these days.” 

Garth bowed his head. “Yeah, got bit shortly after.” 

“Dean gave me the cliffnotes.” Jody said. “Heard congratulations are in order. That you got hitched.” 

“Guilty.” He dug into his pocket, fishing out his wallet and opening it to a well loved photograph. “Have a daughter, Gertie. Turns four next month.” 

“Gertie.” Jody said, fondly as she looked into the smiling face of the kid in Bess’ arms. 

“What about you?”

Jody turned her smile back at the door. “Yeah, I found myself a family too.” 

“Oh?”

“You’ll meet Claire in a bit.” 

“I’m sorry, what the hell are you doing here?” Dean asked, finding his voice again. 

Garth leaned back against his car. “Same thing as you I reckon. Pack did a drive-by of our town, I’ve been on their tail ever since.” 

Dean closed his eyes, leaning his head back. “Great, just what we need.” 

“Hey, Five heads is better than one, It’d be great to have some back up on this one. Sam inside?”

“First off, my case, you’re the back up.” Dean said, finger up, ignoring Jody rolling her eyes to his left. “And no, Sam’s not here.”

Jody flashed another smile. “And it’ll be six heads.” 

Garth looked at Dean with an expression he didn’t like in the slightest. “Is Castiel with you?”

“Yeah-” Dean said, watching Garth’s eyes widen slightly. “Why?”

Garth straightened up slightly. “I’ve wanted to meet him.” 

“Since when?”

“I came across this set of books… It seemed to be about-”

“Nope.” Dean cut off abruptly, face flushing. “You forget you ever saw them. They don’t exist, you hear me?”

Jody’s brows raised. “Now I have to know.” 

“No you do not.” Dean said firmly, coughing slightly before pivoting as fast as he could. “Garth we’ve got this, you can head back to Bess.” 

“No can do mi amigo.” Garth said, shaking his head. “I made a promise to my pack to protect them, and these guys are drawing too much attention. If the wrong person tracks them back they ain’t gonna be asking questions about cow hearts.” 

Dean groaned. “Fine, but there are things you have to know.”

Garth looked at the door. “It have to do with mysterious number six in there?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re in the middle of a case, ran into a bit of a situation.” 

“Lay it on me.” 

“Time travel fuck-up.” Dean sighed. “It’s me.”

“You? As in you you?”

“Yes, as in me.” 

“Him as in teenager him.” Jody interjected. “Kid is what, fifteen?”

“Sixteen.” Dean admitted.

“Woah.” Garth breathed. “That’s some wacky shit you stepped in.” 

“Tell me about it.” He shook his head. “Be careful what you say around him.” 

“You got it.” Garth said, straightening up and rubbing his hands together. “Should we get to it?”

[what-if-i-just-did]

Destiel Prompt List 26. Cas punches John Winchester.

Trigger Warnings: homophobic father, bad parenting, homophobic language, mentions of a lot of dead friends/family, slight mentions of alchohol, daddy issues, mentions of suicide but in a not-depressed way, not sure how to put this one but there's like phobic talk about suicidees, derogatory mentions of sex, mentions of past toxic masculinity, mild violence in the form of a single punch, severe homophobia

Guardian Angel

Dean walked into the bar, overwhelmed by... everything.

It was Harvelle's, like before it burned down, and there were so many people there... Ash, Jo and Ellen for one, but also Kevin, Kevin's mom, Charlie, Mary, Bobby, Jody, Claire, Bela, Missouri, Jimmy... somehow he could even spot Benny and Meg. It was overwhelming; all these people he'd mourned, all these people he'd missed, all these people he'd blamed himself for... at least he had Sam and Cas next to him, as always. He missed Jack.

He smiled. He talked to people, he laughed, he cried a little. It was weird seeing who'd become friends with who without them there; Jody and Ellen were best friends, unsuprisingly. Charlie and Bela? A little more suprising. He greeted Benny like an old war friend, Bobby like a father, Jo like a girl he never got time with. All the while, Sam was next to him, greeting the same people, and Cas was next to him, silent unless provoked. Eventually, they made their way to the end of the bar, and Dean's breath halted. His dad was sitting there, staring at his whiskey.

"Hi." He says, unsure. Sam's still talking to Jody. Cas is still hovering. "Sit down.", says John, and Dean's not sure if it's an invitation or an order, so he does so silently. He knows he should talk; knows he can talk. He's not his dad's soldier anymore. He's been working on this.

.... but he's here and he's with Cas and his dad would kill him and he's so goddamn nervous because even after all the work of accepting himself now that his dad was dead, his dad is right here and if he dissaproves like Dean knows he will Dean will just die.

"So." John says eventually. "So." Dean agrees. "Go out with a fight?" His dad asks. "Nope. Our work was done down there, we've got things set up for the next generation of hunters. We just figured, why wait around? Everyone we missed are up here." His dad physically recoiles. "You killed yourself!? My son? BOTH my sons!? Suicide is for pussies, Dean, how many times have I told you!" Dean closes his eyes and grits his teeth. He's about to answer when Cas does it for him.

"Dean did not just 'kill himself'. They both thought about it for a long time, had plentifull discussions and okay'd it with everyone around. It was an important, unrushed decision that was well thought about, and everything was in order before we left. Do you believe I would have let Dean do such a thing if it wasn't a perfectly respecatable thing to do?" "Ah. So you're the guardian angel... you did a pretty piss-poor job, y'know-" "Dad. Don't talk to Cas like that." "Cas? Cas? His name, Dean, is Castiel. Oh, right you- you bang him or something? He bangs you? This- this destiel? It's all everyone talks about here, y'know, how my son is a fag for an angel. Is that true, Dean? You bend over for this guy?" Dean grits his teeth. "Yeah, Dad. I do. Cause I love him, and if you're too much of a homophobic prick to see that, then go screw yourself. Actually- leave. Just leave."

John crowds Dean. Dean tries not to feel small- it works. Kinda. "You pickin' him-" John hisses, venom in his voice, "- over me? Your father?" "You. Were. Never. My. Father. You were my drill sargeant. Bobby, was my father. Now fucking leave, before I punch you. Or, y'know, before I let Cas punch you. Since I don't have any issues with my boyfriend protecting me like I'm some princess, because I'm not insecure about that shit 'nymore. Now, LEAVE."

"YOU-" John's sentence, boiling with rage, was cut off when Cas actually punched him, which knocked him out. "Sorry. It seemed appropriate.", Cas says sheepishly. Dean stares a second.

"Gah I love you." he falls into Cas's arms. It takes a while for him to speak again. "Did I actually say all of that?" "Yes Dean." "I can't believe I said all of that. I actually called myself a princess." Cas chuckles at that. "Yes, I know." "Shit. Everyone is staring, aren't they." "Yes, I believe they are." "Okay. Um. I'm gonna stay here." "Alright Dean."

[formulax]

a call, where nothing in particular is really resolved: a first person present tense venture into sibling dynamics

I come to the realization, after a few rounds of ringing, that I am calling my sister. I come to the realization also that it was somehow an automatic response to look for her number in my phone, out of everyone else I could have possibly called. Why not call Claire? It is something I don’t immediately understand—and then I realize, I know Claire can’t help me here. Only Jenny Monroe can help me here, which is a sentence I did not expect to think to myself anytime soon.

It takes a moment for Jenny to pick up the phone. It’s nearing ten o’clock at night, and I don’t know how late she stays up. So I lean forward, bounce my leg, and wait.

“Chris, is everything okay?” She picks up. Her voice is tired, but forming a nervous tone that seems to wake her up just enough. “Is something wrong? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s—don’t worry. Don’t freak out,” I say. The words stumble ungracefully from my mouth. “I’m just... calling.”

There is a pause. “Why?”

“I’m alone in the... I don’t know. Lauren’s out with friends. I don’t know.” It’s hard to vocalize what I want; I hardly even know what I want.

I hear a sigh, and then some rustling. “Okay. I’ll go to the living room. Kevin’s out like a light,” she says. She doesn’t seem irritated, but it’s hard for me to tell.

“Did I wake you up?” I ask, pulling at a stray thread on my pajama bottoms.

“No, I wasn’t sleeping yet. Mom sent a text about me hosting the next party.” Here, her voice drops. I huff, intentionally audible, and roll my eyes. Jenny clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Don’t do that, Chris. I know we’re not letting them boss us around, but mom has arthritis, she can’t cook and host like she used to. I still want to be nice.”

“You hate cooking,” I remind her, my eyebrows raised. I lean back on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table. “You always start yelling at people when you cook.”

“Kevin tells me that every time too. Am I really that bad?”

“And you get a little insane when you host.”

“What—what does that mean?”

I find a memory immediately, and pull it forward. I have been sitting on it for a while, as one of my best Jenny stories. “I remember once, you shoved a drink into my hand and told me to have fun or else you’d fucking kill me.”

“I don’t... remember that.”

I grin, and laugh. “You probably blacked out,” I joke. Jenny doesn’t laugh, and we sit in silence for a few seconds. My smile fades. “Jen? Should I not have brought it up?”

“Oh, no, I—I just—I’m sorry I said that,” she mutters. I get the sense that she is not ready to joke about herself, not totally. I’m not sure I’d be ready to joke about myself, either. I scramble for my next words.

“Look—do what you want, but don’t let mom guilt trip you into doing something that will make you upset. Marnie can host the party. Or Sam. I could go on,” I tell her, recalling our similar-aged cousins.

“Have you seen the newest pictures of Marnie’s twins? I can’t believe they’re six now! I’ll—I’ll email them to you.” Jenny swerves the conversation, and for a moment I consider bringing it back. But I see no reason to keep pushing, and so, I let it go.

“I would love to see the newest JCPenney photoshoot pictures of cousin Marnie’s twins. I love seeing the annoyed looks on their little six year old faces, in their corny little coordinated outfits. It’s adorable,” I drone, smiling again. This time, Jenny lets out a chuckle.

“Shut up. They’re cute kids.”

“Right, right.” I shift again, to lay down on the couch. I stare at the ceiling, and start to notice my eyes drifting to one side. I grunt. “Shit.”

“What?”

I take off my glasses, and close my eyes as the full tilting effect hits me. “Vertigo, I moved too fast,” I groan, kicking my foot in defeat.

“Shit.” I can sense Jenny’s urge to speak through the phone. Just as I open my mouth to let her, she gives in. “Have you still not figured out anything that works for you? I thought Claire was supposed to—”

“Hey, hey, Jen. I’m fine. I’m getting better. She’s hooked me up with a type of physical therapy, and I think it’s helping. I...” I hesitate, not sure if I want to admit this quite yet. I sigh. “I might start thinking about driving soon.”

I get the reaction I just about expected. “What? Really? Are you sure? I mean—you haven’t driven in—and your vertigo, it’s—are you sure?” I can picture her biting her nails and frowning. I can also picture, of course, the same carnage she is picturing.

“I’m just thinking about thinking about it, don’t get too nervous, okay? I’d need to do lessons and tests, et cetera,” I try to reassure her. She pauses to think.

“...Okay.” I smile. She has changed a lot. “But I know you hate driving. You always hated driving.”

“No,” I correct her, “I hated driving with dad.”

“God, right.” Jenny huffs. “Why is it that our conversations always find their way back to our parents? We’ve got to have more in common than the people who raised us. At some point, passing these stories back and forth doesn't make me feel better anymore. Just worse. I don’t know about you.” Jenny speaks here with a determined anger, pronouncing words with harsh snaps. But then, she lets out a breath, and she softens. “Chris, why did you call me? Just for this?”

I open my eyes. The vertigo has passed. “I told you, I don’t really know. I just called. I’m waiting for Lauren to get home,” I say, frowning. But there is something more, I know it. I am reaching for something. For what? I grind my teeth as I try to search for it.

“Is it about Lauren? Are you nervous about her? Where is she?” Jenny’s questions are monotone, methodical, but she is asking them too quickly, and I can tell she’s unnerved.

“I... she’s driving around with friends. I want—I want her to come home. I want her to be home,” I say, laying a hand over my chest. My breaths grow shallow, and my eyes water. And suddenly, I have found the thing I was looking for, the missing emotion, the cause of my unrest. “Do you ever get that?”

“Oh.” Jenny pauses to sigh; it’s a heavy, burdened sigh. “Oh, Christopher, of course I get that. Do you know how hard it is not to call her, every hour, every day? She used to be just a room away.”

I inhale and wipe my eyes, before I let myself get any worse. “She’s having fun, I—I can’t just make her come back,” I reason, pausing for a response, for instructions. Jenny hums.

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“But when she’s not here, when I can’t see her, it feels like the end of the world!” Despite my vertigo, I have a sudden urge to stand; I obey it, and begin to pace and wave my free hand. “I’ve been trying to distract myself since she left, and I just—I can’t! I’m alone, in this house, and I can’t do anything but sit and wait, and drive myself insane, because when she’s not with me she’s not... with me!”

“Okay, Chris,” Jenny slows her voice into something calm and motherly, “you’re going to be okay. Both of you are going to be okay.”

“Jenny, don’t—” I laugh anxiously and bring a hand to my face, “don’t therapy me. Please. I am perfectly aware that I’m being irrational.”

“Well—” Jenny is trying hard, I can tell, not to get frustrated. “Well, Christopher, I’m not sure what else you want me to say, I mean...”

“You don’t need to fix it,” I shout, anxiety stirring my heart. I am aware on some level how ungraceful I’m acting, but the stress is pulling my filters down, and the regret comes after. I pinch the bridge of my nose and curse. “Sorry. Maybe I should hang up.”

“No—Chris, it’s fine. We can keep talking. You can keep talking.”

It’s an offer I didn’t expect from her, and for a few moments I can only be stunned. Every day, I find myself surprised by the human capacity for change. It’s a corny thought, but a true one nonetheless. And so, I say something cornier. Something that surprises me, about myself.

“I love you,” I say, and then I slump back onto the couch. I get nervous, embarrassed; I don’t want to let it hang for too long, don’t want to turn it into something significant, so I keep talking. My face is hot. The words spill out. “I feel so selfish, I feel like a bad parent, when I get like this. And I’ve been getting like this a lot since she’s gone back to school, it’s—it’s not even that I’m overly afraid of her getting hurt, or in some kind of trouble, I just... want to see her, I want to be in the same room with her, I want to know that she’s there and I don’t ever want her to leave and it makes me feel sick because I don’t want to be mom and dad, I don’t want to hover and suffocate and—and be so obsessed like they were but god, Jennifer, my chest feels so tight and I can’t breathe sometimes and I was away for so long and I have this need, this unrelenting, terrible need to be as close as possible or else I’ll fucking explode! God... dammit!”

I slump forward and drag a hand down my face as I pause to breathe. The other line is silent, for a few more seconds, but I don’t pay any mind to her silence. I let myself cry.

And then: “You’re not mom and dad.” It’s a quiet, hesitant statement, but Jenny’s tone rises easily. “You told me not to fix it, but you’re just not... mom and dad. And I’m only saying it because you’re being fucking stupid. And I love you, too.”

My body tenses, and something bubbles up to my throat, and then I let out a horrid, sudden cackle. I double over, hanging my head, and I laugh.

“Hey!” she snaps at me. “What’s so funny about that? What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t—” I stomp my foot and cover my mouth. “I don’t know!”

“Stop fucking laughing you asshole—” She begins to giggle. “I’m being nice to you!”

“I know!” I force out some breaths. “It just feels so weird! Why am I calling you?”

“I don’t know, why did you call me?”

“Because you’re my sister, and—” I snort, “and I love you!”

Both of us burst into another round of violent laughter. My side begins to hurt, and I return to a sprawled out position on the couch. As I laugh, the bottled nervous energy drains from me, finding a new home as sound waves from my now-hoarse voice, bouncing around the dimly lit living room.

“Chris—Chris,” Jenny manages, finally. “Again, we’re back to goddamn mom and dad.”

I realize she’s right, and I scoff. “They haunt the dark recesses of our minds, Jen, of course we’re back to mom and dad,” I say, voice flat. I kick my feet up on the couch’s armrest.

“Well, I’m just saying, as someone who ended up parenting too much like them, I know what you’re saying. I think. In a way, but...”

“Alright. Am I fucked up?”

“Oh thoroughly.”

I smile. “Thanks, Jen.”

“For—for what?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, settling further into the couch. There’s a warmth in my chest, a cheesy fuzziness that makes me chuckle to myself again. The phone is quiet against my ear. I can tell she’s smiling too.

“I just want you to know, that this whole call is fucking disgusting.”

“Oh, it’s so gross.” I mock-gag. “Ew, feelings, let’s talk about cousin Marnie and her twins again in their little matching six year old outfits.”

“And her useless fucking husband,” Jenny spits, “that never lifts a fucking finger.”

I gasp and sit up. “Wait—what? Scott? I thought we liked Scott!”

“We do not fucking like Scott.”

“What happened, he was doing so good!”

“Weaponized. Incompetence.”

“Elaborate.”

[mlobsters]

supernatural s12e16 ladies drink free (w. meredith glynn)

s12e16 / hannibal s2e9 shiizakana

okay so it's kind of generic dead boy and girl in snow but the fur on her jacket and the positions and the grunty growling presumably werewolf just made me think hey it's a way less gory version of the hannibal scene

MICK My report to the home office ran long. We've had our hands full since... (Dean and Mick look down at a blood stain on the floor) Well, best not to dwell on that. DEAN Wow. That is some world-class repression. You are British. MICK We prefer to call it a stiff upper lip.

you're one to talk there, dean

SAM Wait a second. You killed them all? Even the ones that weren't hurting anyone? MICK Sorry? SAM I mean, werewolves aren't like most monsters. Some can control it. I mean, we – we have a buddy got bit. Nothing but beef hearts ever since. MICK And you trust him? Well, killing is a fundamental need for werewolves. And monsters don't just stop being monsters. DEAN Well, Garth did.

was wondering when this would come up

poor sammy. but dean's too excited for free and fancy shit. thanks for throwing us a bone, meredith

so old mick here lied about the girl being bitten, actual crisis of conscience or setup for having to kill her later to prove his point or...

(yay it's claire/kathryn keeper of my favorite hair on the show)

CLAIRE So, your foreign exchange student is totally lame. DEAN Yeah. He's Sam's best friend. (Sam sighs deeply) They're like nerd soul mates.

you jealous, dean-o

why is the moon literally being erased by cg, forgot to make the cloud?

secret third option, return to the hospital to kill her quietly before she's even turned. but he's sorry! oh how convenient she turned right as he was about to kill her so he had to fend off her attack

CLAIRE Sam, no offense, but who do you think the kids are gonna wanna talk to? Me, or some old skeezer?

skeezer lol

DEAN Yeah? I used to think the same thing. Well, here's a little tip. Things aren't just black and white out here.

took a minute but he came around

should have seen her getting bitten coming but i 100% didn't

SAM Mick, you killed a kid. We're not angry. We're done!

he gonna stick to that?

there's something about the way she said "unless i break out" that really worked. and the music was appropriate and far enough behind the dialogue it wasn't obtrusive

MICK The subject died in agony. Sorry. CLAIRE Yeah. Maybe second time's a charm. DEAN Hey, no, no. You don't get a vote in this. CLAIRE It's my life. I get all the votes. DEAN Sam, you wanna back me up here? SAM It's her life.

of all people, sam's gonna back her up on this topic 24/7

dean really in full-on protective dad mode this episode. i must have learned this little werewolf lore tidbit in fic and didn't realize because i honestly thought we already knew this sire business, or made some inference from the vampires 🥴

kathryn newton is so good as claire

they remembered to put the moon in a spot that vaguely looked like it was obscured by clouds, good job team

very special episode where mick learns things aren't black and white, after all

CLAIRE Right. Eat me, Teen Wolf.

lol tell him, claire!

BARTENDER It's not like I want to do this. My pack, we were happy. We didn't hurt anyone. And then hunters with weapons that I've never seen before, they show up and... take out 20 of us, just like that.

ha ha so bmol is to blame for it all because they went after the veggie wolves, i snorted. hammering us over the head with their point again

and the very special episode where claire learns again she's loved by her family and not in fact better off alone

always laugh this show makes blood draws happen in any old place, just slam a needle in, bing bang boom done

wish they'd leave her hair what i assume is her natural texture (wavy), whenever it's overly Done like this it doesn't really vibe with what she's usually got going on. was gonna bitch if dean didn't get a hug goodbye from her :p

really glad they didn't kill her off. feel like if this was in the early seasons, she would have died for the manpain of it all

[akumastrife]

What A Wonderful Life {SPN // Fic Advent: Day 12}

Retirement was a good look for them, Dean often thought, and couldn’t figure out how they’d gotten so lucky.

{Part 6 - FINAL, and uhhh not entirely happy. Feel free to consider part 5 your final}

The house was quiet. It usually was, these days, and more so with Claire gone to bed hours ago, Cas sent upstairs to keep their bed warm, and Charlie put up in the guest room with the bamboo sheets she liked.

And so the house was silent. Dean wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

Once upon a time he would’ve wished for this. Or, well, a quiet house in general. Instead of the string of endless motels and the revolving door of countless people in and out of his life without warning.

But he’d gotten used to it, and now, just after midnight on Christmas Eve, the silence felt hollow.

He wandered the house, turning off lights and cleaning up the mostly-clean kitchen, the mostly-tidied living room. Wandered, looking for the chore he’d forgotten. Because he had forgotten something. He could feel it. Had felt it like a clinging specter.

Or maybe it was just Sam’s presence he was missing.

Outside, the snow fell slow and heavy. Fat, white clusters building in drifts; clumping around windowpanes.

A picture perfect Christmas Eve. Like every fantasy he’d ever had when he was a boy stretched out in the back of the impala, watching flakes against the window.

He sat on the edge of the couch arm, hands limp between his knees, watching the snow.

On the roof there came a clatter, and the calm was broken as he jumped to his feet. He yanked a knife from its hiding spot in the drapes.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” He turned towards the sound, listening to the steps make their way across the roof. “No Santa Claus looking evil bitch is going to ruin my Christmas.”

The fireplace flexed and stretched, widening impossibly, opening like some sort of cartoon.

“The fuck…”

Loafers hit the pile of ashes in the grate, khakis…

“Chuck?”

Chuck smiled at him, soft and terribly fond in that way parents look at their kids before telling them their pets went to live on a farm.

“Dean Winchester.”

Dean lowered the knife, tried to even out his breathing when it’d ratcheted up not at the intruder but who it was. The air stilled, solid like soup, and the quiet of the house became more the absence of sound.

“Chuck,” he whispered again. “What are you doing here?”

Chuck slid his hands in his pockets, stepping out of the fireplace and towards him. His footsteps left no soot. “I think the real question, Dean, is what are you doing here?”

The shoe that had been hovering above Dean’s head for nearly his entire life, dropped.

The light over the stove flickered on.

“You can’t stay here, Dean,” Chuck said softly. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupted, low and cracking.

“I think a part of you knew that, though.”

Dean sat, more of a fall, into the couch. Thought back to the warm, hazy memories of his retirement. The gaps, the mistakes, the little flickers of powers failing; no Sam, maybe because even his subconscious knew that he couldn’t trick himself with a fake brother.

His voice cracked when he managed, rubbing his face, “Too good to be true, huh?”

How fucking embarrassing. Big bad hunter, lured in with soft dreams of domesticity. With HOA bullshit and holiday sale drama and a kid and husband—Cas, oh shit, Cas was—

Too much of a coward to face his fate, and so the sad little broken boy inside him made up something new to hide in.

“I had everything,” he said.

A hand rested on his bowed head. “It’s not a sin to want. Not like this. But you can’t stay here.”

“What if I did?”

Chuck was quiet for a long time.

“I can’t guarantee what will happen to you, if you do.”

“And if I leave? Where will I go? What’s waiting for me?”

Chuck sighed, hand slipping from his hair, allowing Dean to look up at him. “Not him. I’m sorry.”

The light over the stove flickered, again, went out entirely.

“I’ll give you until morning to think about it,” Chuck said. And then he was gone, leaving Dean where he always ended up: alone.

[thebiggestmenace]

don't know at what cost though

I am worried

so is everyone stuck here now?

you are not good, Sam

so his grace doesn't regenerate?

"I thought you two were joined at the, everything" you know. you are so right

oh, it's Nick??? how is he alive? I thought he was dead

Jack, don't be so hard on yourself :(

Kelly's parents!!! he's named after her dad :(

how do we know if Dean's telling the truth?

THE HANDPRINT IS GONE?????

she just threw Dean on top of Sam 🤭

oh, Claire had a crush on Kaia :(((

this isn't just a cold, is it *

* no. no, it is not

PLEASE tell me they do celebrate Halloween in the GOOFIEST way possible

wait, this Bobby had a kid?

Michael's still in Dean, isn't he? somehow

they're together now? and they're taking a break :((( Bobby deserved a break

never change, Jack, never change

and he's in the hospital now

he's wearing Cas' trench coat :((((((

1, what is going on with Dean?? and 2, technically speaking, would he not have some grace left from Michael? could they extract that?

Jack, you're scaring me, please tell me they don't kill you

yeah, Cas, you fucking tell him.

he is not bringing Lucifer back wtaf

he's gone? just like that?

he really was their kid :(((

he's in heaven :((((

tf is that???

the shit from the Empty????

wait, Cas goes to the Empty to save Jack??

GARTH??????

and he has a daughter??

Sam, you're supposed to wait

he's so silly

knew Michael wasn't fully out.

this is just a dream, right? this isn't heaven or anything, right?

Jack!!! you have powers again!!

I remember this???? I remember Dean throwing Michael into a closet in his mind??? we never made it this far???

oh, it's a bad thing, nevermind >:( but now Jack gets the disappointed dad™️ talk

Dean, you are concerning me, what are you doing?

wait, I remember the box thing, too?? don't know how it ends, but I remember it and I hate it

omg clowns!!! Sam, you love clowns!!

JOHN??????

oh and they fucked with time!! and everything's weird now!

Jack used his powers one time! one! and you mean to tell me he's getting bad again?

jk it's at least twice now

Michael is in Rowena????

Jack can just do that? amazing

yk I love that Cas and Dean are talking about Jack and Sam like they're their children and they're married

"if we cannot remain civil, then you can skedaddle" IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE OH MY GOD THIS IS SO FUN

doesn't Jack hurt Elliot?

no, it's Stacy :((((

the samulet has a pair?! and that one supposedly talks to God?? idk the poeticism of that,,,,,,,,

of course they're trying to bring Lucifer back

yk I was so sure nothing bad would happen in this finale because of Dean and Cas, but I completely forgot to think about Sam and Jack

that was, uh, that was a lot

Jack, what did you do?

wait, did you kill Mary??

and now he's having hallucinations? I am so confused, what is going on

he smote her??? I know it was an accident, but still

Dean. this isn't Cas' fault

I thought the gates to Heaven were closed?

oh, Jack's gonna make more angels?

is the box even gonna work??

yeah, didn't think so

Chuck's back!! and he better help smdh

they're all confused puppies

but one of them has to die?

"I've already lost too much" Sammy :(((( it doesn't even get better :(((((

come on, Chuck

Sam......

what is this????

so everything they've killed,, they're all back? but tenfold because it's souls from Hell?

is this all of the souls??????

are they zombies?

so we have finished 14 now,,,,,, I am so confused. what was that??? they're acting like zombies, but are they just ghosts?? and is it all the souls?? cause with the amount, it sure seems it. so much has happened this season wtf and now onto avoiding 15 :')))

s1, s2, s3, s4, s5, s6, s7, s8, s9, s10, s11, s12, s13, s14, s15

[cosmicoceanfic]

Claire’s in Germany when he calls.

The search for Kaia is hard, and frustrating, and requires a hell of a lot of credit card fraud, and she doesn’t feel entirely up to it, seeing the caller ID, enough so that she stares at it for a couple seconds to really think about it, before the conscience she’s wrestling with wins out and she picks up the phone. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Claire.”

Claire waits, but Cas doesn’t follow it up with anything. “Is the connection bad?”

“No. No, it’s… it’s fine. Where are you?”

“Germany.”

“Do you… speak German?”

“Wasn’t taught at Dropout Academy, no.”

“Right.”

Claire waits some more as Cas is quiet long enough for a little concern to blossom, right below her ribcage. “You, uh. You good?”

“Something…” Cas sighs. “Jack is… we lost Jack.”

“Lost as in-“

“Lost as in… as in gone. Jack is… gone.”

“Oh.” Claire sits heavily on the curb outside the grubby little youth hostel she’s staying in. She’s never met Jack in person, but she knows all about him from Cas’ phone calls, knows his favorite cereal, his favorite cartoons, the way he tilts his head in a way Dean says is “some real like father like son shit”. Claire’s never met Jack, but she knows him. “Cas, I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Yes.”

She can hear it, now that she’s really listening for it. She can hear Cas bleeding grief. “Was it…” She doesn’t know what to ask. Was it peaceful, as close as we get to peaceful, when we go? Was it better than it could have been? Was it even a little bit okay?

“No,” Cas answers, like he heard all of her questions. “It wasn’t.”

“Are Sam and Dean… are Sam and Dean okay?”

“I have not spoken to Sam. Dean… is not okay. But Dean not being okay… is no longer my problem.”

Claire blinks, straightening a little. “Hang on, what does that-“

“I’m sorry,” Cas interrupts loudly. He takes one of those big deep breaths he does sometimes, the ones he doesn’t need. “I am… I am sorry, Claire.”

“Sorry? What the hell are you sorry for?”

“When…” Cas is quiet for a second. “When I was… knit back together. The last time. Any time. I am sorry… I am sorry I did not take your father back with me. I’m sorry that I didn’t… I’m sorry that it’s me. That I’m me. That I look like this to you.”

“That’s.” Claire rears back a little, thrown. “That’s okay, Cas. You don’t have to… I told you. I told you that’s okay.”

“You are okay with it,” Cas answers. “That is not the same thing as it being okay.”

They’re quiet.

“I’ll come home,” Claire says eventually.

“No.”

“No, I will. I’ll… I’ll get a plane and I’ll come find you.”

“No. I don’t want you to do that.”

“Cas-“

“It’s… I just wanted to talk to you. That’s all. I just… I just wanted to say that.”

Claire purses her lips, looking at the nighttime sky.

“You’re talking like a man standing on a ledge looking all the way down,” she tells him. “And I’m telling you that if you jump, I’m gonna come find you, and when I do, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. Okay?” Cas doesn’t say anything. “Cas-“

“Okay,” Cas tells her quietly. “I… okay. I understand.”

“And I want you to call me tomorrow.”

“It’s not your job to take care of me.”

“It should be somebody’s.” It should be Dean’s, Claire thinks, but apparently that’s not an option, and she’s smart enough than to ask why. “So call me tomorrow, cause if you don’t, I’m booking the first ticket out of here and I’m coming to find you. Got it?”

“…okay.” She can hear Cas swallow. “I should… I should let you go. Let you get your rest.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Claire wrestles with the words for a minute before she lets them come spiraling out of her mouth. “Cas.”

“Yes?”

“I still have that stupid cat you got me in my backpack.”

Dead silence.

“I’m glad,” Cas chokes eventually. “Good night, Claire.”

“Bye, Cas.”

Cas hangs up, and Claire sits out on the curb for another moment before, with a sigh, she gets up and she heads inside.

cas finally understanding exactly how claire felt seeing him puppet around the corpse of her father after his experience with belphegor, like oh, i'm the demon. [cue cas self-hatred spiral]. doesn't matter that claire's already forgiven him for all that. he feels like a monster all over again. wonders if he should even have this body. he's justified his actions for so long, convinced himself it's different. it's his body now. it was remade, without jimmy, multiple times at this point. but he still feels like some kind of hypocrite, remembering how he burned belphegor out of jack, destroyed the body completely because he just couldn't stand to look at something else using jack's face.

[scarletcreates]

Episode 1

ava, madison, millie, claire, callie, sam, nick, ethan, raf

weekly brunch

madison: "im sorry im late. iana posted another vlog and i needed a good laugh

callie: what did she post this time

madison: "outfit ideas when u need to move on from ur cheating bf" he cheated on you 2 years ago how abt actually move on!

all: no way hahahahaha

claire: when will she stop using the cheating bf narrative for clout 😭

millie: what she needs is to get out of outfits and go ride someone. That will help her ACTUALLY move on

all: yeah right

sam: and there's always kpop boys to fangirl on

madison: alright keep it in your pants no one wants to hear your jihoon shit right now

sam: heeeey he can hear u shows pc

madison: stop bringing his photocard everywhere istg im gonna drown him in your coffee!!!

sam: hhhhhhhhhoooo dont listen to her jihoonie i wont let that happen to you

all: hahahahahhaha

madison: UGH

ava: anyway guys do you know if theres an available unit in your bldg?

callie: i can ask the landlord. wait. why. are you and ethan moving in? DID HE FINALLY PROPOSE?

millie: OHMYGOD DID HE?

madison: OMG is it tiffany's? pandora? bulgari? cartier? OH MY GOD SHOW ME THE RING

claire: how did he do it?

sam: when's the wedding date? pls dont let it be mar 25 i have a concert!

ava: i- i said no…

all: WHAT?!

ava: hey

ethan: hi

a: thanks for helping me move in

e: no problem. if u dont need anything else, ill go home

a: ethan… thank you for letting me do this

e: if u think living alone is what u need before saying yes to me… then okay… even tho i really dont understand why

a: im sorry… i dont understand myself either… i know that i love you. i know that i want to marry you. im sure of that. but… i also feel like i need to experience living alone. i need to experience independence before marrying you. i dont know why… i have the urge. i dont even know if ill survive this. what if im wrong. im actually scared. and of the thought i might lose you in the process. what am i doing. please dont go.

e: shhhh… hug hey hey… you wont lose me… ever… this is something u need to do so even though i dont understand it, ill support you

a: thank you… do you want to stay for the night?

e: i want to buuuuuut i wont. you need to learn independence quick so i could marry you

a: haha fine… i love you

e: i love you more kiss forehead alright i need to go i have an early meeting tomorrow

a: okay… call me when ur home

e: of course… enjoy your independence

a: love yaa take care

ava big sigh. but excited face for her independence

callie: nick we're home opened n eating out of a bucket of chicken

nick: heyyyyy… i bought us a bucket for dinner

callie: u really think i believe u didnt order that for urself

n: continued eating chicken u love me anyway

claire: so ava asked me to go to the grocery store with her, u want anything?

cy: oh thanks i'll text u a list

cl: alright i'll just change. i dont need my boobs unsupported when im carrying heavy things

n: so how's ava's studio?

cy: it's nice, furnished so she only needs to bring her clothes.

n: she okay?

cy: ya she's pretty excited about the independence thing

n: right. oh bubu dont forget about my deodorant for the list

cy: done it already

n: oh also that shaving cream youre always buying me, and i ran out of toothpaste at work, oh oh oh my gummy bears also ran out

cy: done done and done already

n: aawwwe u know me the best kiss

cy: ya maybe u could use some independence too.

sent the messagee

cl inside her room: LUBE AND CONDOM? IN YOUR DREAMS GUYS

cy: whaaaat it's for u and ryder when u know he'll decide to actually use his penis

n: can you believe he suits his name so much?

cl: rolls eyes he's not in the mood

cy: nick are guys ever not in the mood?

n: well yeah but 5 minutes tops. u tie ur hair and i'm good to go

cy: see?

cl: ewww the moment u tie ur hair im out of here

cy: but srsly when was the last time he was in the mood

cl: you know… never. ok fine. but he's all i got okay? i want to meet ppl organically and well he's the only non-gay guy at work

cy: are you sure he's not gay?

cl: no…

n: heyyy u thought i was gay when we first met

cy: but then i tied my hair

n: ah yes

cl: ughhh

ma kissing w someone in living room. s suddenly laughing her room

guy: uhm is it okay we're making out in ur living room w ur roommate here?

ma: dont worry bout her she's watching a live w her kpop boys she'll not go out for 3hrs

guy: okay but i think it would be better if continue this in u bedroom

ma: alright but it was pretty exciting here dont you think?

guy: alright continue making out

s suddenly shouted and disturbed them again

s: AHHHHH HE REPLIED TO ME HE REPLIED TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

ma: alright sorry lets go to the bedroom

tomorrow morning

s: goooooooood morninggggggggggggggg

ma: grumpy hmmmmmmmmmmmmm

s looked around for the guy

s: i thought u had a date yesterday?

ma: yaaaa.

s: so how was heeee?

ma: he came even before u finish the live what do u think?

s: yikes… this is why kpop boys are better than real men just saying

ma: ur screen doesnt have a dick

s: but i dont need to fake my orgasm

ma: do u even have orgasms?

s: duh

ma: what

s: what

ma: dont tell me….

s: no im kidding. so whats for bfast

ma suspicious face

open door to mn

mn: hi

ma: heyyy

mn: ava wants to borrow this toaster but i need to rush to the lab can u guys bring it to her?

ma: suuure ill visit her later. whats up in ur lab?

mn: a fresh cadaver just became available and i need to slice up some brain for a tumor

ma: and thats it for bfast

s: hey have some bfast first

mn: oh grabs flask pour all coffee grab waffle thanks

s: good luck!

mn: thanks i really need that tumor

mn went out. millie received a text message.

m: he texted me. "had a great time last night. how about dinner tonight?"

s: so u gonna see him again?

m: sure. until i can find someone else to buy me expensive dinners

ava tried cooking meat loaf but it got burned, millie knocked on the door. a panicked a little covered the plate of burned meat loaf opened the window before opening the door.

a: heyyy

ma: heyyy madison wanted me to bring this to you

a: oh thaanks

ma: ohhh ur cooking something?

a: uhm… yes… earlier… but i already ate it. so ya im sorry cant offer it to u anymore

ma: thats ok i had bfast. sooo hows the independent life

a: good good. i cleaned. i cooked. i washed my own clothes. steamed my clothes. went to the grocery store. threw away my garbage. went to the grocery store again.

ma: chores taking all of ur free time?

a: it does… remind me why i wanted this again?

ma: dont worry youll get the hang of it. you just needed a schedule. list down your groceries and the quantity that would last you 2 weeks. ull get used to cooking. ull get used to cooking on the weekend and cooked a lot enough for leftovers for the rest of the week. dont worry youll get the hang of it.

a stomach grumbled. ma looked at a. a revealed the burned meat loaf

ma: and youll get use to not burning things

while eating

a: ur the first one of us to live alone. how did u do it

ma: hmmmm i just enjoyed the process. also bringing home a lot of men motivated me

a: alright i get thats to ease ur loneliness but how the hell is that motivating

ma: whaaat im motivated to keep the place clean. im motivated to do my laundry to clean the undies and sheets. im motivated to throw the garbage that contained the used condom

a: wow ur such a strong and independent woman

ma: i know

guy and millie in a restaurant. guy kissing millie's hands.

guy: i really had a great time last night.

millie: awwee of course you do. now, do you want the wagyu steak? i want the wagyu steak.

guy: sure, anything for my baby

millie: awwweee. excuse me waiter! ya, 7 wagyu steaks, fully cooked.

guy: wait 7?

millie: im sorry im really hungry. thats okay right?

guy: oh, yeah sure. make 1 medium

millie: oh right, so 1 medium and 7 fully wagyu steaks.

guy: w-wai…

waiter: do you want some reds with this?

millie: yes! 1 whole bottle please.

waiter: sure. anything else?

guy: uhm, do you take 2 credit cards?

waiter: yes. we do.

guy: oh okay. nervous laugh

millie: so you were saying?

guy: uhm

millie: how last night was so great?

guy: yeahhh

m texted sam.

sam in callie and claire's apartment

sam: "tell the girls tonight's dinner is wagyu steak." huh. type "what do you mean"

door open.

madison: this is the best day! i found a tumor.

ava: should i be worried?

s: no it's her experiment. congrats! millie is bringing over wagyu steak

madison: that's right universe be my bitch

a: so where's claire?

nick: with ryder who wont ride her. ha ha ha

callie: she's on a date with ryder. but she wont be sleeping with him so she should be back by now.

millie in restaurant again. wagyu steak arrived. ate 1 bite then texted sam.

sam received another text: "call me"

s: yow

millie: hey whats up im on a date?

s: you texted me call me

madison: millie wheres my steak i found a tumor!

millie: what? madison found a tumor?

madison: thats right!

m: oh my god. im coming over.

s: wait. no no no. madison doesnt have a tumor. she found a tumor for her experiment.

millie end call

sam: what just happened

madison: leave it. it'll get the steaks here faster

m: guy, im so sorry. madison just received some bad news. i need to go.

guy: no worries. let's just take this out and i'll accompany you.

m: i think she doesnt want to see strangers now

guy: ur right

m: waiter kindly wrap these 7 steaks and bill please.

guy: are you okay?

m: yeah.

waiter arrived with take out and bill

m: alright bye

nick: this is the best wagyu steak ever

ava: cos it's free?

nick: yes!

millie: dont need to fake orgasms on this one

callie: ugh now i know what claire felt this morning

s: please let millie meet more 1 minute guys please please please

claire arrived

nick: how's ryder? rode him yet? sksksksk

madison: it was funny one time

ava: we saved a wagyu for you

claire: thanks guys

callie: sooooo how's the date?

claire: i dont want to talk about it

all: oh okay

group looking at each other

madison: here's a wine sweetie

claire drank and: so he invited me to his home right. And he's giving me the eyes right. So now we're standing in front of his apartment door. He leaned forward and

And??

Hugged me…

Im sorry

No no im not done yet. Then he said "you didnt have to ride home with me but thanks for the ride i owe you one". Turns out he just wanted me to pay for his taxi ride

Nooooooo

Nick: ryder just wanted a ride

sam: im sorry claire

millie: u know what. let's go out this weekend and trick them into buying us wagyu steaks again

claire: ya thanks millie

millie reading guy voice mail.

"hey uhmmmm havent heard from u since the bad news abt ur friend. is she okay? are you okay? call me"

"heyyy how are you? do want to have dinner tonight? i-i'll cook"

"heyy uhmm the bill that night was a little bit high for my budget. is it okay if you pay for the half?"

"was it because i only lasted for 1 minute?………….. nah you said you had a great time. okay. call me."

[zmediaoutlet]

Have u got any recs (yours or other peeps) of sex pollen fics? Lmao crack or not i dont mind !!! Xx

anon there are like–so many sex pollen fics out there, so many reclists, omg. I recommend you check thewincestreader – and I’m sure @wellcometothedarkside has some sex pollen lists for you – but for now I need to write something today and, you know what, let’s try it:

(read on AO3)

Dean’s trying to be careful—he really is, no matter whatkind of face Sam might aim his way when he insists. It’s just not his faultthat this goddamn weirdo of a would-be wizard has the worst organization sinceSam at age fourteen, and it’s really not Dean’s fault that when he edgesa big zebrawood chest off the high shelf of this wardrobe and the damn thingbursts open in his hands.

“Son of a bitch!” he gets out, through the explosionof—what? Silk handkerchiefs, and who knows what kind of herbs—Sam, probably—andthe rattle of, ugh, bones he doesn’t want to investigate more, and through itall a weird kind of haze that drifts over his eyes and makes him sneeze once,and then twice, and then he coughs and tastes honey in the back of his throatand when he wipes a hand over his face it feels—and he takes a deep breath andthe haze in the air doesn’t look like dust-sparkling-in-sunlight, like the restof the sunny afternoon streaming in the grimy windows has, but insteadsomething… physical, something here, and he says, again, with morefeeling: “Son of a bitch,” just as Sam crashes into the roomand says, “Dean?” before giving him, yes, the friggin’ face.

Worst part at first is that he knows immediately that he can’tdrive. Second worst part, Sam asking him the twenty questions, like he has any damnidea about the answers. He stands on the sagging porch in the clear woodsy air,gulping fresh tree smells and the faint rankness of the molding pine, and thehaze settles heavy in his vision: everything faintly gold-tinged, fuzzy at thecorners, like an old shitty photo. His reactions are sluggish too, except whenSam comes up beside him with the box full of evidence tucked under his arm, andDean grabs his elbow in shock like, if he says so himself, a striking snake,and feels Sam start, all nine feet of him. “Dude,” Dean says,complaining weakly. About what, he doesn’t know. Take a number.

“Come on,” Sam says, and does him the service ofat least pretending to sound compassionate while he sticks his hand in Dean’sfront pocket and steals the keys. In the car, then, and the passenger seatmaking the world seem weird and wrong-way-round like it always does, and thesensation of the world bleeding away around the edges makes him nauseatedenough that he closes his eyes and just listens to the engine instead. Yeah,better. The rumble, and the tires working their way steadily over the bumpywoods path and then onto clean smooth asphalt, rolling easy, the car respondinglike she should even if the wrong hands are on the wheel.

Their place during this whole thing—chasing Mr. Wizard, and killinghim, and investigating whatever other weird experiments he’d had going onbesides a cougar-woman hybrid that was, frankly, terrifying to kill—has beenanother cabin, closer to town but private enough, and it’s got a king bed and aporch to watch the sun set over the lake and a minifridge full of beer. Dean’sgrateful for the last part, fumbling his way across the wood floor as he stripsoff his jacket, too hot. “Dean,” Sam says, and Dean opens his eyes tofind himself sitting on the floor in the kitchenette, shoulders pressed againstthe cool plastic face of the fridge, and he doesn't—remember, getting here, butit’s nice anyway.

“Dean,” Sam says, closer, and smiling kind of—Sammysmiling, that’s nice, that doesn’t happen enough in Dean’s book—and he’s clear,clear even though the rest of the world is really just fuzz, the planes of hisface vivid, that curl that always pops up under his ear in perfect detail. Deanreaches out a hand and tweaks it between two fingers, his breathing feelingweird. “Dude, you’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, agreeing pointlessly, and Sam says,“Have you been listening, at all?”

Dean snorts. “Obviously,” he says, and Sam hearsit for the lie it is and rolls his eyes, and then says, “Okay, give meyour hands,” and Dean puts them on Sam’s face, rubbing his thumbs alongSam’s cheekbones. Sam blinks at him and the smile that time is—oh, different.Better. His face, yeah. Yeah. Sam takes his wrists—soft, like Sam isn’tsometimes—and says, “Yeah, buddy, that’s it—come here,” and standsup, and Dean rises up with him without any apparent decision making from hisbrain.

His brain. He breathes in, smells Sam. Salt and the sweatfrom the day, and their Alpine Fresh laundry detergent, and the Old Spice inhis pits, and he says, carefully, “I got hit with something, huh?”and Sam half-laughs and says, “Got it in one, man,” and then says,“Hey, Dean.”

Big hand on Dean’s jaw. He leans into it, feels like all hisbody-weight’s there. “Sam,” he says, the only natural response, andSam touches his waist, holds him steady. “Oh, man, you’re wasted,” hesays, distant somehow, and then he thumbs under Dean’s lip and leans close,close enough that his face is all Dean can—needs—wants to see. “Tell mewho I am.”

Dean blinks, holds onto Sam’s shirt. “Sammy,” hesays, wanting to be right. Knows he is.

“Yeah,” Sam says, encouraging. “And what elseam I?”

“My brother.” Dean ducks in, smells Sam closer.The hollow of his throat, fuck. Who knew it smelled so good. “My…” hestarts, but there’s not—the words don’t fit, that should go there. There isn’tone. Sam should come up with one. He’s smart. God, he smells good, and Dean's—hot,so hot, and he can hear his heart beating hard in his ears.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam says, low, and cups ahand around the back of his head. “Man, you are gone. Okay. Just—if youcan understand me,” he says, and Dean presses his face into Sam’s throat,presses himself closer, and hears Sam’s breath hitch—"Shit—Dean, it’sgoing to be okay, all right? I think—I’m like ninety percent that it’s notfatal, but it’s going to last a while, and—oh, fuck it, come here—"

It blurs, and it doesn’t. Afternoon still, and the lightpouring through the room, and the heat of it. Dean’s naked, spread on the bed,and he’s not sweating but Sam is, and Sam’s skin—that’s clear, every mole, thefreckle just behind his ear that Dean’s always loved and is so often covered upby that mess of hair. Dean cups his hands around Sam’s jaw, holds him there forDean to look at, because he’s clear in every particular: his eyelashes and his lips,and the tucked-in dent of dimple when Dean says—something—and Sam laughs athim, and Dean becomes aware only after taking in Sam’s face that Sam’s fuckinghim, surging deep with Dean’s thighs slung loose and useless around his hips,slow, good. He arches his back, shoving down on the pressure inside, and Sam’seyes close—but no, no. “Look,” Dean says, stupid, and Sam doesn’t buthe does put his face there beside Dean’s face, their cheeks pressed togetherand Sam’s ear pink and clear in Dean’s vision, and he hauls Dean’s legs up onhis forearms and crushes deep—deeper—and Dean gulps air and touches the sweaton Sam’s back because, oh, there. Sam, Sam, every part of him something Deanloves.

He pushes—uncoordinated—and Sam lifts up, concernedeyebrows, and Dean pushes and Sam lands on his back—and his hands, his hands.Golden light and golden hands and the grip of them, the taste—Dean pushes histongue against the ridge of nail, the bed of it, salt, the fingerprint pressinginto the inside of his cheek. “Jesus,” Sam says, somewhere, butthere’s his ribcage and his chin, and his dick rising high above his hips, wetalready—how?—but Dean takes it in his mouth either way, ignoring Sam’s gaspingprotest of—"Wait—wait, Dean, I already—" but it’s so—solid,and the weight of it right, right, and he sinks down and down and feels it pushinto his throat and Sam’s thighs spasm around him and he says high-up holyshit and Dean presses his forehead against Sam’s belly and his nose intoSam’s pubes and he feels—right, right again, the pain distant, his lungs givingup—and then—no—

Sam’s hands on his face, patting it, holding his throat.“You okay?” he says, red-faced, and Dean doesn’t know why, or why hischest is heaving like it is.

“Sam,” Dean says, dumb, and blinks because his eyesdon’t want to work—wet falling down his cheeks and even Sam sparking strange inhis vision. He gapes, empty. “I—I need—”

“Okay,” Sam says, nodding, and Dean’s drawn up tohis mouth and fed kisses and takes them, so grateful, Sam’s tongue and his lips,his breath filling Dean’s mouth when Dean can’t seem to get the air himself—andSam says, the strangest note in his voice, “Fuck, you’re not evenhard,” his fingers slipping around where Dean’s dick hangs useless fromhis hips—but that doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, and Dean reaches behindhimself and grasps, whining, and Sam knows, Sam knows, and he says, “Yeah—fuck,yeah, I’ve got you, it’s okay,” and that pressure, big and blunt andthreatening and then the, yes, press in, and Dean feels like his lungs work again,and he wraps his hand into Sam’s hair and keeps his face there for Dean to see,to take in, and Sam blinks at him and licks his own open mouth and shoves hiships up, hard, and Dean rocks with it, takes it, because—god—Sam, Sam, Sam.

*

Dean wakes up dry-mouthed, aching. His asshole hurts andwhen he swallows his throat’s raw. “What,” he whispers, and Sam’sthere, immediately, with a glass of water that Dean gulps down.

“How’re your eyes?” Sam says, taking the glassaway.

Dean blinks. Sam’s all he can see at first—bare chest andshoulders, bite—bitemarks?—all over, and a, jesus, hickey blooming up on thebase of his throat. The rest of the room's… there, in a nighttime way, but hestill can’t see the edges. “Not fixed,” he says, rough. Yikes.

A nod and a corner of Sam’s mouth turning up.“Figured,” he says. “Still got a ways to go.”

Dean drags a hand over his face. Aspirin wouldn’t go amiss.“What is it?” he says. “I feel like a—skanky prom date.”

Sam snorts. “I think the only kind of prom date you’dbe is one from a porno,” he says, dry. He shrugs one shoulder. He is stillnaked, Dean realizes, and Dean is too. The sheets are tugged away, though, anda clean blanket’s under Dean’s ass. “It’s a love spell.”

Dean pauses in his struggling to sit up, like an adult.“A love spell.”

Another shrug, and this time the one-sided smile looks alittle smug. “I mean, more or less. Spellwork, as far as I can tell from hisnotes. Trying to get a fair maiden to want him.”

“Is that right.” Dean lets his head thunk backagainst the headboard. He’s never living this down.

“Pretty standard stuff for unscrupulous witches,”Sam says, and his smile goes more natural. “Figure it must not be havingthe same effect, if the feeling’s already there.”

Dean licks his lips. They’re sore, too. Sam looks at himsteady for a few seconds, and then stands up and goes to the kitchenette tofill Dean’s water glass again. His ass looks good, in the lamplight. “Anyway,”Sam says, half over his shoulder. “I figure we can probably work out theworst of it here, and we can start heading back to the bunker in the morning.There’ll be something there to break it, and if all else fails—maybe Cas willknow what to do.”

Cas. Well, there’s a nightmare Dean didn’t need. His chestfeels warm, his fingers itching. He licks his lips again, slides his thighstogether. Slick. Sam leans against the sink, too many yards away, watching himwith eyes that should be hard to see from here but Dean can, Dean can see everydetail, and his whole body’s tingling for it. “Worse ways for a job tofinish up, I guess,” he says, while he’s still halfway coherent, and Samlaughs.

“Yeah, I can think of a few,” he says, and comes backto the bed, and his skin touches Dean’s skin, and that’s all Dean needs, forthe rest of the night.

[couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name]

I think it would've been funny if Mary was on a solo hunt and met Claire, with her curly blonde hair and big blue eyes and tough attitude and wearing a shirt she stole from dean that dean stole from john, and Mary's like 'oh. interesting. I'm a grandmother. nightmare scenario.' and this is post the bmol reveal so Dean is fully not talking to her and she thinks he didn't tell her he has a daughter because he didn't trust her so she decides to get in Claire's good graces. 1) because her granddaughter seems to have the impulse control of an irritated bull and she definitely shouldn't be hunting alone and 2) she gave Claire a fake last name so she wouldn't figure out their relation so by the time Dean figures out they've met Claire can help sweeten him up so Mary can fix things with him. Claire meanwhile is annoyed that this random woman keeps following her around but she's already resigned to the fact she attracts parental figures like a magnet.

so they're a VERY chaotic hunting team for awhile. Mary also keeps trying to needle out details about Claire's life- she figures she might blow her cover if she asks too much about her father, so she asks a lot about Claire's mother but she's very cagey about the topic. then one day Claire let's Mary use her phone for something and she notices the background is a pic of her and Cas and Claire doesn't wanna get into the whole angel thing with this woman who won't get out of her car so she's like 'oh yeah that's my dad'. and Mary's IMMEDIATELY just like oh God oh fuck I almost got my son in law killed no wonder Dean hates me. she's fully spiralling about her kids not trusting her so much they're hiding an entire family from her. even BEFORE they knew about the brits Dean didn't tell her?? she spends all night on google taking like those dumb 'am I homophobic??' quizzes to see if she said or did anything to make him uncomfortable and she literally goes to a library and prints out articles about how to support your gay child. turns into one of those hardcore gay rights moms over night. Claire just thinks Mary's doing this because she's figured out Claire's a lesbian and she finds it sweet.

Dean eventually starts responding to Mary's texts again and Mary just wants to tell Dean she knows everything so they can Properly make up and move forward but all the parenting books she's been reading insist that she needs to let him come to her with this. she starts dropping hints though, like 'oh I'm working with this hunter named Claire', thinking he'll take the bait and tell her he's Claire's father but he's just like 'tell that criminal she has 32 hours to return my ivory grip gun or else I'm actually filing a police report against her' and Mary's not in any place to critique parenting styles but she's like 😬 and tells Claire who's like 'tell him they'll never take me alive' and Mary ends up in the middle of dumb banter between these two while Claire's driving but neither of them will admit they're father and daughter and it's driving her INSANE. she just wants to be trusted!!

skdhdj Claire has a p.o. box and one day they stopped by and there was a head of a stuffed unicorn in there as a godfather parody, and Claire calls Dean like 'THAT WAS ALEX'S!!' and Mary hears him cursing over the other line and after they hang up she asks who Alex is and Claire's like 'oh my sister' and Mary's like. YOUR WHAT.

then all the shit with the brainwashing and apocalypse world goes down and by the time she's back in the bunker she's SO over waiting she just wants as normal a family dynamic as she can possibly get so she makes a big show of like getting Dean alone and she has a whole apology speech AND a gay rights speech that she had kids from a local lgbt community group proof read and edit for her. and Dean king of the closet is like thanks! but what the Fuck. and people are fully walking into the library now Sam has popcorn and Mary's like listen sweetheart I know I haven't given you a lot of reasons to trust me but at the very least you could have mentioned I'm a grandmother, I mean the resemblance is uncanny- and Dean's like 'shit you met Ben? is he okay?' and she's like. WHO?? WHAT? HOW MANY CHILDREN ARE YOU HIDING. And he's like well Emma's dead ('WHAT') so who else could you POSSIBLY be talking about?? And Mary's like 'Claire!! obviously Claire!!' and Claire, who's on the other side of the room yells 'EW?!' in a put on offended tone and Dean's like 'no she's Cas' brat?!' and Mary's like. 'well she's not a nephilim like Jack! I know you and Cas are together Dean-' and Dean and Cas are like. um. what drew you to that conclusion. pay no attention to the fact we're blushing and now refusing to make eye contact with each other we Swear we are only simply platonic friends we are NOT in a romantic relationship. and then Jack and Claire are both like 'WHAT YOU AREN'T?!?!' and the night is lost to many many confusing confrontations. this post got away from me.

[youchangedmedean]

Why Dean’s Heaven Outfit is so Cursed

You may have seen my previous post about why Dean’s outfit in heaven is so cursed, but since then I have spotted even more.

According to Jared at the Virtual Con after 15x20 aired when asked ‘Were any lines added or ad libbed by you two [Jared and Jensen]?’ (starts at 29:28 timestamp)

... So, when we’re on that bridge and uh, and Dean says, “Heya Sammy” and then it cuts to Sam, and I’m dressed like, as best I could, like uh like the pilot with Dean, y’know. ...

So from this, we know that Sam on the bridge in 15x20 was supposed to be dressed like the pilot. I infer that Dean was also supposed to be dressed like the pilot but based on the wording it’s possible that’s not what he meant. As soon as we got BTS pics from the last day on set however, we all pointed out that they were dressed like the pilot but there is a difference.

So what did Dean wear in the pilot? He had on 2 different outfits. First a dark jacket and a red shirt.

After Dean gets covered in mud, he changes into a denim shirt and John’s leather jacket.

Another thing to note is that both Sam and Dean wear sneakers in the pilot. No boots for Dean.

So it looks like for Dean in 15x20, the heaven outfit is based on outfit 1 with the dark jacket, plain red shirt and jeans.

Dean consistently has plain red shirts through the seasons and continues to wear the dark jacket until 9x03 so I would bet that the very jacket was sitting in storage until s15.

Something to note is that while Sam is in a virtually identical outfit in 15x20 and the pilot, Dean is not. They must have had to source Sam’s outfit specifically for this. Sam does wear a hoodie and a beige jacket in later seasons so they could have built it out of Sam’s wardrobe but they chose not to. He does not wear these exact clothes at any other point in the series apart from in Heaven. Dean’s Heaven outfit is just made out of his clothing from later in the series. They both wore sneakers in the pilot but in Heaven Dean still has his boots while Sam is wearing sneakers.

Compare:

If I was building Dean’s heaven outfit out of later seasons outfits, I would have chosen his plain red shirt (note: this is not the Demon!Dean/MoC!Dean shirt, it is a different one).

By the later seasons, Dean doesn’t actually wear dark dark jackets much. His only black jacket in s15 was this denim one which he has had since 10x04:

But the wardrobe department decided not to go for these and instead decided on cursed items instead.

So what was Dean wearing in Heaven?

The Shirt

Now this shirt is just plain cursed. This is only seen at 2 other points in the whole series, and it was a new one for s15. 

We first see it in 15x04 Atomic Monsters for the Chuck AU where Lucifer!Sam kills Dean. Directed by Mr Jensen Ackles himself.

Thanks to him, we also get a good look at the shirt

So this is the first time we ever see this shirt and its for a Chuck AU where Sam kills Dean.

The second time we see it, its in 15x13 and this is another cursed appearance. It is worn by Huntercorp!Dean while pretending to be our Dean in the bunker.

And why was Huntercorp!Dean there at all? Because Chuck was destroying worlds.

When AU!Dean leaves the bunker, there is an exchange that is a bit cursed.

Huntercorp!DEAN: Oh, uh, you think we could keep the flannel shirts?

DEAN: No.

So the shirt actually gets a mention by Huntercorp!Dean.

What we see here is that this shirt is NEVER worn by our Dean. It is worn by a Chuck AU Dean and Huntercorp!Dean fleeing a world Chuck had destroyed while pretending to be our Dean.

We never see our Dean wear this shit until Heaven which seems like an odd choice.

Dean also doesn’t normally wear red and black plaid shirt. In fact, the previous one he had has an interesting history as pointed out by @wigglebox​ when we were discussing it.

It is first seen in 12x21 and he continues to wear it into 12x23 when Dean has to go into Mary’s mind.

We then see it again and for the last time in 13x16 Scoobynatural.

Both of these episodes are sort of AU episodes where he’s venturing into another character’s mind or heading into Scooby-Doo world.

So both Dean’s black and red plaid shirts have a cursed history relating things not being real and for this specific shirt, AUs. They could have chosen a plain red shirt almost identical to the pilot but they chose not to.

The Jacket

Dean has this jacket for a long time. He has a blue one and a black one. This black jacket has been around since s9 and gets worn a fair bit. On the whole, it doesn’t have a very happy history, its first worn for Kevin’s funeral in 9x10 and is worn after Claire is bitten by a Werewolf in 12x16.

However, the most notable thing about this jacket is what should have been it’s demise.

Dean is wearing it in 13x23 when he fights Lucifer and AU!Michael takes over his body.

At the end of the episode, we see that Michael has changed dean’s clothes and presumably ditched them somewhere.

Dean comes back at the end of 14x02 wearing Michael’s clothes. He arrives back at the bunker in 14x03 and changes into Dean clothes but is missing his watch for the whole episode, presumably because Michael ditched it. The denim shirt Dean wears in 13x23 is never seen again (yes, I have watched s14 and s15 just to check and have spreadsheets for Dean’s outfits!). His boots are back in 14x03 but I suppose you could argue he had multiple pairs.

We are left to assume that the jacket is also gone (and it really should be gone) but it makes a miraculous reappearance in 14x13 Lebanon.

Now this episode is an odd episode. They get their Dad back by messing up time, Cas doesn’t know them until they reset it back again. The shirt in this episode is also notable and I will write a post on it soon. So again, we have part of Dean’s heaven outfit connecting to alternative timelines where it really shouldn’t be at all.

BUT IT GETS WORSE EVERYONE!

This jacket appears at just one other point in s15. Now if you had to pick the most cursed of cursed times to put it where would you put it on Dean?

The Vamp Chuck future in 15x09 where Sam and Dean die as vampires.

So this jacket should have disappeared in 13x23 but reappears for an episode where time is altered in 14x13 and when Chuck is showing Sam the future in 15x09 if they ‘win’ and they die as vampires. Dean is then killed on a vampire hunt in 15x20 and ends up wearing this jacket in Heaven. Cool, cool.

This jacket becomes connected to our Dean but in altered timelines and worlds while the shirt is connected to alternative Deans. Both the shirt and the jacket have direct connections to Chuck.

So we see Dean in Heaven wearing this cursed outfit drinking cursed El Sol beer with the same cursed monkey from 14x13 Lebanon (see above, it was in the roadhouse too).

This is not an outfit that screams happy. This is not an outfit that screams Sam and Dean won. This is an outfit that seems to scream Chuck won. 

I guess we’ll just have to wait until Jackles manages to get a continuation...

One final odd thing to note. We all remember Jensen’s video posted before the finale when he was dressing up as Dean for the last time “at least for now”. Well he wasn’t actually wearing the outfit Dean wore in Heaven although all the Heaven scenes were shot on the last day of filming, the 10th of September.

He was wearing the Heaven plaid shirt, but not the Heaven Jacket. It was Dean’s black denim jacket I pointed out earlier. If you look it has seams that the Heaven Jacket doesn’t and the pocket flaps are a different shape.

I have gone through all the Heaven scenes and he is wearing the Heaven jacket in all of them. But I can’t think of a reason why on a hot day in September when Jensen is getting changed into costume he would have a different one of Dean’s jackets on over the shirt he needs to wear for the scenes.

[blue-eyed-cutiepatootie]

Two Sand Dunes

Wc 421, established relationship, fluff, beach trip, cheesy jokes

For @icefire149 here's todays beach joke 💜

Waves crashing, seagulls crying, and the hot June air are sending Dean into a comfortable doze. The bright afternoon sun is creating sparkling patterns through his eyelids. He had played in the water some with Sam, Eileen, Jack, and Claire before surrendering to the beach towel's call. And Cas. Cas who was still frolicking in the water now- undoubtedly collecting a metric shit ton of shells- even after the others had gone inside for a break. 

Dean is laying on his stomach, head resting on an actual small pillow because Cas is smart, arms bracketing his head. He can't recall ever being this relaxed before. 

He feels more than hears Cas return. Cool palms press against his shoulders and turn to fingers dancing down his spine. Dean can't help but smile even as he squirms against the sensation.

Attempting to guess where Cas is he swats a hand above himself. "Babe your hands are freezing!" 

"Oh?" Cas' voice is much closer than he anticipated. "I didn't realize." Cas moves his hands to Dean's sides and starts tickling, stealing his breath and ability to speak. An embarrassing giggle escapes his lips and tears begin to trail down his face. Cas's hands still.

"It's time to reapply sunscreen." 

Dean blinks through the tears. "Cas, the hell? You literally could have asked like a normal person!" 

Cas helps Dean up and pulls them close together. He leans forward and Dean grins in anticipation but its Cas' freezing swim shorts that come into contact with Dean's sun warmed body. He definitely does not shriek. Cas holds him there for a second, "I am not a normal person."

Dean rolls his eyes and gently pushes Cas away. "You are now, babe. Hence the sunscreen break." Cas scowls adorably. 

They take turns reapplying sunscreen to each other, taking care to get those easily forgotten about spots. Then they sit on the beach towel side by side as they wait for the sunscreen to set. Dean stares out into the ocean and feels himself drifting off again. 

After a few minutes, Cas gently picks up Dean's hand. 

"Dean, what did one sand dune say to the other?"

Dean smiles even as he huffs. "Another one? Uh ok um... I dunno, Cas, long time no sea?"

Cas brings his other, slightly sandy, hand up to Dean's face. "No, it said I will never desert you."

"And the other sand dune said me either." Dean murmurs as he leans in to press a kiss to Cas' sea salty lips. 

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia - a supernatural rewrite. pilot.

read it on ao3. masterlist.

words: 20298 (she's a big'un).

notes: Is the fandom dead? Am I speaking into the void? I have no clue. Do I persist? Yea.

I recently got back onto my spn train after like sixish years of not being obsessed with the show, so I'm going in bald to pretty much all fandom and canon elements that came after 2017. (By that I mean that my brain shorts out sometime after season six). This is utterly indulgent, and is mostly for my fourteen y/o self who couldn't write for shit and desperately wanted to be in the backseat of the Impala. I was circling through rewrites that my friend had sent me (thank you gracie!!) and none of them were scratching my particular, Dean-and-Sam-both-have-earrings-and-are-30%-more-affectionate itch. At present I can't decide which brother I'm leaning towards more for this, probably Sam, but for that reason, things are slow burn and split pretty evenly for the boys!

Season 1 is a period piece, in good and bad ways, so I try here to squash out most of the bad to leave some room for... well, us. All I ask is that u go through this imagining yourself with a flip-phone w little charms on it, as well as cute late 90s/early 2000s fashion.

Enjoy!

next part: wendigo, p1.

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - OCT. 29th

Dean didn’t need to call ahead. He wouldn’t anyway—both because he was shit with phones and he liked to test you—but the moment you saw his headlights, you planned to gripe about it in the car.

The faintly sweet smell of dead leaves hung in the late October breeze. Your dark street was illuminated by two-story inflatable ghosts and pumpkin string lights, which threw an odd orange glow along parts of the road. One of your neighbors had gotten ambitious this year and decked out the side of his house with a massive spider web. You’d been forced to stare at it while you waited for Dean, and after too long it made you feel… detached. This time of year always felt like a bit of a joke; what was real for you every day was real for them for just one, and they mocked it.

All over, Halloween felt like a bad omen. It was a bad omen—or maybe you were just bitter you’d never been able to go trick-or-treating.

The Impala stole a spot on the curb, lighting up the whole street with sound. Dean popped the driver’s side door, his silhouette, as always, doubled by his leather jacket. You raked your eyes over him from where you sat on the stoop, suitcase at your side and a hand on the old duffle bag Dean had lent you years ago. He looked drained. The parts of his face touched by the gory orange light made him look almost sickly with nerves, until he passed into shadow again and all you could make out was his grin.

“Howdy,” Dean greeted. You didn’t need the light to know he was checking you over, too.

“Y’know, usually when you’re picking someone up you warn them first, Dean.” You dramatically flopped your hand against your forehead, almost tipping back into the concrete, “Oh, you never call, you never text! God, you may as well throw me in the old folk’s home—”

“Shut your trap, since when do I have to call ahead?” Dean tilted into a jog to meet you, “I missed you too, blah blah. It’s only been a week. You’re real clingy, you know that?”

You threw up a very graceful middle finger. Dean swatted at your hand, and you let it drop as you soaked each other in. When he was close enough, you rose and slid your hands under his jacket in a quick embrace, and Dean returned it by dropping his brow once to your shoulder.

Seeing you packed and ready when he hadn’t even called—hadn’t even told you he was coming—endeared him in some way, but there was a pinch in his brow that wouldn’t let him show it. Things must’ve been worse than you’d predicted. His jacket, which had been blown up, shot through, and repaired all over with fabric and patches, had a new repair on the right cuff. It looked like he’d patched the hole with faux snakeskin.

“So…” Dean tapped his temple, “how much did your weirdo-psychic stuff tell you?”

At this, you took up your duffle and Dean leaned across you to grab your suitcase. When he was close enough to meet eyes with, you knit your brows together. “Not much. I woke up from a dream half n’ hour ago, and all I knew was that you were on your way and needed me.”

Dean exhaled a laugh, flustered, and moved to turn around a little too sharply. But you stopped him by the arm, and by some miracle he listened.

“What’s happened?”

Up close, it was much easier to count the expressions Dean went through before he landed on tense. “Dad…” he said, “I was… I was in New Orleans, waitin’ on him…”

He paused, at a loss for words, so you did the only thing you could think to do and offered your free hand to him. The old ritual made Dean appropriately hesitant—using your gift to peek into his mind was cute when you were kids, but as much as he trusted you, at present it could be invasive. Dean only accepted when he was too tired to speak or had too much to say. By the look of him, this seemed like one of those times.

“Go on,” he pushed. Dean didn’t snap or grunt about it, and turned his cheek for you to connect.

You laid your knuckles on his cheekbone. His skin was chilled, but warm compared to the night air and coarse where his stubble started up his jaw. It took a breath, but you calmed your surprise and focussed on your powers.

They’d developed around your twelfth birthday, which was expected. The Gift ran in your family, from mother to daughter and so on, and with it came a responsibility that started long before you were born. Your mother had been guiding hunters for as long as you could remember. Just as she helped John Winchester, you’d been dragged across the country by his boys since Dean was old enough to drive. In all honesty, you doubted you’d be half as competent with your powers if they hadn’t been there to encourage you. (Or in Dean’s case: pester you constantly).

“Dean…”

His emotions came to you like nails out of rotted wood. Dean was terrified, so terrified, but before you could blink those feelings were yanked out of your reach. Instead, Dean presented you with a careful picking of his memories: hunting alone, checking his phone so much the screen never slept, and voicemail after voicemail after voicemail. All of it blurred together with burning anxiety. John’s last words to him hung hard over his head, and now over yours. We’re all in danger.

“Your dad’s missing,” you repeated.

Dean whipped around, embarrassed by the exchange, and rushed over to the Impala. “Yeah. For a couple weeks now. You heard anything from him? Or, y’know… felt anything?”

You were tempted to wonder if this was another one of John’s regular disappearances, but Dean was so rattled you were compelled to listen to him. His question made you pause. “Not recently, no. This time of year always messes me up, you know that—the veil thins, everything’s louder—”

He threw your suitcase into the backseat with a bang.

“Wouldn’t that make it easier?” Dean snapped. The heat in his voice flickered out as fast as it’d come, “...Y’know, to feel for him?”

The line of his shoulders was hard-cut with tension. You watched him drop both hands to the door of the car, dragging in a breath through his nose. Sympathetically, you set a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched, like you were moving to reach into his mind again, but melted sideways into the touch when it warmed there to comfort.

“I wish it did,” you sighed. “But that’s why I’m coming with you, okay? Three heads are better than one dumb Dean one.”

He lifted his head, squinting. “Three? How’d you know we’re getting—” A slow smile grew on your face, and the bigger it got the harder he rolled his eyes. “...Nevermind. Stupid question.”

You tossed your duffle into the passenger’s seat (ready to bask in it before Sam inevitably called shotgun), reveling in the strained sound Dean made when you picked up his box of tapes and relocated them to the back. As Dean started the engine, you fished around for the headphones you’d dropped under the bench the last time you were with him.

“We got a thirty-somethin’ hour drive ahead of us,” Dean warned. “You got everything? Gonna be able to keep yourself entertained?”

You gave his closest knee a nudge with yours, shrugging slyly. “I brought coloring books.”

Dean snorted. Before you clicked your lap belt on, he threw an arm over the bench and nodded to the back almost shyly, “Pick something from the tapes.”

The motor rumbled. You hadn’t questioned why Dean had grabbed you before he grabbed Sam, since you were a closer drive, but it struck you that he’d still chosen you to help. John certainly hadn’t asked him. If anything, you made the old man nervous. Dean wanted you here. In your dream, that was all you’d felt—Dean needing you. It didn’t matter if his father was missing or if he just needed a beer. Either way, he would find you waiting with your suitcase. You hoped he knew that. He seemed to want you to know the same was true vice-versa.

After your long gloating silence, Dean threw back his head and groaned, “Sometime this year, please?”

Smugly, you bent over the backseat and felt around in the dark for what you were looking for. The music tapes shined in the streetlight like obsidian, but you only needed touch to find the peeling edge of the Led Zeppelin boxed set.

“You’re letting me pick the tape, and you said please? Man, you really do miss me.”

You predicted that he’d swat you on the ass, but he wasn’t fortunate enough to have your Gift when you swatted him on the back of the head too. Dean cursed, “S’ my music. Everything in there is good. That way you can’t pick something stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” you replied, and Dean took the bait, starting a train of no yous that lasted well into Iowa.

_

PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA - OCT 31st, morning.

It was as close to fall in California as it could get. Humid night-time air gushed through the open windows of the Impala, covering whatever chill the weather could manage. The parking lot of Sam’s apartment rung with a pregnant silence, so even the tiniest noises seemed loud. Four times your head had shot up, ears prickling for the twin sound of bootprints, but the front gate never rattled and the boys never emerged. You were unsure if you wanted Sam to come out or not—he’d given up hunting for good, and dragging him back just felt cruel.

Picking a thread in the seat, you sighed. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to go with Dean. You didn’t want to intrude on their reunion, but he’d been dead quiet for the last day, the silence of the car unfilled even by half-assed jokes. Trying to worm one out of Dean was pointless, anyway. It was obvious he was sobering himself for Sam. If their Dad really was missing, he had to be the strong, unflappable big brother that Sam could take example from. As sweet as the sentiment was, watching Dean quietly reassemble himself in the driver’s seat put a bad taste in your mouth. You knew you wouldn’t be seeing that Dean—the one who tenderly dropped his cheek into your hand because he was too wrecked to speak—for a while.

And Sam… It’d been two years for all of you, but you’d at least kept in touch with him over the phone. Seeing his stories come to life was bizarre. He’d called you about everything: dating Jess, getting the apartment, his score on the LSAT. It was weird, knowing the walking supernatural encyclopedia you’d grown up with now lived on this cutesy little road. The Sam who’d help you set up psychic rituals in your mom’s basement now bumbled along with the normies. Well, if it was going to be any of you… He probably studied in the museum gardens in town, drinking those caramel lattes he pretended not to love and listening to punk music and Cyndi Lauper covers. Freely enjoying all the little things John would give him shit for.

You dared to glance again at the front gate. Yeah, cursing John Winchester sounded pretty good right about now. You weren’t here for him—you were here for the boys.

As a result, you tried not to see all of this as a bad omen. Even if Dean was always on your couch between hunts, and even if it’d been two years since you’d last seen Sam in person, being with them again always tripled the output of your Gift. Just being in the Impala fed you visions of your memories with them. They had, in a way, grown up with your powers just as much as you had, and as a result you were a compass constantly pointing North. Sam and Dean were your (very stubborn, but very lovable) North.

And that—that was a good omen. Being split two ways between them like this had been messing you up. Maybe here, being with the boys you’d grown up with after so long, you’d gain the power to find John.

An electric pulse raced through your chest like you’d caught something right before it hit the floor… and two seconds later, Sam and Dean’s arguing carried out into the night air.

Dean’s tone was an inch away from cutting. His and Sam’s boots thudded down the concrete in tandem, like the beat of a racing heart. “—so what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?”

Sam’s softer voice chased his, almost pleading. “No. Not normal. Safe.”

Dean swung around at him so he and his brother were eye to eye. He scoffed. “...And that's why you ran away.”

“I was just going to college.” Sam hopelessly shook his head, “It was Dad who said if I was gonna go I should stay gone. And that's what I'm doing.”

You winced. Yeah, maybe another explosive argument wasn’t what you needed.

This was when they came into view for you. Growing up without siblings, you’d been the sum total of your parents' genes. Because of that, it was fascinating, cute even, to see how John and Mary had been distributed among the boys—pretty evenly, too. They only looked like brothers from a distance. The cut of their shoulders and jaws were identical in silhouette, and without meaning to they set their hammer-knuckled hands on their hips in the same bracing way. But Dean had Mary’s everything: her mouth, her lashes, her hair, and visions had taught you that he’d taken her scowl too. John was clearer in Sam’s face, but without the coarseness of grief. The cedar brown that’d snapped at you for crying about the kickback of a shotgun was Sam’s now, and Sam had rubbed your back while explaining how to hold it after John had stormed off.

Dean breathed deep through his nose, only to snap back: “Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble right now. If he's not dead already. I can feel it.”

The Impala’s door closing behind you made Sam jump, cutting off the argument. You stalked out from Dean’s shadow, saving whatever mixed feelings you had for later—his arms were already halfway open at the sound of the racing footsteps, and you ducked into them to squeeze him hard around the belly. Sam gave a satisfying oomf when you came in for landing, giving you a moment to enjoy your relationship with gravity before you were scooped up and spun in a circle so wide your legs flailed. You did your best to squeal with dignity when he set you down.

Sam breathlessly said your name. He smelled like good laundry detergent (that meant he had a washing machine, a working stove, and a dozen more luxuries they’d never had as kids) and something faintly woody, like cedar.

“Nice stud earrings, stud. Black is classy,” you snorted. Sam flicked you on the cheek for the remark.

From where your face was pressed into Sam’s shoulder, Dean scowled and mouthed: “Help me out here.” You ignored him to give his brother another good squeeze, and Dean deflated like a kid forced to share his favorite stuffed animal.

“S’ good to see you,” Sam half-grinned at you, rubbing his freshly bruised ribs. The Kansas twang was still in his voice a little. That, at least, remained the same. “You doing okay?”

“Halloween,” you winced by way of explanation, which earned an understanding nod. You’d complained about it to him for two hours over the phone.

“Do you still want to… even if you’re overloaded…?” Sam gestured to his face.

When you nodded, Sam tilted his cheek in your direction like he was offering his palm to shake hands. You set your knuckles easily on the side of his face, a friend taking his temperature, and like every time you reunited Sam opened himself up to you. This was not Dean’s massive wave of emotion. Subdued, Sam caught you up: on his anxiety for his interview on Monday, on how Jess was doing, the nightmares he’d been having. Even his own uneasy feelings about Halloween for your sake. But king above all of it was his frustration and his concern, for Dean and for John.

He poked at the connection, trying to get something out of you too, but you dropped it. Sam had caught one glimpse of your insecurities about your powers when he was twelve, and now he was hell-bent on convincing you they were normal. They weren’t, but you were fine with that. It was like Dean always said: s’ all part of the job.

The moment only lasted a second, but Dean slouched and grumbled like he’d been waiting for an hour. “Ladies, please, we can catch up in the car—we’ve got a hunting trip to take.”

Sam’s shoulders squared. He turned his pleading frown from Dean to you, and Dean did the exact same thing, imploring you to back him up. You could’ve sworn you were standing between two full-grown men, but instead you were being puppy-dog-eyed into taking sides. They knew what they were doing.

You took in each of their faces, then apologetically shuffled to stand beside Dean.

“He’s right, Sam,” you murmured, “We just can’t do this alone.”

“But you’re not alone!” He gestured snappishly between the two of you. “You and Dean can find Dad just fine together, and you have before! Why is it selfish of me to just want to live a normal life?”

You closed your eyes. That burned.

“It isn’t—” you said, just as Dean rumbled, “You owe Dad—”

Before he could finish the thought you put a silencing hand on Dean’s chest, whose jaw snapped shut into an immediate pout. He at least had the sense to know who had the better shot at convincing Sam. Dean stepped out of the dark and into the streetlight behind you, hovering at your shoulder. The shadows of moths tinking against a light flitted across his face. When Dean set his hand on your shoulder, you knew what you said next was for the both of you.

“Let me rephrase,” you spoke, carefully. “...We don’t want to do this alone.”

Sam hunted your expression for honesty. There was something so different about him, an edge that had peeled, a crack that had opened. His whole body felt like a scab so close to healing over. A part of you prayed that the scab was further healed than you thought—that maybe you were a week or a day too late, and Sam’s threshold for coming back to hunting had already passed. But between your involvement and Dean’s clenched teeth, the steel in his face gradually melted.

Sam ducked his head and sighed. “What was he hunting?”

The hand on your shoulder fell to your back and lightly fisted your jacket, giving it a little shake where Sam couldn’t see. Thank you, Dean seemed to say.

In unison, you and Dean spun on your heels. You tossed him the keys to the Impala, and he lapped you to jam a key into the trunk. Before he opened it, he looked at you, and you paused to close your eyes and feel around the area with your gift. “We’re alone,” you confirmed, and Dean hiked open the trunk.

The inside was unassuming until you opened the spare-tire compartment. Rows of weapons lined the inside, hatchets and firearms and ammunition of all kinds, gleaming in the low light. It was more jammed than usual, since your own hunting equipment was carefully organized alongside Dean’s clutter. Sam noted the differences himself, eyes keen, and heat prickled up your neck when he smiled slyly at a shiny new set of brass knuckles. Dean? He mouthed to you, and you pointed to yourself with a shy shrug, For my birthday. Sam’s grin was too knowing for your comfort.

Dean propped the hatch open with a shotgun. “All right, where’d I put that thing…?”

You plucked the file he was looking for right where it was laying on top of everything, clearly where he could see it. Idiot. Dean took it from you, mystified, like you’d pulled it out of thin air. “How do you do that?”

“Magic,” you replied. Dean seemed to believe you.

“All right, here we go,” He shuffled through the papers. “Dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, this guy,” he gave one of the pages to Sam, “they found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA.”

Sam glanced at the article. It was from the Jericho Herald, headlined Centennial Highway Disappearance, and dated for this September. A man’s missing photo was halfway covered by Sam’s thumb, who shrugged, “So maybe he was kidnapped.”

“Sure,” you mirrored his shrug, “and so was the guy in April,” Dean slapped down each corresponding article for you, “and December 'oh-four, 'oh-three, 'ninety-eight, 'ninety-two—ten guys in the past two decades.”

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting closer to read them over. “You had a vision of this?” He guessed.

“Nope,” Dean answered for you. He had his elbows on the edge of the trunk, posted up like a cowboy—and shit, watching him try to play the cool big brother was endlessly entertaining. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a hunt. Besides, she c’n always pick something up while we’re on the job, right?”

“Yes,” you tapped the paper in Sam’s hand with two fingers, “especially if it’s been going on this long in the same place. All of it happened on the same stretch of road.”

“It started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough.”

Dean reached behind you for another bag in the trunk, and quickly fished through it for a handheld tape recorder. He raised his prize to the two of you, and Sam tried not to snort at the ghostbusters sticker on the side. You both sobered when Dean said, “Then I get this voicemail the other day.”

He clicked play. John Winchester’s rough voice was clear on the first word, then it descended mostly into static, punctured occasionally on the recording. “Dean...some—ng big—starting to hap—n...I need—try and fig—out what's… appen’ing. It may… Be ve—areful, Dean. We're all in danger.”

Sam’s expression was pinched with curiosity when Dean silenced the recording. Just hearing the feedback made your head feel fuzzy and cold, like you’d been dunked face-first into icy water and inhaled a lungful. Since Dean had needed to put a coat on you the first time he played the recording, you could feel his gaze sliding over your figure in search of more shivers. You gave him the most reassuring smile you could, but his face was still vigilant.

Sam was too deep in thought to notice. “You know there’s EVP on that?”

Dean’s grin lit up his entire face. Like you, he seemed to notice how far into normalcy Sam was—but unlike you, it worried him. “Not bad, Sammy,” he praised, “Kinda like riding a bike, ain’t it?”

Sam looked to you for a companion in his exasperation, and you shook your head in solidarity. Maybe, if you were lucky, this would just be one hunt. Maybe John wouldn’t drag you and Dean on another wild goose chase, and Sam could return home not totally upset with his family. With that in mind, you shifted deeper into their bubble and tried to enjoy this for what it was on the surface. The three of you were back together again. Two years suddenly felt like a million.

“Alright—I slowed the message down, I ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got.”

Dean jabbed another button with his thumb and hit play. The cold, chilling voice of a woman echoed in the recording hollowly, like she was trapped in a place with air too thick to speak through. “I can never go home…”

You and Sam exchanged a thoughtful glance, repeating the phrase in unison: “Never go home…”

With a sigh, Dean tossed the recorder back into place. You stepped back so he could shut the trunk and everything in it, pressing your elbows into your ribs even if you could go swimming in the Palo Alto weather. Dean noticed, and quietly nodded behind him, “M’ spare jacket’s in the backseat.”

Taking the cue to give them even the illusion of privacy, you squeezed Sam’s arm and disappeared behind Dean. His green coat was right there on the bench, but you pulled open the door and slid into your new home to “look” for it, grabbing your bag from the front seat. Maybe they just needed a second to talk. The heater in the Impala was admittedly shit, so you slid into Dean’s jacket just in case and pretended you weren’t listening in.

“You know, in almost two years I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing.” Dean cleared his throat.

Sam sighed. You put your cheek on the backrest of the front seat, indulging in the familiar earthy smell of Dean’s jacket and Dean’s car. It was selfish, but you crossed your fingers in the sleeves. What you were hoping for, you weren’t entirely sure—at the very least that Sam would be okay after all of this.

“All right. I'll go. I'll help you find him.”

Dean’s relief was so potent you could feel it without touching him. It echoed oddly against the cold iron in your gut. He didn’t say anything, but you could sense the thankfulness settling hard into his joints. You’d both been prepared to go into this with only each other, but there was no way you couldn’t find John if Sam was in that passenger’s seat.

Sam’s shoes scraped against the concrete. “But I have to get back first thing Monday. Just wait here.”

The weight of the car shifted—Dean was sitting on the trunk. “What's first thing Monday?”

Sam bit his tongue. “I have this...I have an interview.”

“What, a job interview? Skip it.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you fell back against the seat. It was a good thing Sam was going inside to grab his stuff, since you needed some time to give Dean a good smack.

“It's a law school interview, and it's my whole future on a plate.”

That’s putting it lightly.

“Law school?” You could hear the questioning smirk in Dean’s voice.

Sam swatted at him, exasperated. You began to wonder how Dean had gone in there and woken him up. “So we got a deal, or what?”

A minute later, Dean slid into the driver’s seat. He stared straight ahead for a concerning amount of time, then was possessed by the urge to do something and started cranking the windows shut. You watched him, and he felt you watching, but the lot was small and the buildings around it cast long shadows. Neither of you could make out each other's faces well, so you pressed your brow into Dean’s arm, and he flopped back into the seat to knock his head on top of yours.

“Thanks,” he said, finally. “I know you want Sam safe. I do too. I think he’s…” Dean sighed through his nose, “he’s safer where we can see him.”

“I don’t know how I survived that,” you snickered. It was better to just let Dean thank you—any earnest reply you could give him would just make him squirrely. Your voice was muffled by the fabric, but Dean was close enough to hear you anyway. “Sam’s puppy face should be legally classified as a weapon.”

Dean snickered too, until it died in his throat and you both just breathed in the silence. It was comfortable. He’d been making you nervous all day, but this eased it at least a little.

You flicked his ear. “Slut.”

Dean didn’t flinch. He just smiled, a little less exhausted than before. “Dick.”

_

NAPA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA.

The way to Jericho was filled mostly with wine country, so Dean drove with the windows down so you and Sam could smell the grapes on the wind. You found out that Dean had broken into Sam’s place, and between berating him, you tried to goad Sam into describing his apartment. That conversation kept you busy for most of the drive. The only homes Sam and Dean had ever known were Bobby’s house in Dakota and the antique shop where your mom gave her readings. Having a place that was purely your own was the hunter-kid dream, so you ate up visions of Sam’s breakfast nook (with cute coasters!) and Dean’s future megamansion with a jacuzzi-water bed.

“I don’t think it’s physically possible for something like that to exist,” Sam snickered.

Dean flicked the turn signal and wheeled into a gas station lot. “I said this was the future. They’ll invent it.”

You gave Sam a look from the backseat like, wait til you get a load of this, then asked: “Okay… and how are you gonna afford all that?”

“My sex tape’ll go viral,” Dean snorted. He took an empty pump, parked the car, and gave you an offended glance in the rearview mirror. Right, cause he was the one who could see the future. “Duh.”

Sam watched him bounce out of the car and into the convenience store, a half-fond, half-frustrated look on his face. You studied his profile down the line of his nose, and Sam caught you looking with a shy smile. He was still so smiley—perhaps even moreso than when you all hunted together.

You nodded to Dean, who’d been stopped at the door by a couple of girls complimenting his car. “I’ll bet you missed that, huh?”

“Weirdly enough?” Sam raised his brows, “Yeah, a little bit.” A beat later, he turned halfway in his seat to squint: “You stuck me up here in the front with him on purpose, didn’t you?”

With a dramatic whirl, you spread your arms across the width of the backseat and kicked up your feet by Sam’s face, spreading out as much as you possibly could to stake your claim. If you were going to be back here all weekend, you were going to be comfortable, that was for sure. Your blanket and pillow were waiting on your left for emergency backseat naps, and your snack bag crinkled on your other side. You gestured to your treasure pile with glee, as if to say, this is the lap of luxury.

“Yes,” you flipped down your sunglasses, “Yes I did.”

Sam gave your socks a friendly shove and shook his head. “Very clever. Do you know where Dean keeps his tapes?”

“Yeah! Here,” you disappeared under the bench, and hefted up the box by the bottom since its handles were broken. “He usually keeps em’ up front, but I knew you’d need all the leg room you could get.”

Soon, Sam was elbows-deep into his rifling, muttering and scoffing at the selection. You got back to reading the lore book you’d opened an hour ago, and ended up re-reading the same paragraph over and over until a plastic bag appeared through the window. It was followed by Dean’s smug face.

“For the lady,” he said, giving the bag a little shake.

You took it with a squeal of delight, wrestling it open to find your breakfast of choice. At the bottom of the bag there was also a small carton of plump, inky blackberries, and seeing it prompted you to turn out the window and coo, “I love youuu, Dean. Thank you.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered. The moment you opened the container, his open hand shoved through the window. At your possessive frown, he winked, “Dean tax. Hand some over.”

You reluctantly put a couple into his palm, filling out your Dean tax for the day, and he chewed around them as he spoke to Sam. “Hey,” he offered him a sleeve of mini donuts, “you want some breakfast?”

“No, thanks,” Sam scrunched his nose, polite as ever, and then very impolitely reached back to wiggle his open palm at you. Making a big show out of sighing, you split your ration with him too—finishing off your Sam tax as well.

There was a clinking sound as Dean started refilling the Impala’s tank. While you started to dig into what remained of your breakfast, Sam stretched his legs out the open door, the tapes still in his lap. “So how’d you pay for that stuff? You and Dad still running credit card scams?”

Dean must’ve gotten into the donuts already, because his voice was muffled. “Yeah, well, huntin’ ain’t exactly a pro ball career. ‘Sides, all we do is apply. It’s not our fault they send us the cards.”

Sam chuckled, disappointed but unsurprised. He must’ve hoped that something had turned over while he was gone, that there was more than Dean’s mopey eyes to prove he’d left, but most things hadn’t changed. Almost nothing had except for him. When Sam had wondered what you two were doing for the last two years, he pictured the open road and the Impala chasing the shadow of John’s truck. Isn’t that what you were doing now? That was one of the main reasons why Sam had wanted to leave—the hunt was just one big, endless circle.

“Yeah? And what names did you write on the application this time?”

“Uh, Burt Aframian.” Dean plucked his own breakfast off the top of the car and reclaimed the driver’s seat. With him, Sam brought his legs back into the car and shut the door. “And his son Hector. Scored two cards out of the deal.”

“Sounds about right…” Sam raised his brows. He ran his finger over a line of tapes in the box on his lap, “I swear, man, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection.”

“What? Why?” Dean wiped powdered sugar on his jeans, and when he wasn’t looking you slunk forward to sneak a sip of his soda. He clearly noticed, but all you got from him was a playful smile when it appeared back in the cupholder.

“Well, for one, they're cassette tapes. And two…” Sam returned to surfing the box, which was brimming with more than two dozen albums, half of them labeled with masking tape and your and Dean’s handwriting. “Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica? It's the greatest hits of mullet rock.”

As Dean plucked the Metallica tape from Sam’s hand, Sam shot you a pointed look. You tried not to flush when he tapped one of the newer additions, which was a little too lovingly labeled, for Dean <3. Letting his smirking silence say it all, Sam flipped the edge so you could see the subtle scrapes on the side—evidence of how many times it’d been played. Detective Sam missed nothing. Given time, he could probably even figure out the tracklist.

“Well, house rules, Sammy.” Dean pushed the Metallica tape into the player, all too proud of himself, “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Sam’s side-eyed you, like it was necessary to stare at his true victim before going for the low blow. “Unless shotgun is ____, of course—”

The engine roared to life, and so did the music. Just in case that wasn’t enough to drown Sam out, Dean threw back his head and yelled, “Cakehole!” then slammed on the gas until the tires squealed.

For good measure, you found a lock of Sam’s hair and gave it a mean little tug. While Dean got the three of you back on the road, you leaned by Sam’s ear and hissed, “Never forget—I know your biggest weakness.”

“And what’s that?” Sam lazily grinned.

You clapped your hands over his eyes, pulling him back against the seat like you were strapping him into a torture device. In a sharp whisper, you cackled against his cheek, “...I know where you’re ticklish.”

Sam jolted out of your grip so fast his seatbelt caught. Out of the kindness of your heart, you released your captive, and he scrambled away to slouch low in his seat and protect his vulnerable sides. Sam was still nervously giggling half an hour later, so it was safe to say that the lesson had been learned.

_

CENTENNIAL HIGHWAY.

You and Sam took calling duty, checking the hospital and the morgue respectively for a man matching John’s description. He wasn’t at either place. Sam had always been uncomfortable with the lying aspect of the job, which was understandable, but regardless he was a champ at it. Dean was right: hunting was as all too easy to pick up again. Skill and instinct had overlapped a long time ago for all three of you.

“Check it out,” Dean said, and you and Sam raised your heads.

The bridge ahead was flocking with local law. Two police cruisers were aimed at an abandoned car, diagonal on the road and plastered with a whole night’s worth of leaves. You couldn’t see much more than that from here. Dean parked, and then reached across for the IDs in the glovebox. At least a dozen of them jostled forward, Dean’s dumb smolder in every single one. Your favorite had to be the wildlife service ID, though, since he’d forgotten to take his cartilage piercings out. Every time you were carded, somebody always asked.

Right on cue, Dean hooked them out of his ears and dropped the small pile of metal into one of the cupholders. Why he bothered, you didn’t know—he didn’t remove the rings or the bracelets he wore, so he looked like a goth football player anyway. Expectantly, he held out his hand to the backseat. You dropped a fistful of your warding and good luck rings into his palm, feeling Sam taking note of the routine. That was definitely one thing that had changed in the last two years: you and Dean were a tad more comfortable with each other than he remembered.

“Good?” Dean asked.

You waved your own fake ID at him. “All good.”

Dean’s grin moved from you to Sam, and as cheeky as ever, he nodded to the scene. “Let’s go.”

You lingered at Sam’s side, trying to gauge how he felt about this, but your concern quickly became unreasonable. In unison, their shoulders squared and their faces neutralized. It was eerie, how easy it was for them to become two different people—your mother trained you to protect yourself and others when you could, sure, but she was no John Winchester. You’d seen yourself what he’d done to the boys. The result was impressive, but… You slowed down until you were walking behind them, keeping the way your gut twisted to yourself.

Two deputies were inspecting the car when you approached, but you broke off early from Sam and Dean to float around the bridge. This was routine for you and Dean—he was always the rough-around-the-edges bad cop, and you played his head-in-the-clouds partner. It made it easier for Dean to get intel, while you felt around with your powers in case there was something to sense. This was the only time all weekend you regretted having Sam there. How long had you and Dean spent, goofily giving your FBI personas tragic backstories and coming up with their impressive exploits? Sam would be good cop now, there was no doubt about that. For a selfish breath, you wondered where that would leave you.

You heard Dean flash his badge and introduce you. “Federal Marshals.”

“Three of you?” One of the deputies—Jaffe—questioned.

“Uh,” Sam smoothly nodded in your direction, his voice full of humor, “she’s our trainee.”

Oh, you were going to eat him alive later. Not one tickle spot would be spared in your wrath.

“Oh, yeah—academy’s shootin’ em out like baby rabbits…” Dean agreed. He quirked his head and began to wander around the abandoned car, and since your cover was clear, you parted further from the boys to scope out the bridge.

The two continued to inch information out of the deputies, but you let yourself float into a headspace where you wouldn’t hear them. It was cold on the bridge, and just standing close to one of the railings made you feel like you were being sucked into a black hole. The drop to the river below was just barely far enough to kill. More cops were gleaning it for bodies, but you could sense that they wouldn’t find any. You walked down the length closest to the car, eyes closed, letting the rugged texture of the wood railing fall under your hand.

A hot rush of anger roared over you all at once—and you swore for an instant that Dean was yelling at you over your shoulder, telling you to get back to the car—that he can Sam could handle this without you—that he didn’t need you, that he’d never needed you—never loved you, had cheated on you for some useless girl—

“Sam!” You hollered. The black wall that had descended on you fell hard, like a sheet of glass shattering at your feet, and suddenly Sam had a hand on your arm and was ducking down to look at your face.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low, “Feel somethin’?”

You kept your eyes squeezed shut, chasing the void and the memories it’d given you. For a moment you were boiling with so much despair and rage—pure, throat-tearing rage—that you wanted to take him by the shirt and throttle him. Sam set his hand on your back and began to rub with his thumb, which made things so much worse and then slowly better. You blew a breath out of your nose, reminding yourself that you were needed here. That you were wanted. No one had cheated on you or lied to you—it was okay.

You made a grabby hand at the air and breathed, “Pen. I need a pen.”

Sam pat down his coat and handed you what he found. Taking the random coupon and an old ballpoint in hand, you spun Sam around to use him as a temporary desk. The name ended up sloppy from how fast you’d written it, but it was readable, and that was all that mattered.

“You did get something,” Sam smirked, and then turned around—only to pause and soften all over. “Woah, what happened? You’re crying…”

“I am?” You wiped your face on your sleeve, and Sam shielded you from the other officers while you gathered yourself. He was right; your sleeve was wet. But you didn’t feel like you were crying. “I don’t… I don’t think these are my tears.”

Before Sam could say anything about that, Dean gave the signal to leave, and automatically you both twisted to follow him. One of the deputies was there when you turned around, and paused at the sight of Sam’s arm around your back.

“Is she okay?” He spoke from below his hat.

“First crime scene,” Sam winced, which may have been less strange if you’d even glanced at the car—and if there was blood or a body to see. He steered you away, and you followed mostly to keep up with the lie. Whatever anger and sadness you’d had disappeared. Those weren’t your feelings, and neither were these tears.

You regrouped with Dean away from the cops. He stood more rigidly than usual, hands in his jacket, and whatever he planned to snipe about seemed to fall off his train of thought.

His brows jumped up his forehead. “Woah,” Dean said, “You get something?”

“Dean,” Sam chastised, but you waved him off.

You were almost surprised at how scolding he sounded, especially when Dean was barely concealing that closed-mouth, wide-eyed face he made when he was worried. It reminded you of your mom when you got the flu as a kid, and how she could always tell you were going to throw up—she’d slide the trashbin over in the nick of time. Dean’s shoulders were tensed in that same way, like at any moment he was prepared to get the bin under you.

“I’m good. Really. I think she was… projecting onto me.” With two fingers, you revealed the paper you’d written on, “S’ definitely some kind of vengeful—”

Sam cleared his throat. In tandem, you and Dean followed his gaze to Sheriff Pierce and a pair of (real) FBI agents stalking onto the bridge. They paused just outside the ring of your little meeting, your figures glittering in the Sheriff’s dark sunglasses. He managed to reflect the midday sun generously into your eyes.

“Can I help you kids?”

“No, sir,” you smiled pleasantly, “we were just leaving.”

Schooling the rigid stress in your frame, you willed the agents to find you unsuspicious and casually held the paper out behind your back. Sam took it, and with all the ease in the world you led the boys back to the car. The agents brushed past you, and again you willed nothing to happen—

“Agent Mulder,” Dean nodded to them each in turn, “Agent Scully.”

Well. That was three Winchesters for you to scold, then.

_

JERICHO, CALIFORNIA.

Constance Welch. That was the name you’d “heebie-jeebied” (Dean’s words) out of the spirit on the bridge. After only a little bit of fighting, it was agreed that you’d do some research at the local library while the boys followed a lead on the missing owner of the car. Separating made you uneasy—who knows what trouble those two idiots would get into without you there to keep them alive.

The Impala turned a few heads rumbling down the main street of Jericho. You couldn’t enjoy it like you usually did, since Sam was still in hovering mode. He’d even gone so far as to join you in the backseat. You generously allowed it, even though he took up most of the legroom, leaving you a very generous corner to yourself. Jessica was a lucky girl.

“Really, Sam, I’m fine,” you insisted, but you could tell by the way his brow twitched that he was skeptical. “S’ something I’ve picked up in the last year. I’m gettin’ to the point where I can do that seance thing that my mom does, letting the ghosts speak through her… I don’t think Constance was speaking through me, per se—most vengeful spirits are too angry to get a word out like that, anyway.”

Sam gave a little shake of his head. The Impala rocked a bit as Dean rolled into a stop, and you let the rhythm of the movement soothe you, an elbow out the window. On the next turn the public library loomed into view haloed by the midday sun, so you reached across Sam for your handbag. He passed it to you with a concerned smile.

“Are you sure?” Sam drummed a hand on his knee, almost vibrating with suspicion. “The spirit took over your mind, n’ that’s usually not a good thing…”

“Oh, hush, Sammy, the girl can handle herself,” Dean chided. “Yeah, maybe some normal loser couldn’t handle a ghost in their brain, but in case you haven’t noticed, it’s kinda her thing. You’d know that if you—”

You cut Dean off with a firm glare through the rearview mirror. “Enough of that, c’mon. It’s not his fault.”

Sam wilted in your peripherals, and seeing it instead of hearing it in his voice made your gut feel slit hip-to-hip. It wasn’t anybody’s job to make you feel good about your powers. You had them and there was nothing you could do about it—no special ritual to magic them away, no benevolent higher power that could take the Gift from you. If anything, complaining about it was just wasting time. But that didn’t mean you wished it was easier.

And Sam… he’d tried every day to make it easier for you. You remembered how ruthlessly protective he’d been as a kid, even being a year younger than you. Supernatural anything made hunters uneasy, even the mediums they visited, so it wasn’t like you hadn’t taken a couple jabs about your Gift growing up. Fuckin’ weirdo psychic… Wonder what’d take to hunt somethin’ like you… Does iron hurt you, freak? Just a muttered insult from some random hunter would have Sam spitting with rage. It was worse as you grew, when you could sense their unease at the sight of the women in your family, like each and every one of you was a bad omen. Some of them doubted that you were fully human.

But often, they were scared straight and were thrown out of your mother’s antique parlor with bloody noses. Or worse.

You remembered being seventeen: a pair of newcomers had come to your mother for a reading. Now that your powers were mostly off their training wheels, she’d had you sit in, to follow her example and to do some reading yourself. The new hunters had been antsy the whole time. Itching, like they’d planned to do something, eyeing you in your scooby doo shirt and flared jeans like they’d glare down a vamp right before the kill.

You remembered how your mother’s face had lost all color the moment she reached over to read them… the tremble in her voice when she explained that they’d made a mistake, that two simple mediums weren’t monsters to hunt… You remembered the absolute savagery in Sam’s eyes when he’d come into the back room and saw you held at gunpoint. And above all else, you could still see Sam wailing on one of them on the floor until two of his fingers were broken, the wet, bloody thud of his fist into bone echoing inside your head even now.

He’d sat on the bottom of the steps to your apartment above the dark shop all night, a shotgun in his lap. On guard. You’d been too nerve-wracked to sleep, apologizing to him over and over again for his messed-up hand. John’ll kill me, you’d babbled, and sixteen-year-old Sam had smiled with blood on his lip and assured: S’ not your fault. Besides, he’s been trying to get me to practice aiming with my left hand for months…

You stared into Sam’s face now, the broken thud of his fist still clear in your mind. The jab from Dean about being gone had already cut into him a little, like it really was important to him that he was caught up with the ins and outs of your powers. Like he really cared. His expression opened, full of earnest understanding, like he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could his.

Dean coasted the Impala up to the curb, giving you time to hop out onto the sidewalk. Sam followed you out of the backseat to reclaim his seat up front with his brother, eyes still dark with vigilant concern, so you stopped him by the arm. When he was on his feet and in front of you, you dragged him low enough to kiss the side of his face.

“Psychic shit later?” you said, and prompted him with your pinkie.

Playing at being annoyed, Sam hooked your pinkies and you both shook on it. “Later,” he agreed with a beaming eye-roll and rounded the car.

You turned your eyes on Dean, gleaming with dangerous intention. He paled with recognition. Desperate, he grabbed the crank and put his whole body into rolling the window up, but Dean wasn’t fast enough—you captured him by the cheeks and smushed a noisy one into his hairline. He gagged, he choked, he coughed, and when you dropped him he melted and steamed like the Wicked Witch of the West.

“Kill me,” he said, flushed up to his ears. It was only fair—you had to give them equal treatment, or Dean would get jealous.

“I did. With cooties.”

You met eyes with Sam through the window, since Dean was mostly incoherent, and jerked a thumb over your shoulder at the cutesy small-town library. “Looking up this Constance chick will take me two hours, at most. First one to the motel buys?”

He gave the okay sign, and Dean drove off in such a hurry the Impala’s back wheels spit up dust. You watched them go, Dean still fake-hacking out the window like you’d given him influenza, until they’d turned the corner and disappeared. Boys.

You put on your warding rings as you melted into a crowd of pedestrians, just an inconspicuous girl arriving to research an unassuming name, with no strange intentions whatsoever.

_

Not more than an hour later, you were making the walk to the motel you and the boys had settled on. As much of a pleasure it was to dork around with Dean all day, you’d come to enjoy the quiet moments that were born out of splitting up. Unlike John, separating on a hunt was the last thing that Dean ever wanted to do, so these moments were few and far between. There was a beautiful sort of novelty in walking a strange new place alone. After a childhood spent shrouded under your mother’s roof, the world seemed even bigger than it should’ve been.

Your reflection floated in the displays of all sorts of little odds-and-ends stores, each one more fascinating than the last. There was a bookstore and a real estate office and a pretty little bakery, which you knew Dean would want to hit before you left. He kept a “pie-diary,” rating all the pie in the different places he went, and for some reason it expanded his palate so far beyond burgers and fries that he could talk about it for hours. You took note of it as you passed the beginning of a neighborhood, where a fenced-in backyard was spilling over with rusted classic cars. It was charming. For the millionth time in your life, you were glad most people didn’t know about the hunt—that way, you could still have your small towns and your pie diaries.

Black Velvet by Alannah Myles started chirping from your flip phone, so you flipped it open and put it to your ear. “Dean?”

“Headin’ over now,” he said, “We talked to the girlfriend of the victim, this guy named Troy—she was putting up missing posters downtown, n’ her friend told us about this local legend…”

You waited until a group of chatting girls walked past you to reply, kicking up dead leaves as you went. “Lemme guess? A woman found her children dead in the bathtub, and out of grief committed suicide on Centennial a few years ago. Now she haunts the bridge—”

“And whoever she hitchhikes with gets juped,” Dean finished. He sounded a little tense, and you got the feeling he and Sam had ripped each other up a bit in the, what? Ten seconds you’d been gone? Sigh. “You sense anything about my dad yet?”

“No. Were you and Sam fighting?” You dared to ask.

Dean blew a breath out of his nose, then immediately changed his tune. A smirk jumped into his voice. “...I’m only a couple roads over from the motel. Race you?”

You squinted down the street at the little beige and blue dot that was your destination. Out of superstition, you paused to listen for the Impala’s engine, but blissfully it didn’t come around the corner going sixty in a thirty.

“...You’re fuckin’ on, Winchester.”

_

You were gasping for breath so hard that your nose felt like it was gonna start bleeding, but it was worth it. The Impala pulled sourly into the lot, and with a slimy victory grin you watched Dean park just a few feet in front of you, hands on your hips. His eyes were dead cold with betrayal, like it was his god-given right as the eldest of the three of you to win all immature contests.

You had all of two seconds to bask in Dean’s loss before you were on your ass, on the concrete, with Sam and Dean’s worried faces blurring in your vision.

With a jolt, you sat up and blinked away your dizziness. Dean had you by both wrists, like you’d dropped right in front of him and they were the closest thing for him to reach. Sam looked significantly less calm. The brothers exchanged a look.

“Did you just faint cause you’re shit at running…?” Dean joked, and Sam filled in: “...Or was that a vision?”

You let Dean help you up onto your feet, took in a breath, then turned tail and booked it for the first floor of rooms. The buildings that made up the place were a baby blue color aged by the sun. A vintage sign at least three stories up promised vacancy and continental breakfast, and a rush came over you when you recognized its shadow under the sharp midday sun—the circle shape of it elongated onto a door almost exactly like it had in your vision. You noted a stain on the wall. This was it; this was the room your vision had shown you.

“Here,” you said, still shuddering for breath, now bent up with your hands on your knees. “Tuh—ten,” you jabbed the door number, “John was here.”

The boys didn’t even have to look at each other. Sam took a knee and rolled out his lock-picking kit, and with the same fluidity, Dean posted up against the wall and used the width of his too-big jacket to cover him. It only took Sam a moment to get it open, but immediately you were swallowed by the memory of what you’d seen: John drawing some kind of huge pentagram over the bed, every inch of the floor, wall, and tables laden with papers. John at this door, eyes dark with resolution. John roaring out of the parking lot in a hurry.

Sam took Dean’s shoulder and yanked him inside, and you bumbled in after them. It was exactly as John had left it in your vision. The normal, rustic-style hotel room had been massacred into a hunter’s den. Books poured from every surface, the unmade bed was hosting an open trunk of weaponry and a hazardous materials box, and any leftover space was used for warding purposes. John had an authentic dreamcatcher above the headboard and some kind of massive sigil on the ceiling… No wonder the do not disturb sign was still on the door handle—the cleaning lady would’ve shit herself.

“Woah…” Sam muttered.

The two paused by the closed door like John would come storming out from a crevice at any second, their shoulders stiff and ears perked. When Sam’s voice didn’t summon him, they deflated, and crept deeper into the room to investigate. You hung back to let them take the lead. Though you could sort through the clues just as well as they could, the dust hung in the air like it would in a mausoleum, and you certainly weren’t family.

Dean was thankful to get any trail he could, however, and perked up, giving the back of your head a rub as he floated over to the bedside table. “Atta’ girl,” he said, “gettin’ faster and faster every day.”

“Not fast enough,” you said, giving the empty room a dispirited once-over. “Who knows how long ago he left. Your dad hasn’t been here in days.”

To confirm, Dean flicked on the bedside lamp and gave the lopsided burger there a sniff. “Guh,” he recoiled, “no kidding.”

Sam was already stepping across the floor like he was navigating a laser grid. He stooped to finger the salt circle around the bed, checking it for breaks, and rose with pressed brows. “Salt, cats-eye shells...he was worried. Trying to keep something from coming in.”

There was a brief lull in the conversation where the connotations of that hung over you. The boys had never told you about the thing that’d killed their mother outright—your mom had explained their history to you, leaving the rest to be filled in by Dean’s haunted silences and Sam’s what-ifs. We are so lucky that we were in this from the start, your mother had said to you, some of us don’t have that luxury. Some of us are dragged into the hunt and can’t escape.

You hoped that the “something” John was chasing (or escaping) was easy to kill.

“What have you got here?” Sam said.

You followed his eye to Dean, who was examining a line-up of newspaper articles and missing posters pinned to the wall across from John’s bed. “Centennial Highway victims,” he said.

The names of several men were labeled all in John’s handwriting, and connected by long strips of paper with quotes or red string. Some overlapped each other in circles on the wall. To a civilian, it looked like the ravings of a mad-man. But to you… You hated John, but you had to admit that Sam and Dean had to have learned their prowess from somewhere.

“I don't get it. I mean, different men, different jobs, ages, ethnicities…” Dean thought to the room. He tilted his head, listing his weight to one side and catching a square of golden light on his jaw. “There's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?”

You drifted behind his shoulder to get your own look. “On the bridge, when I looked over the railing… I felt ice cold, like a bucket of water had been dumped over my head. Then all at once I could’ve sworn you’d… you’d…”

Dean turned his gaze on you, and of course when you were already at a loss for words the light hit his eyes just right and made them a sort of crystal green. There was a thought in your head about green apple candy in sunlight and then Dean was tilting closer, brows raised expectantly. “...Yeah?”

“This is gonna sound weird,” you winced.

Sam gestured generously at the hotel room you were in, which was chock-full of occult items and plastered all over with demonic symbols and supernatural lore. “S’ okay,” he chuckled dryly, “We are well past that.”

“I could’ve sworn for a second that… Ugh. That Dean had cheated on me?” You anxiously twisted your carnelian ring around your finger and spat out the words. “I knew in my right mind that I’d rather eat my boot than date him,” (“Thanks.”) “...but when it hit me I was overwhelmed with this mind-numbing rage. Almost throttled Sam, it was so powerful. Constance was putting all her emotions on me, that’s for sure.”

Dean’s grin was ear-to-ear. “I cheated on you,” he echoed, and you immediately leaned forward and pinched him on the arm. “Ow!” Dean whined, “Jesus, how old are you?”

Across the room, Sam’s nose was a couple inches from a spray of articles on the wall. One of them in particular had caught his eye, and when he honed in on it, his expression cleared of all doubt. The sound of everything clicking together in Sam’s brain was so loud you turned to him to get the verdict.

“That’s what the link is. Adultery,” he breathed, “and look here—Dad figured it out too.”

Sam flicked on a desk lamp to get a better view, lighting up the underside of his face with a handsome orange glow. You followed his eye to the article you’d found on Constance at the library. “That’s the one!” You read John’s label for the two of them: “She’s a… woman in white?”

Dean shot the wall of men a shit-eating grin. “You sly dogs.”

At your confused look, Sam filled in: “They’re female spirits associated with tragedy. Stuff like accidental death, murder, or suicide, but mostly some kind of betrayal by a husband or a fiancé.”

“That explains what I felt,” you sighed. “Man, it’s been so long since we’d hunted one of these, I’d almost forgotten. Had to be… what,” you shrugged at Sam, “my third or fourth hunt ever?”

“Yeah…” You could hear the smile growing on Dean’s face. He snapped his fingers, trying to recall, “yeah, that chick in Sedona. I got heatstroke from being out in the desert all day.”

You rocked back your head and groaned at the mere memory, playing up your annoyance for them, “I had to shove a bag of ice down his pants. And both armpits. Both! He’d sweat off all his deodorant, Sam! Fuckin’ unbearable. Never met anybody half as stubborn. Or smelly.”

Dean spun around, spread his arms to the room, and bowed at the waist like a humble prince. “What can I say? I’m a ladies' man.”

You were glad that, at least on the surface level, that was a happy memory for Dean. The two of you and John had been out in the desert all day, searching for where your woman in white had been buried, John barking at you to force something out of your gift and you barking at Dean to go back to the motel. You still carried the vivid image of his neck shining red in the high noon sun, the back of his shirt dark with sweat as he staggered along. John was no help in trying to convince Dean to take a break. After you’d snarled at him with an impressive amount of disgust for a girl your age, John had ordered you—and a swaying, incoherent Dean—back to the motel. Dean must’ve been too comatose to remember that part, but at least he remembered the better half: laying in your lap on the motel bed, while you dipped your hands in ice water and ran them through his hair. You’d put on Terminator 2 for him and fed him cold ice cream cake, mind flushed with unchecked fantasies of loading him into the Impala and driving as far away as you could.

You hadn’t even had your license, but the way Dean had been prepared to chug on for another four hours if you hadn’t tormented John into sending you back… and John would’ve let him…

Now, Dean swung around to turn off one of the lamps, giving you a glimpse at the spray of freckles on the back of his neck. You looked guiltily away from the result of the sunburn. “All right,” he said, “so if we're dealing with a woman in white, Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it.”

Sam was still looking at the article. “She might have another weakness.”

“Or something else keeping her here,” you added, carefully picking at the emotions you’d felt on the bridge. They seemed separate from you, now, less like something you’d felt and more like the lingering emotions of an argument you’d resolved or a weird movie you’d watched.

“Well, Dad would wanna make sure.” Dean started to pry off his jacket, the buttons on the collar jingling against each other, “He’d dig her up. It say where she’s buried?”

You shook your head. “No. Or if she was cremated.”

“If I were Dad, though, I'd go ask her husband.” Sam tapped the article, drawing your eye to a picture of Joseph Welch. Whatever lingered from the spirit’s tap into your mind made your stomach clench just seeing his face. “If he’s still alive. This article’s from 1981.”

Dean scratched his chin. “All right. Why don't you, uh, see if you can find an address, and I’ll go pick up some food.”

The promise of lunch was so alluring that you and Sam groaned in mutual starvation, and Dean went out of the room blowing kisses and humble of courses, in typical Queen of England fashion. You already had half an order formulated via text by the time the door shut. It was a good thing he’d escaped on time too, because Sam’s stomach was making the room shudder.

“Could you go grab us a room?” Sam asked, rubbing his stomach, “Use the cash Dean gave me. I think I’m gonna…”

He stopped. Concerned, you rotated carefully around the salt circle on the floor to join him by the mirror on the wall. At first you thought the rosary hanging from it had grabbed his attention, but the sag to his shoulders indicated the small picture stuck in the frame instead. Sam plucked it free, holding it in one shaking hand and sinking a few inches into the floor.

You gave him a moment, then braced his trembling wrist with a squeeze, teasing. “I wonder who those two cute little rascals are.”

In the photo (which must’ve been more than ten years old), John, Dean and Sam were sitting on the hood of the Impala, the youngest in his father’s lap and grinning that toothy grin that you hadn’t seen Sam wear in years. Dean wasn’t trying to look cool or sly; he just leaned in with his cheek on John’s jacket, freckled and just… tiny. So tiny. You could hardly believe any of you had been that young.

“I think your mom took this picture,” Sam murmured. He stuffed it into his jacket, and you didn’t comment on it or the hollow look on his face.

“I have whole bins of photo albums back home, brimming with pictures like that…” You smiled to yourself. “I haven’t looked through them in forever. Sometime, you should bring Jess up for the weekend and I can embarrass you with all the cute photos of us as kids.”

Sam tilted back his head, giggling, “Maybe, yeah. I dunno if Jess needs any more ammo against me. And some of them, uh, might be incriminating…”

You’re sure he means the random occult objects and the like caught in the background, but you can’t help but bump your hip against his and snort, “Oh, I agree. Those pictures of you and Dean dressed up as Batman and Robin are so adorable, they’re illegal.”

Now that he’s softened up a bit, you’re tempted to ask him what he and Dean had argued about earlier. For Sam, that wouldn’t be an out-of-line question to ask, and if you did then he’d likely give you at least the short answer. But the more you learn about John’s reasons for leaving… the longer you’re realizing this trip is going to take. The longest Dean could usually stand you was a month, then you toed the line a little far with your Gift and he’d drop you off to take a hunt by himself. It was normal for people in close quarters to get itchy after a while, but the armor Dean would slowly build up when you’d finished his sentences one too many times could hurt. It wasn't his fault or yours—Dean was protective of his privacy, and the boys always softened you so much you forgot about stifling your Gift altogether, the way you did with your mom. You shouldn't have to hide and Dean shouldn't have to have someone glimpsing his thoughts. Still… it hurt more than it should.

You don’t know what it’d do to you, if Sam was the one needing a break from you that way. Sometimes you couldn’t help your Gift. But if you wanted to last more than three weeks with the boys, you would need to learn how. Maybe it’d be best to use it only for the hunt, and give Dean and Sam some room to get used to each other again. Yeah. That sounded workable.

Like he could sense you resolving to stay out of things, Sam hefted up the trunk on John's bed and made room for the two of you to sit. “But hey, before then, we've got a little time…” He plopped down. “Catch me up on your psychic stuff?”

You winced when he moved John's trunk, but his inviting, careful smile made the room feel less like a mausoleum that shouldn’t be disturbed. Careful not to break the salt line on the carpet, you took the spot next to him and tried to think.

“You don't talk about it much over the phone,” Sam commented.

“It makes it seem silly, I guess,” you rubbed your palms down your knees. You tried not to talk about hunting on the phone with him too, because someone could overhear and talking about hunting usually meant talking about Dean. It surprised you that they were already on the road to making up—but then again, they’d been attached at the hip for so long… “And I'd rather tell you in person. It's… hard to explain.”

“Well, here I am, live and in person,” Sam folded his hands in his lap, giving your shoulder a playful nudge and you a shy smile. “Hit me.”

Suddenly having your powers under the spotlight like this made you totally blank. Searching for a place to start, you asked him, “...What do you remember my Gift being like?”

Sam tilted his head, bangs waving to one side with the direction of his thoughts. He played with the bracelet on his wrist. “You could pick up… vibes, I guess, is the word I'm looking for. Sometimes you saw apparitions when we went hunting. From the start you could touch people and see things—their memories, or their feelings and thoughts.”

And if you hadn't been raised with him, you would've never noticed how hard he was playing subtle, adding, “And dreams. You had dreams of things… happening.”

Okay. Pushing that weird reaction into the back of your mind for later, you abandoned the bed and immediately started to pace. “Damn—well, a month or two after you… left, everything started... doubling. It wasn't triggered by a hunt or anything, I was just at home, n’ Dean was over making dinner. Those awesome fuckin’ chili bowls he makes—anyway, I went to bed and Dean couldn't wake me up the next day. We were halfway to the hospital when I woke up in the car, completely fine, and after that my Gift was… bigger. Broader.”

Sam's frown made his entire face look jagged and worn. “Dean never told me about that.”

“I mean, it was nothing. I wasn't hurt, there wasn't any lasting damage…” You shrugged, gut dropping into your toes. Shit. He looked hurt you hadn't called. “You know if it was anything serious I would come out of a coma to make Dean get you, right? But it wasn't serious. He took me to my mom's, and she said that I barely felt different. My powers had just… matured really fast.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, and stared into the middle distance in thought. “Psychic puberty?”

You stopped putting a trench in the floor and set your hands on your hips. “I dunno. Part two?”

For a long moment, Sam drew in a cavernous breath and stared through the wallpaper. You deflated a little. This seemed like Sam’s normal heavy, thought-filled pauses, just heavier. “I mean, when we were kids, it wasn’t exactly that. You just… had it. You used to faint, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s normal,” you said, and Sam shot you a look that made you add, “—for us. My mom fainted when her powers were developing, and so did my Grandma before that. But neither of them ever had a black-out episode like mine.”

Sam had moved into Stage Three of Deep Sam Thinking, which involved a hand on his chin and a hard squint. He rubbed his jaw, and you were struck by the fact that he was here, next to you, after two years of only his voice. Whatever had brought on the nostalgia urged you to sit next to him again, and Sam shuffled back so it was easier for him to look at you.

“But that’s just when I started noticing things—” you said, just as Sam built up the courage to ask, “Did you dream about anything?”

You stared at him. He stared at you. “During my episode? Yeah, how’d you know?”

Sam didn’t answer your question. “What did you dream about?”

“Oh,” you balked, and any attempts to hide it were useless against him—Sam’s eyes were big and soulful, like your response to his interrogation would make or break him. That kind of hyper-focus from him made tougher hunters than you melt. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. A nightmare or some kind of vision. But I don’t really remember it.”

Sam exhaled through his nose, realizing you were getting suspicious of him. “Sorry,” he ran a hand through his hair, eyes creasing with apology, “I interrupted you. That was just the start?”

You put a hand on the back of his arm, like it would be possible to coax out whatever he was thinking with a little affection. Then you remembered: you already had. Sam had shown you before, the moment you’d reunited, and the memory of just what he’d been worried about rattled through your skeleton like a cold wind.

“Your nightmares,” you sat up, holding tighter to him, “you’ve been having nightmares too. About—?”

The hand you had on his arm was covered by Sam’s, which was twice as big and twice as warm. It came with twice as much warning, too. Drop it. “I’m okay. Just, uh, just a stupid thought. Your blackout was just the start of everything, you said?”

You blinked at him, and Sam did an excellent impression of Dean avoiding the subject. Two years apart had done nothing to their similarities, then. You knew it would take nuclear warfare, an apocalypse, and the weight of Mount Rushmore to make Sam even consider not emulating his big brother. If it hadn’t been two years and you weren’t a little scared of where the boundary line stood, you might have pushed it.

But Sam looked so anxious. You let it go.

“Yeah,” you swallowed, “Yeah. That happened, and then I could do so much more. Everything that my mom had to struggle for and learn, I stumbled on overnight. The things she can do: reading people without touching them, getting visions when she’s awake, n-not always fainting when she gets them… I can just do them now. This never happened to her, my grandma, or anybody else. A-and I don’t know why.”

Sam’s brows ticked up with concern, all gooey and understanding. It was awful, how good he was at throwing his own feelings under the rug and stomping right over it for others. “I don’t know about you, but this doesn’t necessarily sound like a bad thing. You’re not fainting anymore, you’re getting stronger… This just means you’ll be able to protect yourself more.”

“And other people,” you added. That must’ve been your impression of Dean, because Sam scoffed through his nose the way he did when Dean said something too in character. You were all caricatures of each other, sometimes. “I dunno. I’m just… I don’t like what this could mean, me falling out of pattern…”

“Whatever it is,” Sam’s hand closed on top of yours, “we’ll figure it out together, okay? You don’t have to worry.”

Your heart picked up like a starting gun had fired, taking off on racing hooves too fast for you to catch. Just as quickly as it’d pitched up, it slowed in realization. Sam still had his interview. This promise, if it lived past this weekend, would be a long-distance one. As soon as disappointment starts to settle in your stomach, you remind yourself of all the little things you imagined Sam doing in the last two years: studying in the library and falling asleep in his coffee, staying up late with Jess to watch Criminal Minds, floating through all of his classes, in his element. He could be safe. Far away from here, but safe. How long had you been wishing that for him, anyway?

Sam followed you down to the front desk, where you got the three of you a room with two queens. It was easy for him to find Welch’s address, so Sam spent a few minutes listening to Jessica’s messages from the night before and making one of his own, guest-starring you. He was so bubbly just thinking about her. You’d seen plenty of the boys’ dates come and go, but Sam had always been a little too nervous to get too invested. Even if it was only once or twice, you’d kill to meet Jess—she seemed to represent everything that had changed about Sam.

Dean shouldered open the door just a minute later, towing some takeout bags and bringing with him a chilled swell of fall air. He was doing an impressive balancing act, eating a burger as he walked, cradling your food and Sam’s, while fighting to shrug off one of the sleeves of his coat. You were already on your feet to relieve him before the door was fully shut.

“Find it?” He asked, still chewing. You dropped the plastic bag on one of the beds as Sam rattled off the address. “Good! I’m poppin’ in the shower, then we can head out,” Dean scooped up his open tray bridal-style, “n’ your coming with me, pretty girl.”

Your brain stalled, heat crawling up your neck—until you saw the intimate moment Dean and his burger were having. The words you planned to say fell right out of your mouth, and thankfully, Sam picked them up for you: “Hey, man, ____ was thinking that Joseph might be a little skittish, by the looks of his address—maybe he doesn’t need three ‘reporters’ hounding him. She and I can leave to talk to him now, and meet up with you later about what we find?”

Halfway through his burger already, Dean winked. “Sounds like a plan. M’ gonna check Dad’s room, see if there’s anything in there I missed. You two crazy kids be careful.”

“Who you calling kids?”

_

In slow motion, you and Sam fell into the front seats of the car and shut your doors in unison. A thoughtful silence filled the Impala. The fields outside Joseph Welch’s house were alive with fizzing cicadas and other chirping bugs, the tall, blonde grass swaying in the wind. It was sunset now, so the front windshield was a whiskey color in the light. Evenings like this brought you back to when you’d walk the woods around Bobby’s house with the boys, eating off the blackberry bushes and throwing them at each other. Remembering something so innocent at a time like this made your chest swell with guilt.

“You didn’t have to go so hard on him,” you murmured, trying to be playful.

Sam’s version of hard was very different from Dean’s, who you were used to playing alongside as the good cop. However, you realized now that you’d never seen Sam work a suspect before, and like everything else, he was unfortunately good at it.

“I needed to get a reaction out of him, see if he was lying about his and Constance’s perfect marriage.” Sam frowned to one side like he wasn’t all that pleased about it either. He jammed the key in the ignition and shot you a look, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged a shoulder and ran your hands down your pant legs. “Yeah. Just, some jobs get to you more than others. Can you even imagine? Being so heartbroken that you drown your own children?”

Sam put the car in reverse, frowning into his dimples. “No, I don’t think I can… Just think of it this way: soon, Constance will be put to rest and everyone can finally move on from what’s happened. All of this will be over, n’ everyone will be safe.”

You couldn’t conjure anything to say to that, so you accepted it with a nod and dissolved into your thoughts. It was natural at this point to roll down your window and lean out to clear your head with a little breeze therapy. The sunset wouldn’t last for long, so you tried to enjoy it to smooth yourself over for what was ahead. Joseph Welch had cheated on his wife, and his wife had in turn killed their children and herself for what had happened. She was, without a doubt, a woman in white, which meant that you’d have to salt and burn her. You didn’t always get so mushy on a hunt; maybe it was Sam’s influence.

Once you were off the back-road that led to Joseph’s property, Sam slid his cell out of his coat and shook his head, brow worried. “I just don’t understand why Dad hadn’t salt-n-burned her. If he was here, n’ he’d talked to Joseph, then the first thing he would’ve done was take care of the body.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe that’s not what she’s attached to,” you offered, one elbow out the open window. “Or he could’ve skipped town halfway through, right where we’ve found ourselves. Did Dean get anything?”

Sam gave his phone to you. “Can you check for a text?”

You blinked slowly at him, forgetting for a moment which brother you were talking to, and accepted the phone with a vicious smile. “Of course Sam Winchester doesn’t text and drive. You’re adorably responsible, you know that?”

Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes, pouting. “What? It’s dangerous,” he said, and you knew instantly by the tone of his voice that he hadn’t been marked off once on his driver’s test. “Don’t look at me like that, ____. Just because I do monster-dangerous doesn’t mean I do driving-dangerous.”

You barely subdued the cheek-aching smile that little line gave you as you checked his messages. “No text from Dean, Mr. Driver’s Ed.”

Just to prove how very cool and very non-responsible he was, Sam tipped his head to check the rear-view, then the road ahead, and once it was clear he gave the entire car a very bold swivel in and out of your lane. Once his stunt show was over, he put on a smooth face and waited for you to be impressed.

“Yeah, yeah, you Winchester men are all born-again street racers,” you snorted, patting Sam’s knee, “M’ calling Dean and telling him how wild you’re getting with his car.”

You heard Sam mutter something like, I ain’t scared a’ him, but the motor was loud and the nearly-dead sunset was playing on his profile like it only did in the movies, so you forgot all about it. When Dean picked up your call, you stalled for a moment on the line.

“Sam?” He questioned.

“S’ me, he’s driving,” you spoke. “We talked to Welch—just like we thought, Constance is a woman in white. Their story follows the normal bits of the legend. He said she was buried behind their old house, so that’s where your Dad must’ve gone. Don’t know why he didn’t dig her up, though.”

“Cause he booked it,” Dean snapped. At that, you turned on speakerphone and moved it between the two of you to listen. “Dad did leave Jericho, just like your vision-crap said. And I know where to.”

You glanced worriedly at Sam, who sighed through his nose. “Really? How do you know?”

There was a subtle smack on the other end of the line, then the familiar sound of rifling papers. Dean scoffed, “I found his journal in the motel room.”

Plenty of hunters you knew kept journals, all for the same reasons: necessity, practicality, and then sentiment. Back when all of you had been fighting evil in corsets and buckle shoes, information—like how to kill a werewolf or the signs of demonic possession—was not commonplace. And in a world where your body had to be burned and no literal piece of you could remain on this planet, a hunter’s journal was her will, her body, and her legacy. It was how your generation of hunters had any idea how to do shit. The information had been noted by one perceptive hunter back in ancient times, then a thousand years later dug up by you or Dean or Sam researching on a hunt.

Along with being the entirety of a hunter’s own personal legacy, journals contributed to the greater history of hunting as a being. In simple terms, beyond being resourceful, it was an old hunter tradition—and doing a job as lonely as this one would make anyone want to be a part of something bigger. Hunting often felt like swimming an ocean alone, so participating in an old practice was a reminder that you weren’t alone. All of you were a piece of a community.

You knew that John didn’t care much about the whole brotherhood thing, since he rarely hunted with others. Still, the significance wasn’t lost on you. A hunter’s journal was his body, his legacy. And he’d passed that body, by force or willingly, onto his sons.

“Holy shit,” you said, just as Sam’s shoulders sank. He muttered, “He never goes anywhere without that thing.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, well, he did this time.”

You’d only seen a few select pages of John’s journal, but you suspected it was probably his fifth or sixth, since twenty or so years of hunting definitely filled up more than one book. He’d probably gotten the first one from an older hunter, also per tradition. You’d received yours as a gift from your mom after your first hunt. John had done the same with his boys, and Bobby had made special leather-bound ones for you, Sam, and Dean when you filled up your firsts. The antique shop had a mini-library of them on display, but not for sale, a dozen legacies from people you’d never known. Dean had you convinced to this day that every single one was haunted.

To get—to earn one of those journals was the mark of a real hunter, so you and Dean had been geeking about it long before your first hunts. You’d cleared out the entire sticker bin at the record store for the cover of his book, which was written in an unreadable Hill cipher (and his already eligible handwriting). If the Black Sabbath and AC/DC logos didn’t ward civilian readers away, then the inner contents certainly would. Sam’s was inviting by comparison. Everything was written in his perfectly printed script, on lined paper, with annotated, color-coordinated sticky notes you’d bought him yourself. You’d never seen Sam as enthusiastic about hunting as he’d been writing in that thing. In turn, you’d filled your own notebook with colorful glitter pen (from Dean) and a planetary bookmark (from Sam).

Thinking about John’s journal made you realize that, somewhere down the line, you’d stopped writing in yours. In fact, your current journal was probably shoved in your sock drawer. Sam had definitely dropped his somewhere on the way to Stanford. Dean hadn’t touched his in a while, either. It made your chest ache with a curious wistfulness. You knew your body as it was now would never be buried with the Winchesters, but maybe your journal would be in between Sam and Dean’s on an archive shelf someday. That didn’t sound half bad.

“What does it say?” Sam asked, and you blinked your way out of your thoughts.

“Ah, the same old ex-Marine crap, when he wants to let us know where he's going,” Dean grouched, “Coordinates, I think.”

Your mouth became a flat line. The sky was dark now, and Sam flicked on the headlights as you asked, “Where to?”

Dean let out a long, frustrated sigh. You could imagine him bent over the table back at the motel, scratching his head and running a careful hand over his father’s words. “...I'm not sure yet.”

The phrase made you clam up. Feeling suddenly cold, you started cranking the window shut and turned on the heat. The airflow didn’t start. You tried it again, but the damn car was messing with you.

“I don't understand,” Sam scowled. He jerked into the next turn a little harsher than usual, coasting you fast around a wide curve in the forest. Despite how fast you were going, the wind seemed to go silent. “I mean, what could be so important that Dad would just skip out in the middle of a job? Dean, what the hell is going on?”

Sam’s knuckles on the wheel turned white. You studied it, and as the entire dash began to double and sway in your vision, you grabbed the edge of the bench with a free hand. A picture flashed in your mind.

“Sam! The road!”

He jammed the brake. The figure on the blacktop didn’t move. For a breathless, soundless moment, the two of you floated off your seats as the car’s momentum hurtled you forward, straining against the lap belts and covering your faces with your arms—you could hear the tires squeal—smell the rubber burning—the figure was bigger and bigger in the headlights—

The car skid right through her.

You came to a brutal stop, and the Impala heaved forward and then settled back on its wheels. Sam’s arm thudded into your chest, pinning you to your seat instead of letting you hit the dash. His phone had spiraled somewhere by your feet. You had a fistful of his shirt in your nearest hand, like you could physically pull him back into safety. Dean was screaming on the other end of the phone. The two of you startled back to life at the same time, gasping for breath and sharing a wild-eyed look—

Constance Welch was in the backseat.

“Take me home.”

_

The sweet, picturesque woman captured in the newspaper was gone.

Constance’s face was now gaunt and gray, when it wasn’t whirling and flickering the harder you tried to focus on it. Staring at her face for too long put that dragging feeling in your gut, like you were hanging over the edge of an endless fall, and Constance would be there to push you over. It didn’t feel right to call her by her old name, either. She was someone else now. Something else.

“Take me home!” She said again. Her voice punctured the heavy silence like it was coming from the inside of your mind.

Sam found his voice, gasping, “No.”

Her glare turned your blood to ice. All at once, the doors locked with a resounding chk, chk, chk, chk, sealing you and Sam inside. The air turned brittle and cold. You and Sam lurched for the doors anyway, trying to pry them open, but it was no use—

The Impala’s gas pedal depressed, and the wheels stampeded ahead.

When Dean had first gotten the car for his eighteenth birthday, he’d sworn up and down that he’d treat her carefully, and then immediately took you out for a joyride. You remembered how different the car had felt, even if the boys had grown up in it; now that it was Dean’s car, you were twice as excited to see it pull up to your house. He’d driven until you had five miles of straight road between you and the rest of the world. Your heart still fluttered at the memory of him taking your hand, his face close enough to scratch his stubble on your temple, and the rumble of his voice as he told you to count to ten. He’d gunned it. Through shrieking laughter you’d counted, and at ten you were whipping down the road at a hundred miles an hour.

This felt faster than that.

The Impala flew off its tires, the power of the engine vibrating through the entire car. Sam scrambled to get a hold of the wheel as you hurtled toward a turn, but it was whirling back and forth so fast that he recoiled. He hissed at the new scrapes on his hand. Between yelling, gripping your seatbelt for dear life, gripping Sam for dear life, and trying to keep your head from slamming into something, you watched Constance’s form in the backseat vanish.

You whipped to look at Sam, and he glanced at you, the fabric of your furthest shoulder fisted in his hand like that alone could save you in a crash. You could feel the panic in his body turn his grip to steel.

“The house!” You screamed over the roar of the car, “She’s taking us to where she’s buried!”

_

You almost wanted the drive to last longer—maybe it would give Dean more time to reach you.

Even if he couldn’t, you’d rip her to shreds to protect Sam. You could feel your blood pumping more than anything else, could feel the hot, unpiloted rage Constance had given you before overclocking your mind. Her tears were pouring out of your eyes so hard it felt like your skull was going to explode. The Impala suddenly hurled to the side and thundered fast over a thicket of bushes, flattening them until the overgrown path she’d taken you to looked more like it would’ve years ago. All you could see through the windshield was a wild spasm of snapping branches and twigs, then the shape of a house loomed out in front of the sky.

As sharp as a gunshot, the Impala surged in front of the house and jammed itself to a stop. The engine shut off, and the headlights went with it.

You and Sam could finally hear your strangled breathing again, and your eyes fixated on the steam climbing fast out from under the bonnet, trying to focus. Salt. Iron. Was Sam okay? How close was Dean?

You hate him, Constance’s voice flushed through your mind. Kill him, she begged. He did this to you, he lied to you, she urged.

And for a moment it worked. The hand cupping Sam’s arm over your chest turned into nails, pressing hard into his skin—he cried out, and with a shock you dropped the grip. I hurt him! The realization surged oily guilt through your body, and the overpowering emotion, the complete impossibility of you ever hurting Sam, forced Constance to unshackle the hold she had on your mind.

“Don’t you touch her!” He snarled, which was right when Constance shattered the passenger’s side window with your face.

You came to only a few seconds later, your vision filled with bubbling, constellating black dots. It was so dark without the headlights that you couldn’t see either way. But you could hear Sam roaring with pain, and without thinking, powered by instinct and rage, you jammed your foot under the glove box, hooked the crowbar hidden there up into your hands, and batted Constance into a cloud of smoke. You were only sure it had iron in it once it was over, thanking whoever was out there that Dean was consistent.

An instant later she was in the backseat, and you were swinging again before you could double-check. The faceful of deathly smoke that came afterward confirmed it.

“Come get some, fucker!”

You whirled around, kneeling on the seat and crazed with adrenaline, catching her going for Sam again, and again, whenever she appeared, and then a sluggish arm hauled you into the shield of Sam’s bloody chest—

“I’m taking you home,” he sneered, and the Impala kicked forward.

You woke up pinned between the wheel and Sam’s ribs, the crowbar clutched still in your sweaty grip. The air reeked of rotten wood, metal, and sawdust, which you hacked up, sputtering and coughing as you dragged yourself off Sam as best you could. You managed to get onto your knees, stabilizing yourself with one hand and trying not to sway. Sam’s seat was pushed back. You blinked at him in the dark, coughing wetly. There may have been bits of glass in your face, but Sam...

His hoodie was open. He was bleeding. A sudden cold flushed down your spine—Constance, she was here still, you needed to protect Sam—

The passenger’s side door wrenched open, spraying broken glass across the seat. Every muscle in your body tensed, and on instinct, your grip tightened on your weapon and you blindly swung behind you, snarling like an animal.

“Jesus!” Dean yelled. His hands were raised in surrender, “It’s me, s’ me! You’re okay, I’ve got you—c’mere, we’ve gotta get Sam out—”

The familiar image of Dean, shaken and opening his arms to you, ripped you back to the present. You instantly flew into his hold, letting him haphazardly pull you from the wreckage with your hands scrambling across the back of his jacket. You could care less how he'd gotten here, whether he'd stolen a car or fuckin' ran, blinded by adrenaline and relief at the sight of his face. The sight of yours made him wince. Constance introducing you the window must've looked worse than it felt. He propped you against the side of the car, cooing reassurances, and once he was sure his pretty face wasn’t going to be rearranged, trusted you with the crowbar again.

Standing there as he gave Sam a hand out, you clutched the iron like a bat and scanned the room. The Impala had shoved the ragged dining room into the kitchen of the first floor, which now had an open floor plan. Pieces of fence, porch railing and the front door hung on the hood of the car. The only thing that had survived the house’s decay and Sam’s greeting were the stairs.

At the base of them, more solid than you’d ever seen her, was Constance.

There was a heavy photograph in her hands, and her back was turned to you. Immediately, you pushed off the car, stormed forward and heaved the iron over your head. A hand on your arm reeled you back.

“Wait,” Sam warned. His weight was almost entirely on Dean’s arm, but he was okay. Both of them were. You felt the raw muscles in your hands relax, almost dropping your weapon in the process.

Constance looked up at the word. In the swirling void of her face you could almost make out something that surprised you. Beside the burning, world-shattering rage and all-consuming grief that she’d been showing you for the last day, there was something new which Sam had recognized: fear.

She threw down the portrait with silent disdain, and the second it shattered a bureau flew away from the wall and pinned you to the too-hot bonnet of the Impala. Dean and Sam were forced apart as the bureau crammed you in between them, wedging the heavy wood against your hips and burning the bases of your spines on the steaming car. You screamed as the boys hollered in pain, which began a desperate but short-lived struggle to break free.

Constance’s figure closed in, her image stuttering and doubling like a technical glitch. This close, you watched the human piece of her melt away, and then she looked indescribable—like grief, like loss, like malice, like regret. She was featureless. Bodiless.

Her hand raised, reaching. Then, like a fire being lit, the sconces in the stairwell began to flicker.

Constance turned to meet them, slowly, hauntingly, written all over with fear. There was the squeak of a faucet turning, and you paused your struggle at the sound of flowing water. Dean reached across you to fist Sam’s shoulder, bracing you close to him. Each of you forgot how to breathe.

Ushered forward, by her own will or something stronger, Constance turned to face the glow billowing from the top of the steps. From here, you could only make out the shadows of their stringy wet hair and soaked clothes. Constance’s face, her human face, explained everything else. You flinched; the two children were suddenly behind her, and before Constance could take them in, apologize, or speak for what she’d done, a ferocious white light struck the room, expanding out with the pressure of a sonic boom. A scream ripped so viciously through the air that your ears rung.

It cleared. The bureau tipped back and crashed to the floor. Everything went dark, but heat glowed beneath your eyelids from the sudden burst of light.

You wobbled on your feet. Somewhere along the way your crowbar had thudded aside, but your first instinct wasn’t to reach for it. Instead, your hand felt around until it was closed around Dean’s sleeve, and the other cupped the top of Sam’s back. It took a full minute for the pins-and-needles feeling to begin to pass, but you knew you’d be feeling it for several days afterwards. You imagined it was how all spirits felt, intangible yet overloaded with sensation.

“Holy shit,” you spoke for the three of you.

Dean was working his jaw and blinking furiously, no doubt trying to force some feeling back into it. He peeled his boots off the floor and teetered around to Sam’s other side, tilting one way to peer up the steps. “So this is where she drowned her kids…”

Sam did his best to nod, but it looked more like he was dipping in and out of consciousness. “That's why she could never go home. She was too scared to face them.”

Seeing as it’d been two years since Sam had been in the game, you felt your heart fill with quiet pride and terrible pain. None of you could ever escape this. Dean, of course, held a different opinion, and dipped to support Sam’s other shoulder with a blazing smile. “You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy.”

“I just drove,” Sam mumbled, smiling dryly, “____ was the one taking a swing at Casper half-conscious.”

“You animal,” Dean’s eyes gleamed up at you in the dark, “Almost took my teeth out with that thing. Remind me not to mess with you, Mean Swing.”

You shrugged a shoulder, warmed all over with relief, love, and probably a little blood. “I’m useful beyond being eye-candy and team morale, y'know,” you smiled, and the boys dropped their heads to snicker.

Team. The word, even as a substitute for something else, was familiar and welcome. When Sam had conspired with you four years ago to do pre-law online, you’d urged him, practically begged him to do it, even if it’d felt like a crossroad’s contract. You knew that the time you had with him would be cut short. That was only four years to treasure your childhood with him and Dean, which had turned into two after John found out. It’d been like watching yourself bleed out, knowing Sam was going to leave—and he’d taken your youth and everything that made it worth surviving right along with him.

You never thought you’d see those golden summer days again; learning to hunt with the boys, saving people with the boys, storytelling and dreaming and growing with them. Each of those rose-colored memories had a padlock on them now. Good things like that never lasted long in this world, not for you. Sam would graduate to be some big top lawyer with an innocent, happy family, and you and Dean would watch from afar but never come close enough to infect. Your path had forked a long time ago.

But here, it’d connected one last time. Maybe as a parting gift. One last hunt with your boys, before Sam was safe from it all and you and Dean drove off without him.

It was supposed to give you closure.

Yet here you were, selfishly yearning for more time.

_

PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA - NOV. 2nd, night.

The rain died out a few miles out from Sam’s apartment.

You tried to stay awake through the drive, knowing they’d be your last moments with Sam for a long time, but the soft coo of their voices in the front seat, combined with the rain on the car, knocked you out hard. The Impala’s backseat was still curved to your shape. After the most comfortable sleep you’d had in months, you woke up slowly and apologized to Dean; right now was about when you’d switch off. He could drive Baby forever, but you had a rule about being at the wheel with such little sleep, and Dean hadn’t even thought about a bed since before he’d picked you up. It seemed he didn’t want to miss his time with Sam, either.

Unfortunately, the ride to California flew by, even with Dean avoiding interstates and going the speed limit. Since the way to Sam had dragged, his stories about Jess and “home” (not Bobby’s, not your mom’s, not even the Impala) stole the time. You’d also looked into the coordinates John had passed on, which would take the three of you—the two of you up to Colorado.

You pretended you were glad. But it was hard to be glad about Sam living the apple pie life when all you could focus on was how you were going to say goodbye to him. Worse: none of this felt final. It would’ve been easier if you couldn’t imagine you and Dean picking up Sam again next weekend, and finding some other small way to save the world before Monday. When had you gotten so selfish?

At around two or three in the morning, Sam started to recognize street signs. The Impala put a Herculean effort into pulling into the lot, a pregnant silence filling its interior, and it was barely parked when you flung yourself out of the backseat. Sam stepped out too. Dragging his feet, Dean left the key in the ignition and trudged into the circle of amber light cast by a street lamp outside Sam’s building.

You tried to compose yourself, but the corners of your lip burned with the effort. The street was dead quiet and cold, so your shaky breath was seen and heard to both brothers, who sagged in tandem. You just stood there, trying to summon something to say, but all you could think was, it’s over, it’s over, why aren’t I happy for him?

But of course, these were the boys you’d grown up with. You and Sam had shared cribs as toddlers, for god’s sake, and Dean himself had taught you how to drive and bought you your first drink. There were no two men who knew you better in this world, so you didn’t need to say a single thing.

Sam drew you into a deep, leeching hug, and that was enough to get your shoulders hitching with your sobs. At first it was gentle, a hug for you, then one of his breaths came a little too sharp and Sam’s hold became near-bruising, for himself and no one else. One of his palms cupped the back of your head. The gesture was small, but for whatever reason it almost made you lose it—so with the last of your rationality, you peeled yourself away from him.

You looked to Dean. He was trying his hardest to be nonchalant, even awkwardly half-smiling as if he had any will to joke left in him, and like Dean always did when he needed you, he gently clutched the back of your jacket. The familiar weight settled warmly on your shoulders. At least you still had him. For that reason, you spoke for him now.

“We love you, Sammy,” you sniffed into your sleeve, “Don’t worry about me and Dean, okay? I’ll take care a’ your brother and he’ll take care a’ me. Get some sleep, have a big breakfast, give Jess a kiss for us, and then go destroy that interview. Okay?”

Sam nodded. The line of his mouth was hard and he wasn’t letting you see how wet his eyes were, his shadow crossing with yours on the pavement.

You tried to laugh, but it came out delirious and tear-soaked. “If one of us goes to jail, we’re gonna need a really good lawyer.”

To your surprise, his eyes heaved away from the concrete and looked past you to Dean, a smile on his face. “I’ll be the best,” he swore, “...and we’ll meet up later, okay?”

Sam took two steps forward, crossing a mile-wide chasm to open his hand to his older brother.

“Call me if you find him?”

John. Right. This was all because John was missing. That had never left Dean’s mind like it’d left yours, though, because he gave a stiff nod and found the strength to take Sam’s hand. You thought that they would shake on it, but Sam could read the grief in Dean even better than you could. They embraced, and after that first touch, without any reservation, Dean returned it.

“Yeah,” Dean cleared the frog in his throat, “Yeah, alright.”

Sam adjusted his bag on his shoulder, then leaned down so you were eye to eye with him. Your brain stalled, but it caught up when Sam gave a teasing dip of his cheek in your direction.

Immediately, you laid the back of your hand against his face, and for once allowed the connection to have equal input.

Just as you were greeted with Sam’s regret, his gratitude, and his love, you greeted him with something of your own. You showed him a memory from before all of this had started, when Dean had parked in front of Sam’s apartment and stared up at his window for hours, praying for the first time in his life—praying that his brother, his kid, wouldn’t push him away. It was a plea: Please. Call him. Talk to him, like you talk to me.

You turned your hand over to stroke Sam’s cheek, and he nodded into your palm, face too deep in shadow to read. “I promise,” his voice broke.

You stepped back to Dean’s side. Sam gave you both long, wet looks, putting on that sweet, toothy grin only his younger self knew, and disappeared into the curling shadows behind the front gate. The rattle of the metal on its hinges as it closed played through your mind on loop.

In the same breath that Dean slid a finger through one of the belt loops on your hip, you ran your hand under his jacket and scratched gently at his undershirt, pulling each other closer.

You didn’t look at him, and Dean didn’t look at you. You’d already had to watch Sam cry.

_

Somehow, the two of you managed to load back into the car. You took your old spot in the front seat, still warm from Sam’s body heat, and wallowed there as Dean shifted the Impala into drive. The streetlight cut the edges of all shadows sharper, which turned the bone-deep exhaustion on his face into a scythe. It struck you then how young Dean was. Having his experience and his influence above you for long, you forgot often he was only two years your senior. You forgot how young you both were, despite what you were dealing with.

You wanted to reassure him, but the future hadn’t given you anything yet. He needed proof, real proof, that everything would be alright, and right now that wasn’t something you could give to him.

Before he pulled out of the lot, Dean ducked his head and stared into his lap, one hand on the wheel. “So…” he cleared his throat, “where to?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but paused at the weight in his expression. This was not a, where are we going next? But a, are you coming with me? It honestly made you wonder what kind of friend you were if Dean didn’t know the answer to that question—and he did, but after all the bad luck he’d had, Dean couldn’t believe that anyone would stick around. Even you. That, at least, was something you could prove to him.

Scooting closer to his side of the car, you gently turned his chin so he was facing you. Sighing through his nose, Dean’s dewy eyes flickered from the dash to you, more brown than green, and in exchange you made it obvious you were admiring him. A little humor came back into his eyes. Maybe boosting his ego wasn’t the smartest way to cheer him up, but you were both stupid. You wished you had the strength to say it, but there were upsides to this: Sam would be safe, doing something he loved, and you and Dean would be on the road together again. That was better than anything else you’d been stuck with, anyway.

“A motel, definitely a motel. We haven’t slept in forever, Dean. Then? Colorado,” you relaxed back in your seat, giving him some time to compose himself while you fought with your seatbelt. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Winchester.”

Dean finally stopped taking you in like this was the last time he’d ever see you, and finally started to drive. He pulled out to the right and then spurred out of the parking lot. Between keeping his eyes on the road, you could feel him stealing looks at you, admiring you as you had him—realizing you were the last thing the other had.

“Card’s nearly dead, you know. Are you prepared to share a single with me? I haven’t showered in, like, a week.” Dean rumbled.

You snorted, swiping the tear streaks out from under your eyes. It was nothing short of impressive how ready he was for you to bolt. “And you think I have? We’ll suffer with each other. Snuggle and rent Terminator or something.”

“T2?” Dean suggested. He almost sounded excited.

Maybe if you could make this next week good for him, you could both scrape through your Sam withdrawals without burning up inside. You could make it for Dean. You always had, before.

Feeling a headache coming on, you bent forward, rubbing circles into the pressure at the center of your forehead. “Gah,” you complained, “I can’t wait to go to… to, uh… sleep...”

When you opened your eyes again, you were in a vision.

The apartment was dark but warm, the air flush with sticky summer humidity, thick enough that a match might set the whole apartment alight. You welcomed the contrast to the chilly parking lot and padded down the hall in your socks, wondering why Jess was in the shower so late at night. You paused outside the bathroom door… She had probably just waited up for you. The hunt and Dean and ____—they’d all set you on edge, that was all. At least she wouldn’t see you crying.

Tossing your travel bag down by the bed, you let the texture of Jess’s signature cookies melt in your mouth and collapsed face-first into the mattress, still chewing. The clean smell of laundry detergent in the sheets still surprised you, after so many years in shitty motels—

Something wet dripped onto your neck. You startled up onto your hands, feeling the hot liquid slide down your skin and into your shirt.

Turning onto your back, you flinched as another droplet hit your cheek.

Then, you saw her.

_

Every streetlight on the block had burst. Without them, the only light to be found was the unnerving flash of red and blue police cruisers, firetrucks, and an ambulance. You doubted you could ever think of this night outside those two frames. There were the deep blues of Dean’s haunted silhouette among the crowd of observers, then the deeper reds outlining the stillness in Sam’s shoulders. You felt like the lightless void in between them, swallowed whole by what you’d seen in that apartment—by what Sam had seen now, and what Dean had seen when he was four.

Your hands were still shaking, but you hid it by turning your rings around your fingers in one hand, feeling stupid for wearing them. They were supposed to bring good luck. They were supposed to ward away evil. But you’d never felt anything eviler than that thing inside that apartment, the thing that’d killed Jessica Moore. Mary Winchester. God knows who else.

And you still couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d seen that vision before.

Sam’s face was soot-stained, soaked with tears, and yet harder than you’d ever seen it. Nothing about the soft baby-face you adored had changed, but something behind it was hollowed out and ransacked, a violated grave. He’d spent the last hour rifling ceaselessly through the trunk of the car, searching for the imaginary weapon that could finish this. Every once in a while he paused to scrub at his neck. You stood behind him, mindlessly rubbing his back and watching the too-black smoke whirl into the moonless sky.

Dean emerged from the crowd of on-lookers soon after, face somber and cold. Without a word, he filled the empty space at Sam’s other side, and together you watched his younger brother throw a shotgun into the trunk and shut the spare tire compartment. He grit his teeth.

For the first time in hours, Sam spoke:

“We’ve got work to do.”

_

NEXT PART: wendigo, p1.