#IVE READ THEM THOUSAND TIMES ALREADY AND THOSE PAGES MADE ME ALIVE AGAIN

[alleiradayne]

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part IV - The Midnight Ride

Summary: The end of an era. Warnings/Tags: Some fluff, general elements of horror and fear, graveyards, brushes with death again... Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Word Count: 5,104

"You alright?"

Lost in thought, I had hardly heard Sam. But the warmth of his presence roused me from my stupor. I shook my head and rubbed the burn from my eyes as I spoke. "Yeah, I… I'm just exhausted. And this research isn't exactly entertaining."

Sam took a seat beside me at the small motel table and pulled his chair so close I might as well have sat in his lap. The warmth of one massive hand enveloped mine, and he set the other on my bouncing knee. That quake subsided beneath his touch, something no other person in my life had managed. But then a sudden awareness sent a shiver down my spine, and I scanned the motel room, searching. Sam, perceptive as ever, answered my unasked question. "Dean's in the shower. He'll be a while. We've got some time. To talk. Only if you—"

I didn't want to talk. At all. What I wanted betrayed every common sense I had. At that moment, I’d do whatever I could, use whatever magic at Sam’s disposal, make a deal with Rowena, anything to cleanse last night's stain of indelible memories from my mind. And yet, I knew those options were anything but. Between Sam’s apparent affection for me and Dean’s overprotective brotherly nature, neither would allow me to harm myself willingly just to get rid of a few nightmares.

But as I stared into Sam’s prismatic gaze, the desire to replace those memories, to shadow them with newer, happier moments, overpowered me.

No. I didn’t want to talk. So, instead, I kissed him.

Myriad descriptions, all vastly varied from one to the next, could never capture the feeling of Sam's lips on mine. I could regale you with comparison after comparison. But none of them would do him justice. Though the moment lasted but a breath, eons passed in that explosive connection where I knew and felt and lived a thousand lifetimes with him. I wanted to do nothing more in that breath than melt into him forever.

My tablet chirped, and the case loomed at the edge of my subconscious. All those imaginary lifetimes vanished as I parted from him, replaced by a cruel reality. Not that I'd squander a reality that consisted of Sam Winchester's love. Or his crooked grin and half-lidded gaze.

"Good talk."

Despite my sour mood, I laughed. "I'm glad we could come to an understanding."

His fingers slipped between mine as he spoke. "Thing is, I forgot… what I said about us last night. When I asked if you wanted to talk now, I meant about what happened to you."

"Oh." Well, shit.

I have never known a person wiser, more emotionally aware than Sam. And Dean often gave him a run for his money. But after all the years hunting together, Sam and I operated on an uncannily similar wavelength. The guy read me like an open book. And when I balked at recounting my harrowing journey beyond the veil, he understood without another word.

"Only if you want," he repeated with a reassuring squeeze of my thigh. "Otherwise, I wouldn't mind a little more of your…" he paused with a coy smirk as his eyes darted to my lips and back. "... preferred method of communication."

"I…" My tablet chirped once more, obliterating the one desire I'd felt in months. "Sam, I promise, we make it out of this case alive, I won't leave your bedroom for a week."

His smile widened as he said, "Only if we spend the following week in yours."

I kissed him again, a little harder, more insistent. Parted, I agreed. "Done."

My tablet chimed for the third time, and I turned to it at last. Sam pointed at the screen and said, "What's cockblocking me?"

Though I laughed, a furious sting prickled my cheeks at the thought of Sam's… I forced the imagery from my mind and decidedly focused on the tablet instead of his face. "I was emailing the curator at the museum. She just sent me some documents about Sleepy Hollow's history."

"Oh?" Sam mused. "Anything worthwhile?" He reached for his laptop, pulled it across the table, and flipped up the lid.

When I opened the attached documents, my heart sank. They merely verified much of what I'd already learned. "Sleepy Hollow was a part of the Tarrytown settlement, originally called North Tarrytown. Most of this information is just facts and history about the town. While the Ichabod Crane story is all rooted in it, the urban legends and folklore are only related so far as this jackass on a horse with no head."

"Not surprising," Sam stated.

"No,” I whined, “but it is a little disheartening that he has next to nothing to do with the town he haunts.”

Sam nodded, then said, “There might be more, though. Earlier this morning, I read that Washington Irving was born in Manhattan. He traveled for many years, but he eventually returned to New York and lived out the rest of his life in Sleepy Hollow. He's buried in that cemetery."

"I suppose," I replied, "but I was looking for something a little more concrete than the author lived and died here. Like actual people that Irving modeled his characters after. Or other legends. He traveled in Europe for quite some time. There's even a Scandanavian story, The Wild Hunt, that has the same throughline. A headless rider that lobs his head at people."

Sam piqued at that, eyes narrowed and head tilted. "But Ichabod Crane is the original telling of the story here. Right?"

I nodded. "Forgetting that it's a hodgepodge of cultural ghost stories, yes."

He laughed at that. "I haven’t read it since I was a kid.”

“Me neither,” I replied. “I only know bits and pieces.”

Dean burst from the bathroom at that, a towel wrapped around his head and one about his waist. “Ichabod Crane was a new school teacher in Sleepy Hollow. And he was hellbent on marrying a woman, Katrina, who was set to inherit her father's very wealthy farm estate.”

"Oh," I mused with a mocking smirk at Sam. "Sounds like we have an expert in our midst."

Dean waved me off as he dug through his bag at the end of the bed. "Sam knows it, too. Right?"

“Yeah," Sam started, "there was another suitor, though. Arthur Van Brunt. He went by Brom Bones Van Brunt.” He paused as he stood. “It’s kind of funny, really, this story reads like a high school drama. The lanky geeky nerd and the oafish jock fight over a girl. Except they never get into the physical altercation Brom wanted. He goaded Ichabod constantly, pulling pranks on him. But Ichabod never took the bait.”

I looked at my tablet, where a black and white photograph of a man stared back at me, then returned to them both. Dean withdrew a change of clothes from his bag, then headed back to the bathroom. Through the open door, he said, “So the story goes, Ichabod went to a party at the Van Tassel farm where he intended to woo and win over Katrina. Brom, instead, scares the living piss out of him with a bunch of ghost stories, one of which was the Headless Horseman.”

“Yeah, I remember that much,” I said. “And then he tried to propose to Katrina, but she shot him down.”

“Exactly,” Sam chimed. “I love how ambiguous the ending is here. Ichabod leaves the party all upset about Katrina. He gets on his horse, Gunpowder, who is very skittish, and heads home. But the Hessian shows up and chases him. Ichabod had just learned the legend, so he heads for the bridge near the Old Dutch Burying Ground. He knows the spirit can’t cross the bridge. Ichabod would have made a decent hunter.”

Dean’s laughter echoed from the bathroom, and he emerged dressed and hair coiffed. “I forgot how innocent this story is. He gets to the bridge and crosses it, but the Hessian hurls his freakin’ head at him before disappearing. The head domes Ichabod and knocks him off his horse. Nobody ever finds his body. Only his hat, Gunpowder’s wrecked saddle, and a randomly smashed pumpkin were found near the bridge.”

A thought bubbled up in the back of my mind and raced to my lips. “So that’s where the jack-o-lantern head comes from. What if… holy shit, what if it was just a prank gone wrong? What if Brom was playing another trick on him and accidentally killed Ichabod?”

Hesitation stalled them both as Sam and Dean regarded one another. Then Dean turned to me and asked, “That does not explain what the hell happened last night. No fucking way that was a prank.”

I hated it, but I knew he was right. “But then what the hell! I’m almost beginning to think it is a tulp—”

“It’s notta tulpa!” Sam shouted. Dean clamped a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. Sam rounded on him and barked, “Shut up!”

“I can’t help it,” Dean managed through peeling laughter. “Your Arnold impression is improving.”

“C’mon, guys, we need to figure this out,” I groaned.

Dean settled through a deep breath, although his face remained far too red. Sam slumped into his seat again, his stare glazing over, unseeing. When he remained silent, Dean said, “Alright, let’s say they’re spirits. And it’s still this mess of combined ancient myths, ghost stories, and cultural legends. We’re still on the same page there, right?”

Sam and I nodded slowly. “After what happened last night, there’s no way they’re anything else.”

“If they’re spirits that haven’t moved on, we have to burn the bodies,” I stated.

“Or destroy an object that might be keeping them topside,” Dean added.

Scrambled thoughts rattled through my mind as I ran down a list of objects. I soon found myself lost in a warren of possibilities, and as I stared ahead at my tablet, equally dazed as Sam. An answer picked at the edge of my subconscious, like a half-remembered dream. No matter how hard I tried to grasp it, the thought slipped through my hand like water.

“None of it is real.”

From the corner of my eye, I glared at Sam. He remained still, his glassy far-off stare yet unfocused as he spoke. "It's all stories. They're all stories that are too much of a mess for a tulpa. So none of it is real. Whatever these spirits have latched onto, it's nothing from those stories." 

With his words, the image on my tablet clarified as my mind focused. Understanding crept along my skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I stood then, spurred to my feet, and spoke. “The unmarked grave never mattered. It’s fake.”

Sam nodded. “There aren’t any bodies to burn because those bodies never existed to begin with.”

“It’s all fairy tales and make-believe bullshit,” Dean declared.

I looked first to Sam, then Dean, then back to my tablet, where an image of Washington Irving filled the screen. I turned the tablet to face them, and all at once, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Together, we spoke.

“Death of the author.”

Never in my entire life had I wished to be anywhere else more than at that very moment.

Three stark-white flashlights illuminated a grand headstone, memorialized by the town of Sleepy Hollow, for one Washington Irving. After so many years without care, overgrowth covered much of the base, and the stone desperately needed a washing. Beyond that, none of us made a single move to start the arduous process of digging five feet into the earth. We simply stood there, silent as the dead beneath our boots.

"Either of you uncomfortable with this?" Dean asked, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," Sam and I replied.

Dean started towards the headstone and said, "Good. Glad it's not just me. Something about this feels wrong."

"It's because we've never seen someone's spirit manifest as anything other than itself," Sam stated. "We're literally digging up a guy because his spirit might have transfigured into characters from his own story."

"Can spirits even do that?" I asked as I scanned the treeline of the graveyard. Though dense fog had choked the grounds last night, literal clouds suffocated the entire cemetery where we stood. "That seems like a lot of power for a single spirit."

Dean posted at the head of the grave. "Only one way to find out." He pocketed his flashlight and hefted his shovel. When he saw us still standing at the foot of the plot, he said, "I'm not digging this grave on my own."

Despite the need to end such a vengeful spirit, I had little motivation to help. Slower than necessary, I picked up my shovel and shuffled to the center of the plot. Sam stepped in behind me, shovel at the ready.

Dean raised his shovel to his waist. Before he moved further, a distant, indiscernible sound echoed through the woods. What was once visible of the nearby treeline no longer was. That thick fog filled the darkness, and I saw neither trees nor sky nor stars. I heard the sound again, too far to tell what it was, but not far enough to miss. My flashlight shook violently as I spun about, but I found nothing besides the Impala behind us.

I turned back to Dean just in time to watch as he plunged his shovel's blade into the dirt. Agonizingly slow, it descended each inch slower than the last. That distant sound echoed once more, ever so slightly closer. As though he conducted an orchestra, that sound crescendoed into an unbearable scream as Dean’ shovel descended until metal returned to the earth.

Earsplitting thunder exploded overhead, and instinct forced all three of us to our knees. That booming drum rolled, mutated until it rumbled through the ground. I knew that sound, too familiar with the feel reverberating through my feet. A fresh wave of icy dread coursed through my veins as those thundering hooves pounded the dirt.

Over the headstone, I pointed my flashlight as I stood. Terror incarnate barreled through the graveyard astride his deathly steed. Above his head, a readied missile sprouted flames as he raced towards us. Every instinct screamed to run. Fuck everything about the legend, the haunting, just get the hell out of there.

But I couldn't move. Frozen solid, I merely gripped my flashlight and shivered.

"Run!"

Dean's shove launched me into Sam's arms, kickstarting my senses. I sprinted for the Impala, desperate for her salvation. I reached it a beat behind Sam and Dean and dove into the backseat. The engine roared to life with a sharp snarl as Dean twisted the ignition. He wrenched down on the shifter, slammed on the gas, and I launched into the backrest as the car sped off in reverse.

"What are you doing?!" I screamed.

"What I should have done last night!" he barked.

I opened my mouth to demand a better answer but only managed to scream and gesticulate wildly. The Headless Horseman vaulted Washington Irving's headstone and, in one smooth motion, launched his flaming cannonball directly at the car.

The sickening crunch of iron on steel paled in comparison to Dean's wail of rage. He threw the wheel to the left, and I grasped onto the backrest as the car lurched, spinning about-face. The transmission groaned in protest as Dean threw the shifter into drive and slammed on the gas once more. With all her horses leaping down the road, the Impala raced into the night, and I flattened against the backseat.

"Mother fucking piece of shit ghost!" Dean bellowed. "Fucking hit my car with a god damned cannonball! I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?!"

“Dean, just watch where you’re going!” Sam shouted as he braced against the backrest and the frame of the car.

The speedometer slid past eighty, and I gripped the leather backrest, nails scoring the supple hide. Sweat coated my palms, and my heart railed against my chest. "Dean, what the hell are you doing! You're going to get us killed!"

The fork in the road appeared around the sharp corner, and Dean roared, "Just trust me!" as he took the paved road to the left.

One hundred. The blinding flash of a memory overpowered my senses. Nearly forgotten, the dull vision replayed in my mind, muted, as though it belonged to someone else. A car sped along a country road. A dog. Spinning, careening, crashing. I screamed as my seatbelt failed. Blood pooled in the cornstalks beneath a sky so blue.

"Try to follow me now, you son of a bitch!"

Dean's voice snapped me back to reality. Behind us, the Headless Horseman gained, and his whip gathered with a flick of his wrist. The vicious bones uncoiled, and another memory threatened to take me under once more. It seemed that death had its own wish for me and would not rest until it came true. Another flash of a fresh memory consumed my senses, dragged me down to my own personal hell. But then a light emerged amidst the darkness, warm and enveloping. I opened my eyes to find Sam holding my hand.

"Focus, Y/N. Stay with me, we're gonna get through this, I promise."

"There's the bridge!" Dean shouted as he pointed. The engine whined, straining under his insistent foot. He glared in his rearview mirror as he growled, "Let's race, motherfucker."

The Impala raced over the transition from asphalt to old stone and wood, rattling the car from nose to rear end. Sam’s fingers turned ghastly white in my grip, but he paid that no mind. His focus remained steady, wide eyes staring into mine. Though he tried to reassure me, the roar of the Impala swallowed his words, and they fell on deaf ears. Like a moth to the flame, I turned back to the Headless Horseman one last time.

The coiled whip unfurled laboriously, each bone rolling over the next and slower than the last. That crawl, that agonizingly painful creep blurred the liminal space between truth and myth’s fabrication until nothing but a swathe of gray smeared reality. My mind filled in that blank void, and I knew then that death had arrived to collect his escaped prisoner.

But the end never came. That infinite second ticked by, lost to the endless depths of space and time as the car breached the end of the bridge. I braced myself against Sam as he reached over the backrest for me. Dean stood both feet on the brake, and the car lurched forward as the tires seized, shredding on the asphalt. When the deafening roar of the Impala faded to its soothing idle, I eased my grip on Sam's arms, and he returned to his seat. Dean checked both of us before scrambling from the car, and we followed not a beat behind.

In the center of the bridge, the Headless Horseman and his nightmare steed hung in the air, suspended mid-gallop. A deep purple glow seeped through the grouted stone surrounding the horse, and beneath his hooves, the bricks quaked. Violent flashes of an eerie green mist lanced from the cracks in the centuries-old rock and lashed the rider’s raised arms to drag him from his horse. Wrenched free of the saddle, he crashed to the stone, his metal armor clattering with a sickening crunch. I winced, unsure of what I was witnessing, an unwitting and unwilling voyeur.

But I forced myself to keep looking. I had to. I had to see it through to the end, to know without a shadow of a doubt that we had indeed laid such a vengeful spirit to rest.

The Hessian launched into the air with a vicious twist of the mysterious green lashes. Gale winds swept over the bridge, filling my nose with burning brimstone, and then the horse burst into flames. He screamed his unholy cry, and I startled into Sam's arms. Though I continued to watch, I cowered into him, and he held me close without a word. The vile inferno consumed the horse in seconds, reducing him to a pile of ash.

The rider convulsed as though in pain, writhing and contorting so awkwardly to be free of his bonds. Metal twisted, grinding and scraping against itself in his bid for escape. I realized then that, in his death throes, the Headless Horseman would emit no other sound. He could not beg for forgiveness nor absolution. He could not plead for his continued existence nor one last moment on earth. No last words with a loved one. And for a minuscule second, I pitied him.

Lightning fractured the sky as the purple glow between the bricks focused in a circle encompassing the rider. As the edges brightened, the bricks inside slipped away into an endless darkness. I had seen nothing like it in all my years hunting. And as the green bonds lowered him towards the void, he thrashed, deeply aware of the end that approached.

A scream rent from my mouth as an arm of sinew and bone and rotted flesh burst from the black depths and grasped the rider's leg. Metal collapsed like tissue paper beneath the fierce grip, and bone crumpled to dust. Another arm lunged for his chest and cleaved his breastplate in two, embedding in his ribs. A third nearly ripped his arm from its socket, his forearm crushed, and a fourth pierced his thigh. Those horrifying limbs dragged the Headless Horseman to his doom, jailors imprisoning their captive.

Feet, legs, and torso succumbed to the darkness, and a defeated stillness settled his ruined body. At last, his arms and headless shoulders sank beneath the zenith, and The Headless Horseman was no more. Like so many grains of sand through an hourglass, the ashes of his steed followed him into the void. 

A final flare of purple and green light surged as lightning illuminated the sky once more. Wind settled, and clouds parted to reveal a full, brilliant moon and a night sky full of glittering stars. At last, the void receded, and the bridge stood whole once more. The sounds of night creatures returned, and the clearing surrounding the bridge expanded as though it took a full, deep breath to hold, its first in thirty years.

Maybe, it knew. Just as I felt it in my bones, the trees, the stone, the tall grass, and the creek beneath the bridge all felt it down to their tiniest molecules. It was over. At long last, the Headless Horseman was no more.

For now.

A clattering of bones cut through the peaceful calm, and I flung my arms out ahead of Sam and Dean. Not that I would protect them from much of anything, what with nothing but my bare fists at the ready. Tension crept across my shoulders when I spotted the source of the sound, and the three of us scrambled backwards towards the car.

The bone whip rattled to a stop a few feet from us, perfectly coiled with its handle extended towards my boots. I regarded Sam first, then Dean, only to then turn back for the Impala's trunk with a scoff. A readied can of salt lay on top of the stockpile, and I grabbed it as I grumbled to myself.

"Unless something's keeping it topside.” I slammed the trunk shut. “Gimme a break. Of course, something was keeping it here," I continued to myself as I stomped back to Sam and Dean. I prodded the latter in the shoulder and asked, "How? How the hell did you know?"

Dean shook his head as he held his lighter in one hand and withdrew a motel matchbook from his pocket. "I didn't. I didn't know the bridge would work. And I didn't know the whip had anything to do with it. I just had a—"

"Remember the last time I had a hunch and convinced you to drive the Impala over a hundred?" Sam interjected.

Before Dean could respond, I spoke. "Speaking of which…" I paused as I finished pouring a generous amount of salt on the neat pile of bones and snapped the can shut. "Don't ever drive that fast again."

Dean’s brow shot to his hairline as his jaw dropped. He gestured to the bridge, looked to it, then turned to the pile of bones and gesticulated wildly at them. After he stuttered the beginning of a few statements, he blurted, "What was I supposed to do?!"

"Not one-oh-five, that's for damn sure!" I stated. "We could have died!"

"We would have if I hadn't—"

"Alright, that's enough!" Sam interjected. "I'm sorry I brought it up. Let's just put this son of a bitch away for good this time."

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed. "One salt and burn, coming right up."

The book of matches took the flame of Dean's lighter with a sharp hiss. A flick of his wrist sent the little ball of fire cascading to the ground, and in a single beat of my heart, red consumed the world in a crimson concussion.

The ring in my ears faded, and the blinding light dimmed, darkness settling around us once more. Flat on my back, I stared up at the shimmering night sky, beyond dazed. When I sat up, Sam’s hollow voice called from afar. But the moment his touch soothed my shoulders, a shock of clarity rushed through me, and I saw he knelt over me.

“Talk to me, Y/N,” he repeated. “You okay?”

I thought for a moment, taking inventory once again. No broken bones, no blood. Not even a hint of pain despite the lingering soreness from the previous night. “I… I think so. What happened?”

Dean strode into view, an ornately gilded box cradled in his hands. He set it on the ground at his feet, and then I spotted it. The whip lay intact where it had rolled to a stop earlier. Salt scorched black cowered beneath the pale white bones as though frightened of its failure to purify the whip. I pointed at it and repeated myself. “What the fuck just happened?!”

Sam spoke when Dean hesitated. “It looks like the whip is protected. Somehow. Whether the Headless Horseman did it or it’s part of his curse, I’m not sure. And it’s irrelevant anyway. We’ll have to find some other way to destroy it.”

“But then… What happened last time? With your dad?” I asked as I stood. Sam hopped to my side once more, his gentle strength lifting me to my feet.

Metal rasped on metal, and my attention snapped to Dean. His hand rested atop the box, the metal gears working with fine clicks and clanks. When he removed his hand, the lid lifted half an inch and hissed a violent release of pressure. Of its own accord, the lid then continued to rise, revealing rich black velvet. Darker than night, the fabric lined the entire box, and it absorbed the moonlight, much like the void that had taken the Headless Horseman. When Dean withdrew a similar thick velvet cloth from the box, he spoke. “John did put the Headless Horseman away thirty years ago.” He paused as he grasped the whip with the velvet. Gingerly, he eased it into the box, then spread the cloth over it. The heavy lid shut with a hollow thunk and the metal gears worked once more, sealing shut on its own. “But, he came back.”

“Because of the whip?” I asked.

Dean nodded as hefted the box and turned for the Impala. Sam and I followed, eager to be on our way. Given our cargo, I doubted Dean would want to stay another night in Sleepy Hollow. Resolved, I figured I’d at least steal a pillow for the ride back.

We followed as Sam said, “We’ll take it back to the Bunker and find another way to destroy it.”

“Otherwise…” My question drifted, lingering like an unwanted guest that had overstayed their welcome.

With a grunt, Dean shoved the box into the trunk. “Otherwise, the next unlucky bastard that touches this thing will become the Headless Horseman.”

The terrifying implication settled in the pit of my stomach. An indestructible weapon possessing unwitting people. And yet, I knew that dichotomy well. Old as time, that one. The immovable object, an inanimate manifestation of immortality, meets the unstoppable force, the perpetual stupidity of human curiosity.

“We need to get on the road,” Dean stated as he shut the trunk, then strode for the driver’s door. There, he cried a soft, short sob and spoke to the car. “Oh, Baby, look at you. We’ll get you home and cleaned up.” Then he ripped the cannonball free, wrenched the door open, and slid into the driver’s seat. The awkward crunch of ill-fitting metal joints damn near broke my heart. And not just for Dean, but for the Impala as well, for she had seen us through a most harrowing night yet again.

Sam leaned in beside me then and asked, “Mind if I sit with you?”

“I’d… I’d like that. Very much,” I replied as a sudden chill crept beneath my skin. “I don’t think I could handle the whole ride back by myself.”

He opened the door and gestured ahead. “I make a pretty good pillow.”

As he slid in beside me, I said, “I look forward to finding out.” The warmth of his entire body, so close to mine, pulled me in, a moon to her earth. His long arm draped over my shoulder, and I curled into him. For a brief moment, the case ceased to exist. Only my exhaustion reminded me that I had gone toe to toe with the Headless Horseman and, for the most part, won.

But then a familiar thought occurred to me, and my weary eyes snapped wide open. “It’s true, then.”

“What is?” Dean asked as he turned over the backrest.

My breath caught in my throat, unwilling to put into the universe my worst nightmare. But between Dean’s confident stare and Sam’s soft gaze, I’d never felt safer. Even in my darkest moments, the Winchesters would be there for me. I put my faith and confidence not only in them but in myself as well. No matter what happened next, I believed in us.

“What’s true, Y/N,” Sam asked.

I gave him my best smile and spoke.

“Some urban legends never die.”

Dean shook his head as he turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The Impala rattled as she started, exhausted as each of us. When she settled to idle, Dean looked at me in the rearview mirror and spoke.

“No. They live just long enough to meet us.”

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THE MIDNIGHT RIDE MASTER LIST

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[thewanderingpotato]

The Evil Fox and Useless Wizard

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17526755

He is an immortal magician fearful of using his magic, she is a fox on the run from her wicked past. These are the snippets of their life together.   i. Flee

The streetlights are blowing out one by one.

His lungs scream for air, legs about to give out, but Asahi pushes himself forward through the silent streets, ignoring the burning wound in his side. Past rows of apartment buildings he stumbles, scraping his palms and face on the asphalt road more than once.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Fuck, he thinks to himself, heartbeat and loud footsteps mingling in a symphony of fear.

An acrid wind assaults his nostrils, dry leaves crackling somewhere.

 How could I have forgotten the ritual? I’m such an idiot!

Spying an alley up ahead, the man hastens his pace and dives into it.

A dead end. Shit.

He cowers against the moldy brick wall as it approaches, a pitch-black hole where a person should be, packed full instead with rotten eyes, and those awful sharp teeth. It lumbers towards him maliciously, a thousand mouths gibbering. Raising his hands in a defensive posture, the man braces for the pain…

…which never comes. As he watches bewildered, fire envelops the being. It cries out in some unknown tongue, eyeballs collapsing in on themselves as though pierced by invisible needles. The blackness that is its shape wavers, then all at once implodes like a zipper closing, leaving nothing but a foul smell behind.

Outside the alley stands a familiar woman, illuminating the night in red, dark hair falling on her shoulders.

“Kiyo? What…what are you doing here?” he asks. The woman sighs.

“I should be asking you the same question, A-chan.”

---

“You weren’t supposed to be back for another two weeks�� Asahi mutters, shirtless and hunched over in a chair by their apartment balcony with Kiyoko kneeling beside him. He winces when she dabs an antiseptic-drenched piece of cotton on his wounds, her fingertips glowing with energy.

“Supposed to. Unfortunately, the authorities over in China were being stubborn, and I had to cut my trip short.” Kiyoko complains, setting the cotton aside and moving on to the pile of bandages.

“Even mages aren’t immune to bureaucracy”, he muses. “Still, that was a blessing in disguise.”

She sighs at his remark.

“Honestly, you’re so accident prone. I turn my back for a while, and this happens.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I'm just worrying too much, I guess” Kiyoko exclaims softly, frowning in concentration as she wraps the bandage around his waist. “I know you can’t die…but still. Be careful.”

“I’ll be alright.” He ruffles her hair with his free hand, causing her to blush slightly.

 ii. Friendship

The crowd bustles to and fro, mothers and fathers and children and lovers hurrying everywhere in pursuit of their daily routine.

Unbothered by the commotion around them, a group of friends sits around a worn-out food court table, picking at each other’s fries and snacks.

"Dude, stop stealing Asahi's fries. The poor boy is gonna go hungry!" exclaims the silver-haired youth, making shooing motions towards the thief, their short friend with very tall hair.

"It's alright, Suga. Noya must be hungry too." Asahi assures his friend. Suga considers retorting that Noya already has his own portion, but says nothing.

In gratitude, Nishinoya grins wide and claps Asahi on the back.

"That's right! We're best friends now and forever! Right, Asahi?"

 Forever huh?

When Asahi fails to respond, lost in thought, Noya fakes outrage and pokes his friend.

"Eh? Am I wrong? Don't you love me anymore?"

"Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought. Of course man, you're my best friend." Asahi proclaims, without a hint of insincerity.

"Ahaha! Of course!" Noya clearly finds it amusing to mess around with Asahi, to Suga's disapproval. Nevertheless, the three will maintain their bond, at least for the foreseeable future.

After that...who knows.

  iii. Nightmares

There is fire, and screaming, and a thousand different voices shouting angrily, calling for blood.

“Liar!”

“Whore!”

“Witch!”

“Beast!”

She flees, running through the woods, past rivers and down to the beaches, to the ocean, flees across the water to a new land where she is safe, where she finds a new life.

But it never lasts.

Each and every time, the darkness in her rises, a madness leading those around her to ruin. Each and every time, she flees, crossing old paths to new lands, to lands she left centuries ago. Each and every time, it is the same. She is a monster, unable to die, unable to live a normal life.

She finds herself in the shadow of an ancient stone at last, exhausted and alone. He stands before her with a weary smile, cloak wrapped around his emaciated torso. She growls, wary, and he just stands there unafraid. Confusion. Her form changes, poised to kill. He remains unflinching, mouthing an incantation.

She awakens screaming, her fingers turned to claws, an ethereal tail flaring out from her lower back.

"I'm afraid", she whimpers. He only wraps his arms around her and says "I know. It's okay. You'll be okay."

 iv. Study

"Up late researching stuff again?" Asahi asks as he walks into the room, cup of hot tea in hand. His companion is slumped over her desk with a thick book lying open beside her, and her glasses are neatly folded on top of the book.

"Mm?" Kiyoko slurs groggily, a question half-formed.

"Take a break." Setting the teacup down, Asahi nudges her shoulder gently, brushing away a stray strand of hair. "I made you some tea."

"Ah. Thanks, A-chan. " She smiles weakly at Asahi, a warm breeze wrapping around his winter heart. He pulls out the empty chair beside her and sits down, studying her disheveled appearance so unlike what she usually is.

"Did you find anything, Kiyo?"

"Nope...I'm sorry."

"That's alright."

He moves her glasses aside and picks up the book, and so they lapse into silence, the rustling of turned pages becoming their background music.

"What if you never find the answers to your questions?" she asks after a while, interrupting his reading, her head still resting on the desk.

Asahi puts down the book and scratches the back of his head, looking at her sheepishly as though Kiyo was his mother bringing up a failing grade.

"Then it can't be helped...I guess." After a long pause, he adds, "We have all the time in the world, though."

"You do, but I don't."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"

"I'm just teasing, A-chan." Kiyo says as she reaches out to poke his cheek, giggling at his flustered reaction. "I'm not ageless like you, but I plan on sticking around as long as possible."

 vi. Birthday

The entire Sunday morning, Kiyo has been pestering him to go grocery shopping and treat himself to some ice cream or something, even dropping a wad of cash in his lap. It's unlike her, but I've been quite neglectful of myself recently, Asahi reasons. She's probably just concerned.

Even immortals need to eat and enjoy themselves. So with that in mind, off he wanders to be a functional part of human society.

The sky is deep orange by the time he emerges from the grocery store and makes his way back laden with vegetables and fruits and meat, passing by grandmothers on their bikes and stray cats on the prowl for rats. The apartment windows are dark when he finally arrives home.

 Strange. Is Kiyoko out?

Asahi opens the door to a pitch-black silence, ten million unwanted thoughts festering in his head.

 If anything happens to Kiyo I swear...but she's strong enough to take care of herself...stop overthinking, maybe she just went out...

Apprehensively, he steps over the threshold, and two things happen simultaneously:

Kiyo's voice echoes through the dark.

The lights come on all at once.

"Happy Birthday, Asahi Azumane"

---

It's nothing fancy, but he's surprised to see Kiyo put in this much effort to decorate their apartment. Photos of him -and them- hang from strings attached to the walls, and a rather cutely decorated placard reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY in Kiyoko's neat handwriting.

"Um, thanks. I really appreciate it," he says, taking in the surroundings as he sits down at the table adorned with a chocolate cake and a few bottles of wine, "but why all the hard work? I mean, you didn't have to...I've never really celebrated my birthday."

"Well, why not start now then?" Kiyoko's eyes sparkle with excitement as she uncorks one of the bottles, pouring out two glasses."I mean, we're here with each other, and alive. It's something to celebrate...even if I don't remember when I was born."

For a moment she seems downcast, but it passes quickly.

"Yup, I guess you're right. Happy birthday to you too, Kiyo."

She raises her glass, and so does he.

"Happy birthday."