#Supernatural Season One

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A dangerous spirit is bound to an old family portrait that brings misfortune and death to anyone who buys it.

Warnings: Cannon violence and gore. flirting if you can call it that

Word Count: 10,688

Provenance

(Master list, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

Music thrums through the dimly lit bar, mingling with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses, drawing a crowd that fills nearly every corner.

I managed to escape from Sam and his research onto the safety of the dance floor two songs ago. And while I wasn’t always privy to dancing, it’s hard to ignore a live band.

So, I let the bassline sink into my bones, guiding my steps as I start to move. My hips sway in time with the sultry beat, each sway slow and deliberate. My arms lift, hands tracing soft arcs above me as I lose myself in the music. Then, fingertips brush my waist, and if they didn’t feel so familiar, I’d pull away. But, I know these hands, I know each callous as I feel them through my dress. “‘You come to dance?” I ask, turning in his hold to face him. He wears that charming smile, eyes dropped to my hips that still move with the music. “No, uh…” his eyes move back to my face. A smile stretches itself onto my lips as I tilt my head to indicate I’m listening even if I’m dancing. “Uh,” he turns his head away, “Sam was tryin’ to wave us down, but you were, um….” his eyes meet mine, “distracted.”

“Little disappointed that wasn’t a ‘yes,’” I tease, although I know he isn’t the type to dance. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my waist, gently pulling it away and taking it in mine. “Too bad Sam needs us, huh?” I say, starting to walk backward and leading him with me. “Yeah,” he sighs, “Too bad.” Something mellows in his eyes then, something I can’t quite grasp before I turn around and guide him back to our table. 

The moment we reach Sam I collapse onto the little stool with a bright smile and a satisfied huff, taking my abandoned half-drunken soda into my hands. “Alright, I think we got something,” Sam announces, looking between us.

“Hit it!” I point at him.

“Oh yeah, me too,” Dean answers, glancing back at the bar to a girl I forgot he was talking to.

“Or not…” I mumble as he continues. “I think we need to take a little shore leave, just a little bit. What do you think, huh?” he asks, looking back at us, “I’m so in the door with this one.”

“So, what are we today, Dean?” Sam mocks. “I mean, are we rock stars, are we army rangers?”

I avert my eyes to the newspapers strewn about the table, pretending like I do not hear their conversation. “Reality TV scouts, looking for people with special skills,” Dean answers, and I can hear the grin on his face, “I mean, hey, it’s not that far off right?”

“You are being particularly icky with this one,” I comment, looking at him now as I bite on the thin black straw in my drink.

“She’s right,” Sam adds. 

“Yeah, well it’s working,” Dean counters, “By the way, she’s got a friend over there. Possibly hook you up. What do you think?”

“Dean, no thanks, I can get my own dates,” Sam answers.

“Yeah, you can but you don’t,” he argues. I hit his arm, throwing him a look. He shouldn’t be pushing his brother like this. He can’t possibly expect Sam to be ready to move on when his girlfriend died only a couple of months ago, let alone not feel guilty for moving on. “What is that supposed to mean?” Sam bites back. But, I give Dean a ‘don’t’ look, they don’t need another thing to fight over. “Nothing,” he answers, taking my warning, “What you got?”

“Mark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York were both found dead in their own home, a few days ago. Throats were slit. There were no prints, no murder weapons, all…” Sam trails off, his findings coming to an abrupt end. “Dean!” he yells, gaining back the attention of his brother, “….No prints, no murder weapons, all doors and windows locked from the inside.”

“Could just be a garden variety murder you know, not our department,” Dean rationalizes, taking a sip of his beer.

“Says the guy who wasn’t paying attention,” I mumble.

“Hey!” he grumbles.

“What? It’s true!”

“Anyway,” Sam interjects, “Dad says differently.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, suddenly more interested. 

“Dad noted three murders in the same area of upstate New York. First one here in 1912, second one right here in 1945, and the third in 1970, the same M.O. as the Telescas. Their throats were slit, doors were locked from the inside. Now so much time had passed between murders that nobody checked the pattern, except Dad. He kept his eyes peeled for another one.”

I have to give John credit, he seemed to have a hunch for these sorts of things and was persistent enough to keep up on it. It’s admirable at the very least. “Alright, I’m with ya,” Dean replies, “It’s worth checking out. We can’t pick this up til first thing though, right?”

I roll my eyes, though, of course, I'm not surprised. Not only does he not trust the legitimacy of a case until it has the John Winchester seal of approval rather than just trusting his brother, but of course, he’s immediately trying to go back to his potential hook-up. “Yeah,” Sam sighs. 

“Good,” Dean grins, immediately going back to the bar. I don’t know whether to be disgusted or jealous. “Anywho,” I start, “I’m gonna go back to the dance floor, wanna join me?”

“No, you go,” Sam insists.

“Okay, well if you change your mind you know where to find me. Or, if you just need anything,” I offer. 

Sam and I check out the Telesca's house while Dean reaps the consequences of a hangover. Either way, the house was a bust. There’s no sign of anything supernatural, in fact, there’s no sign of anything.

We approach the Impala and in it, a sleeping Dean occupies the passenger seat. He sleeps slouched with sunglasses on, I suppose to combat the sun for when he does decide to wake up and join us. Sam walks around the car sporting a mischievous smile as he leans into the open window and honks the horn. Dean jumps awake, his sunglasses slipping down his face. I scuff, laughing a little as I get into the backseat. To be fair, it is a little funny. And Sam, who finds it infinitely more funny than I do, laughs loudly as he takes the driver's seat. “Man, that is so not cool,” Dean grumbles, adjusting his sunglasses clumsily.

“We swept the Telescas with the EMF. It’s clean,” Sam informs, “And last night, while you were…well…out.”

“Good times,” Dean smirks, a satisfied look on his face. I cringe even though something sharp stabs my heart. 

“I checked the history of the house. Nothing strange about the Telescas,” Sam elaborates. 

“Alright, so if it’s not the people and it’s not the house, then maybe it’s the contents. Cursed object or something,” Dean deduces.

“Yeah, funny story,” I start, “There’s literally nothing in that house. 

“Yeah, you said that,” he counters. 

“No, like literally empty,” I clarify, “Like empty empty, like more than just crime scene cleaners.”

“No furniture, nothing,” Sam explains. 

“Which could mean it’s either in storage somewhere, given to family…” 

“…Or at an auction,” Sam adds, finishing my sentence. 

****

Beautiful classical music plays in the auction house, where nearly every surface is covered in trinkets or furniture. Nicely dressed people flutter around in their expensive suits and dresses, holding champagne flutes as they chat. 

To say we stick out is an understatement. We aren’t dressed nearly as nice as we should be for a place like this. I mean, they have violin players here. I feel incredibly awkward as we walk around, it’s like everyone’s staring…. They might actually be staring. Maybe we should’ve gotten more entail for a place like this before coming in because it is a horrible day to be wearing shorts. 

The class difference feels apparent not only just clothing but in manners. Their prideful eyes flip onto us, seeping in as if they can read us. They can sniff out our class the same way we can see theirs. And it’s no help that Dean keeps stopping for the finger food, shoving it into his mouth without care. “Consignment auctions, estate sales. Looks like a garage sale for Wasps if you ask me,” Dean comments.

“They’re usually nicer than this,” I respond, looking around, “I mean in terms of people and environment ...not that this environment isn’t nice but it’s…”

“Disturbing?” Dean answers, popping another piece of food in his mouth. 

“I was going to say pretentious but that works too,” I nod. Thrift stores and estate sales were usually nice experiences but a place like this is more about boasting through showing your wealth than enjoying your search for items to complete your home or yourself. In other words, it’s a great way to remind you of your class and just how much you don’t fit in. 

“Can I help you?” a voice suddenly asks. An older man with grey hair and blue eyes stares at us. Dean looks him up and down before shoving more food in his mouth, “I’d like some champagne, please,” he says putting on his best posh voice. 

“No, baby, he’s not a waiter,” I cut in, putting a hand on Dean’s upper arm. 

Sam holds out his hand, “I’m Sam Conners,” he greets. But, his introduction is not met with the same friendliness. The man just looks at him, not moving. Sam gives a sharp nod, retracting his hand, “That’s my brother Dean and my sister-in-law Y/N. “We’re art dealers, with Connors Limited.” 

“You are….” the man searches for the word as he looks at us with skepticism. “Art dealers.”

“That’s right,” Sam confirms. 

“I’m Daniel Blake,” he finally introduces himself, “This is my auction house. Now gentlemen and madam this is a private showing, and I don’t remember seeing you on the guest list.”

“We’re there chuckles, you just need to take another look,” Dean answers, unamused, as he grabs a drink off a passing waiter. “Finally,” he mumbles, bringing it up to his lips.

“What I think my husband means to say,” I intervene quickly, the word sounding strange on my tongue. It’s a title seeped in irony—one I long for even though he spent last night with someone else. And yet, here I am, calling him my husband, craving a title that’s only pretend. “Names are such funny things. They just….slip on by. If you should like, I have no problem looking at the guest list with you so we can get this all cleared up.”

He raises his chin high, seeming to consider my offer. “Very well,” he answers, “Come along.” He turns around, stiff in his movements. I move away from Dean, my hand slipping off his arm as I throw back a wide-eyed glance. I follow after the man, moving further and further away from the boys. He goes to a security guy and asks him to go fetch the book because apparently, he can’t do it himself. “I don’t mean to come off as intruding but I didn’t see a ring on your finger,” he says.

He didn’t believe Sam’s lie. He’s testing me to determine our legitimacy. I put on my best smile, “You must have glossed over it,” I reason. I hold up my left hand, displaying a matching wedding band and an engagement ring. Both are aged silver bands, the engagement ring having a simple diamond at its center. It’s all I could come up with on short notice—quite literally in the seconds it took me to answer and raise my hand. “Charming,” he comments, lacking conviction. I put my hand back down, keeping the rings there even as my smile falters.

Finally, the rather thick book reaches the hands of Mr. Blake who simply wastes no time in cracking it open. He flips through the pages until he finds the names under ‘C,’ his finger skimming down the page. His face drops. He clears his throat. “Yes, there you are,” he declares, placing the book in a way I can see. His pointer finger is just below our names, newly placed by yours truly. “I apologize for the disruption,” he says, closing the book with a thump. 

“Oh, that’s okay. With all those names it’s easy to miss,” I reply. I almost feel bad for deceiving him, he must feel crazy. But, we do need to figure out what killed the Telesca's and everyone before them so it is necessary. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go back to my boys,” I say with a nod, wanting nothing more to get away from this man….no offense to him. 

I feel his eyes burning into the back of my skull as I walk back to the Winchesters like he still suspects us and is just waiting for a slip. So, without a second thought, I move closer to Dean, slipping my hand beneath his blue jacket and resting it on his back. He doesn’t question it; his eyes flicker to mine, but he just pulls me closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. The warmth of him sends butterflies crashing into my stomach, and my pulse quickens until I can barely focus on anything but the solid warmth of his touch. My heart pounds so wildly that I have to force my gaze forward.

That’s when I notice the dark-haired woman standing in front of them. Her hair is pulled back with two curled strands framing either side of her face, highlighting her sharp, thin eyebrows and kind grey eyes that are fixed intently on Sam. She wears a black dress with a bit of a plunging neckline, accented by a sparkling brooch at its center. “But, Dad’s right about one thing, sensationalism brings out the crowds,” she says, adding to whatever conversation was at hand, “Even the rich ones.” 

“Is it possible to see the provenances?” Sam asks.

“I’m afraid there isn’t any chance of that,” Mr. Blake says, his voice suddenly appearing from behind us. What could he have possibly found? “Why not?” Sam asks.

“I fear we have guests complaining about your….” he looks us up and down. “Appearance. We do have a very strict dress code.” A sigh escapes my lips, no way this constitutes us being kicked out. So much for creating a whole illusion.

“Well, we don’t have to be told twice,” Dean responds putting on his horrible posh voice again. He’s probably done with this scene.

“Apparently you do,” Mr.Blake retorts cooly.

“Okay. It’s alright,” Sam intervenes. “We don’t want any trouble. We’ll go.” 

The day’s light filters in through the entryway as we step out. It’s hard to tell if guests were complaining about us or if he truly just wanted us to go. Either way, he got us to leave. We pause just a few steps away from the doorway, Sam already moving far ahead of us. 

The sun catches Dean’s eyes as he turns to look at me, a smirk playing on his lips, “I guess I’m your husband now,” he says, his voice low. My heart stutters behind my ribcage and it takes all my willpower to keep my eyes on his and not let them dip to his mouth. “That you are,” I answer, an easy smile on my face.

“Maybe I should get you a ring,” he teases.

“Apparently, you have,” I hold up my left hand for him, the rings still there. He reaches for my hand, thumb brushing over the bands, his eyes lingering on the diamond. The gentle pressure sends a rush of warmth through me, and my stomach does about ten flips consecutively. He looks at me through his lashes, that smirk only deepening, “You bad girl.”

I gasp, taking my hand from his to hit his chest. “I didn’t steal them!” I insist, but he just catches my hand again, bringing his thumb back to the rings. 

“Have to admit,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling as he meets mine, “I have good taste. Could’ve added a few more diamonds, though.” He says it so casually, with such cockiness, and it just fuels a quiet, barren dream that I now want more than anything. “Well,” I reply, feigning nonchalance. “You can keep that in mind for the next time we get married.”

I slip from his hold with a teasing smile, and he lets me go. I let the rings disappear from my finger, leaving the same way they came. At least I have control over them leaving. It hurts to give myself hope, and I don’t know why I do it. I fix my faltering smile before I spin around, walking backward as I speak to him. He hasn't moved from where we stood, something written on his face. “I really didn’t steal them. They aren’t real.” 

****

“Were you really flirting with that girl?” I ask Sam, a proud smile on my face. He rolls his eyes, no doubt knowing where I got my information from. “I wasn’t flirting. We were just talking art,” he defends.

I laugh, “I think that might count as flirting. At least in your book.” I don’t mean to tease him too harshly over this, after all, I’m proud of him. Maybe that sounds weird but just like Dean I want him to be happy, and it’s good if he’s trying to move on after Jessica. “Grant Wood, Grandma Moses?” Dean mocks, “Where’d that come from?” he asks as we approach their room, bags in hand. I’ll go to my room later, as for now, it’s easier to stick with them.

“Art history course,” he answers simply, “It’s good for meeting girls.”

I laugh again, nudging his arm with my own, “Look at you go.”

He scuffs despite the smile on his face. Dean puts the key in the lock, turning it as he says, “It’s like I don’t even know you.”

He pushes the door open to reveal a complete disco-themed room. The walk-in is lined with black and white diamond wallpaper, and a metal divider made of circles separates the walk-in from the sitting area. Very ‘70s. Meanwhile, the sitting area has granite-like floors and completely black walls that contrast with the two white seats that face a long dresser-like table where speakers and lamps rest, and right above it an abstract painting sits. More of the same dividers separate the sitting area from the back where the two queen beds reside, the diamond wallpaper makes its reappearance there as well as the red carpet. 

“Huh,” the boys hum at the same time.

“‘Huh’ might be an understatement,” I mumble, following after them into the themed room. I feel like we should be in Vegas with a room like this, that feels more appropriate. But, at least it’s fun…? They move deeper into their room, dumping their bags on their respective beds while I leave mine by the door. “What was…providence?” Dean asks.

“Prov-e-nance,” Sam corrects, “It’s a certificate of origin, like a biography. You know we can use them to check the history of the pieces, see if any of them have a freaky past.”

“See, your art history class isn’t just helpful with getting girls,” I say, taking a seat on one of the white seats. Apparently, they found a painting that belonged to the Telesca's. The painting was a family portrait with two young boys in suits on the left and a young girl in a frilly dress holding a doll with matching clothes on the right. And, at the center a woman, likely the mother, sits wearing a dress with similar frills and ribbons as her daughter, a balding man with a serious face standing behind her.

“Speaking of girls…” Dean snaps his fingers at his brother, smirking.

“Yeah, maybe you can get her to write it all down on a cocktail napkin,” Sam responds, smirking right back.

“Not me,” Dean laughs.

Sam’s face drops, “No no no, pick-ups are your thing, Dean.”

“It wasn’t my ass she was checking out,” Dean remarks, giving him a look.

“Sam, she couldn’t take her eyes off of you,” I add, “And I wasn’t even there for half the conversation.”

“In other words, you want me to use her to get information,” he responds.

“Sometimes you gotta take one for the team,” Dean reasons. “Call her.”  I’m tempted to correct him and put it in kinder words. But, I stop myself as I realize that if we frame it as a proper date, he might back down. He might not feel ready to move on or feel too guilty about it and, frankly, no one could blame him.

****

A Re-run of Scooby-Doo plays on the large TV in front of us, the take-out we ate a while ago sitting in the trash can now as we lounge on his bed. Our backs lean on the cushioned headboards, the crisp motel blanket covering both of us as we sit side by side, close enough for our thighs to touch. He chuckles at some silly joke Scooby made, the sweet sound warming my heart.

I’m glad we decided to hang around if only to see him this content. I like the familiarity of this—of him. I wish we could have endless moments like this. If only we could live in a gap between time where all is well. I’d like that. I think he’d like that too. Time seems to melt together here where responsibility is put on hold to just…breathe. I hope Sam is having a good time on his date, that’d just make this whole day as perfect as it can get.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts as a plastic spoon comes crashing into my personal space, landing right in my (flavor) ice cream. “Hey!” I exclaim, laughter immediately bubbling from my lips, “You have your own ice cream.” He gathers a big spoonful and I don’t stop him or pull the container away. “So?” he shrugs, putting it into his mouth as he puts his arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer to his side. With a hand on his chest, I pull away enough to look up at him, “You’re ridiculous,” I say though my voice lacks conviction. His eyes meet mine, his head tilted down slightly, “Yeahhh,” he smirks, “But you love me.” He says it confidently as if he knows it's true even though he means it in a teasing way.

Then his eyes dip down and I can’t quite find the right words because the right words are “I do” and I can’t afford the truth. Not now….maybe not ever. This hunting trip has been a blessing and a curse. I get to spend more time with him than we probably ever had, and yet to be this close hurts. It’s as if he’s the sun and to even get in his gravity field would burn me right up. Though, maybe being like Icarus would be worth it. “You’re lucky I do,” I tease.

The click of the door tears my eyes away from him. “Sam!” I say excitedly as he comes into the motel room. “How was your date?” I ask.

“It was…” he searches for the words as he removes his blazer, “Good. I got the provenances.”

“Great!” I leap from the bed, leaving the rest of my ice cream on the nightstand, “I want to hear every single detail,” I take a couple of the manilla folders from him. 

“There’s really not any details to share,” he answers with a tight-lipped smile.

I give him a pointed look, “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“That’s not gonna work on me,” I say, taking a seat on one of the chairs in the living room area. 

“Fine,” he gives in, throwing his blazer over the back of the other chair before taking a seat, “The restaurant was fancy.” I practically hang onto each word, waiting for more to come. “And?” I ask, beaming.

“And the food was good.”

I groan, laying my head against the chair, “Dude, these are hardly details!” I twist in the seat to look back at his brother, “Dean, help me out here.” He looks up from the ice cream container in his hand, “This is all you, sweetheart,” he answers, shoving more ice cream in his mouth. Wait. My ice cream in his mouth. I roll my eyes, turning back around, “You guys are being such guys right now.”

A sheepish smile rests on Sam’s face, his eyes already on an open file. “Fine!” I give up, throwing my hands up, “Keep your date a secret!” I shake my head as I pick up a file of my own. 

I get to reading as the room falls into silence that’s only broken up by the sound of turning pages. “So, she just handed the providences over to you,” Dean starts.

“Provenances,” his brother corrects.

“Provenances,” Dean repeats with a bitter tone. 

“Yes. We went back to her place, I got a copy of the papers…”

“And?” Dean asks, using the very word I had used. I look up from my papers, expecting to hear more information than he was willing to give me. “And nothing. That’s it. I left,” Sam answers.

“You didn’t have to con her or do any…special favors—” 

“Eww,” I laugh, “Why’d you have to say it like that?” 

“Dean, would you get your mind out of the gutter, please?” 

“Hey, her head is in the gutter too,” he says and I can practically feel him pointing at me. I turn in my seat again, “I didn’t say anything!” I defend.

“You sure were thinking it though,” he remarks, a slight smirk threatening the corner of his mouth.

“And you know that how?” I counter giving him a pointed look. But, Sam cuts him off before he can get a word in, “Could you both stop, please?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I mumble, returning to my reading. 

“You know when this whole things done, we could stick around for a little bit,” Dean offers, not exactly backing down like his brother wanted.

“Why?” Sam asks.

“So you could take her out again,” he answers. “It’s obvious you’re into her, even I could see that.” It’s quite a conflicting situation. On the one hand, maybe we shouldn’t push or encourage him to go on dates when he’s clearly still grieving his girlfriend. In truth, it feels wrong and inconsiderate but on the other hand, maybe encouraging him could help with the moving on and accepting process. Or, perhaps this isn’t our place at all and we should shut up. “Hey, Sam, you said the first murder was in 1912, right?” I ask, deciding to move on from the conversation of dating. “Yeah, why?” he responds.

“I have a family portrait here from 1910 with the first sale in 1912 to Peter Simms,” I explain, lifting the paper for him to see. Then, there's a familiar presence behind me, a hand resting on the back of my chair. “Peter Simms murdered in 1912,” Dean reads, holding his Dad's journal in his free hand. 

“There’s another sale in ‘45 and then in ‘70. Does that match?” I ask, looking up at him.

“Yeah,” he nods, confirming this was what we were looking for.

“Then it was stored until it was donated to a charity auction last month. Where the Telescas bought it,” Sam fills in the rest of the information. “So, what do you think, it’s haunted? Or cursed?”

Dean shifts behind me, the journal coming to a soft close, “Either way, it’s toast.”

Pitch darkness cloaks us as we break in, from climbing the ridiculously tall metal gate to the careful way Sam disarms the security alarm before Dean works at the lock with careful, gloved hands. Our flashlights guide our way into the quiet auction house. It’s so different now without all the people, more enjoyable even. 

The painting is located quickly and cut from its frame with a switchblade. And as quickly as we came we left, doing almost everything in reverse. “Four minutes,” I announce, “‘Think that’s a new record.”

****

The cut-out painting lies in the dirt of a random side road. Something that took a lot of work and talent to do left to burn in the middle of nowhere. “Ugly ass thing. If you ask me we’re doing the art world a favor,” Dean remarks, dropping the lit match onto the art piece. 

This had to be some sort of crime.

I swing my legs off the bed, shoving my laptop onto the duvet as I get up to answer the knocking at my door. Before opening it, I tug my shirt to sit properly off my shoulder.

“Hey, we have a—” he stops short, those green eyes dropping to my bare legs. The oversized shirt I’m wearing only reaches mid-thigh. A smirk tugs at his perfect lips, and whatever he is going to say goes out the window. His gaze drags up my frame slowly, my insides going all warm and my stomach flipping in a way I wish it wouldn’t. “What were you up to?” he asks, the smirk still easy and lazy on his face. A huffed laugh escapes me, and I hope he doesn’t notice the blush creeping onto my cheeks. “What happened with ‘we have a…’?” I answer instead.

“What?” His eyes snap back to mine from wherever they were looking.

I laugh again. “Dean,” I say firmly, trying to keep the conversation on track. “What were you going to tell me?”

He shrugs, something he doesn’t do often, his smirk turning into a goofier smile. “I have no idea.”

I give him a pointed look, he’s messing with me now. “Come on, Winchester, focus.” 

His eyes dip down again, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek as his gaze crawls back up. “Oh, I’m plenty focused.”

“You were saying something about ‘we have a…’” I try again, hoping to jog his memory.

“Problem,” he finishes, shuffling a little bit as he adjusts how he’s standing. “Right. A problem.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he just stares at me. “What's the problem?” I ask, leading this conversation.

“‘Can’t find my wallet,” he answers, nodding awkwardly. I try not to let the surprise show on my face. All this because he couldn’t find his wallet? “Do you need help finding it…?” I offer.

“Yeah,” he nods, then pauses. “Wait. No. I think I dropped it at the warehouse.”

“What!?” I exclaim. “Why didn’t you say that sooner!?” Immediately I spin right back into my room. “Let me get dressed real quick,” I add over my shoulder.

He steps into the room, letting the door shut behind him as I rummage through my duffle. “Wait.” I pause, turning to face him. His eyes dart up to meet mine, eyebrows raised as if he got caught doing something he shouldn’t have. I brush his antics off as I ask, “Do you want me to just,” I raise my hands, wiggling my fingers, “magick it here.” 

A small look of surprise hits his face as if he hadn’t thought of it. “Right. So–”

****

“You could have encouraged him instead of fake losing your wallet, you know right?” I ask, looking up at him as his brother and Sarah converse across the room. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” he remarks. 

“I don’t think making us think you could get caught for last night because you dropped your wallet is very fun,” I point out, crossing my arms across my chest. His wallet was in his pocket the whole time, which of course he knew about. What he really wanted was an excuse to get Sam and Sarah together again after their date. I don’t necessarily disagree with what he intended to do but it also isn’t exactly fun to be in the warehouse again. It’s like no matter what we still can't fit in.

But, he doesn’t need to say it. We both know Sam wouldn’t have come here otherwise. 

****

“I don’t understand, we burned the damn thing,” Sam says, frustrated. 

“Yeah, thank you Captain Obvious,” Dean grumbles. 

“And we can for sure rule out it’s not a duplicate….somehow…right?” I ask even though I’m not convinced of what I’m saying either. But a girl can dream. Sam turns in the passenger seat, delivering me the nastiest pointed look to ever be received. “Okay. Okay. I get it,” I say, raising my hands in defense. “I was trying to be…hopeful.” 

Dean nudges his brother's arm, getting him to lay off of me. “Alright, we just need to figure out another way to get rid of it. Any ideas?”

“Okay, alright. We, um, in almost all the lore about haunted paintings it’s always the painting’s subject that haunts ‘em,” Sam informs.

“Yeah. So we just need to figure out everything there is to know about that creepy-ass family and that creepy-ass painting,” Dean adds.

“Who do you think would know about them?” I ask.

****

The smell of old books fills my senses as we step into the second-hand bookstore, the little bell above the door chiming softly. It’s quiet and warm in the store with books stacked in piles littering the floor, making walking almost hard. Others are neatly arranged on tightly packed shelves in an attempt to fit more. If we weren’t here on business, I’d spend so much money here. I have to force my eyes away from the alluring spines of the novels, a gentle hand on my lower back encourages me to focus. I don’t need to turn my head to know the hand belongs to Dean.

“You said the Isaiah Merchant family, right?” the old man behind the counter asks.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam answers. The man lays out a huge book, dust sprinkling from it as he opens it to reveal the many news clippings inside. He’s well organized, I have to give him that. But, my focus is broken by the flicking of pages beside me. I look at Dean, his free hand holding open some old magazine about guns. Naturally, the guy encouraging me to focus is unfocused himself. But, he looks so happy as he flicks through the pages it’s hard to be upset. “Want me to buy that for you?” I ask softly, the words slipping from my lips before I have time to think. I kind of want to hit myself for that one.

But then he turns that smile on me and suddenly I do not want to hit myself. “I’m a big boy,” he says, his gaze dipping lower. “I can buy my own stuff.” His eyes slowly trail back up to meet mine, but his hand doesn’t stay still. It dips slightly, taking my stomach with it. His middle finger hooks lightly through a belt loop on my jean skirt, the rest of his fingers splayed on my very lower back. “You rarely buy things for yourself,” I point out. He only buys himself the necessities.

“I dug up every scrap of local history I could find,” the owner announces, pulling my attention forward. “So are you crime buffs?”

“Mhm,” I hum. “Yeah.”

“Why do you ask?” Dean asks, and I can feel the heat of his gaze pulling away from me.

“Well…” He holds up a newspaper article. The lead story, taking up most of the front page, is about the Titanic. But, a little further down to where he points is a side article titled: ‘Father Slaughters Family, Kills Himself.’

“Murder-suicide,” I mumble to myself. It’s certainly not the first.

“Yes. Yeah, that sounds about right,” Dean says, stumbling on his words.

“The whole family was killed?” Sam asks.

“It seems this Isaiah, he slits his kids’ throats, then his wife, then himself. Now he was a barber by trade. Used a straight razor,” he explains, his voice gravelly with age.

“Does it say why he might’ve done it?” I ask.

“Let’s look,” he answers, turning the newspaper around so that he can read it. “‘People who knew him describe Isaiah as having a stern and harsh temperament. Controlled his family with an iron fist.’”

It’s certainly not surprising news considering it was the early 1900’s. “Wife, uh, two sons, adopted daughter…” he continues. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mumbles as he skims the page. “‘There were whispers that the wife was gonna take the kids and leave.’ Which of course you know in that day and age, um….” he clears his throat. “So, instead, old man Isaiah…well he gave them all a shave.” He draws his hand across his throat, mimicking the motion of slitting one's throat as he laughs. 

“That’s, uh, certainly one way to put it,” I respond, my words harsh. It was hardly a laughing matter. An entire family was killed because some guy let his anger and ego get in the way when all his wife wanted was to get the kids and escape his wrath. His laugh dies down pretty quickly once he realizes no one is joining in. “Does it say what happened to the bodies?” Dean asks.

“Just that they were all cremated,” he answers.

“Anything else?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. Actually, I found a picture of the family.” He shuffles through the papers in the book, “It’s right here….somewhere. Right—here it is.” He holds up the paper for us to see. It’s the family portrait from the painting. 

“Hey, could we get a copy of this please?” Sam asks.

****

“I’m telling you, man, I’m sure of it. In the painting at the auction house, Dad is looking down. Painting here, Dad’s looking out. The painting has changed,” Sam argues for the fifth time since we’ve been sitting at the table.

“Alright,” Dean finally gives in. “So, you think that Daddy dearest is trapped in the painting and is handing out Columbian neckties like he did with his family?”

“Well yeah, it seems like it. But if his bones are already dusted then how are we gonna stop him?”

“Maybe not everything was burned,” I suggest. 

“Kind of hard to miss something when you’re cremated,” Sam counters.

“Well yeah but that doesn’t mean a keepsake doesn’t still exist,” I point out. “Or, not even a keepsake but maybe anything that’s on his person in the painting that’s still around now. If it’s personal enough.”

“Maybe,” Sam nods, seeing my point. “And if we figure out what and burn it then no more killing.”

“Yeah,” I nod with him, “We just have to figure out what…somehow.”

“And where,” he adds. 

“Well, if Isaiah’s position changed then maybe some other things in the painting changed as well,” Dean suggests. “You know it could give us some clues.”

“What, like a Da Vinci Code deal?” Sam asks. 

Dean's face goes blank, “I don’t….know..uh…I’m still waiting for the movie on that one. Anyway, we gotta get back in and see that painting.” He rises from his seat and moves across the room to his bed, he throws himself onto his back and crosses his arms across his chest. I have to stop myself from ogling him with the way the grey shirt looks on him, especially with those forearms on display…

“Which is a good thing cause you get some more time to crush on your girlfriend,” he teases.

“Dude. Enough already,” Sam says firmly.

“What?” He answers in defense.

‘“What? Ever since we got here, you’ve been trying to pimp me out to Sarah. Just back off, alright?”

“Well, you like her don’t you?” He reasons. Sam groans and rolls his eyes. “Alright, you like her, she likes you, you’re both consulting adults,” Dean adds.

“What’s the point, Dean?” Sam responds, his voice rising as his frustration rises too. “We’ll just leave. We always leave.” It’s quite a reminder. The life of a hunter isn’t a kind one for many reasons, one of them being how lonely it can get. It’s knowing a normal life can’t ever truly exist because once this is embedded into you it stays. And he had tried to get away from the hunting life and it had worked for as long as it did with his girlfriend whom he was happy with until, once more, the hunting life caught up to him and he had to lose it all unfairly. 

“Well, I’m not talking about marriage, Sam,” he defends.

“You know, I don’t get it. What do you care if I hook up?” he asks, getting more agitated. 

“Cause then maybe you wouldn’t be so cranky all the time,” he answers calmly. Sam stares at him, then huffs out a breath and looks away. Dean sits up from the bed as he continues, “You know, seriously Sam, this isn’t about just hooking up, okay? I mean, I–I think that this Sarah girl could be good for you.” But, once more he doesn’t get an answer other than a sigh.

“And…” he continues softly. “I don’t mean any disrespect but I’m sure this is about Jessica, right? Now I don’t know what it’s like to lose somebody like that…but…I would think that she would want you to be happy.”

Tears fill the younger Winchester’s eyes. But, Dean continues anyway. “God forbid have fun once in a while. Wouldn’t she?” “Yeah, I know she would,” he answers softly, a half smile managing on his lips. “Yeah, you’re right. Part of this is about Jessica. But not the main part.”

“What’s it about?” Dean asks. This time Sam doesn’t answer. And, luckily, I don’t have to give Dean a look to tell him not to push it because he lies back down. “Yeah, alright,” he says crossing his arms across his chest. “Well, we still gotta see that painting, which means you still gotta call Sarah so…” 

A little surprisingly Sam picks up his phone, clearing his throat as he does so. “Sarah, hey, it’s Sam,” he says awkwardly. “Hey, hi….Good, Good, yeah, umm. What about you?”

I have to try not to cringe at how awkward this is. It’s uncomfortable.

“Yeah good, good, really good,” he repeats himself.

“Smooth,” Dean mumbles.

“So, uh, so listen. Me and my br—we were, uh, thinking that maybe we’d like to come back in and look at the painting again. I–I think maybe we are interested in buying it.” There's a pause before his eyes widen and he exclaims, “What?!” He stands up and paces, “Who’d you sell it to?”

Oh frick.

“Sarah, I need an address right now.”

****

The Impala roars up the drive, Sam and I not waiting for it to come to a full stop before jumping out. Sarah runs down from the driveway, her eyes wide in panic, “Sam what’s happening?” I hear her ask as I move past them and up the porch.

“I told you, you shouldn’t have come,” Sam says from behind me. I knock as loudly as I can against the door, “Hello?” I call loudly. Dean appears at my side, banging on the door and shouting, “Anyone home?” From what I can see the lights look off.

“You said Evelyn might be in danger, what sort of danger?” Sarah asks. But, unfortunately, she has to be ignored for now as we try and get in. Sam goes to the windows and starts banging on them as best as he can with the metal gates in the way. “I can’t knock this sucker down. I gotta pick it,” Dean announces.

“No time,” I intervene, shaking my head. If Sarah wasn’t there I’d blast it open but she doesn’t deserve to be brought into this life any more than she’s being exposed to it. So, instead, I cover my hand with my sleeve and put it on the doorknob. I apply a little magick, a stream of purple mist going into the locks. I turn the knob and push the door open, revealing the darkness that cloaks the house. “What are you guys, burglars?” Sarah remarks. I don’t wait for their conversation to pan out as I nod towards inside, quietly asking Dean if he’s going to follow. Unsurprisingly, he follows after me as I step into the house before he quickly takes the lead. 

“Evelyn,” I call as we venture in deeper. I can hear the insistent steps that follow behind us, one set familiar the other not. 

A soft glow of light stretches into the hallway just enough to lead our way. We turn into what looks to be a lounge. A blonde lady sits half-turned on the sofa. I take in the room swiftly from the burning candles to the painting that sits above the mantle. The father in the painting isn’t looking straight or down, instead, he looks at the daughter. “Evelyn?” Sarah says softly, appearing beside us. But, based on the lack of reaction or even recognition it’s likely that we’re too late. “It’s Sarah Blake…” She carefully walks into the room and closer to the woman. “Are you alright?” She slowly reaches a hand out to Evelyn’s shoulder.

“Wait! That’s not a—

“Sarah don’t. Sarah!”

Our warnings don't stop her. Evelyn’s head tips back, exposing the long cut on her throat. Sarah screams, the noise seeming to reverberate. Her head is barely attached to her neck, blood spewing from the cut rapidly.  “Oh my God. Oh My God!” 

Sam quickly intervenes, putting an arm around her as he leads her out of the room.

We’re forced to watch Sam pace back and forth even though we’re supposed to be researching. He’s been doing it all morning. He’s very distracting. 

He finally stops with a knock on the door. The person behind it is the reason he was pacing in the first place. He opens the door and in storms Sarah. ”Hey. ‘You alright?” Sam asks.

“No, actually, I just lied to the cops and told them I went to Evelyn’s, alone, and found her like that,” she spews.  Her hands are balled in fists at her side, a fire of determination burning in her eyes. And even though she’s angry, Sam’s face relaxes. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“Don’t thank me, I’m about to call them right back if you don’t tell me what the hell’s going on,” she demands. “Who’s killing these people?” 

Sam looks at us for help, and the question is clear in his eyes. I shrug, I don’t feel comfortable enough to give a solid ‘yes’ but she won’t take no for an answer. She deserves an answer. He looks back at Sarah, “What,” he corrects.

“What?”

“It’s not ‘who.’ It’s ‘what’ is killing those people,” he elaborates. Expectantly, she looks at him like he’s crazy. He sighs, “Sarah, you saw that painting move.”

“No,” she says firmly. “No…I was…I was seeing things. It’s impossible.”

“Yeah well, welcome to our world,” Dean and I say in unison. I look at him a little shocked, “Jinx.”

“Sarah, I know this sounds crazy,” Sam continues. “But we think that painting is haunted.”

She bursts into laughter, tears filling her eyes. “You’re joking.” But, of course, we aren’t. She looks between Sam and Dean and I. “You’re not joking.”

“God, the guys I go out with,” she mumbles. And for Sam’s sake, I hold back my laughter.

“Sarah, think about it. Evelyn, the Telescas, they both had the painting. And there have been others before that,” Sam explains. “Wherever this thing goes people die. And we’re just trying to stop it. And that’s the truth.”

She takes a deep breath, “Then I guess you’d better show me. I’m coming with you.”

“What? No. Sarah no, you should just go home. This stuff can get dangerous and…and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Look, you guys are probably crazy,” she says bluntly. “But, if you’re right about this? Well, my Dad and I sold that painting that might’ve gotten these people killed. Look I’m not saying I’m not scared because I am scared as hell but…I’m not going to run and hide either.” She strides over to the door before pausing and turning back, “So are we going or what?” Then, she walks out. 

She’s cool. “Sam?” Dean says. Once he has his attention he points to the door after Sarah, “Marry that girl.”

****

“Uhh…isn’t this a crime scene?” Sarah asks as I open the door again. We didn’t have to rush inside this time but it’s easier than waiting for a lock to be picked. I probably should’ve done it when we broke into the warehouse….

“It is,” I answer as we walk in. “If it makes you feel better your prints are already inside…and on the victim and because you found her they’ve already been cataloged or considered. So a couple more won’t make a difference seeing as they likely don’t suspect you. I mean, they let you go after getting your statement so that’s good.”

She looks at me a little strangely, a tight-lipped smile on her lips. I’m probably not helping the crazy allegations. “I used to do the whole crime investigation thing….sort of,” I try to explain. The writing job I had was a weird one because I wasn’t really doing any crime investigation, I’m not certified like that. But I did need and use skills that investigators might have. It was kind of an excuse to be a nerd and write. Also, it paid well. She nods. I don’t think I’ve been convincing…maybe I should stop speaking. “You’ve already lied to the cops. What’s another infraction?” Dean remarks as Sam lifts the painting down from the wall. 

“Aren’t you worried that it’s…gonna kill us?” Sarah asks.

“Nah, it seems to do its thing at night,” Sam answers. “I think we’re alright in the daylight.”

Dean takes the photocopy of the original painting out of his pocket and holds it up in comparison. “Check it out. The razor, it’s closed in this one but it’s open in that one,” he points out.

“What are you guys looking for?” she butts in.

“Well, if the spirit’s changing aspects of the painting then it’s doing so for a reason,” Dean explains.

“What’s that thing in the painting,” I ask, squinting and pointing behind the family. “I mean the painting that’s in the painting.”

“Looks like a mausoleum,” Sam answers with a tilted head. Dean looks around before grabbing a glass ashtray from an end table. He holds it up to the mausoleum. “Merchant,” he confirms.

****

Carefully I step around the gravestones, no need to upset any more dead people. “This is the third boneyard we’ve checked,” Dean complains. “I think this ghost is jerking us around.”

“At least we’re looking for a whole building rather than a lonely gravestone,” I point out. This way we can beeline to the building area instead of searching each line of graves. “So this is what you guys do for a living?” Sarah asks.

“Not exactly. We don’t get paid,” Sam answers.

“Well, Mazel tov,” she remarks. 

After venturing deeper into the graveyard we found the mausoleum, the ‘Merchant’ name carved right into it. Dean breaks the lock, revealing the mass of cobwebs and dust. Various nameplates fill one wall while the other side holds the urns all lined up with glass-fronted boxes built into the walls. But the number of urns is weird.

“Okay, that right there,” she points at a doll in one of the boxes. “Is the creepiest thing I've ever seen.” 

“I think it’s cute,” I shrug. The doll isn’t creepy, it’s quite normal with its brown hair and white dress. There isn’t an eye missing or a smudge on it. “Well, it was a sort of tradition at the time,” Sam explains. “Whenever a child died sometimes they’d preserve the kid’s favorite toy in a glass case, put it next to the headstone or crypt.”

“Notice anything strange here,” Dean asks.

“Yeah, there’s only four urns,” I answer. “And unless I suck at counting there should be five.”

“Daddy dearest isn’t here,” he confirms.

“So where is he?” Sam asks.

****

An office building, a lot of lying, paydirt, and possibly interrupting an almost kiss between Sam and Sarah later leads us to another graveyard, a grave, and some shovels. According to what Dean and I had found, the surviving relatives of the Merchant family were ashamed of Isaiah enough to not want him to be kept with the rest of the family. So, he was given over to the county who gave him a simple burial. Not a cremation. Therefore, a body to burn. Which again, leads to the shovel in my hand. Bad day to wear a white shirt because now I have to keep my zip-up on and digging up a grave is already a workout. Yay, sweat.

Sam lifts himself out of the grave to stand with Sarah and her flashlight. Even with 2-3 people digging it’s a lot of work. I don’t even want to know how long we’ve been at this for. “You guys seem to be uncomfortably comfortable with this,” she comments. 

“Well, uh, this isn’t exactly the first grave we’ve dug,” Sam responds. “Still think I’m a catch?”

She laughs and God they need to kiss already. 

Finally, Dean’s shovel hits something hard. “Think I’ve got something,” he announces.

“Oh thank God,” I sigh, leaning on the handle of my shovel as I wipe some sweat from my forehead. “This so sucked.”

“Now you can stop worrying about your pretty little shirt gettin’ all dirty,” Dean remarks. I roll my eyes, of course, he picked up on that. “I’m gonna hit you with my shovel,” I threaten, my smile ruining the seriousness of my words. 

“Are they always like this?”

“Yup.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he counters as he looks me up and down.

“And I’ll hit both of you,” Sam threatens, peering into the grave. 

“Okay Obi-Wan Kenobi,” I mumble as I help Dean clear up more of the dirt to open it. 

“Nerd,” Dean remarks.

“Dude! You saw the movie too!” I defend.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. “Move back so I can open this.”

****

Lighter fluid and salt in place, Dean strikes his match. “You’ve been a real pain in the ass Isaiah. Good riddance.” He tosses the match in, everything going up in flames.

****

The Impala pulls in front of Evelyn’s house, hopefully, for the last time. “Keep the motor running,” Sam directs, opening the car door.

“I thought the painting was harmless now,” Sarah says beside me.

“Better safe than sorry. We’re gonna bury the sucker,” Sam explains.

Sarah gets out of the car, declaring, “I’m going with you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” she answers, something shining in her eyes. Okay, now they really need to kiss. Sam tries to get out of the car again before Dean stops him, “We’ll stay here, you go make your move.” 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes as he gets out of the car. “Sam. I’m serious!” But, he’s ignored as they round the car and move up the stairs. Dean turns on the radio, a silly love song playing. I have to shake my head with how obvious it is, the upbeat tune paired with lyrics like “I’m in love with a girl that I’m talking about…I’m in love with a girl I can’t live without…” Sam practically whips around to give his brother a dirty look. But, Dean being Dean shrugs, seeing no problem with his intervention. Sam motions for him to cut it off, his eyes wide. Surprisingly, Dean shuts it off but not without sighing. “I’m fairly sure they’ll kiss even without your ridiculous music,” I say as I watch them enter the house.

“It’s not ridiculous,” he counters. 

“I love a good love song but that was painfully obvious, Dean. Plus, can you really kiss to that one?”

“One way to find out.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna try that on your next hookup?” I ask. He shakes his head but I can’t see his face from where I sit in the backseat and with his head downturned I can’t use the rearview mirror either. But, I don’t have time to dwell on it and he has no time to vocalize an answer when our attention is taken away by the front door slamming. 

He’s out of the Impala and up half the stairs before I can open my door. “Sammy, you alright?” he calls out, shoving himself against the door. His phone rings a half second later and I don’t think I’ve seen him pick up his phone quicker. “Tell me you slammed the front door,” he says. And I try to connect the pieces of the conversation with only half of it. Something with a girl. “Wasn’t the Dad looking at her?” Dean asks. “Maybe he was trying to warn us.” Well, that answers what girl.

“Hey, sweetheart?” He suddenly directs at me. “Could you—” I nod before he can finish. I know what he wants. “Move back,” he tells them. I know this time simply unlocking it won’t work with a spirit being the one to keep it closed. I guess Sarah gets to see a door exploding anyway. “Wait! What do you mean no time?!” But my hand is already raised, a blast of energy going right through the door. Shards of wood explode inward. 

“Where’d they go?” I ask, the entryway clear of people and spirits. When he told them to move I thought they’d remain close by, not disappear. “Damn things on ‘em,” Dean answers, moving past me to go in headfirst. “Sammy!” he yells. But there’s no response. “What could be left behind?” I ask, following after him, “We saw her urn!”

“I don’t know,” he throws back. Something crashes and slides fast behind me. I spin around, a large wooden cupboard now blocking the remains of the front door. Closing us in. “Really?” I get it doesn’t want us to leave but I just broke the door. “Sammy!” Dean yells. Something else slams and this time Dean’s gone too. “Dean! Sam!” I call, moving further down the hall. How big is this house? My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fumble for it, flipping it open before I can catch more than the first letter of the name. “Where did you go? I looked away for two seconds and you were gone. Are you with Sam?”

“I’m a little stuck right now,” he answers, his voice sounding a little gruffer.

“Where are you?” I repeat, spinning around slowly for any sign of where he went.

“That doesn’t matter I–”

“It kind of does,” I cut him off.

“Listen,” he says firmly. “I need you to do something for me, sweetheart,” he groans.

“Dea—”

“Think you can do somethin’ for me?”

“Yeah, Dean jus—”

“You gotta get back to the mausoleum and burn the doll, it might have her real hair,” he directs. ”The keys are in Baby, g—”

“I can get there quicker than that,” I cut him off. “Just…be safe and find Sam.” I hang up before he can say anything more. I roll my shoulders back, I can do this. I’ve teleported before. Hell, I managed to teleport to a place I’d never seen before back with the asylum hunt. This may be further but I’ve been there once so that’s going to have to be close enough. Also, I have no time for this. I exhale, summoning my powers forward. I don’t have time to focus on what I want as I did at the asylum. So, I put all my hope into it working as simply as I can. I flick my wrist and envision the inside of the mausoleum. Then…I’m there.

Man, I’m getting good at this. 

I waste no time in sending a small blast of energy at the glass covering. It shatters in the box, covering the doll in glass. Carefully, I lift the doll out of the box and hold it in one hand as I hold my pointer finger up. A little flame ignites from the tip of my finger, not hurting me in the slightest. “Sorry doll,” I mumble, holding her hair over the flame. Quickly, it ignites. Her brown hair goes up in flames and with it, I hope, the spirit of the ghost girl. I shake off my finger flame, not needing it anymore with how flammable the hair is. I put the doll down on the stone floor, letting it go up in flames as I take out my phone. I click on Sam’s contact, bouncing on the balls of my feet, nervously, as it rings. Please be okay. “Sam! Oh my god, are you guys okay? Did it work?” 

“We’re not bad.”

At the auction house, workers buzz around packing various things up in crates. The spirit is dead for good this time and no one else got hurt. “This was archived in the county records,” Dean announces, walking over with some papers. “The Merchant’s adopted daughter Melanie. Know why she was up for adoption? ‘Cause her real family was murdered in their beds.”

“She killed them?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah,” Dean answers. “Who’d suspect her? ‘Sweet little girl. So when she kills Isaiah and his family. The old man takes the blame. His spirit’s been trying to warn people ever since.”

“Guess she figured she couldn’t get away with it twice,” I say, thinking out loud. Yet, through death, she was able to get away with it continuously. 

“So where’s this one go?” One of the workers asks, holding up the Merchant family portrait.

“Take it out back and burn it,” Sarah directs. Both workers seem to pause at once, looking at her strangely as if she might be joking despite her serious tone. “I’m serious guys. Thanks,” she insists. She looks back at us, the workers walking off with the painting. “So why’d the girl do it?”

“Killing others? Killing herself? Some people are just born tortured. So when they die, their spirits are just as dark,” Sam answers.

“Maybe,” Dean adds and I agree with that far more than the idea that people are born evil when it’s more complicated than that. “I don’t really care,” he continues, “It’s over, we move on.”

“Ahh,” Sarah sighs. “I guess this means you’re leaving.”

I nudge Dean as he looks between the two. This is our cue to leave. “We’ll go wait in the car,” Dean says. “See you, Sarah.”

“It was nice meeting you,” I add, giving a little wave before we head out. “Now I can give you your thing,” I tell Dean.

“What ‘thing’?” he asks, looking confused.

“You’ll find out in just a second,” I laugh, skipping in front of him. I get to the car first and open the back door. I bend down as I open my duffle, taking what I left on top in my hands. I zip up my bag and turn to him holding it behind my bag before the big reveal. “Okay, it’s stupid,” I warn. “But here.” I hold out the magazine he had been reading at the old bookstore the other day. His eyebrows rise, and his mouth parts as if he wants to say something, except nothing comes out of his mouth he just smiles and takes it from my hands. “Sweetheart…” he trails off, looking down at the magazine. I smile brightly as he looks at it, practically beaming where I stand.

Then, a knock swifts both of our attentions. I look up at the auction house door, Dean turning to do the same. And right there in the doorway, Sam kisses Sarah, his head bent down to her level and his hands on her waist. “That’s my boy,” Dean smiles.

(Next Chapter)

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl

[imjustajade]

omgggg look at what i found at the thrift store for $2.99

[its-an-obsession]

Hunter Smart

Supernatural Masterlist | Full Masterlist

Part One

Request: Okay, so I just finished Book Smart and AAAAAAAAAAA - it was so amazing! Now, I know I just requested a one-shot, and you are totally welcome to tell me no on this, but may I request a part 2 to Book Smart..? if you do not have any ideas, I've got a couple; otherwise, I'd love to see where you go with it❤

A/N: Yay!! I'm so glad you liked it. And I'm so sorry this is super, super late! I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: A couple months have passed since your date with Sam, and the two of you have talked on the phone almost every day, video chatted, and have even sent letters when you can. He had stopped by your town a few weeks ago before continuing their trip. After that, you visit your hometown to see your family. During the visit, you can't help but notice a strange phenomenon. Remembering Sam and Dean's profession, you don't hesitate to call Sam.

Notes:

Y/N/N: Your Nick Name

Y/L/N: Your Last Name

Y/F/M: Your Favorite Movie

Eliza and Joe are your parents

Set during season two

Long Imagine

Warnings: language, a couple of time skips

Sam Winchester x-reader

(One Month Ago: Third POV)

"So, how was last week's hunt?" Y/N asked, swinging her arm as they held hands. Sam chuckled and put an arm over her shoulders. "It was something," he said. Y/N smiled at his response. She leaned her head against his arm.

The two of them had been walking in a park near Y/N's apartment. Sam was sweet and cooked them an early dinner before heading to the park. He told Y/N that Dean had asked to come, but of course, Sam convinced him to stay at their motel. "You know, you could've stayed at my apartment," Y/N said, "You didn't have to stay in another motel."

Sam smiled. He held her hand as they sat down at a bench overlooking a little pond. "I know, but I didn't want to intrude," Sam said. "You could never," Y/N put her head back on his shoulder. He kissed her on the forehead, resting his head on top of hers.

It was quiet between them as they looked at a few people fish in the small pond. Sam held Y/N's hand, running his thumb on the side. She looked up at him and couldn't help but smile at him. Y/N always thought it was funny how they met.

But she loved that he was committed to continuing their relationship regardless of whether he and Dean traveled a lot. And Sam was surprised that she wasn't taken aback when he told her about his family.

The conversation was tough, sure, but she didn't bombard him with questions. Instead, she sat there and let him explain. He didn't want to lie to her. Sam wanted to be honest, especially since he wasn't always in one place.

Sam felt her eyes on him. He looked down at her before kissing her forehead softly. She closed her eyes at the feeling of his lips on her face. "What're you doing tomorrow?" Sam asked. "Not much," Y/N replied. Sam smiled, softly kissing her lips.

He pulled back, his hand cupping her face, running a finger along her cheekbone. "Want to head back to your apartment?" Sam said. Y/N smiled. Sam stood up from the bench, reaching out for her hand.

________

(A Week Later: Third POV)

Y/N put some dishes into the dishwasher as she was on the phone with Sam. He and his brother were on their way to South Dakota to visit a family friend, Bobby Singer. Y/N could hear Dean talking in the background as Sam was trying to explain something to her. "Dean, just shut up," Sam said.

"Bitch," Dean said.

"Jerk."

Y/N rolled her eyes and closed her dishwasher. She leaned against the kitchen counter, holding her phone to her ear. "Do I need to let you go?" she asked. "No, no, it's fine," Sam said. Y/N smiled, walking over to her living room to sit down. "What're you doing right now?" Sam asked.

She draped the blanket, from the back of the couch, over her legs. "Not a whole lot. Just got back from the store," Y/N answered. Sam smiled, leaning back in his seat. Dean glanced at his brother and then at the road ahead of them.

Sam ignored Dean's look and leaned to the side so his head rested against the window. "Sounds like loads of fun," Sam commented. Y/N laughed and pulled the blanket closer to her. "Let me know when you get to Bobby's, okay?" Y/N said. "Yeah, yeah, of course," Sam replied, nodding.

It fell quiet for a split second. Y/N grabbed the TV remote to try to find a movie to watch. "Y/N/N, I'll let you go, and I'll call you tonight, okay?" Sam said. Y/N smiled at the nickname and nodded her head. "Yeah," she replied. They said their goodbyes, hanging up the phone. The smile didn't drop from her face when she faced the television.

Sam smiled to himself and looked out of the window as the trees passed. Dean glanced at Sam then the road of them, like he had been doing for the past five minutes; including the phone call. Sam rolled his eyes and turned to look at his older brother.

"What?" Sam said.

"Nothing, nothing," Dean shrugged. Just you...." Dean paused for a second and continued to speak. "You seem happy, for once," he added. Sam nodded and looked out of the window again, still a small smile on his face.

________

(A Couple Months Later - Third POV)

"How do you do it?" Y/N asked, sitting on her bed as she was on the phone with Sam. Sam furrowed his brows and propped up against some pillows on the motel bed. "What do you mean?" he questioned. "Well," Y/N sighed, "How do you do all your hunting stuff and still have time for me?"

There was that expression again. Sam crossed his arms, leaning up against the pillows with the same smile. "I don't know. You're special, I look forward to talking to you," Sam said. Y/N blushed and nodded, thankful that he couldn't see the effect he had on her.

"Well, I am honored," Y/N said.

There was a short pause between them. Sam usually spared the details when talking about hunts with Y/N. "Anything interesting happen since we last talked?" Sam asked. "Uh...." Y/N trailed, looking around her room in thought.

"I killed a few gnats near my plants today, so that was very eventful," Y/N remarked, "Oh, and I surprisingly fixed my dishwasher. It was acting up this morning, and I don't know how I did it. But I fixed the little tray at the top, and it started. I call it a miracle."

Sam laughed. Dean walked into the motel room after stopping by the diner down the street. It seemed that every waking moment, Sam was on the phone with Y/N. Typically, Dean would tell him to get back onto the case. However, Dean encouraged the calls.

"Wow, sounds like you did a lot."

"Yeah, I'm pretty cool," Y/N said, sighing. Y/N picked at the frayed edges of her comforter as they continued to talk. Sam told her about a few case details for their hunt, seeing if she had any other insight. Of course, her love for books helped a little bit.

"Oh, I'll be out of town this week visiting my family. But I should still be able to talk," Y/N informed. Sam nodded and sat up in bed. "Just let me know if you need anything. I'm only one call away," Sam reminded.

"I know," Y/N said, flattening out the edges of her blanket. "I'm gonna call it a night. I've gotta get up early for work in the morning," Y/N sighed. "Alright, I'll talk to you tomorrow," Sam said.

"Yeah," Y/N nodded, hanging up the phone.

Sam set his phone on the table and stood up from the bed to see what Dean had gotten. All the while, Dean was sitting at the table, chowing down on a burger and fries.

________

(A Week Later: Y/N's POV)

It was about a five-hour drive from my apartment to Crossville, my hometown. Thankfully, I had a couple of CDs with some of my favorite music, including one that Sam and I made together. A couple hours passed, and I arrived at my parent's house.

My mom, Eliza, ran down the steps when she saw my car parked in the driveway. I smiled and stepped out of the driver's side. "There's my girl," Eliza greeted. She wrapped her arms around me, swaying from side to side.

"How was the drive?" she let me go. I smiled and stepped towards the backseat to grab my things.

"Not bad. I hit a bit of traffic, but nothing major."

I closed the car door, slipping my arm through the strap of my duffle bag. My mom grinned and put an arm around me.

The two of us walked to the front door, where my father was waiting. She opened the door and helped me with my things. "Joe, your beautiful and loving daughter is here!" she shouted. He jumped from the recliner and walked to the foyer.

My dad gave me a tight hug, making me think that he'd never let me go. He's always been like that. "Your room's upstairs as always," my dad said, letting me go with his hands on my shoulders. "Don't worry. We didn't touch it," my mom added.

I laughed and walked up the stairs. My childhood bedroom was at the end of the hallway. The smile on my face grew ten times when I noticed the lilac-colored walls looked the same. I could even see traces of daisies that I attempted to draw when I was fourteen.

(Third POV - At Bobby's House)

Sam leaned against the couch, watching a random show he found on cable. He looked down at his phone after not hearing from Y/N for a couple hours. Sam glanced at the TV one more time before giving his girlfriend a call.

"Hey, Sam," Y/N said, putting her phone on speaker. She began unpacking her bag while he was still on the phone. "Did you get to your parent's house alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, just got here a few minutes ago. I'm unpacking now," Y/N said, taking the phone with her as she put her clothes into the dresser. "Good. How was the drive?" he questioned. "Trafficy, but nothing I can't handle," Y/N answered.

Sam chuckled at her response. Y/N finished unpacking her bag and set it beside her dresser. "What're you gonna do?" he asked. "Nothing for change, it'll be nice," Y/N answered. Sam smiled. He told her a bit of what he and Dean were doing. It sounded like they were back at Bobby's for the week.

They continued talking for a few minutes until Sam had to go. Sam smiled as he hung up the phone (GIF Above).

________

(Later That Night: Y/N's POV)

My mom had prepared one of my favorite meals in honor of my visit. She, my dad, my brother, and I had a talk about what's happened the past few years, mainly talking about how I left so suddenly. After considering my feelings, they apologized.

The conversation went better than I had initially thought. "So, Y/N, how's the job going?" Alec, my brother, asked. "Good, good. My coworkers are great. And surprisingly, I have a flexible and considerate boss," I replied.

Alec chuckled and handed me the pitcher of Lemonade. I thanked him, pouring a glass for myself and my mom. It was quiet between us. We had already exhausted the use of topics, mainly consisting of what had been going on in my life and theirs.

Speaking of topics, I purposefully didn't mention Sam, knowing that my parents would ask a bunch of questions and would want to meet him ASAP. It was a quiet dinner, but not an uncomfortable type of quiet. I helped my mom clean up the dishes before settling in on the living room couch.

"Hey, Y/N/N," my mom said, peeking her head into the living room. I looked up from the TV and over at my mom. "Do you mind stopping by the store real quick?" she asked. I shook my head, standing up from the living room sofa. "What do you need?" I asked.

"We're out of paper towels, and there's a spill in the kitchen," she answered. My mom handed me a small list, and I headed to the grocery store. It wasn't a very long drive from my parent's house to the store, so I parked my car closest to the entrance.

Thankfully, I had gotten to the grocery store about thirty minutes before closing. I quickly found the aisle where most of the items were. As I coasted down the frozen treats aisle, the lights above began to flicker. I ignored it and continued down the aisle, excusing it for the store's poor electricity? I don't know.

I found some of my dad's favorite ice cream and dropped it into the grocery basket. The man at the register smiled at me as I put the basket on the conveyor belt. He scanned the food items and set them into some bags. I wished him a good night, picking up the bags as I made my way over to the sliding doors.

When I unlocked the doors, my car beeped. I set the bag in the trunk and opened the driver's side door. The store's front sliding doors opened just as the cashier from earlier walked out. He turned around and locked the doors behind him. I started my car and made sure everything was all good.

While pulling out of the parking spot, I couldn't help but notice a black shadow extending across the lot ahead of me. Taking my knowledge from watching horror movies, I neglected the spot and continued driving out.

Once I reached the stop sign to exit, I heard loud and terrifying screaming coming from the parking lot.

At the sudden sound, I felt my whole body go stiff. I tried pressing the gas on my car, but my body prevented me from doing so. The shadow from earlier took over the damp concrete, causing the tall lights to burst. That's when I noticed the shadow had taken the shape of a tall figure with long and narrow arms, its eyes glowing a piercing red.

Its slow pace began to speed up once it noticed my car. My breathing grew uneven, and my survival instincts finally took over. I pressed on the gas and turned awkwardly down the street, speeding home. I couldn't help but glance behind me every once in a while to make sure it wasn't following me.

________

(Later That Night)

I sat on my bed, my back pressed against the headboard with my blanket covering my legs. The TV that sat on my dresser was on, but I wasn't really paying any attention to it. After seeing that....that thing I sped home and gave the groceries to my mom. I already knew she wouldn't believe me.

So, rather than explaining why I looked as pale as a ghost, I said I wasn't feeling well and went straight upstairs. From there, I took a brisk shower and then hopped into bed. And now, here I am, staring into space with the television on in the background.

My mind kept replaying what the hell I saw and heard. None of which I understood. But I know who would: Sam and Dean.

________

(The Next Day)

Before I went to sleep, I immediately called Sam. I felt bad for calling him late at night, knowing that he was probably in the middle of something, but he assured me that I wasn't interrupting anything. Thankfully, he and his brother were not on a hunt, and they'd come to Crossville as soon as possible.

I had gotten a few hours of sleep, but not enough to keep me alive throughout the day. Since Sam and Dean were coming into town, I told my parents that some friends were passing through and wanted to meet up.

Of course, my mom wanted to meet them, which also meant that she'd have to meet Sam. I sat on the front porch of my parent's house, busying myself with reading a book. The familiar roar of the Impala tore me away from the book.

I looked up from the page and smiled when Dean pulled into the driveway. I stood from the bench, dropping the book on the cushion. The two brothers stepped out of the car. Sam closed the door behind him and ran over to me. He met me halfway and instantly wrapped his arms around me.

He kissed me on the temple and set his chin on the top of my head, hugging me tightly. "My parents are out right now," I said. Sam nodded, letting me go with his hands on my shoulders. "You holdin' up okay?" he asked.

"Can't get the thing out of my head," I answered. Sam nodded again and kissed me on the forehead. I led them through the front door and into the living room. "Did ya'll want anything to drink?" I offered.

"Uh, water's fine, Y/N/N," Sam said, sitting down on the couch. I nodded and stepped into the kitchen. The boys sat in the living room as I grabbed them some water.

"Thanks," Dean said, taking a quick sip before setting the water on the coffee table. It was quiet for a bit until Sam broke it. "So, I know you explained last night, but tell me what you saw?" he asked. I sat down on the other side of Sam as Dean was in the chair across.

"Well, I noticed a shadow, to begin with, but didn't really pay any attention to it," I explained, "Then when I was pulling out of the lot, that's when I heard screaming. And I looked behind my car, and that's where it was. It was this tall shadow, and it eventually turned into a black figure with these arms. It had these terrifying red eyes."

Sam set a hand on my knee as I explained. I smiled softly and set a hand on top of his. "When it started walking towards my car, I left," I added, "Then I checked the news this morning, y'know, out of habit. That's when I saw that a man's body had been found in the grocery store's parking lot."

Sam's brows raised. "It was the same guy who had checked out my groceries," I finished. Dean took another sip of his water and cleared his throat. "Did you get anything else on the 'thing'?" Dean asked.

I thought for a while and shook my head. "Only that it was slow and dark," I said. The brothers were quiet for a while as they exchanged looks. I looked between them and spoke. "Look, I have no idea what this thing is. But I know what I saw. I know it was out of the ordinary and something that I wish I never knew existed," I said.

Sam glanced at me and nodded, lacing my fingers with his. "You think you could show us the grocery store?" he asked. "Yeah," I answered, nodding. The three of us got into the beloved Impala and headed to the store. Sure enough, the parking lot had been cornered off where the man's body had been discovered.

It looked like there was still police there. Dean parked the car, but before we stepped out, he reached into the glove compartment. I watched as he pulled out two faux FBI badges. My brows raised at the sight. Sam looked back at me, shooting me a reassuring smile.

We stepped out of the car and walked over to the parking lot. There was a line of yellow crime scene tape. A local sheriff walked over to where we stood. Sam and Dean, almost on instinct, pulled out their 'badges'. The sheriff simply nodded and lifted the tape for them.

He glanced at me as I stood there, not really knowing what to do. "She's with us," Dean mentioned. The sheriff slowly nodded and let me through. "Does this look familiar?" Sam asked.

I nodded. "That's where the shadow was," I pointed at two light posts, separated by a median between them, with a small patch of grass on it.

"When I was pulling out over there, the shadow was slowly making its way to the cashier and his car," I said, "Then I heard the scream as I was beginning to leave."

"Did the lights flicker before, after, or during?" Dean asked, looking at the blood stains on the concrete. "During," I replied. Dean nodded, walking towards the light posts. He walked a few steps and stopped, where I said the shadow had transformed into a figure. He looked over at Sam, using his expression to talk.

It seemed that the two of them only needed to look at each other to know what they were thinking. I looked around and stood there, taking notice of the blood stains. That's when I noticed something. There were scratch marks along the dark concrete.

"Sam, Dean," I said, gaining their attention.

At the sound of my voice, they both turned over to look at me. I pointed to the markings on the ground. Sam stepped over to me, setting a hand on my lower back as he passed me. They shared yet another look.

________

(A Few Days Later)

The boys found some EMF readings at the parking lot, which I'm still trying to understand, but it's a work in progress. It had been a few days since we investigated the parking lot, and only one more body had been discovered. The three of us decided to stop by a local restaurant in my hometown.

"So, what're you thinking it is?" I asked, sitting beside in the booth.

Dean walked over to the booth after speaking to the hostess at the front of the restaurant. "Not sure," Sam answered, "Leaning toward Shadow People." Sam grabbed a journal from his satchel.

He opened a page and pushed it towards me. "I mean, you said that it was this tall figure-like thing that flickered and had weird eyes, right?" Sam said. I nodded, still looking at the journal.

Sam took a sip of his water and shared a look with Dean, who had sat across from us. I handed my boyfriend the journal again. "So, is this what your hunts normally look like?" I asked, "Educational guess, with a few theories?" Dean tilted his head from side to side, his brows raised.

"Yeah, yeah, pretty much," he said.

I nodded in response, playing with the salad a bit. Sam glanced at me and then his plate of food. "We'll figure it out, Y/N/N," Sam said. He set a hand on top of mine, squeezing it in reassurance. I looked up at him and nodded. The three of us had our lunch, mainly talking about what should happen next.

Afterward, Dean drove the Impala to my parent's house. He parked the car in the driveway and let Sam walk me to the front door. "I can help, y'know," I said, "I was the one who saw it." Sam chuckled and nodded his head, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I know, but I can't risk you getting hurt," he said, "Dean and I have been doing this longer than you have. I mean, you've only been doing it for, like, three days."

I sighed and nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you've got a point," I said. Sam smiled and stopped walking. The two of us stood in front of the steps leading up to the porch. Sam took his hand out of his pocket, reaching for my hand.

He laced our fingers, running his thumb along my knuckles. "You'll be safer here than out there with me and Dean," Sam said, "We know what we're doing, Y/N/N." He raised our clasped hands to his lips, lightly kissing my knuckles.

"Got it," I said, ignoring the fluttering in my stomach. Sam kissed me on the forehead before giving me a quick hug. We said our goodnight and goodbyes. I watched from the front porch as Dean pulled the Impala out of the driveway and down the street.

________

(Later That Night)

Sam and Dean had both updated me through the rest of the day. My parents were out, again, with a friend of theirs in the town over. Even though I wasn't too fond of being alone, I didn't want my parents to think their daughter was going insane. So, in the meantime, I had my leftovers from lunch and watched my Y/F/M's.

After the first movie ended, I put on the second one. The whole night was quiet. Typically, I would like that, but currently, I hate it. I kept the movie a little louder than usual and all the lights on inside the house. I threw the empty leftovers container into the trash and grabbed a drink from the fridge.

When I sat down on the couch, I noticed the front porch lights starting to flicker. I watched them for a second, remembering that the wires weren't secured correctly. I ignored the action and continued to watch my movie. But that's when I kept seeing it in the corner of my eye.

Then, as if things couldn't get worse, the lights outside sparked and never turned back on. I stayed on the couch, my eyes strained on the front door. My hands gripped the blanket draped over my legs. It almost felt like the blanket would be stuck to my hands if I happened to let go. The whole house went quiet despite the hum of the ceiling fan and the laughter coming from the TV.

I felt my heart race, and I could hear it in my ears. It was like the whole parking lot incident over again. I took a deep breath and released it out through my nose and then my mouth, regulating my fear.

It was then that I saw the reflection of two long arms in the window beside the door. "Shit," I mumbled. I let the blanket go from my grasp, allowing it to drop from the couch and onto the floor. The movie kept playing in the background as I rose from the leather couch.

My pace was slow, and my eyes were still on the front of the door and windows. I quickly made it to the kitchen, grabbing the UV-A flashlight and knife Dean had given me. They had mentioned something about the creature's weakness.

I didn't know if that would work, but my choices were limited at this point. I pressed my back against the frame of the opening that led into the hallway. The sound of the front door creaking stopped me from going anywhere else. I held the knife in one hand and the flashlight in the other.

The hardwood flooring made unsettling sounds from the porch. I wanted to close my eyes, hoping that that would somehow make the Shadow Figure disappear. I slowly peered over the edge of the frame, noticing that the thing wasn't there. With furrowed brows and slow actions, I cautiously stepped away from the frame.

I crept down the hall, keeping the grip tight on the knife and flashlight. The figure had found its way into the living room. It stood in the middle with his gaze on the TV playing Y/F/M. My breath hitched in the back of my throat, and I quickly pressed my back against the wall, hiding myself.

The air around me suddenly went cold, too cold for my liking. The floorboards creaked, the sounds slowly making their way towards me. My eyes stayed forward, but I could feel the figure moving nearby. I whipped around and pointed the UV-A flashlight at the Shadow Figure.

"Duck!" I heard a voice shout.

And I did just that. My hands let go of the knife and flashlight. I crawled over to the wall, pressing myself against it. Screeches were heard from above me as I felt someone roughly grabbing me by the arm. My boyfriend brought me up from the ground and outside.

Flashes from inside my parents' house followed by a loud scream that thankfully didn't belong to Dean. Sam held me in his arms, one arm wrapped around my waist, his hand cradling my head. "You're okay, you're okay," he repeated, his lips lingering on my forehead.

I wrapped my arms tight around him, trying to shield myself from what I just witnessed. "I got you," he said, not taking his grip away from me.

________

(A Few Days Later)

After the incident at my parents' house, Sam hadn't really left my side, and I didn't mind that. Sam and his brother stuck around for a few days, telling me that they needed a break anyway. It was their second-to-last night in Crossville, and my parents wanted to finally meet Sam and Dean.

I stood beside the door, awaiting the sound of Baby down the street. My mom was over the moon to meet Sam and Dean. I had told her a little bit about them, but unfortunately, some of them were lies, keeping their monster hunter profession on a down low. My mom was setting the table as the Impala pulled into the parking lot.

I opened the door just as Sam was about to knock. Dean followed pursuit with a bottle of wine in his hand. That was most definitely Sam's idea. My mom rounded the corner with a cheerful expression painted on her face. I stepped aside so the two boys could walk in.

Sam hugged me, giving me a tight squeeze before letting me go. Dean shut the front door and joined Sam's side. My mom glanced at me and then at the two boys. Sam stuck out his hand to shake my mom's. She grinned and accepted the gesture.

"I'm Sam," he introduced, "Y/N's boyfriend, and this is my older brother, Dean." Dean waved with the bottle of wine. My mom's expression turned to pure excitement if she wasn't even more excited than before. She grinned and gave both of them a tight hug.

"Oh, you're a hugger," Dean said.

I chuckled despite my heart racing when Sam introduced himself as my boyfriend. "This is for you, Mrs. Y/L/N," Dean said, handing my mom the bottle of wine. She thanked him and took the bottle.

Before I could say anything, my mom was leading Sam and Dean into the kitchen. Sam stopped for a second and looked over at me, noticing my expression. He grabbed my hands and pulled me close to him. "Boyfriend?" I questioned.

He shrugged and leaned down to lightly kiss me. With that, the two of us stepped away from the foyer and to the kitchen, where my mom was showing Dean around.

Taglist: @nix-rose @nyotamalfoy

[manichewitz]

rewatching supernatural season one is such a trip bc seeing sam and dean talk about following the orders of their father when he's not even around to give them, only having a leatherbound book he wrote to decipher what he wants, and arguing over whether or not they should have faith in him, when i know what i know about how the next several seasons play out, is like. wow. god really is just another absent father

[dog-weeds]

supernatural season 1 episode 10

These pictures are so aesthetic

[madelinksi]

Writing Fandom Songs - Supernatural

so my roommate and i are watching Season 1 Supernatural (it’s my first time EVER, i am enraptured !!), and i was first inspired by the Bloody Mary Episode! here is the cutie that i wrote!!! gotta love a vengeance song

BLOODY MARY

i am the ghost you never see

the mirrors you can’t break

because you’ll lose me

i can see past your wandering soul

the lies that you tell

the dirt on the hill

freshly packed in, sunrise asking

what’s with this shovel and new terrain?

evil’s gotten good at hiding

in plain sight, a monster a man

he’s the same

told me the world was a hunting game

you gotta be quick

if they find you as prey

who would’ve thought your tables would turn

your house that i’m haunting

your curtains i burn

smelling charcoal, sunset doubtful

you’ll make it out of this without pain

evil’s gotten good at hiding

in plain sight, a monster a man

he’s the same

i’ll call your father and tell him you’re fine

he’ll be confused knowing that i’m alive

wiping my hands on your face one last time

how gorgeous the demon i’d mistakenly find

body broken, midday open

sun on your shining new grey tinted eyes

evil’s gotten good at hiding

in plain sight, a monster a man

better off dead than alive

you’re better off dead than alive

[luulapants]

[eightypercentjack-blog]

So early on but forever a fave episode. This was so high on the sickly sexy scale 😉

Plus bonus Darla and awesome use of BÖC!

[secretsoftheuniverse1987]

my brain loves to choose individual seasons of television to fixate on and watch on repeat, so, yes, i am still watching white collar but really i am watching season one over and over and over again

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: Dean gets a second chance to right a wrong from his past when they get a mysterious tip from his father about a case they'd worked years ago.

Warnings: Cannon violence

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred

Word Count: 9,145

Something Wicked

(Master list, Prev. Ch, Next Ch, Outfit Board)

The boys bicker back and forth rapidly. “Yeah. You probably missed something, that’s what,” Dean argues. Nothing truly brings out an argument like their Dad and his directions. “Dude, I ran LexisNexis, local police reports, newspapers, and I couldn’t find a single red flag. Are you sure you got the coordinates right?” Sam spits back. 

“Yeah, I double-checked. It's Fitchburg, Wisconsin. Dad wouldn't have sent us coordinates if it wasn't important Sammy.” “Well, I'm telling you I looked and all I could find was a big steamy pile of nothing. If Dad's sending us  hunting for something I don't know what.” “Well maybe he's going to meet us there,” Dean suggests. However, I thought it was pretty clear their Dad didn’t want to interact with them again until it was all over, safety and such. “Yeah. Cause he's been so easy to find up to this point.” “You're a real smart ass you know that?.... Don't worry I'm sure there's something in Fitchburg worth killing.” “Yeah? What makes you so sure?” “Cause I'm the oldest, which means I'm always right,” Dean smirks.

“Dude, no it doesn’t,” I chime in, “That holds no merit.”

“It totally does,” he retorts, “And I’d know, I’m the oldest.”

“Yeah, by two years,” I point out, catching his eye in the mirror, “So don’t get ahead of yourself there, cowboy.” But he just shrugs, that smug smile on his lips, “Those years make all the difference. ‘Cause guess what….” he pauses, “I’m still older.”

A slight breeze rustles through the trees. It’s chillier today than it had been the last couple of days. Gloomier too. The clouds seem to swallow the sky with a gray hue. The town is bare and quiet as if the clouds had drawn them away. Even the playground is empty.

A warm drink is nudged into my hands, pulling me from my thoughts as my chilled fingers find their way around the to-go cup that Dean settles there. He leans his head down, his eyes catch mine before he releases the cup into my possession. His green eyes are serious, eyebrows pinched together just slightly, a silent question. A small smile breaks on my lips as I give a gentle nod, confirming I’m okay. I’m unsure why he decided to check up on me but God is he lovely regardless of how simple the action was. “Well…the waitress thinks the local Freemasons are up to something sneaky but other than that no one’s heard about anything freaky going on,” Dean informs, joining our leaning against the Impala. 

I hum in recognition, taking a careful sip of the hot liquid encased in my cup, “Today’s not a holiday, is it?” I ask. 

“No,” Dean answers, “Why?”

“Look at the time,” Sam points out, seemingly picking up on my point too. The older Winchester lifts his wrist up, looking at his watch, “Ten after four….” his eyes follow to where Sam directs. A lone girl in a pink sweater and pigtails climbs on a bare playground. No other children around, hell, no other adults around except for the woman who must be the young girl's guardian sitting on a bench. “…School’s out isn’t it?” Dean asks, connecting the dots. 

“Mhm,” I hum, “But where are the kids?” 

“This place should be crawling with them,” Sam adds. 

Dean takes that as his sign to step forward. He places a hand on my upper arm, nodding his head in the direction of the barren park, silently beckoning me to join him. I comply, moving with him across the dead street to the park. Carefully, we approach the woman who sits on a park bench, her magazine coming into view. “Sure is quiet out here,” Dean announces, gaining the woman’s attention. She looks up from her reading, “Yeah, it’s a shame.”

“What happened?” I ask softly, knowing it has to be something serious for it to be like this. “You know, kids getting sick, it’s a terrible thing,” she says, a frown pulling on the corner of her mouth. Yet, the way her eyes become locked on her child, the way something like worry flashes in her eyes hints this is more than the common cold or flu. “How many?” Dean asks, his voice rather solemn. 

“Just five or six but serious, hospital serious. A lot of parents are getting pretty anxious. They think it’s catching,” she explains. And there it is, the likely reason why we’re here. 

The Hospital reeks of, well, hospital. The clean yet almost sickly smell and the bright fluorescent lights wouldn’t suggest any foul play, or that a horrible sickness was hospitalizing kids. I’m not sure if I want this to be our sort of case or not, on one hand, if it is then we can solve it and maybe fix this mess but if it isn’t then it’s on the doctors to think of something to help, except if they can’t; then we’re all helpless. “Dude,” Sam hits his brother's shoulder, “Dude, I am not using this ID,” he complains even though we’re already here, already clad in professional clothes. “Why not?” Dean counters.

“‘Cause it says bikini inspector on it!” Sam grumbles, eyes fluttering every which way to make sure no one heard him. He holds up the ID in question, his little photo next to a normal name, and an insane job position. I haven’t a clue where Dean even produced this from. “Do you want me to use mine?” I ask, ready to save him the trouble and embarrassment. 

“Please,” he answers, shoulders deflating. 

“No, no,” Dean pauses us, “He’s a big boy he can do it himself. She won’t look that close, alright?” he grins, “Hell, she won’t even ask to see it. It’s all about confidence Sammy.” He takes his brother's shoulders, spins him around, and lightly pushes him towards the receptionist's desk. I give Dean a pointed look, “That was just cruel,” I say. But, he just smiles that stupid shit-eating grin. Far more amused than he ought to be. 

It’s hardly ten seconds since Sam is at the reception desk when he holds up his ID for the lady. His brother snickers beside me and doesn’t let up even when Sam throws him a dirty look over his shoulder. If anything it worsens his laughing fit, having to drag a hand down his mouth. Soon after Sam is walking towards us with his classic bitchface and a slight pink hue on his cheeks, “See. I told you it would work,” Dean grins wildly. 

Sam huffs, shaking his head as he glares daggers at his brother, “Follow me. It’s upstairs.”

                               ****

An older man with black hair and tired eyes, the doctor, leads us down a corridor, “Well, thanks for seeing us, Dr. Hydecker,” Dean says. And I have to admit the doctor’s name reminds me so much of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, even if there isn’t any correlation. “Well, I’m glad you guys are here. I was just about to call the CDC myself,” the Doctor informs, “How’d you find out anyways?”

“Oh some GP, I forget his name, he called Atlanta and, uh, he must’ve beat you to the punch,” Dean lies seamlessly. Maybe it is all about confidence, or maybe he just has too much practice. 

“So, you say you got six cases so far?” Sam asks, getting right to the heart of it.

“Yeah, five weeks. At first, we thought it was garden variety bacterial pneumonia,” he informs, all doctor words for typical or common pneumonia, “Not that newsworthy. But now…” 

“Yeah?” I ask.

“The kids aren’t responding to antibiotics. Their white cell counts keep going down. Their immune systems just aren’t doing their job. It’s like their bodies are….” his voice grows softer, “wearing out.”

“Have you started exploring other ideas?,” I point out, crossing my arms across my chest. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get a chance to answer as a petite brunette nurse approaches with some paperwork, “Excuse me, Dr. Hyecker,” she says, handing him the forms. 

“To answer your question,” he says, peering up from the forms, “We are trying to explore other possibilities but I’ve never seen something this severe before.”

“And the way it spreads…” the nurse adds, sighing, “that’s a new one for me.”

“How so?” I ask.

“It works its way through families. But only the children, one sibling after another,” she explains and it only affirms that this must be our sort of case. As far as I’m aware no sickness works like that, nor should. Sickness doesn’t target certain age groups, which is not to say that certain age groups can’t be more susceptible to illness. But, with six cases which is likely more than two families the statistical chance of the parents not being affected lowers. And the fact that it almost strategically moves from sibling to sibling…It has to be our case. “‘You mind if we interview a few of the kids?” Dean asks. 

“They’re not conscious,” the nurse answers. 

“None of them?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised in shock.

“No,” she says simply, a frown pulling on her lips. It only makes this all the more concerning. 

“Can we, uh, can we talk to the parents?” Dean tries instead. 

“Well, if you think it’ll help,” Dr. Hydecker responds a little strangely. Why wouldn’t it help? 

“Yeah. Who was your most recent admission?” Dean asks.

                          ****

The man in front of us slouches in his chair, his eyes tired and filled with so much sorrow and fear. He holds his jacket between his legs, his hands fidgeting, and that expression seems to burn itself into my mind. The kind of look reserved for parents who worry for their kids, sick or not. “I should get back to my girls,” he insists, his voice thick with emotion.

“We’re really sorry about this all, and having to put you through this questioning. We’ll make it quick I promise,” I say softly, offering sympathy that would not fix the situation he’s going through. “Now, you say Mary is the oldest?” Sam asks, matching the solemn mood of the hospital. 

“Thirteen,” he confirms. 

“Okay. And she came down with it first, right?” Sam asks, “And then…” 

“Bethany, the next night.”

“Within 24 hours?” Sam pushes. 

“I guess,” he shrugs and it’s apparent he’s going through too much to truly focus on this conversation, “Look, I, uh, I already went through all this with the doctor.”

“Just a few more questions if you don’t mind,” Dean urges, “How do you think they caught pneumonia? Were they out in the cold, anything like that?” 

“No. We think it was an open window,” he answers. Yet, I do not attempt to suggest that it isn’t just pneumonia at play let alone that it’s unlikely that an open window by itself could cause something like this. But I’m not a doctor. “Both times?” Dean questions.

“The first time, I— I don’t really remember but the second time for sure. And I know I closed it before I put Bethany to bed,” he replies. 

“So you think she opened it?” Sam asks.

“It’s a second-story window with a ledge. No one else could’ve,” he puts it plainly, a sharp edge to his voice. 

                                    ****

Back down the corridor, we go, leaving the father to worry over his kids. God, this situation was so messed up. “You know this might not be anything supernatural. It might just be pneumonia,” Sam points out.

Immediately I’m shaking my head, “I don’t know for sure if this is supernatural but it certainly isn’t just pneumonia. Speaking of which, I don’t like the doctor.”

“Why?” Dean asks.

“Well, he’s either a sucky doctor or just not well-equipped for this case. I don’t know why he’s not already exploring new options or calling in experts when the conditions are worsening and they aren’t reacting to antibiotics. Let alone why he’s not doing more testing. I get not wanting to do anything intrusive to kids this young and with how low their white blood cells are, but, God, we’ve been here less than 30 minutes and I get the feeling that nothing is really being done to help these poor kids.”

“Someone’s passionate,” Dean remarks. I hit his arm, “Of course I am. Is this not all…I don’t know…strange?”

“I don’t know, but Dad sent us down here for a reason. I think we might be barking up the right tree,” Dean answers. 

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Sam says.

“What?”

“That guy we just talked to? I’m betting it’ll be a while before he goes home,” he elaborates.

Bethany’s room is everything you’d expect a young girl's room to be, from clothes peeking out of drawers to the various stuffed animals on her bed to the doll house in the corner. To think this girl was now lying in a bleak hospital, completely drained of all the color and life that’s presented here. I’m still not sure if I want this to be our sort of case, even if by now I’m mostly convinced it is. If it is just some sickness then maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to help. All I’d need is some time with the patients to heal them periodically. Admittedly it’d take longer than the average hunt did but at least it would feel more productive or helpful. In the meantime though I guess it was nice to be in normal clothes again. “You got anything over there?” Sam asks from one corner of the room. I get up from the floor, fixing the carpet back in place after checking beneath the rug and bed–the sort of things you just sort of have to double-check when your job is in fact about hunting the things that go bump in the night, “No, nothing here.”

“Nah, nothing,” Dean says too, waving around his EMF.

“Yeah, me neither,” Sam sighs. I move to the closet next, sparkly dresses and some costumes exploding off the hangers, but as I check the insides of the doors and the ground there's no sign of anything there. “Hey, guys?” Sam suddenly says. I look over my shoulder, shutting the closet some as I watch Sam by the open window. “Yeah,” Dean answers.

Sam stares at the windowsill, quiet for a moment before speaking, “It’s not pneumonia,” he declares. My eyebrows furrow as I step towards the window and the mysterious clue, Dean swiftly at my side. The younger Winchester scoots aside to give us room to look out the window to see a dark handprint with long skinny fingers engraved into the wood, like it was burnt or something. “It’s rotted,” Sam says, correcting my thinking process, “What the hell leaves a handprint like that?”

“I’d say something pretty darn evil,” I mumble, looking up at Dean to gauge his reaction. But his face drops. His eyes are far away like he’s in a distant land or like the world is tipping on its axis, his face is almost sickly pale, lips parted just slightly, and I’ve seen this look before. This far-away look. The look he gets when he’s reliving an unpleasant memory, stuck in the confines of his mind. I place a hand on his upper arm, trying to offer something. Maybe later, if he allows me the chance to know which memory, I can comfort him better. I cannot erase the memory or fix that sick feeling on his face but maybe I can give him comfort and security. “I know why Dad sent us here. He's faced this thing before. He wants us to finish the job,” he declares. 

It’s dark out by the time we pull up to a motel. “So what the hell is a Shtriga? I’ve never heard of it and it’s not in Dad’s journal” Sam asks as we exit the car, a name that Dean had labeled as what we’re hunting.

“They’re a type of witch from Albanian mythology and folklore,” I answer, old information from spending years researching types of witches coming back, “They feed off of the life force of children while they sleep, well, if we’re getting specific then they feed off of spiritus vitae,” the Latin slips off of my tongue with ease, a perk of having it as a second language.

“Spiri-what?” Dean attempts.

“Vitae. Spiritus vitae, it’s Latin and translates to, um, ‘spirit of life’ but I think it’s sometimes confused as ‘breath of life,’” I inform, “You know, there was this composer around 1914 who had a song with the name and I—“ I’m cut off by the clearing of his throat, an intentional move. “Right,” I exhale, feeling my face grow just a little warmer.

“Dad hunted one in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, about 16, 17 years ago,” Dean adds his information which would help explain his previous reaction, “You were there,” he directs at his brother, “You don’t remember?”

“No,” Sam answers simply.

“I guess he caught wind of the things in Fitzburg now and kicked us the coordinates,” the older Winchester elaborates.

“So wait, this…”

“Shtriga,” I fill in for Sam.

“Right. ‘You think it’s the same one Dad hunted before?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean nods, slowly heading in the direction of the motel's office.

“But if Dad went after it why is it still breathing air?” Sam asks, following after him.

“Cause it got away,” Dean says simply, almost with a lack of emotion or conviction.

“Got away?” Sam echoes.

“Yeah, Sammy, it happens,” he snaps.

“Not very often,” Sam pushes despite the clear frustration on his brother's face.

“Well I don’t know what to tell ya, maybe Dad didn’t have his Wheaties that morning,” he remarks.

“What else do you remember?” he continues to push.

“Nothin’. I was a kid alright?” he spits, opening the door to the reception area a little too harshly. For whatever reason he doesn’t want to talk about that memory, likely the same reason he looked so sick before. He may deny its existence, but his defensive response is too defensive to be the truth. We both know that. He walks straight up to the desk, hitting the little silver bell. The idle noise of a distant television continues as a young boy no older than 12 with blonde hair walks up to the counter, “A king or two queens?” he asks. The soft noise of the TV becomes accompanied by small laughter from a seemingly younger boy.

“Two rooms, two queens and one queen,” Dean answers as he has done countless times before. A brunette woman enters then, her eyes tired but her smile warm as she approaches behind the kid, “Hi,” she greets.

“Hi,” Dean answers plainly with hardly a hint of his usual flirtation. If I weren’t worried about him already I certainly would be now. “Checking in?” she asks, still wearing that bright smile. “Yeah,” he exhales.

The woman turns her attention toward the boy first, “Ahh, do me a favor, go get your brother some dinner,” she directs.

“I’m helping a guest!” his voice goes just a little higher as he defends himself. Expectantly, she gives him a pointed look and quickly he gives in, grimacing as he turns to go. “Will that be cash or credit?” the woman asks, back in business mode.

“‘You take MasterCard?” he asks and she nods, “Perfect. Here you go.” He hands over the fake card and immediately his eyes go to the boys in the back room, the older boy pouring a glass of milk for his younger brother. And once more he gets that look on his face—that far-away look.

****

“You were right, Y/N,” Sam says looking up from his laptop, “Wasn’t easy to find but you were right.”

“Naturally,” I smile, letting myself be a little cocky. He scuffs, shaking his head with a hint of that bitch face he has. “Anyways,” he starts, “I was thinking what if when she takes your vitality maybe your immunity goes to hell, and pneumonia takes hold. Shtriga’s can feed off anyone but they prefer–”

“Children,” I conclude, “That’s an interesting theory, and children, of course, have developing immune systems making them, typically, weaker than one of an adult which could be why they’re favored. That or they have more life force….Probably the latter….Definitely the latter.”

“And get this, Shtriga’s are invulnerable to all weapons devised by God and man,” he informs, a detail I was unaware of or forgotten.

“No, that’s not right,” Dean corrects, “She’s vulnerable when she feeds.”

“What?” Sam asks, leaning back from his laptop.

“If you catch her when she’s eating you can blast her with consecrated wrought iron,” he explains, “Uhhh, buckshots or rounds I think.”

“Ooh, look at you Mr. Knowledge,” I say smiling rather proudly at such a small thing. And maybe him demonstrating his knowledge was a little hot in a weird way but that stays between me and myself.

“How do you know that?” Sam asks, focused on the “important” things.

“Dad told me. I remember,” he puts it simply.

“Oh, huh,” Sam hums, “So, uh, anything else Dad might have mentioned?”

“Nope, that’s it,” he answers and we know it’s a lie. He’s clearly remembering a lot from that time period, or enough to make him act weird or uncomfortable twice now. I wish he’d just talk and share more. I know it’s not a “he doesn’t trust you enough” kind of thing but rather afraid to be vulnerable because he feels he’s not allowed to be. It’s moments like these where I particularly hate their father. “What?” Dean exclaims, looking between his brother and me—we must’ve been staring. “Nothing,” Sam exhales, “Okay. So, assuming we can kill it when it eats, we still gotta find the thing first, which ain’t gonna be a cakewalk. Shtrigas take on a human disguise when they’re not hunting.”

“What kinda human disguise?” Dean asks.

“Historically, something innocuous. Could be anything, but it’s usually a feeble old woman, which might be how the witches as old crones legend got started,” Sam explains.

“Worst misconception ever,” I shake my head.

“Hang on,” Dean says, crossing the room.

“Hanging on,” I say. He pulls out a map from his bag, unfolding it and lying it down on the bed forcing us to get up and crowd around him. “Check this out. I marked down all the addresses of the victims. Now these are the houses that have been hit so far,” his finger travels over the paper, moving to each mark, “And dead center?”

“The hospital,” I answer, eyes jumping to the center of the marks, “Man, triangulation is good.”

“The hospital,” he confirms, “Now when we were there I saw a patient, an old woman.”

“An old person huh? In a hospital? Phew,” Sam snickers, shaking his head, “Better call the Coast Guard.”

“Well listen, smart-ass, she had an inverted cross hanging on her wall.”

*****

We move past the empty reception desk, the lateness of the night giving us the perk of a bare hospital. But, apparently, it is not bare enough for Dr Hydecker to be gone. Quickly we slide down a side hallway, sticking to the wall as he walks backwards, a coat hanging in the crook of his arm, “See you tomorrow Betty,” he says to a nurse down the hall receiving a “Try to get some sleep,” in turn. He spins the right way around, walking past us as he continues down the hallway.

Taking our opportunity we continue on to the old woman’s room. Dean creeps the door open, and like on autopilot we draw our guns as we enter the room. It feels incredibly horrible to be pointing a gun at an old person, especially when she seems to be peacefully sleeping in her wheelchair facing the corner of the room. Yet, we move to the other side of the room, surrounding her. And ever so slowly Dean moves closer until he’s right beside her, and even slower he moves closer and closer to her face until— “Who the hell are you?!” she screams, turning her head towards the man in question. Dean leaps up, quite literally taking air before his back hits a wall cabinet. “Who’s there? ‘You trying to steal my stuff?” she grumbles, “They’re always stealing around here.”

I nudge Sam to hit the lights, quickly concealing my gun behind my back before they flicker on. With light soaking us we can see the old lady clearly now, her eyes clouded with a greyish fog otherwise known as cataracts. “We’re so sorry ma’am, we didn’t mean to startle you,” I say.

“We’re maintenance,” Sam cleverly adds, “We’re sorry. We thought you were sleeping.”

“Ahhh, nonsense. I was sleeping with my peepers open,” she laughs at her own joke, then gestures at the wall, “And fix that crucifix, would ya? I’ve asked four damn times already!”

*****

It’s early morning when we pull into the motel parking lot and all I want is a nice shower and either a nap or a lot of caffeine. It would’ve been worth the lack of sleep if Dean’s theory was more fruitful than it was. In fact, Sam’s still laughing about the whole ordeal, “‘I was sleeping with my peepers open’?” he quotes, laughing like a crazy person as we exit the car.

“I almost smoked that old woman, I swear. It’s not funny!” Dean replies.

“Oh man, you shoulda seen your face,” Sam snickers, whipping away a lone tear.

“No, you should’ve seen how far you jumped,” I laugh nearly bellying over, “Dude, you took flight.”

“Yeah, laugh it off,” Dean grumbles, “Now we’re back to square one.” And it’s that that sobers me up. While the ordeal was funny, the kids in the hospital aren’t. We have no more leads. We might as well be back to square negative one. Suddenly Dean holds a hand up, “Hang on,” he says halting us as he walks over to the boy from last night. The blonde boy sits on a green bench with a worried almost pained look on his face. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks the boy softly. The boy looks up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, “My brother’s sick,” he croaks.

“The little guy?” Dean asks, crouching down to see him better.

The boy nods, “Pnemunioa. He’s in the hospital. It’s my fault.” My heart might as well break. God, this was so messed up. How much life force did this damn thing need? “Ah c’mon, how?” Dean asks.

“I shoulda made sure the window was latched. He wouldn’t’ve got pneumonia if the window was latched,” he explains, rationalizing the best he can. Dean looks away for a moment, eyes meeting the ground before moving back to the boy, “Listen to me, I can promise you that this is not your fault. Okay?”

“It’s my job to look after him,” he defends, shaking his head.

“Michael!” the woman from last night suddenly calls, grabbing all of our attention. She hurries out of the motel to a black car with all sorts of bags on her shoulders and a giant blanket rolled beneath her arm, “I want you to turn on the no vacancy sign while I’m gone. I’ve got Denise covering room service so don’t bother with any of the rooms,” she orders.

“I’m going with you,” Michael declares, rising from the bench.

“Not now, Michael,” she responds, placing each item in the back seat of the car.

“But I gotta see Asher!” he argues.

“Hey, Michael. Hey,” Dean steps up, “I know how you feel–I’m a big brother too, but you gotta go easy on your Mom right now, okay?” Michael seems to take this advice, no longer arguing, even if it’s clear he doesn’t want to. “Dammit!” she suddenly curses at the drop of her purse, she buries her head in her hands. “I got it,” Sam announces, picking the small bag up and handing it to the stressed woman. “Thank you,” she responds.

“Listen, you’re in no condition to drive,” Dean starts, “Why don’t you let me give you a lift to the hospital?”

“Wait,” I say suddenly, moving closer to them or rather to him, “let me do it,” I insist. His green eyes bore into mine, asking a silent ‘you sure?’ I nod, “Yeah, I got it.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly…” she butts in, shaking her head.

“No, it’s okay, really, I wanna help,” I respond. What's another day wearing the same clothes from yesterday? It’s her turn to study me now, maybe to decide if this really will burden me or to determine if I’m trustworthy, maybe both. Either way, she hands over her keys. “Thanks,” she says, trying to manage a small smile. She turns to her son then, “Be good,” she tells him. He nods, frowning, as I help her into the passenger seat. Closing the door behind her, I turn to the boys, “I’m gonna see if I can…do something,” I explain quietly. They nod, picking up on what I meant, “Be safe,” Dean warns, eyebrows pinched in worry.

“I will,” I answer, smiling softly.

“We’re gonna kill this thing,” he adds, face dropping its worry as it’s replaced by determination, “I want it dead, you hear me?”

“Copy,” I exhale even if it was directed at both Sam and me. Then, I round the car and hop into the driver’s seat.

The second you step into this hall of the hospital you could practically feel the walls lamenting, like they too grieve for the children. It’s all parents holding on to each other as nurses bustle around, or a parent sitting over their kid's bed with their hands clasped and their head down as if in prayer. It’s horrible. I wish I could fix it all with the snap of a finger, I wish it could be as easy as that. If I were to get a moment alone with them and heal them I’m not sure if it would even work or be effective, though the ‘maybe’ isn’t going to stop me from trying.

I see the father from before, he sits between his two kids, a hand holding onto each of theirs as if holding their hands alone would be enough to keep them on this plane. Meanwhile, the very woman I drove here, Joanna, is walking away with a nurse asking question after question. And with her gone, even just a couple of feet away, I can try. I can be helpful.

I take the seat close to the bed that his mother had been occupying. He looks so small in the bed, an already small child being swallowed whole, and he is so pale like not only life but color was sucked from him.

I want this thing gone just as much as Dean does.

The monitor he’s hooked up to beats steadily as I carefully pick up his small hand from his side, it’s cold as I cup my hands around it. I take a deep breath, letting my eyes shut on the exhale, and my shoulders relax a little as I clear my mind the best I can.

I don’t care about the morals of this, of the gray area, or anything. If I can help every kid here I would, but I don’t even know if I can help this one person. Healing Dean all those months ago increased how long I can hold on for— my tolerance, but again this was a serious scale. The most I could do or try was to help the white blood cells out, to give them a break or replenish what was lost. But that’s just about the same scale of difficulty as fixing a heart affected by a heart attack, and even then one healing session only helped so much or rather so little. There would be no way for me to do multiple healings to each kid if it were to work, so maybe this would all prove to be futile— and yet trying wouldn’t kill me, while not trying might kill them.

So, I let the magic flow, using my mind's eye to envision what I want to do—what it would be like to restore the cells and strengthen them. My eyes roll close as the magic seeps further into his body through the layers of skin and flesh. It flows from my veins, the world becoming deafeningly silent as if it was all vacuumed away into a black hole. Everything falls away, and nothing else exists here. My ears buzz with the absence of sound, yet I feel the steady thrum of my heart, pulsing like a mantra in the quiet. The energy hums between us. I can sense his body’s weakness, feel the sickness clinging to him, and I push against it, hoping that my magic can reinforce what his body cannot. The warmth from my hands spreads slowly, but whether it’s healing or just comforting I do not know. It feels like a fool's bargain. Another witch has already eaten at his life force, and now, as his body sinks deeper into sickness, I’m trying to use my powers to piece it back together—something that may not even be possible. Strengthening him might not matter if he’s already bound to die because of that thing. All I might be able to offer is comfort.

The clearing of someone's throat behind me pulls me back to reality with a sharp tug. My eyesight feels slightly lopsided, the faint buzz in my ear lingers, and something warm runs down my lip. But I do not have time to dwell as I shoot up from my seat, powers flicking off with a blink as I view the interrupter. A nurse about my height smiles with a clipboard pressed to her chest, “Sorry, I have to check on him,” she explains. I nod, moving out into the hallway as I use the back of my hand to wipe away the warmth that seeps from my nose. I pull my hand away, staring at the blood that sticks out from the rest of my (s/c) skin. But, I can ignore a bloody nose when it's likely not even half of what the kids feel like. And yet I have no idea if it did anything—some witch I am.

The faint buzzing of my phone clashes with the noise in my ears. I flip my phone open and hit answer, knowing who it is without having to look, “Hey,” I exhale.

“Hey,” Sam greets, “How’s the kid?” I look back at the room, the nurse writing things down on that clipboard of hers, “Um….” It didn't seem like there was any change, “...Not good.” There's shuffling on his end, grumbling, and a distant “No dude, give me room,” followed by another shuffle before a different voice speaks, “Hi, sweetheart,” a familiar voice greets.

“Hi,” I say again, “What happened there?”

“Ah, nothing—” I can practically hear that sideways grin on his lips even as there’s more shuffling—“You sound tired, ‘you okay?”

A smile pulls on my lips at his question, at that faint concern in his voice and it’s like I can see that furrow in his brow. “Mhm,” I hum, “Tell me you guys have something, please.” The line goes quiet for a moment before there’s shuffling again, “Oh, thank you for my phone,” Sam grumbles sarcastically, he huffs before he speaks again, “Anyways, we’re at the library. I’ve been trying to find out as much as I can about this Shtriga.”

“And now you’re gonna share the great and happy news, right?” I answer hopefully.

“Well…” he drags out, “Bad news…I started with Fort Douglas around the time Dean said our Dad was there and it was the same deal. Before that, there was, uh, Ogdenville, and before that North Haverbrook, and Brockway. Every 15 to 20 years it hits a new town. This thing is just getting started in Fitzburg. In all these other places it goes on for months. Dozens of kids before the Shtriga finally moves on. The kids just…languish in comas and then they die.”

Silence hangs on the line. There is nothing to be said. There is nothing but realization to fall upon you. It has happened before. It will happen again. The kids will die. “How far back ‘this thing go?” I hear Dean ask.

“Uh, I don’t know. The earliest mention I could find is this place called “Black River Falls” back in the 1890s,” Sam answers, “Talk about a horror show….” he mumbles before cutting back in with a “Whoa.”

“What happened?” I ask quickly.

“Hold on…” the line fills with distant clicks, “I’m looking at a photograph right now of a bunch of doctors standing around a kid’s bed,” he explains, “One of the Doctors is Hydecker.”

“No,” I say almost in disbelief, my mind connecting the dots. “God, I’m so stupid.” You would think I of all people would connect these dots far sooner, but instead, my only hunch wasn’t an actual hunch and was more so just thinking that his name sounded like a book that happens to have a complex yet wicked doctor. “You’re not, none of us knew,” Sam

“What are you guys on about?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly louder, I presume he got closer to the phone.

“Look at the date,” Sam directs and the line falling silent is enough to gauge his reaction. “This picture was taken in 1893,” Sam adds.

I shake my head, this is a lot. Not only is the Shtriga someone we’ve met but it’s a doctor who has direct access to the children and the vulnerable parents. These people trust him. Talk about right under our noses. “You know this means this guy has been doing this for centuries, right?” I ask though it’s more of a rhetorical question than anything. “I’ll um….” I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling, “I’ll meet you guys back at the motel.”

How I wish he wasn’t only vulnerable when he was feeding, otherwise, when I finish with the phone I’d take care of him. “I’ll pick you up,” Dean declares, his words a little rushed and his voice far closer to the phone than before. That smile pulls on my lips again, “Okay, thank you.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid till I get there,” he adds as if he knew what I was thinking. Although, he was likely thinking the same thing. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I answer.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” he says more firmly.

“Okay,” I give in, “I won’t be an idiot.”

“Good. Be safe,” he says, cut off by some mumbling between the two boys before the line goes dead as he hangs up.

I shove my phone back into my pocket as I lean off the wall, moving towards the kids' room. He’s still lying in that bed. His heart monitor beats the same rhythmic beat, he’s still pale, still unmoving, still—-

“Does The CDC have anything so far?”

His voice makes me jump, my heart leaping in my chest. I spin towards him, a new smile already plastered on my face, “We’re still working on a couple of theories.”

What I wouldn’t give to do something now. Patience is not an easy virtue. “It’s nice to see you care as much as I do, coming on your time off and all,” his eyes briefed over my frame. I’m not in professional clothes like yesterday, although it’s not clear if he means to point it out as a way to show his suspicion. “Nothing more important than helping kids, right?” I respond with instead.

“That’s what I always say,” he adds. And I’d really like nothing more than to punch him in the face… among other things. Violent things. “Well, let me know if I can help,” he offers.

He can help by not existing anymore. “Of course, thank you,” I nod.

*****

Dean leans against the Impala, arms across his chest and daggers in his eyes. He doesn’t need to be around the doctor to be angry. I wonder if my expression resembles his—a mutual hatred for the same person. “It didn’t work,” he says, referring to my healing. He takes a few steps towards me, closing the short distance between us.

“No,” I exhale, frowning, “I don’t think at all.” Then, his arm is around my shoulder, pulling me into his side before he walks me to the passenger side of the car. I move away from his hold to be in front of him, my back to the door, “I don’t like this hunt,” I admit.

His eyes drop to the frown on my lips, his eyebrows furrowing, “Me neither.”

“Did you guys think of a plan yet?” I ask. His eyes sweep over the car, no longer willing to make eye contact or look at me at all. “Yeah, but—”

“But you don’t like it,” I finish for him. He looks at me again, his shoulders deflate, a tired expression washing over his face—it’s seeing him without his facade on. This is about more than their plan. I place a hand on his arm, “Do you want to talk about it?” But, his eyes avert again and he shakes his head like I knew he would and I nod because I will not push him. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. When he wants to. Then, he stands straight, the walls back up as he meets my eyes and I can still see the remnants of a plead. He reaches his hand up, slipping it easily onto my face to cup my cheek. And, slowly his head leans down, inching forward till he’s but a breath away. He leans his forehead against mine, his breath on my skin. I could push up and our lips would touch…

His arms wrap around me then, bringing me to his chest, keeping me close. The familiar scent of him fills my senses, this is safe even outside a hospital with an evil doctor. His head moves to my neck, those shoulders decompressing again. Maybe the walls weren’t all that up. “I messed up,” he mumbles into my skin, yet I can still hear the catch in his voice like a croak. My hand instinctively goes to the back of his head, “What do you mean?” I ask softly.

“It’s my fault all these kids are dying,” he elaborates, his tensing jaw flexing against my neck.

“How is it your fault, Dean?”

He pulls his face away, his jaw set. “Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. We were in a crap motel room for three days and I was climbing the walls. I needed to get out. When Sammy fell asleep I went to the reception area to play a game they had there. I was only gone for—gone for—” he swallows, “The Shtriga was there, feeding off of him. If my Dad hadn’t shown up when he did he would’ve—”

“Hey. Hey,” I say softly, and it’s my turn to cup his cheek now, “You made a mistake in a situation you couldn’t have possibly predicted. You were a kid. Okay? You were a kid. These kids aren't your fault.” But, he shakes his head. He won’t or can’t accept it and I know it was John who convinced him of this. “You were a kid,” I repeat.

“Sam said the same thing,” he answers instead, confirming that he had told his brother this.

“Of course he did. No one could blame you for what happened, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, I won’t make the same mistake twice,” his hands slip from me and I retract too, “It’s going to come for Michael next. We’re gonna take advantage of that.”

My eyebrows furrow. “I know you don't like it,” he quickly says, “But it will work. I'm going to kill it.”

*****

Asking a kid to be bait went just as well as one would expect. Horrible. “Well that went crappy,” Dean mumbles, “Now what?”

“He’s a kid, you can’t ask that of him,” I answer, “Maybe it’s for the better anyways.” I don’t like this plan. I don’t like the idea of putting a kid in danger, let alone exposing them to the very same world they were forced into. It’s not fair. “You can’t ask an adult to do something like that, much less a kid,” Sam adds.

Then, there’s a knock at the door. Dean gives us a questioning look before he opens it, the young boy standing there. “If you kill it, will Asher get better?” he asks quickly.

“Honestly? We don’t know,” Dean answers truthfully.

“You said you were a big brother,” Michael says. Dean nods, “Yeah.”

“You’d take care of your little brother? You’d do anything for him,” Michael asks. The man in question looks back at his brother, a look shared between them. “Yeah, I would,” Dean replies, looking back at the boy.

“Me too. I’ll help,” he says.

Dean hooks up a security camera in the corner of the room, moving it into place while Sam ensures it’s working from the next room over, watching the feed. I study every inch of the room to commit to memory. I wasn’t leaving this up to chance, I don’t care how quick we can get here because it won’t be quick enough. But, I can be here quickly, in a single second. “This camera has night vision on it so we’ll be able to see clear as day,” Dean tells Michael before calling out to his brother, “Are we good?”

“A hair to the right,” he directs, and Dean adjusts it, “There, there.”

“What do I do?” Michael asks from his bed, tucked in and sat up. This was a horrible idea. Dean moves towards him, sitting on the edge of his bed, “Just stay under the covers.”

“And if it shows up?” he asks, his voice hard with determination but his face giving away his fear.

“We’ll be right in the next room. We’re gonna come in with guns. So, as soon as we do, you roll off this bed and you crawl under it,” Dean directs.

“And if they’re too slow I’ll be here in seconds,” I add, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“How?” he asks. And although it’s an obvious question I still fumble for a good answer, “I have a trick up my sleeve,” I muse, hoping that a kid will let me leave it at that.

“What if you shoot me?” he asks now.

“We won’t shoot you. We’re good shots. We’re not going to fire until you’re clear, okay?” Dean answers, Michael nods tentatively, “Have you heard a gunshot before?”

“Like in the movies?”

“It’s gonna be a lot louder than in the movies,” he answers, and he’s so careful with this kid even though we’re putting him in a horrible position, “So, I want you to stay under the bed, cover your ears, do not come out until we say so. You understand?”

Michael nods slowly, but the fear in his eyes is prominent, his bottom lip quivering. “Michael, ‘you sure you wanna do this?” Dean asks. Silence fills the room, he isn’t sure—he shouldn’t be. This poor kid.

“You don’t have to, it’s okay, I won’t be mad,” he says softly. He’s giving this boy a choice, more than he ever got and that thought alone makes me want to cry. “No, I’m okay. Just don’t shoot me,” Michael answers.

“We’re not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

*****

The night drones on. The feed remains relatively the same except for when Michael shifts in his bed. He’s safe and I wish it could remain that way all of tonight and forevermore. I almost don't want the Shtriga to come if it means keeping him safe and away from the world I know. But, that’s not an option or a choice and the gun weighs heavy in my lap. “What time is it?” Dean asks. Sam checks his watch, “Three. You sure these iron rounds are gonna work?”

“Consecrated iron rounds, and yeah it’s what Dad used last time,” Dean answers.

“Hey, Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam suddenly says.

“For what?”

“You know, I’ve really given you a lot of crap, for always following Dad’s orders,” he elaborates, “But I know why you do it.”

“Oh, god, kill me now,” Dean grumbles, never one for vulnerable moments. Sam laughs softly, knowing to stop there. The room falls back into silence, eyes staring intensely at the screen.

Something moves outside the window, a mass of darkness, “Look,” I point out. The window slides open, the Shtriga slides inside, “Not yet,” Dean orders, placing a hand on my thigh to stop me from getting up. I throw him a sideways glance, logically I know we have to wait but everything else screams we shouldn’t.

The being in a hooded cloak creeps closer to the bed. It leans closer, and closer. I shoot up from my chair. It opens its mouth. I envision Michael’s room in my head and I’m there. “Get down!” I order, finger ready on the trigger. The side door bursts open. He rolls off the bed and I don’t waste time in shooting the thing. Over and over. Their guns accompany mine. It gets hit from two different angles. It crumbles to the ground. The guns stop. “Mike, you alright?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” he answers from beneath the bed.

“Just sit tight,” Dean directs. He approaches the Shtriga carefully, his gun at the ready. He stands over it, waiting for movement. But, there isn’t any. He relaxes slightly, he glances at us. Suddenly, the Shtriga jumps up and grabs him by the throat, moving at an inhuman speed. It lifts Dean and throws him against the wall, something shattering behind him.

It moves quicker than my eyes can follow. Suddenly, it’s on me, its long fingers wrap around my neck, lifting me up before sending me back into the far wall. My gun knocks out of my hand as I hit the floor, skidding across the wood. Then, it has Sam. It throws him into the wall and the moment he hits the ground it’s on him.

I extend my hand out, an invisible force grabbing hold of my gun. The Shtriga forces his mouth open. I drag my gun towards me as I pick myself up on my knees, the pain spreading in my back protests such action. It opens its mouth widely, a great white energy begins to extrude from Sam’s mouth. Finally, I grasp my gun, quickly I lift it and—“Hey!” Dean shouts. The shtriga looks up and he shoots it right between its eyes. It falls backwards, leaving Sam to gasp for breath. “You okay little brother?” Dean asks.

Luckily, he nods and holds up two shaky thumbs-up. I force myself to my legs, moving over to Sam to help him stand. The corpse of the Shtriga lies there with its mouth agape, white energy spews from its mouth like a puff of air in the cold. Still, Dean raises his gun and shoots it three more times. More energy escapes from it until it disintegrates, the black cloak falling in on itself. I didn’t expect it to do all that but at least it’ll be gone for good. It won’t be able to hurt any more kids or their families.

The morning seemed chipper than the previous day, like the earth knew to be happy. Or, maybe I’m just projecting because we got rid of something that caused a lot of harm.

Dean takes my duffle bag from me, packing our things away in the trunk. Joanna comes out of the reception office looking around. “Hi! How’s Asher doing?” I ask as she approaches us. I hadn’t seen him since yesterday, since before we killed the Shtriga. “Have you seen Michael?” she answers instead, worry on her face. And as if on que Michael comes running up, yelling, “Mom! Mom!”

He jumps into her arms and she holds him closely, “Hey!” she smiles, her boy safe in her arms. “How’s Ash?” he asks.

“Got some good news. Your brothers gonna be fine,” she says.

“Really?” Michael beams.

“Yeah. Really. No one can explain it—it’s a miracle,” she glances up at us, answering us at the same time, “They’re going to keep him overnight for observation and then he’s coming home.”

“That’s great,” Dean answers.

“How are all the other kids doing?” Sam asks.

“Good. Really good. A bunch of them should be checking out in a few days. Dr. Travis says the ward is going to be like a ghost town,” she answers.

“Dr. Travis? What about Dr. Hydecker?” Sam asks, faking confusion.

“Oh he wasn’t in today. Must have been sick or something.”

“Yeah, you know it’s common to get sick in hospitals with all the exposure to the germs brought in and the drug-resistant bacteria,” I reply, realizing only after how the explanation is probably not the most reassuring thing ever. But, she doesn’t seem to dwell on it as she looks at her son and asks, “So, did anything happen while I was gone?”

Michael glances at Dean, “Nah, same old stuff.”

“Okay,” she smiles, “You can go see Ash.”

“Now?” he beams, his smile wide. He looks to Dean again who nods slightly. God, he’s so good with kids. “Only if you want to,” Joanna answers. Michael doesn’t answer, instead he runs to the car. She laughs, “I, uh, I’d better get going before he hot wires the car and drives himself.”

This was the true rewarding part about hunting. To see their smiles, to fix what was wrong, to save people. It makes all the trauma worth it. “It’s too bad,” Sam says.

“Oh, they’ll be fine,” Dean brushes off.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant Michael. He’ll always know there are things out there in the dark—he’ll never be the same, you know?” There’s a long pause as the weight of it sets in. I had already thought of this, but there’s nothing we can do now but hope he doesn’t have to be exposed to anything else that goes bump in the night. “Sometimes I wish that…”

“What..?”

“I wish I could have that kinda innocence,” Sam admits.

“If it means anything…sometimes I wish you could too.”

I wish they both could be ignorant to this aspect of life. I was doomed to know of it even if I didn’t decide to hunt it because I am a part of the things that go bump in the night. But, they didn’t have to be doomed. Even though I love them, if never knowing them meant saving them from this world, then I’d make that deal.

[ayo-edebiri]

#Died 2020, born 1992 welcome back Dean Winchester!

[beausling]

i need shifter!dean in my GUTS

Sam, the guy’s walkin’ around with my face, okay, it’s a little personal. SUPERNATURAL, 1.06 "Skin"

[its-an-obsession]

Book Smart

Full Masterlist | Supernatural Masterlist

Part Two

Request: Hey, if it's all good with you, I'd love to put in a request for a S2 Sam x-reader? Kinda of an AU, but not necessarily out of the series. They met at a library. Y/N is an eclectic reader. She just knows the most random stuff and overhears Sam and Dean arguing, where she can solve a little hole in their case? She's a lot like Dean, but more caring and emotional if that works (getting laid is not her idea of fun, however)

A/N: I'm hoping this makes sense. I was worried that the 'case' the two were working on was a little confusing. Enjoy!!

Summary: You had recently moved to a small town a few years ago. When moving, you had done an extensive amount of research on the town. That led to you spending more time at the library. One normal day at the library, you were reading a new book when you overheard an argument between two brothers, but one of the brothers caught your particular eye.

Notes:

Set in season two (brief mentions)

Y/F/O: Your Favorite Order

Warnings:

Mentions of injuries, blood, gunshots, etc

Long imagine

Sam Winchester x-reader

Y/N stood in the library, almost her second home, looking for a new book to read. She already had a couple in her arms. Y/N had been to the library so much the librarian, Jenny, knew her by name. "Just five today, Y/N?" she asked, pushing the books to herself. Y/N nodded her head. Y/N handed Jenny her library card before setting it back into her wallet.

"Do you have any more..." Y/N's sentence began.

Jenny reached beside her and pulled out a patterned reusable bag. Y/N smiled as the woman handed her the bag. "Thank you," Y/N said. She set her books into the bag and looped her arm through the strap. Y/N thanked Jenny, walking towards her usual reading spot.

She dropped her backpack on the chair beside her, putting the reusable bag on the table. Y/N took out her sticky notes and pens from her backpack. She smiled to herself as she settled in for the next few hours. Y/N usually spent a couple hours at the library after checking out a few books.

I guess checking out books and then staying at the library to read the books defeated the purpose of checking them out. But she had been to the library so many times she didn't mind hanging out there. This time, it was different. Two brothers, Sam and Dean, sat at the table a few down from hers.

They appeared to be having a heated conversation, with one boy talking over the other. She glanced over her shoulder at the two of them. One seemed to be more organized than the other, that being Sam. He sat in front of a silver laptop decorated with blue stickers.

There were a few newspaper articles scattered over the table, a brown leather notebook in front of them displaying different Supernatural beings.

Y/N smiled softly when she caught the eye of Sam. Dean smirked at the little interaction. Y/N chuckled to herself, returning her attention back to her book. The more she tried to continue reading, Y/N couldn't stop herself from listening in.

It seemed like they were trying to solve some of the murders in the town, brainstorming about ghosts or entities. "There's a pattern, Dean," Sam stated. "Okay, then what's the pattern, hmm?" Dean shot back. They went on and on for a couple more minutes. Y/N covered her giggle with a cough, flipping the page in her book.

She set a sticky note on the side of the page and wrote a little note, drawing a heart at the corner. Sam huffed and leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. "I just can't figure it out," Sam sighed. "Figured," Dean grumbled.

"Jerk," Sam said.

"Bitch."

Y/N sighed and closed her book, partially frustrated that she wasn't getting silence, and maybe because she was interested.

After all, she had been living in the town for a while and was also curious about the mysterious deaths. Like most small towns, everyone knew everyone. She had only been living there for a couple of years but was aware of the town's history. After moving, Y/N had spent hours in the library researching the town's history.

Y/N sighed and stood up from the table. She left her books there to find the records she was thinking about. "Aha," Y/N muttered to herself, taking out a file of newspaper articles. She searched through the pages before approaching Sam and Dean.

"1976. Thomas Gates was found murdered in his living room. A hit to the head, then a stab in the chest," Y/N set the book down, "Then, in 1981, Franklin Gates Jr. and his wife, Mary Gates, were found the same way. There were a couple more after that, but then just a couple days ago, Eliza Gates was found murdered the same way."

Sam and Dean looked up at the stranger who stood beside their table. The two of them exchanged a glance, both confused. Dean smirked to himself and leaned back in the chair. "Sorry, um, I couldn't help but listen in," Y/N said. "Huh," Dean replied, sitting up in his chair. She was about to turn around but was stopped when Sam cleared his throat.

He smiled, motioning to the seat beside him. Dean watched the interaction closely, surprised that his brother had even offered her a spot. "Um, I'm Y/N, by the way," Y/N introduced. "I'm Sam, and this is Dean, my brother," Sam said, pointing to himself and then his confident brother.

Dean saluted and leaned back in his seat yet again. Y/N saluted back and opened the file to show them what might help. "You were here the other day, right?" Sam asked. Y/N glanced at him and nodded. "Yes. I'm here almost every day. You can ask Jenny," Y/N pointed behind her.

The sweet librarian sat behind the desk, eating some orange slices with a book in her lap. Her glasses sat at the bridge of her nose. Jenny looked up to send a wave after feeling their eyes. "I'm here so much that Jenny sets up a table for me," Y/N added.

Sam looked at Y/N with the same smile on his face, chuckling (GIF Above). She smiled as well, oddly feeling safe when they locked eyes. Dean cleared his throat, which broke their gaze. "So, what's this file?" he tapped the top of the paper file. Y/N sat up straight and faced him.

She pulled out a few articles. Sam leaned to the side so he could properly read them. "I heard you two talking about the murders," Y/N said, "Kind of like you were saying, you're missing a pattern. See."

"Well, I guess there's more than one pattern," Y/N said. Sam furrowed his brows. Dean sat there in silence, loving the glances between Sam and Y/N. "More than one pattern?" Dean inquired. Y/N hummed in response. He leaned forward to see the papers, trying to make sense of it all.

He looked at the circled word as Y/N pointed to each of them. "The first pattern is about the rooms. Most of them happened in the living room. I'm not sure if that's relevant, but it's common," Y/N said. Dean took the clipping from Y/N to see for himself. Sam noticed the other articles.

"The second pattern is all of these murders took place in the same family," Y/N added.

The two of them nodded along. "Mind if we take this?" Dean asked. Y/N shook her head. "Not at all. Jenny won't mind. I can just tell her I checked them out," Y/N answered. Dean smiled and thanked her. "So, Y/N, do you know anything else?" the older brother questioned.

"Just that the Gates family has a history of scandals and, well, murders," Y/N answered. The boys chuckled at her comment. "Thanks, Y/N, this helps a lot. You have no idea how much we were struggling," Sam said. He saw her take out a red-covered book.

Y/N didn't have a specific genre that she loved, but some of it had to do with the paranormal. She knew that some people believed a ghost of some kind followed members of the Gates family throughout generations. Y/N read a book with a similar storyline.

He took the book from her, looking at the title before flipping to the back. "As much as it sounds crazy, some people think that there's a ghost that haunts the Gates family," Y/N said, "I'm a part of 'some people,' by the way." The two of them turned to her at her comment. Y/N chuckled at their expressions, slightly regretting even saying that.

Sam went to the first chapter, skimming over a few of the words. "Anyways, I've read the book back to back; it's one of my favorites, but I noticed some similarities between that case and the one in the story," Y/N continued, "It could help if you're into that type of stuff." Sam handed Dean the book after he was done looking at it.

Dean folded the corner of one of the pages. Y/N withheld herself from telling Dean not to do that. "If you two need anything, I'm a pretty big reader, so if anything, I think I'd be a good source if you need help," Y/N said. She grabbed her notepad and a pen. Y/N wrote down her phone number on the lined piece of paper.

She folded it and handed it to Sam. Sam smiled and took the paper from her. "Thanks," he said, "I'll-we'll definitely call you." Y/N smiled for the millionth time and nodded in response. Dean's eyes darted between them with himself smiling, too. He cleared his throat, interrupting their gaze yet again.

"Feel free to keep the files. There are more in the back next to the desks," Y/N said. "Great. Thanks, Y/N," Dean broke the silence. She got up from the table, leaving the book and files. Y/N said her goodbyes and hoped that she'd speak to Sam again.

________

(The Next Day)

Y/N had just gotten home from helping her friend move. She hummed to some music from her radio. After the song was over, she walked over and changed the CD before continuing to cook dinner. She finished pouring the sauce on top.

She turned on the oven, popping the Lasagna in. Y/N set a timer and started to clean up after herself. She was just about to set a pan on the drying rack when her phone began to ring. Y/N wiped her hands on a towel and grabbed her phone from the kitchen table.

"Hello?" she dropped the towel beside the sink. "Y/N. It's Sam," Sam said, running a hand through his hair. Dean, who was lying on the bed, perked up when he heard his brother on the phone.

Y/N smiled when she heard her new friend's voice. She stepped away from the counter, checking the dish in the oven. "Hi, is everything okay?" Y/N asked.

"Yeah, yeah. Everything's great. We were just wondering if we could pick your brain about something," Sam said. He sat down on the edge of the bed, trying his bad to ignore his brother's reaction. Y/N nodded and stepped back over to the oven.

She opened it slightly, not wanting her dinner to burn. "Sure," Y/N said. "Is now a bad time?" Sam asked. "No, no. I was just about to eat dinner," Y/N said, then thought of something, "Actually, if it's not too soon, I have enough food if you and Dean want to swing by."

There was a long pause on the other end, but Y/N could tell Sam was asking Dean. "Sure. If you don't mind," Sam said. "Not at all. I'll send you my address," Y/N responded. Sam thanked her and hung up the phone. Sam turned to Dean, who was still lying on the bed, his hands behind his head.

"Get up," Sam walked over to his shoes. He sat on the chair and began to put his sneakers on. "What? Why?" Dean asked, sitting up with confusion on his face. "We're going to Y/N's," Sam answered. "Oh, that cute chick from the library?" Dean guessed.

"Yes. That cute girl from the library," Sam nodded, correcting him. He grabbed his jacket that draped over the back of the chair. Dean pointed at Sam with a sly smirk on his face. "I knew you thought she was cute," Dean got up from the bed, ignoring his brother's glare.

________

(Later)

"Y/N, what beers do you have?" Dean sat at the kitchen table. Sam leaned to the side and punched him in the shoulder. Dean reached a hand up to his shoulder, sending a look in Sam's direction. Y/N stepped away from the kitchen island to look.

"Um, Miler light, Coors, Heineken..." she listed. Dean sat up in his spot as she held open the fridge door. Sam shook his head at his brother's sudden admiration for their new friend.

"Heineken," Dean said. Y/N grabbed a bottle for Dean and herself. "Sam, do you want anything?" Y/N asked. "Just a water," Sam answered. She poured Sam a glass of water. She walked back over to the table, handing each of them their drinks before checking on the Lasagna.

Sam had set up the table with his laptop and the pieces of evidence they had gathered. "Need help with anything?" Sam looked away from his laptop. Y/N grabbed the oven mitts from the drawer. "You could set the table," Y/N said, pointing to the side.

He gave her a thumbs up and stepped to where she directed. Sam grabbed some napkins and silverware. Dean pushed some of the papers away so his brother could set the table. After a few minutes, they were eating dinner and researching. Dean had already finished two plates of Lasagna, about the same as Y/N.

The three of them had already figured out what and where the next murder might take place, using the book Y/N had let them borrow and the files. About an hour had passed, and Sam stood beside Y/N as he helped her clean up.

Y/N smiled at him as he handed her a plate to dry. Dean was packing up the papers in the dining area. "Thanks again for helping us," Sam said. "Not a problem. I'm glad I could help," Y/N set a dish on the rack.

Sam turned off the sink once they finished cleaning. Dean cleared his throat, holding the strap of Sam's backpack. Y/N walked the brothers to the door. Dean winked at Sam before walking down the hall outside Y/N's apartment.

"Are you and Dean staying in town, or..." Y/N said. "I don't know," Sam set his hands in his pockets, "We'll probably finish our case then head out." Y/N slowly nodded, glancing at the ground and then up to Sam's eyes.

"Well, if you're here on Friday, I'm off work if you want to get di-" Y/N began. "Yeah, yeah. We're here on Friday," Sam interrupted. Y/N smiled at his response. Sam took his hands out of his pockets, swaying his arms slightly.

He hadn't noticed that he interrupted Y/N, focusing on the fact that she had just asked him. "Great. There's a good Italian place near my apartment if you want to go there," Y/N said, "Or, we can go someplace else, there's another good--"

"No, no. Italian sounds great. Love Italian."

Y/N could see Dean leaning against his car with his arms crossed. Dean tried to look away, but the conversation between Sam and Y/N was so intriguing to him. Sam looked over his shoulder to see his brother wander his eyes away.

Sam chuckled and turned back to Y/N. "You should get going. Dean seems to be getting more impatient," Y/N stated. He nodded in agreement. "Thanks again for the Lasagna. I'm pretty sure Dean ate half of it," Sam said. "He did. I don't blame him, though," Y/N responded, laughing.

It fell quiet between them again. Y/N reached up and kissed Sam on the cheek. "You have my number if you need any help," she said. "I will," Sam said, nodding. Y/N waved and stepped into her apartment, leaving him there with a smile on his face. Sam walked over to the car where Dean was waiting.

Dean shook his head as he got into the driver's seat, with Sam stepping in as well. "What?" Sam put his seatbelt on, clicking it into place. Dean put the keys into the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. "I didn't say anything," Dean said. "Yeah, but your face did," Sam pointed.

He happened to glance at his phone, mainly because he wanted Y/N to call or text him. "Thought we could finish this case then head to wherever on Friday," Dean said, driving in the direction of their motel.

Sam looked away from his phone at Dean. "Actually," Sam began. He cleared his throat, fixing the seatbelt. "Y/N and I are getting dinner on Friday," he said. Dean's smirk grew. He turned to look at Sam once they were at a red light. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's expression. "Don't," he pointed at Dean.

Dean raised his hands as he held the steering wheel. The light turned Green, and the Impala sped forward. "Don't, what?" Dean asked. "That look," Sam continued, "That look you get when I'm talking to any girl." Dean's brows furrowed in response to Sam's claim.

"I don't do that," he insisted.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't," Dean fired back. There was silence for a split second. "Jerk," Sam leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. "Bitch," Dean replied.

_______

(That Friday Night)

Y/N sat in front of her mirror after changing for the millionth time. She wondered why she was focused on looking good. I guess everyone before a date wants to look their best. After four frustrating hours, Y/N decided on a white shirt with a green dress overtop. She looked back at her closet and then at her reflection.

She shook her head, stopping herself from choosing a completely different outfit. Y/N didn't have time to rethink everything. She grabbed her purse and slipped on a pair of black flats. Y/N played with her hair in the mirror, again, not knowing what to do.

She had been on a few dates in her town, but this just felt different. Just then, there was a pattern of knocks on her front door. "Be right there!" Y/N shouted. She took one last glance at herself in the mirror, applying a layer of lip gloss.

Sam stood at the doorway, looking very put together. He held a small bouquet of flowers. A pretty ribbon had been tied around the middle of the bundle. "I didn't know what flowers you liked but figured these were good. The florist said they were," Sam said. "They're wonderful. Thank you, Sam," Y/N grinned.

She opened the door for him. Sam bowed his head as he stepped into her apartment. He looked at a few pictures on the wall, surprised that he hadn't seen them the last time he was there. Y/N closed the door with the flowers in her hand. "Who's this?" Sam asked.

He pointed to a picture of her and her older brother, Alec. "Oh, that's me and my brother," Y/N answered, "I think we were at the Grand Canyon for his twentieth birthday." She stepped into the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase.

He followed her into the kitchen, looking at the pictures now on the wall in the dining area. Y/N stood on her tiptoes to get a vase from the top shelf. Sam reached behind her to help grab it. "Oh, thanks," Y/N softly smiled.

She turned on the sink, putting some water into the vase. After that, she carefully arranged the flowers into the glass vase and set it on the kitchen table. "Ready for dinner?" Y/N asked, looking at Sam, who was already looking at her. "You bet," Sam replied.

They left the apartment with Y/N almost forgetting to lock her front door. Sam opened the car door for Y/N. She thanked him, getting into the seat. He walked around the front of the car and got into the driver's seat. Dean was nice enough to let Sam borrow the car rather than Y/N picking Sam up at the motel.

A few minutes passed, with the two of them listening to music and talking about random things. Y/N had gone on and on about a new book she read. Sam sat in the driver's seat listening, just enjoying her talk.

It had been a while since Sam had been on a date. After Jessica's death, Sam didn't feel like meeting someone, but of course, Dean insisted that Jessica wouldn't want him walking around all lonely. This time with Y/N, Sam didn't feel forced or like he had to go on a date.

This time. He wanted to go on a date. He felt almost drawn to Y/N, but he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because of her constant talking about the books she read, her references to her favorite bands similar to Dean's, or just how she handled herself. It was weird how much Sam noticed about Y/N.

Sam was an observer, something that he and Y/N shared. He noticed how she'd play with her rings as she talked or sighed when there was a pause between conversations.

It was almost like she was trying to fill the gaps when they weren't speaking. Which was the truth. Y/N enjoyed talking on dates, but sometimes, when it came to those pauses, a sigh or random comment was what popped into her head.

With a few more random topics later, they arrived at the Italian place. Sam parked the Impala in front of the restaurant.

Sam shut the car door, offering his hand. They held hands for a brief second before separating for Sam to open the door to the restaurant. The hostess greeted them with a welcoming smile.

"Reservation for Y/N," Y/N said.

Cara, the hostess, looked down at the notebook on the podium. She flipped a few pages before finding Y/N's name. "There you are, Y/N," Cara said, "This way." She grabbed two menus and led them to a table on the side.

The restaurant was nice. It was one of Y/N's favorite restaurants. Sometimes, she'd come just for the people-watching aspect and mainly because their pie was good, surprisingly. "So, what do you usually get?" Sam scanned over the options. Y/N looked at her menu.

"Well, their linguini is really good. Jenny gets it all the time," Y/N said.

Sam nodded. Their waiter stepped over to their table. "Hi, I'm Jeremy. And I'll be your server for tonight. Can I get you two started with our wine menu?" Jeremy asked, holding the small menus in his hand. Y/N glanced at Sam and then at the waiter.

"No, thank you," Y/N looked at Sam, "Unless you wanted to--"

"No, no. I'm okay," Sam interrupted. Jeremy nodded and gave them a moment to decide. "I don't even like wine," Y/N said, shaking her head. Sam chuckled and nodded in agreement. He set the menu to the side when he figured out what he wanted. Jeremy came back over to their table.

He took out his notepad and pen to write down their orders. Sam ordered the linguini per Y/N's request. "And I'll take Y/F/O," Y/N said. The waiter nodded while he wrote their orders. He tucked his pen in the apron's pocket. Jeremy grabbed the menus from them and walked to the back.

Y/N took a sip of her beer, glad that she had gotten that instead of wine. "So, how did the case go?" Y/N asked, setting her drink beside the basket of bread. "Good," Sam said, "You were right about the pattern." Y/N looked up from the table with her eyes widening.

"Really?" she said.

Sam chuckled at her expression, nodding his head. He took a roll from the basket, putting it down on a smaller plate. "That's great," Y/N handed him a knife for the butter.

Sam nodded in reply, taking a bite of the roll. It was silent, yet again, between the two of them. There was music playing in the background, but not loud enough for anyone to understand.

A waiter walked over to their table with their orders. Y/N leaned back slightly as they set her food in front of her. She thanked them, setting her napkin on her lap. "So, how do you like solving these cases with your brother?" Y/N asked, putting her fork and knife on the side.

He chuckled to himself and began cutting his pasta. "It's a journey for sure," Sam said. Y/N smiled. "Why do you say that?" Y/N asked. "Well," he took a bite of his food, "Dean can be....well Dean." She laughed at his comment. From the conversation she had with them, Y/N could tell where he was coming from.

"But it's nice. I mean, we're helping people when we close these cases," Sam said. "That must be nice working with your brother," Y/N took a sip of her beer. Sam nodded. The smile on his face never left. "I'd love to work with my family, but that's a whole other story," she said.

Sam looked up from his plate at her comment. She noticed his glance. "Long story short, my family, including my older brother, didn't approve of me moving to start a new life in a far away town," Y/N answered his confusion. He slowly nodded in understanding. "Why'd you move?" Sam asked, digging into his side salad.

Y/N thought to herself, thinking about how she should answer without bringing down the mood. "I lost someone close to me and needed to get away," Y/N explained, "My family was handling his death a little bit differently than me. I know some people say you shouldn't run away from your problems, but that seemed like the best option."

She paused to put some butter on a roll. Sam watched her closely, softly smiling that she was telling him about her life. "But! I'm glad I left because it introduced me to new things, a new job that I love," Y/N added.

Sam didn't ask her further questions, knowing that that was already a hard subject to begin with. "Enough about me, tell me about you," Y/N said. And so he told her about his family, disregarding the Supernatural, and why he was doing this 'road trip' with his brother. Y/N reached over and set a hand on top of his.

He returned the gesture by holding her hand across the table. "I'm so sorry," Y/N said. "It's okay. I've gotten better, and I've learned from it," Sam replied, "Just like you said, it introduced me to new things." Y/N's cheeks grew pink. She didn't want to, but she was first to let go of his hand.

The rest of the date went great. They talked about different things: where they went to school, where they grew up, favorite colors, favorite foods, and things like that. Sam parked the car in front of the apartment building. He walked her up the stairs and to her apartment door. "Thank you," Y/N stood in front of her door.

"Of course," Sam nodded, "I enjoyed it."

"Me too," Y/N said, fixing the strap of her purse.

She debated on offering him to come inside, but she didn't want him to take that the wrong way. "I know it's the first date and everything. And we just met the other day, but," Y/N swallowed down her nerves, "I really like you. And, I don't usually go on dates, but I'd like to go on a second date or keep this going if you-"

Her sentence was cut short by the feeling of Sam's lips on hers. Her hands went to his shoulders, losing grip of her purse. Y/N couldn't stop the smile from appearing on her face as they pulled apart.

"I'd like that," Sam said, "A lot, actually."

Y/N nodded, grinning from ear to ear as he looked into his eyes. "When do you leave?" Y/N asked. "I don't know," Sam sighed, repeating the same answer from the other day. There was a pause between them. "But I could stay for a couple days. Work can wait," Sam said. Y/N nodded again and leaned up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

Taglist: @nix-rose @nyotamalfoy

[seasononesam]

Hey, you better take care of that car. Or, I swear, I'll haunt your ass.

[mishaesque]

obsessed with this shot from dead in the water in which the guys shouting from the dock are clearly two completely different people in sam and deans clothes but like???? they didn't even get the height the right way round?????

[paunchsalazar]

Dean and Cas and occasionally Sam in season 12