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godmadeaterribleerror · 10 hours ago

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Chapter 17 - You Come Back

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I fear my “every action in this story must have a consequence” is coming back to bite us in the butt this chapter. Also Dean middle name just dropped. It’s an owie.

Chapter Title from This Love by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 17.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean has some hard conversations, and you destroy a building and make a friend. Extra warning on blood/injury.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 16 - Chapter 18

Read on A03!

A week.

Dad was going to be gone a week.

It was less than last time. More than the time before that. And Dean had been alone for longer—part of him was pretty damn sure he’d simply been alone his whole life, and everyone else that passed around him knew that he’d be temporary better than he did—but it never made the pit smaller.

“Are you sure you don’t need extra hands-“

“I’ve told you, Dean. This ain’t a family bondin’ hunt, it’s a real hunt. Gotta be me alone.”

Dad alone.

At least he’d be alone by choice.

And he could’ve kept Dean with him, but Dean wasn’t Sammy. Dad wanted Sam—the only person who’d ever left Dad alone on purpose—and Dean couldn’t be Sam if he tried.

It was for the best. Someone had to take the heat, be the grunt.

But the whole fucking point of that was that Dean was supposed to be a good hunter, too. Nothing out there in the real world to offer him comfort, just himself, the pit, Dad, and a siren-like voice is his ear that he could never get rid of.

And he was still being benched. It was a ‘real hunt’ and Dad didn’t trust him, or want him, or something, so Dean was being benched in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, and he was going to be alone.

“I could just handle the lore,” Dean offered, one last time, because this pit was gaping in the cavity of his chest, and he really didn’t want to be alone. “I’d use one of the baby pistols for defense, I wouldn’t even leave the motel room-“

“Well, good news, son. Since you’re stayin’, you can leave this motel all you damn want.”

Dad wasn’t moving on this.

And Dean wouldn’t want to hunt with himself, either.

So he dropped it, and Dad vanished. Simply turned into something like mist and faded from the room, leaving Dean stranded.

Alone.

In real life, he’d been alone barely a day. Dean had found a body a little warmer than his hands, and he’d let it sway him into bed, then he’d spent the night staring at the ceiling. Listening to that beautiful, haunting voice call his name.

There had been an itch in his hands. A tug from just to the right of his heart, telling Dean that he had to go. Had to move and never stopped until he crashed into something, until the pit in him was tended to and lined with silver and flowers. He hadn’t been able to sit still for the whole damn night, the night air had smelled like an unnamable fruit when he’d gone outside, and he’d been driving himself out of his damn mind.

It had been sunrise when he’d grabbed a newspaper, started circling different stories, and found a case about people going mad with dancing just a few towns over.

And it had been a little before noon when-

“Dean?”

He turned, and She was there. He was still in the motel room, but She was fucking there. And beautiful, and bright, and almost seeming to literally glow in the low light of the morning.

Maybe the morning.

The sky outside the motel blinders was shimmering, and made of a million soft colors. There was a moon but no stars, and the sun was still hung on the horizon—making the whole world seem almost golden—and none of that really mattered anyway, because She was there.

With Dean.

“De-“

“Hey, Princess.” He gave Her a smooth, slightly crooked grin, and had a brief and terrifying thought that She could feel his heartbeat through the whole world. “You’re, uh- I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

She raised Her chin at him, eye narrowing, and there She was.

More commanding over the world than anyone should have the right to be. Gorgeous and ethereal—turning the world colorful where Dean could’ve sworn it had been muted shades of brown—and just out of Dean’s reach.

Always just out Dean’s reach.

“You don’t get to tell me where to be, Winchester.”

“I think I got some right, given this is my motel room.”

She flushed, and Dean wanted to grab that color and paint it over the sky. “Yeah, but-“

“You just gotta ask me, sweetheart.”

“Ask-“

“To be here.”

To stay.

Dean wanted Her to ask him if She could stay.

And She was rubbing the scar on Her palm, glancing around the room, and when She broke the silence it must be because this was Dean’s dream. Or memory. Or whatever.

It was Dean’s head, so he could have whatever he wanted.

“Can I please stay?”

Dean grinned at Her. “Yeah, you can. Good work on the manners-“

She rolled Her eyes. “Shut up-“

“That’s not very nice,” Dean drawled Her name, and side-stepped Her shove. “And here I was, missing you all the time-“

“You miss me?”

Dean paused, and there was suddenly something incredibly open and nervous about Her features.

She was made of all Dean’s thoughts. This version of Her, at least, should know that Dean missed Her more than he was pretty freakin’ sure he’d miss his heart, if it just fell out of his chest.

“Course I miss you.” He shrugged. “Always missed you.” Dean paused, frowning at the door. “Even today, I think. I really missed you today.”

“Today-“

“Texas. That pagan douchebag you helped me gank-“

She scoffed, and Dean wasn’t sure when She’d gotten right to his side, but he wasn’t about to complain. “Fuck off, De, that was a team effort-“

“I got the kill-“

“I worked out the whole case. And you’re the one who called us a team.”

He had done that. Shit.

She was too pretty to fight with. And Dean missed Her too much to try.

“Yeah, well, I’m also the one who found you.” He looked down at Her carefully, and if this really was a fantasy, this was the part where She should smile at him and kiss him. Tell Dean that he’d always find Her, and they’d always stay together, all the way down.

But instead She tilted Her head at him, Her voice soft, and the whole universe glowing in Her eyes.

Dean still wouldn’t want Her any other way.

“You did, didn’t you.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning down a little further. Just to be a little fucking closer to Her light. “Wish I could do it again, Princess.”

She gave him a small, sad smile, and for a brief second, She shifted. Glitched. Became covered in blood and bruises and cuts, Her shiny hair tangled and hanging over Her almost battered features, one of Her eyes swollen and a large gash on Her arm and puffy mark on Her cheek, and Dean wanted to reach out and grab Her—keep Her safe however he could, maybe trade himself to whatever was hurting Her, or wrap his body over Her’s so nothing could ever hurt Her again—but he couldn’t fucking move-

“You’ll find me,” She hummed, and the words didn’t sound like they were for Dean. “Or maybe I’ll find you.”

Bobby’s house was quiet, in the early morning. It was why Dean’s groan seemed to split through the air, his brow furrowing at nothing when he felt the stiff mattress of the guest room, and knew that if he reached over, the other side of the bed would be cold.

He hadn’t found Her. He’d sworn he would, snapped at Sammy that he had to, and he’d made himself a lying son of a bitch because he couldn’t. He was back at Bobby’s because—after three weeks of running around and calling numbers and looking for cases Dean knew She'd be drawn to—he'd ended up exactly where he'd goddamn started.

"You ain't gonna be able to keep this shit up, Dean."

Bobby's words over the phone had been clipped. Tired.

Dean really hadn't wanted to hear them.

"I told you, I'm not coming back until-"

"What? 'Till you find her? You got a single fuckin' lead?"

He'd scowled. "No, but there's a case of some weird shit going on up in Maine, exact type of case-"

"I know what cases she likes, boy. I'm asking you to use your damn brain for five seconds, and think about where she'd be headed to first, moment she got back to the states-"

"We don't know that she's not in the states." Dean had muttered, running a hand over his face. "Maybe she's trapped, Bobby. Maybe she's in fucking trouble, and she's got no one to help her because you and Sam just let her run off-"

"Dean." Bobby's voice through the speaker had been low. Gruff. A warning. "You know damn well we didn't let her do a damn thing. I've told ya', we got back to the house and she was just fuckin' gone-"

"You should've looked." Dean had hissed, and Bobby had scoffed.

"You think I didn't? She didn't want to be found Dean, so there was no fuckin' way I was gonna find her-" Bobby had cut himself off, the exact same moment the words had sunken in, and twisted into Dean's gut.

She didn't want to be found.

Maybe Dean hadn't been able to find Her because She didn't want to be found.

But She'd said she'd come back home. She'd pinky promised him, over the phone, that She'd come back. That Dean would be able to see Her soon, and hold her, and know that it was real.

That She wasn't just a ghost or a demon, that he was really alive, because something like Her could never exist in Hell.

But maybe She'd heard it in his voice. How that pit inside of him had been slashed further and further open, and how there was goddamn gaping void where all the redeemable parts of him used to be. Every bit of pain he'd inflicted on others, staining him and rotting him and making him a little more than a wet dog, at Her feet in the mud. Dean had turned himself into something fucking ugly, and mangy and horrid and undeserving of Her light, and she could've heard it and decided that She'd made promises to the Dean from before Hell, and she owed whatever he'd become after nothing at all.

Maybe in Her time away, She'd found her way back to somewhere heavenly and bright—filled with luxuries Dean could never offer Her—and decided She'd rather stay there than return the mud.

Mud that was now boiling and toxic, and made of all Dean's sins. She should stay away from it. She never should've been cursed with it—with Dean—in the first place.

And he was being selfish, wanting Her to return to his side. She'd deserved better than him before, and Dean sure as shit hadn't made himself worthy.

But he still wanted Her back.

He'd never stop wanting Her back.

And if he found Her, he'd tell Her that he was ugly, but he'd still be Her shadow. He didn't need to be good for that. He just had to keep doing what he'd always done. Wanting Her, following Her, protecting Her and holding Her the way no one else could.

Maybe She'd found someone who could hold Her the way Dean did, but without all the tragedy and horror of it being Dean.

The thought made him fucking sick.

And he still wanted Her back. He was a selfish piece of shit, and he wanted Her home.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dean.” Bobby had muttered through the phone. “I’m sayin’ that when you were gone, she ran. Ran far. Off the face of the damn earth, and it’s gonna take her a minute to find her way back.

Bobby had said that like She was finding her way back.

And son of a bitch, Dean was clinging to that. Bobby was the only person who knew her just as well—if not better—than Dean, so if he said She was coming back She had to be.

There was a chance She’d look at Dean, and everything that he’d been afraid she’d hear, she’d see. Right over Dean’s soul, all that ugliness visible to Her, until she couldn’t bear to look at him and She left.

At least then Dean would know She was safe. Alive, and safe, just wanting nothing to do with him at all.

He wouldn’t bother to try and hate Her for it. It wouldn’t work. It never had.

There was always a sliver of a chance that She’d stay. She’d stayed before. And it would mean the same thing for Dean no matter what.

She’d said all the way down. And even if that had been temporary—something She’d said before, that she’d never be able to promise him now—Dean would sit at the bottom for Her until she returned.

Or until She didn’t.

He’d gone to Bobby’s because they had angel shit to deal with, and chasing empty cases and weak leads wasn’t going to help him find Her. Sam had given him a grimacing, sympathetic smile, and said nothing of it for the first few days. None of them had even mentioned Her name, focusing on the crazy chick, and Cas and Uriel’s bullshit, and all the millions of other fucking problems it was their responsibility to fix.

“You know this is the first place she’ll go.” Sam had broken the silence in the kitchen, not looking up from his laptop as he spoke, and he hadn’t need to say who.

Dean knew. There was no other She that mattered.

“She might be heading here now-“

“Sam.” Dean had grunted, picking at the label of his beer. “Don’t.”

Sam had sighed, glancing up with a heavy gaze. “She’s probably fine, dude. Nothing’s gotten to her before-“

“She had us before.”

“She has us now-“

“Not in goddamn Brazil, she doesn’t.” Dean had narrowed his eyes, and every word had fucking hurt. “And don’t tell me it’s a long drive again. She should’ve been back by now, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but, it’s- She’s fine, Dean.” Sam’s voice had dropped under his breath, and he’d shaken his head at his screen. “She’s got to be.”

And Sam was, at least, right about two things.

She had to be fine. She likely wasn’t, but if Dean ever wanted to sleep or look in a mirror again, she had to be.

And Bobby’s was the very first place She’d return to.

It was Her home. She grew up here, and She’d have to known they were all waiting for Her.

That Dean passed by Her room every day, and had to force himself not to open the door. And that on the weaker days—when he really deserved a little extra punishment—he would look up and down the hall before he caved, and looked inside.

Bobby hadn’t moved anything. The only thing different from when Dean had left was the little bit of tape on the door, leftover from his note.

The note was gone though. Bobby mentioned they’d never found it in the trash, but maybe She’d crumpled it up and stomped it into the mud.

Or She could be holding onto it.

Dean wasn’t lucky enough for that to be true. Not important enough for Her to cling to a paper, just because he’d touched it.

He still liked the idea that She was. Lying to himself had always made this easier and harder, all at once, the exact same way standing alone in the middle of the room was torture and relief.

It was evidence. Proof She’d existed at all. That She wasn’t just a collective hallucination, and that Chuck hadn’t included Her because She’d simply never been real.

She had been.

Was.

She was real.

Clothing Dean had seen Her wear was in the drawers. All of Her indecipherable notes about demons and deals were still scattered on the floor, and sometimes Dean would glance to the bottom of the wall and think he’d find Her curled against it, bags under Her eyes and a stub of a pencil in her hand. That he’d get to kneel before Her, talk until she looked at him, and when She did, the whole world would become good again. No demons, no Hell, no angels, no weird, impossible mysteries.

Just Her and Dean. And She’d lean into his touch, and let him lead Her to bed, and he’d wake up the way he wasn’t allowed to anymore.

With Her at his side.

He had things to do. The morning was crawling in, and they had a lady in the basement, and Dean needed to get up and be useful.

It still took another minute of staring at the ceiling. Of warding off thoughts about, how if She wasn’t okay, if She needed Dean, he didn’t have a goddamn clue how to find Her.

She’d come home.

She had to come home.

And if Dean had to wait a million years—until the house was covered in vines and he was just a pile of bones and ash—he would.

But now he had to move.

Sam was already at the kitchen table, bent over a newspaper with his laptop pushed off to the side.

“Coffee’s on.” He said, not looking up from whatever the hell he was doing. “Bobby’s going to town, getting groceries. Said he wasn’t expecting to feed four people or something.”

Dean grunted. “Any updates on the angel shit?”

“Anna’s still in the panic room.” Sam shrugged. “And I’m looking for a new psychic, but none of these guys seem legit. I can’t tell the real deal would be more or less expensive.”

“What about Pam?”

“I’d rather not bother her after last time,” Sam muttered, grimacing slightly. “At least try to find someone we didn’t blind.”

“Maybe put out an ad online?” Dean dropped at the table, not bothering to put any life in his tone. He was too fucking tired. “Three men, looking for someone to read the mind of the woman we locked in our basement?”

Sam shot him a dry look. “She volunteered to go in our basement.”

“Yeah, the cops are gonna buy that.”

“Not helpful, Dean.”

He shrugged, glaring at his coffee. “Not trying to be.”

He knew this was important. That this meant things even Bobby hadn’t fully been able to understand, and that people weren’t just casually hunted by angels and demons, but all it made him think of was Her.

She’d know how to fix this. She’d look at Anna and solve the puzzle in two seconds flat, then give Dean a smug, blinding grin that could probably part the ocean or bring an army its knees.

But She still wasn’t here.

So they were stuck running in circles, trying to find answers to problems they didn’t even fully understand.

“Online ad thing isn’t a bad idea, actually.” Sam frowned between his paper and the laptop. “I mean, we’ll get a lot of false leads and, uh, less than stable people responding, but it can’t hurt.”

“Cool.” Dean muttered. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks.” Sam’s tone was dry as he nodded to the fridge. “Can you take Anna her food for me?”

Dean frowned. “You do it yourself-“

“I’m working on this.”

“Nobody freakin’ told you to do that-“

“Dean.” Sam sighed. He’d been doing that a lot, lately. “Please. The sooner I get this done, the sooner we can figure out what’s going on with Anna, and the sooner this whole thing is done.”

The sooner Dean could go back to looking for Her.

It was a false promise. Deep down, Dean knew—and he was pretty damn sure Sammy did as well—that this thing wasn’t going to just be done. The angels hadn’t raised him from Hell just to find and turn over a redhead. Lilith wasn’t running around breaking seals just for the shits and giggles of it all. They’d still have work to do.

And She’d still be missing.

But Sam had said please. And Dean hadn’t really caused anything but fucking problems since he’d been brought back, so the least he could offer was walking some toast and coffee down the stairs.

“Fine.” He grunted, pushing out of his seat with a scowl. “But you better find that damn psychic.”

“I’m trying.” Sam muttered, glaring at his laptop. “Why do people think it’s fun to pretended to have these powers? Don’t they have anything better to do with their lives?”

Dean didn’t have an answer for that. The only people he’d known with the real deal were Missouri—who hadn’t seemed that bothered by it, but also didn’t allow bullshit—and Her.

And She’d hated it. Whatever She was, she’d despised it. Didn’t even entertain the thought of using it. She said it hurt Her, Dean had seen it hurt Her, and he couldn’t imagine someone wanting to have that kind of power if it made them pick their skin raw and choke the air from their own lungs.

Dean’s stomach twisted, and an image of Her curled on the floor of a motel—Her body tensed and features panicked, Her own hand wrapped around her throat—burned its way through his skull. She could’ve hurt herself. There was always a chance no monster would be able to touch Her, but she’d snap her own neck to try and keep Her power under control, and Dean wouldn’t be there to stop Her-

He must make a face, every time he thought of Her, because Sam cleared his throat and said Her name.

Carefully.

Like just the sound of it might make Dean crush the mug in his hand.

“It’s- I know you’re worried about her-“

“Save it.”

“Dean-“

“I mean it, Sam.” Dean shot him a glare, grabbing Anna’s food from the counter. “I know everything you’re going to say.”

Sam shook his head. “You don’t-“

“I do. I promise you, Sammy, I know exactly the type of fuckin’ lecture you’re gonna give me, and I’m not hearing it.”

Dean didn’t wait for a response before he was walking away. Sam wanted him to bring down the food, he’d bring down the fucking food, but one more speech about how She was probably okay and safe and Dean worrying wasn’t going to help Her, and he’d lose his goddamn mind.

Worrying wasn’t going to help Her, but it was better than just sitting on his ass and not thinking about Her. And it made him feel better. Part of Dean’s head was convinced that—if he worried about Her loudly enough—the angels would hear and bring Her back, just to shut him the hell up.

They wouldn’t. And Dean wasn’t exactly in heaven’s favor right now, between the whole Chuck thing and Anna not being turned over to the angel police.

Dean would be a lying asshole if he said that, for half a second, he hadn’t considered turning Anna over in trade for Her. But the angels couldn’t be trusted with that type of deal, Dean hadn’t hit that big of an evil, awful low, and She’d never forgive him for that. Christ, Dean would never forgive himself for that. Anna was sweet, and she’d been nothing but patient with all their bullshit, and trading lives was the exact type of shit Dad would have done.

And Dean couldn’t really stomach that thought anymore. The idea of what would Dad do felt a little too much like one of Alistair’s weapons in his hand. Fitting, but wrong, and full of fucking hate just for Dean to get his own way.

Dad would’ve turned Anna over. Dad never wouldn’t have considered the thought to be a moment of bitter, exhausted, horrible weakness—born from Dean really fucking missing her, and never sleeping enough, and still have half a foot in the door of Hell—and would’ve gone through with the idea in a heartbeat.

Dean didn’t doubt for a second that, if the angels had told Dad to trade some random girl over for Mom back, Dad would’ve even hesitated.

But Dean couldn’t. He was a hell of a lot fucking weaker than Dad, but for Her, he didn’t want to be anything like Dad.

Dad had only ever hurt Her. Driven Her away. And She wouldn’t make the trade, because She was smarter than Dad and Dean combined, and She’d insist that there was another way.

She’d say there was always another way.

And She wouldn’t like Dean being Dad. She’d want him to be Dean.

And Dean wouldn’t turn over Anna. So he didn’t.

Anna seemed to appreciate it. The angels seemed to be pissed off about it.

That made it, almost certainly, the right call.

“Delivery.” Dean’s voice was flatter than he wanted as he pushed open the door, but Sam also hadn’t let him finish his coffee. “Got you breakfast.”

Anna looked up from the panic room’s cot, offering Dean a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Don’t.” He muttered, passing it into her hands. “Looks like Sammy burnt the toast, and I spilled a whole lot of the coffee coming down the stairs.”

That got a gentle laugh, but Anna still hummed a soft thanks as she took the food. “Sam said you were going to try and find me a psychic?”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean shifted on his feet, glancing around the mostly empty panic room. Filled with signals and concrete, so unbelievably cold. Later, he should bring Anna a sweater. “He’s putting an ad online, seeing if we get any real hits. Right now it’s just a lot of crazies.”

Anna frowned. “What’s wrong with the crazies?”

“They’re frauds.”

“Oh.” She paused, looking between Dean and her toast, and maybe if he walked away now he could avoid a conversation- “Thank you for your help, Dean. I know you have other things to be worrying about besides me.”

He did. He’d have to be an even bigger asshole to say that out loud. “’S fine.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Dean shrugged, and Anna paused, frowning at the air for a long second before she spoke.

“Am I… the first?”

“Uh, the first what?”

“Girl. That you’ve kept in here.”

Dean was lost. “Yes?”

“Are you-“

“Sweetheart, we don’t just keep girls in panic rooms-“

“Then whose are these?”

Anna nodded down to her side, and Dean realized that she’d been doing something, before he’d arrived. Scattered over the cot were torn pieces of paper, all scribbled on in slightly faded paper, all written in-

Son of a bitch.

“Where the fuck did you get those.” He grunted, and it was a harsher than he meant it, but that was Her goddamn handwriting, in that odd code only she seemed to understand. “Anna-“

“Ruby said they belonged to the girl before me.” Anna’s words were slow. Cautious.

Dean was really fucking sick of being treated like a rabid dog, about to attack.

She’d never treat him like that.

“Ruby said that.” Dean’s lip curled into a sneer, and he had to have a long talk with Sam about Ruby just being allowed to wander around Bobby’s house. “You showed these to her?”

Anna nodded nervously. “I- I just wanted to know if she knew who’d made them. They’re… incredibly intricate. And confusing.”

Dean’s gaze shot up from the notes as Anna’s words sunk in. “Can you fucking read them?”

“Yes?” Anna frowned back down to the notes. “I’m not sure how, and it- It makes my head hurt, but I can.”

“What does it-“

“I’m honestly- I don’t understand most of it. Whoever wrote this, they weren’t in a good state of mind. It’s a lot of… ramblings? And ideas?” Anna gave him an odd look. “Do you know? Who wrote them?”

“Yeah.” Dean muttered. He might not have a clue what those notes said, but he’d recognize anything of Her’s blindfolded. “It- You just found those things in here?”

“I did. Over there.”

Anna pointed to the other side of the room, at a large pile of old, woven blankets, and Dean marched over without a glance over his shoulder.

The blankets were cold. Tangled and itchy, and—when he moved them, rifling through them for any further sign of what he was already pretty damn sure was the truth—smelling of an unnamable fruit.

She’d been in here. Dean didn’t know how long ago, but She’d been in this panic room, wrapped in these blankets, and She left all those fucking notes that Anna-

Anna could read the notes. The girl who could tune into angel radio could read the same language She wrote in, the one that big tome had been written in, and that had to mean something but Dean didn’t have a damn clue what-

“Dean?”

He grunted, his hands still fisted in the blankets, and Anna cleared her throat.

“I- The girl who wrote these-“

Dean snapped Her name, because She wasn’t just a girl. He was getting really damn tired of people making Her just a girl, and not the most important and bright and awesome person in the universe. “She wrote those. That’s her handwriting.”

“Oh.” Anna paused, repeating Her name slowly. Dean didn’t hate how she said it, but it there wasn’t enough awe or glory in the tone. Anna didn’t seem to be appreciating the fact that they were all lucky to be blessed with even knowing of Her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, it’s just- This is-“ Anna sighed, and Dean glanced back to see her frowning back down at the notes. “I’m not sure how to describe it. I just know that these are made of a really, really old, dark… something.”

Dean raised his brows. “Something. What’d you mean, something.”

“I mean that magic isn’t a strong enough word.”

Of course it wasn’t. It was Her. No word was ever strong enough.

His girl could never make anything and simple.

He missed Her more than he’d missed the sun in Hell.

Dean grunted Her name, and he always said it right. Like it was a prayer. “She- It’s complicated.”

Anna blinked at him with confusion. That word was always fucking unhelpful.

So Dean tried again.

“She’s got a complex past-“

“Don’t we all?” Anna asked, and the question was innocent, but Dean still had to bite down a snarl.

“Not like her, we don’t. None of us do.”

Anna frowned. “I don’t know who I am, Dean. And I’m being hunted by demons and angels, and locked in a panic room-“

“You asked to be locked in the panic room-“

“Yes, but I just don’t think we should turn our suffering into a competition.”

That was a fair point. And if Dean thought about it for a few more seconds, he could acknowledge that maybe Anna would know a little about Her, and relate to what She’d been through.

But it felt different. Anna got to have them help her solve all her problems, while She was missing, and fighting for herself. Anna had some clues for what she was, and they had some leads they could follow. Every single thing they learned about Her—and whatever the hell She was—just offered more damn questions.

And Anna didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Anna hadn’t been tormented by pain her whole life, as far as Dean knew. Anna’s parents had been normal, and up until all this shit, she’d lead a nice and easy life.

Anna had never had to listen to Dad ask a demon to kill her. And if she had, Dean was pretty damn sure she’d run for the hills.

But She’d stayed. Against all reason and odds, despite Dad doing everything to keep Her away from Dean, She’d always come back.

And nobody got act like they knew Her. No matter how kind and well-intentioned they were, nobody got to fucking speak about Her if it wasn’t with care and reverence.

“It’s not a competition.” Dean kept his voice low and even, and he was pretty sure he was going to throttle this blanket. “But if it was, we would even be in her fucking heat.”

Anna frowned at that, but Dean kept going before she could push back.

“All these wards, keeping you safe? She made them. Half the books in Bobby’s library are there for her, and she knows the lore better than anyone, and all this angel shit, she’d work it out like it was freakin’ breathing.”

“I-“

“Demons are afraid of her.” Dean snapped, and something was wrapping around his throat. “And she can kill anything. Doesn’t hunt with a gun because she doesn’t need it, been hunting since she was barely a fucking teenager, and all the angels should count themselves lucky she’s not here, because she’d kick their asses.”

“I know.” Anna’s voice was soft, and a lot of the fire died in Dean very quickly. He was being an asshole.

But he fucking missed Her.

Missed Her smile and voice and laugh, missed Her sparring with him and never backing down, because—despite all previous evidence—She always seemed to trust Dean to not properly hurt Her. To have Her back. To be in Her wake and carry her to safety when she fell apart. Dean missed Her looking at him like he was worth something. Like Dean, just Dean, was enough for Her. Like She could see the gaping pit inside of him, see just how deep and tragic it was, and always seemed to decide that it was never too deep for Her to walk away.

It might be too deep now. He was snapping at girls he’d locked in basements, and he could still always slightly taste the metallic blood he’s spilled in Hell, and She might want nothing to do with him now.

But Her spitting in his face would always be better than anyone—Sam or Bobby or fucking Anna, who barely even knew him—looking at Dean with pity. Soft, cushioning fucking pity that he hadn’t earned, and didn’t deserve.

“You know.” He muttered, giving Anna a flat look. “What, angels having a little chat about my-“ Dean cut himself off with Her name, and prayed Anna hadn’t caught his slip.

Anna just shrugged and hummed.

He was probably safe.

“The angels don’t… Every mention I’ve heard of that name, they’ve been confused. Like even they’re not sure to make of her.”

Dean swallowed, and something chilled over his bones. “But they talk about her.”

“Yes. A lot. Ruby said-“

“You talked to Ruby about this?”

Anna had the decency to blush with slightly shame, but it didn’t stop Dean’s hands from curling into fists.

“The fuck did Ruby say about her,” he grunted, and Anna sighed.

“That she was a distrusting, paranoid, self-important bitch. That I shouldn’t bring her up around you, because your judgement about her is, um.” Anna swallowed, tucking some hair behind her ears. “Clouded.”

Dean was going to fucking kill Ruby. Sam could cry about it all he wanted, Dean was going to fucking kill her.

“Ruby,” Dean grunted through his teeth. “Is a fucking liar.”

“She’s been kind to me-“

“Because you trust her.” He snapped Her name, and Anna’s mouth snapped shut. “She and Ruby never got along, and Ruby doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. I fucking told you, my girl, she’s a fucking fighter, and Ruby’s just never liked that she won’t go along with whatever the fuck the bitch says. Ruby hates that she’s not in control.” Dean said Her name again, and something to the right of his heart was pounding. “She’s not fucking self-important. She just doesn’t let people fucking walk all over her, and she fights for what she wants. She fought for me, and I-“

He’d died.

He’d left Her, and now she was gone.

And Anna’s head was bowed, and Dean felt like a dick, but he’d do it again. She wasn’t self-important. She’d damn near let herself waste away, just for Dean. And She’d done it right until the very end.

And he missed Her.

“I-“ Anna’s voice was barely a whisper. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Dean let out a long breath, running a hand over his face. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Anna nodded, meeting Dean’s gaze with a small frown. “She sounds like she’s… really important to you.”

“Yeah. She is.”

And there weren’t enough words for it in the world for it. For how much he missed Her. How much he wanted Her. How there was something just to the right of his heart of that would never rest until he knew She was safe, and would ache for Her every single second until She was at his side again.

Anna let him take the notes back upstairs, and Dean gave another mumbled half-apology that didn’t even sound sincere to his own ears.

He’d try again later. When there was less to deal with, and his head wasn’t spinning faster than he could keep up with.

Because Anna could read the language. And the rituals She made were from an old, dark something—not a helpful description at all—but in a language that existed outside of just Her insane family.

There was a chance She could hear angel radio, too. Maybe she wasn’t coming home because She could hear all the angels shit talking Her, and saying things about Dean he’d wanted to tell Her—She’d find out on Her own if he didn’t, She was too smart and important to hide things from—but she’d now heard from feathered douchebags who weren’t going to be able to explain to Her why. If Dean told Her everything, he’d be able to sink to his knees and ask Her to stay with him anyway. To tell Her that he’d never let anything hurt Her again, if She let him be her shadow. That he was broken and evil, but he was still Her’s, if She’d have him.

He’d never be brave enough to say it like that.

But he still wanted to.

And knowing his life, Dean never got what he fucking wanted. So the angels had probably told Her of how he’d become barely better than a demon, and She’d run, because who wouldn’t.

Maybe if Dean solved this puzzle for Her, figured out what She was, with this odd lead was clutched in his hands as he climbed back up the stairs, She’d smile at him one last time.

He could figure this out.

For Her, Dean could do anything.

Bobby was back from the grocery store. Standing at the fridge and talking to Sam in a low voice about something Dean really didn’t fucking care about.

He slammed the notes down on the table, and Bobby and Sam both looked over to him with wide eyes.

“Dean, are you-“

“You got some explaining to do, Bobby.” Dean cut Sam off with a hiss, shoving the notes across the table.

“Explainin’?” Bobby raised his brows as Sam pulled the notes forward. “Boy, I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you-“

Dean snapped Her name, and Bobby tensed. “Those are her’s. And Anna found them in your panic room-“

“Dean,” Sam muttered, examining the notes with a frown. “These- Isn’t this the same language as that book she stole from her family?”

“Yes. Not the point, Sam-“

“I mean, it’s not a real language, and if it’s a code I can try to break it after I find the psychic-“

“It’s not a code.” Dean grunted. “It’s like- A magic language. Anna can read it, but-“

“Anna can read it?” Sam was gaping at him. This really wasn’t the fucking point. “What- how?”

“I don’t know. Bobby-“

“Dude, what if Anna knows what-“

“She doesn’t. Says the angels don’t either. I-“

“That’s not right.” Sam frowned back down to the notes. “At Chuck’s, that bald guy obviously knew, and maybe, uh, Cas might know too-“

“Cas doesn’t know. And even if he did, it’s not like we’re on chummy terms with him right now-“

“Yeah, but maybe-“

“Sam,” Bobby grunted, watching Dean far too carefully. Like he already knew what was about to happen. “Now ain’t the time.”

“Bobby, you should be on this, it’s-“

Bobby said Her name with a sigh, and Dean whole fucking body whined. “I know, that’s why I think we should hear about whatever the hell is buggin’ your brother that’s got him slammin’ on tables and shoutin’.”

Dean scowled. He was not shouting. He was talking firmly.

“You got somethin’ you want to say to me, Dean-“

Dean said Her name, holding Bobby’s firm gaze. “You were locking her up in your panic room.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Bobby, those blankets fucking smelled like her-“

“Why do you know what she smells like, Dean?” Sam’s grin was shit-eating, and it was going to get knocked off his fucking face with all his teeth. Sam knew Dean thought about how She smelled, he knew why Dean thought about it, he was being an asshole-

“Shut your face, Sam-“

“No, Dean.” Bobby’s tone was deadly. Dean should’ve brought his gun. “Why don’t ya’ explain why you got my little girl’s smell memorized?”

“I- This isn’t about that!” He regained his fury and footing, every word spat through his teeth. “This is about why the fuck you were locking her up-“

“I told ya, I wasn’t-“

“You were!” Dean roared. “You fucking were! And now she’d fucking gone, and you never bothered to fucking look for her-“

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice was a careful warning. Dean barely heard it over the blood in his ears, and on his hands, and chocking his breath because they’d lost Her, they’d fucking lost Her and now Dean couldn’t find her-

“None of you fucking cared about her! You’re letting Ruby run around and shit-talk her, and you’re locking her up like a fucking animal, and Dad tried to have her fucking killed-“

“Dean Adam Winchester.” Bobby snapped, and Dean’s whole body went rigid. Braced for something that never came, as Bobby only glowered at him from across the kitchen.

Bobby hadn’t know about Dad’s deal with Azazel. Dean could it all over the fury on his face, that She’d hidden it from everyone, Bobby included. For Her own, fucking insane reasons, She’d lied to everyone about it. And Dean had fucked up. He never knew how to stop, and he’d fucked up, and he was lower than the mud-

“I didn’t lock her up.” Bobby grunted, and there was something in his voice that could probably send an angel running for the hills. “She started lockin’ herself up, after she fuckin’ chased you to the goddamn hospital when you were dyin’, then came back cryin’ and tellin’ me she needed to start runnin’ again. I thought she was runnin’ from the pain, but it turns out you got some news for me.”

“He didn’t know, Bobby.” Sam mumbled. “Neither of us did until Chuck told us-“

“Told you what. That your Daddy tried to fuckin’ kill my kid?”

“Azazel.” Dean muttered, something very deep in his muscle tissue shriveling away. “Dad asked Azazel to kill her.”

Bobby’s jaw ticked. Dean was going to get shot. “You two are fuckin’ idjits-“

Sam swallowed. “Bobby, we didn’t know-“

“And I don’t give a flyin’ pig’s ass what you knew. I care that you, Sam are lettin’ me take all the fuckin’ heat for losing her when you’re the one who ran off with a damn demon the moment your brother kicked it. And you,” Bobby turned to Dean with a sneer, and now Dean was going to get shot. “I am not your fuckin’ father. I’ve known that girl’s somethin’ special since she grabbed my face and told me that the flowers like how I sing. You’ve heard me sing, I sound like shit, but she said the flowers liked it and hell, I believed her.”

Dean understood that. It was just how loving Her was. She said something, and it was true, and there was no room for questioning it because they truest law of the universe was whatever the hell She said it was.

“That girl is the light of my fuckin’ life,” Bobby hissed, still holding Dean’s gaze. “And if I had been smarter I woulda stayed with ‘er when you two went chasin’ Lilith. She runs Dean, and she’s damn good at it, and no one ain’t ever been fast enough to catch her. But if you think for one fuckin’ second I don’t leave my porch light on every night just in case she needs to open the door, you’re a hell of a lot more stupid than I thought. Just cause John tried to get her away from you don’t mean the rest of us are to fuckin’ blame for it, Dean. And that includes you.”

There was a long, heavy silence as Bobby just glared at him, and Dean felt something crushing his ribs. Someone had to be to blame. There needs to be something he could fight, someone who could bleed, because She was lost and everything in Dean was hurting, and there had to be something he could punch and beat into the concrete to make this better-

“Go walk it off.” Bobby grunted, and Dean shook his head. Weak. He was fucking weak.

“Bobby, I-“

“I know you- I know what she is to you. Same as I know what you are to her. Jesus, Dean, the only reason you ain’t gettin’ kicked out to sleep it off is cause I know that if she do come back tonight and you ain’t here, we’ll never fuckin’ see her again.”

Those words might have hit deeper in Dean’s body than Bobby had meant it. It might have snapped something in him then fused it back, all in half a second, and Dean-

He needed to walk it off.

It was dark outside. Dark and cold, and the wind was biting at his skin, and the last time he’d been out here at night had been-

He didn’t want to think about that. If he thought about that his legs might give out, and he might roar loud enough that the engines in the junkyard would howl back, and the whole world would stop turning for just a second, all to join in on the demand that She was safe.

Not even home, just safe. Not in the hands of Lilith, or being hunted by angels or Hell’s Assassin’s, or, son of a bitch, Alistair was top side, and knew about Dean’s… care for Her.

He’d taunted him about it, when Dean was still on the rack. Told him words that had to be lies, but hurt all the same. That Dean had always been right, thinking She deserved better, but he’d also been right thinking that he was the only one who knew how to hold Her right. That without Dean, She was going to go on and settle down with some rich Hollywood douchebag, and they’d have a happy little apple pie life, and she’d never look back to see if Dean was behind her again. That her husband would neglect her, and she’d keep having episodes that made the whole world bend into her, and then one day she’d implode on herself and join Dean down here.

“And I’ll make you watch, of course.” Alistair had hummed, turning over a blade in his hands. “That can be your new torture, for a few thousand years. Watching your Princess get carved up, watchin’ me touch her everywhere you were too much of a little fuckin’ pussy to, and listening to her curse your name. Oh, she’ll hate you, Dean. Hate that you left her to kill herself, even though we all knew it would happen eventually. To think you could’ve saved her, if you hadn’t let her destroy herself in your pathetic, unimportant name-“

Dean had spat on him, but the words had hurt more than the knife in his skin, the very next second.

And if Alistair had Her, there was someone who could bleed, but-

There might not be anything left of Her to retrieve.

“Dean.”

He didn’t even bother to shout at Cas for popping up without warning, or doing it when Dean felt like was about to goddamn cry. Dean just rubbed his face with a hand, and tried to not let his words be as empty as he felt. “Cas, now’s not really a good time, try again when you’re not looking to kill innocent girls-

“I am not here about Anna Milton.”

That got Dean to turn around, and Cas was a few feet away, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

And there was something behind it.

Dean just didn’t have a damn clue what.

“You gonna elaborate, dude?”

Cas said Her name. Slowly. Like he’d been practicing. “I have located her.”

“Cas, if this is some sort of twisted fucking joke or play to get Anna-“

“It is neither.” Cas titled his head, the odd expression deepening. “I believe you’d call it a peace offering. I wish you no harm, Dean, and this is meant to show that.”

Dean’s heart might not be beating. Time may not be moving. “And what, you think we’re just going to be buddy-buddy again because you might have found-“

“I did find her.” Cas said with a frown. “It is… Not possible to replicate or possess her.”

“So why aren’t you running back to your big bosses in the sky, telling them-“

“Because of the peace offering.” Cas said, like it was fucking simple. “I am afraid I am not able to bend on Anna, but this- I am under no orders to find her. This is of my own volition.”

“So you just, what? Combed over the earth until you found her?”

“No, I didn’t use any type of brush-“

“It’s a- Never mind.” Dean glanced back to Bobby’s house. To the flickering light on the porch. “How sure are you that you-“

“Positive. As of exactly three minutes ago, she is checked into a motel in Mission, Texas, United States of America.” Cas paused, watching Dean carefully. “Dean, if you are to… retrieve her, it may go badly for you both. Many of my brothers and sisters do not understand what she is, but we have been told that she cannot be allowed to interfere with our work.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Well, I hate to break it to you Cas, but your bosses might count this as interfering-“

Cas shook his head. “The area around her is scrambled. She is an anomaly of our knowledge, and she had quite an odd effect on our grace.”

“Then how’d you-“

“I cannot linger, Dean.” Cas sighed, glancing up the sky. “Being near her has given me a brief amount of cover, but it will wear off soon. We will be back soon for Anna. I hope you and Sam come to your senses and that you,” Cas paused, and let out a long, slow sigh. “Make the right choice.”

Cas vanished, and Dean didn’t care if he was talking about Anna.

The only right choice was going after Her.

And he knew there was a world where She’d seen his soul and hate him. Know what Dean had done, and despise him for it.

But he’d rather—selfishly, weakly, fucking pathetically—see Her one last time. If She cast him down and away, spit on him and left him to rot, at least he would seen Her, and known that she was okay. If She’d come to her senses about him while he was gone, at least he’d had Her, just in a fleeting moment before She returned to whatever Heaven she was made for, and Dean crawled back to the mud knowing he’d been smiled at by a god.

He’d give Her his fucking heart and whatever shreds of his soul were left, and even if She threw them away, at least Dean would have made his offering.

At least She’d know that Dean was still with Her, all the way down.

——————

Your guts are in your hands. You’re going to have nightmares about this for the rest of your life.

And you wouldn’t call yourself safe.

But at least you’re fucking free.

You’d started driving the day Dean came back. The phone had hung up, you’d looked up to the sky, and it had flickered in warning. But your silent words had been an oath. You were going to get home, and if the Sky had a fucking problem with that, it could come down and try to restrain you itself.

Even then it wouldn’t work.

You were going back to Dean.

You’d wanted to go straight back to him. To drive and drive until you pulled into Bobby’s yard, and you could burst through the door, and he would be there, in the kitchen. You’d fall into his arms and his body would be warm because he was alive, then you’d cling to him until the world was Silver in a way that wasn’t painful, and all of Dean’s Gold was stained on your shirt and pants and skin. Until it would take a tidal wave to wash him away.

A tidal wave you’d never let touch you, or Dean. You’d be home, and you’d be able to keep him alive. This time you wouldn’t fail him. If Lilith came for him, you wouldn’t hesitate to crush Her with the Silver. If Dean—the beautiful, amazing, clever dumbass—made another demon deal, you’d wipe it off his soul then strangle him for doing that to you twice.

Then you’d hug him, and hold him, and he’d be fucking alive.

You might have traded the whole world just to be allowed to hold Dean. Sooner, and forever. To be permitted to crawl into his lap, and wrap your legs around his torso, then just fucking stay there. The Sky wouldn’t see you, and nothing would hurt Dean because you’d be there, and monsters never hurt you.

Monsters never hurt you.

Humans did not have the same reservations.

You’d been distracted. Ketch and Davis only caught up to you because apparently, whatever was funding their fancy suits was also funding their fucking planes and cars. You’d been driving the Firebird, and it was a beautiful car that you wouldn’t give up for anything, but no amount of Dean’s mechanical skills could make a car that was older than you were faster than a plane.

The distraction had come from the combination of the Silver—rocketing around your body and the world, restless until you could look at Dean and know he was safe—and the fact that you’d been rushing. Sloppy. Careless. Half your body had been coffee and off-brand energy drinks, and the other half had been gas station slop that would’ve made Dean proud, but only made you a little sick.

You hadn’t been eating much before he came back. You could barely stomach healthy food without feeling like you were going to vomit. And Dean may be alive, but the light that was spinning and humming and refracting through the Spiderweb couldn’t repair months of damage to your body.

And if it could, you hadn’t had the energy or power or time to find out.

You’d needed to get home. And if sleeping four hours every other day—a small part of you still rotting with fear that you’d fall asleep, and dream of Dean in Hell once more—and only eating sparsely when you stopped to refill your gas got you home faster, so be it.

It hadn’t been healthy. You’d known that.

But knowing had never helped. And you’d just really fucking wanted to get home to Dean.

So your body had been weak. And the Silver had been suffering from your neglect as well, and the world had been slightly blurry, and Ketch and Davis had gotten the fucking jump on you.

They must have known they’d only get one shot. That once they showed that they’d been tracking and following you—with their cryptic fucking ways—you would fortify. Account for it, and adjust, and the chance would slip through their fingers.

It hadn’t.

They’d found you in Monterrey, Mexico. A few hours from the border. So fucking close.

The Firebird had been left in the motel. They’d told you that.

Maybe not told you.

But you’d heard it.

“What should we do about her car?” That had been Davis, off to one side as they transported you like fucking cargo. Iron cuffs around your wrists, a cloth gag in your mouth—they still didn’t seem to fully grasp that gagging you really didn’t do fucking shit—and your legs bound as you’d been laid in the back of the van.

They’d at least given you a pillow.

That had likely been Davis. And you’d bet a lot of money it was Ketch who’d knocked you out with a blow to the back of your head before the Silver could pick up on a threat and riot.

It had at least given you an advantage.

They hadn’t known you were awake and listening.

“Leave it. It’s a scrap of shit from the 70s, we won’t even be able to sell it for a proper gain.” Ketch’s voice had been dismissive. Bored.

You’d had to fight the urge to sit up, spit out your gag, and hiss at him that it wasn’t a scrap of shit, it was an amazing car that Dean had made for you, and only about forty-five percent of it was actually from the 70s, because Dean was fantastic with cars and he’d made this one with a million different modern parts, so Ketch could suck your fucking dick.

You hadn’t done that. It wouldn’t have done you any favors, and this way, you’d been able to keep that in the back of your head.

They’d left your car in the lot. And it was old, so no one would try to steal it.

If they did, you’d track it down and take it back. It was your car, and there was no fucking way you were going back to Dean only to tell him you’d lost his gift. He might say it was fine, and he’d just build you another one, but you didn’t want him to have to do that. You wanted to have some sort of proof to show him that you had been waiting, and missing him, and loving him, and you would’ve spilled blood for that car because it was a little piece of Dean that got to be yours, so you’d cared for it.

Saying that the car was still there had been their first mistake.

The second had been keeping you in Mexico. Where you could get back to your car, once you broke out.

Because there had been no fucking way you weren’t going to break out. Ketch and Davis could tie you up where the fuck they wanted, and starve you and torture you and weaken you further, but you were always going to break out.

The only reason it had taken so long was that the state they’d been keeping you in hadn’t done your exhaustion any favors.

“We’ve learned better than you try and ship you over, after your little display in Bolivia.” Ketch had drawled, sitting a carefully distance away and watching you with a smirk. “But our doctors are quite… fascinated by you.”

You’d rolled your eyes, and kept your mouth shut. They’d taken off your gag, but entertaining Ketch’s mocking might be worse torture than anything.

“You know, if you behave, we might offer you a partnership. A little tit for tat. You’re an American, we have limited ability to work in America, and you’re obviously far more disciplined than their dogs of hunters-“

That had gotten you to narrow your eyes, and Ketch had caught it.

“Interesting. Would you consider yourself a hunter? Even with your affliction?”

No entertaining him. You couldn’t entertain him, if only for your own dignity.

“Do the other American hunters know of what you are? Do you know what you are?”

You’d bitten down on your tongue until you tasted blood, and Ketch had sighed.

“You know, darling, it doesn’t matter if you won’t speak to me. Once our experts get here, they will ensure you’re cooperative.”

He’d got up and left, and if you could’ve, you would’ve laughed in his face.

In a way, you had.

Their experts had arrived the next afternoon. You’d been tied to the same chair, Davis across from you with a small frown, trying to get you to talk to him.

“You know, you are the first case that’s required me to have a gun.” He’d hummed, and you’d blinked at him. “I am not usually put on these types of missions, but you have fascinated us. Witches are usually quite easy. They go down fast, with a dirty fight, but you have evaded us longer than anyone. And I do not believe you are a witch.”

You’d only stared at him, and he’d pressed further.

“I went back to retrieve your possessions, yesterday.” Davis had watched you carefully, and you’d forced your face to remain neutral. “You have very few personal belongings.”

That had been true before Dean’s death. And everything you hadn’t had on you the day you left was still at Bobby’s.

You really hoped these douchebags didn’t find out about Bobby. Or Dean. Or Sam.

Especially Sam. Given the whole special child thing, they wouldn’t treat him well, and whatever partnership Ketch had been implying earlier likely wouldn’t extended to a boy with demon blood.

“Please tell me if I missed anything,” Davis had continued, pulling out a small notepad. “Your bag continued a flask filled with water, and I’m afraid we had to empty it for precautions, but the flask itself remains intact.“

You’d scowled at that. That had not been fucking water, and it had taken you a whole fucking day to get it.

“There was also a book.” Davis had frowned at you, and the curiosity on his face had almost been genuine. “It is not something I’ve seen before, which, I hope you understand, is quite rare. I have to ask, are you capable of reading it? Do you think you could provide me with a translation to English?”

That had gotten a reaction. You’d sat up straighter with an obvious confusion all over your face, because that copy was English. It was made of all the same, slightly floating and shifting words that were on the Blade—that spelled out woman of the high—but they were in English. You could only read in English, and—after your time in South America—some shoddy Portuguese and Spanish.

You’d been able to read that book since you were a kid. It had been one of the reasons you’d been yelled at, by your grandfather, because you couldn’t just go around claiming to know what you did not understand.

And Davis had seen your obvious reaction, but he’d misread it. Taken it for defiance, and let out a long sigh before moving all.

“I suppose now isn’t the best time to be make offers. I did tell Arthur you’d be more cooperative if we didn’t treat you like an animal, but he- Never mind. We’ll discuss it later. Now,” he’d looked back down to his list. “Your jacket was on the bed, and I found a little note from DW in one of the pockets.” Davis had raised his brows and you, and the Silver had bucked pathetically in your chest.

The pain of the possible concussion Ketch had given you, combined with your exhaustion, had been holding it down. But the mention of Dean had made the Spiderweb flare, and had jolted the Silver, and your gag had disintegrated in your mouth.

Davis’ eyes had widened. “How-“

“What else did you find in my jacket.” You’d snapped, and he’d shaken his head.

“Ah- Just two knives. But-“

“Did you touch them?”

“No, that would go against protocol-

“Good.” You’d muttered, rubbing your palm, your hands still tied behind your back. “Don’t.”

Davis had frowned at you. “I-“

Ketch had burst through the door with a woman whose soul was a flat, slate-like color—almost nothing under it, made of the same parts of the earth where life could never grow—and Davis had been dismissed.

He’d given you one last odd look, before he left, and you think Sam would’ve liked him, if he hadn’t chosen whatever this was as a career. They both had a habit of asking too many questions at all the worst possible times.

And you were grateful, because now you’d known about their third mistake.

They’d taken your stuff. The stuff Dean had given you, that you’d do anything to get back.

The first week had continued to pass. It had been long, and tedious, and painful, but you’d spent your whole life drowning yourself in pain. No matter how weakened you’d made yourself, there was nothing they could do to you that you hadn’t already done to yourself.

It wasn’t like you could answer their questions, even if you fucking wanted to. You had maybe less answers than they did.

“Would you consider yourself a witch?”

You’d shrugged at the cold woman, keeping your voice bored. “I dunno. Would you?”

The woman’s jaw had ticked. “This is not a conversation. Answer my question.”

You’d only hummed, swinging your feet a little off the floor. “Witch is such a loaded word, right? I mean, between Salem and the persecutions with Protestantism, there’s just such a complex history. And what is magic if not science that the general public doesn’t get to know about-“

“Arthur.” The woman had snapped, and Ketch had moved in a flash.

You don’t think they knew that the only reason you hadn’t killed them all by then was because of the torture. Because that external pain was great enough for the Silver to balk and whine, and you were too weak and tired to drag it to the surface.

“Let’s try again,” the woman had hummed when Ketch finally backed away, your skin cold and dripping wet, your breaths coming in ragged, shallow sounds. “Would you consider yourself a witch.”

“No, but I’d consider you one- Sorry.” You’d given her a soft, sweet smile. “I meant bitch, that’s my-“

The rag had gone back over your face.

But you didn’t break easy.

“If you’re not a witch,” Davis had asked a few days later, when Ketch and the Bitch had left for the night. “What would you consider yourself?”

You’d shrugged in your binds. “Not sure. But I am taking suggestions.”

“Suggestions?” Davis had repeated, watching with a frown. “You are… Aware of what you are?”

You’d given him a grimacing smile—there really was no point in lying—and he’d given you a curious look.

“Interesting.”

If he’d passed it on to the Bitch and Ketch, their methods and questions hadn’t changed.

“Are you a witch?”

“Yes, but only when I need a last-minute Halloween costume.”

“How did that book come into your possession?”

“Technically, it’s not in my possession.”

“You know what I am asking, you snide little creature-“

“Do I?”

Dean would be proud of you.

You missed him.

But he was alive. The whole time, nothing in you really broke because Dean was alive, and nothing could really break you more than his death had. Where the Silver was whining and howling for him, the Spiderweb kept you peacefully tethered. You didn’t have the luxury of exploding fully—there was a possibly unfounded, but entirely certain fear that, after weeks and weeks of build-up, you’d explode and hurt a little more than the assholes keeping you locked up—but you were still alive.

And the woman had gotten frustrated quite fast. You like to think you’d learned to drive her insane from years of watching Dean talk in circles around people, just like this.

He really would’ve been proud. Once he got past being pissed about the whole kidnapped and tortured thing, he’d be proud.

And then there was mistake four.

One of the agents—you’d thought it was just the three who never seemed to have anything better to do than talk to you, but apparently, they had a whole operation going on in Mexico—had been a fucking idiot, and touched the Blade.

The Silver had flared, when they’d told you. You’d never let anyone touch it. It had just been an instinct in your body, of no one should hold the hilt but you. When Sam had examined it, you’d made him wear Bobby’s kitchen mitts, or use a cloth. You’d slapped Dean’s hand away countless time, apologizing for the hit but knowing you’d do it again in a heartbeat, because no one should touch it. Ever. It’s yours. Made for you, only for you, and nobody else.

“Are they okay?” You’d whispered, and Davis had blinked at you.

You don’t think he expected you to actually care. But that instinct didn’t come from nowhere, and if whatever soul stuff was going on with you really was forbidden as Letitia had implied, that agent might be-

“He’s gone mad.” Davis had said, and you’d swallowed.

Better than dead. But only a bit.

“The doctor and Arthur will return soon.”

“Cool.” You’d shrugged, had Davis had sighed.

“They are not pleased with you,” he’d said your name gently, and you’d snorted.

“Well, they can get in line.”

“You are a remarkable woman, I am sure if you cooperated-“

“Look,” you’d raised your chin, holding Davis’ gaze. “I’m not interested in cooperating, and I cannot emphasize enough how little I care about your operation, and questions, and torture.”

“Our methods have been… ineffective.” Davis had muttered under his breath. “May I ask who trained you to withstand such proven tactics?”

“I did.”

Davis had blinked at that. His words turning slow and measured. “Is there anything we could do? To sway you in our favor?”

You’d given him a flat look. “Stop torturing me.”

“That’s not unreasonable.” He’d nodded, and if you didn’t think you’d cough up blood, you would’ve laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

What he could do ended up amounting to them feeding you. The woman didn’t cease her questions—if anything, they increased, becoming harsher and more specific—and Ketch became, somehow, more of an asshole, but you were eating.

It was their fifth mistake. The moment you weren’t on the brink of starvation, the Silver started to grow comfortable again. Started to settle and build, and you were more than fucking ready to go home.

“Mick thinks you’d be a good addition to our forces.” Ketch had hummed, when it was just you and him in your carpeted prison. “I think he has a soft spot for intriguing things. You’re lucky you’re not his type, or he might be proposing every time you confused him.”

You’d gotten really sick of rolling your eyes, so you’d just sighed. “Yeah, well, he’s not my type either. And I tend not to accept proposals from people holding me prisoner.”

Ketch had given you a wolf-like smile. All teeth, no light, crawling over your skin. “And what is your type, darling?”

You had one type. Pretty green eyes and messy short hair, an infuriating and boyish smile, leaving Gold everywhere he went and holding your hand in a way that made you certain you’d kill something with your teeth so you never had to let go.

“I don’t think I have one.” You’d shrugged, twisting the skin on your finger, your hands still tied behind your back. “And if you’re building up to a proposal, I’d like to remind you of my prisoner rule.”

Ketch’s grin had grown. “And if I wasn’t keeping you prisoner?”

You’d been unable to stop your snort. “Dude, you can’t be serious-“

“You must know how beautiful you are,” Ketch had hummed, and the Silver had hissed and boiled in your chest. “Even if they don’t have mirrors in America, you must have spent a lifetime fending off suitors.”

“We have mirrors.” You’d said, your tone flat. You wouldn’t entertain this. And if Ketch was smart, he’d have dropped it there.

But he hadn’t.

Sixth mistake.

You could feel the Silver coiling. Tightening.

Getting ready to burst.

“You seem to have been running for a while,” Ketch had said your name, and it had sounded wrong. Too soft, too simple, barely even a word. “I’m sure you’d want to rest, and we have far more luxury to offer you than any brutish, American hunters ever could.“

Seventh mistake.

Your lips had curled in a tight smirk, and you hadn’t bothered to hide the venom in your voice as you spoke.

“Maybe not,” your smile had grown impossible full-lipped and sweet. If Ketch had used his brain, he would’ve seen it for the warning it was. “But at least they’ve never had to tie a girl up to talk to her.”

Ketch had laughed. “Oh, I’m sure they’re fun for a night, darling, but if they knew what you were? They’d kill you in a heartbeat. No offers of making use of your curse.”

For a half a second, an image of Dean holding you right to his chest as you sobbed had crashed through your head, his voice ringing in your ears.

Come home.

Dean knew what you were. And he was alive, and he wanted you to come home.

It sparked over the Spiderweb. A righteous fury—born of them daring to keep you from Dean, then act like he wasn’t the best thing in the fucking universe—overtaking your body. That there might be American hunters that would kill you, but you still had Bobby and Rufus and Sam and Jo and Ellen and Dean, and they’d do more than make use of you.

They’d hold you.

And these fuckdicks had been keeping you from them.

Then, right as the Silver started to almost swell, humming and running under your skin, clawing to be set out, to set you free, Ketch made the eighth mistake.

The last one.

Ketch’s hand had cupped your face, and it was sweaty and clammy, and then you were everything.

The smooth exhaustion of the lights they’d been keeping on for weeks, right over your head. The itch of the carpet and the wear of the chair and the tension of the walls, too fucking tired from holding up the ceiling.

You could relieve them. The same way you could relieve the chair of your weight.

Ketch had gone flying across the room, and you hadn’t bothered to look at him as you’d—rubbing your wrists where the bounds had fallen away—stepped over his dazed body.

The wall deserved a break. And they relaxed just enough to cave in the room, and trap Ketch inside.

He’d be fine. They’d dig him out later, once you were long, long gone.

It had taken a minute to find where they’d been keeping your possessions, and you’d barely open the box—marked with your first name in neat, little cursive letters—in the storage room when the alarms began. Blaring and deafening and pair with flashing lights and fuck, they’d been loud-

But you’d almost been free.

And the Silver was still burning you into everywhere in the world.

So you’d shrugged on your jacket, grabbed your knife and flask and keys, and felt a little of the earth shake beneath your feet when you’d realized what was missing.

The Blade and the Book.

Fuck.

There wasn’t enough time to look for them, or find them, and god fucking Christ, all these assholes were British, maybe they’d fucking shipped your shit across the fucking ocean-

A problem for you in a week. When you were home, with Dean.

When someone wasn’t bursting through the door, and aiming a gun at your chest.

You didn’t have the Blade, but you had your knife.

You’d be fine.

It was easier than it maybe should’ve been, to fight your way out. The halls had been dark, and you’d still been so fucking tired, but you hadn’t stopped moving for a second and by the time the second agent fired right over your shoulder, the blur kicked in.

These people were just a different kind of monster.

And you were really fucking good at fighting monsters.

Your knife had spun in your hands—the world flashing and fading in and out of focus around you—and didn’t aim to kill. Every cut had been measured to cause harm, but not death. The worst was a man who grabbed you by the neck, and ended with a gash from his cheek to the base of his neck.

And you could see the daylight, and you were so fucking close, and-

The air had been hot and flat. If the jacket around your body wasn’t one of the only things you owned that was yours, you would’ve had to leave it on the sidewalk.

Instead you’d run. Ignored the stares of pedestrians, prayed no one called in a sighting of a woman covered in blood, staggering down the streets with a knife, and kept fucking running until-

Somehow, after almost a month, your car was still there.

The headlights were bashed in.

You should’ve killed Ketch while you had the chance.

But the Firebird had started—when you see Dean again, you’re going to buy him so much pie he’ll fall in love with you—and you’re fucking gone.

It’s only when you’d cross the border—with falsified papers, but that’s maybe your least severe crime of the afternoon—that the blur had fully faded. They won’t follow you into the States. You’d heard Davis and Ketch mentioning a lot about jurisdictions before.

You’re safe.

Safer.

Because the blur fades and you feel a little faint. And when you glance down for half a second, you see it.

Blood seeping through your clothing, hot and sticky.

Fresh.

Yours.

Fuck.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

You just have to get through this, and then you can go home.

There’s just enough money on your card to get you a motel room for the night. It’s a shitty, creaking floorboard and concrete shower motel, but it’s got a bed.

The woman behind the desk surveys you with raised brows as you lean against the wall, and you offer her a weak smile.

“Roleplaying convention.” You mumble, twisting the skin on your finger. “We like to be realistic.”

You’re not sure how she buys it, but you get the key, no other questions, and no cops come knocking on your door.

It takes a minute to heal the wound. It was a bullet shot, right to your abdomen, and your head is still spinning with dehydration and exhaustion and the weight of the past months crashing into you.

Dean’s alive, and you’d promised him you’d come home, but then you hadn’t.

And what if he thought that you weren’t. That you’d decided to leave him, and you simply weren’t worth the effort of looking for. What if he was looking for you, and he was putting himself in danger for it, and before you ever even saw him again you’d feel the Spiderweb go dark once more, and you would’ve missed your chance, and the Sky was still watching, but it hadn’t bothered to rescue you, so what the fuck was it even for then-

Dean wouldn’t just give up on you like that. He was a stubborn asshole, and even if he didn’t love you, he would never just abandon you.

But he didn’t know what you’d done. What you’d become, while he was gone.

He might walk away once he learned. It would be for the better. You were still sick, still incurable. And you’d embraced it, when you should’ve been fighting it.

Dean wouldn’t be looking for the monster. She was what he’d find, when he found you, but until then you’ll cling to the idea that you’re going to knock on Bobby’s door and Dean would only hold you. Only tell you he missed you.

You’ll torture yourself with that thought later.

Right now, you’re still bleeding out on the motel floor.

The shot went through your body, and when you bite down on your tongue and carefully press on the wound with the palm of your hand, the Silver flowing into a soft, easy harmony as you focus on Dean.

He’s not here, but he’s alive. Safe. You’ll see him soon, and even if he pushes you away, you’ll get the chance to wash yourself in Gold. To have him with you all the time, just a little longer.

You love him. You don’t know how you’re going to tell him, when you see him. You might not.

He deserves more than to be loved by something wrong and dark and sick. That doesn’t stop you from loving him, but it does remind you that he’s been through enough, and you don’t need to give him the extra burden of gently turning you down.

And it would make things awkward, between everyone.

It might be better if you just never-

A low hiss pushes between your teeth, and the Spiderweb is straining at the thought of Dean turning you away, making the Silver flicker and weaken, and the wound opens up-

Shit.

Only good things. You’re going to see Bobby again soon, and you’ll make him slightly burnt pancakes as an apology for leaving, which he’ll accept it with a grunt when you bring out the whipped cream. You can tell Sam about all the monsters you found in South America, and talk to Jo about anything but hunting so you can both feel a little more normal, and Dean-

You’ll be able to touch him. And there will be color in his cheeks and heat in his body, and he’ll look at you. After months of nightmares, Dean will look at you. And he’ll say your name, and everything will maybe be okay.

You love him.

And if you have to, you’ll learn to do it in silence.

But you’ll still love him. The Silver will bloom until there’s a jungle of flowers and vines and shimmering water living along all your vital organs, and they’ll all be illuminated by the Spiderweb, and made of Dean. You love Dean. He’s alive, and you love him, and you can keep a small, secret world safe for him in your body because you love him, and there should always be something beautiful for Dean.

The wound stops bleeding—your skin and tissue mending itself with a slight sting—but doesn’t heal, yet your head drops back against the wall.

You need sleep. Proper sleep, where you’re not tied to a chair and you don’t know you’re going to wake up to annoying accents and more insane fancy people, trying to get you to be something you’re not, that you’ve never been.

You barely even know what or who you are now.

The world begins to fade in and out, catching you right between restless, pained sleep and real peace, and a voice you don’t recognize says your name.

Your full name.

With the proper, given last name.

Your eyes shoot open, your body bracing for the blur to kick in, but it never comes.

But there’s still a strange man in your motel room.

He’s tall—just an inch shorter than Dean—and dark haired, pale skinned, blue eyed, and his soul-

Your mouth falls open.

This man doesn’t have a soul. He’s not possessed, either.

He’s concentrated. Made of packed down, shimmering, nuclear power. Millions of eyes molded into two, a thousand hands made the same, and an unnamable amount of colors—shifting, wrathful rainbows that run over his body like flames licking along his ribs—all being burned into a neon, electric blue.

But the other colors aren’t hidden. They’re more like television static. Turning and flowing over the blue, which is simply the strongest color among the countless others.

It’s like staring at lightning, being fractured through a prism.

And he’s just staring right back. Watch you carefully, like you may explode.

When you find your voice. It’s soft. Hoarse.

“You’re…” You swallow, holding his gaze and curling a little further into your own body. “Colorful.”

The man blinks. “You can see me.”

“I- Yes?” You take a slow breath, hugging your knees to your chest. “Should I not be able to?”

“I am not sure.”

“Oh.”

There’s a long moment of silence as you only watch each other, and you finally clear your throat with slow, careful words.

“Can you see me?”

The man tilts his head at you. “Yes, I am looking at you right now-“

“No, I mean me.” You tap your chest, right over the core of the Silver. “My soul.”

“Yes.” The man says, a small frown on his face. “Although you are… brighter. Then any other human I’ve encountered.”

You sit up a little straighter at that. “So I am human-“

“There is part of you that is human, yes.”

Part.

That’s not helpful.

“But you do know who I am?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, and silence falls once more. The longer you look at him, the more certain you are that you recognize him. Not the man, but him. The thing inside the vessel, powerful and furious and-

“You.” Your eyes widen as it hits you, and your hand moves to your knife—resting at your feet—on instinct alone. “I- I’ve seen you before, you were in Hell.”

The man doesn’t seem fazed. His frown only deepens. “You remember.”

“Yeah, you- You fucking, you attacked Dean-“

“I saved Dean.” His correction is gentle, but firm as you push to your feet. “I was given order to raise him from Hell, and I executed them.”

“Orders-“

“From heaven.”

You blink at him. “What?!”

“I- Oh. My apologies, I forgot you didn’t know.” The man dips his head slightly, still holding your gaze. “I am Castiel. Angel of the Lord.”

This has been a long fucking day. Maybe whatever you were shot with had a hallucinogenic. Maybe you’re just finally fucking losing it.

But it makes sense. You can see him, and he can see you, and fuck, that means angels are real and they-

They’d wanted Dean.

And you don’t trust it.

“Why?”

Castiel frowns at you. “I am not sure. It is simply how I was made-“

“No,” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “I mean why did raise Dean from Hell?”

“Because that is what I was ordered to do.”

You pause, spinning your knife in your hand as you turn over his words. Ordered. He hadn’t saved Dean by personal choice, he was simply the angel ordered to. That implied a hierarchy, that there was someone or something that-

“Did…” You let out a long breath. Stranger things. “Did God order you to get him?”

Castiel shakes his head. “God has not been seen of thousands of years. I was instructed to retrieve him by my superiors.”

“Your superior… Angels?”

Castiel nods, and you rub your face, scratching slightly at your skin.

“Sure,” you mutter. “Why not.”

“I do not understand the question.”

“It’s not a question.”

Castiel hums, watching you with an almost curious frown. “You are reacting better than Dean did. Have you met one of our kind before?”

“No, I just- Might as well be, right? I’ve seen stranger shit, and I guess-“ You cut yourself off as a lot of thoughts slam into you at once.

You had met him before. In Hell. And he remembers it, so that was real. You’d really seen Dean in Hell, every night, and-

Oh, God.

You stumble to the bathroom, and over the sound of your own retching, you don’t hear Castiel following you.

“Dean is in good health.” He says from the doorway. “My resurrection was successful.”

“I know.” You mutter, wiping a little bile from your mouth. “I just- I wasn’t sure it was real. What I saw.“

“Of course it was real. It caused many angels to be quiet… concerned.”

“Huh.” You take a long, shaking breath. “Have you been ordered to find me, then?”

“No. That is not my division.”

You glance up at him, trying to focus on the man rather than the angel burning inside of him. “Then why are you here?”

“It is… I am not sure.” Castiel frowns at you, but it’s not the under the microscope frown the Doctor gave you. It’s almost openly, innocently curious. “You are nothing I have seen before.”

“Yeah, I know I’m not human-“

“It is more than that. You are unique. I have never seen my brothers and sisters unable to find someone, let alone one woman.”

You pause, twisting to fully face him, but staying near the toilet. Just in case. “Then how did you find me?”

“I did not find you.”

“Wha-“

“You are covered in the stains of Dean’s soul.” Castiel mutters, and you feel your face heat. “I am the only angel who has touched him, and it has given me an… extra affinity. To locate him.”

You nod slowly. “Like a hound dog?”

“I- Yes, actually.” Castiel mirrors your nod. “Like a hound dog. It is not exact, I had to… comb the Gulf of Mexico to locate you.”

“Oh.”

“I am not here to harm you.” He adds. “I do not believe I would be able to. My superiors, they have forbidden us from allowing you to interfere, but they have also told us no harm may come to you.”

“Awesome.” You mumble, and Castiel takes a careful step forward.

“You are also very important to Dean.”

“I-“

“You are embedded in him. More I have ever seen any human bond with another.”

That wakes you fully up again. Embedded. You’re embedded in Dean, and you’ve seen all the additional, flitting colors on other people’s soul, but Castiel says you’re embedded in Dean-

“I don’t-“

“I cannot stay.” Castiel continues like he’d said nothing at all. “I simply wanted to… see you. I have never heard of any being simply walking in and out of Hell by whim, let alone remaining undetected-“

“I wasn’t really there-“

“You touched Dean.” Castiel says, the words sounding almost simple. “I could sense it, as I touched him. It felt like life.”

You swallow, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, Castiel continues.

“You do not seem to be the damnation my siblings fear you to be. You are remarkably human, incredibly flawed-“

“Gee, thanks-“

“You are welcome.” Castiel incline his head, and part of you wants to laugh. “But you are not only human. You are bright. It is- You may be all we have been waiting for.”

There’s another long second of silence, and you can’t think of a single possibly word or response. It’s been too long a day. Week. Month. Year.

And you really don’t fucking care about the angel and Hell and damnation, you’re only looping around embedded. You embedded in Dean but that may have hurt him, what if you had hurt Dean-

Castiel scans over you—frozen on the floor and blinking up at him like an idiot—and lets out a slow breath. “If you do not go with Dean, and I trust you will not understand this to be an insult, I hope that I never hear of you again. And in the likely case that you do, I will see you soon. I would wipe your mind of our interaction, but I do not think it would take.”

Your eyes widen again. At this rate, they might pop out of your head. “Wipe my mind?”

“It is better for both of us that we pretend this never happened. As I said, I have brothers who are not fond of you, and I am… bending many, many rules to even speak to you. Be careful,” Castiel says your full name once more, offering you a slight nod, and before you can ask even one question, he’s gone with a rush of wind through your hair and a heavy beating sound in the air.

You’re left alone on the cold bathroom floor, and you need rest but your head is turning too fast because, at the end of the day, you’re nothing. You’re not the damnation or salvation Azazel called you, you’re not what the angel have been waiting for, and you’re not a good addition to any forces or possible partner to anyone-

But Dean.

You’re his partner. That had been the first deal. Safer together.

And you’ll be a lot of other things for Dean before this—whatever this is—is over. You’ll be bright if it guides him home. You’ll be the fucking monster to keep him alive, and you’ll be the answer if it keeps him from ever being locked in Hell again.

You’ll be damnation for anything that tries to take him away from you again, and you’ll be salvation if he lets you.

You’ll take him any way he allows you to. You’ll grow so sick you rot into the dirt, and it will be the earth that keeps Dean always on steady feet. If Bobby burns your body, you’ll become the flame to keep him warm. If you’re frayed and snapped and disintegrated by something nuclear, you’ll follow Dean around so he always has some air to breathe.

If you drown, kept in another warehouse or in a cage, tied with chains that aren’t Dean’s—although he would never bind you like that, he doesn’t have to, you’re wired to have him refracting and strong in your body—until you suffocate, you’ll turn yourself into his blood so that his heart keeps beating.

You love him.

And he can never know. Nothing can ever hurt Dean again, nothing can ever use him or tell him what to do like a dog, because he’s more than that. Smarter. Better.

Dean’s the best thing in the world.

You won’t let yourself be the thing that makes him feel more pain. Not for you.

So you’ll go back to him, but if he turns you away, you’ll go without a fight, and if he lets you stay, you’ll grab him and never let go, in the name of a silent love he’ll never have to hear-

There’s a knock on your door. Cutting through your thoughts and stilling your heartbeat for half a second, because the world is technicolor.

And when you push to your feet and stumble to the door, the Spiderweb is leading you more than your brain. Pulling you like a magnet until you’re fumbling with the handle and yanking it open, not balking at the blast of hot air because-

He’s more Golden than before. He was always so gold, but this is…

Every gash and cut and scar and bubbling wound that had been ripped and carved into him in Hell is gone. Replace by more gold, stronger and harsher but also more Dean. Protective and resilient, and you could move it if you touched it right. It still starts to the right of his heart and spreads out, and it’s still underlaid with that glowing river of Silver from before, and the sealed, firm, new parts of him see to wrap around the river. To shield it from the world. And he's not made of any element you’ve seen before, but you don’t care because it’s Dean, he’s here and alive and in front of you-

He grins at you, crooked, a little soft, and amazing. “Hey, Princess. You miss me?”

A weak, choked sounds escapes your throat, and Dean’s eyes widen right as your legs give out.

You don’t know if you throw yourself onto him, or if he catches you before you hit the ground. It doesn’t really matter. The end result is the same.

Dean half carries you to the carpet of the motel room before sinking down to the floor, and you wrap yourself around him like maybe, if you really fucking try, all the gentle and healing parts of you—the bits that had been the White—will move into him, and he’ll never have to hurt again.

If he minds how you’re holding him, Dean doesn’t show it. His arms are tight around you and his fingers brush through your hair, and he’s muttering likely soothing words over your sobs that you can’t really hear, because everything in you is fixed in on the sound of Dean’s heartbeat.

Right by your ear.

Steady.

He’s alive.

“Dean-“ Your voice is soft, when you finally find a breath to speak. “I- I don’t-“

“I know.” He mutters, and you don’t ever want to hear another sound but his voice again. “I- I’m gonna explain it all when we get home, but there’s a lot going on. Got pulled out by angels, and they’re kinda assholes, but it’s we’re handling it. You’ll see.”

You don’t tell Dean you know he got pulled out by angels. You don’t want to lie to him—it’s always only made you sicker—but Castiel said it would be better if no one knew.

And you’re going to go with Dean. Anything that tries to take you away will have to kill you, and even then, you think you’d work out how to let the Silver raze through the world until there was a strong, clear path back home. Back to Dean.

So you’ll see Castiel again.

And some instinct in your body, designed and forged from years of knowing what to say and who to attach yourself to in order to survive, is telling you that it will be important to keep him near you. It’s the very same, nameless, often thoughtless instinct that told you trail after Sam and Dean when John was trying to kill you—separate from the pull to Dean’s gravity, made more of this is a safer place than most to be favored—and that allowed you to not run when Bobby found you on the highway.

So you just lean back, and offer him a small smile. “I’ll see?”

“Yeah, you’ll- son of a bitch.” Dean’s eyes are trained between your bodies.

On your not-fully-healed gunshot wound, and the blood seeping through your shirt.

“What the fuck- Up.”

You blink at him. “De, I’m okay-“

“No. Up.” You don’t move, and Dean scowls. “C’mon, Princess, just-“

He hauls you up his body with a grunt, moving you to the edge of the mattress and setting you down with slow, almost precise ease.

“Shirt.” He orders, frowning around your motel room. “You got a kit in here?”

“No, it’s in my car-“

“Mine probably better stocked.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “Stay here.”

You gape as he stands straight up. “Dean Winchester-“

“I’ll be right back.” He grunts, and when he glances over his shoulder, his face makes it look like he’s the one in pain.

“De-“

“I missed you.”

The door closes behind him, and he’s gone a total off three minutes, but you miss him every fucking second, and he looks so handsome when he stomps back inside with a medkit, but God, you’re going to strangle him-

It’s about halfway through your stitches—your back flat on the mattress as he kneels at the edge of the bed, and his knuckles brushing against your bare skin and leaving little, soft fires in their wake and that’s really not the fucking point—when Dean breaks the silence.

“What happened.”

“I got shot.” You mumble, and he lets out a long, audible breath.

“I got that, Princess. Who shot you.”

“Same people who bashed my headlights.”

“I’m not kidding around,” he says your name, and his voice is firm and deep and commanding, and he’s mad but you want to crawl back around him and never let go. “Who did this.”

You let out a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling. “Hunters.”

It’s not technically a lie, so Dean doesn’t catch it. His fingers still curl slightly against your skin. “Who.”

“Nobody you know.”

“So why-“

“They were hunting me, De.” You mumble, and his movement stills all together.

“What.”

“I- You know what I am.” You squeeze your eyes shut, even as one of your hands moves to hold Dean’s against your body. “That I’m not… You know. And some other people found out, and. Yeah.”

Dean’s words are slow. “So you’ve been out there, being hunted.”

“Dean-“

“Why the fuck did you leave.”

You squeeze your eyes tighter, the Silver rolling around through your body. Not to hurt Dean. Never to hurt Dean.

Maybe to hurt you. Maybe to hurt the Sky for not saving Dean before, or for watching you but never fucking doing something.

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t. If you used your goddamn head for a second instead of just running off, nothing would’ve been fucking hunting you-“

“It’s-“ You shake your head, biting on the inside of your cheek as the stitches resume. “I couldn’t stay there, I-“

“You didn’t have to stay there! You just had to be fucking- God, at least in the goddamn states!” Dean’s jaw is clenched when you risk a glance at him, but the last few stitches are remaining neat. Careful. “I couldn’t protect you when you were in fucking Brazil-“

“You couldn’t protect me at all, Dean!” You’re screaming, and this isn’t even a real fight, but you’re so tired. You’re being sealed and remolded and cared for and picked apart all at once, and you’re too much and it’s all Dean’s and you can’t tell him that and he was- “You were fucking dead! You were gone, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t fucking stay anywhere that reminded me of you, and everywhere-“

You let out a loud, pathetic sound like a wounded animal, and Dean says your name softly, but you just keep going.

“I- I couldn’t stay. And I had to do something, because I promised you I wouldn’t die, and I- I just- I wasn’t good, Dean. I went to Brazil, and Peru, and Bolivia and Columbia and Argentina and Panama because I couldn’t be here, and I wanted to learn. I fucking tried, I tried so hard to bring you back, and I- You couldn’t have protected me. Not from this. Being hunted is what we do.” You let out a shaky, dry laugh. “And I’m the prey, Dean. They’re hunting me because I’m the prey.”

He’s finished the stitches. And when Dean speaks his voice is rough and strained. “Did my dad tell you that?”

You blink at him, a lot of the world seeming to do a stutter-stop, halting then speeding up, everything flipping upside down, because never in a million fucking lifetimes would you have guessed that to be Dean’s response.

“Did he?” Dean repeats, hold your gaze. There’s that floodlight. The one that’s showing you all the world, kept and vibrant in Dean’s eyes, and a little darker than the last time you saw it, but as if it’s being covered by a storm.

Storms always pass.

And you said all the way down.

So you nod, your voice barely a whisper. “He was right-“

“No, he wasn’t.”

This might be worse than getting shot. A least with being shot, you know what to expect. “Dean-“

“No. We all did things in these past few months, Princess. Bobby got drunk off his ass, and Sammy started hanging out with Ruby all the damn time, and I wasn’t exactly a boy scout while I was hanging out in Hell.”

You open your mouth to protest—what, you’re not really sure—and Dean gives you a firm look that shuts it in a second.

“Dad wasn’t a fucking saint. None of us are. That’s not this life, this world, and he never-“ Dean shakes his head, bowing it until it’s rested on your knee. “You’re- You’re the fuckin’ best, Princess, and if you run from me, I’ll catch you.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I dunno. Sounded less creepy when Bobby said it.”

“Bobby said he’d catch me?”

“No it’s- Never mind.” Dean props his chin up, his hands moving to hold you by your waist, and this is worse than getting shot.

And better. And more. And Dean-

“Stop running.”

“I-“

“I ran first, Princess. I know I fuckin’ did, but I’m asking you to be better than me. You’re always fucking better than me-“

You sit up, until you’re sitting right at the edge of the bed and Dean’s knelt between your legs. “Dean-“

“And I never should’ve left you, ever, on that first hunt or any of the times when it was just us, and I should’ve grabbed you when Dad made that shit fucking deal with Azazel and told him to shove it up his ass cause you were staying with me, all the way down. You shoulda always stayed with me, and I- Son of a bitch, I don’t want to you to go. Never want you to go, just, I like it when you’re here. Stay here, this time. I’m so fucking sorry, for dying and leaving you, and letting you think you’re not- I’m sorry.”

You have too many things to say to him. That you’re not better—you’re mostly just his—and he wasn’t a boy scout in Hell but that wasn’t his fault. That you never want him to go either, and you didn’t even know that you going was an option on the table, but he deserves something simpler and easier and stronger. That if he’ll have you, you’ll stay all the way down, and you need him, and you want him, and you love him.

But it’s easier to slide off the bed. To sink to your knees until you’re right on Dean’s lap, and wrap your arms around his torso until you folded into his body.

And it’s hot outside, and Dean’s a fucking furnace, but you could die of heatstroke, and you’d be happy, because it’s Dean.

He holds you back, and you can hear his heartbeat again.

You might split the Sky in half to keep it near you. To keep Dean.

“How did you know about Azazel?” You mumble into his body.

“You’ve missed a lot of stuff,” Dean mutters, his voice rolling through your whole body. “Sammy’s gonna have a field day catching you up.”

“Dean-“

“Come home.” He says your name, and you fall a little further down. “Just- come home.”

“Okay.” You whisper, burying your face deeper in his shirt, and you could swear he lets out a small sigh of relief.

You’ll follow him back down to hell, then further.

But you don’t need to go home.

Dean’s arms tighten around you, and you’re already there.

End Note: They did it. They resolved a fight with a conversation. They’re so strong.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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