#ancient greeks were size queens just in the opposite direction okay

[lemongrablothbrok]

Everyone who's ever seen Robert Plant, probably; and Terry Reid, definitely: "Robert Plant looks like a Greek god."

The Greek god RP specifically looks like: 95% Apollo; 5% Priapus.

Hypothetical Ancient Greeks gossiping about Robert Plant: "Oh he's so handsome and charming and those thighs are to die for...shame about what he's got going on between them, though..."

[fanfic-from-a-67-impala]

A Supernatural x Reader Story Chapter Twenty-Five: Trial and Error

Word count: 4529

(You can also read it on Wattpad here)

Master Post

Hunched over your steering wheel, you glance between the slip of paper in your hand and the map on your computer screen resting in the passenger seat, and fish out your phone to dial Sam back.

"(Y/N)?" he answers. "Hey. Are you here?"

Surely, your information is wrong. The only building around is some kind of power plant – an abandoned one, you think – with mold and rust creeping up and down its ancient brick walls, and below it, a steel door surrounded by a red brick wall that makes you think it could be some kind of military structure.

"I– I don't know," you reply. "Are you sure you gave me the right coordinates? It's, um... it's pretty empty out –"

The clanging sound of the metal door opening cuts you off. You panic. If this is some sort of official military building and you were found on their property, there would be trouble, considering any ID you could produce would be fake, and there are weapons hidden in every nook and cranny of the car.

You are relieved to see Sam exiting the building, pocketing his phone. He walks into the mid-morning sun across the narrow road to your car, smiling, and meets you before you get the chance to close the door behind you, pulling you into a hug.

He smells like soap, you note as he pulls away. Not like the Impala, or some grimy motel bed. He smells like something comfortable, something normal. Like good soap.

You barely keep yourself from cringing at what you must look like in comparison. You haven't slept in days, the last of which you spent on the road, and you could never seem to ditch the cheap motel room scent, no matter how many showers you took before you left.

"So, what's this 'good news' all about?" you ask.

When he and Dean called you a couple of weeks ago, you were on a hunt on the east coast, and more and more cases came your way. But they said it wasn't urgent, that it was good news, and to make it out when you could.

"Bring your stuff," he tells you, smiling. "Clothes, supplies – whatever you have."

You eye him for a moment, suspicious of what he could be planning, but sharing his smile. Finally, you grab your duffel from the backseat and swing it over your shoulder, taking your gun but leaving the rest.

The door opens with a clank and he leads you inside.

You don't know what you were expecting, but it was not what you are met with. A wave of warm air hits you, a welcome contrast to the chilly March air. After taking a couple of steps inside, you see that you are standing on a balcony overlooking a huge room that curves inward and, at the center, has a table with an illuminated world map. On a table in a corner lays a switchboard, among other antique forms of communication.

Sam nudges your shoulder and gestures to a staircase to your right. You climb down, eyes still taking in the room.

"What is this place?" you ask once you reach the bottom step.

"Remember us telling you about our grandfather?" he says.

"Your grandfather, who time-traveled from sixty years ago?" you question. "Still not sure I believe that one."

He lets out a short laugh. "You and me both. I'm still having a hard time believing any of this," he admits, gesturing to the room around him. "Henry – he left us a key to this place. It's a bunker that was used by the Men of Letters, this secret society that died out in 1958."

"Right," you muse. "And you two are legacies, or something? Because hunting wasn't taxing enough."

"That's the thing," he says, "the Men of Letters were a hunting organization, technically. They tracked monsters and gave the cases to their team of hunters, and that's the way it worked for a long time. Until Abaddon."

"The demon who can't be killed by the demon knife," you recall what they told you.

"And who is now safely buried," he adds. "In pieces."

You nod. "Best news I've heard all week."

"Well, you haven't even the best part of this place," he says, leading you by the shoulder to the opposite end of the room, where it opens into an even larger, longer room.

The sight of it brings you to a halt. The walls on either side, extending further than any room you could have imagines, are lined with shelves upon shelves of books. Lore books, of all sizes. Some of them, you have seen before at Bobby's, but most of them bear unfamiliar titles in English and Latin and Greek and even some languages you don't know. On one of the rectangular tables that go down the center of the library, there are books open, papers scattered around them.

The amount of information that must be contained in this room alone is enough to overwhelm you. The thought that this room gave you the capacity to defeat anything that comes your way makes you want to cry.

You hear Sam chuckle next to you, and realize that you must have been standing in the entryway, gaping, for a solid minute.

"I'm gonna check on Dean," he says, taking off back toward the main room and down a hallway.

You take a minute with the books, running your fingertips across the spines of the one nearest to you, before heading in the direction Sam took, following the boys' voices until you reach an open door.

This must be Dean's room. There are shotguns and blades lining the walls and an assortment of crosses, stakes, and other hunting supplies on the mantle above a queen-size bed with a blanket neatly folded over and a single pillow resting at the head.

"Nice of you to finally haul ass back here," Dean jokes. "I was just about to fix us some grub. You gonna hurry up and choose a room or what?"

He gives you a peck on the cheek as he passes you, not noticing the shock on your face.

"I... get a r-room?" you stammer.

He turns back to you. "Uh, yeah," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing, before turning back in the direction of what must be a kitchen.

You look to Sam in disbelief, but he shoots you an encouraging smile.

"Come on," he prompts, leading you outside. Only a short way down, across the hall, is another open door, leading to a dark, seemingly emptier room. Sam's, you think.

He walks backward, arms open and facing you, down the hallway. "Take your pick."

You open a door near to each of theirs and click on a lamp.

There is a faint dusty scent, but it looks to be incredibly well-preserved for having not been used in over fifty years. Its layout and furniture are almost identical to Dean's; there are even some office supplies on the desk and sheets on the bed.

You take another step inside. It feels like home. Like the place you shared with Charlie, and your old room at Bobby's, but also like your home from before you met Bobby, before you ever encountered anything supernatural. You can't remember the last time you thought about your life from before. You haven't had any need to, and the memories have long faded beyond recognition anyway.

It's hard to believe that, after making peace with your '72 Marquis being the only home you would know for whatever is left of your life, you have been given this corner of the world – somewhere you could feel safe, a place you could come back to and feel at home.

You drop your bag onto the bed, deciding to hold off on unpacking until later. Instead, you walk back out to the library, where you find Sam again, hunched over the books and papers you noticed on the table earlier.

"Keeping busy?" you tease, taking a seat across from him.

"Uh, just..." he starts, distractedly, eyes still glued to the pages, "going through the Letters' archives. Trying to put together all the info they have in here, updating some of it."

"Need a hand?" you offer.

He looks up at you now. "Yeah, that'd be great, actually," he says. "I've been having a hard time with some of these –" From one of several small stacks on the table around him, he plucks a book, bound in brown leather and filled with Latin text printed on yellowing pages.

"I mean, I took Latin in college," he continues, "but all of this is so complex. And I remembered that you're fluent, right?"

"Mm hmm," you mumble, thinking back to those countless long nights at Bobby's, before you started hunting, spending hours trying to decipher the ancient texts before you were able to understand it almost as well as you could read English.

"Think you could flip through it, just so one of us knows what's going on?" he asks, but you are already scanning the first few pages, noting the subject and the brief introduction before delving into the treatise.

The two of you sit across from each other, lost in the words, until Dean walks in, bearing three plates of food.

"Whatchya reading?" he asks.

"Sort of, uh, everything," Sam responds.

"Oh, good," Dean comments. "Somebody's going to have to dig through all this and it ain't gonna be me."

You eye the burger he set in front of you. "You cook?"

"We have a real kitchen now," he informs you.

"I didn't think you knew what a kitchen was," Sam mutters.

Dean pauses a beat. "I'm nesting, okay?" he defends. "Eat."

He watches intently as you and Sam obey, each of you getting ahold of the sandwich and taking a bite.

It doesn't drip with oil and the lettuce isn't soggy, like the cheap diner stuff. The bun is crisp, the meat cooked to a perfect medium rare. It's the best thing you've eaten in... you can't remember when.

Dean has raised his own burger to his lips when a ringing sound emits from his pocket. With an annoyed look, he puts down the food and opens his cell phone.

He sits up straight immediately after answering. "What?" he almost shouts. "Kevin?"

"What is it? What's wrong?" you say.

You visited Kevin once since you learned he was staying on Garth's house boat in Missouri. He was trying to decipher this demon tablet, and you could tell it was taking a lot out of him. He insisted that this was the way he could get back to his mom, to his life, away from all of this. You couldn't blame him, and you wanted that demon tablet translated as much as anyone. Maybe you should have tried harder to convince him to slow down. Maybe you should have checked in on him more often, paid more attention.

"It could be nothing," Dean says, though he looks disturbed. "Why don't you lay low here for a while? Sam and I'll head down there and see what's up, and we'll call if we need you."

You want to argue, but you doubt it will get anywhere. And he could be right. It could be nothing.

Sam gives you a wave goodbye and is about to follow his brother out of the room before thinking again, turning back to grab his plate, then continuing on his way.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

You spend the next few hours continuing with the book, even finding sheets of paper to take notes – roughly translated summaries should the boys need them if you aren't around. After meeting the back cover, you tackle another book, glancing at the clock often.

Six hours later, to the minute, it's dark out. They would have gotten there a couple of hours ago, even earlier with Dean behind the wheel. Images of everything that could have gone wrong flash through your mind, and you have to stand and force yourself to clear them away.

Not obsessed, you tell yourself, dialing Dean's number. Just concerned.

After the third ring, you think he might not pick up, and you start to pace the width of the room.

"Yeah," you hear over the phone's speaker.

"Dean," you breathe, relief flooding through to your voice. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

"Other than puke and Bible babble," he says, "not much. But we did get a case out of it."

"Yeah?" you say. "Anything I can do?"

"No, no," he replies, a little too quickly, a little too certain. "It's a, uh– it's a small one."

No matter how close the two of you have grown over the years, Dean has always been somewhat of a mystery to you. He was difficult to read sometimes. But now, you know, without a doubt, he is lying.

"Try again, Winchester."

A static-y rush of air sounds as he exhales a sigh, then he lets a moment pass before saying, "It's a demon case."

You are confused at first. "Dean, I can help with a–"

But then you realize. It's not what you can do, or what you think you can do. Weeks ago, he convinced you to keep hunting when you felt like this thing, whatever is happening in you, was clouding your judgement. Maybe what he said didn't extend to the very thing you could be turning into.

They don't trust you to do what you need to do as a hunter, and there's nothing you can say to overcome that, not now.

"Okay," you murmur, though you feel like you were just kicked in the stomach. "Well, I guess I'll see you two when you get back."

"Yeah, we'll see you," he says.

"Be safe out there," you rush to get the words out, but the call has already ended.

All that is left for you to do is lean back against the edge of the table as you recover from the blow.

It was always a possibility, you thought, that they weren't entirely okay with the Hell thing. You certainly aren't. And you can't blame them, either. In fact, you completely understand. But that doesn't make it sting any less.

You turn back to the book, only to find you can't focus on a single word. Instead, you get up to walk around and, in one corner of the library, realize that you have wandered into a devil's trap.

Your hands raise themselves, as if someone has aimed a gun at your head, trying to stay inside of it. You have never been caught in one before, but it occurs to you that it might be something that happens over time.

You close your eyes and take a step out, relieved and almost surprised when your foot is met with the ground and not an invisible barrier. You let out the breath you didn't realize you have been holding, and continue on the stroll, ending up in the kitchen.

The industrial-style stainless steel prep table gleams under the kitchen's fluorescent lights. Some of the dishes left over from lunch are scattered on the counter, so you wash them in the sink.

The bed is comfortable, more so than any motel bed you have encountered, though you spend the night drifting in and out of sleep, constantly grabbing your phone from the nightstand and checking it. Each time, an empty screen is all that greets you.

"Just a demon," you whisper to yourself. "They know what they're doing."

Once the sun has risen, you leap out of bed.

The boys have only been living here for a couple of weeks, and they have never had any kind of permanent home, not since Sam was a newborn. They wouldn't know how to keep a place, especially a place as massive as the bunker.

You start by cleaning. Everything. The places that the boys have used since they started living here – the kitchen, library, each of their rooms – are clean enough, but the rest of the place is still blanketed with fifty years' worth of dust.

Although there is not a bug to be seen, you find yourself swiping cobwebs out of obscure corners, left by the critters who have undoubtedly long expired.

You find cleaning supplies under one of the bathroom sinks and work until sweat forms on your brow, until you need a drink, until nightfall.

Still no call. No heavy footfalls trudging through the door. No deep voices exchanging quick banter. Not even the wind reaches the inside of the bunker.

By the next morning, you can't stand the emptiness. You climb in your car, still parked out front, and drive.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

The sunlight casts a distorted reflection on the water of the harbor and warms the cool February air. Soft splashing sounds and distant, indistinct voices echo in your ears as you creep onto the deck of the boat with the name Fizzles' Folly painted on its rear.

You knock on the rusty metal door and, seconds later, it opens with a creak.

You are met with a thorough douse of holy water. When you saw what was coming, you half expected it to burn, but it doesn't. It only drips into your eyes and down your shirt.

"(Y/N)?" Kevin says, his voice startled.

You swipe the water away from your eyes before opening them again. "Uh huh," you sigh.

He ushers you inside and shuts the door behind you. "Don't get me wrong – it's good to see you," he says, a nervous look on his face, "but what are you doing here?"

It's a good question. What are you doing here? Making sure he's okay? Getting info on the boys? Both?

"Just..." you search for the words, looking around the dingy room before turning back to him, "checking in, I guess."

"Oh," he says, taking a seat at the table covered in layers of books and notes and, above all of it, half of the demon tablet.

"How've you been, Kev?" you ask, meeting him at eye level.

He looks better than he did when you saw him last. Dark circles still peek out from under his eyes, but he's showered and shaven, and even has some color in his face. You suspect the boys' visit had something to do with it, but it's something, at least.

"I really want to finish this," he admits, running his fingers through his hair.

You shoot him a sympathetic look, but your eyes catch on something else on the table. Pill bottles, two of them side by side. You read the labels and frown.

"Kev, I know you want to get this done," you say, "but don't you think you should –"

"Slow down?" he suggests. "No time. We're so close already."

"What have you got?"

"Sam and Dean didn't tell you?" he asks in a disbelieving tone.

You think back to your conversation with Dean. "You mean that demon hunt they're on?"

"What?" he says, confusion in his voice. "No. I mean the first trial."

"'Trial'?" you repeat.

"From the tablet?" he tries. "For closing the gates of Hell?"

You can only manage to stare at him blankly, mind spinning. "You found out how to close the gates?"

"There are three trials that someone has to go through," he explains. "God made it so that once you pass all three, you can say a few words of Enochian and slam the gates. I've only been able to work out one of them so far – they've got to kill a hound of Hell and bathe in its blood."

"'They'?" you repeat.

"Sam and Dean," he says. "Well, one of them, anyway."

"Hunting a hellhound?" you exclaim. "That's what they're doing right now?"

He nods, and shifts some papers around, one of which catches your eye.

"Whosoever chooses to undertake these tasks," you read, "should fear not danger, nor death, nor... nor what?"

"A word I think means getting your spine ripped out through your mouth for all eternity," he states.

You can't stop yourself from grimacing at the thought, and you realize what it means. The trials will take a lot out of the person who takes them on, maybe even their life. And either one of your boys would be rushing to take them on if it meant sending all demons back to Hell forever.

"Where are they?" you demand.

He gives you a look, like he's unsure whether he should tell you.

"Kevin," you press, with conviction now, enunciating each word. "Do you know?"

He eyes you a second more before his resolve seems to break under your hard gaze.

"On a farm," he says, "somewhere in Shoshone, Idaho."

"Idaho?" you exclaim. "Are you kidding me? That's three states away."

He says nothing, only stifles a yawn.

You sigh, trying to calm your nerves for a moment. "Look, just promise me you'll lay off the pills, and the caffeine," you say, gesturing to his coffee cup on the table, "and get some rest, okay?"

He looks up at you. "I promise," he says.

And you're out the door.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

You floor the gas pedal the entire way there, crossing into Idaho in record time. You find the farm easily once you reach the small town, even hidden under the veil of the darkness of sometime past midnight.

There was never a demon case. Dean knew that you would do the math, that you would be forced to wonder what slamming the gates of Hell would mean for you.

Your anger at them for lying to you and the sting of their distrust dull to an ambiguous ache as you struggle to wrap your mind around anything but trying to keep your boys from getting themselves killed.

Your call rolls to a stop on the damp pavement outside the nearest building you can find – a well-lit barn in better condition than you would think for the size of the town, filled with horses.

You jog around the barn until you find a tall, stern-looking woman with long brown hair and jeans who is putting a rake away into a shed in the back. She notices you, and you feel flustered, realizing what you have to ask of a complete stranger.

"Have you, uh... have you seen two guys – ridiculously tall," you begin, hearing the desperation in your own voice, "one of them has long –"

"That way," she says, pointing.

Behind you is a large, house-like structure about a hundred yards away.

"Second door on the left," she informs you.

You shout thanks to her as you turn away, sprinting in the direction she pointed until you reach the double wooden doors, which the wind slides open before you arrive. You note that the wind is not particularly strong tonight, but chalk it up to the unlocked door.

By the time you reach the second door, you are out of breath, your heart pounding, and you have broken a sweat, even in the cool nighttime air. You turn the brass knob and swing the door open.

You see Dean first, standing at the corner of a table, clutching his side, casting an uneasy eye on a kneeling figure before him.

"Sam!" you yell, sliding to him on your knees, unable to catch your breath.

He has one arm out in front of him for balance, breathing heavily. The front of his light grey shirt is stained with a bluish black down the center.

They've got to kill a hound of Hell and bathe in its blood, Kevin said.

You reach out a hand to brush away his hair so you can see his face. His cheeks are pale as he looks up at you, his eyes wide in surprise, but he's conscious and the pain he felt seems to have subsided.

"I'm good," he whispers, his voice unsteady and weak, and stands.

You rise with him, your nervous eyes following him. He looks to Dean, who wears an expression he reserves for Sam, for when he's in danger.

"I'm good," Sam repeats. "I'm okay. I can do this."

The worry doesn't leave Dean's eyes, though Sam gives you both a reassuring nod.

"Great," you snap, sounding more abrasive than you intended. "Then you can also tell me what the hell you two were thinking."

They give each other a sort of panicked look, not sure how to tell you what you've been dreading hearing them say.

"We knew you would try to stop us," Dean says.

His words are a punch to the gut, but you are so angry with them, with yourself, that you continue, your voice trembling with rage. Your eyes sting with tears, but you ignore them.

"How could you think if I have a close enough bond to Hell to get sent there when those gates slam, I would want to be anywhere near Earth?"

You swipe at the fallen tears on your cheeks with the back of your fists.

"We didn't think that," Sam's eyes are at his feet as he says it.

"Damn it, (Y/N), you would have tried to stop us," Dean interjects. "You would have done anything – you would have taken on the trials yourself – before you let either of us do it, and we weren't about to let that happen."

"Well, why the hell not?" you hiss.

"Because all you do is try to protect us," Sam says, his voice a soft contrast to yours and Dean's biting tones, giving you the look that makes you believe anything he says. "And because we care about you, (Y/N)."

"And you think I want to do this – any of this – without you both?"

Once you say the words, the whole room seems to realize the impasse you have reached, each unable to live without each other, each willing to die before seeing another hurt.

You unclench your fists and draw in a deep, shaky breath, feeling yourself relax a bit.

All along, their mistrust in you was because they knew you well enough to know that you would do anything to keep them safe. Maybe they were right to keep it from you, you think absently. Shutting down Hell was for the good of the entire world, and the only thing you can think is what it will cost your family, what it will cost Sam.

"So, i-it wasn't because..."

Dean shakes his head. They, at least, have faith in you not to go dark side yet, even if you don't.

"So, what happens now?" you ask, turning to Sam. Some color has returned to his cheeks and he doesn't seem to be in pain.

"I guess we wait for Kevin to translate the next trial," he says. "And if it all goes our way, I shut the gates and we'll never have to see a pair of black eyes again."

You wonder when things like this ever go your way, but you don't mention your doubt. Only meet Sam's eyes, then Dean's, in a silent exchange of comfort.