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godmadeaterribleerror · 1 month ago

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Chapter 9 - Does The Feeling Haunt You

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Fixing the Supernatural women problem, one chapter at a time.

Chapter title from All the Stars by Kendrick Lamar & SZA

Word Count: 16.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Bobby sends you on a hunt, and Dean tracks someone down. Usual warnings.

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

Chapter 8 - Chapter 10

Read on A03!

You’ve been trying.

You’ve been trying so fucking hard.

It’s been a long, lonely two years. You haven’t really been home in a way that counts. You haven’t been anywhere that isn’t now stained and cursed with the knowledge that you were there. That something worse than a monster or demon had walked their streets, sat in their coffee shops, and left a little bit of their city razed.

Because you are trying, but that doesn’t mean anything has gotten better.

It really only gotten worse.

You’d left the hospital, and hadn’t looked back. Looking back would mean the White would win, and you’d turn around. You can’t turn around. It can’t matter how you feel like something inside of you has gone static—kept in silent place, caught and stuck in your body, shifting with the same colors no matter how time passes—or how you want to turn back. What you want doesn’t matter.

You don’t matter. No matter what Azazel claimed, you know deep, deep down that you cannot be allowed to matter. You can’t be the damnation or salvation or obstacle. You can barely be you.

You are the problem. It’s not a detriment, it’s fact. If you let yourself get a little too far out of control, if you sit in your own misery for just a few seconds too long, everything else hurts because of it.

You’re never not in pain anymore. There are no brief moments of reprieve or peace. Nothing has been silver in two years. It’s been hectic, blurring chaos in your body and blood, pushing and rioting and bursting under your skin until you snap, and something breaks.

You’ve become a shark. Drifting through town after town for a hunt, never static, always a little drenched in blood.

You haven’t seen a normal demon in a while. The glinting, rolling, black demons—who had always just watched from the sidelines—have purely vanished. You can stop a demon case or cure a possession just by crossing town lines.

But the green demons don’t share that habit. They chase you. Most of them just do their job—flying at you with a knife and a sneer—and leave once you’ve either exorcised them or they’d scraped your skin, but some taunt you. They try to goad you into killing them, really properly killing them, and act disappointed when you only fight with your hands.

Little bitch put herself on a leash. One of them had hissed, their face curled in a mocking grin. Righteous whore thinks she’s too good to just fucking kill one of her own.

You are not a demon. You’d bitten and shoved the Darkness down through sheer force of will, and—when the demon was only green smoke in the air—reminded yourself that you are not a demon.

You don’t know what you are. But it’s not a demon.

There’s something in you that evil like the demons. Something in you that calls them. But you’d tested that theory. You’d drawn yourself into a devil’s trap, and dumped a bucket of holy water over your head.

Not a demon.

Still wrong, but not a demon.

That the other thing you’ve been doing. Searching for a final and true answer to what you are, a reason why you’re like this. What you could possibly be to have the Darkness rooted so deep in your body, why you can’t stop those dreams and ideas from forming in your head, why your organs always bubble and blister from the contact of the demon’s knives, but you never die.

It’s always intolerable pain and fire under your skin, but it never kills you. It knocks you down and shreds you apart, and then you simply… put yourself back together. No stitches, no water, no healing yourself with the Darkness.

You’re just in pain, and then you’re moving.

You don’t stop moving.

You alternate days between hunting and sitting in a diner trying to find another answer. You sleep in the corners of motel room, on the floor with your knife clutched in your hands.

And you’ve learned. Not what you are, but what you’re not. Every single thing you hunt seems to open another door, and every time it’s nothing. You’re no sort of pagan god, no odd hybrid-mutant, no normal monster or ancient lost beast. The closest you come is always witch, but still no normal witch. You’ve hunted dozens of witches and scoured their houses after they were finished, but nothing. No magical cure to fix what you are, no glowing arrow that read freaks of nature this way, no sign that they were at all like you.

There’s nothing like you. The longer you look, the surer you are that you’re alone. You’d only found one other mention of the women of the high. In a book that looked like it might turn to ash at one wrong touch, tucked away in the home of a lovely old woman who was harvesting her neighbor’s organs for spells.

It had mentioned the women of the high in that same, shifting way that Bobby’s book did, and elaborated that they were not quite witches. That witches were theorized to a diluted form of the women of the high, and that while witches are one with the world, women of the god are of the world.

You don’t know what the fuck that means.

At this point, all you do know is that your skin is littered in bite marks from strangling the Darkness down, and that the iron rings on your fingers leave something scarred on the soft tissue under your skin. That it hurts—it’s destroying you and turning your body into something foreign to the White and your mind—and you’re so fucking tired, but you can’t use the Darkness. Not for anything. You cage it and pay whatever price you have to. You can fight without it. You’re good at fighting without it. And monsters still don’t attack you, so you’re doing fine.

The Darkness is eating and eroding at your body the longer you keep it down, but you’re getting through it. You’ll keep getting through it, until the green demons find a way to kill you.

Every waking hour you spent trying. To find answers, to keep your head down, to do your job, and to stay away from Dean.

Bobby doesn’t really mention his name over the phone anymore.

“They ain’t here,” he mutters, his voice choppy and muffled through the speaker. “You thinkin’ of havin’ another breakdown-“

“They’re not breakdowns.” You frown at the air, poking at your food with a plastic fork. “And I don’t exactly plan them, Bobby. They just sort of fucking happen.”

“I ain’t sayin’ you do, just,” Bobby sighs your name through the phone. “I know you won’t come ‘round if they’re here-“

“It’s not them-“

“Yeah, I know, it’s not them it’s you, this is all for the best, you’re wishin’ them well-“

“We didn’t break up.” You snap. “And this is for the best-“

“You think they see it that way?”

You try really, really hard not to dwell on what Sam and Dean might think of your disappearing act. If they ask Bobby about you. What Bobby tells them. If he says the script you’d fed him—you got sick again, you had to leave and get some treatment, but you’re safe—or admits something closer to the truth. The truth he knows.

Because you haven’t told Bobby the whole truth either. You’d told him Azazel mentioned you were something dangerous, and you needed to know what. That you didn’t want Sam and Dean worrying or wasting time on you, so you’re going to stay out of their way.

He didn’t buy it. He didn’t push it, but the look on his face when you added and I’m still pissed at Dean, so I need some space was one carved from pure doubt.

It wasn’t your most convincing lie.

It did the job.

And you don’t think about Dean. When you think about Dean you miss him, and White starts to tug and bend and pull you towards nothing at all. When you think about Dean the Darkness festers, and it all gets so much more painful because you’re sick and tired and alone, and Dean always made that better.

You can’t afford the time that’s always wasted when you think of Dean. When you rot in the idea of him asking Bobby if you’re okay, of trying to convince Sam to just damn whatever disease you might have and find you. When you wonder if he misses you even half as much as you miss him—deep in your bones and somewhere a little to the left of your heart—or if he hates you. If he curses your name when he hears it and flips off your bedroom door when he passes it in Bobby’s house. If Sam isn’t allowed to say your name because it makes him angry—or makes him sad—or if whenever he visits Bobby’s, he pretends you never existed at all.

Those thoughts make you stumble. They slow you down, and you can’t ever stop moving. So it doesn’t matter how Sam and Dean see this. They don’t get a call on if you should just fall down or come home, because they don’t understand just how fucking wrong this whole thing is. You barely understand it.

“I- please, Bobby.” You scratch at your skin as you speak, forcing the Darkness back down from where it had started to hum and blink awake. “I really don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, then a sigh. “Fine. But I want you home soon. Been damn near seven months-“

“I can’t-“

“The hell you can’t.” He snaps. “You been running around the country without stoppin’ and everyone needs a break-“

“I don’t.” You mutter. Your skin is raised where your nails had been, and the sting is keeping you tethered. “I’m fine.”

Bobby says your name, his voice flat. “Last I saw you, you were cryin’ and screamin’ and tryin’ to rip your skin off. That ain’t fine.”

“I’m feeling better-“

“Try again.”

“I- I am.” You scowl at the air. “I’m just tired, Bobby, that-“

“Could be fixed if you’d actually sleep.”

You let out a long, controlled breath. “I can’t sleep. You know why.”

There’s a pause, and you can almost see the frown on Bobby’s face. “You know, I got demon traps. And a shotgun. You know you’d be safe here, it’s only reason you pop ‘round anymore.”

“Bobby, that’s not true-“

“It is. And I’m makin’ peace with that.” He sighs. “But you’d be safe.”

You would be safe. Home is always safe. When you get too sick, and the Darkness becomes so much that you know there’s not a thing in the world that could contain it, you go home.

It’s an odd feeling to experience. It’s volcanic. Everything will be fine. Everything will be so fine, and then the Darkness will start to stir so deep in your body—coiling itself, ready to burst forward with enough force to break out—and you can’t be anywhere.

You don’t count it as stopping. There’s too much pain and exhaustion for it to be stopping. It’s containment. Like you’re a fucking animal, locking yourself in Bobby’s basement with food and books as wasting time until it passes. In the barren concrete room, there’s nothing to infect, nothing to hunt. Just the Darkness vaulting out of you before realizing it’s only cold and harsh stone, and you gain enough control to pull yourself back together by the seams.

But you can’t feel it now.

And you can’t stop.

“Bobby-“

“Listen.” He cuts you off with a grunt of your name. “Sam and Dean are fuckin’ around out near Nashville. Those idjits call before they drop in on me, so if you’re worried about seein’ them, you won’t.”

You sigh, your grip tightening on the phone. “It’s not- I can’t, Bobby. I don’t have time-“

“Make the time. You don’t work a nine to five, kiddo, and there are plenty other hunters who are capable of dealin’ with the big bads. Come home.”

It would be the smart thing to say no. To apologize, hang up the phone, and keep going. You’re a danger. Not in danger.

You’re the thing that could make this end horribly. You could snap and the Darkness would explode on Bobby. You could lose it just a little too rough and quick, and destroy the house. Sam and Dean could forget to call, and it would be a green light for Azazel to make this all so much worse, because you were selfish and tired.

And you’re so tired.

So your judgement is askew, and your will is loose, and your head is weak.

You want to go home. You’re not supposed to be permitted to want things right now—you’re supposed to keep yourself in line like a sergeant and whip yourself bloodied and broken until you’re not a problem anymore—but you want to go home so bad.

And there are other things you want more, that you’ll never be allowed to have. Smug, confident, charming things that you hear on the wind and see in the dead of night.

At the very least you can allow yourself to briefly have this, that’s within reach and an idea to the Darkness and not a spark, a natural hum to the White and not a drug.

“Fine.” You run a hand through your hair, frowning around your dirty motel room. “But if they call you-“

“You’re turnin’ around and I ain’t speakin’ a word. I know the drill.” There’s a moment of silence, only the buzzing sound of the line in your ear, and then, “Thank you, kiddo.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you mumble. “I’m in Des Moines anyway. Not too far a drive.”

“You’re in fuckin’ Des Moines?” You can hear Bobby’s indigence through the phone, and it makes you flinch slightly. “And you weren’t even plannin’ on stoppin’ by-“

“I’m stopping by now.” You grab your knife from the mattress, shoving it into your jacket as you jostle the sheets for any hidden papers or socks. “And I can still not come-“

“No, you smartass, just-“ Bobby sighs. “Your rooms always ready. I ain’t touched it since you last been here, so whenever your near, even if near is Iowa-“

“I know.” Your fingers curl in the comforter, and you force a lightness you can’t feel into your voice. “I’ll be there before dinner.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he grunts, and that’s fair. “We’re havin’ pizza. I ain’t warming it up for you, so hit the road soon.”

You nod at the air, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll make the highway patrol wish they’d never been born.”

“Don’t get fuckin’ arrested-“

You hang up the phone.

Bobby can yell at you when you get home.

It’s only ten minutes to pack everything in your room. You’ve grown accustomed to living like this, keeping everything already half stashed to flee, making sure nothing rolls away or gets lost in cushions so that—in the very high chance that you need to—you can just go.

Get in the car and leave, pushing your latest stolen Jaguar to its limits as you hit the highway, keeping one eye on the sharper shadows along the road.

Just in case.

You’re home in four hours. Pulling into Bobby’s yard with a warning honk of the horn, grabbing your bag from the trunk, and pushing through the door.

“I’m here!” You shout, dropping your bag near the stairs—you can bring it to your room later, and it’s not like Bobby ever hosts dinner parties—and scanning over the space.

That was a mistake.

Dean is stained everywhere. Some places are a little faded—places he clearly hasn’t been in a few days, that he’d brushed past or not paid much attention to—but others are woven and branded with Dean. With that golden thing that only you can see, that waxes in your vision like a spirit and always ignites the White to scream Dean.

Dean’s been here.

He’s been on the sofa, and there are indents and scratches of him on the coffee table, where he’d likely kicked up his feet. There are a few books you recognize to be about demons that have him tattered on the corners of the pages, and some of Bobby’s older DVDs have him sunken into the plastic covering.

They must have been here more, since you’ve last been home. Because you’ve seen Dean marked in Bobby’s house before—on the front doorknob, or imprinted on the kitchen counter—but he’s never invaded it like this before. It’s almost an infestation over your senses, overwhelmed with the same gravity of Dean.

You almost don’t hear Bobby calling your name.

“We’re in here!” His voice is echoing from the kitchen, and you have to rip your attention from the couch. “And you better not be gettin’ mud over the floors, I just cleaned ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “I am not getting mud on the-“

You freeze in the doorway, your body tensing and brace on instinct.

Nail dug into your palms, chin high, the world already starting to blur in defense.

Because Bobby’s not alone.

“Welcome home, kiddo. This,” he nods to the woman across the table. “Is Jo Harvelle.”

Jo looks nice. A little like a paper doll—smooth skin, long and blonde hair, doe eyes—but not in a pathetic way. She’s scanning over you the same way you’re scanning over her, and her hands are braced on the table like she’s ready to leap at you and run. You’re pretty sure there’s a gun in her pants, and she’s not holding that fork like it’s just a fork.

And Bobby wouldn’t just let anyone in the house, let anyone meet you.

But she still looks human. Breakable, capable of being wounded by the Darkness if you lose control.

“Bobby.” You keep your voice level, your gaze never leaving Jo’s. “Explain.”

“Jo’s a hunter-“

“Guessed that.” You snap, shooting him a glare. “Why is she here.”

“I’m gettin’ to that.” Bobby shrugs, and you don’t love how he’s not as scared of you as he should be. “Let’s finish introductions first.”

Jo shakes her head, her expression slightly weary as she takes you fully in. “Bobby, I know ya’ said you’d help, but I can come back-“

“Don’t be a dumbass.” He grunts. “Sit down, girl. She’s gonna get over it, she’s just like a cat. Don’t take too well to new people.”

You scowl. “I am not a fucking cat-“

Bobby ignores you. “Jo, this is that trainer I talkin’ about.” He says your name, and Jo’s eyes widen.

“Bobby,” you frown, ignoring Jo’s stare. “What do you mean, trainer-“

Jo interrupts you with your own name, and you’re a little worried her eyes are going to fall out. “Wow. It’s- I thought they made you up.”

“Made-“ You blink at her. “What?”

“You know the Winchesters?”

Something heavy and tight wraps around your neck, and the White bucks against your ribs. “I’m aware of them, yeah.”

Bobby snorts. You’re going to kill him.

“They,” Jo clears her throat, looking over your face like it’s a lovely mystery. “I’ve heard of you. From them. And it sorts sounded like a girlfriend from camp thing-“

There’s a look of glee on Bobby’s face that going to get him stabbed.

“Just because you sounded too cool for those losers to know. Sam’s told me about you, and Dean-“

“Stop.” You raise your hand, trying to not visibly react to his name, and how it’s making the White howl like a sick animal. “Bobby.”

He just grunts, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“What the fuck is happening.”

He sighs. “Jo’s been lookin’ for something hunting experience. Need someone I trust to show her the ropes-“

“Show her the-“ You blink at him incredulously. “Why can’t you do it?”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?”

“Stuff, kiddo. I got a life.”

You give him a flat look. “I don’t believe you.”

“Course you don’t.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “Look, I ain’t able do this. And I’d have thing one and thing two do it, but they’re all on Ellen’s no huntin’ shit-“

“Who’s-“

“Ellen’s my mom.” Jo interrupts you with low, but not soft words. “She doesn’t want me huntin’. And I had one case go bad last year, so now Sam and Dean won’t do it, and I asked Bobby-“

“And he said yes.” You mutter, shooting Bobby another glower. “Why can’t Rufus do it?”

“He’s out in Maine. And you’re a better hunter than Rufus anyway.” Bobby shrugs, and you snort.

“That’s not going to get me, Bobby, you taught me not to give in to ass-kissing-“

“It would be cool to hunt with another girl.” Jo says, watching you carefully. ‘But if you really don’t want to-“

“It’s not that.” You run your thumb over your palm, squeezing your eyes tight. “I- I don’t hunt ghosts. Or most of the other shit you’ve probably seen.”

When you open your eyes, Jo’s nodding.

“I know. Sam told me you did specialties-“

“It’s more than that. It’s- It’s complicated.”

You fucking hate that word. You hate saying it, hate how it’s bitter and heavy on your tongue, hate how it makes Jo slump slightly, hate how it makes a memory of Dean’s voice and glower and laugh ghost over your head.

“I know what you’ve got goin’ on, kiddo.” Bobby mutters from his chair. “But you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you couldn’t handle it.”

You narrow your eyes at Bobby, the sneaky old fuck, and it clicks into place that this was a trap. Jo seems sweet in a real, genuine but still tough kind of way—like an old, brittle candy—and you can’t be around anyone but saying no feels like you’d be spitting on a puppy. A blonde puppy that’s still hanging her head, who you can very easily imagine trying to push against Sam and Dean, then subsequently failing massively. They’re big, meat-headed idiots, and she doesn’t have the life of experience to make her bite just as harsh as her bark.

You don’t want to do this. It’s dangerous, and annoying, and just on principle you should drag Bobby into another room and ask if he’s insane. If he’s forgotten that demons hunt you like you’re their prize game, if it’s somehow slipped his mind in old age that you’re unstable and dangerous, and if he’s looking for a safe environment for Jo to hunt in, he might as well have strapped her to a nuclear bomb set to go off without warning.

There are so many reasons not to do this.

But you’ve been really lonely. And Jo seems tolerable.

So you sigh, and nod.

“Fine. What am I doing.”

Bobby crosses his arms, and that’s his small, smug, I won grin. “You’re just hunting like you always do. But, wherever you’re goin’,” Bobby nods to Jo. “Take her.”

Jo gives you a nervous smile, and you sigh.

“Can I have some pizza first?”

“Guess I’ll allow it.” Bobby jerks his head to your usual chair, and you drop into it with a scowl. “Got your favorite.”

He did. Bobby got two boxes of your favorite pizza, likely as a silent sorry I tricked you, kiddo gesture. And dinner is long and awkward, but mostly because you and Bobby can’t talk about the thing, Jo doesn’t seems like she knows where she fits, and you’re too tired for small talk.

You’ll find it in the morning, when you leave for the case. For now you just glare at your pizza and eat in silences, tracing your finger around the rim of your glass as Bobby asks Jo about her mom. You’d tease him about how much he seems to like this Ellen lady if you weren’t so tired.

You want to sleep in your bed. Just for the night. You haven’t slept in your bed in two years, trading it for a cot in the basement.

Last time you were in that bed, Dean was there. He’d been at your side and all over your room, more than a voice echoing around your skull and a faint smell of grass and spice. A smell that’s still lingering deep in the jacket on your body because no matter how much you wash it there’s still something deeply golden ingrained into the material. And it’s soothing—a buoy in the storm, that you cling to like a baby blanket and acts as an artificial Dean, blending nothing but softening your harsher edges—and you want to walk through the whole house and find other things that are afflicted with Dean the same way you are-

Bobby grunts your name, and you realize Jo’s gone. “I know you’re angry-“

“I’m not angry.” You mutter, frowning at your glass. “I’m worried. This could go really wrong-“

“I know.” He lets out a heavy breath, and when you glance over, he’s giving you an odd look. “You know when I saw you the happiest?”

You blink at him, your surprise written all over your face, and Bobby takes it as a no.

“Those three years when you were huntin’ with a partner. When you had a friend that wasn’t a grumpy old asshole-“

“You’re not grumpy.” You cut him off with a small smile, and he chuckles.

“Can it, smartass, you know what I’m talkin’ about. I know you ain’t gonna take Sam and Dean as friend options anymore, so I’m offerin’ an alternative.” He nods up the stairs to where Jo had assumedly disappears. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders, even if can lead her wrong. And I do trust you with ‘er. Don’t think you’ll talk down, or take any bullshit. But ya need it, kiddo. Just as much as she does.”

You pick at your nails, unable to figure out how you can explain to Bobby that it wasn’t just hunting with a partner. It was Dean. You were happy because you had Dean, and Jo seems fine but she’s not what you need. Or even what you want.

But you can’t have what you want.

So you sigh, nod, and shuffle off to bed.

Your room is exactly as you left it, with the exception of having gather dust and being entirely empty of Dean.

You wait until you’re sure Bobby and Jo are asleep, and you sneak down to grab a blanket that has Dean stained all over it.

And you’ll never tell anyone, but you fall asleep easily with the blanket wrapped around you.

Jo’s up before you. Waiting at the table with an eager expression.

“Do you have a case?” She asks, watching you shuffle around the kitchen. “Are we- Does Bobby gotta approve it-“

You snort, shaking your head. “No. Bobby’s not my boss.”

“Sorry, I just know my mom will assign cases to hunters-“

“I’m not your mom.” You drop at the table, glaring at the coffee in your mug. “I don’t usually hunt with other people.”

“But-“

You glare up at her—sensing a mention of Dean like a premonition, the hair on your neck standing up and the White scratching at your chest—and she shuts her mouth.

You’re being mean. You don’t want to be mean, you’re just in so much pain, and she’s awfully bubbly, and worse, she unfamiliar. You don’t know her, you don’t know what she knows about you, and you don’t know what to expect from her.

Maybe Bobby had been right. Maybe you are a cat.

“I-“ You sigh, giving Jo a close-lipped smile. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

“It’s okay.” She returns your smile, sitting a little taller. “I get it.”

“Yeah.” You don’t think she does. It’s really not worth pointing out. “And I do.”

Jo frowns. “You-”

“Have a case. Ever been to Utah?”

“No?”

“That’s alright, it’s kind of shit. Lot of Mormons. And,” you turn your mug between your hands, and it’s burning your skin. You welcome it. “There’s very strange case of a lot of people’s wildest dreams suddenly coming true.”

“Like-“ Jo blinks at you. “Like what?”

“Like marriages and pregnancies out of nowhere.” You shrug. “Promotions, winning lottery numbers, getting your dream house with the owner putting it up for contest. No death yet, but-“

“It could happen.” Jo nods. “And whatever’s grantin’ is probably askin’ for payment.”

You nod. “A payment you wouldn’t want to come due. And the whole town seems to be having something, just once, so we need to at least stop it from moving.”

“The town-“

“Manti. About sixteen hours.”

Jo swallows, looking around the kitchen with wide eyes. “So do we- do we just go?”

“No.” You push to your feet, taking your coffee with you. “We get dressed, pack, leave a note, then go.”

Jo nods, and you’ll give her this. She’s efficient, and quick. She’s packed faster than you are—although you do waste about three minutes failing to talk yourself out of taking the Dean Blanket—and when you start to put on your shoes at the door, she’s already waiting for with her jacket and bag.

You go simple with the note.

Utah. Call you if I need help, message me if there’s a problem.

And you’re gone. Driving with Jo slightly bouncing at your side, putting on the radio to keep the Darkness smothered down just a little easier. You don’t really look at Jo, or attempt to start a conversation, or do anything but tap your fingers in time with the music. When you stop for gas you give a short order of get food if you want it, be back in five, and frown at your reflection in the mirror as you fill up the pump.

You’re a little worried you’re being a bitch. You’re really trying not to be, and you might have been kinder and more eager a few years ago, but you’re tired. You haven’t really spoken to anyone that’s not Bobby over the phone in two years. You can still make small talk, but you don’t remember how to have real conversations. How to talk about anything without your hand still inching towards your knife—stashed in your jacket—just in case.

You also hadn’t been amazing at conversation before. Dean had been an exception because he was Dean, and it’s not that you’re unlikable, you’re just…

A lot.

And you’re not sure how much of it Jo would be set to handle.

But you still feel like you’re being a bitch.

“So, um,” You give talking an attempt about halfway through the drive, frowning at the road. “You have a mom.”

Everyone has a fucking mom. Even if they’re adopted or something, they still technically have a mom.

Jo doesn’t seem phased by it. “Yeah. Just her though, my dad died a while ago.” There’s a long pause, the radio suddenly not nearly loud enough, but before you can turn it up, Jo’s talking again. “What about you?”

“What about-“

“You have a mom? Or dad? Siblings?”

Your grip on the wheel tightens. “I have a Bobby.”

“Oh.” She sounds surprised. “I didn’t know you were Bobby’s daughter-“

“I’m informally adopted.” You mutter. “It’s complicated.”

Jo nods in your periphery, and you’re about ready to give up on conversation. You had to say complicated, and now you’re spiraling around how Jo had heard of you, but she hadn’t known about your relationship with Bobby, so what had Sam and Dean told her-

“You drive weird.”

You shoot Jo a surprised frown, and she looks incredibly passive for what she just said. “What?”

“I just never seen someone drive like that.” She shrugs, gesturing to your body, and you glance down at yourself with a frown.

You drive normally. Casually and easily. But you’ve spent half your life on the road, so of course you’d drive easily. With an elbow propped on the window, your fingers light on the bottom of the wheel, and a half-glazed attention on the road. You trust your instinct to catch anything before you crash, because this is something bland and easy, so you can trust yourself. You’ve never crashed.

And you’ve never really thought about how you drive.

“You don’t got road rage either,” Jo adds, and you give her another frown. “A lot of assholes have cut us off, one guy honked at us, and you just didn’t care.”

“I have other things to be angry at.” You mutter. “And we’re in Wyoming.”

Jo blinks at you. “Is that… bad?”

“No. But if we get run off the road the nearest hospital is two hours away.”

“Oh.” She nods slowly. “You just, have hospitals memorized?”

“Yep.”

Jo’s frowning at you, and something a little sore scratches at your skin. You’re being a bitch again.

You open your mouth to elaborate, try and come across a little sweeter—or at least not downright sour—but Jo’s talking before you get the chance.

“You kinda drive like Dean-“

“No, I don’t.” You snap, your words pushed for teeth. Seems like you’re going to lean into the bitch thing.

And it works. Jo shuts her mouth, giving you an odd look, and the rest of the ride is filled with a tense, frayed silence.

You have to take one night—It’s a sixteen hour drive, and Jo doesn’t know where you’re going, so you have to rest—but you’re in Utah by morning the next day. And there are a few truly beautiful things about hunting in the Midwest, and the main one is that everything is cheap, and most things are empty. You can get a two-bed motel room without an issue, and buy some food for a reasonable fucking price.

Jo doesn’t seem as thrilled about this as you are.

She’ll learn.

“When do, um,” Jo’s glancing around the motel room—bland colors, stiff mattresses, and chipped paint—and standing a little too tall. “How do we start?”

“Normally you’d make a plan.” You toss your bag on the bed closest to the door. “Write down what you already know, and what you need to figure out.”

Jo grabs a notepad from her bag, dropping at the table as she starts to write. “We know what happenin’, but we need to know why, so we should probably go to the library-“

“Wrong.” You shrug off your jacket, trading it for your stiff, tweed, professional one. “We’re starting with interviews.”

Jo frowns. “But you said-“

“I said normally. If you’re hunting alone or with someone else. But,” You sort through your bag, grabbing out two fake IDs and tossing one to Jo. “You’re hunting with me. And I already have a plan.”

Jo looks to the ID, then back to you with an expectant expression, and you sigh.

“Research will be a good idea when we actually have a lead, but right now we only know the basics. We need to be able to rule things out before we start narrowing things down. This,” you tap your own ID, holding it up for her to see. “Is our cover.”

Jo scans over your ID, shaking her head slightly. “But that’s not a federal-“

“I know. Robinson and Miller are journalists. We’re doing a fluff piece on the whole luck thing. These are just normal IDs, because people might ask to make themselves feel better.”

“Oh.” Jo mumbles, grabbing her own ID and putting it in her bag. “Okay. So we-“

“We’re getting the story in their words.” You say, tucking your knife back in your jacket. “Only push if you see an opening. Hopes are these people slip up themselves.”

Jo nods, moving back to her feet. “And we’re tryin’ to figure out where their luck came from?”

“Yep. Once we find out who’s giving them that luck,” You draw a finger over your mouth with a clicking sound, giving Jo a half-grin “And then we go home.”

Jo goes home. You keep wandering around the country, running from the demons that you’re still scanning for every second.

But Jo doesn’t need to worry about that. And it’s easier to just say go home.

Once you get started—bouncing from house to house, interviewing sudden millionaires and true love marriages—you do have to give Jo credit. She’s good at this part. The people seem to like her, she bounces off of you easily during the interviews, and is good at figuring out where openings for further questions. You catch her shooting you a few odd looks through the process, and you think it’s because you’d flipped on your journalist persona. Wide smiles and bright eyes, still standing tall, but with a relaxed demeanor you don’t really have in real life.

You know it can be jarring, how quickly you can make that shift. How your voice becomes bright and sweet, and any dry exhaustion vanishes from your expression. Dean once told you he’s shocked you didn’t have a career in Hollywood, because you had the face and charm, Princess, just need to figure out how actually take some direction and you’d be golden.

You’d rolled your eyes and shoved him, snapping that you could take direction, just not stupid direction, and he needed to stop teasing you and focus on the dead guy who’s body you’re supposed to be examining.

He’d shrugged and called you Bossy, dodged your next shove with a laugh, and guided you aside with a hand on your back-

You bite down on your inner cheek, scowling at the air as Jo finishes up with the last interview. She’s doing fine with it, you think, but you can’t really focus because the White is thrashing and whining for Dean, and this is why you’re not supposed to think about him-

“What now?” Jo asks you as you walk back the car, and you blink at her.

“Wha-“

“That was the last interview. What’s next?”

You nod, forcing yourself into focus with your nails dug into your palm. “Now we go to the library, and look for things on…” Trailing off, you scan over your own notepad with a small frown, and Jo jumps in with soft words.

“Deals for luck?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, giving her a small, tight smile. “Thanks.”

She shrugs, and it takes a little while to find the library, but once you do the silence is easier than before. You trade notes as you pour over the books, and even if most of Jo’s ideas end up being blatantly wrong, at least she’s having ideas. She’s obviously trying, and trying hard, so when she gives a hideously incorrect theory, you do your best to be kind about shooting it down.

If it was Dean you would’ve giggled at him, and he would’ve known you didn’t really mean it.

And Jo isn’t Dean. No one is.

But you’re gaining a little more patience with her, and you don’t hate this as much as you thought you would. Maybe it’s because she’s actually listening to you and respecting that you know what you’re talking about. You line out for her the current evidence—every person you interviewed mentioned karma, being good to the right people, and the golden rule—and offer her your working theories, and she listens. She takes notes, and you don’t have to defend that you do know what you’re talking about, and you’re certain these are the things you want to focus on.

Maybe it’s that when you’d clearly drawn a line about not mentioning Dean, she’d respected it.

A lot of it is probably that she doesn’t ever glance at you with a scowl, like she’s looking for something deeper or darker under your surface.

And you really like that the White and the Darkness are almost indifferent to her presence. The pain is there, but no different than normal, and there’s no pull or detonation set to go off as you sit with her.

She just seems genuinely nice. A little self-assured, but nice. When she goes to get some coffee and food down the street, she asks if you want any. When she passes you the paper cup and small bag of lemon bread, she compliments your nails, and you flush because you’re not used to that.

You can’t remember the last time you got a real compliment that you just… accepted. With Bobby you roll your eyes, and with Dean you’d always analyzed them. He thought your fighting form was good, which meant he’d been watching, but it could’ve just been in passing rather than the careful, almost hypnotized way you watched him.

But Jo says you have nice nails, and you flush, and that’s it. You drink your coffee and read, picking at your food, and Jo does the same across the table until it’s dark outside and the librarians tell you it’s time to leave.

You open a library card—technically Ms. Debbie Robinson opens an account, but the library doesn’t need to know that—and check out the books you hadn’t gotten to yet. Jo adds two of her own, and you head back to the motel in silence.

“Do we need to compare notes?” Jo asks as you enter the room, setting the books down on the table. “Or-“

“I’ll look over your notes.” You pull out a chair, nodding your head to the bathroom. “You can shower first.”

Jo frowns. “But I-“

“After I look them over, I’ll explain what’s right and wrong.” You raise your brows at her. “And you can ask questions. Go shower.”

For a second you think she’s going to protest again, but she doesn’t. Jo nods slowly, places her notepad in front of you, grabs her clothing, and shuffles to the bathroom.

You frown at her back. “What are you doing?”

“Showerin’.” She gives you an odd look over her shoulder. “You- you just told me to-“

“I know, I’m-“ You gesture to her bag on the couch. “You’re forgetting all your shit.”

She raises her hand, sleepwear bundled in her fist. “I’ve got it.”

“No, your shower stuff-“

“What shower stuff?”

You gape at her slightly. “Shampoo? Conditioner? Body-“

“The motel will have it, right? I mean, Sam and-“ She catches herself, shaking her head. “I just don’t know any hunters who bring their own stuff.”

“Of course you don’t.” You roll your eyes, pushing out of your chair and walking to your own bag. “All the hunters you know are dumbasses. Use this.”

You toss your plastic shower bag to her, and she blinks at you.

“What-“

“It’s my stuff.” You shrug. “Might not be right for your hair and skin types, but it’s better than whatever the fuck the motel is going to have.”

Jo frowns at the bag, sorting through its contents. “But-“

“You don’t have to use all of it.” You say, returning to your seat. “But if you use the body scrub, do it after you shower then rinse it off.”

“I…” Jo pauses, and when you glance back up, she’s watching you with wide eyes. “Do ya’ always use this stuff?”

“Yeah.” You hold her gaze, making yours as blank as possible. “Makes me feel normal. Clean.”

Jo nods slowly, and turns to the bathroom with the bag in her hand. You pour over the notes as she showers, not bothering to look up when you hear the door open.

“Good shower?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, dropping your shower bag on the table as she sits down. “Thanks.”

You just shrug, leaving your notebook open as you push out of your own chair.

“I wrote down everything,” you tell her, moving all the supplies across the table. “Look over it while I shower.”

She nods, her head hung as she scans over your writing, and you disappear into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

Jo used too much hot water for it to be scalding, so you keep it ice cold, and the darkness moves a little further down.

There are no disasters. You’re under your own control, the Darkness is under your control, and when you return to the table all of Jo’s clarification are reasonable and answerable. Her presence isn’t like an axe over your head—more like an annoying buzz in your ear—and as long as this simple lull continues through the week, you’ll get through this without an issue.

“My money’s on witch.” You mutter around midnight, shifting through the last few book pages. “Which means tomorrow we need to start looking for who the witch is.”

Jo nods from her bed, curled up in the pillows with her own notes. “Why witch?”

“At this point it’s either witch or crossroad demon.” You close the book with a shrug. “And no one’s mentioned making a deal. Most of the people we knew didn’t have any relation, so while there’s a chance that’s a coordinated answer, it’s low. This sounded like they think they earned it, and they’re not at all worried about a bill coming due.”

“But there will be one.” Jo frowns at her own book. “There always is.”

“Yep. But we can’t exactly figure it out now.” You move to your own bed, feeling under your pillow for your knife before crawling into the sheets. “We’ll be up at six tomorrow.”

Jo hums, and for a second you think she’s going to try and make conversation, but she just rolls over and goes to sleep.

You appreciate it. You have no interest in talking.

Not as the lights turn off, and the case goes static for the night, and it’s just you in the whole world. Jo snores slightly, but it’s not louder than the Darkness creeping up your spine and wrapping around your skull, no more demanding that the White roaring and bursting in your chest.

You grab your knife, sit up against the headboard, and take long breaths. Slow, long breaths in even movements, your eyes squeezed tight in pain as it all starts to leak out. You can feel the suffocating heat of the mattress and disgust of your sweat on the sheets, and this can’t happen right now.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t sleep, if you’re blurry eyed and a little hazy in the morning—your skin still raw from where you’re allowing the knife to bury into your skin—this can’t happen. Bobby trusted you with Jo, and she’s trusting you, so you need to strangle every weak and feral part of you, locking them down until you’re alone again. You’ll get through this. You’ll drown in this agony alone, and Jo will be fine-

“Can you go to sleep?”

You drag your eyes open, looking to Jo’s bed with a frown. She’s still lying down, her face not fully visible in the dark, but you can see the light reflecting in her eyes.

“Sorry,” she mutters, shrugging slightly. ”I just don’t like to sleep with someone sittin’ guard. Kinda weird.”

You blink at her. “Roll over then.”

“I’ll still know.” She pushes back, and there’s something a stronger in her voice than before. “It’s creepy. And we’re fine, I saw you saltin’ all the entrances and drawin’ those weird symbols on the floor-“

“They’re specialized demon traps.” You snap. “And I’m sorry it’s creepy, but I’m not sleeping.”

Jo sighs. “Alright.”

You scowl at her, and she sits up, leaning over to turn on the light between your beds.

“Now we’re both not sleepin’.”

You stare at her, shaking your head. “Are you fucking five? Go to bed-“

“I can’t sleep if you’re gonna be doin’ that.” She waves your tenses body on the bed, your knees clutched to your chest and your grip on the knife white. “Cool knife, by the way.”

“Thanks.” You mutter, turning the blade over in your hands. “Just- go back to sleep, Jo-“

“I said no.” She snaps. “I feel like somethings going to jump out and attack us when you’re doin’ that-“

You snort—it’s a little mean, but she also how no idea just how correct she is—and she frowns.

“Why don’t you like me?”

“I-“ You gape at her. “I don’t not like you-“

“I’m not dumb.” She says, holding your gaze. “And I’m tryin’ to help-“

“You are helping-“

“I’m slowin’ you down. You coulda just told Bobby no-“

“But I didn’t.” You narrow your eyes at her. “And if you don’t want to do this, you can go-“

“I don’t want to go!” She’s whining a little, and the sound is scraping at your ears. “I wanna hunt, and maybe you don’t have a lot of female friends or somethin’-“

You let out a small, dry laugh. “I don’t have a lot of friends. Period.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and then, “Me neither.”

You nod at nothing, and as silence settles over the room, the sore ache of guilt runs and burns over your skin.

“I don’t- I’m not used to hunting with people.” You mutter, staring at your hands as you pick at your nails. “And most people slow me down. It’s not just you.”

“That’s not much better. Kinda sad.”

You scowl at her. “Sorry I’m not a fun-“

“I don’t need ya’ to be fun, I just don’t-“ Jo sighs, slumping slightly. “You’re not babysittin’ me. And you don’t gotta be nice, but you- I dunno, you just seem-“

“Bossy?” The White whines, and you make your voice flat. “I’ve been told I can be bossy.”

“Yeah. Bossy.”

You scowl at your hands, wishing you could use them to turn your knife on your tongue. You hate this. Not Jo, but known that you’d been right. You were being a bitch, and Jo didn’t deserve that, and you’d been trying but being nice is so fucking exhausting with your whole body feels like it’s shredding itself apart-

“You been kind, though.” Jo cuts through the silence, and you stare at her.

“You just called me bossy-“

“Yeah. But you’ve let me actually do some work, and you gave me the hair and body stuff. It- It did feel nice.”

“Good.” You mumble. “That was the point.”

Jo scans over your face with an odd expression. “I can’t believe Bobby lets you hunt alone.”

You snort, and nothing defensive flares in your mouth. You can hear it in your voice, is not you she’s shocked with. It’s the very idea of anyone just hunting alone.

She’s likely gotten the it’s dumb speech from Dean.

“Bobby doesn’t let me hunt alone so much as he ruefully accepts that he can’t stop me.” You drawl, giving Jo a half smile. “Whole permission, forgiveness thing.”

Jo hum, nodding. “How long you been huntin’?”

“Alone?” You raise your brows, and Jo nods. “Since I was fifteen.”

“Fif-“

“Yeah.” You smile at Jo’s open, wide expression. “Started small, got good at it. Bobby’d be hard pressed to stop me now.”

“Sam-“ Jo clears her throat, sitting a little taller. “He told me you were one of the best hunters they’ve ever met.”

You shrug, and bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking and what about Dean, what did he say, did he just give a grumbled agreement to Sam or did he add something else, and was his voice filled with hatred or affection-

“He said you’re hard to find, though.” Jo’s voice is cautious, and your nails dig into your skin. “That you’re… Dean told me you were sick.”

The White is roaring. Dean’s heard Bobby’s lie. And he may have believed it, and you can’t tell if you’re relieved or not, and Jo said you were hard to find. Like they’d looked. Like Sam and Dean had searched for you, even after you left them, and you could never see them again but they spoke about you, and Sam still saw you in that odd, flattering light and Dean still thought about you-

“Are you?”

You blink at Jo. “Am I-“

“Sick.”

“Yeah.” You watch her carefully, vigilant for any form of reaction. “I am.”

Jo nods, glancing to the lamp between your beds, and the knife in your hands. “Are you gonna go to sleep?”

You shake your head, rubbing your palm against the hilt of your knife. “Can’t.”

She sighs, settling a little further into her mattress. “Can you at least tell me why somethings gonna burst through the door-“

“No.”

She gives you a flat look that obviously says why, and you let out a long breath.

“It’s co-“

You stop yourself, turning your knife between your hands. You’re so fucking sick of that word. And you’re sick of being alone, and Jo seems genuinely nice, and Jo seems to understand discretion.

She doesn’t seem like the type who’s going to just try and shoot you.

Just to test a theory, you start slow. “You know John Winchester-“

“I fuckin’ hate that guy. He got my dad killed.”

You blink at her. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” She leans forward, giving you an odd look. “Why?”

She hates John. She’s friends with Sam and Dean, but not enough to tell them she’s going on a hunt.

She can keep a secret.

And you’re really fucking tired.

“You can’t tell Sam or-“ You swallow, the White rearing its head. “Dean.”

Jo nods, leaning forward. “Okay.”

“You have to swear-“

“On my mom.” She crosses her heart like a girl scout, her expression purely open, and you believe her.

You do something incredibly stupid, and Dean’s not even here.

You tell Jo everything. Almost everything. More than you’ve told Bobby, but less than the whole truth. You tell her about the Darkness and the White—but not the whole Dean thing—and you tell her about the monsters, and the demons, and the women of the high. You explain all your odd ideas, and the whole John thing, and that Azazel had threatened you, but you leave out exactly how. You tell her about the green-eyed demons and their knives, and how they never kill you, and how you’re in control of it—the last lie—but you still to be careful.

“You’re not in danger,” you add at the end, just because you’re a little worried her eyes are going to pop out of her head. “I know how to handle them, if they come, and I haven’t seen any but- Yeah. That’s it.”

There’s an odd sense of relief. Cool and soothing over your body like water. You’ve told her, and she hasn’t tried to kill you.

She’s mostly just staring.

You’re a little worried you broke her.

“Jo-“

“Holy shit.” She whispers. “Is that- That’s why you’re always huntin’ alone, right?”

You nod, and she swallows.

“And Sam and Dean don’t-“

“No. And they can’t.” You make your voice firm, rubbing your calves as you speak. “I’m serious, they really can’t-“

“I won’t say anything.” She gives you a small smile. “I swore on my mom.”

You nod slowly. “I- Sorry if you didn’t want to hear-“

She cuts you off with a shrug. “I asked. And it’s explainin’ a lot.” She grabs the TV remote, and begins to flip through the channels. “National Treasure?”

You stare at her, then glance at the TV. It’s playing a grainy, half-static movie, and Jo’s mostly watching it with interest.

“Are we- what about sleep-“

“You gonna sleep?”

“I- probably not-“

“Then we’re watchin’ TV.” She tosses the remote onto your bed. “You can pick, but I’m still not gonna sleep long as you’re up.”

And that’s it. You look between the remote and Jo’s casual expression, settle back into your bed with a nod, and you’re… okay. You’re still in pain but the exhaustion feels more manageable, and there’s really nothing bad happening. You told her, and nothing died or burst into flames. The only indication to ever told her is how, every ten or so minutes, she’ll ask a casual question about it, you’ll answer, and you’ll go back to watching the movie.

And eventually you make a joke, and she laughs, and bounces back with one of her own.

And when you fall asleep—passing out against the headboard—you wake up to find coffee waiting for you on the side-table and Jo already sorting through a new set of books.

“Mornin’.” She gives you a small smile. “I got you want you ordered yesterday, and I’ve been lookin’ at all the witness statements. Got some idea, if you wanna hear them.”

You nod, moving to sit with her at the table, and something simple and soft is stirring along your muscles. It’s the same feeling you got with Sam, two years ago in the hospital.

You have a friend.

——————

Dean’s really fucking tired.

There’s too much happening. The world has never moved this slow and this fast, and he couldn’t keep up.

He has six months. It’s not enough, and it’s far too much. All the time feels wasted, and there’s so much to do that won’t end up mattering, because Dean is going to die.

He’s certain of it.

Sammy’s got faith they’ll fix this. That they’re gonna get Lilith and make her shred up Dean’s contract, that Ruby’s actually going to help instead of just ordering them around like a bitch, that this will all work and the year will end with Dean still alive.

It’s not the truth.

And Dean’s trying. He’s forcing himself to ride on Sam’s determination, mostly because it probably makes Sam feel better about the whole situation. And Dean can offer him that.

Whatever lets Sam keep going when he’s gone.

In return, Sam indulges him. No annoying fights about strip clubs and one-night stands. No bitching and moaning about loud music or fast driving.

No more trying to mention Her, or attempting to convince Dean that they should pry Bobby for more information on where She’d gone.

Dean didn’t want to find her. He needed to find Her—he needed to know She was okay, he needed to ask why the hell she just up and vanished, why Sam said She’d been at the hospital, been crying over his body, but then She just fucking left before he could wake up and didn’t even try to come back—but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want the answers to his questions, because they’d probably just be wasn’t worth it.

She must have finally realized Dean just wasn’t fucking worth it.

And if he found Her, she’d tell him that, and he might just die right there. Screw the demons and the deal, She’d look at him with bright eyes, say Dean Winchester, I left because you’re more trouble than you’re worth, and he’d turn into ash.

It was pathetic. She was just a woman, not some kind of magical love-spell chick, but Dean knew—deep in his gut and a little to the left of his heart—that She could kill him like that.

And he fucking hated it.

He needed to be strong. He needed to hold it together for Sammy, and he needed to keep his head level so everyone could grieve him while he was still alive, and She made that impossible. The idea of Her made it impossible. It didn’t matter how many times Bobby told him he was holdin’ it together better than expected, or Sam reminded him that he was an ass, but they were going to work this out because Dean couldn’t die, Dean was starved for Her.

He bended to Her when she was only a phantom in his head. A siren-like voice between the notes in songs, and bright eyes in his dreams, and the smell of fruit and sugar on the wind.

He’d never figured out what that fruit was.

He had a feeling he never would.

There was the other reason he didn’t want to find Her. Their last fight still circled around his head like lingering smoke after an explosion, and as much as it haunted him that he may never be able to mend things with her, it made him fear Her more.

Fear how She’d react to finding out about the deal, when She’d gotten so pissed when Dean hadn’t died. She’d been ready to throttle him when he’d in one full piece in front of her, with no dark cloud or promise of death lingering over his shoulder at all.

He was afraid that he’d meet a fate worse than Her being indifferent.

He was afraid that She’d care.

That the wrath from Colorado would return, and She fight for him and rip herself apart for him just as Sammy was, and something would cave where She just kept liking him—despite all odds and reason, Dean was almost certain She had at least liked him—and he got Her. They’d fall into each other because She somehow cared, and Dean was never capable of not bathing and drowning himself in Her light.

And then he’d die. Sammy was a genius, and Bobby was the best damn hunter they knew, and She was Her, but they wouldn’t be able to save him.

And Dean would just fucking lose Her when his time ran out.

He hated that too.

Hated that he’d never had Her, and would never get to have Her. That she’d remain in his thoughts and haunt his sleep like a brilliant tattoo over his brain, but he’d never get to just touch Her. He’d fuck different bodies in town after town and none of them would ever be Her.

She’d left him to crave Her alone.

So Dean wouldn’t die alone. He’d die with Sammy at his side.

But he’d die without Her, and that felt like he was abandoning something. Like he should maybe give a shit, because he didn’t want Her to know but he couldn’t stand the idea of dying without her there.

He was one selfish son of a bitch, wanting Her to witness his death just so he would die with some strange, deep part of him filled with light.

So he didn’t look for Her.

And he just kept moving.

“We got a call from Ellen this morning.”

Dean glanced up with a frown, and Sam hadn’t even looked up from his computer.

“About what?”

“Apparently Jo pulled the disappearing act again.” Sam shrugged. “Our job to go get her.”

“That is not our job.” Dean muttered, placing the gun he’d been cleaning off to the side. “Ellen got a clue where she went?”

“Nope, but you know who probably will?”

Sam raised his brows, and Dean groaned.

“I don’t want to call him-“

“You have to. It’s not like she’s gonna pick up the phone-“

“That’s not what I- shut up.” Dean scowled. “If we call Bobby and he doesn’t know where Jo is, he’s gonna give us the help her learn lecture again-“

“And we’ll listen to it again-“

“I’ll listen to it! You’ll go hide in the bathroom like a pussy-“

“I’m not a pussy, Dean.” Sam tossed him the phone, attention returning to his laptop. “I’m just smarter than you are. Good luck.”

Dean rolled his eyes, muttering a bitch under his breath—that only made Sam laugh—as he dialed Bobby’s number.

It was five rings before the call picked up.

“Dean, it’s my week off, so unless you boys got a real good lead-“

“Jo’s trying to hunt again.” Dean cut Bobby off with careful words, his body already braced for the lecture. “You happen to know anything about that?”

“Maybe.” Bobby’s voice was bored through the phone, and Dean could picture his flat, neutral expression. “If I do?”

“Bobby-“

“She ain’t here, Dean-“

Dean scowled. “That’s not the fucking question, Bobby-“

“And I didn’t finish, boy.” Bobby snapped through the speaker, and Dean flinched slightly. “Jo ain’t here, but she stopped by. Ate dinner with me.”

There was silence, and Dean took a deep breath as he realized Bobby wasn’t going to keep talking.

“Bobby,” He muttered through his teeth. “If we don’t find her it’s all our asses with Ellen-“

“That ain’t true, I’m not the one who lost her-“

“Technically Ellen lost her,” Sam called from the table, attention still on the laptop. “So you could, I dunno, try telling her that.”

Bobby sighed through the speaker, and Dean almost heard the eye roll. “Why can’t you idjits just let that girl learn to hunt-“

“So she is hunting-“

“Course she’s hunting, Dean!” Bobby voice had grows loud enough for Dean to flinch, and Sammy needed to stop smirking, or he was going to get punched. “Showed up here damn near beggin’ me to help her, so I sent her off with another hunter.”

Dean’s grip on the phone tightened. “Who?”

“Best one I’ve got. She’ll be fine, Dean, Jo ain’t a fragile little bird-“

“No, but Ellen wants her home and I’d like to keep my life, Bobby.” Dean ran a hand over his face, frowning at Sam, who was finally actually paying attention. “Where’d they go.”

“Utah.”

“Where in Utah-“

“Don’t know.” Bobby hummed through the phone. “Big state though. Better start searchin’.”

The line dropped dead before Dean could protest, and that was it. Sam raised his brows in silent question, and Dean shook his head, chucking his phone onto the mattress.

“Utah.”

Sam frowned. “Where in-“

“I don’t fucking know!”

Sam ended up knowing. The kid just shrugged, combed over the news, and found a little town with a wish-granting problem in about thirty minutes flat.

It wasn’t a flawless plan—there could be other cases to work in Utah that weren’t as obvious—but it was better than just driving town to town in Utah and testing their luck.

And Dean’s luck hadn’t been good in two damn years.

“Did Bobby say who Jo’s with?”

Dean shook his head, keeping his eyes on the road. “Just that they’re the best.”

“The best?” Sam sounded shocked, and Dean understood that. “Bobby called them-“

“The best.” Dean reappeared, tapping his hand on the wheel with a frown. He had an odd, powerful feeling he couldn’t place rolling around in his chest. “Probably just Rufus or something.”

“Wouldn’t Bobby have just said Rufus-“

“Sammy.” Dean grunted, and the odd feeling was intolerable. Almost sickening, like his heart was being grown over and throttled. “Shut up.”

Sam sighed, but listened, and Dean turned up the music until conversation wasn’t even a damn option. He didn’t know what the hell was happening to his body, or why it was turning against him in such a strangely urgent way, but it was consuming. Loud and sharp and furious and bright-

He only knew one person who was like that.

And he killed the thought before it could take root. She was sick. Bobby had probably sent Jo off with some old guy they’d simply never crossed paths with, who—once Sam and Dean explained the situation and used the proper threats—would let them take Jo home.

The nerves were probably just based in the fact that they were going to have to drive Jo home, and she wouldn’t be happy. Dean didn’t have the energy to hear her whining in the backseat about being treated like a child. He barely had the time for this, because the drive to Utah was damn near thirty hours, and Sammy wasn’t in favor of making it in one trip, so those were three more days of Dean’s fucking life gone.

And the feeling only got worse the closer they got.

But he was always a step closer to death, and he had at least another three days to lose, and it was nothing.

It wasn’t Her.

It couldn’t be Her. There was no reason for it to be. Just because Bobby was involved, and he’d said the best hunter—and Dean would never tell Her if he saw her, but his brain did move right to her with her books and knife and smart mouth—and this seemed like Her exact type of case, didn’t mean it would be Her.

So Dean ignored the feeling, and kept driving.

“Do you want to take care of the case after we get Jo?” Sammy asked in their last motel room, frowning at the newspaper clipping he’d ripped out about the town with a lucky streak in Utah. “I mean, mass luck out of nowhere in a small town, it’s kinda screaming-“

“It’s not that.” Dean grunted. “And if it is, how the hell is it gonna help us.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe this one’s got a line to Lilith.”

“And what, we just ask the son of a bitch to make a phone call-“

“Yeah, Dean. It’s better than nothing-“

Dean rolled his eyes and grunted whatever Sam needed to hear to shut up. It wasn’t better than nothing. At least nothing wouldn’t be filling his body with iridescent butterflies and haunting him with the smell of fruit.

When they rolled into the small town—Sammy had called it Morpi or something—Dean already wanted to just go. They just needed to grab Jo and head out, so this feeling could fade and pass like they all almost always did.

All this pain and suffering would be temporary. Dean reminded himself of that every second now. However tired or sick he felt now, everything would pass.

“Should we get a motel-“

“No,” Dean grunted, scanning over the streets as he looked for a place to park. Maybe Jo would just be walking around, they could grab her, and go. “We won’t be here long enough to need one. Waste of time.”

“Jo’s probably in a motel-“

“And she’s not just going to be fucking sitting there, Sammy-“

“Maybe she is.” Sam crossed his arms, and Dean could feel his pointed look. “It’s not unbelievable that she’s benched for the actual case.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “So we’re just supposed to knock on door and wait for her to open one? Is that your plan?”

“You got a better one?”

He didn’t. Dean had really been banking on the Jo just walks past them idea.

“Stop looking so fucking pleased with yourself.” He muttered, and Sam scoffed.

“You weren’t even looking at me, jerk-“

“Could feel it.” Dean pulled Baby in a U-turn, heading back to the motel they’d passed a few minutes before. “You’re doing all the knocking, genius.”

It didn’t matter who did the knocking. All they got in result was one very angry old man, a trophy mom that offered Sammy the ride of his life—Dean didn’t bother to hide his wide grin at how Sam was red for several long minutes after—and a bunch of college kids who weren’t very good at hiding that they’d been smoking weed, calling a bong a dildo and hoping that Sam and Dean were cool cops.

On a better day, Dean might have fucked with them, just because this was boring and they seemed like douchebags. But he just wanted to get this done with, and the feeling was building, and he felt like he was going to vomit a rainbow or something-

“That was my idea.” Sam muttered, frowning at the motel. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” Dean scowled. “I’m not the idea man, Sammy, I’m the action man-“

“Fuck off, dude, you have good ideas-“

“Yeah? Cause right now all I’ve got is shouting Jo and hoping something happens-“

Sam’s eyes widened slightly. “Dean-“

“Maybe we can build a fucking trap for her-“

“Dean-“

“Bait it with some beer and hope she walks into it-“

Sam rolled his eyes, grabbed Dean by the shoulders, physically turning Dean around to face the parking lot, and Dean’s heart felt like it had been plunged into lava and ice all at once.

Parking in the back of the lot was a hideous, bright red Jaguar, and climbing out of it was Jo and-

Son of a bitch.

She’s didn’t look like She was sick. She looking perfectly alright. Her hair was a little messy, but still shiny, and Her skin looked soft, and Dean couldn’t see her eyes yet but they were probably blinding. She was wearing the jacket Dean had left with Her, and there was light catching off Her rings as she gestured at Jo, and Dean could hear the smooth and beautiful sound of Her voice from the sidewalk-

There was nothing soft or weak or hoarse in Her voice. No cracks, and no color lost from Her face when Dean saw her pretty side-profile, and she was standing tall, and She wasn’t sick.

Dean’s blood was hot in his body. She’d left him dying in the hospital, and avoided him for two years, and She wasn’t sick.

He’d been right.

She just didn’t want him.

And now She was right fucking here, and Dean wanted to run and grab Her and fold her into his arms until they were stuck together for the rest of time, and he’d never hated Her more.

It wasn’t real hate. Not the hate he’d had for Azazel or Gordon, but the raw and carved open hatred that had festered in him all those years ago after the poltergeist. A furious ache that reminded Dean he wasn’t going to be able to stop orbiting around Her, and that when She bit him it would be poisonous, and when he bit Her back, it would be destructive. Hate that was bigger than most other things he felt, because everything was bigger with Her. She was always prettier, and smarter, and brighter and anger and funnier and more.

Better.

She was still better than anything Dean had ever seen, just from across the parking lot, and he felt like he was catapulting into a star.

He hated Her, for leaving him and doing this and not letting him properly fucking hate Her.

And then Her head turned, their eyes met, and the world stuttered. A mis-beat in a song or a scratch on a DVD, a brief second where it was only Her and Dean in the whole universe, where everything was technicolor and Dean felt like he was crashing down, down, down-

She was trying to get in the car. Her hands were pulling at the car door, and She was hissing something at Jo that Dean couldn’t hear, and She was trying to fucking run.

Dean was never not grateful for how Sammy wasn’t affected by whatever enchantment She cast on Dean. The car door had barely opened before Sam was sprinting forward, weaving between cars to reach them before they could drive away, and it snapped Dean out of his daze of Her and fruit on the wind.

Sam caught up to them in a few seconds—thank Christ for Sasquatch legs—and slammed the car door.

None of them were speaking when Dean skidded to a stop. Sam was gaping at Her, Jo was silently bouncing on her feet—face painted with nerves—and She was frozen. Almost like marble, perfectly still to the point that Dean wasn’t sure She was breathing.

He’d be worried about Her if he wasn’t so fucking furious.

Dean hissed Her name. He hated how right it felt in his mouth. “What the fuckin’ hell are you doing here-“

She just stared at him. Mouth parted slightly and eyes wide—a little blown out in a way Dean didn’t want to think about—and breathing far shallower than it should be. Dean shouldn’t be worried about that. He shouldn’t already be thinking about how there was raw, red skin around Her nails, and visible bags under Her eyes, and she didn’t look sick but She was colorless, and there was that little wrinkle in Her brow that Dean needed to reach out and smooth over-

“We’re hunting.” Jo provided, and Sam sighed.

“We worked that out, Jo. We’re just-“ Sam said Her name. It was a beautiful sound. Dean was going to hurt someone. “What are you doing here?”

She still wasn’t talking. Apparently, Jo had decided to be Her voice.

Dean didn’t want to hear Jo’s voice.

He wanted to hear Her.

“Bobby asked her to help me-“

“No shit, kid.” Dean snapped, his eyes never leaving Her’s. She looked terrified, and exhausted, and Dean didn’t fucking love how it was making his own stomach twist. “And you’re not hunting anymore, we’re bringing you back to Ellen-“

That seemed to snap Her out of it. She shook Her head, her eyes narrowing on Dean, and his breath caught in his throat as She started speaking.

“We’ve got a case to finish, Winchester. You’re not taking Jo anywhere.”

Dean scoffed. “You think you get a say in this, sweetheart-“

“I think.” Her voice was too controlled. Too measured and cool, and it was a weight on the top of Dean’s chest. “That you can try to take her and see what happens.”

“What, you gonna freakin’ stab me-“

“If I have to, yeah.” She raised Her chin, and her hair always somehow framed her face perfectly. “Get out of town. Now.”

Sam said Her name, his voice soft. “We could just help you, more hands are-“

“No.” She snapped, Her stance going rigid. “You need to fucking go. We’ve got this handled-“

“You’ve got a demon handled?” Dean sneered, ignoring Sam’s so now you think it’s a demon look. “That’s new-“

Something hot flared in Her eyes. “Shut the fuck up, asshole, I can handle a demon-“

“Can you? ‘Cause last I remembered you got stabbed-“

“And I’m perfectly fine.” She gestured to Her body, and Dean wished he could shut down the way his cock twitched in his pants at just the indulgence of looking at Her fully clothed body. “And it doesn’t matter, because this isn’t a demon, dumbass. So you can fuck right off, and I’ll bring Jo home when we’re done.”

Sam frowned at Her. “No offense, but this really does seem like a demon.” He said Her name carefully, and something sunk down in Dean’s heart when Her attention turned away. “We’ve dealt with a lot of crossroads demons this year-“

Dean stomped on Sam’s foot, shooting him a glare. He didn’t want Her to know. She didn’t get to know, not when She’d so obviously decided Dean wasn’t worth Her time. When She was already trying to get rid of him, and she looked so horrified from the sight of him.

Sam glared right back at him, and She cleared Her throat. For a second Dean thought She’d push—ask what the fuck that was about—but she didn’t. She either really just didn’t fucking care enough, or she was that eager to get rid of them.

“It’s not a crossroads demon.” She said, crossing Her arms over her chest. It made her tits look good, and Dean needed to get it the fuck together. “It’s a witch.”

Sam stilled, his jaw dropping slightly. Dean didn’t know what the fuck that was about. Witches were annoying as hell, but they weren’t new, or shocking.

“You’re hunting a witch?” Sam asked, his voice higher than Dean had ever heard it, and She frowned.

“We’re hunting a witch.” She said, nodding to Jo, still silent on the other side of the car. “And we’ve almost got it, so if you could kindly fuck off and let us work-“

Sam shook his head, his eyes getting wider by the second. “Since when do you hunt witches?”

“Since a while.” Her voice was dry, and there was a look of pure exhaustion—and something deeper Dean couldn’t pinpoint—on Her face. “So, again, go-“

“We’re not going without Jo.” Dean snapped, and She shot him a glare.

“I’m not asking, Winchester. You need to leave.”

They were just glaring at each other. There was that deep, heavy thing in Her eyes that didn’t dim them, but felt like a black light. Showing Dean something so far down inside of Her that he was certain he wasn’t supposed to see it, luring him further into Her orbit because everything in Her eyes was bigger than the universe and brighter than the sun beating down in the sky-

Dean needed to get it the fuck together. She didn’t want him here. She didn’t want him. Dean was an obstacle or nuisance to Her, and this is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to find Her. This is what he’d known would happen, and he had no one to blame but himself.

“We’re not fucking going without Jo,” he grunted. They’d only just met. She couldn’t be that determined to keep Jo around. “Give it up, sweetheart, and we’ll get out of your way.”

He sneered those last words, and She seemed to visibly flinch.

Jo cleared her throat. “I’m not just gonna leave with you, Dean-“

“Jo,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. “Not worth it.”

“But-“

“Sam’s right.” She snapped over Jo, and Sam blinked at Her. “This isn’t worth fighting about. And you two,” She gestured with a wave between Sam and Dean, the movement loose and careless and dismissive. It might have been better if She punched Dean square in the face. “Need to go. Keep hunting Azazel or something-“

“Dean killed Azazel.” Sam said, a small frown on his face, and She blinked at him, almost recoiling.

“What?”

Her voice was suddenly smaller. Dean had forgotten how frequently confused he was in Her presence.

“I shot him,” he muttered, watching Her carefully. “He’s been dead for months.”

Six months. The exact amount of time Dean’s time had been running out.

“Dead dead?” She whispered, glancing at Jo with wide eyes, who gave Her a small shrug and raised brows.

They seemed to actually like each other. Enough to have silent exchanges.

That could be a problem.

“He used the Colt.” Sam provided, and when Dean looked at him, he had a weary expression on his face. “And Dean’s not lying. We can’t leave with Jo. Ellen will kill us.”

Jo paled. “Mom sent you?”

Sam gave her a grimacing look of sympathy. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Jo said Her name, giving Her an odd look. “How sure are you about-“

“Positive.”

“Then maybe-“

“No.”

“They ain’t gonna leave,” Jo crossed her arms, giving Her a pointed look. “And more hands are better than none.”

Sam frowned. “That’s what I said-“

“And I’m reaptin’ it.” Jo shrugged. “You two can stick around, ‘till the hunts done, and then I’ll go back without a fight. But I’m finishin’ the hunt.”

“I don’t think her majesty over there is gonna give the go ahead on that.” Dean muttered, and She shot him a glare.

But it was less venomous. Less hostile.

More guarded. Spiked and nervous.

Dean didn’t know what the fuck was happening.

“Did you really kill Azazel?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking lying?”

She let out a long breath. “No.”

Dean frowned. She wasn’t fighting back anymore. She just looked tired, and he didn’t understand what was going on-

“If I let you stick around,” She said, mostly looking at Sam. It hurt something along Dean’s skull and spine. “You listen to me and Jo-“

Sam blinked at Her. “And Jo?”

“This is our hunt, Sam, we know what we’re doing-“

“No, I just didn’t- Sorry.” Sam gave Her a small frown. “How long have you guys been hunting together?”

Jo shrugged. “A week.”

Sam shot Dean a what the hell look, and Dean just shook his head.

He’d spent years trying to understand Her, and never succeeded. He didn’t think it was going to all click in one damn second.

“You’re certain it’s a witch?” Sam asked, turning back to Her, and She nodded.

“Yep. Coven, actually. Bunch of assholes who travel town to town, pull this,” She gestured to the air around them. “And then bounce. In about five years the whole thing will crash down, and everyone in Manti’s luck will be dogshit until it kills them.”

“Town to town?” Sam looked between them with a frown. “Has this happened-“

“Ten times in the past fifty years.” She shrugged. “I worked it out, and Jo found where they live. House on the edge of this city.”

Sam nodded slowly, shooting Dean a silent, weary look, and Dean understood what it meant.

They couldn’t leave without Jo.

Jo seemed glued to Her every fucking word and order, as if in one damn week She was already Jo’s favorite person.

And She was the most stubborn person Dean had ever met. If She said they weren’t taking Jo, they weren’t taking Jo.

Their only chance was listening to Her and ganking the witches.

Dean’s only chance was falling back in line behind Her, and fucking praying that when this was over, he’d be able to move out of Her orbit.

And he’d have to beat himself into really, fully hating Her again. Into not caring that She’d left, and She wasn’t sick. She just didn’t want him. She was still something that was higher, and She’d hadn’t learned to not want the mud—She wouldn’t, She’d been raised in it right alongside Dean, only just out of his view—but She’d learned to not want Dean.

He could let that hurt and rip him apart later. Hell, he’d have all of eternity after he died to torture himself with the thought.

Right now all he could do was grunt, give a short nod, and force himself not to watch the way Her shoulders relaxed at his agreement.

“Good.” She muttered, looking between Sam and Dean with a frown, and She was rubbing the scar on Her palm.

Dean still wanted to touch it.

“Here’s the deal.”

The deal was that they were storming the house. Two years Dean would’ve leaned down to Her ear and whispered like a break-in, Princess, then laughed at Her adorable glower, but now all he could do was watch Her silently. She still had that way of speaking and moving that made the world feel like it bent and shifted for Her.

She barely looked at him the whole explanation, giving short answers to Sam’s questions and letting Jo fill in any gaps.

She didn’t lie once. She’d been so obviously hiding something—She had to be, between the sick thing and how She and Jo kept exchanging glances—but She wasn’t lying. She told them the plan, and how they’d reached the witch conclusion, and that She and Jo had been working well together so they didn’t need Sam and Dean, and-

There was a lie. One lie.

“We don’t need you-“ She’d said, and Dean had scoffed.

“Says the girl who’s probably still hunting with a knife-“

“I’m serious.” She’d snapped, standing a little taller and twisting a ring on Her finger. “I don’t need you, Dean.”

Lie.

The only time She said his name all day, and it was in a lie he didn’t even understand.

But he was past trying to understand. Right now all he could do was follow Her orders and drive to the house, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled as he followed Her car.

That was another thing he’d die without knowing. Where the hell She got all those fancy cars.

“Dean,” Sammy wad frowning at him, and whatever he was about to say, Dean didn’t want to hear it. “We should tell her-“

“No.”

“She could help, you know how good she is with weird shit-“

“Sam.” Dean shot him a glare, his voice almost a growl. “There is not a chance in goddamn hell I’m telling her. And if you tell her, I’ll vanish and you’ll never fucking see me again.”

Sam sighed, but nodded, and that was it. They pulled up the house, right behind where She and Jo had parked, and Dean had been right.

She was still hunting without a gun.

All that was in Her hands was Her knife. And She held it with even more ease than last time, almost spinning it in Her hand and leaning against her car as she spoke to Jo.

It was memorizing.

He didn’t have time for it.

“Jo and I are taking upstairs,” She said as Sam and Dean approached, her face painfully neutral. “You two are scoping downstairs and the basement. Don’t fire on anything unless you’re certain, and keep eyes out for hex bags. Got it?”

Sam nodded, glancing at the house with a frown. “Do we just… shoot them? If we find them?”

“Or stab them.” She flipped Her knife in her hand with an ease She definitely hadn’t had two years ago, and it was doing distracting things to Dean’s body. “Stick together, keep in earshot in case we need each other, and don’t be idiots.”

Dean scowled. “Don’t think we’re the ones who need that reminder, sweetheart.”

She sighed, and Her glare was still far too soft. “That’s rude, Deano. Play nice or you wait in the car.”

He blinked at Her, something in his brain sent into shock from hearing Her say Deano—not his name again, but close enough, intimate enough, to dumb his hatred back into desire in only a breath—and he had to physically fucking shake himself to follow them into the house.

The hunt was quick. Brutal.

Efficient.

Because it was Her.

Jo had mentioned that they were pretty sure the coven had about seven witches. Sam found one chanting like a maniac in a closet, and Dean slammed another’s head into the concrete wall in the basement. From upstairs they heard a gun go off, which meant Jo had gotten one of her own.

They’d started the head upstairs—exchanging a worried look that they hadn’t found any others, there hadn’t been another gunshot, and they were still missing four dead witches—and Sam nearly fell on his ass as someone blazed past him and out the door.

Dean caught him by his shoulders, glaring around the room and trying to grab his gun as he kept Sammy steady.

“What the-“

“Fuck!” Dean blinked at Her shout, and She half-kept down the stairs, tearing after the runner.

She was moving really fast.

He wasn’t sure he’d seen Her right.

There were loud sounds coming from outside, and Jo was running down after Her.

Sam pushed himself back onto his feet, frowning up the stairs. “Jo, what’s-“

“There were eight.” Jo snapped, reloading her shotgun. “Last one got the jump on us.”

Dean frowned. Last one would mean-

There was a crash, and any thoughts were torn from his head as he sprinted outside, coming to a stumbling stop of the porch as he took in the scene before him.

Her car was folded around a lamppost, and She was stalking towards it, knife in hand, covered in blood.

She yanked the witch out of the driver’s seat, exchanged low words with it that Dean couldn’t hear, and—when she obviously heard something she didn’t want to, Her whole body tensing—drove Her knife right into the son of a bitches heart.

She’d gotten five.

With just a fucking knife, She’d ganked five of the witches.

Dean’s brain was a little numb. She brushed past him as She returned to the house—they had a lot of cleanup to do—and his whole body felt like it was being dunked under water. Clear, clean water that was being cast in sunlight, and shit, She’d looked hot covered in blood, and even the metallic smell of it couldn’t stop the fruit from breaking through and getting Dean a little high-

“We can give you a ride,” Sam said, and Dean blinked. The idiot was talking to Her. “Since your car is wrecked.”

She just blinked at him. “A ride?”

“Yeah.” Sammy shrugged. He found a new way to get punched every day. “You and Jo can get cleaned up, grab your stuff from the motel, and you can head out of town with us. It’ll be faster than finding another car.”

She nodded.

She just nodded. Like it was nothing.

Dean was pretty damn certain She was just tired. Her shoulders were slumped, the heavy thing was back in Her eyes, and when they stopped at the motel Jo was half guiding her to the room.

They were friends. They were whispering to each other as they moved, and had been the whole ride, and when they returned to the car She gave Jo a look that Jo understood, and Jo moved something around in the trunk.

It couldn’t mean anything good.

Not when Her eyes started to droop halfway back to the Roadhouse, and when She fell asleep it was against Jo.

And Jo’s head dropped on Her’s, and now they were both fucking sleeping. Peacefully. They looked like they belonged in one of those chick flicks about girlhood, and somehow all Dean could think about was when She’d fallen asleep against him. When She’d hunted with him, and whispered with him, and they’d been friends.

He wished he could think about it with distaste rather than longing. Wished his brain could stop trying to work out what he needed to get that back. Wished Sammy could just stop being fucking nice and offering to help people, so Dean could at least try to properly forget about Her.

But now he was stuck with Her in the car, drowning in the smell of fruit and repeating to himself that it didn’t matter.

He didn’t matter to Her.

He couldn’t matter to Her.

So he had to pretend She didn’t matter to him.

Sam tried to get Dean to stop for sleep again. Muttered that She and Jo were already passed out, and Dean wasn’t doing them any favors driving with a clouded head.

Sam could shove it up his ass.

They pulled into the Roadhouse around 3am, and Sam twisted in his seat, nudging Jo awake before helping her out of the car. He didn’t try to make Dean follow him, to face Ellen’s wrath at his side.

He left Dean to just stare at Her, like a fucking creep.

She was gorgeous. She’d always been gorgeous, and enchanting, and almost heavenly. She certainly was here, with the soft golden light of the streetlamps making Her skin glow and shadows casting over Her face in all the right ways. There was a little hair in Her face that Dean wanted to brush away, and that goddamn wrinkle was back, and She was shifting like something was making her uncomfortable, and Dean wanted to reach out and hold Her-

He couldn’t want to hold Her. She didn’t want him. She’d stopped fighting him, and Dean felt like an ass every time he pushed and snarled and She just gave him a look of exhaustion, but She’d just fucking left him. She’d said She didn’t hate him, and then she left. Fucking told Bobby She was sick, when She was obviously fine.

For a brief moment, Dean got a sickening feeling that Bobby had known She wasn’t sick, and had lied to them about it for Her, but he also didn’t hold that against Bobby.

She was the one who was a twisted sort of ethereal, and Dean understood that Bobby’s allegiance was to Her first, just as Dean’s had been to Dad-

Dad.

Dean really tried not to think about Dad that much. About how much he’d hate how useless and pathetic Dean had become. How he’d snap that Dean shouldn’t have put the burden of his life on Sammy, how now Sam was gonna have to live with the guilt of Dean’s death for the rest of his life.

It wouldn’t matter that Dad had done the same thing for him. Dean wasn’t Sam.

He didn’t matter.

None of this fucking mattered.

And it had, briefly and blindingly, mattered with Her. Dean had felt like he could’ve mattered with Her, and then she left, and he never wanted to forgive Her for that.

But when Her eyes shot open and she sat up with a start, Dean couldn’t stop his hands from flexing to reach for Her. Couldn’t stop his chest from feeling cold, like there was something missing that was supposed to be molded into him, and his skin was aching and sore without it.

He was pathetic. Weak. Everything Dad had taught him not to be, doubled and amplified by the woman curling into herself and taking heavy breaths in the backseat.

Dean tried to ignore Her.

He’d never been good at that.

“Did I fall asleep?” She whispered—Her voice oddly soft—and Dean grunted.

“Obviously, Princess.”

He couldn’t be trusted to be alone with Her. When he was, he’d fall down into Her, and the nickname he’d been biting down all day would slip past his tongue. It didn’t help that She was looking at him. That he could feel Her blinding attention on him, even as he forced his gaze onto the empty dirt lot ahead of him.

“When?”

“Around Nebraska.”

“Oh.” Her voice was still too soft, and there was a pause before She spoke again. “Where are-“

“Inside.” He muttered. “Sammy’s dropping Jo off, then we’re bringing you-“

“You can just leave me here.”

Dean scowled. “That eager to get away from us, sweetheart?”

She didn’t answer. And when Dean’s will caved—weakened and whining from Her silence—and he glanced in the rearview mirror, She was staring at her hands.

“Stop doing that.”

She frowned up at him. “I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. Stop it.”

“You’re not my boss, Winchester-“

“I don’t fucking care, Princess.” There it was again. He needed to get a grip. “Stop it.”

She scowled, but sat on Her hands—as if that was the only possible way to stop herself from picking Her skin bloody—and wrinkled Her nose at Dean.

“Happy?”

He rolled his eyes, dropping his voice under his breath. “You have no idea.”

She blinked, opening Her mouth with a pouting frown, and Dean was saved from whatever she was about to say by Sam’s return.

“Ellen’s not happy with us.” Sammy slid back into his seat, glancing back to Her. “Or you. She made me give her your number, she, uh, has words for you.”

She just shrugged, sinking a little further in Her seat. “She can get in line.”

Dean frowned, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but Sam was faster.

“Good luck, then. Are you sticking around?”

She gave Sam a look of confusion that must have matched Dean’s. What the fuck was the big dumbass talking about-

“Sticking around?” Her voice was a whisper, and She gave Dean a nervous look he didn’t miss. “I- I don’t-“

“We’re working a big demon case,” Sam said, and Dean was going to slam his head into the dirt if that was where he was going- “Have you heard of Lilith?”

She frowned. “First demon?”

“Yeah, uh, exactly.” Sam blinked at Her. “How much do you know about the Devil’s Gate-“

“I haven’t exactly been keeping up with hunter news.” Her voice was flat as She cut Sam off, and she’d started to rock back and forth on her hands. It was a little distracting. “And Bobby hasn’t told me anything of what you’re up to-“

Dean frowned. He hadn’t expected that. “I thought you knew everything, sweetheart-“

“I’m smart, Winchester, not omniscient.” Her voice wasn’t as angry as Dean wanted it to be. She mostly just sounded tired. “I’ve been busy.”

“Are you still busy?”

“Sammy-“

“She could help, Dean.” Sam gave him a firm look, his brows raised. “Just with Lilith.”

She frowned. “You’re hunting Lilith?”

Sam nodded. “It’s an odd case. We could use some help.”

Dean didn’t know what the hell Sam was doing. If She stuck around, it would be so much fucking harder to work on getting Dean out of his contract, and She said she’d been busy, and She might be a fanatic damn hunter but Dean couldn’t have Her around or he’d lose his fucking mind with need, and She obviously didn’t even want to-

“You- You really killed Azazel?”

Her voice was so fucking soft. Dean didn’t understand why She was so caught on that, or why when Sam nodded, Her body seemed to melt into the seat.

“Yeah. Alright.” She glanced out the window—to the shadows around the Roadhouse—and in this life She really did look like a fallen star. So perfectly fit in Baby’s back seat, drawing Dean back down into Her like she’d never even left.

But She had.

And when She looked back to Sam and Dean, Her chin slightly raised, the world did that odd stutter again, and something to the left of Dean’s heart clenched.

“What are we doing next?”

The thing near Dean’s heart burst. Exploded into a million fucking pieces and fused back together in a split second, and suddenly the world was colorful in a way he hadn’t realized it had been dulled.

Sam started to talk about how they’d been tracking Lilith, and Dean’s eyes locked with Her’s one last time.

She became more blinding every time he looked. He fell further every time She returned his gaze.

He had six months.

And this was going to fucking suck.

End Note: On god I will make these women three dimensional and likable characters who have personality outside of Dean. Eric Kripke I am in your walls.

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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