#dean of winchester never recovered from that

[castieldelamancha]

i was just thinking the other day about supernatural but it's set in the middle ages and dean and cas just kissed for the first time and dean cradles cas' face and goes " angel i would follow you to the ends of the earth right where there is a fall into the void and a serpent that eats anyone that dares to go there" and cas says "actually the earth is round but i love you too" and dean has a crisis "no serpent either?" and cas simply shakes his head "...damn"

[2sw]

All these years. This whole damn time.

Supernatural S11E20 Don't Call Me Shurley Supernatural S5E16 Dark Side of the Moon

[lambmotifz]

something something violence can feel like love…something something if you need to be mean, be mean to me. i can take it and put it inside of me

[shadystranger]

coming out to say I think the ending was evil as balls and horrible to sam why'd you force him to live intrinsically broken inside and hollow living for the longest soul-decaying while without the person he loves most waking up every day and going goddammit not again while becoming a shell of a human it's almost sadistic why'd you do this to him

[wholock-pottergleek]

happy 3 year destiel anniversary!! does anyone still go here anymore or is it just me?

[anassemblageofpassions]

The thing abt john winchester is that he is too complex for the majority of the spn fandom and for a good portion of the writers on the show too.

Because at his core john is about love over everything else. When he looks up at his sons (yes, up, the fact that they’re both taller than him>>>>>), there is love seeping achingly from every single pore of his being even as he abuses them, as he destroys their souls beyond belief. He does it all entirely out of love. And he is so, so wrong for it. A part of him knows it. But he wants to keep dean alive, and he wants to keep Sam pure. And he loves them so much. And he damages them so horribly. John Winchester is the foundation upon which they are both built, they only become more of what he made them as the series goes on. Sam stops fighting it, Dean continues to mold into his image no matter how hard he tries to fight it.

Hell puts them both on steroids, but their individual trauma responses that influence this are the foundations that John built into them. No wonder azazel wanted sam to win so badly. John Winchester crafted his sons into alastair and Lucifer’s ideal victims, respectively, and dean was a better (worse) john than John ever was. John held out in hell. Dean acquiesced to his abuser despite all of his efforts to fight him, and he’s never been the same since.

Sam fought like hell, and he fought destiny, but at his core, he did what John always wanted him to by doing what dean wanted him to do, and then he stops fighting at all, loses the fire he showed john in adolescence that john immediately notices when he returns in s14.

And the sad thing is. They filled their roles so well that John is saddened by what they’ve become. He didn’t want dean to break. He didn’t want Sam to be dimmed. He’s sad to see what Sam is like in s14. In the process of recovering his wife, he ensured he would mold his sons into what he wanted them to be, and when he got what he wanted, he was devastated.

John Winchester is so driven by love and grief and he’s so filled to the brim with both that it’s painful to watch him on screen because he destroyed his family because of it. And he wanted this all along but he didn’t realize what he’d have to give up to get it.

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Not Alone

Sam and Dean Winchester & teen!reader (platonic obviously)

Requested by @deansobssessedgirl

Synopsis: the brothers take you in after rescuing you, but after a while the three of you butt heads

You were thirteen when your life ended.

You were thirteen when your life began.

Somehow both statements felt right, despite being polar opposites. The hole left inside you after a werewolf killed both of your parents felt like a life-ending event; the kind you never recover from. But the two hunters that had turned into your big brothers felt like a home that you couldn’t live without; they felt like a new life.

You’d been about to join your parents fate, your heart doomed to be a werewolf’s lunch, when the Winchesters stepped in. A single silver bullet had stopped your parents’ murderer right in his tracks.

But the simplicity of the hunt ended there. The Winchesters were unfazed by the dead monster on the floor, the blood everywhere, and even—to a certain extent—the dead man and woman strewn across their own living room. The boys had seen too many monsters, too much blood, too much death, to be fazed now. But what they hadn’t seen before was this—an orphaned girl covered in blood, the gun that had fired the silver bullet in her hands. She’d been the one to down the werewolf.

The boys had come in guns blazing, of course, but they’d been caught off guard by the presence of two werewolves instead of one. The first one had knocked Sam’s gun from his hands, and was going for Dean’s when Dean downed him. The werewolf had still managed a single lunge in its dying moments, landing itself on top of the older Winchester. Pinned, he could only watch as the werewolf’s mate went for a helpless Sam.

Neither brother had even seen the young teen until she snatched up Sam’s weapon and killed the werewolf with it.

“Thanks, kid,” Sam breathed, still in shock.

“Yeah, you really saved our bacon back there. That…that was really brave,” Dean added.

“They killed my parents.” You didn’t even look at the brothers whose lives you just saved. Your eyes could not be torn from the carnage on your living room floor.

“Hey.” Sam had no idea where the instinct came from—he was the younger brother, and the role of caretaker usually didn’t come naturally to him. But when he saw your haunted eyes glued to your dead parents, he couldn’t help but step in. He pulled you into an embrace, turning you in his arms so that you wouldn’t be able to look at the bodies. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” Sam’s grip tightened on you as you started to sob. He went to look over your shoulder at Dean when he saw it; blood covering your shoulder.

“Kid…did the werewolf bite you?”

“I don’t-don’t know.” You winced when Sam’s fingers pushed your shredded sleeve to the side to get a better look. “It might’ve been his claws.”

“I can’t tell…” Sam mumbled, and Dean suddenly came forward, on high alert.

“I can’t either,” he breathed, looking up to make eye contact with Sam. Their worried gazes alerted you, finally seeming to snap you out of your shock.

“What does that mean?” Your voice was quiet, but it still got the boys’ attention.

“If-if it’s just claw marks, it doesn’t mean anything. But a bite…” Sam struggled to get the words out.

“A bite means that you’re a werewolf now,” Dean said. “Kid, if it bit you, you gotta tell us.”

“I don’t know.” Your tears returned full force as panic set in. “It-it all happened so fast, it could’ve been his claws, or-or…”

“Ok, hey.” Sam had you back in his arms in a moment, shaking his head at Dean and mouthing “later.”

The boys took you back to the bunker that night. You had no family that would miss you, and they had to keep you around until the next full moon, “just in case”.

The full moon came and went, and you never turned.

But you also never left the brothers. Somehow, after that long and stressful night as the full moon hung over the sky, it never crossed any of the trio’s minds to separate. You had no family, and the boys had effortlessly filled the role during that month. Nobody wanted it to end, so they didn’t end it.

Now you were sixteen, and three years had changed you a lot. You were the same fiery girl that shot down that werewolf at thirteen, but now you had the knowledge, training, and experience to be a full-fledged hunter. At least, in your opinion.

The boys thought differently.

“It’s just a ghost, basically a milk run!” You argued for what felt like the hundredth time. “And I can handle it on my own!”

“Oh, like you handled that vamp nest on your own?” Dean scoffed. “Not happening.”

“That was different,” you insisted. “I didn’t know it was going to be a whole nest.”

“Exactly, hunts are unpredictable,” Dean said. “Which is why you don’t go alone.”

”Come on!” You pleaded. “Sam?” You turned to the younger Winchester, who’d been silent up to that point.

“Don’t look at me.” Sam held his hands up. “I want you safe just as much as Dean.”

“I’m not trying to be unsafe,” you said. “I’m trying to help here.”

“You do help here,” Dean said. “And you’ll help even more if you’re not dead.”

“But you guys are already up to your necks researching archangels and knights of hell. I’ve gotta be able to do something!” You said.

“Hey now,” Sam cut in before Dean could continue the argument. “Is that why you wanna do this? You think you don’t do enough around here?”

“I know I don’t,” you huff. “Just let me do this hunt, please.”

“Not without me,” Dean said. “And certainly not on some crap mission to prove yourself. Your family kid, you’ve proven that over and over again. You don’t have to ‘do enough’, and even if you did you already have. Look, you don’t need both of us. Sam can stay here and research, but I’m coming with you on that hunt. Solo hunts just for the sake of solo hunts are stupid, we don’t do that unless it’s a necessity. None of us, not even me or Sam, are gonna go alone unless we have to, and you don’t. It’s not about you being a kid, it’s about being smart, ok?”

You were quiet for a long moment, thinking over everything the brothers had said.

“Ok?” Dean prodded.

“Ok,” you said. You gave him a tiny smile, and he reciprocated it.

“Ok,” Dean affirmed. “Now get your butt in the Impala, we’ve got a ghost to burn.”

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl

[sammybeann]

So there's been a lil interest in me continuing this lil guy, so I've decided to make it a whole ass fic. So enjoy the filler chapter for now, as I have COVID and have lost my will to live. I promise it'll get more delicious, though, and we'll dial creep!Dean up to 100.

So what if Sam gets injured on a hunt, tossed around like a ragdoll by an angry vengeful spirit and smacks his pretty little head hard against a concrete wall?

Dean ends up finishing the spirit out, but Sammy is out fucking cold so he has little choice but to take him to the hospital. 

Finally, Sam wakes up and Dean's relief is immediate and immense, and that was until Sam made eye contact, glossy, confused hazel eyes meeting Dean's before asking "who the hell are you? Where am I?!"

The doctor comes in before Dean can answer, shooing the older Winchester out of the room so he can assess Sam's condition. 

Minutes felt like hours before the doctor emerged from the room, his brows furrowed as he explained to Dean that it appeared Sam was suffering from a pretty bad case of amnesia, only remembering certain events in his life, but had no recollection of people, unable to name off any family members or friends. And though his physical injuries would heal and he'd be okay, he wasn't sure Sam would ever recover his memories. 

When Dean re-emerged into Sam's room, he was met once again with an apprehensive look from the baby brother who once looked up at him with stars in his eyes instead of caution. 

After some prying, Dean had come to learn Sam knew his own name, remembered Stanford but nobody there, and mentioned memories of creatures and monsters, but still had no idea who the rough looking man in a dirty leather jacket with blood from Sam's head wound still on his hands was. 

"So, who are you, anyway?" He asked for the second time. 

Before he could really think about it, fight with the devil and angel on his shoulder on whether or not he should betray Sam's trust like this, cross a line he'd never be able to come back from, the words already left his mouth. 

"I'm your husband," he told Sam, who's eyebrows shot up comically high. "I...uh... we've been together since we were teenagers. Got married last year, the whole nine. We...we don't wear rings 'cause those monsters you talked about - they're real. We kill 'em."

Sam went white as a ghost. It wasn't as if this man was unattractive, and sure, he had been curious about the other sex growing up but he never thought he'd actually settle down with a whole ass man. There was also the news of the supernatural, sending a shock to his already overwhelmed system. 

"I...I don't...monsters, really? How the fuck am I supposed to kill monsters?! How am I married?! Oh, God. What am I supposed to do?!" An exasperated Sam exclaimed, big, watery doe eyes staring up at Dean, looking at him like he was his lifeline now, like Dean was his God that could fill in all the gaps for him. 

Guilt bubbled up inside Dean's chest, ugly and festering, but damn if that look from Sam didn't make it all worth it. He had his baby brother on a hook now, dependent and reliant on the only person he had. 

Dean bent down and ran a hand through Sam's mop of hair, leaning in to press a firm kiss against his forehead. 

"Hey, s'okay, baby. I'm here. I'll take care of you," he mumbled against Sam's clammy skin. "I got you."

Yeah, there was no was Dean wasn't going to hell for this, especially when Sam reached out to grab Dean's wrist, pulling his hand down to rest his cheek against Dean's callused palm. 

"Okay," Sam whispered brokenly. "I trust you."

[rubyvhs]

dean winchester 003

falling in love with dean is the easiest thing you’ve done, accepting his love was harder, always being scared you’re not enough, trying to stop it from happening (he doesn’t let you). dean kisses your worries away in the rain when you’re crying, in motel hot tubs when you’re rethinking all your decision, he kisses your problems away in elevator rides between hell and heaven and he’s there for you all the time until he isn’t, until it gets too much and he’s pushing you away, pushing you out of his life ‘till you don’t wanna be in it anymore, you never get to understand what changed and you exist retracing your steps to find out where you’ve gone wrong, when you baked him his favorite pie, or when you made him a mixtape with his favorite songs, or when you booked two rooms for alone time away from sam in a motel, and maybe you drown yourself in cigarettes and vodka, maybe you drive not being able to see straight for the first few months, maybe you look at his pictures too often, maybe you’ll never really recover, maybe you will — being lost after losing dean

idk how i feel about this one (i kinda love it but i hope it makes sense) this is for my ghosted square in @jacklesversebingo ! i do believe i’d react the same way if i got ghosted by dean winchester.

[ellieslittleburrow]

Coming home late..doesn't keep Dean okay. P1

Summery : You've been acting out, lately. Or at least that's what Sam and Dean called it. For you it was just having fun, living. That is until Dean couldn't take it anymore...

Warnings : a bit of a violent behaviour, stern brother

Pairings : Dean winchester x sister reader

A/n : AHA WHATS THAT TITLE. Also i'm sorry if this brings bad memories to any of you guys ❤️ Comments are much appreciated peeps 🌸

-----

"Lookie here"

A voice you have so carelessly gotten used to, tinted with a hint of disappointment and of passive aggressiveness. "Miss wild life has just come back from her adventures."

You sighed as your boots tiredly thump the metallic steps of the bunker and Dean emerged through the metallic columns.

"What?" You threw your arms out. "Am i not allowed to go out now? Should i ask for your permission for everything?" You spat out. Fucker really had to do this as soon as you came back home?

"No!" Dean rose from the chair and dangerously made his way to you. "You could've answered the phone one of the 10 times i called, though!" He sounded enthusiastic for a second. "Or maybe just gotten home on time." And then that enthusiasm shifted to disappointment. And after a few seconds of silence, he spoke again, his voice fatigued. "What are you doing, kid?"

It was a simple 4 worded question. But the answer to it requiered a few shrinks and lots of writing. You didn't know why you were acting this way, really. To you it was no big deal. Why do they want to force everything on you? Get home at this hour, wear this and not that, eat, don't talk to that person, don't haunt this and that...You were just done with all this attention to the little details that meant nothing to you...You just..wanted them to notice you, what you liked, your qualities, the fact that you knew well enough how to haunt. There was also the fact that...handling things on your own was no longer a possibility..The pain, the nightmares, the memories.

"I'm not doing anything, Dean. I just got home like-" You stop to look at your watch. "A fucking hour late. Boohoo, what a big fucking dea-"

"LILY."

You stop! Faltering for a tiny moment before quickly recovering, adrenaline pumping through your body.

"Don't raise your voic-"

You'd spoke but Dean interrupted you, closing the gap between you, sending you staggering backwards. But you still hold your head up high, chest puffed up and ready to fight...cleching your fists as your hands trembled.

"i don't think you understand, lily." Your brother wrapped his hand around your arm, looming over your -what felt like- tiny body. You held your gaze down. Are you still going to fight? Or are you going to apologize and move on?

"It's not because i let you loose that it's actually acceptable for you to behave this way. I understand that you're angry and that you're taking it out on me-"

"that's fucking stupi-"

Fight it is..

"it's not stupid, you're acting out like you're five."

"i swear to god and i promise you, if you ever do this again, lily, you're done. And not done the way you usually are. I promise you that if you do this ever again, i will make sure you never forget that day. "

You scoff and shrug, the perfect cocktail for Dean's eyes to go lower, darker. Angrier. But all that bitterness washed away... and he nodded, slowly.

"Okay then" He let go of your arm and you internally wished he didn't. It felt now like you'd rather he grounds you and yells, because that smile meant that whatever was coming, was going to be much worse.

"Since you're all grown up and ready to take care of yourelf, let me change it up for you."

Much worse indeed..

He stood up straight and you shrunk again. You didn't want this!!! This is not what you had in m-

"We've already got enough problems on our plate, you acting out, with your temper tantrums and your shit-" He shakes his hands. " i'm not having it."

You'd speak up...apologize..But you're too angry and terrified to even think. Let alone talk.

"You do this shit again, you're out. Capiche?"

You opened your mouth to speak but!- you're stunned. And a lump grew heavy in your throat as regret set in....

"And you watch your language, or else i promise you i'll smack your face so bad your jaw will hurt."

Your eyebrows stood up in surprise..Never has Dean EVER been this violent. And by the looks of it, he meant it. He meant all of it. Every single word. And you...you-

You burst into tears, choking as saliva pooled in your mouth. You've never felt such things and-and you don't get why he'd eve-

"I asked you a question, lily." He thundered but you were in no state that would get you to stop crying, anytime soon. Only an unintentional whimper escaped your lips. "Lily, i asked you a question." He demanded again, groaning higher.

You nod, hoping it would get him off you but...that only infuriorates him more. "ANSWER ME."

his tone turned more violent, piercing your ears and you nodded again. "Yeah. Yes-I I understand." Your lips trembling as your upper body leaned away from him.

Just then does he let go of your arm. "'Out of my face now, kid."

Without hesitation, you stepped aside, heading for your room.

You placed the back of your hand on your mouth, covering it before another wave of tears comes in.

You might've fucked up, badly this time, as Dean has never been this mean to you. And it just felt like....John and Sam all over again.

You had to do something about it. But it could wait. Until Sam came back.

--------

PART2

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Ola, yall! I love writing angst 😭😭😭 What do we think???? ❤️❤️❤️🥀🥀🥀

[artyandink]

amoralism | two

Summary: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Blood, firearms, organised crime, talk of drugs, Agent Dean Winchester, sexual tension, wet dream, awkwardness, unsupportive mom, dramatic sister, consensual crime

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: People I Don’t Like - UPSAHL

materialism

Family dinners took the hell out of you.

They were so awkward, and for what? It was a few hours of pushing food around plates, unwanted conversations and criticisms about your home life and job. Of course your mom wasn’t proud that you were FBI. Were they slightly averse because she carries a truckload of deep seated traditionalism? Definitely.

Your mom, Elena, took a pointed bite of salad as she flitted her eyes disapprovingly between you, your slouching and your less than socially satisfactory manner of eating. Practically assaulting your food with a well timed fork stab and shovelling it in your mouth.

You were a federal agent, not a damn princess.

At least your younger sister had gone to deb balls and beauty pageants and gotten married fresh out of college and landed a job as a secretary for a wealthy CEO in Delaware while you apparently ‘slum it’ and put serial killers behind bars.

Putting your life on the line to make your country a better place. Totally something undesirable, a horrible job, only bozos and hobos would do it.

Your dad, Richard (but he had everyone call him Rick, your mom never listened), was proud of you. More proud than he could put into words. He’d once come to visit you after work to congratulate you on a case that you’d solved (confidential, of course), and his heart burst with pride upon seeing his little girl dressed in a formal suit and storing her government approved handgun.

“Darling?” Your mom trilled in her fancy accent and high pitched voice, which caught your attention. You looked up, halfway through a sip of wine, same as your dad. Holding it wrong. Again, not a princess. “When will you be getting married?”

You almost did a spit take, but swallowed so it wouldn’t happen and coughed as it almost went down the wrong way, Rick doing the same at the exact same time. Your sister, Cassie (short for Cassandra), glanced between the two of you with a look of judgement identical to your mom’s.

They were carbon copies of each other. Same with you and your dad.

“M-Marriage?” You spluttered, still recovering from the notes of chamomile that stung at the back of your throat. Chamomile’s meant to be soothing. “I-I’m a federal - ahem - agent, I don’t have t-time to-” You cleared your throat loudly, “- marry.”

Your mom scoffed, waving you off with a manicured hand. “You blab on about this federal agent business, but we have no clue what kind of cases you deal with.”

“Honey, we can’t push her.” Your dad vouched, and you internally cheered him on, swallowing down a sharp retort with a shovelling down of spaghetti that earned you an eye roll from Cassie and an exasperated sigh from Elena. “Her work is classified.”

“Classified from her family?”

“That’s generally what it means.” You added with a clearing of your throat. “A brief overview of my work in Major Crimes is literally the major crimes. Serial killers, mob bosses, organised crime.”

Your mom gave a loud, false laugh. “Hush, hush. Mafias only occur in dramatised television shows and movies.”

“Elena, you should be proud of our daughter.” Rick sighed, pointedly staring at his wife. “She works to keep everyone safe. Debutante balls and beauty pageants aren’t all the glory.”

And now Cassie was throwing a fit, her blonde hair almost torn out by her pink-painted claws. Jesus, if you went into the office with those monsters? You didn’t even wanna know.

While your mom ticked off your dad for saying such an insensitive thing, you nudged his foot with yours as a silent thank you for defending him. And his foot tapped yours back as if to say don’t apologise.

God, you cherished your dad.

“Don’t pay attention to your mother.” He’d told you in a calm, soft voice as you two steadily worked on the dishes, the quiet noise of the sponge spreading soap suds on the plate not the best ambience but alright all the same. “She’s a little dramatic.”

You raised an eyebrow, getting the itch out from just above your eyebrow using the back of your hand. “A little?”

Rick shrugged, then chuckled. “Alright, you got me there. She’s extremely dramatic. But she’s my wife, and I love her, regardless of whether I think she should take up a role in Broadway.”

“Or a soap opera.” You both shared a laugh, but then you subsided into a rather wistful state of mind. “I just want her to understand that even though I can’t talk about it, I still do something worthy of recognising, right? I mean, not everyone can say they’re one of the best agents Major Crimes has to offer.”

“She’ll come around.” Rick planted a kiss on your temple that felt a little scratchy from his stubble. “I’m so proud of you, y’know that? My little girl’s grown up to be an incredible woman.”

Your phone rang, and you shook your hands off, towelling them before taking out your phone and picking up the call.

‘Took you long enough, princess.’ Agent Winchester’s voice came from the other line, and seems like your dad heard a man’s voice, because his eyebrow raised past what was the beginning of his receding hairline. Princess. It took you back to the night you had your first wet daydream of your case partner, Dean goddamn Winchester, three years ago, working the very case you both were heading now.

Except with much higher stakes.

“You’re far from on my priority list, Agent.” You huffed out a breath, mouthing to your dad to behave as you knew he had the strong urge to find out who exactly you were talking to. And if there was a possibility that he’d need to grab his baseball bat and go warn this guy off breaking your heart.

Federal agent or not, he’d do it. He’d do anything to keep his daughter safe.

‘You’re gonna break this young man’s heart.’

“We’re 35.”

‘Exactly. Young.’ His tone sounded like he was holding off laughter, adopting a voice which resembled Mrs Doubtfire. ‘We’re youthful, innocent little whippersnappers-’

“Agent, if you’re just going to waste my time, you better hang up.” You sighed, rubbing your forehead. Your dad gave you a look which said damn, don’t do him like that. In truth, neither of you were exactly innocent. You had unholy, R-rated thoughts of each other every time you did so much as think of each other.

You definitely wanted to do him.

You heard Dean clear his throat, getting back on track. ‘Right. Yeah. So, there’s some of our double agents in crime circles that reported back to me after I dropped ‘em a little message. They’re sayin’ that there’s an auction happening at a charity gala in a week, and they’re pawning off this necklace-’

“Yeah, you’re wasting my time.” You scoffed, wondering why he was into getting jewellery. Unless it was to pacify a girl he two timed. Then again, he could probably do it with his panty-soaking, money-winning grin, smooth winks and some cheap pickup line he stole off the Internet.

‘Hey, let me finish. The necklace has a USB chip inside. It contains videos of our syndicate’s work, so if we get a hand on that, we know what we’re dealing with.’ He chuckled at his own brilliance, making you roll your eyes at his ego. ‘And, uh, you’re about to pick apart and criticise my plan by saying that there’s no way in hell that we have the money to buy that thing, so… I talked to Director Singer, and he had a chat with the board and they gave us a pass for as many consensual crimes as needed.’

“So, where do we factor in all this?” You asked, making a mental note of everything he was telling you.

‘That’s the fun part. We got invites to that event, so we’re gonna go together as a doting, wealthy married couple and steal it.’

“It’s not my first undercover gig, so as long as we don’t run into any complications, it could work.”

‘So, I’ll see you at my place tomorrow to discuss logistics. I’ll make sure Sammy- Detective S. Winchester - is out of the house.’

“Alright. Bye.” You cut the call, and spotted your dad smiling proudly at you. His eyes twinkling, and his steady scrubbing hand paused. “What?”

Dean’s back hit the bed, your lips moving up to claim his exposed throat and freckled, exposed chest, making a steady trail to his shoulder and nipping until there was a forming hickey. His breath laboured, mind spinning and body on autopilot. He could feel your nails over his abs, tracing and mapping out every contour, his eyes locking on you, looking like a vision in black lace, a garter and pretty, matching, sheer, thigh-high nylons.

He was always a sucker for a woman in lingerie.

“God, baby, c’mere.” He groaned, hands finding purchase on the backs of your thighs and yanking you forward, settling you closer as his hand teased at the hem of your panties, one sharp flick of his wrist tearing the flimsy material and leaving it beyond repair, drawing a gasp and barely restrained whine from you. He chucked the remains off the bed, that hand, already glistening from having touched your soaked panties, found your cunt, sliding his fingers back and forth before roughly thrusting two up and into your soaked pussy, crooking them just right in order to have you clamping down and already rocking up and down desperately. “So tight. Gonna ride my fingers already, sweetheart?”

“Mmh- mhmm.” Was all you could get out, barely noticing how his free hand reached behind you to unclip your bra, propping himself up so he could latch his mouth onto your nipple and suck, causing you to mewl and let out an even more sinful moan right as his thumb found your clit right as the pad of his index found your g-spot, his third finger joining the party and pressing on it.

Layering and layering and layering until your mind was blank, thighs shaking, mouth open and eyes rolling back until they saw stars and the brief outline of God.

Looks like he does have a beard.

“Dean, g-god-” You were cut off by a moan, biting your lip, and Dean nodded encouragingly, free hand reaching up to cup your cheek, thumbing at your bottom lip to ease it free.

“Waited so long for this.” He murmured. “Gotta hear you. Look so pretty, baby-”

“Dean, wake up!” Dean shot up and spluttered when a glass of ice cold water hit him like a bullet train, finding you to be the perpetrator. No lingerie, just a simple sweater and jeans, your hair pulled into a loose rope braid over your left shoulder.

Still hot. Still infuriating.

“Woah, hey!” He raised his hands in disbelief before running one down his face to rid him of the water dripping down it, then onto his grey-blue flannel shirt. “The hell was that?! And- how did you get in here?”

You put the glass down in frustration, the sound thudding against Dean’s oak dining table, partially wet from the thrown water. “Sam let me in.”

“Doesn’t answer my first question.”

“You’d been passed out at that table when I got here. Tried to wake you up fifty ways. You sleep like a rhino.” You scoffed, but your eyes couldn’t help but trail down to the way the water traced his jaw, down to the curve of his neck and beneath the neckline of his shirt, which exposed a hint of defined collarbone. You felt like an eleven year old seeing a man shirtless for the first time. Except you were going feral for a fleeting glimpse of your colleague’s collarbone, watching the way his flannel clung to his frame.

You were beginning to get the tantalising thought of seeing Dean, washing that gorgeous ‘67 Chevy Impala of his. Shirt off, water dripping down his bare torso and giving you an illegal hit of his v-line. And his abs, tracing every contour that you knew was there. It had your body warming up and your thighs clenching and rubbing.

You hoped to God that Dean didn’t see you doing that.

So instead, you took a random kitchen towel and threw it so it hit him right in the face, and he flinched, grabbing the towel off his face and rubbing the water off in a disgruntled fashion as you moved to grab a beer from the fridge. He was irritated beyond belief. He knew you two had unresolved sexual tension that went back in the history books about five years but that was uncalled for. He was your partner on this mole case, and was heading an organised crime case with you, he deserved some respect-

Your ass framed by those jeans. The denim clinging to your legs that went on for days. Goddamn days, ending in sensible lace-up boots. That sweater with a scoop neckline. Your ass in those jeans, the curve of your pretty neck, the pout of those plump lips. Did he mention your ass in those jeans?

Suddenly he didn’t feel so vexed. And… respect? Who needs respect? Who needs… goddamn. Who… needs…

No thoughts. Head empty.

Sweet Jesus.

“What did you say?” Your head turned to face him, eyebrow raised in the middle of sipping your beer, and he realised that he’d muttered that out loud (while also realising he was staring at your lips touching that bottle rim. He’d never wanted to be a glass bottle more in his life.). He snapped out of it, blotting his flannel gingerly with the towel. Missing the way your eyes locked on how it pressed flush against his chest (you’d never wanted to be a plaid shirt in your life, but times seem to change).

“Nothin’, Agent.” Dean cleared his throat, shaking his head to rid him of the bad, bad, unprofessional thoughts clouding his head. But god, did he need you bad.

He might get through a whole box of tissues tonight.

“Kyle, what do you mean, you don’t know how to use a washing machine?” You asked with a scoff, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear as you spoke to your cousin Kyle, who was in college. Of course, it was the first time he’d ever worked a washing machine on his own and of course, you were the first one he called.

‘It’s not something I’m used to, ok?’ He was scared of your mom, his mom (your aunt Olivia) and Cassie, and you taught your dad and his dad - uncle Tom - how to use the washing machine so Elena wouldn’t go on a rant about men’s uselessness when it comes to household chores.

You took out a paper and pen, writing down a list of instructions as quickly as you could in your nearest handwriting possible, and then you put your phone on speaker, snapped a photo and sent it. “There. All set. I’ll write up a small guide on how to work the rest of your appliances, I’m just knees deep in an investigation.”

‘You’re a lifesaver, I’m indebted to you for the rest of my life.’

“This is a washing machine, not selling your soul. You don’t owe me. Now, see you on Thanksgiving. Bye, Kyle.” You cut the call in time for the doorbell to ring, and you rolled your eyes.

You get no breaks nowadays.

But when you opened the door, you were met with pearly way-too-whites, bouncing ginger hair and shiny blue eyes, complete with what looked like five neon-coloured dress carriers. “Why hello there, babes!” She trilled, sashaying in with her faux fur-trim coat. You rolled your eyes again, but playfully and partially in relief. “I got your message and came as quick as I could.”

“Hey, Dré.” You smiled wearily, closing the door behind her. Andréa May-Reynolds was your best friend since the early days of high school and probably the only person you could tolerate who cared that inexplicably much about their looks. You’d texted her for help with the dress picking for your undercover gig (but you told her it was merely one of your mom’s gatherings as she was a socialite). “Thanks for coming, exorcism I texted you ten minutes ago.”

She waved you off, tutting rapidly. “It’s my job. Whenever a friend has a fashion emergency, I need to be there.” Andréa started rifling through the clothes options she brought. “Ok, so, you mentioned a plus one. Who is he, cause we need to decide whether we want the option Lukewarm, Getting Warmer, Pretty Warm or Smoking Hot.”

You knew that she knew the name you were about to say, so you said it. “Dean Winchester.”

You almost pulled out your firearm with the scream she let out.

“God, Andréa!” You hissed, rubbing your ear while Andréa searched through her selection and pulled out one bright red case.

She just squealed again, giggling. “Dean Winchester? Never thought I’d hear that name again. Smoking Hot ain’t gonna cut it for him, you need the Nuclear option.”

“There’s a nuclear option now?”

“Duh.” She ceremoniously yanked out a dress and held it out for you. “Try it on.”

You took the dress from her with a raised eyebrow and disappeared off into your bedroom upstairs to change. When you looked yourself in the mirror with the dress on, you didn’t recognise yourself. In all honesty, you probably looked ridiculous.

But when you made your way downstairs, trying not to trip on the fabric, you almost did fall when you heard Andréa’s shrill shriek of delight.

Jesus, you thought as you grabbed the railing, she’ll be the death of me.

“Sammy.” Dean had hurried over to Sam’s place, knocking rapidly on the door while holding a lot of tux choices. “Sammy, open up, it’s me! Dean.”

Sam opened the door with a bleary eye, rubbing it. “Dean, it’s ten in the night- Jess, hon, it’s just Dean!” He called back to Jess, who appeared in the doorway with a nightgown on. “I’ll come back in a minute.” Once Jess had returned to bed, Sam turned to his older brother. “What?”

“Which one?” Dean held up the options, looking between them. “I don’t see the difference, but I thought you would. You’re fancy, I just pick what I see first in the closet.”

“You’re hopeless.” The younger Winchester groaned, rubbing his cheek before gesturing to the options. “It’s an undercover gala, you don’t need to properly think about what to wear.”

“I don’t give a damn about the gala, I hate those fancy schmancy, pretentious excuses of a party. They don’t even have beer.” Dean smirked, then chuckled deep. “It’s about who’s going. Agent Hot Chick.”

“We’re still using that code name?” Sam frowned, hands now on his hips. “She’s our coworker.”

“She’s our smokin’ hot coworker.” Dean waggled his eyebrows and dumped the options on the sofa. “Pick one. C’mon.”

Sam browsed quickly through the options, then picked one out with a low groan. “I need to get paid. Here. Two piece tux, can’t go wrong.”

Dean took the tux, examined it, then hummed. “I can hide my gun in here, right?”

“Yeah. Just take it and go, I want to go to bed. With my wife.”

“Sammy, you sly dog.” He clapped his younger brother’s shoulder. “Well, don’t keep the missus waiting, and I’ll be out of your glorious hair.” Before Sam could react, Dean was out of the door and had left the substandard suits on the couch.

“Glorious hair?” Sam muttered, running a hand through said hair.

He didn’t know what had gotten into his older brother, but he didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated.

Probably both.

The gala itself was nothing short of fancy as hell. Almost like out of a spy movie. Marbled floor, cream walls that looked gold in the lighting, tables of hors d’oeuvres that Dean’s stomach instantly felt a magnetic attraction to.

Fancy snacks are still snacks. Back to the story.

A red carpet that made Dean feel like he was walking in the Met or some movie premiere, with everyone dressed to the nines. Eating snacks.

He popped one into his mouth, chowing down on it and finding that the cheese-based delicacy wasn’t so bad, and he swiped a glass of champagne from a server’s tray in order to blend in.

One sip and he was spluttering, putting it back on a tray again, and that’s when he saw you.

He’d call you a snack, but you were the whole damn buffet.

Dean was pretty sure he was looking at a weapon of mass devastation. To his self control at least - there was a smoking crater in the middle of that. And there were some thoughts in his head that definitely wouldn’t be praised by polite society. He’d be damned for it.

You were clad in dark red silk that melded to your figure, almost like waves on your body, like water. Water had never seemed sexier. Your lips were a shade of scarlet, your clever eyes highlighted by the makeup surrounding it. Your knee just poking out from the slit at the thigh, hands clasped delicately at your midsection.

You looked expensive.

And delicious.

It had Dean’s jaw dropping before he picked it back up, straightening the lapels of his tux and trying to think of non-sexy thoughts so he wouldn’t sport a very visible attraction to his fake wife in polite society. He’d gone the full way, even getting a gold-plated ring so he’d look married and expensive but it also wasn’t too costly. He wasn’t made of money.

He didn’t belong in this party. You definitely did, looking like that.

You were in the very place that you’d been trying to run from again. Fancy parties, posh vocabulary and exaggerated accents. Your mother or Cassie would be a social butterfly in this situation. Not you, you were quaking in your borderline painful heels. Feeling all too out of place in the sweeping curtains, silk, satin and chiffon couture dresses and the gales of fake, exaggerated laughter.

Then there he came, Dean frickin’ Winchester, in a two piece tux. Sure, his bow tie was a little wonky (understatement) but the rest of him had your thighs rubbing together. As usual, he donned a suit that stretched over his well built muscles and gave you a good outline of the contours on his chest, powerful thighs looking good to ride in those trousers. Lips pouting every time he chewed on the delicacy he plucked from a side table and forcing thoughts of those very lips devouring you the same way.

He looked expensive.

He looked irresistible.

The image of the normally cocksure and obnoxiously confident Dean Winchester in high society had you swallowing on a dry throat and thinking un-sexy thoughts to rid you of the incredibly unprofessional ones in your head (one of which included him ripping the dress off your body), all of them sending a quiver down your spine. A very, very good quiver. Oh, god, this wasn’t helping.

You felt out of place here. You didn’t belong here, but Dean certainly did in that getup. You were so absorbed in checking out the stretch of the fabric over his biceps that you missed the way he sipped some champagne and gagged on it.

Then you quickly clacked over in your heels, linking your arm with his to sell the act. “Husband.” You said stiffly, and he nodded back.

“Wife.” He replied, swallowing at the adrenaline rush at having Aphrodite incarnate on his arm. Hell, you might just be Aphrodite in disguise. He could never tell.

“Alright, by inside intel, the necklace is kept upstairs in a six inch safe carbon and iron steel alloy safe with a biometric lock. We have no welders on us, and the case is fingerprint security.” You muttered while crunching a breath mint between your teeth. You never know, the locals may demand a kiss and you’d be damned if you got teased for bad breath.

“And how do you propose we breach that, honey?” Dean got out through a forced smile.

You smirked, the plan in your head. “I’ve got a blush compact in my holster. And a tape roll. We can get the print through that easily enough.”

“That holster deserves a medal.” He murmured to himself, then steered her towards a group. “We need to mingle. We’re not single, but blending in and finding a way to go upstairs is best, if you know what I mean.”

Mhmm. You very much got it, and it thrilled you slightly.

You had no time to dwell on the thought as an elderly group of women caught your attention and trilled for you two to come over. “What a lovely young couple.” One crowed, gesturing to the both of you. “Married, I’m assuming?”

Dean drew you closer into his chest, and your hand landed there by impact- a solid goddamn wall. Oh, holy mama. He let out a low chuckle, pumping his eyebrows. “Ma’am, you can’t find a woman this gorgeous and not, to quote Miss Knowles, ‘put a ring on it’.”

“Oh, honey, such a flirt!” You laughed in a posh accent, mimicking your mother’s laugh to the best of your ability while you swatted Dean’s chest. He smirked at the look in your eyes, because goddamn was it obvious that you hated this.

“Darlin’, I can’t help myself around you.” He turned to the other charity goers with a proud smirk, gesturing to all of you. “Can’t keep my hands off my gorgeous wife. Might have to have something off the menu for dessert, if you catch my drift.” He winked at some elderly ladies, who giggled and waved him off.

“Such a charming boy.” One cooed, obviously eyeing Dean up with poorly restrained envy. While you looked around for your target, you missed the way Dean’s eyes travelled down your body in that form-fitting red dress, v-neck, v-back, thigh slit where he knew you had a thigh holster strapped in, all the good stuff. And his eyes were on those scarlet heels.

He was imagining ramming into you with those sexy things on. And that dress, well, it’d be off in second if he had the chance. And that lipstick? Well, it’d be smeared and leaving prints on his neck, chest, abs and- that’s going a bit too unprofessional.

“I’d go as far as to say I had gotten myself a catch.” You affirmed, but inside you were rolling your eyes. You didn’t expect to spend the evening complimenting Agent Winchester of all people. “He’s so firm, ladies.”

Dean laughed deeply, one which you knew didn’t have only your thighs rubbing and pressing together on instinct. “I take immense care of my physical appearance. I’d do anything for my darlin’.”

“And you look handsome.” You straightened his bow tie and made a show of biting your lip and looking him over, which got a sly smirk on his face. All forced, and you knew he couldn’t tell that you actually meant the comment. He looked sexy, not just damn handsome. In fact, words failed you when it came to describing Dean in high society.

Scrubbing your hand with an antiseptic wipe wasn’t an option when he took your hand, lifted to his mouth and kissed your knuckle. Those warm, plump weapons of destruction corrupting your newly purified and professional brain.

Expertly sowing thoughts of them travelling down your neck and sucking on the skin in your dirty mind.

Brain malfunctioning.

Brain.exe has shut down.

Hail whichever deity’s the Almighty because you got the pleasure of feeling this man’s lips on your skin.

You’d felt them on your temple and cheek when you’d last worked a case with him, but after being deprived of his contact for five years now made you like a nun breaking her chastity vow, if they have one.

You had no idea how nunhood worked.

You couldn’t be bothered to find out when this man next to you was robbing you of coherent words or thoughts.

“While you look stunning, my love.” Dean murmured, shooting you a quick wink that would’ve had an average Jane swooning over.

Damn Dean Winchester and his ability to flirt.

Damn Dean Winchester for being a lady killer. Damn him to hell.

“Such lovebirds. My husband Terrance and I were like that once, all over each other. The magic of youth, I dare say.” One lady fawned, but her husband - Terrance - tugged on her arm.

“Edna, we’re in polite and present company, let’s not regurgitate details of our marriage.” He muttered, leading Edna away, which dispersed the other partygoers. You smirked at Dean, fixing the neckline of your dress (which he didn’t waste a moment ogling, which would arguably be in character).

“Shame.” You clicked your tongue, outwardly and inwardly amused. “I liked Edna.”

“I feel for Terrence, if I’m being honest.” Dean snickered, then nudged you. “You ready to go upstairs for a lil’ somethin’-somethin’?” That statement earned a swat to the back of his head, and he shrank away from you in shock. “Woah, hey, not actually going up there to get some, alright? We’re on a federal investigation, I’m not about to bang my partner. Jesus, woman.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Just pretend to be all over me, ok?”

You rolled your eyes, but obliged as Dean steered you both to a guard waiting by the stairs. “Mmh, honey,” You purred, your lips faux-chasing his neck, as Dean veered away from them reluctantly.

“Hey, man, do you have a place where my wife and I can get some privacy?” Dean’s strong hand took a hold of your waist and pulled you flush against his side. “Can’t keep my hands off ‘er. Women, am I right?”

“Upstairs, sir.” The guard let you two through, both of you falsely laughing until you reached the top of the stairs. Then you switched the moment you were out of earshot, dropping character.

“Nice job, honey.” Dean drawled, smirking. “Got a firearm under that dress?”

“Of course I do.” You snorted, shaking your head. Dean smirked at you when your head was turned, with a look that said that’s my girl. “What am I, an idiot? C’mon, we’ve got work to do.” You managed to try each door until you found one conveniently locked, so you took a hairpin, bent it and then your leg, kneeling so you could jimmy the thing in the lock, rotating the chassis (at least it might be that, you never paid attention to lock anatomy) and getting the door open.

“Good girl.” Dean muttered under his breath so you wouldn’t hear, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly. There were no secret triggers (you had to mentally steel yourself so you wouldn’t throttle Dean and his constant use of ‘booby traps’), so you just immediately took out your compact powder case and a blush applicator, evenly coating it in powder and dabbing it on the sensor before unhooking the tape roll, using a canine to rip off a piece of tape before placing it on, which successfully opened the lock with an electrical series of beeps. “Nice one. A’ight, now grab that necklace and let’s book it.”

“Not that easy.” You pouted in thought. That sent Dean to unholy places. All while your eyes were focused on the opal-studded jewellery in front of you. “It’s a weight sensor. We need something roughly the same weight.”

“Your heels?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I borrowed these from a friend, no way in hell am I leaving it here.”

“You have friends, sweetheart?” He snickered, but winced slightly when you sharply kicked him in the shin with the heel of your left stiletto. He had to fight the urge to grab the afflicted area and howl because holy hell, physics wasn’t lying about the pressure equation thing.

Pressure equals force over area multiplied by a whole lot of pain.

You looked around, then saw a small crystalline trophy thing. So you grabbed it, then prepared to make the switch. You took a deep breath in and then out, then switched it. And waited. To your disappointment and shock, the weight sensor must’ve been to a T because the pedestal sank and the room flashed red, an alarm going off.

Dean’s hand enveloped yours, tugging you out of the room at breakneck speed (you figured out in this time that you weren’t a dab hand at running in heels and had to awkwardly hop and take them off along the way), pulling you both into a side room when you heard approaching voices. Doors were being opened and rooms checked, so you had to think quick.

Oh, you were sure to regret this later.

Your hands flew to unbutton Dean’s suit jacket, get it on the floor before getting his bow tie undone and shirt along with it, untucking it and letting it hang open. You tried not to get distracted by the kissable canvas of taut, toned muscle that was his chest, while you reached up to your own lips, smearing the lipstick and then transferring some to his without lip-to-lip contact.

He was flabbergasted.

“Sweetheart,” Dean let out a nervous yet rough chuckle, “I love frisky women, don’t get me wrong, but don’t you think this isn’t the right time-”

“Shut up.” You hissed, then grabbed his hand and put it under the silk of your dress, through the slit and onto your thigh. “Now, act like you’re about to kiss my neck.”

Dean short circuited, and so did you. Hands. On legs. Bare legs. Need a bed. Even a table will do- keep it professional.

His eyes locked on the curve of your neck as you let your head tip back, and his hand went on autopilot, cupping the back of your neck. He leaned forward, and your skin was right there, begging to be kissed, but he hovered right there. Dean’s lips were inches away from your heated skin and it was killing the both of you.

His fingers itched to take the zip of your dress, yank it down and see what was underneath.

But even as he was about to give in, shake hands with the loss of his professionalism and ravish you till the sun came up, the door burst open and in came a guard, who instantly muttered an apology at seeing yours and Dean’s more than dishevelled state.

Ay, dios mío.

Wilkins Street Bank was shut down. SWAT teams surrounding it, along with multiple NYPD vans. An officer made his way onto the scene, flashing his badge. He was tall, with black hair and had clever green eyes, wearing a bomber jacket with NYPD blaring on the back in yellow letters.

Flashing his badge like he was in a movie, but made it ten times better. Ten times sexier, really.

“Detective Sergeant Nick Santiago, 67th precinct.” He introduced, looking up at the bank. “We got ourselves a hostage situation, I’m heading the case.”

“No can do, compadre.” One of the 71st huffed out a breath. “We just got off the call with the suits. They’re sending two of their agents over to head the charge. Something about the boys leadin’ the hostage sitch being their jurisdiction.”

“You kiddin’ me?”

“No, sir.”

“Who are we getting?”

“The best Major Crimes has to offer.”

NEXT UP:

“I’m doing my job!” You scoffed, holding the compress over your shoulder. It hurt to move it, honestly, but you’d rather take a banged up shoulder rather than Dean Winchester scolding you.

“And I’m not?” He retorted, hands on his hips. “We’re working this case together.”

“The only reason you’re even in Major Crimes is because daddy dearest pulled some strings.” You seethed, which had Dean bristling.

“That’s not how it went.”

“Then how?”

I’d appreciate a like, or reblog with feedback! Thanks for reading, lovelies!

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[doctorbitchcrxft]

Bad Day at Black Rock | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: panic attack/PTSD, recovering from a sexual assault (HEED THESE WARNINGS ESPECIALLY FOR THIS CHAPTER), canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 6673

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

“What?!” you exclaimed. “She’s a demon, and you didn’t gank her?!”

Sam had just finished telling you and Dean about this Ruby girl he’d met. 

“No, (Y/N), I mean, she seemed pretty helpful on the Seven Deadlies case.”

“Wait, she’s the blonde chick?!” you realized. “Why the fuck would a demon help me?”

“I don’t know,” Sam answered. “That’s what I’m trying to understand, too. And if she helped us then, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have at least listened to what she had to say.”

“Because ‘demon,’ that's why,” Dean snapped angrily. “I mean, the second you find out this Ruby chick is a demon, you go for the holy water! You don't chat!”

“No one was chatting, Dean,” Sam huffed.

“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you send her ass back to Hell?”

“Because she said she might be able to help us out!”

“With what, though, Sam,” you chimed in. “You’ve never said how she’s supposed to be able to help us. Or with what.”

“She told me she could help Dean,” Sam said quietly.

Dean seemed to not understand.

“With the crossroads deal, I’m assuming,” you told him.

Sam nodded.

The older brother looked at Sam incredulously. “What is wrong with you, huh? She's lying, you gotta know that, don't you? She knows what your weakness is; it's me.” Dean paused for a second. “What else did she say?”

Sam was quiet again.

You and Dean leaned in expectantly. “Dude?” the older brother questioned.

“Nothing. Nothing, Okay?!” Sam snapped. “Look, I'm not an idiot, guys. I'm not talking about trusting her, I'm talking about using her. I mean, we're at war, right? And we don't know jack about the enemy. We don't know where they are; we don't know what they're doing. I mean, hell, we don't know what they want. Now, this Ruby girl knows more than we will ever find out on our own. Now, yes, it's a risk, I know that, but we need to take it.”

“You're okay right, I mean you're feeling okay?” Dean asked.

Sam huffed. “Yes I'm fine. Why are you always asking me that?”

You looked between the two brothers when a phone began ringing. You checked your pockets; no buzzing. Sam and Dean’s phones weren’t ringing either. 

“Check the glove box, it's Dad's,” Dean suddenly realized.

“Dad’s?” Sam questioned.

“Yeah, I keep it charged up in case any of his old contacts call.”

‘Smart boy,’ you thought.

Sam opened the glove box and found the ringing phone. “Hello? Yes... this is Edgar Casey… No! No, no, no, don't – don't call the police, I'll handle this myself. Thanks. You know, can you just uh, can you just lock it back up for me? Great. Uhm, I- I uh, I don't have my - my book in front of me—” Sam gestured to you for a pen, which you quickly handed to him— “do you- do you have the address so I can... Sure, okay. Go ahead. Right, thanks a lot.” He then hung up and turned to Dean. “Dad ever tell you he kept a container at a storage place?”

“What?” Dean asked.

“Outside of Buffalo?”

The older brother shook his head. “No way.”

“Yeah. And someone just broke into it.”

***

“No demons allowed,” Sam noted upon entering his father’s storage container. A large Devil’s Trap was etched into the ground, and two sets of bloody footprints traveled right through it. 

“Check this out,” Dean said, stooping to hold up a tripwire. It was attached to a shotgun hidden in a large animal skull. 

“Whoever broke in here got tagged,” Sam said.

“I got two sets of boot treads here,” you announced, “looks like it was a two-man job. And Buckshot Boy looks like he kept walking.” You nodded toward the bloody footprint trail leading into the container.

“So, what's the deal?” Sam wondered aloud. “Dad would do work here or something?”

“Living the high life, as usual,” Dean quipped.

The three of you crept around John’s storage locker, and the two brothers chatted about how much of a mystery their father still was to them. You took in the varying types of clutter. To your surprise, the room was filled with old memorabilia; photo albums, a graduation cap and gown you assumed was Sam’s, and a few boxes whose contents were written on the outside of them in a woman’s handwriting you assumed belonged to Mary. 

You smiled at a trophy on a shelf nearby. “Check it out,” you said, picking it up and dusting it off. “Sam Winchester, 1995,” you read aloud, “Soccer Division Championship.”

Sam grinned and came over to you. “No way! I can't believe he kept this.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiled lopsidedly, “it was probably about the closest you ever came to being a boy.” He wandered over to another table with a shotgun laid on it. “Oh, wow! It's my first sawed-off. I made it myself. Sixth grade.” The older brother laughed and pumped the dusty shotgun.

“You made that?” you questioned.

“Not bad, eh?” he grinned excitedly.

“No, not at all,” you giggled. “Damn, dude.” You took the gun from him and inspected it, impressed with Dean’s craftsmanship. He smiled proudly at you.

“Guys, over here,” Sam said. You followed his voice over to a door to a back room. The chain on the door had been cut, and you cautiously made your way inside.

You waved your flashlight around the room to find varying weapons and lockboxes that no doubt held nasty supernatural objects.

“Holy crap. Look at this,” Dean called, “he had land mines. Which they didn't take. Or the guns. I guess they knew what they were after, huh?”

You took in the lockboxes on the shelf on the far wall. “This is binding magic,” you pointed out. “Curse boxes.”

“Curse boxes?” Dean questioned. “They're supposed to keep the evil mojo in, right? Kinda like the Pandora deal?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, they're built to contain the power of the cursed object.”

“Well, Dad's journal did mention a whole bunch of stuff, y'know? Dangerous hexed items, fetishes. He never did say where they ended up,” Dean added.

“Must be his sulfur-sludge dump,” you joked. You noticed a rectangular-shaped hole in the dust that had settled over the shelf. “Well, they found what they were looking for.”

“Great,” Sam groaned.

“Well, maybe they didn't open it,” Dean suggested optimistically. 

“Cute thought, but I’m sure they did,” you replied flippantly. You looked around the exterior of the storage unit for anything that could be of use to you; footprints, tire tracks, and… aha! A security camera.

“That’s helpful,” you noted, pointing up at it. 

The boys helped you fish the SD card out of the security camera, and you hooked it up to your computer. 

“There, license plate,” you noted. “And now…” you pulled up an alternate tab and copied the license plate number into it. Immediately, pages began scrolling of places the license plate had been seen at. Most recently, an apartment not too far from you. 

“Ta-da,” you announced childishly, and the brothers looked at you in shock.

“Jesus, (Y/N), how’d you get access to all this?” Sam asked.

“Oh, y’know,” you smirked, trailing off. 

Sam looked at you expectantly. 

“Same way any hackers do,” you shrugged. “Had this guy on the hook for a bit when I was, maybe, twenty. Found out he was an FBI agent in the cyber unit— not the brightest of the bunch— and I phished his computer. Of course, as soon as I did, the computer broke and shut down. Told him I was good with computers and could fix it for him, and then, I cut and run. Fixed the laptop up and had access to everything he had access to. Exported it to my laptop, ditched his somewhere in Arizona, and here we are.”

“That is…” Dean trailed off, “incredibly hot.”

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a smile. 

“Get a room,” Sam mumbled, moving over to the Impala.

***

You and the Winchesters crept into the apartment belonging to the drivers of the stolen Connecticut vehicle, guns drawn. You could hear two men chattering about their poker game, and then you finally burst into the room on Dean’s nod.

“Freeze, freeze! Nobody move!” he commanded.

“He said don’t fucking move!” you ordered, pinning the bandaged, redheaded man to his seat with your gun.

“What is this?” the other man questioned.

“Stop!” Sam demanded. 

“Alright, give us the box. And please tell me that you didn't–”

Sam cut Dean off. “Oh, they did.”

“You opened it?!” Dean grunted. He shoved the dark-haired man against the wall.

“Are you guys cops?!” the man pinned wondered.

“What was in the box?” Dean questioned angrily.

You noticed a rabbit’s foot on the edge of the table. ‘Oh, fuck,’ you thought. 

“Oh, was that it, huh?” Dean laughed coldly. “It was, wasn't it? What is that thing?”

The man used Dean’s distraction to knock the gun out of his hand. When it fell to the floor, it fired, and you had to drop to the floor to avoid being hit in the face by the bullet.

The bullet ricocheted off the radiator and hit Sam’s gun, and he dropped it. The same bullet somehow ricocheted and hit a lamp, breaking it. You dove across the floor, trying to grab Sam’s gun, and the redheaded man pushed Sam down on top of you.

“The fuck, Sam?!”

“Sorry!”

You scrambled toward the redhead, and he backhanded you, somehow knocking you off balance and sending you to the floor. You normally wouldn’t have been so thrown off by such a simple move, but that rabbit’s foot was definitely working its magic. 

“Dean, I got it!” Sam announced. You turned around to see him holding the rabbit’s foot.

“Fuck, Sam, no!” you cried upon seeing him holding the cursed object.

The dark-haired man moved forward holding Dean’s favored gun and cocked it in his face. The man pulled the trigger in Sam’s face, but the gun jammed. 

‘Thank god.’

A quick scuffle ensued in which the two men opposing you had a bookshelf fall on them and a carpet got wrapped around their ankles and tripped them. Both men knocked themselves out, and Dean laughed triumphantly.

“That was a lucky break!”

“No, not lucky!” you shrieked. “Sam, that’s a rabbit’s foot!”

“Uh, yeah?” he said, as if it were obvious.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?” you panicked. 

“No, what are you—”

“I’m calling Bobby,” you said, storming out of the apartment and back to the Impala. 

“Whoa, whoa, why? I’m not seeing how this is a bad thing, (Y/N),” Dean countered, catching up to you. 

“Because that’s a rabbit’s foot, Dean! A cursed object! Its literal function is to bring bad luck,” you explained.

“How?” Sam asked. 

“Once you touch it, you’re marked. Luck’s gonna be on your side.”

“Better buy some lottery tickets then,” Dean chuckled excitedly.

You glared at him. “But if you lose it, you’re fucked. It’ll keep bringing you bad luck till it eventually kills you.”

“Well, I just won’t lose it, then,” Sam tried. 

“Everybody loses it, Sam! That’s the whole point!”

The two boys looked slightly shaken; Sam more so than Dean. Dean was laughing all the way to the bank on this one, and he dragged you and Sam to a gas station to get lottery scratch-off tickets. Then, he drove you to a restaurant chain location called Biggerson’s for some dinner. 

You sat on the phone with Bobby, the two of you angrily muttering about the insanity of the situation to each other.

“Gotta say, kid,” Bobby started, “was hoping the next time I heard from ya, it’d be on happier terms than this.”

“Trust me, me too,” you sighed. “Do you know of anything that can stop this?”

“I’ll dig around—”

Bobby’s voice in your ear was cut off by Dean triumphantly exclaiming, “twelve-hundred dollars! You just won twelve-hundred dollars!”

You grimaced and put the phone back to your ear.

“I’m guessing Sam’s luck’s still good,” Bobby drawled.

“For now, but I don’t know for how much longer.” You got out of the car, suddenly feeling suffocated in the Impala. You paced around, as did Sam, and you watched as he walked over to something glistening under a newspaper on the ground. 

“I’ll figure somethin’ out. Lemme look through my library and make some calls,” Bobby said. “Call me if anything else goes to shit.”

You laughed, and Sam stood up holding a golden watch. He turned to Dean who stood next to you and mouthed something like, “Awesome,” to his brother.

“Will do,” you told the older man on the phone. “Hurry, Bobby.” You hung up as Dean calculated the winnings from the scratch-off tickets he made Sam fill out.

“Oh, man!” Dean grinned. “We’re up fifteen grand!”

You and Sam half-smiled, both feeling unsettled still.

Dean continued to laugh as he walked into the restaurant with you hot on his heels. 

“In case you forgot, Dean, we’re still technically fugitives,” you hissed. “If Sam’s luck goes to hell, we could be royally fucked.”

“Don't worry,” Dean said easily. “Bobby 'll find a way to break it. Until then I say we hit Vegas, pull a little Rain Man. Sam can be Rain Man.”

“Look, we just lay low until Bobby calls back, okay?” Sam whispered. He turned to the man behind the host stand. “Hi, uh, table for three, please.”

The man’s face broke out into a grin, and he hollered, “Congratulations!” An alarm began to sound through the restaurant.

“It's exciting, I know,” Dean quipped.

“You are the one millionth guest of the Biggerson's Restaurant family!” the man announced. 

The staff surrounding you began singing and taking photographs while they shoved a giant check into your hands. Balloons fell from the ceiling, and you and Sam would’ve rathered been anywhere else. Dean was ecstatic, though, which you were happy to see. You’d suffer tremendous embarrassment fifty times over just to see him smile. That thought scared you a little bit; how you'd do anything for him. You had a tendency to be an extremist.

You were escorted to your table, and a gorgeous waitress in what was clearly a black bob wig approached your table. 

Her coy smile was alluring, but something about her wasn’t sitting right with you. Still, nothing seemed off through the rest of the meal. Sam clacked away on his laptop rattling off bits of lore he was reading on rabbit’s foot Hoodoo magic while you and Dean shared a bowl of ice cream. 

“I think from now on, we only go to places with Biggerson's,” Dean commented. 

The waitress came back over to your table with a pot of coffee and grinned at Sam. “Can I freshen you up?”

Sam nodded. “Thanks.”

The waitress poured, still smiling, and spilled some in her flirtatious stupor. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Let me mop up here. Sorry about that.” She hurriedly cleaned her mess and left the table, appearing to flirt with Sam over her shoulder even as she left.

“Dude. If you were ever gonna get lucky…” Dean trailed off.

Sam smirked. “Shut up.”

You smacked Dean’s shoulder. “I’m right here.”

Sam went to pick up his coffee, but he knocked the cup over and spilled it all over himself. Before you could process what was going on, he jumped out of his seat and into a waiter with a full tray. Things went flying through the air as Sam rushed profuse apologies. 

“Sam, check your pockets,” you said evenly. 

He did, and his hands came up empty.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean growled.

You and the brothers threw a wad of cash on the table and raced into the parking lot after the waitress. You noticed the black bob wig ditched on the ground a few feet from the door. “I knew it was a wig!”

“What?” Sam asked, turning around to you. He immediately tripped and fell flat on his face. 

“Wow! You suck!” Dean laughed, turning back to a groaning Sam.

“Ow,” the younger brother whined while you helped him up. His knees were bloody and raw through his ripped jeans.

“So what, now your luck turns bad?” Dean questioned.

“Yeah, Dean, I believe I’ve said that,” you remarked, and he glared at you. 

“Well, how bad does it get, genius?” 

“Really bad. C’mon,” you urged. 

“Where we goin’?” Sam asked.

“Back to the two jackwads that got us into this mess,” you said, hopping in the driver’s seat. 

“Whoa, who said you could drive?” Dean questioned.

“Me. Don’t be a child,” you said. 

***

You broke into the apartment once again to find the brunet man sadly downing a bottle of tequila. 

“Oh, man. What do you want?” the man asked.

“Heard about your friend. That's bad luck,” Dean tsked, referring to the death of the redheaded thief. 

“Piss off,” the man spat.

“We know someone hired you to steal the rabbit's foot. A woman,” Dean continued.

“Oh yeah? How do you know that?”

“Because she just stole it back from us.”

The man laughed. 

Sam stepped forward. “Listen man, this is seri—” and then he fell to the floor mid-sentence, pulling a CD player and a shelf down on top of him. 

You turned back to help the younger brother up. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, smiling awkwardly in thanks for your help. 

“I want you to tell us her name,” the older Winchester continued to the man. 

“Fuck you,” was the only response he got.

“It wasn't a freak accident that killed your partner,” you tried, coming out from behind the couch.

“What?”

“C’mon, don’t tell me you haven’t been thinkin’ it. I thought you’d be smarter than that,” you challenged. That seemed to get under the man’s skin, so you continued. “That series of unfortunate events that had to happen to kill your partner— like, had you not seen it with your own eyes, you wouldn’t have believed it— that was the rabbit’s foot. If you don’t help us stop this thing, those deaths are on you, my friend.”

The man in front of you looked worried. 

“And I gotta tell you, it doesn’t seem you’re cut out for the whole killin’ thing. You don’t wanna be a killer, do you?” you continued to press.

The man shook his head, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “No.”

***

You left the apartment repeating the woman’s last name over and over in your head. The man told you “Lugosi” was the only name he and his partner were given when they were hired. 

You took out your phone and called Bobby. 

“Hey, (Y/N), glad you called,” you heard the man say. 

“Hey, we got a situation here—”

“I found a heavyweight cleansing ritual that should do the trick,” Bobby continued. 

“That’s awesome, thank you, but uh…” you trailed off, trying to decide how to phrase your next words. You decided not to sugarcoat it in the end. “Sam lost the foot.”

“He what?!”

“I know, I know,” you sighed. You turned back around to see Sam and Dean trying to use a broken storm grate to get gum off the bottom of Sam’s shoe. You shook your head at their faces when they noticed you; seeming like two little kids caught with their hands in the candy bowl. You returned your focus to your phone call. “Listen, you know anybody by the name ‘Lugosi’? Maybe mid 20’s, super hot, my height—”

“Aw, crap. It’s probably Bela,” Bobby said. 

“ Bela Lugosi? That’s cute, but never heard of her,” you replied.

“Bela Talbot’s her real name,” the older man continued. “Crossed paths with her once or twice.”

“How the hell would she know John had the rabbit’s foot? She a hunter?” you questioned.

“Pretty fuckin’ far from a Hunter, but she knows her way around the territory. She's been out of the country,” Bobby explained. “Last I heard, she was in the Middle East someplace.”

“Well, she’s back!” you mock-cheered, exasperated.

“Which means seriously bad luck for you,” the older man added.

“Thanks for the encouragement,” you quipped.

“Well, kid, if it is Bela, at least I might know some folks who know where to find her,” he finished. 

“Thanks, Bobby. For everything.”

“Just… look out for those two idjits.” And with that, he hung up the phone.

You sighed and turned back around to see Dean reaching through the storm drain and Sam looking dejected. 

“What happened?” you asked.

“I lost my shoe,” the brunet replied sadly. 

Your eyebrows furrowed sympathetically, and Sam’s head hung low. Dean seemed annoyed and huffed, standing up from the floor. 

“C’mon,” the older brother asserted.

***

Bobby did actually have a pretty good lead on Bela; she apparently lived in Queens about two hours away. 

“So what are we doing here?” Sam questioned, referencing the motel you’d just gotten a room at. 

“You, my brother, are staying here 'cause I don't want your bad luck getting us killed,” Dean stated. “And (Y/N), you’re staying with him.”

“What?! Why?” you protested. 

“Because Sam actually listens to you when you tell him not to do something. And you’re way more responsible than me,” Dean shrugged simply.

“Fair point,” you sighed. “Knowing you, you’ll touch the stupid rabbit’s foot, though.”

“Pfft, c’mon, it’s me we’re talking about—”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” you dryly stated.

Dean glared at you playfully as he walked Sam into a motel room. You followed close behind and peeked out the door to make sure you weren’t followed. 

“What am I even supposed to do, Dean?” Sam whined.

“Nothing! Nothing. Come here. I don't want you doing anything. I want you to sit right here—” the older brother pulled a chair into the middle of the room— “and don't move, okay? Don't turn on the light, don't turn off the light. Don't even scratch your nose.” Dean turned to you. “If I’m not back by midnight, take off.”

“What, you gonna turn into a pumpkin or something?” you snickered.

“(Y/N), I’m serious.”

“Since when?”

“(Y/N)—”

“Okay, okay, fine, I heard you.”

Dean smirked down at you and kissed your forehead. “I’ll be back,” he said.

You watched him leave, a bit of your heart tugging at being anywhere without him. Your feelings for him were certainly growing stronger, and it frightened you how constantly you needed to be near him. 

You turned back to see Sam wrinkle his nose a few times before finally risking a scratch at it. 

“Hey! None of that,” you said. 

Sam’s sad eyes turned to yours. “This fuckin’ sucks, man,” he sighed.

“I know it does. Kinda the whole point of the rabbit’s foot curse,” you commented.

He ignored your smart remark.

“Found anything on how to break Dean’s deal?” you asked.

Sam shook his head. “No. Did find out something interesting, though.”

“What?’ you asked.

“All my mom’s old contacts? All her old friends, the nurse who delivered me— they’re all dead,” he explained.

“What?!” you shrieked. “And you didn’t think to mention this before now?!”

“Shh, keep your voice down,” Sam said. “Didn’t wanna say anything in front of Dean; he’d go berserk.”

“You know I have to tell him, right?” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“No, no! Please don’t,” he begged. “Please. You know he’d flip. And, uh, probably more because of the way I got that information than the information itself.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Ruby told me.”

“Oh, god.” You rolled your eyes and dropped your head back. 

“C’mon, (Y/N), I mean, I called, and it all checks out. It’s got something to do with me and the demon; I know you recognize that pattern,” Sam tried.

“I do, but I don’t like being constantly stuck in the middle of you and Dean,” you said. “I’m supposed to be Switzerland, remember?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean Switzerland didn’t have information on the two sides, she just didn’t pick one,” he shrugged.

“Sam,” you warned, “You know how I feel about keeping things from Dean.”

“I know, I know, but you wouldn’t necessarily be keeping it from him, you’d be…” he trailed off, trying to think of a way to phrase his next words, “fulfilling a promise to me.”

“But I didn’t promise anything,” you argued.

“Please promise me you won’t tell Dean. Not till I’m ready,” Sam begged.

“Sam!”

“(Y/N/N), c’mon. Please, man. Please.”

You stared at Sam for a prolonged moment; you stared intensely and Sam looked up at you with puppy-dog eyes from his chair. You sighed and dropped your head forward. “Fine. But you are gonna promise me that you’ll tell Dean eventually. That’s my one condition.”

Sam nodded. “Deal.”

You shook your head and sat down on the edge of the bed next to Sam’s chair. “You Winchesters and your secrets.”

“Oh, like you don’t have any,” Sam deadpanned.

You looked up at the television and saw the reflection of your guard uniform and scratched-up face staring back at you. You took in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “Touché.” You paused for a moment. “Sam?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What are you gonna do when—” you cut yourself off, tears beginning to well in your throat. You took a deep breath to push them down. “When Dean’s gone?” 

Sam shook his head. “(Y/N), no. He’s not gonna—”

“Sam,” you said. “We are trying everything we can. We’re two months into this thing and no closer to saving him than we were on day one. I stopped looking. Not ‘cause I don’t care anymore, but because I’m not gonna send you to Hell just so Dean can live. I mean, Bobby’s been lookin’, too! And he hasn’t found a damn thing. So I just think we have to be real with ourselves.”

Sam shook his head, tears in his eyes.

“I don’t wanna lose him,” you said, putting your hand on Sam’s knee to make him look at you and beginning to cry, too. “I don’t. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But… I’m scared, man. When I lost my family…” you closed your eyes at the memory of some of the awful things you’d done and would never forgive yourself for, “I don’t wanna do that again. And… And I just think that if we kept huntin’ together, we could keep tabs on each other. Make sure the other doesn’t go rogue, y’know?”

“I can’t believe you’re just gonna give up on him like that,” Sam spat, disappointed. 

“I’m not!” you argued. “But I’m not gonna help you kill yourself, dammit! Dean would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself!”

“Look, we’ve got ten months left. We’ll find something,” Sam continued. 

“I hope you’re right, man. I really do,” you said.  

Neither of you said anything for the next few hours.

During that time, you took out your journal and wrote. You didn’t usually keep journals when you were done with them as your duffel bag would be filled to the brim with them by now, but you were definitely going to keep this one; especially after Dean was gone. 

It was somewhat poetic that the first day you met the boys was the first time you’d written in this particular journal. Its pages were filled with your, at first, disdainful musings about the older Winchester brother and slowly but surely became your attempts at discerning your feelings for him.

You liked to buy quite thick and large journals to have enough room for your drawings and to be able to continue writing in them for months and occasionally years. This was the longest you’d been able to stretch one, though, and you were a little over three-fourths through writing in it. 

“I can’t help but wonder what comes next after all this,” you wrote, the pen gliding easily against the page in time with your racing thoughts. “I’ve always been awful about ‘futurecasting’ as Dad called it, but it’s even worse now. Every second I’m with Dean, I can’t help but think about how this is all gonna be over in less than a year. And it’s awful. I wanna be present with him. I just can’t. I don’t want there to be an end to us. I don’t even know if we are anything! He can’t even tell me he loves me.

“And I get it to some extent. ‘I love you’s are hard for him. Fine. I just wish he’d figure out some way to communicate with me that isn’t sex. I mean, the sex is great, but. I don’t know. And just after everything that happened, I’m not feeling great about having sex anyway. And I know it’s upsetting him, even if he won’t say anything; he’d never pressure me, and I know that. And I’m getting better about sex and related things. But it just sucks.

“And I don’t wanna bring any of this up with him and start fights because, as I’m painfully aware, that deadline is getting closer and closer every day. I just want him to be happy with me while he still can be.”

You dropped your pen when the air conditioning unit next to you began to smoke. 

“Oh come on, I- I didn't- I wasn't—” Sam whined.

“Just stay put,” you said. You jerked back in surprise when the unit suddenly caught fire. You grabbed the comforter from the bed next to you and began to put the fire out with it. Thankfully, the fire stopped. 

“I’m gonna see if I can get someone to fix that for us before your luck kills us both with carbon monoxide poisoning,” you said, starting toward the door. 

Suddenly, the door to the motel room burst open. However, it wasn’t Dean who opened it. It was two men. You drew your gun and cocked it, trained on the two men. “Get the fuck out,” you ordered. 

“I don’t think so,” said the older-looking man. He almost reminded you of Willem Dafoe, and you mentally pegged that as his name. The other man with a bizarre-looking mustache charged you, and you fired. Somehow, the bullet missed its target despite him being in such close range. 

“What the hell, Sam?!” you exclaimed. “Your luck’s rubbin’ off on me!”

“Sorry!” he winced.

The man charging you tried to restrain you in a headlock, but you kicked him squarely between the legs. You jutted your elbow back into his nose simultaneously, and the man dropped you. 

Unfortunately for you, though, Sam had been trying to help you by taking on Willem Dafoe. You turned around to see Sam unable to land a punch on the other man’s face. You tried to help him, but Sam ended up punching you across the face, and you were knocked out cold.

***

When you woke up, your arms were bound behind your back, and your legs were taped together as well. The men had laid you on your stomach, and you immediately began to struggle and panic, feeling your current position was too similar to the one you’d been in with the guard. 

“Dean! Help me!” you wailed without thinking. Your body was in autopilot as you struggled, and you couldn’t even focus on the men in the room. 

“Quit whinin’,” the man with the mustache told you. 

You could barely hear him over the roaring in your ears. “Dean!”

“I said shut up!” the man in front of you roared, slapping you across the face.

You couldn’t, though, continuing to flail like a fish out of water.

“Creedy,” the other man said, turning away from Sam and to his accomplice, “shut her up, please.”

“With pleasure.” The man took a rag out of his shirt and shoved it in your mouth, your muffled cries coming out around it. 

You vaguely heard Willem Dafoe beating the crap out of Sam while he talked about his mission from “god” to kill Sam. Then, the man drew his gun. His partner was unsettled, too, as you strained harder to get out of your binds. 

Suddenly, your saving grace appeared in the doorway. “Dean!” you cried through the gag in your mouth. 

Willem Dafoe turned around and aimed the gun point-blank at Sam’s forehead. 

“Nope. No destiny,” Dean said coolly referring to the man’s earlier comment about god and destiny leading them to Sam. “Just a rabbit's foot.”

“Put the gun down, son, or you're gonna be scraping brain off the wall,” the man replied, his tone ice cold.

Dean waved his Taurus around. “Oh, this thing?”

“Yeah, that thing,” look-alike-Dafoe responded. 

“Okay.” Dean put his gun down on the nightstand beside him, looking smug. “But you see, there's something about me that you don't know.” Dean smoothly picked up a pen off the nightstand beside the gun. 

“Yeah? What would that be?”

“It’s my lucky day,” Dean grinned. He tossed the pen toward Willem Dafoe, and it lodged in the barrel of the gun. ““Oh my God, did you see that shot?!” 

Forgetting all about your current situation, you started yelling through the gag, “You fucking touched it? You fucking idiot!” But all that came out was a muffled garbling of words. 

The man named Creedy lunged at Dean, but missed his punch completely. The man ended up running straight into the wall, and Dafoe was busying himself trying to dislodge the pen from the barrel of his gun. 

“I'm amazing,” Dean said smugly. He picked up the television remote and threw it hard at Dafoe. It hit the man square between the eyes, knocking him out cold. 

“I’m Batman,” you heard Dean suavely state, but you were too busy returning your focus to getting your binds undone. Now that the immediate danger was over, your body went back into panic mode. You yelped when you suddenly felt a hand on your back and fought even harder. 

“Hey, hey!” Dean coaxed. “It’s just me.” He saw you weren’t listening, and he immediately set to work cutting the duct tape binding your legs and wrists. Your hands shakily yanked out the rag in your mouth. Only then did you realize Dean was the one in front of you, and you leapt into his arms. 

He caught you easily, one hand around the underside of your back and the other around the topside your legs. You curled up into him and buried your face in his neck. 

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay,” Dean tried, but your shaking wouldn’t stop. You could feel your sobs slowly subside, but it took quite a while of Dean holding you for you to regain your composure. He pressed kisses into the side of your hair while he held you and tried to soothe you by telling you you were safe. 

You finally uncurled your legs from around Dean and let him put you down. 

Sam came up behind you to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. “You okay?” he asked. 

You nodded as you sniffled. 

“What happened?” Sam asked in that very unique-to-him soft voice. 

“I dunno,” you lied. 

Dean gave you a look that let you know he’d be asking more questions later. 

“C’mon, we gotta get the hell outta here,” you said, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. You could feel the boys giving you questioning looks as you gathered up yours and the boys’ things and stalked out to the car. 

*** “Alright,” Sam began, sprinkling cayenne pepper into the embers of a small fire you and the Winchesters had started in the middle of a cemetery. “Bone ash, cayenne pepper, that should do it.”

“One second…” Dean said absentmindedly, scratching off the last of his lottery tickets. 

“Dean—” Sam complained. 

“Hey, back off, Jinx. I’m bringing home the bacon,” Dean quipped. He stashed the cards in his jacket that he’d slung over a gravestone. “Alright, say goodbye, wascally wabbit.” He dangled the rabbit’s foot over the top of the fire. 

“Hey!” you shouted, whipping out your gun at the sound of a twig cracking. You aimed it at the sound, and Bela emerged from the darkness with hers drawn as well. 

“I think you'll find that belongs to me,” she said firmly. “Or, you know, whatever. Put the foot down, honey.”

“Oh, hell no,” you said, cocking your gun. 

Bela cut her eyes at you, shooting Sam in the shoulder.

You exclaimed, “What the—!” and Dean cursed, “Son of a—” as Sam collapsed to the ground. 

“Back off, tiger,” Bela told you. “Back off! You make one more move, and I’ll pull the trigger. You’ve got the luck, Dean. You, I can’t hit. But your brother? Him, I can’t miss.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” the older brother roared. “You don't just go around shooting people like that!”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Relax. It's a shoulder hit; I can aim. Besides, who here hasn't shot a few people? Put the rabbit's foot on the ground now.”

“Alright!” Dean mollified. “Alright. Take it easy.” He moved to drop the rabbit’s foot, but instead, he threw it at Bela. “Think fast,” he smirked. 

Bela caught the foot and immediately realized what she’d done. “Damn!”

“Now, what do you say we destroy that ugly-ass piece of dead thing?” Dean smiled in satisfaction. 

Bela sighed, aggravated. She dropped her arm and uncocked her gun, but you kept yours aimed at her as she moved over to the fire. 

“Would you stop pointing that at me?” her smooth voice came without looking at you. 

“Sorry, love. Don’t trust you,” you smiled in fake-politeness. 

She rolled her eyes and moved back to the fire. She dropped the foot into the fire. “Thanks very much,” Bela continued. “I'm out one and a half million, and on the bad side of a very powerful, fairly psychotic buyer.” 

“Wow. I really don't feel bad about that. Sam?” Dean turned to his brother.

“Nope. Not even a little.”

Bela’s gaze hardened. “Hmm. Maybe next time, I'll hang you out to dry.” She turned around and moved toward the gravestone where Dean’s jacket laid. You knew exactly what she was doing. 

“Have a nice night, girls,” Bela smirked. 

You glared at her. “Uh, uh! Turn around!” you ordered. 

“What?” she sighed, clearly annoyed. 

“Gimme the tickets,” you commanded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied. 

“Yeah, you do. You can’t con me, angel.”

She grumbled angrily but took the stolen tickets out of her pocket and threw them to the ground. 

“Thanks a million,” you called after her. 

“You’re fuckin’ awesome, woman,” Dean admired, you assumed in reference to the tickets you noticed Bela stole. He came over to you and kissed you boldly. You giggled against his lips, and he held your waist firmly. 

Sam cleared his throat. “Hey! Bleeding out, here!” 

You broke away from Dean. “Oh, sorry!” you grimaced, moving to head back to the Impala. “C’mon, I’ll get you patched up.”

When you ensured the rabbit’s foot was burnt to a crisp, you and the Winchesters moved to the car. 

“You good?” Dean asked his brother. 

“I’ll live,” he responded. 

“I guess we're back to normal now, huh? No good luck, no bad luck. And we're up forty-six thousand.” Dean threw his arm around your shoulder and kissed your temple, waving the tickets around in the air. 

“Maybe we should hit Vegas, see how good our luck still is,” you suggested, smiling lopsidedly. 

“I like the way you think,” Dean nodded. “Whaddaya say, Sammy?”

“I think you guys are gonna end up blowing all our money on slot machines,” the younger brother dryly commented. 

“Ye of little faith,” you said. “If not Vegas, we can at least get ourselves a nicer motel room. Maybe we can graduate to hotels!”

“Ooh, yeah. One of those hotels with a jacuzzi tub.”

“Hell yeah—”

“Guys,” Sam groaned. “Still bleeding out, here.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[winchestersisterimaginessss]

Request: oh em geez hill i love your work so freakin much! i was wondering if you could do a winchester bros x little sister reader fic where they go to fight a vamp nest (nothing big like 3-4 vamps) and they get separated and reader is like 1 on 1 with a vamp and its like a close call (whatever that means to you 99) but reader gets the upper hand and chops their head off and then the brothers find her and shes just kinda mute after that like she has trouble talking abt what happened to her? IDK IF THIS IS TOO DETAILED IM SORRYYY anyway, dont feel obligated to write! take care of your self! - alexA

A/N: um HI THANK YOU!??! That’s literally so sweet. Okay I love this request and the more details the better!! I started writing this and it took me to a totally different place I think? Ugh idk, but I hope you like it. If not just send in another request!

Pairings: Dean and Sam x Sister!Reader

You were hunting some vampires that were sucking people dry left and right. You all assumed there was no more than 5 of them wreaking absolute havoc on this random small town. The death toll was rapidly rising and they needed to be taken care of immediately. You cringed internally as you thought about how you had to take care of them. You hated killing vampires because something about, oh, I don’t know, chopping their heads off, absolutely mortified you. But they were monsters and it needed to be done.

You arrived to the abandoned barn where you all assumed they were hiding out.

“Stay behind us kid until we figure out how many were really up against.” Dean said handing you a machete.

“Okay,” you nodded.

Your brothers ran towards the barn and you trailed behind them. You got to the barn doors, watched as Dean counted down with his fingers before he busted the door open. As you ran in you saw three vamps and some people chained up. Perfect three on three, you thought, this should be easy. You immediately started fighting one of them while your brothers went to the others. You crashed through the old barn wall and tumbled outside. Your heart was pounding, but you knew you had one over on the guy so you weren’t sweating it. In the midst of your fight, you ended up getting about 50 yards away from the barn before slicing the vampires head off. You sat back, trying to catch your breath. There was something just so gruesome about chopping off their heads. They looked too much like people and it’s just never sat right with you. You let yourself mentally and physically recover for those five seconds before jumping back up to head to the barn. As soon as you stood up though it was like you got the wind knocked out of you. There was a sudden weight on top of you and realized it was another vampire. You panicked and reached for the machete as you were being held to the ground. When you tried to swing it in a last attempt to save yourself, the vampire grabbed it and pushed it towards your throat. You grabbed the machete on the sharp end with your other hand in order to prevent it from going against your throat. It was searing through your hand and you felt the blood start to drastically drip out of it. You felt a few drops hit your face as you pushed harder away from your throat. Your heart sunk and an intense feeling of doom came over you. This was it. You were going to die. You felt yourself growing weaker as you were losing too much blood. You were losing your fight on the machete and it started to touch down on the skin of your throat. You turned your head to the side trying to protect yourself, but it gently sliced your neck. In your final attempt for life, you shoved your knee into the vampire and caught him off guard. He released his grip on the machete for the slightest second, but it was all you needed to save yourself. He needed to readjust himself, but in that split second, you swung the machete in one swift motion, taking off his head. You fell back into the ground breathing heavily. Your pulse was rapid and you realized how clammy you were getting. You sat back up on your knees, held your hair back and started puking. You threw up until there was nothing left and you scooted as far away as you could from the scene that was in front of you.

——-

“Y/N/N,” Dean shouted.

You were in a complete daze, staring out blankly. They got closer to you after calling your name several times with no response. Sam noticed your blank stare and came into realization.

“She’s going into shock,” he stated rushing in front of Dean to get to you.

He squatted down in front of you and grabbed your hands but you sat staring blankly. That’s when he noticed all the blood over your hand and saw it completely sliced open.

“Shit, Dean grab a rag!” He said while holding your wrist out so Dean had a better angle at fixing you up. Dean rushed back over, wrapping your hand up while he watched your face for any sign of pain, but none ever showed. He put pressure on your hand to stop your bleeding.

“Sorry kid.” He grimaced expecting to hear you cry out, but still there was nothing. He squinted his eyes and looked at you with concern before turning to Sam.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey.” Sam gave your hand a little squeeze to get you responsive, but you continued to stare blankly ahead.

“Hey sweetheart, I need you to look at me,” he tried again.

“Okay, it’s okay, you’re in shock, it’s alright.” He said knowing it was actually really far from alright.

“You’re safe, you’re okay, alright? Do you hear me?” He asked, tapping your face and trying to reassure you.

“Alright kid, it’s okay, let’s get you snapped out of this, alright? I’m here.” He said calmly while Dean just stared at his siblings feeling completely helpless.

“I need you to tell me five things about your surroundings, alright? Can you do that for me?” He asked.

Still nothing.

“Okay that’s alright lets get your senses going, okay?” He said trying to walk her through what he was going to do. He reached down and squeezed your lower thigh a few times

“Alright, hey, that’s me, I’m squeezing your leg. Do you feel that?” He asked.

Still no answer.

He took his fingers and trickled them up and down your arms hoping it would do the trick to get you more aware of your surroundings.

“Okay hey, those are my fingers trickling up and down your arms, right?” He asked nodding his own head yes, internally begging you to snap out of it.

“Come on kid!” He practically begged starting to get worried that it was becoming much more serious. Dean looked worried seeing Sam panic. He was the much calmer one in these scenarios and always seemed to know what to do so seeing him panic, terrified him.

“Sam?” He called his name out weakly.

“Dean start pushing into her wound, it’ll hurt like a bitch, but we have to get her responsive.” He said to his brother.

Dean nodded and did what he was told while Sam grabbed your good hand.

“Alright, hey, now you’re going to feel the stuff around you, okay? Here.” He said and rubbed your hand into the grass.

“You feel that?” He asked. “That’s the grass.”

He brought your hand up to his face and rubbed it all over his stubby beard.

“That’s my beard, it’s pretty pokey right? You say that all the time that my beard is so stubby, right kid?” He said, trying to get your body to respond to your mind.

You suddenly felt everything at once and focused on Sam’s face that was right in front of you. You looked at him confused, “S’mmy?” You mumbled.

He sighed in relief before falling onto his knees and pulling you into his chest.

“You’re okay, you’re safe, it’s alright.” He whispered, mostly to himself. Your arm was awkwardly being pulled out and you felt sharp stinging pressure in your hand. You whimpered tried pulling away from whatever had its hold on it, but it was firm.

“Hey kiddo, it’s bad I’ve gotta keep pressure on it.” You heard Dean say.

You pulled away from Sam and looked at Dean. He shot you a sympathetic look, before you looked at your hand. It was covered in a rag that was soaked with blood. Everything just felt extremely foggy and you were confused, “what happened?” You asked, turning your head to take in your surroundings. As soon as you did, you felt pain shoot through your neck. You hissed in pain before reaching up to hold it. It was stinging and you felt the moistness of your blood. You looked at Dean with panic before crying out, “what happened!” You already knew what happened so you weren’t sure why you were even asking. You almost died and to keep the machete from chopping off your own head, it cut deep into your hand and grazed the side of your neck. You started trembling as you recalled the fear that pulsed through your body. This time Dean pulled you into him. He wrapped his arm around you while still keeping your other hand tight in his.

“You’re alright kid shhhh you’re safe.” He comforted you before motioning to Sam that they should get out of there.

“We’re gonna get you cleaned up just fine kiddo we’ll take care of you, you’re safe now.” He said, rubbing your back. You nodded into his chest.

“Alright let’s go.” He said and the three of you left the horrendous scene behind.

[cringemesstickles]

Howls Of Laughter

(TickleTober Day 8: Nuzzles)

Summary: 18yo Dean decides to grow a beard. 14yo Sam thinks he looks ridiculous.

Word Count: 1456

A/N: Another SPN fic because I want to 🤭

———————————————————

The Winchester boys were growing up, but some things never really changed… except for Dean’s facial hair.

Dean, now eighteen, had made the impulsive decision to grow out his stubble. He pitched the idea to Sam randomly one day at a diner, insisting he needed a new look. Sam however was quite positive that it had little to do with self expression, and more to do with impressing girls…

A few weeks later, Sam hadn’t really paid much attention to any new features since he didn’t think Dean would actually go through with it. He thought his brother would grow it, hate it, and shave it all off without ever acknowledging it.

The younger had been in his own world, his nose predictably buried in a thick book as he lounged on the worn-out couch in the motel room.

The older Winchester was standing on the other side of the room, looking in a mirror and inspecting the new facial hair. It wasn’t as thick as their father’s by any means, but it was fairly scruffy. He had never really tried to grow a beard before… it definitely different from the light stubble he was used to, but he figured the ladies were into the rugged look nowadays.

He let his gaze wander from his face, seeing Sam in the mirror. He could see that his little brother was deep into whatever he was reading, but that never stopped him from bugging the kid before.

He turned around and sauntered over, perching himself on the arm of the couch.

“Hey, Sammy. How do you like the new addition?”

Sam looked a bit irritated about his reading time being disturbed. He didn’t really care about whatever Dean was blabbering about… he just wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet for once. Nevertheless, he sighed, looking up to acknowledge the elder.

What he wasn’t expecting was for his brother to look like a damn wolverine.

Sam’s eyes widened slightly as they landed on the new beard, and he had to do a double take.

When the hell did that happen?

“Uh… Dean?”

Dean smirked, stroking his facial hair. “Yeah? Lay it on me, little brother.”

Oh, Sam would lay it on him alright.

The shorter boy set the book in his lap and covered his mouth with his hand.

“You look like a werewolf.” He said with a snicker that was bordering on full laughter as he saw the offended expression on his brother’s face.

The older Winchester’s expression faltered but he quickly gave a smirk, trying to recover from the blow to his ego.

“A werewolf, or a handsome lumberjack?”

That was all it took for Sam to fall over on his side, clutching his stomach as he burst into loud, mocking laughter.

“A-A handsome lumberjack?! You’re such a dork!!” Barked the younger, unable to control his amused reactions.

Dean grimaced and crossed his arms. “Quit laughing, Sammy! You’re just jealous that I can grow a beard and you can’t.”

That only drew more laughter from the boy, tears starting to prick at his eyes.

“Oh, please… I’d rather be able to enjoy a full moon!”

Dean’s eye twitched as his little brother continued to cackle, a hint of annoyance growing within him. Y’know what? If the kid wanted to be a sassy little shit, so be it.

“Fine! You wanna see a werewolf?! I’ll show you a werewolf!”

With a growl, Dean lunged at his younger brother, pinning him down with little effort. Sam gasped, eyes widening as he processed the threat.

“W-Wait, no, don’t! I-I didn’t- EEK!”

The kid fell into fresh laughter when his older brother dove down and began nuzzling at his tummy with his scruffy face, the scratchy whiskers rubbing against his soft skin, which immediately quivered on contact.

“Dehehehean, nooo! I-I’m sorry! Hahaha!”

A wicked grin spread across Dean’s face as a low chuckle rumbled deep from his chest.

“It’s a little late for that, kid. You hurt this werewolf’s feelings and now you have to pay!” He gave a playful growl, shaking his head back and forth, making sure the boy felt every bristle on his face.

Of course he wasn’t ACTUALLY hurt. He was just being a goof for the sake of it. Besides… he hadn’t seen Sam laugh that hard in what felt like forever. That uncontrollable belly laughter was the type of sound that he usually had to tickle out of him, but he didn’t have to this time.

It was just a bonus.

The nuzzles continued with full force, drawing squeal after squeal from the poor boy. He shoved at his brother’s head to no avail, kicking his legs and twisting his sides. But no matter which way Sam wriggled, Dean followed, making sure the soft belly got an appropriate amount of torment.

“No escaping, kiddo! You poked the beast, now you face the consequences!”

“Noooo! I’m sorry! P-Please stohohohop!”

Sam’s pleas were becoming more desperate and Dean could tell he was legitimately running out of breath, so he decided to give him a small break, pulling away and giving a cheeky grin.

His heart melted when he saw his brother’s cute, smiling face.

“Aww, is little Sammy too ticklish? Should’ve thought about that before provoking the werewolf, kid!”

Sam’s cheeks were bright red and only seemed to darken at the teasing. He panted for air, trying to glare at his big brother, though it was quite difficult to look angry when there was a goofy smile stuck on his face.

“Y-You’re a jerk… I hope you- AHH!”

The threat was cut short as Sam squealed once more and let out a shrieky guffaw, tossing his head back and writhing with renewed vigor. Dean had swiftly bent down again, but this time, he blew a big raspberry on his brother’s belly.

After each raspberry, he went straight back for another. It wasn’t long before Sam was gasping again, cherry red and struggling to breathe. When the laughter went silent, Dean decided to stop for good, ruffling his brother’s hair and helping him sit up.

Sam clutched his stomach, panting and giggling with tear stained cheeks.

“T-That was mehehean…” he mumbled, slumping into the couch.

Dean just snorted at that and lightly shoved his brother, giving a sly smirk.

“You loved it. But you might’ve been right… maybe I should leave the bearded look to dad.”

Sam nodded. “Definitely… the werewolf look doesn’t suit you, jerk.”

The elder scoffed and jabbed the kid in the shoulder “Bitch.”

The familiar banter made Sam smile, but he quickly regained a snarky tone.

“Now, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“For the love of all that is holy, go shave that thing off… unless you want dad to mistake you for a werewolf.”

Dean rolled his eyes, hopping off the couch and starting for the bathroom.

As the older Winchester stood up to head to the bathroom, Sam’s giggles finally started to die down, but he was still watching his brother with that impish grin.

Dean paused in front of the bathroom door, turning back with a raised brow.

“You got somethin’ to say, nerd?”

Sam bit his lip, trying to suppress the teasing comment forming on his tongue, but couldn’t resist. “You sure you’re not gonna howl at the moon before you shave that thing off?”

Dean gave an exaggerated eye roll, but his lips twitched into a smirk.

“You’re just begging for a round two.” He glared playfully as a warning, causing the younger to widen his eyes and raise his hands in surrender.

“N-No! I’m good!” Sam’s laughter bubbled up again, the thought alone making him nervous. “I don’t think I could survive another werewolf attack…”

Dean snorted, but his expression softened a bit.

“Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll let you off the hook this time… But, next time you make fun of me, you’re screwed. I may not be a werewolf, but I am part tickle monster. Consider yourself warned.”

Sam’s cheeks flushed a bit, but he was still smiling widely. He huffed and leaned on the armrest of the couch, giggling at the silly threat.

“Duly noted, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

And with that, Dean disappeared into the bathroom. And when he re-emerged, he was no longer a scruffy werewolf… just regular old Dean Winchester.

“There… ya happy now?” Asked the older brother, stroking his face which was back to its regular stubbled state.

Sam grinned at the sight. “Very. You look like a regular old dork again.”

Hearing yet another sassy insult, Dean huffed with exasperation.

“You’re never gonna quit sassing me, are you?”

Sam simply smiled cheekily, giving a quick, “Nope.”

The kid was a brat… but at least he was honest. And Dean frankly wouldn’t have him any other way.

[corydora-writes]

Sunshine After a Storm

Summary: Dean has been away on a hunt for over a month. Despite putting on a strong front for Dean, you've been grappling with persistent grief stemming from the emotionally demanding nature of your work as a nurse and the suffocating anxiety that Dean might not return to you alive. When Dean notices, he wholeheartedly dedicates himself to reassuring you that being vulnerable is perfectly acceptable and tenderly encourages you to lean on him for support and share the emotional burden.

“My sweet, beautiful, sensitive girl,” Dean whispered, the words wrapped around you like a warm embrace, soothing the storm inside you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus Size F Reader; Dean & Reader are engaged. No physical description of the reader, but I envision fat women when I write. 

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, anxiety.

Word Count: 3,807

A/N: Yeah, so if it wasn't obvious, I'm rewatching Supernatural! Admittedly, this piece is self-indulgent, much like most of my writing. I wrote it over the weekend to help me cope with the emotional demands of my new job (I'm not in the healthcare field). I share these writings, hoping they solace others as we envision our comfort characters providing what our hearts and souls yearn for. 

Each day blurred into the next, filled with the routines of caring for residents who looked to you for comfort and support, yet you often felt like an island in the sea of their struggles. At the senior assisted living facility, you were the steady hand, the kind smile, and the soft voice that reassured them through their fears and anxieties. But even the strongest of foundations can begin to crumble under the weight of fatigue and isolation. The numbness from years of caring for others was starting to give way to a torrent of feeling—everything you had kept at bay for so long was threatening to overwhelm you.

The fluorescent lights of the nursing station buzzed around you like a swarm of relentless bees, each patient's story echoing in your mind. You recalled Ms. Loveday, who had once played the piano beautifully, now silent in her final days. Or Mr. Jenkins, whose laughter had filled the room, now a faint memory cloaked in the sterile antiseptic scent. A soft beep echoed from the telemetry monitor, snapping you back to reality. You forced yourself to focus on the task — reviewing charts, administering medication, and comforting the residents you adored.

After your shift ended, you sat in the break room zoning out, staring blankly into your untouched coffee, the steam curling up and dissipating into the air like the souls you had held onto, if only for a little while. You couldn't shake the feeling that your days were also numbered, that someday, you would hold Dean’s hand for the last time and never quite recover from it.

"What are you doing after this shift?" Your colleague asked cheerfully, snapping you back to reality. 

"Just... going home, I suppose," you replied, your smile a facade that failed to reach your eyes. Returning to your own life, free from the weight of others' suffering, seemed like a distant dream. 

"Take care of yourself, okay? You know you can't help everyone. You're not a superhero." 

You nodded, but the words stung. You wanted to be the invincible partner that Dean deserved, someone who didn't crumble under the weight of sorrow. Yet here you were, feeling fragile and frayed like the worn-out scrubs you wore, each thread a reminder of your emotional turmoil.

The old rigid door creaked as you entered the bunker, filled with the comforting remnants of Dean’s presence: his jackets tossed over chairs, half-opened magazines stacked on the table, and the faint smell of gun oil lingering in the air. Despite the chaos of the Winchester’s hunting life, there was a warm stability in the bunker, one you clung to now more than ever.

After a quick shower, you washed away the remnants of your long shift—the scent of antiseptics and the occasional, overwhelming smell of anxiety vanishing down the drain.

Just as you settled onto the soft mattress, you reached for your phone, and your heart gushed at the thought of Dean. You flipped through the gallery, each photo a whisper of your shared moments. His bright and infectious smile glowed up at you from the screen, reminding you of carefree days spent together—adventurous getaways, lazy Sunday mornings, and spontaneous late-night drives. You held onto the phone tightly, feeling the phantom warmth of his presence.

Beside you, Dean's flannel shirt rested on the bed. You buried your face in the fabric, inhaling deeply, as his scent—woodsy and familiar—wrapped around you like a warm embrace. It was comforting, a piece of him that bridged the miles between, yet it heightened the pang of longing deep within you.

Just as you felt your eyelids grow heavy, your phone buzzed in your hand. The vibration startled you, causing your heart to race. You glanced at the screen, and your breath caught in your throat. The name that lit up the display sent a flood of warmth through your chest: "Dean."

It was surreal. Could he feel your longing, hear your silent prayers for connection? You answered with a quick swipe, the screen illuminating your face. You panicked momentarily and hoped he wouldn't sense something was wrong. 

You uttered a breathless, "Hello?" 

"Hey, babe," Dean's voice greeted you, full of warmth and a hint of fatigue.

"Hey," you replied, your voice wavering slightly. "How's the hunt?" 

“Same ol’, same ol’. Just another day in the family business.” He chuckled. "How's the old folks' home? Still wrangling all the cranky grandpas?"

You took a deep breath. You were torn. You wanted to share your burdens, but how could you do that without dragging him down?

 "It has been busy. You know how it is."

"Something's off. Tell me what's wrong," Dean asked as he picked up on the subtle unease in your tone.

The genuine concern in his voice made your heart swell, yet it hurt to think of burdening him with your struggles. You hesitated, grappling with the urge to be strong. You and Dean had always been each other's anchors, but now you worried you might tip the boat over.

"I'm fine, babe. I'm just sleep-deprived. Been taking extra shifts to keep busy, is all," you finally said, forcing an upbeat tone you didn't quite feel. "Just know I miss you."

"I miss you too, baby. We're going to get ready to wrap up this hunt. Can't wait to get back home. We'll do something fun, I promise." 

"Sounds good," you replied, but the words felt hollow. "Be careful, okay?"

"I will. I always do. I love you, sweetheart." 

You heard a faint sound of chatter, and then Jack's voice chimed in, "Hey, I love you too!"

Your smile widened as you responded, "Love you both, too!"

After you hung up, you closed your eyes, surrendering to the fatigue that weighed heavily on you.

--------

Communication between you and Dean had always been a source of strength, but the waning enthusiasm in your voice concerned him and gnawed at him. 

He sat on the edge of the motel bed and couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Dean frowned. He knew how to read you like a book. ‘Busy’ was your way of saying you were overwhelmed; he could sense the weight behind those words. He didn’t think it was just the usual stress of your job—it was deeper, darker like a cloud hovering over you. 

Sam observed his restless brother, noticing how Dean's fingers tapped anxiously on the leg. 

"Go to her, Dean," Sam advised softly, his eyes reflecting understanding. "We'll take care of everything here."

Dean hesitated, glancing at Sam, who was perched comfortably at the table, absorbed in his research. 

"You sure about this?" Dean questioned.

"We've got this covered," Sam affirmed, projecting confidence. 

Cas, Jack, and Eileen joined in with subtle nods, their collective solidarity a silent promise of support.

-----------------

As you finished your shift at the senior home, tending to one of the residents, Mrs. Flores, you noticed the rustle of a delivery person approaching the nurses' station. The familiar scent of flowers wafted through the air, and your heart raced excitedly. It was that time again—Dean's way of sending his love your way, telling you that he would be home in exactly two weeks. 

The delivery person handed you a beautifully arranged bouquet of vibrant sunflowers and tulips, their golden petals radiating warmth. You carefully took the flowers, your breath hitching slightly at the sight. Then, with anticipation, you spotted the small card nestled among the stems. 

"Hey, gorgeous. Just wanted you to know I'll be on my way home soon. Can't wait to wrap my arms around you and show you how much I love you. You’re a beacon of light in my life, and I hope these brightened your day as much as you brightened mine. I'm so damn proud of you. See you soon. - Dean.

You couldn't help but smile widely, your heart fluttering at the words. Mrs. Flores, who had been observing you closely, chuckled softly. 

"That man has a way of making your heart sing, doesn't he?" Mrs. Flores said wistfully, her gaze distant. 

“You have no idea," you replied softly, pondering how lucky you felt to have Dean in your life, even with the chaos that often surrounded you both.

You took a moment to breathe in their sweet fragrance. Dean always seemed to know just what you needed— love, woven through the chaos of your lives, was a constant source of strength. 

You turned your attention back to Mrs. Flores, who was already gathering her knitting supplies.

 "So, what do you think?" you asked, a playful glimmer in your eye. "Can I pull off shamefully gushing about my fiancé while we finish these clinics?"

Mrs. Flores grinned knowingly. "Oh, honey, you go right ahead. A little love story in a room full of memories is exactly what we need!" 

Mr. Thompson had wheeled himself to get a close look at the flowers. "Well, don't you look like you've been kissed by the sun, dear! Who's the lucky guy?" He asked.

You turned, your smile even wider. “That would be my fiancé, Dean. He’s away for work right now, but this is his way of letting me know he's thinking of me."

"That's a lovely gesture! You keep that glow; it makes my day brighter just seeing you happy," Mr. Thompson replied, his eyes twinkling with warmth.

Your work device vibrated with a message from the doctor: "Ms. Loveday requests your presence for one final meeting." 

As you strolled through the serene corridors of the hospice, reminiscences of previous encounters with Ms. Loveday inundated your thoughts. The soothing, rhythmic melody of the piano keys resounded in your mind—the way Ms. Loveday's smile would gently emerge, her eyes glimmering with memories as she recounted tales of her youth and the magnificent concerts she once graced with her presence.

There she was, lying peacefully in bed, surrounded by the soft glow of the sunset filtering through the window. The room held a stillness that contrasted sharply with the anxious flutter in your heart. 

You approached her, noting her labored breaths and the slightest tremors of her body. You took her hand in hers, squeezing gently, wishing her comfort.

Ms. Loveday's face softened with warmth, her eyes twinkling with affection as she summoned all her strength to speak in a gentle, trembling voice, "What a good man. Those flowers are lovely, dear. They remind me of sunshine after a storm." 

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. The reality of her impending goodbye was suffocating.

"Dear," Ms. Loveday said softly, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying the warmth of a thousand shared moments. "Life is a melody, and like any good piece of music, it has its crescendos and diminuendos. Remember to embrace the highs and get through the lows together."

"Ms. Loveday, I—"

"Let me finish," the elderly woman interrupted with a gentle smile, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "you have a good heart. Don't let it harden with the burdens of this world. Promise me you'll live fully. Dance if you must, laugh often, and never let doubt overshadow your love."

You couldn't help but smile through your sorrow. "I promise," you finally replied, your voice trembling. "I'll hold on to your words and cherish every moment."

"Good," Ms. Loveday said, her voice growing fainter. She closed her eyes, a peaceful smile still resting on her lips."Thank you for being my audience, y/n. I think my final encore is about to begin."

Ms. Loveday's trembling grasp finally loosened, and as her hand fell away, the once-vigorous monitor that had been beeping with life fell into an eerie silence. Your emotional dam collapsed as you finally opened the floodgates, your tears flowing freely. In that poignant moment of grief, you found yourself consumed by a deep yearning for Dean, wishing for his unwavering strength to envelop you, to remind you that you were a team—each other's support, no matter the distance or the danger he faced. 

-------

Dean's heart pounded with concern as he stepped out of your workplace. He had traveled a long way, eagerly looking forward to surprising you, only to be met with your absence. He couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't add up. The receptionist's words lingered in his mind: "She'll be off for the next few days." 

This conflicted with the excuse you gave him just a few hours ago about picking up extra shifts and being unable to communicate as much. His sense of unease grew as he pondered the inconsistencies in your story. Leaning against the sleek Impala, he felt the cool metal against his back as he fought to calm his racing thoughts, determined not to succumb to the impulse to jump to the worst possible conclusion.

His foot pressed hard on the accelerator as he sped towards the bunker, a surge of relief washing over him when he glimpsed your car parked outside. With anticipation and trepidation, he stepped inside the bunker, enveloped in an eerie silence, save for the buzzing of the lights. 

Dean made his way to your bedroom and heard the shower's distant sound. Knowing you were home brought him instant relief. 

Dean waited anxiously for you as you lingered in the shower. Usually, he'd enthusiastically join you, but this time, he wanted to approach you differently. 

Fidgeting nervously, he tapped his fingers on his lap. Finally, he heard the water cease, and after a few moments, your silhouette casted a soft glow in the room. You emerged from the shower, oblivious to Dean's presence as he sat back on a chair. You were adorned in a delicate silk chemise, the delicate fabric gracefully draping over her figure. Seeing you caused Dean's heart to swell with emotion. 

“Sleeping early now, are we?" Dean remarked, causing you to stop in your tracks, completely bewildered by his unexpected presence. 

"Dean," you uttered, "I-- I thought you'd be here in two weeks."

Dean's relaxed demeanor tightened as he replied, "Yeah, well, that was before I found out my soon-to-be wife was going through hell alone." His attempt at lightness couldn't mask the underlying concern. "Come on, sweetheart, I know you well." 

You averted your gaze, not wanting Dean to see your swollen eyes from hours of crying.

"I'm fine," you said with a forced smile. "Where's everyone?" you asked, shifting the focus. 

 "Okay, so we're going to have a conversation through questions. I’ll indulge you." Dean settled back and observed you, still standing in the alcove, your expression hidden.

 "They're wrapping up the case, so it's just you and me in this bunker. Why did you say you were working extra shifts when you were taking days off?"

You winced at the question, your heart racing as you searched for the most sensible lie. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you—intense and unwavering.

 "I'm just... very sleep-deprived, and I intended to sleep a lot these next few days." There was a moment of silence. "That must have been a long drive... Did you stop by some place to get yourself anything to eat?" 

Dean knew that was a lie, but he wouldn't press it. 

“No, I wanted to get here as fast as possible," he said before pausing and continuing, "Look, I get it. Sometimes, we all need a break. But why the cover-up?" His voice was steady, but an undertone of worry was simmering beneath the surface.

You bit your lip, the weight of his gaze making your chest tighten.

"It was wrong of me, Dean. I’m sorry,” you said, hoping that was enough for him to avoid attempting to discover your weakness. “I’ll be back. I'm going to fix you dinner."

But Dean's worry only intensified, brewing a storm within him. He had faced countless monsters and supernatural foes, yet here he was, feeling powerless against the unseen burdens that tormented you.

He stood up, his instincts kicking in. His concern was knife-edged, a gut feeling that something was really wrong. He grasped your wrist with swift decisiveness, his voice taking on a steely resolve. 

“We're not finished," he stated firmly, his grip gentle yet insistent.

You averted your gaze, a fleeting vulnerability flashing in your eyes as your carefully constructed defenses were seconds from crumbling. 

He reached for your hands, holding them firmly in his own. 

“Look at me, baby” he urged gently. 

"I didn't want to worry you," you confessed, your voice soft and tinged with regret, but you still avoided his gaze. 

“Worry me?” Dean let out a short laugh. “you’re doing it right now, babe. Look, you’re my world. I’d rather know you're struggling than think everything’s fine when it’s not.”

More silence.

"Sweetheart," Dean uttered gently, "I know this is hard for you to talk about, but you need to talk to me." His thumb brushed just below your chin to lift your gaze toward his. Your eyes were red, and your face was blotchy as you inhaled shakily. Dean's heart shattered at the sight.

That was the final push. The facade pulverized. Tears spilled down your cheeks, and he reached for you, pulling you into his arms as more tears flowed. He tucked your head under his chin, wrapping his arms around you tightly as if he could shield you from any lingering pain and grounding you in the comfort of his presence. 

“I just feel so helpless sometimes,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like every loss weighs down on me. And then I come home, and it’s like I can’t escape those moments. They follow me, haunting me… and I see you, and all I can think about is losing you too.”

Dean’s heart ached at your words. He wished he could take away your pain and fight off those ghosts that plagued your mind. 

“You’re not going to lose me, y/n. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he vowed, his voice steady and firm. 

You took a deep breath, the weight of your confession lifting slightly.  “It just hurts so much,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to bring that darkness into our life together.”

Dean's voice carried a tinge of sadness as he spoke, "This has been weighing on you for months, and you've been keeping it to yourself..."

His grip on you tightened as if he could absorb your pain through the closeness. He knew that being a nurse wasn’t just a job for you; it was an emotional battlefield that often took its toll on your heart and soul.

Dean let go to look into your eyes, a deep intensity and vulnerability reflected back at him. The weight of your pain was palpable, a burden you carried alone, and his heart ached for you. 

“We’re in this together, alright? Your pain, your joy—it’s all part of us now. And I’d take all the broken pieces if it meant keeping you whole," he murmured, his voice filled with compassion and unwavering devotion. “Let me be there for you. I’d take every scar, every sleepless night, just to keep a part of you with me. Because every moment we have together—every laugh, every fight, every kiss—it's worth everything to me.”

Your breath hitched and your heart raced as you locked eyes with him, desperately seeking any flicker of doubt in his unwavering gaze. Instead, you found an intensity of devotion that seemed to pierce into the depths of your soul.

Dean felt a natural, instinctive love for you, as effortless as drawing breath, as vital as his ongoing battle against the surrounding darkness.

“Dean, you can’t just—”

“I can,” he interrupted softly, his grip on your hands tightening. “I want to. You’ve been through so much, and I can’t stand to see you suffer alone. I’ll shoulder whatever you need me to. I want to be part of your healing, just like you’ve been a part of my redemption,” he confessed with profound sincerity.

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and for a moment, you felt the rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. 

“But what if it breaks you?" you whispered, vulnerability spilling from your lips.

"Then I’ll mend myself," he replied with a fierce intensity. "I promise you, I’d rather be broken alongside you than whole without you."

He pressed a kiss on your forehead, warmth flooding between you two. 

“I’ve dealt with a lot of things in my life—hell, monsters, heartbreak, loss. But I’d fight a hundred more battles if it meant I could protect you from feeling even one more ounce of pain."

As Dean pulled you into his arms, you felt a sense of safety that promised you two would face whatever came next, hand in hand, pain and all. 

Dean’s fingers traced gentle patterns on your back as you nestled your face into the crook of his neck. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with his scent of leather, musk, and faint traces of campfire smoke that clung to him. Your warm exhale caressed his skin, and he could feel the subtle curve of your smile against him. He thought you were so beautiful, fitting in his arms perfectly and his heart so completely. 

“My sweet, beautiful, sensitive girl,” Dean whispered, the words wrapped around you like a warm embrace, soothing the storm inside you.

Dean held you tighter, pressing soft kisses into your hair, breathing in the comforting scent of your shampoo—the smell of home. 

Then Dean let go momentarily to look at you.

"Don't hide from me again, baby." He implored with firm conviction in his voice.

"I promise," you vowed sincerely.

The worry etched on your face disappeared as you made eye contact, and despite the exhaustion in his bones, Dean couldn't help but smile.

“God, I missed you,” he said earnestly. 

Dean delicately swept a stray strand of hair behind your ear, sending a shiver down your spine at the sensation of his touch.

Then, without another moment's hesitation, Dean wrapped you in his arms again, pulling you close as your lips met in a tender, yearning kiss. It was sweet and soft, a culmination of longing that had built up over the past month. You melted into him, feeling the familiar warmth of his embrace—how he held you as if you were his entire world. The kiss deepened, filled with an abundance of emotions—relief, love, and a touch of the bittersweet ache of all the days spent apart. 

Dean grinned as you pulled apart. "Now, why don't I order us some takeout? We can binge-watch something terrible together. I'm pretty sure you've missed my awful taste in TV."

You let out a chuckle and nodded. “I’d like that.”

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Abandoned and Recovered

Part 4 of the Uncaged series

Sam and Dean Winchester & little sister!reader

Requested by @chocorade

Synopsis: You’re having a rough day, but your brothers are there for you…eventually (I took so much creative liberty with this one, it kinda took on its own life I’m sorry 😅)

Warnings: mentions of torture, nightmares, fluff, probably continuity errors with the show

“You’re not real,” Sam muttered for the millionth time. It couldn’t be real—he couldn’t be real.

“Of course I’m real,” Lucifer chuckled. “You think I ever would’ve let you out of that cage?”

“If you were real, then Y/N would see you too,” Sam argued.

“Oh.” Lucifer grinned. “She sees me exactly how I want her to…for now.”

Sam’s head shot up when he heard your voice cry out in your room. Lucifer was leering at him, but Sam ignored him as he jumped up and rushed to your room. He slammed the door open, first looking around—Lucifer hadn’t followed him here.

His eyes turned to you as you sat up suddenly on the couch, gasping for breath.

“Sam?” You whimpered as you rubbed your eyes.

“Hey,” Sam breathed, rushing over and kneeling down in front of you. “Hey, what’s wrong? What…” Sam swallowed. “What did you see?”

“Fa…his…” you swallowed. “Hi-his face. I keep—I keep seeing it…”

“Do you…see him now?” Sam whispered, as if Lucifer would hear him.

“What?” You blinked up at Sam, face scrunched in confusion. You shook your head slowly, focused more on breathing than trying to speak.

“Then…” Sam glanced around the room nervously as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Then how…where did you see him?”

“Sleep,” you whimpered. “Every time I…I…”

Sam took in your appearance suddenly, struck by how much you looked like him—sleep deprived.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Sam breathed. “Because you don’t want to see him.”

You nodded. “Isn’t that why you haven’t slept?” You asked.

Sam swallowed, staying silent. He wouldn’t tell you the truth, he couldn’t. He wasn’t avoiding sleep to avoid Lucifer—he couldn’t sleep because of Lucifer. But if you thought that Lucifer was here…

Your hand in Sam’s caught his attention, and you squeezed his hand twice; a reminder.

You promised never to lie to me.

“I’m…” Sam swallowed. “I—“

“Hey.” Dean’s voice interrupted the moment. “C’mon, me and Bobby might just have a plan.”

You started to get up, staggering a little in exhaustion. Sam grabbed hold of your arms.

“Maybe you should stay here,” Sam said.

You shook your head hard, but Sam didn’t relent.

“You haven’t gotten enough sleep,” he argued.

“He’s got a point,” Dean said. “We’ll do this one without you, kid. You stay here and get some sleep.”

You grabbed onto Sam’s hand, and he glanced back. The look in your eyes was clear:

Don’t leave me here alone.

But Sam had something else in the back of his mind—if he left, would Lucifer go with him? Would you be ok if the two of you were separated? He still couldn’t be sure if the Lucifer he was seeing was real or not, but if he was, and he was also somehow haunting you when you fell asleep…

Maybe Sam just needed to stay away from you, and you’d be ok. It wouldn’t be the first time Lucifer made the two of you stay apart. It was one of his favorite games in the cage.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Sam was only feet from you, crawling on his blood-soaked knees after a long “fun session” with Lucifer, when Lucifer’s hand in Sam’s matted hair brought him to a halt.

“Huh Sammy?” Lucifer’s eyes flickered to you. “Oh, did you wanna see little sis? I think the two of you have had enough bonding time, don’t you? So how about this…if you go near her again without my permission…I’m gonna make her regret it. And then I’m gonna make you regret it.”

And he did. Again and again and—

Your tug on Sam’s arm pulled him back to reality. You were still staring at him with those desperate eyes…

But he couldn’t let you be in pain. Not when this might stop it.

“We’ll be back soon,” Sam promised. “You should try to get some sleep.”

Sam pulled his hand from yours, and you trailed right behind him as he turned and left your room. When he still wouldn’t look at you, you turned your attention to Dean, grabbing hold of his hand instead.

“I’m sorry kid,” Dean said, pulling his hand away and placing both his hands on your shoulders. “You gotta stay here, and you know why. Please, I can’t be worried about you while we do this. I need you to stay here.”

“We going or what?” Bobby’s voice from the other room caught your brothers’ attention. You didn’t say anything as they left, but the despair in your eyes as you watched Sam turn away would stick in his brain—and his conscience—for far too long.

…

You started out by laying down on your bed—the last thing you wanted to do was sleep, but maybe if you did, then Sam would stay with you next time. There was something he wasn’t telling you, you just knew it, but you didn’t know what. Why wouldn’t he talk to you? The two of you had promised never to lie to each other, and this was about Lu…about him.

You were so busy worrying about Sam that you didn’t even notice yourself giving into your exhaustion until it was too late to try to stop it…

“You didn’t really think I let you leave, did you?”

The voice hit you before you even opened your eyes.

“No no no no,” you breathed. “Wake up wake up, it’s just a dream, wake up.”

“Actually you’ve got that backwards.” A rough grip on your neck had your eyes snapping open of their own accord to see Lucifer leering at you. “This is reality. All that with your brothers? That’s the dream. That I gave you, by the way. And it’s as close as you’re ever gonna get to good ol’ Dean..”

“Why would you do that?” You whimpered. “Why would you ever let me be happy, even in a dream?”

“Oh.” Lucifer chuckled. “Because it’s so much more fun to hurt you when you think I can’t. I get to dangle the happiness in front of you…” Lucifer took hold of a chunk of your hair, letting the strands dangle in front of your eyes. “And then I rip it away.” The hand in your hair tightened as Lucifer yanked on it, dragging you to your knees. He ignored your cry of pain as he continued. “Oh, and…I remember telling you not to speak…seems like someone forgot the rules.”

“No.” You shook your head. “You don’t get to tell me that. You’re a dream, you’re just a dream!”

“Aww,” Lucifer cooed. “I knew letting you see Dean again would put some fight in you. It was getting so boring, all torture no fight.” The face—Nick’s face—started disintegrating piece by piece, and you squeezed your eyes shut before Lucifer’s real face could appear.

“Again and again, she forgets the rules.” Lucifer clicked his tongue. “This could take longer than I thought.” Lucifer’s hands were on your face now, pressing down on your closed eyelids. “C’mon now, you look at me when I talk to you.” He pressed harder, and you whimpered when you felt warm blood trickle down the side of your face from your eyes. “Feel that?” He whispered, the cold air of his breath invading your ears. “That doesn’t feel like a dream, does it? This next part won’t, either.”

His hands retreated from your eyes, which you kept tightly shut—whether because you were scared of the pain or if seeing Lucifer, you weren’t sure. Your breath came in quick gasps as you waited for him to do something. Instead of feeling his touch, you heard his laughter, echoing from every corner of the cage so you couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore; the anticipation of the pain was almost worse than the pain itself. Despite the stinging in your eyes, you slowly forced them open…

You were in Bobby’s house, in your room. You lifted your hands to your face—no blood. The pain was slowly fading away, too…

But you could still hear the laugh. It was everywhere—in the room, in your head. You plugged your ears, but it just got louder and louder…

“It was just a dream, just a dream.” You couldn’t hear your own voice, and you realized you hadn’t spoken aloud. You tried again to speak, but you couldn’t force your mouth around the words.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you could still hear Lucifer’s words.

“I remember telling you not to speak…seems like someone’s forgotten the rules.”

You blinked rapidly, afraid to let your eyes close too long. Afraid to go back to the cage.

When the sound of Lucifer’s laughter finally faded, you forced yourself to your feet. You had to get up; you couldn’t go back to sleep. You made your way to the kitchen—maybe some food or something to drink would keep you awake.

You’d just retrieved a glass from the cabinet when—

“Did you miss me?”

The glass shattered on the ground as you whipped your head around, searching for the source of the voice—his voice. There was nothing; no one. You continued to glance around in absolute silence, your breath slowly picking up as you became more panicked despite still not seeing him. Slowly, you reached down to pick up the broken glass.

“There are consequences for breaking things.”

Your fingers slipped, and you whimpered as the glass sliced into your palms. You took a step away from the glass, still looking around for the source of the voice. The glass was still sliding around in your blood soaked fingers, and you dropped a large piece onto your foot. Your hardly even noticed the pain as panic clogged your airways as you collapsed backwards, sitting down on the cold tiles and trying to force breath in and out of your lungs.

You couldn’t even tell where the blood on you was coming from anymore—was it just your hands, or did you cut your feet? You couldn’t feel anything but the fear.

You hyperventilated as Lucifer’s chilling laugh echoed around you yet again. You couldn’t force the voice out of your head, but you did force yourself to keep your eyes open, too afraid that if you closed them again he’d return.

You were still sobbing on the floor of Bobby’s kitchen when the laughter finally died away. You didn’t move for a long moment, unable to breathe and unsure if the sounds would return. As your cries faded to whimpers, you slowly forced yourself up. You threw away the little bits of glass still in your hands, too afraid of your own clumsiness to pick the rest up—if the voice came again, you knew you wouldn’t be able to control yourself.

You got Bobby’s first aid kit from the cabinet and did a crap job at wrapping up whatever cuts you found. You were too distracted to realize that you hadn’t even cleaned the cuts.

“I’m going to get you.”

You whimpered.

“You’re mine, little thing. You always will be.”

You bit back a sob, forcing yourself to stay quiet as the voice echoed in your head and in the room.

“Y/N…”

“Y/N…”

“Y/N!”

You gasped in surprise when hands gripped your shoulders. You blinked, focusing your eyes. Dean was in front of you, his green eyes flooded with worry.

“Jeez kid, where were you? You looked like your mind was on another planet.”

You threw yourself into Dean’s arms, and he staggered a little in surprise.

“Whoa, hey, it’s ok. How long have you just been sitting here?”

“Dean!” Sam’s voice caught both your’s and Dean’s attentions. “There’s blood and glass all over the floor in here.”

“What?” Dean pulled you away. “Hey, are you hurt? There’s blood all over you, where are you cut?”

“What, were you throwing glass around?” Bobby glanced around at the mess all over the kitchen floor. When he turned his gaze to you, he saw that you’d missed the lightness in his tone—your eyes were wide and you were shaking. “Hey, I didn’t mean…it was just a joke, kid, I promise.”

Dean was still trying to find where you were hurt, and when Sam heard you start to cry he looked up.

“Hey, Bobby…” Sam got Bobby’s attention and left the mess in the kitchen for him to clean, coming straight to you. Dean stepped to the side to give Sam room. “Hi,” Sam said gently, making sure you saw him before he reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it once. Your eyes snapped to his, his familiar gesture grounding. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you,” he promised. “Bobby’s not mad, it’s ok. We just wanna get you fixed up, ok?”

You squeezed his hand twice in answer, and he smiled. Sam lifted you in his arms, his shoes crunching on the glass as he carried you over to the kitchen counter and set you down. He carefully and silently removed your bandages while Dean filled a large bowl with warm water.

“I’ve gotta clean those cuts,” Dean said, ringing out a rag.

“Alright, give me a second,” Sam replied before turning his attention back on you. “Y/N, sweetheart. Dean’s gonna clean up some of these cuts, ok? It’s gonna hurt for a little bit, but we’re gonna get you fixed up.”

Dean wasn’t used to seeing you like this—needing reassurance before every movement, not prepared to handle pain—so he let Sam tell him when it was ok to start cleaning you up. Once Sam nodded at him, Dean got to work.

“There’s some glass stuck in these,” Dean said. “I’m gonna have to get it out, ok kid?”

You nodded mutely, and Dean sighed.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Sam asked, trying to keep your eyes and attention on him so you wouldn’t be staring at Dean.

You shook your head again.

“I thought you were gonna get some sleep,” Sam pried. “Did you have another nightmare?” Instead of nodding, you just stared at Sam. “What?” He asked. Again, nothing.

“Kid, you’ve gotta give us something,” Dean said.

“Pretty hard to get some help when you can’t speak, huh?”

You flinched hard when Lucifer’s voice returned to your mind.

Dean watched as Sam’s gaze turned fearfully to the corner of the room at the exact same time you flinched.

“What was that?” Dean demanded. Sam tore his gaze from Lucifer and put his attention on Dean.

“What was what?” Sam followed Dean’s gaze to you—you weren’t looking at the corner where Lucifer was sitting, but you were uncharacteristically stiff and still. “Did…” Sam swallowed. “Kiddo, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Dean asked. “What’s going on?” He didn’t notice what he was doing with his hands, but when you hissed in pain he turned his attention back to where he was pulling glass from your cut. “Ok, just…” Dean huffed. “Let me finish this. We can talk about the rest in a minute.

The three of you lapsed into silence while Dean removed the glass, then cleaned your cuts, then re-bandaged them.

“There you go,” he said, tapping your hands gently. “Good as new.” When you threw yourself at him, he wrapped his arms tightly around you. “Ok, yeah, I’m right here,” he soothed. “You’re ok.”

“How about we just relax for a little bit,” Sam suggested. “You can tell us about your day when you feel a little better, ok? Let’s just watch a movie.”

Bobby had already finished cleaning up the kitchen at this point, so now he turned to the three of you.

“You know where the DVDs are—I’ll make us all some sandwiches.”

Dean carried you to the couch without another word, letting you lean against him while Sam got a movie going. Sam then got comfortable next to you, squishing you between your big brothers.

“You’re safe,” Sam promised in a whisper, and you managed to smile at him.

The smile dropped in an instant when the voice of your nightmares returned.

“You will never be safe.”

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