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godmadeaterribleerror · 28 days ago

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Chapter 3 - I Get A Little Dizzy

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Truly a disgusting amount of tabs open on my computer to research different monsters of the week for this series. Enjoy!

Chapter title from Imposter Syndrome by Abbie Roberts

Word Count: 16.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: For the first time, you run into Dean alone. Usual warnings, slight emphasis on self-harm.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Read on A03!

The library is quiet when you feel it. When the White starts to rear and whine inside of you, the world goes technicolor, and you feel an odd sense of unwelcome harmony. You feel Dean.

And you could’ve pretended it was nothing, that you were simply losing your mind, if he hadn’t spoken only a second later.

“Hey, sweetheart, can you point me to any books you got on ghosts?” He’s drawling—his voice is still deep and pretty and very distracting—but there’s something tight in his words. Like he’s frowning. “And, uh, a table? Might need to sit down.”

The girl at the desk starts to fawn over him—asking if he’s okay, if he needs some of their shitty earl gray tea, how it’s so cool that he’s interested in cult and theology—and you realize you’re on your knees. Just the fucking presence of Dean sent you to your knees.

You’re fucked.

He’s not supposed to be here. This is your case. It’s the kind of case you live for. The years blur together—all covered in blood and sweat and spit—and your nightmares only get worse as the darkness grows, but these cases are easy. Not deadly, just odd. Cases no other hunter tries to touch, because everything about them is downright strange, there’s often nothing to shoot, and the solution is usually more complex than just kill the monster. That’s the other reason you love these cases. No danger. No threat of a hunter watching you bleed into the darkness, of them seeing a monster simply ignore you like you’re not even there or doing something a regular person—hunter or not—should never be able to do.

Sometimes, on the rare occasion you do run into a hunter, and you just have to be careful. Stay out of their view, handle the case, and vanish in the dead of night without ever being seen.

And that’s exactly why you’re so goddamn fucked.

You can’t ignore Dean. You can’t avoid Dean. It’s been two long, strange years, and seeing him isn’t any less intoxicating than before. It might even be worse. Stronger. Because you kept reminding yourself that John would kill you—not might, would—and that Dean didn’t seem to feel this baffling, magnetic connection, but that didn’t stop you from dreaming about him. It didn’t stop his name being like a shot of some sort of painful, needy, glorious drug right into your bloodstream, or your brain from searching for him in shadows.

And you’d really tried to stop that. You’d played both days over and over in your head, dissecting every reason to hate him, every reason to be angry, every reason to forget that he ever existed. And you had hundreds of them, starting and ending with he left you. He vanished without a trace, had the nerve to pretend like he cared about you, and then act like he had the right to care when he left you. He was an arrogant, charming, handsome asshole, and he left you. You were allowed to hate him, because he’d made you smile and feel like maybe you could be wanted, and then he fucking left you.

You’ve repeated it a million times. You’ve set that anger deep into your bones to try and make it stick. Carved it into your skull to try and make it real. At this point it might be, because you’ve spent two years practicing it.

But you’ve never managed to throw out his shirt, or stop your heart from twisting and withering whenever Bobby mentions that the Winchesters had a bad hunt, or extract green eyes and a boyish smile from fantasies in your sleep.

You don’t know how to not feel like there’s saltwater on your raw skin when he indulges the girl at the desk with sweet words, say she’s too pretty to be stuck around all these books. You can’t figure out how to make the White finally realize that it’s not an option to give into its desperation to see him. To crawl around the bookshelves and just look at Dean, to make sure he’s real and this isn’t another unwelcome dream.

There are so many reasons that would be a bad idea. John might be here, ready to put a bullet in your temple. Dean might see you, and you’ll have to explain why you’re staring at him from the floor. Onceyou see Dean, you know you’ll have to talk to him, and if you talk to him the whole hunt will be ruined. It’ll become a long week of trying to figure out the case, dodge Dean, and hide what you are from him.

Maybe he already knows. Maybe John told him. Maybe he’d be just as ready to kill you, and all you’d see is cold, unwavering fury and hatred in his eyes before he killed like the monster you might be.

And you are. You’d have nothing to offer in your defense, because the darkness has only spread in your body, and you’ve only fed it. You still don’t understand exactly what it is, but you know it’s powerful. That whatever you are, you’re rare, and that’s probably for a reason. You’ve spent hours in Bobby’s library—sitting at his desk and reading until dawn cracks and Bobby half-drags you to bed—trying to just find a name for what you are, why you’re like this, but you only ever have more questions.

You can’t stop the spells and rituals from appearing in your head, but you also can’t find most of them in any books. You still call yourself a witch, but most witches spend decades studying to learn how to do things your body just does. More and more monsters respect you. More and more ghosts have burned away with only your hands. It’s grown harder and harder to stop the darkness from slipping out, and when it does it can be dangerous to everyone around you.

Dean doesn’t need to see that. You don’t need another reason to feel like you’re wrong. Just inherently wrong.

So you should go. You need to go. If you were smart, you’d go now, and never look back.

But you haven’t learned how to do that either. Because you rise to your feet slowly, walk silently towards the door with your head down, and can’t stop your eyes from flicking to where Dean should be seated.

His jacket is there—hanging off a wooden chair—and there are a few books on the splintering table, but there’s no Dean.

You go rigid, a weight dropping into your lungs as you whirl around to run, and a hand catches you by the elbow. It’s big and strong and warm through your shirt, and you don’t have to be drowning in grass and spice and leather to know who it is.

Dean pulls you right back into his chest, his grip remaining firm, and his voice near your ear is low and mocking. “Hey, Princess. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Fuck.

You should lie. Pretend you don’t know him, wait for his grip to loosen, and run.

“Well, Winchester, I’m not sure you ever think at all.”

Fuck.

He laughs, and you also apparently haven’t learned how to not feel molten and soothed from the deep, rolling sound. “That ain’t your best,” he drawls your name, squeezing your arm lightly. “I’ll give you another shot, though. This time try to go for my looks.”

You scowl into the air. “I don’t think I could, Deano. That’s all you got left, and I’m not that mean.”

He clicks his tongue. “Ouch. You might be meaner, sweetheart. I’d say you’re a downright bitch.”

“I’d say you’re an animal in jeans and a leather jacket.”

“You’re forgetting about my boots.” Dean shrugs, and you can feel his muscles flex at the movement. “I’m an animal in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket.“

You roll your eyes, finally managing to yank your arm away from his hold and spin around. “What do you want, Dean Winchester.”

He’s grinning at you when you see him. A smug, crude smirk that tells you he’s enjoying this far too much, that he might not be trying to kill you, but he does hate you. And yet the shine in his eyes still sending you into a trance, and you’re still leaning a little forward to be closer to his body, and your nails are still digging into your skin to stop your hands from either punching him or grabbing him and never letting go.

You hate it. You hate that he can still do this to you, that he doesn’t seem at all affected by it, and that you feel tiny fragments—catching light and scattered through your body—withering under his loathing and blooming under his attention.

You hate that you’re staying instead of running. You’ve promised yourself over and over that, if you ever see any of the Winchester’s again, you’d run and keep yourself alive. If not for yourself, for Bobby. If not for Bobby, for Rufus, who’s told you that he had no interest in watching Bobby drink himself away if you die.

And you’re breaking that promise. You should’ve made it an oath.

But you’d probably break that too. You might do anything to keep yourself crashing back into Dean, to stay in his shining gravity.

You hate that most of all.

“I’m just saying hi, Princess.” He’s still grinning at you, but there’s something spiked and furious in his eyes. It’s guarded and hostile, and all aimed at you. “Am I not allowed to do that?”

“Hi.” You raise your chin, and he chuckles.

“Hey.” He scans you over, and you wish you couldn’t feel the heat of his gaze on your skin. “You look good.”

“No, I don’t.” You didn’t look bad, but you’re also sleeping in your car, so this is far from your best. “Why are you here?”

“Shit, Princess, I thought you were smart.” Dean gives you an amused, taunting look, and you want to punch him. “I mean, you can’t think I’m on vacation.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re hunting.”

“Bingo!” Dean spreads his arms wide, a shit-eating on his face. “Look at that, folks, we have a winner! The hunter is hunting-“

“Alone.” You raise your brows at him, crossing your arms. “Dean Winchester’s hunting alone.”

He falters slightly, barely a slip—his voice slightly harsher, his face a little tighter—but you catch it. “Maybe I am, but that’s not your fucking beeswax-“

That makes you stand taller, your spine snapping to attention as darkness pushes at your skin and teeth. “Is your dad here?”

He scowls. “No.”

Your grip on your own body tightens, because Dean doesn’t hunt alone. Bobby says that he’s only ever alone at all because John’s off on a hunt alone, and even then, Dean just waits.

Briefly, you wonder if he’d wait for you. It’s a pointless hope—and you loathe your brain for thinking of it—but that doesn’t stop the idea. Dean wouldn’t wait for you. You’re not someone anyone waits for.

But you’d like to feel his pure, undying loyalty directed at you. For Dean to talk about you how he talks about John and Sam.

He wouldn’t. And you hate him for making you want him to.

Dean must read something on your face, because he’s speaking again before you even open your mouth. “And this is a one-time thing, sweetheart, it’s not the same-“

“As me hunting alone?” You tilt your chin a little higher, holding his glare. “Why’s that?”

“Because you- You’re young and this shit isn’t a joke or game-“

“I never said it was a joke or game.” You snap. “And I’m not that much younger than you-“

“You’re young enough.” He hisses. “And you don’t get to act like you understand this life-“

You narrow your eyes. “I understand it just fine-“

“Yeah, sure you do.” Dean rolls his eyes, lowering his face to yours. You’re not sure when he got this close, or why you haven’t moved away, but he smells really good. “I actually fucking know what I’m doing, Princess. This is my life, and I’ve got people around me who-“

“You think I don’t have people?” You lean closer as you sneer, because you’ll be damned if you’re the first to cave and pull away. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? Don’t forget, Winchester, I’m the one who got the moroi and the poltergeist-“

“But you’re still hunting alone.” Dean’s voice is stiff, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think his own words were hurting him. “Which means you don’t have people. If you did, they wouldn’t let you do this shit by yourself.”

You let out a dry laugh. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite, you’re literally hunting alone right now-“

“This is a one-time thing.” He dismisses you with a glare. “Not the same.”

And you’re back at the start. “It’s the exact same. I’m just alone by choice.”

Something pained flares in Dean’s eyes, and the guilt floods you in a second. Wrapping around your lungs like iron, churning in your stomach as your nerves start to feel raw and cower into you, because you shouldn’t have said that. He’s not alone, not at all. He has John, and John’s an asshole but he does seem to at least care about his son, as much he seems capable of caring about anything. And Dean can find company wherever he wants. He just has to weaponize that cocky, euphoria inducing charm, and you think people would give him the world.

You are alone. You’ve been alone. You have Bobby but you’re still alone. Nobody wants to give you anything, and they shouldn’t. You’d break it. Just like how Dean’s voice is now low and strained, and the guilt is ripping at your guts, and you’re just darkness. Just dark and sick and infectious, spitting venom that erodes everything it finds.

“I wouldn’t say you’re alone by choice either,” Dean says your name, his voice only taut anger. “You just haven’t managed to trap some sorry son of a bitch into look after you.”

Your nails break skin. “Fuck you, Winchester.”

“Right back at you, Princess.”

There’s a long moment where neither of you move or speak, and the only evidence you haven’t become statues is your breath. You’d been so lost in shoving down to darkness—roaring through your blood and a little electric—that you hadn’t realized Dean was walking you backwards. That you were pressed between his body and the table, or that his arms were braced on either side of your body, holding you there. And you’d been so lost in your fury at him—how it had lived in your mouth and surrounded your every thought—that you hadn’t looked at him. Really looked at him.

You’re looking now. And he’s still pretty. Somehow, he might be prettier. His eyes seem to have more shades of green, more little flecks of gold—his attention even more drug-like than before, as if you’re being dragged underwater but learning to breathe it at the same time—and there are a few freckles on his skin that weren’t there last time. His hair is a little longer than, too, but still close cut and spiky, and your fingers still remember how soft it had been. They want to touch him again. You want to touch him again, maybe shove him, maybe slap him, maybe yank him down so you can feel his lips against yours-

“You’re gonna try to do this one alone too, aren’t you.”

You blink at Dean, frowning slightly. “What?”

He sighs. “You’re gonna go off and hunt by yourself.”

“Yeah, I am.” You shift your weight on your feet, trying to not be consumed by how fucking close Dean is. “And I’m-“ You swallow, the words falling out you like vomit as the guilt gnaws at your tongue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean the shit about you being alone. You’re not.”

Dean stares at you. “You’re sorry.”

You nod—because you are, you can’t fucking live with how this is eating at you, and you really don’t need another reason to be sick—and Dean shakes his head.

“You think- forget it.” He’s scanning over your face, his expression still tight. “You’re fucking, you’re impossible.”

You frown. “What does that mean.”

Dean just hums. “That I’m not alone.”

“Yeah, I just said that-“

“No, Princess.” He grins, and it creates a tiny line on his cheek you want to touch. “I’m not alone. I got you.”

“You do not have me-“

“Why not?”

His question sounds so genuine it makes you pause, your expression slack with confusion. “What?”

“Why don’t we hunt together? Hell of a lot safer.”

You shake your head slightly, mostly trying to destroy how the White is trying to grab your tongue and pull on your lips until you spit out yes without a thought. “Why would I do that. I’ve-“

“You got this, I know.” Dean raises his brows. “But you’ve also got me. And I can be helpful, sweetheart. We’ll be done in half the time.”

You do not have Dean. If you did, there wouldn’t be a single problem in the world.

But you still examine his painfully sincere face, your words cautious. “How can you be helpful.”

“To start, I can use a gun.” He smirks at you. “Bet you don’t have that.”

“I can use a gun, Winchester, I just choose not to-“

“And now you don’t have to choose.” Dean wiggles his brows at you, and you feel the White flutter. “I’ll be the knight, Princess, you’ll just have to do…” he pauses, staring at you with a small frown. “Whatever you do.”

You can’t do what you do. Not anywhere near Dean. Not when he’ll freak out and leave you again, maybe this time returning with John in tow to put you down like a feral animal. You honestly don’t know why he hasn’t done that already, because there was no reason for John not to have told him about the poltergeist.

But he’s just grinning at you, and his offer sounds genuine, and you really want him to stay. It would be really nice if—no matter what alternate intentions Dean had for you, no matter how he planned to look at you or speak to you—Dean stayed. Everything feels simpler when he’s right here against you. The White has already begun to blend and blur with the darkness, and everything already feels clean and silver under Dean’s attention—devoid of the loathing you’d expected, but still burning and wild and magnetic—and God, you’d like it to stay that way.

And you’d just been ready to fucking kill him.

And you don’t care.

“You’d listen to what I tell you to do.”

Dean shrugs. “Sure.”

“Winchester-“

“Cross my heart.” He pushes on hand off the table, holding it over his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

You snort. “Were you a scout?”

“No, but you don’t have to be a scout-“

“Yes, you do, that’s why it’s called scout’s honor-“

“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to say-“

“Pinky promise?” You suggest, your cheek painful as you bite down a grin at his adorably offended face. “All you need is a pinky.”

Dean scowls. “I am not pinky promising.”

“Fine,” you shrug. “Then we’re not hunting together.”

His face splits into a cocky, wide grin, and you realize what you’ve said too late. “So we were gonna hunt together?”

“Maybe,” you mutter, your face growing warm. “I was thinking about it-“

“You make up your mind?”

“Not yet-“

“I’ll listen to you.”

You stare between Dean’s open gaze and his hand. Raised between your bodies, the pinky sticking out. “I don’t need you, Winchester.”

“Yeah, I bet you don’t.” He mutters, and you frown at the bitterness in his words. The way they sound sour, when Dean shouldn’tbe allowed tobe sour. He left you. “But I’m here whether you like it or not. Might as well make this easy.”

He flexes his pinky, raising his brows expectantly, and your hand moves almost against your will. Looping your pinky with Dean’s, shaking it once, and freezing once you’re done, locked against him. It’s like you’ve been struck by lightning, and you won’t be able to pull away until you’re ash and smoke for Dean to breathe.

“Awesome.” He winks at you, but doesn’t pull away. Neither of you can pull away. “You got what we need?”

“Not yet,” you mumble. “But I’m working on it.”

He smirks. “Lucky you, Princess, I’m here to help.”

“I don’t need-“

“Yeah, you do.” He makes a wide, sweeping gesture to the table, his finger dropping from yours. “Sit down, sweetheart, cause I’m about to blow your mind.”

You roll your eyes—the loss of his finger, his fucking finger, feeling like you’ve been set adrift through space without a way to come back—and drop into the free chair.

Dean does not blow your mind. He’s adorable and charming as he explains his theory that you’re dealing with a spirit that uses madness to get to its victims, and he’s incredibly wrong, but it’s still cute. His chest is puffed like he’s just slain a dragon, he’s looking at you like he’s waiting for a treat, and it breaks your heart a little to give him a close-lipped smile and shake your head.

“That’s… not correct.”

He blinks at you. “Yeah, it is. I read everything,” he slaps the pile of very closed books in front of him. “And Bobby told me that powerful ghosts can inflict madness.”

You raise your brows, twisting a ring on your finger. “I don’t know who Bobby is.”

“Oh, uh, he’s like my uncle.” Dean shrugs, dropping into his own chair. “Helped my dad out a lot, with me and Sammy. When Dad had to go off on hunts, and needed to keep us somewhere safe.”

You know that. Dean doesn’t know you know that, and something feels bitter over your heart as you lie to him, but you can’t help yourself. “You like him? Bobby?”

Dean nods. “Hell yeah, he’s awesome. And he’s a great hunter, only one almost as good as Dad. Plus he’s got this room of books that Sammy loved, all about monsters. He says this is a spirit,” Dean drums his hand on the table, giving you a pointed look. “It’s a freakin’ spirit.”

“Bobby said it’s a spirit?”

Dean nods, and you pull your lips between your teeth to stop a grin. If he wouldn’t get pissed about you hanging out with Dean—where John might arrive any second, something you know but can’t really bring yourself to care about—you’d call him right now to brag.

“Bobby’s wrong.”

“Bobby’s never wrong.” Dean frowns. “And you told me you didn’t have anything-“

“No, I told you I didn’t have what we need.” You hum, allowing your smug smile to cover your face. “But I know what we’re dealing with.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You wanna keep bragging, or-“

“It’s a pagan god.” You say, and Dean just blinks at you, so you continue. “I’m not sure which one yet, but it has to be.”

He shakes his head slightly. “It doesn’t have to be-“

“Yeah, it does. The madness is spread through the town, Deano. It can’t be a spirit.”

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “It is.”

“I know-“

“But,” he points a finger at you, his features stern, and it makes the White sing. “That doesn’t mean it has to be a pagan god, Princess. We could both be wrong.“

You give him an amused look. “What have you heard about the madness?”

“They’re basically trying to killing themselves outta nowhere. People with promotions lined up, folks with families just losing their marbles-“

“How are they losing their marbles?”

He scowls. “I dunno, I haven’t been invited to their suicide attempts-“

“They’re dancing.” You run a hand through your hair as you lean forward, your smile growing. “They start waltzing, and don’t stop until someone makes them. It’s not deadly, but-“

“It could be,” he nods slowly. “If we don’t gank it.”

“If we don’t figure out who it is,” you push a book towards him, pulling another off his pile for yourself. “And kill it.”

“That’s what I said-“

“You said gank.” You flip open your book, giving him a pointed look. “That’s not a real word.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You don’t know every word ever, sweetheart-“

“Yes, I do. Shut up and read.”

“Bossy- Shit-“ Dean swears your name as you kick him under the table. “That was my good shin.”

You giggle. You haven’t giggled in two years. “As opposed to your bad shin?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, and you watch him settle into his book in your periphery. “I’m basically useless now, Princess. You killed me.”

“Maybe I saved you,” you shrug. “You can’t dance to death now. I think I’m the hero in this scenario, actually.”

He chuckles, poking your foot with his. “That would be a dumb way to go. I mean, what are we, in a reserve Footloose town? A handtight?”

You glance up to see that he has the boyish grin—the one that makes you want to grab his face and hang against him because for some reason, you feel like nothing could ever hurt you as long as Dean was smiling like that—and is obviously incredibly proud of his joke. It makes something warm and gooey in your stomach, makes everything in the world smooth and illuminated. Flowing easily with the darkness, no pain required to keep yourself in control.

“Handtight?”

“Yes, opposite of footloose. Awesome, right?”

“I could do better.” You look back down to your book, and Dean scoffs.

“You’re just bitter about me getting a name for this first-“

“Vitus.”

You can hear the confused frown in his voice. “Wha-“

“Vitus.” You flip your book for him to read. “Sicilian martyr saint, who was associated with that French dancing plague in 1518.”

Dean blinks between the you and the pages. “This guy’s a saint, aren’t they kind of not supposed to kill people?”

You give him a flat look. “I don’t think anyone’s supposed to kill people-“

“Shut up, you know what I meant-“

“I don’t think I did. I think you should explain it-“

“I-“ He glares at you, and your grin is manic. “How the hell did you even find that so fast-“

“I’m good at my job, Winchester.” You flip the book closed with a half-shrug. “And this is literally just the 1518 plague, but in Texas. Which is, very famously, exactly like France.”

You grin at Dean—proud of your own, horrible joke—and he gives you a half-amused look with something in his eyes that you don’t know how to place. Not soft, but not hateful, like you’re blinding him, and he doesn’t care to look away.

You clear your throat—he’s just looking at you, and it’s making your thinking hazy and your skin ache to touch his—and press on. “Now we just need to figure out why they’re doing-“

“A handtight?” Dean jumps in, and you give him a flat look. “I’m gonna get you to call it that, sweetheart, you’ll see.”

You ignore him, even as your smile grows. “And how to stop it.”

Dean gives you a look of mock curiosity. “Stop what, exactly?”

“I’m not calling it that.”

“C’mon, it’s good-“

“Nope.” You push up to your feet, still smiling at him as he almost pouts at you. “Never.”

“I bet I can get you to.” He rises as well, side-stepping to block your way to the door. You’re not sure if it’s on purpose. “Twenty bucks.”

You snort. “You don’t have twenty bucks.”

Dean’s jaw ticks slightly, and he almost recoils away from you. It’s a small movement, but you still see it. And it still hurts, because you don’t know why. That wasn’t too mean. Not meaner than usual. And he’s recovering quickly—his smile returning, the playful arrogance in his voice back in a heartbeat—but you’d still struck something you hadn’t meant to. And you can feel the sickness take root inside your veins at the thought. All those shattered, pretty pieces that line your whole body start to become heavy, because you hadn’t even meant to, and you’d hurt Dean. You hadn’t even be trying, and you’d still managed to show him just how horrible you were-

“I’ll find them.” Dean says, but he sounds a little far away over the ringing in your ears. “Gimme your number.”

That yanks you out of it, everything rushing back down to Dean as you gape at him. “My number?”

“On your phone, sweetheart.” He smirks at you. “I’m shocked you’ve made it this far alone if you don’t know-“

“Oh, fuck off, Winchester.” You flip him off. “I know what a number is-“

“Sure you do, Princess-“

“Shut up-“

“Here,” he leans down, scrawling his own number on a small paper and sliding it across the table. “That’s mine.” He pauses, his gaze on you suddenly weary. “For, uh, for the case.”

You nod, taking the paper with careful hands, like it might fly off and vanish. It had last time. Dean had last time. “You, um-“ You take slow breath, forcing your voice to remain firm and even. “You don’t need to give me this.”

Dean shifts in front of you, but you’re not quite strong enough to look up and meet his gaze. “Do you, uh, you don’t gotta take it, if you don’t want it-“

“No!” You flush at your high voice, staring at your fingers as you fold and unfold the paper between them. “I just already know where we’re off to next. So I don’t need it.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, his voice dropping to a tone you wish wasn’t so cautious and soft. “You can still take it. Safety first, right?”

You glance up, and see that he’s smiling at you. He didn’t take the out you offered him, and he’s still there, and if you reached out you’d feel warm skin and lean muscles. He’s real, and he’s not flickering away.

And that makes the Silver—the White folded and blended perfectly into the darkness—begin to bloom. Growing like ivy over the sickness, soothing it into an easy quiet. It makes you high as you smile at him, cautious but real. This might be real. You know better than to hope, but you don’t care what you know. This time, something about this glow—mending parts of you with gold, refracting light over the Silver—feels like it might not fall to ruin. Like it will remain tangible, and not shrivel under your touch.

“Okay.” You tuck Dean’s number in your pocket, standing a little taller as his own grin grows. “Can you meet me at the town hall in an hour?”

His brow furrows slightly. “The town hall? Are we interviewing the mayor or something?”

“Or something.” You hum, and Dean gives you a questioning look. “I think it might be a political thing,” you explain. “I mean, it’s not footloose-“

Dean nods. “It’s handtight-“

“Shut up. It’s not footloose but it is town wide. Targeting random citizens.” You tilt your head at Dean, raising your brows slightly. “So that could mean it’s-“

“Political?” Dean frowns, rubbing his chin. “Like a really weird power play?”

“Really weird.” You agree. “But not impossible. Fear mongering is a very real political tactic, it could be that.”

“You think it’s that?” Dean’s watching you closely, and it’s doing something to your brain. Making it fuzzy and warm. It’s not helpful.

“I think,” you say slowly, crossing your arms over your chest. “That we don’t have any other leads. And it can’t hurt to look.”

“You’re really inspiring confidence, sweetheart-“

“Do you have anything better?”

“Nope.” Dean shrugs, tucking one hand in his pocket as the other finds your back. Resting with a flat palm between your shoulder blades, seeming to suck every bit of tension from that spot, to make you almost lean into him. He pats your back once, a little awkwardly, but then he doesn’t move away. His mouth is still open, your mouth is open, and this shouldn’t feel as powerful as it does. It’s just a hand, but you feel safe and tended to, and it’s Dean’s hand but you feel wanted, and he doesn’t want you-

Dean doesn’t want you at all. He’s looking at you like he sees you—right down to the darkness, then a little further—and he’s not flinching away or revolted by it, but he doesn’t want you. He’s touching you, and maybe he’d like that, but he doesn’t want you.

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat, his hand still flat and frozen on your back. “We should go.”

“Yeah,” you nod, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “Figure out this reverse footloose.”

A smirk pulls at his lips. “Handtight.”

“I’m not calling it that, De.” You roll your eyes, but don’t shrug him off as he starts to guide you to the door. “Reverse footloose is already pushing it.”

He clicks his tongue, holding the door open as you walk through. “And I’m the one that’s not fun?”

You flip him off, he lets out a loud laugh, and you’re not sure what the hell is happening. He’s only looking at you, even though the lady at the desk keeps trying to get his attention with cleavage and pouting lips. He’s still touching you, even though you’re giving him no signs that you’re going to offer him what he probably wants. He’s still talking to you, walking with you, even though you’re you. Blooming with silver over your ribs but still destructive. Still sick.

“You got a car?” Dean scans over the parking lot with a small frown, and his thumb has started to trace small circles against your jacket, making it hard to think of anything but daydreams of that small motion on your bare skin.

“Um, yeah, it’s over there.” You manage to point, and Dean’s lips fall into a small, pouting frown. “I can meet you-“

“Actually, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, his voice becoming low and sheepish. “I’d take a ride, if you’re good with that.”

You blink at him. “Do you not have your car?”

“Dad’s car.” Dean mutters. “He’s using it.”

“How’d you get here-“

“Hitchhiking,” he shrugs, not fully meeting your gaze. Like he’s worried hitchhiking will make you recoil. Like the car you hadn’t just pointed at isn’t the fifth car you’ve stolen this month. “I’m not that far, anyway. And I tried to rent a car but they only had minivans.” Dean makes a sour face, and it’s adorable, but you don’t think he’d apprentice you saying that. “I’m not driving a freakin’ minivan.”

“Alright car boy.” You give him a sweet smile, and when he finally glances up at you his eyes widen slightly. “You wanna drive?”

You might as well have offered him ice cream. All his features light up, a grin that’s sort of mind-numbing breaks out over his face, and you could swear he’s suddenly taller. Bigger. “You sure? I- It’s your car-“

“I don’t give a shit.” You shrug—it’s not your car, but he doesn’t need to know that—and push the keys into his hand. “Let’s rumble, Deano.”

You start to move, but he catches your arm, and when you look back his expression is weary. Untrusting.

“Is this…” He trails off, glancing down to the keys in his hand like they’re going to jump up and attack him. “You’re sure. You’re not- I’m not gonna get in that car and you’ll start yelling at me-“

“Why would I yell at you?” You frown at him, and his grip tightens slightly. “I mean, I will yell at you about other stuff, but not this. That would be dumb.”

He blinks at you, nods slowly, and releases your arm. He could’ve held onto it. You really wouldn’t have minded.

You’re not sure what just happened—you’re learning that, with Dean, there never seems to be any logic to what’s happening—but you know Dean relaxes again the moment he’s in the driver’s seat. Talking about the buttons, which ones are genuine improvement to the model and awesome, and which ones are freakin’ useless, and really adorable.

Dean’s adorable. You shouldn’t be allowing yourself to crash back into him so fast, not when you’ve spent so long teaching yourself to hate him, but it’s simple. Natural. The air feels sharper in your lungs when you breathe and he’s next to you. Everything smells like grass and spice and it’s like an anesthetic to everything in you that’s usually only pain. Every feverish and furious piece in you feels calmed, and Dean’s eyes are filled with boundless color, and it’s like you could move right into them and exist in a warm, peaceful world for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t. But you can smile and laugh with Dean on the ride to the town hall, listening to him explain something about engines that you don’t really care about, but he does, which is somehow more than enough. You work together to come up with a cover story, which mostly means shooting down Dean’s ideas about being Wilson and Wilson, no relation, or just flat out breaking into the building.

“You know city halls are public places, right?” You tilt your head at him, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice. “Anyone can be there, as long as we’re not going into private offices. We could just be two college students, looking to interview our representatives for a paper.”

Dean frowns. “Is that what college students do? You’re telling me Sammy’s off in California just talking to a bunch of nerds in offices?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, watching him carefully. You haven’t actually heard him talk about Sam that much, and everything is so precariously good right now. You refuse to be the one to blow it up. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, but you’re kinda just like that.”

It’s your turn to frown. “Like what?”

Dean waves a hand, giving you a flat look as he parks to car. “You know.”

“I don’t know-“

“You’re all books, Princess. You found that Cletus guy-“

“Vitus-“

“Yeah, whatever, you found him really fast. And you don’t use a gun.” He makes face like he’s smelt something foul. “How the hell don’t you use a gun.”

“With incredible talent and skill. And I am not all books-“

He smirks. “You’re pretty much 90% books, sweetheart.”

You glare at him. “Shut up-“

“Nah.” He turns off the engine, glancing out the windshield to the city hall. “So we’re college students?”

“Or grad students.” You tilt your head at the air, hugging your knees as you think. “Might be easier to sell.”

“Alright.” Dean claps his hands, shooting you a wink as he turns to fully face you. “I’m Robert Page, and you’re-“

“I’m me.” You let out a long sigh, giving him a flat look. “And you’re Dean Winchester. I don’t think we need aliases for this one, De, that’s the point of public places.”

“I’m trying to make it fun though-“

“It will be fun.” You smile at him as you unbuckle from the seat. “We’re going to gank a martyr who’s reverse footloosing a whole town. What’s more fun than that?”

“Handtighting a whole town,” Dean mutters, but he’s smirks again. You won. “I’m gonna get you to say it, Princess, just wait.”

“I am waiting.” You step onto the curb, grinning at him over the hood of the car. “I believe in you, buddy. You can do it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling as you walk up the steps of the city hall, and throughout the entire, exhaustive process of combing through department after department, looking for any sign of Vitus. It’s long and boring work, but you’re both still smiling, nudging each other to whisper stupid jokes and making fun of the strange artwork lining the hallways, standing far too close together and laughing far too long at nothing at all.

It’s jarring. Frightening. You hate him. You’re supposed to hate him. He’s given you so many reasons to hate him, and he’ll give you more when he leaves again. When he presses on another raw nerve that only he seems to be able to find, and you snap because you’d crashed fully back down to him in just a few hours.

But God, it’s so comfortable down here. Peaceful in your head and silver in your chest, everything exactly how it should be. Dean keeps placing his hand onto your back as you move through the building, and it feels like it’s burning and branding you, pressing it’s way under your skin until there will always be a place for Dean’s hand to fit. He smells so good, and you could drown in it. He looks so pretty—fidgeting with his jacket and tossing you thoughtless, charming grins that make your heart glow—and you could get lost in him. Get high on him and the deft, careful fingers that are spinning a pen and brushing against your skin. They must be filled with lighting, because they’re jumpstarting and feeding the White until it’s all just silver, and nothing is waging war inside you.

You could fall further. You could fall so much further. All the way down until you never had to be worried about being pulled back up. Until you were shining with lightning all the time.

You won’t. You’re just strong enough not to. But you’re not strong enough to not stare at him as he interviews another random secretary—pinned up gray hair and a sickly-sweet voice—or to not imagine if he’d go down with you. To fight it as everything starts to grow, and you can feel the humming joy of the electrically through the building, or the safety of the coffee in the secretary’s mug, or leather of Dean’s jacket, and how it feels like it belongs right where it is, on his body-

“Do you play the piano, Honey?”

You blink, because the secretary’s talking to you. “Sorry?”

“I was just telling your lovely friend about how music has lost so much of its joy in these heathenistic times.” The secretary sighs, shaking her head. “No one appreciates a good classical piece anymore. It’s like water, dear, it needs to flow smoothly, in time and key. And nothing better for that than a piano.”

You glance at Dean, who shrugs and mouths crazy, just out of the secretary’s view. You give him a stern look that makes him wink at you, and turn a gentle smile to the secretary.

“I do play, actually. Could I ask why-“

“You play the piano?” Dean’s frowning at you, and there’s something rough in his voice you don’t understand. “Like, well?”

“I’d like to think so.” You shrug, looking back to the secretary, but Dean keeps going.

“What, did you have like a freakin’ tutor-“

You shoot him a glare, because this is really not something to get stuck on. “No, my uncle. He had a piano, and I used to visit him a lot.”

You’d visit Rufus when Bobby had other hunters over—had the Winchester’s over—and eventually he got sick of you shuffling around and causing small accidents when you got lost in your own head. It became a tradition for him to sit you down and make you play until everything shrank back down to the right size.

Dean doesn’t get to know that. You have to remember that, despite every part of yourself Dean seems to be finding without effort, he can’t be allowed to find that.

“Sorry about that, ma’am.” You turn back to the secretary as Dean keeps staring at you, and she smiles.

“No worries, men can be foolish.”

You seal your lips in a tight lip to avoid a loud snort as Dean huffs—looking like a kicked puppy in your periphery—and the secretary continues like he’s not even there.

“Do you dance?”

You nod, and Dean’s going to get stabbed later if he keeps acting like it’s shocking you could do anything at all.

“You can dance-“

“Anyone can dance, Deano.” You shoot him a grin, and he shakes his head.

“Not everyone-“

“Not the sick.” The secretary corrects, and you feel a tendril of darkness creep up your throat, vile on your tongue. “The pious dance, boy, it is God’s will that we have music.”

Dean nods, giving you an amused look. “I’ll amen that, sister.”

You roll your eyes, looking back to the secretary. “Why do you ask?”

She hums. “You have the energy of beautiful music, honey. It would be an act of the devil if you didn’t.”

Dean was right. This lady was crazy. But you mumble your thanks, and keep your tone sweet. “What type of music do you like, ma’am?”

The secretary beams at you, and she leans forward, pulling at a charm around her neck as she speaks. “All of the classics, honey. The good, well-designed music-“

Dean nods in seeming agreement. “Like Zeppelin-“

“Dear Lord, no!” The secretary gapes at Dean, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a laugh. He looks like he’s been shot. “That’s devil music, boy! So much art has been lost to youth like you, corrupted by Satan’s song-“

You side-step, blocking Dean’s path to the secretary as his jaw clenches, holding your gaze on the secretary. “I love your necklace, ma’am, where did you get it?”

“Oh, this?” She lets out a soft laugh, running her fingers through the chain. “It’s protective, from the demons. You like it?”

“It’s very beautiful.” You say, and it’s not. It’s a large, lumpy shape and horrible, slate shade of gray, but you’re not dumb enough to say that aloud. “And thank you for your time-“

“Wait,” the secretary pulls off the necklace, grabbing your wrist and shoving it into your palm. “A lovely young woman like you should have protection for devils.” She shoots a glare over your shoulder, at Dean, and you glance back to see him scowling.

“I, um,” you turn back to the secretary, trying to return the pendant to her desk. “I appreciate it, but-“

“Take it.” Her voice is almost stern, and you feel Dean tense behind you. “And remember, no pleasure is worth more than the love of the Lord, honey. And he loves to sing for us.”

You nod slowly, backing away from the desk with the pendant still in your hand. “Of course. Love of the lord. De?”

He grunts your name from behind you, and you grab his hand without looking away from the desk. “Wha-“

“I’m hungry.”

“Well, we can get you some chips from that vending machine-“

“Yeah, let’s do that.” You drag him out of the room, down the hall—past the vending machine—and right into the women’s bathroom.

“Princess, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I don’t think I’m allowed-“

“Bigger issues.” You pull him into the large stall, dropping your voice to a hushed whisper. “It’s her.”

Dean frowns. “The mean old lady who called me a demon?”

You nod, passing him the pendant. “Cauldron. Vitus’ symbol, he was boiled alive in one-“

“Gross-“

“Yeah. And the lady’s a fanatic, so it wouldn’t be unbelievable that she thinks she’s cleansing the town of sinners or something.”

“So… she’s using this Vitus dude to what, punish those with taste?”

“Yep. Not a spirit.” You grin at him, taking the pendant back and flushing it down the toilet. There’s nothing in it that feels magical, and it’s really fucking ugly. “I love being right.”

He scoffs. “Whatever, sweetheart-“

“You were right, too.” You offer, dropping down to sit on the toilet. “It’s a handtight. Similar motivations, too.”

Dean’s eyes flash, and you think you might melt under the focus of his smug grin. “You called it handtight.”

“Yeah.”

“Because you realized I’m right?”

You give him a close-lipped, grimacing smile, and he groans.

“It doesn’t count if I didn’t earn it,” he grumbles, dropping down to sit against the wall. “You have to call it handtight because I’m a freakin’ genius.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’ll get you later.” He shoots you a half-smirk, and you roll your eyes, because he has got you. Against all odds and logic, you’re not leaving this bathroom stall unless Dean goes with you.

“You really believe that.” You give him an amused look. “That’s cute.”

“Shut up.” He mutters, scanning over your face with a frown. “Why did you say it? Cause you feel bad about saint lady calling me the devil?”

“No,” you pick at the skin around your fingernail as you sigh. “I said it because I want you in a good mood.”

Dean blinks at you. “Why?”

“Because we’re about to deal with Vitus,” you hold Dean’s gaze, leaning down until your only a breath apart, and you can see every freckle, scar, and line on his face. He’s beautiful. You can’t focus on that right now. “And we’re doing it my way.”

—————————

Her way was insane. Her way was a crime. And Dean didn’t have a problem with that—crime was hard to avoid for any good hunter—but it was fascinating to watch Her dance around the words breaking and entering.

It would be fascinating to watch Her dance at all. Dean’s mind was stuck on that image, scratching like a vinyl record of Her siren-like voice saying De, and a stuttering film of Her dancing. Crazy Lady had been right. It didn’t make any fucking sense, but She had the energy of beautiful music. She was a melody that had engraved its way into Dean’s brain with a scalpel, too amazing for him to every really pull it out or forget it. A melody that, even after two years, he’d still known to follow down and chase to hear just a little more.

She was fucking infuriating.

He’d spent those two years pretending he’d forgotten Her. Two years with Dad on the road and in motels—as he always had been—acting like his heart didn’t do a stupid little flutter when he saw hair like Her’s in a crowd, acting like he didn’t check every palm he touched for a scar. When he didn’t pretend, he told himself he was looking for Her to shout at her. To warn Her to stay the hell away, because he wasn’t a goddamn toy to be lured and trapped and thrown out. For Her to smile at, for Her to make vast and certain that he was being looked at, only vanish. To just go, right when he’d been in pain, right when he’d been so close to placing that fruity smell and learning how to ask Her if she was sorry, if she’d start over and if she could feel this too.

But She’d gone. Dean had woken up with a spinning head and sore body, Dad had told him She’d run right after they’d ganked the poltergeist, and Dean had forced that not to matter. Dean still dreamt of brilliant eyes and a star in his hands, but that wasn’t real, and didn’t matter. Everyone left, so that didn’t matter. Mom was gone, Sam didn’t want him, and Dad would get sick of him soon.

Dad was already a little sick of him. Dean wasn’t Sammy. He wasn’t useful except as a blade or gun, and he was too fucking empty to try and be more. And nobody could be Sammy. The kid was brilliant and kind and deserved the whole world, he was made for more, and Dean was just a selfish asshole who wanted Sam to stay with him. Who wanted to stop being lonely, who’d wanted the one person he knew would always be next to him to stay next to him.

But Sam could see the pit. She could see the pit. Dad could see the pit. The only people who couldn’t see the pit were people who passed him in the dark and never heard him speak words that were true.

They were the people Dean had planned to waste his time with while Dad was off on one of his solo hunts. He’d had a motel, a scammed credit card with a full line, and week to kill.

But he’d gotten restless. And there was some strange dancing shit going on just a town over, so Dean was technically staying put like Dad had told him to. And it was barely a case anyway. It had been more of a reason to do something. To not be flat out useless until Dad returned.

Then he’d seen Her in the library, and everything else had vanished. It had just been Her, real and touchable in front of Dean, looking like She’d landed from the sky once more for Dean to orbit around.

And he had. Damnit, he really had. They fought, and She’d bitten him, and he’d bitten back, then the dust settled and Dean still wanted Her. He wanted to walk in Her wake wherever she went. Let Her flood him however she wanted, because at least then he’d be full of that flowing light again. Just for a day, he’d pretend he wasn’t pathetic and caked in mud and dirt under his skin, and exist in Her wake like it could be as easy as it felt. He could look into Her blinding eyes until She looked back and he felt electric and alive, he could figure out what the hell that fruit smell was, figure out if She was really just an illusion. If She was working some kind of voodoo on him, and that’s why he kept forgetting the ache of Her lying, playing, and using him when just She looked at him—truly fucking looked at him—and said Deano like it was a note in the best song she could ever sing.

Why Her leaving had left a scar a little to the left of his heart, when he’d never seen Her for more than a day. What She’d done to him to make it so that as the years had passed, he could sometimes feel Her hand in his, although it had never been there in the first place. Why She haunted in him the dead of night—lonely or filled with fake company—by calling his name. His name. Just Dean, echoing in his ears until he was driven mad.

She’d never just called him Dean, either.

Even now, in the car, She hummed De and brushed Her skin against his like it wasn’t a searing, painfully glorious mark She was leaving on him forever.

“You’re gonna have to leave the guns in the car.”

Dean frowned at Her. “No, I am not going in unarmed like a dumbass-“

“What did we say, Winchester?”

She raised Her smooth brows at Dean, and he rolled his eyes.

“We’re doing it your way.” He muttered. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not bringing my gun-“

“Yes, it does.” She crossed Her arms, pushing her tits a little further up her chest, and Dean needed to get a hold of himself. He’d seen boobs before, there was no reason this should be making him short-circuit.

No reason but they were Her’s. And they looked soft. All of Her looked soft. Soft and pliable, ready to be touched and tended to, capable of Dean sinking some part of himself into until it stuck and She’d remember him forever-

Dean blinked as Her hand waved in front of his face. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, course I am-“

“What did I just say?”

Dean had no idea—his mouth slightly open and brow furrowed as he raked his brain for a guess—and She sighed.

“Guns will be useless here, Winchester.” She said, and Dean opened his mouth to protest that guns were about safety when you were a freakin’ hunter, but she pushed on. “All we need to do is destroy the alter. We can use our hands.”

“What if crazy devil lady discovers us?” Dean snapped, giving Her a pointed look. “You’re gonna ask nicely for Her not to sick that dancing son of a bitch on our asses?”

“She won’t discover us, that’s exactly why we’re waiting until she’s gone to go inside.” She paused, frowning into the air. “There is a chance she’s got Vitus patrolling her house-“

“What-“

“But it’ll be fine.” She shrugged, twisting a ring on Her finger. “We’ll get through it.”

Dean scowled. “I am not dancing to death tonight, Princess, I’m bringing my fucking gun-“

“No, just-“ She sighed. “It’s really unlikely she’s doing that, it’s just a chance-“

“I don’t know about your luck, but mine luck isn’t good enough to go on chance-“

“We don’t need guns-“

“We do.” Dean leaned over the arm rest until he could see the little bit of spit on Her lips when she pulled them between her teeth. “What if one of us is in trouble? Gunshot will let the other know.”

She gave him a flat look. “I am not using gunshots as a safety system. That’s paradoxical.”

“Well unless you’ve got something better.” Dean smirked, because he was going to win this one. They’d gone to the town hall, and he was breaking into Crazy Ladies house to destroy the alter and leave town—She said something about saints and pagan gods not liking to be caged, and how Vitus would almost certainly take care of Crazy Lady for them—but Dean would be damned if he didn’t win one thing today.

She was scanning over his face, Her eyes narrowing, and just when Dean was ready to declare victory and tell Her they were going to his motel room so they could grab Her a gun too, She turned away. Pulled fully back and started rifling through the glove compartment, Her brow in an adorable little scrunch as she searched.

Dean watched Her, trying not to let his brain latch onto the pretty pout of Her lips from focus, or how quick and deliberate Her fingers were. “What are you-“

“Here.” She rose back up and shoved a flashlight into Dean’s hands. “We can use signals with these. Like morse code.”

Dean frowned. “Do you know morse code?”

“No-“

“Then how the hell-“

“I said like morse code, Winchester, keep up.” She angled Her own flashlight down, her mouth hanging slightly open as she thought. Dean wanted to push his thumb between Her lips. “What if-“

“What if I brought my gun-“

“Shut up. What if we did one to check in.” She flicked the light on and off, Her words picking up pace as she continued. “Two for I’m in danger, three for I’m safe.”

“Why not one for danger, so we’re not wasting our fucking time-“

“Because if you accidentally turn the light on and off I’ll come running, you’ll be fine, and I will kill you for making me run.”

Dean pushed down how the idea of Her running to him made his head a little fuzzy, and scoffed. “You don’t run or use guns? How the hell are you still alive?”

She shrugged. “I run when I want. And I can shoot, I just choose not to.”

“What, on fucking principle-“

“On lack of necessity.” She raised Her chin slightly, an odd look flashing over Her pretty features that felt hollow. Felt bigger than the bored, amused pride in Her voice. “I told you, Deano. I’m just that good.”

Shit, She really was. She was blinding. Burning into Dean’s eyes until he’d keep seeing Her everywhere for a million years, pulling him in with that fruity smell and causing strange explosions along his ribcage and up his spine, lighting up every nerve something raw and golden, and he wasn’t alone, how could he be alone when the universe was in front of him and had all been concentrated for him to collide with-

“She’s out. Let’s go.”

Dean blinked, and pulled his gaze away from Her’s to look out the windshield, right in time to see Crazy Lady’s car pull out of the driveway. “So we’re just breaking in?”

She nodded, shooting him a small, teasing grin as she moved out of the car. “Unless you have an objection on principle-“

He couldn’t stop the low chuckle the fell from his mouth. “You’re think you’re really funny-“

“I am funny. I’m hilarious.” She ducked down to give him a mock-stern look. “Haul ass, Winchester, we got a saint to kill.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean rolled his eyes as he stepped onto the curb, smirking at Her as she rounded the car. “Bossy.”

“Suck my dick.”

Dean laughed, and didn’t fight his hand as it found its way to Her back, resting easily between Her shoulder blades as they moved around the back of Crazy Lady’s house. He couldn’t stop doing that, but his hand felt right there. It grounded him—Dean thought it might be like waking up in your own bed—and he told him She was there. That this wasn’t another dream, and he could keep Her down here—in the blood and dirt, Her strangely ethereal presence perfectly in harmony with how fucking mortal Dean was—for as long as possible. That he could hold onto Her if the wind tried to take her away, could keep Her from bruises and pain with one strong movement.

And She wasn’t shrugging him off, and it made everything worse. Dean didn’t know how to fight this instinct to wrap Her in metal, then trail after Her like a lost puppy. He wanted Her to keep shining on him, and him alone, and stay safe but with him. She was a spoiled brat and a liar and Dean would end up alone again when this was done, but right now he felt useful. He felt wanted.

And it was a sickness he’d never want to cure.

Not when She was smiling at Dean as she picked Crazy Lady’s lock, or flushing as he pushed open the door and guided Her through. Not when She was walking right against him, so he could feel the warmth of Her body, could brush their skin and make it look like an accident. Not when She tripped over the carpet, Dean’s arm shot out, and She was steady and safe. Pressed right against him. Squirming slightly and tilting Her head back to meet his gaze, Her eyes like a searchlight that reached right into the darkest place in Dean’s body as She—at least for now—didn’t seem to be disgusted.

“Do you have your flashlight?” She whispered in Dean’s ear, and he held it up with a grin.

“One to check, two bad, three good.”

She nodded, her hand squeezing on Dean’s arm, and she probably hadn’t even been thinking about the movement—Her attention focused on the doors and stairs with a small frown—but it was going to haunt him for a hundred fucking years.

“We can split floors.” She muttered, Her voice a little far away as she thought. “I’ll take up, you take down.”

Dean made a low noise of agreement, and dragged his body away from Her’s. She’d be fine. He was right down the goddamn hall, this was far better than Her hunting all by herself, and it wasn’t at all Dean’s job to protect Her. She didn’t need it. She was here by choice, She’d thrown herself into this life, and Dean had enough shit to worry about without being responsible for Her safety.

But that didn’t stop the way his stomach clenched and twisted in those brief moments when he’d angle his light out into the hallway, up the stairs, flash it, and then wait for Her response. He didn’t know why they couldn’t just fucking shout. She’d mentioned something about sound being an attractor to music-based saints and deities, but that seemed like bullshit. All of this felt like She was trying to fuck with Dean, make him get sick and tight when She’d take too long to answer, make his focus more on the heaviness over his chest between the second and third flashes.

He wasn’t finding anything. No alter, no suspicious books, no big sign that said Go This Way To Gank Evil. Crazy Lady even seemed downright boring. She had yarn. Who the hell has yarn.

Dean groaned as he existed one of the last rooms—no summoning ritual guides next to the toilet—and sent a flash up the stairs.

Nothing. Not one, not two, and definitely not three.

Then there was a clattering sound, and Dean roared Her name before he could think, sprinting up the stairs and grabbing his gun out of his pants. She hadn’t fucking patted him down and checked, or asked, and he hadn’t planned to use it unless it was necessary, and it was. She was in fucking danger, and She’d thank Dean when he saved Her hot, annoying, insufferable ass-

She was not in danger. Dean burst into the room, raised the gun to eye level, and froze at sight of Her. Standing with Her hands on her hips over a flipped table, turning to look at him with raised brows.

“We said no guns.”

“You said no guns.” Dean grumbled, shoving his own pistol back into his jeans. “I never actually agreed, sweetheart. Shoulda had me shake on it.”

She rolled Her eyes as Dean moved to stand at Her side. “You’re an ass.”

“I know.” He winked at Her, and felt something at the very bottom of his gut coil and spark when She flushed. “Why the hell didn’t you flash back?”

“I didn’t see it, De.” She shrugged, surveying Her mess with a smug expression. “It’s not a great system, in a place with walls.”

“Then why the hell did you make it-“

“You looked like you’d lose your mind if I didn’t.”

Dean stared at Her for a long moment before shaking his head in slight disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

She smiled, Her eye barely flicking to him as she hummed, “I know.”

He scoffed, his hand returning to Her back. His hand kept returning to Her back, like a goddamn magnet, and She kept letting out a slow breath at his touch, and Dean was going to lose his goddamn mind. He might have already lost it, given how She was so close to his body, and he couldn’t think of anything outside of how every part of Her should be touching every part of him-

Every thought vanished from Dean’s head when She moved. Sent Dean stumbling behind Her as a blonde man covered in burn scars flickered into the room, his face painted in anger and his arms outstretched to grab at Dean.

And now She was in his way.

Dean’s heart was in his ears, his blood too fast in his body, and his tongue was heavy and made of sandpaper, because She wasn’t even goddamn running-

He fumbled behind him as he regained balance, the boiled son of a bitch barely a second from grabbing Her, and fired right as grayed and jagged nails reached the space right over Her head.

Saint Ugly exploded into the air as the bullet pushed through him, and Dean lunged forward, grabbing Her wrist as she remained rooted in place.

“Why the hell did you push me-“

“I- I’m not-“ She shook her head, still rigid in Dean’s grip. “Fuck, we’ve got to go, now, he might come back-“

Dean scowled. “You said he wouldn’t go after us!”

“I was wrong, okay!” She shouted, but she was also moving. He’d fucking take it. “Maybe he liked being trapped, I mean it’s not like a bunch of people are worshipping first century Sicilian saints right now!”

“Goddamnit, just-“ Dean’s jaw ticked, but he shook it off as he pulled Her out of the room, into the hall. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” he muttered. “Before that crazy music bitch gets back and Saint Ugly turns this place into a blood-“

“Wait, Dean!”

He froze at Her shout of his name—just his name, like he mattered—turned to Her as something kicked and flared near his heart, before stumbling back as the door slammed, and Saint Ugly appeared right where he’d been standing before.

“Shit-“ Dean ducked Ugly—he didn’t really seem like a saint right now—and pulled Her backwards into a bathroom, slamming the door behind them. “How the hell are we supposed to keep him-“

She let out a strangled gasp, and Dean turned to find Her back pressed to the wall, Her eyes glassy and wide as her hands curled into tight fists.

He half-shouted Her name, grabbing one of Her shoulders and holding her steady as he angled Her face around, looking for a cut or bruise or bump or evidence that Ugly had gotten to Her. “Fuck, sweetheart, you gotta talk to me-“

“I can’t- I don’t-“ She looked bloodless, Her lips pulled into a tight line. “I’m sorry-“

“You’re sorry-“ Dean shook his head. “Shit, what’s wrong with you-“

She made a choked sound, still frozen against the wall, and Dean groaned.

“Just, just fucking point to where he got you-“

“No, I-“ Her hand shot to his wrist, gripping him like iron as he stared at Her. “Deal with Vitus, I- I’m okay-“

“I’m not blind, you’re losing your fucking mind-“

“I’m just, don’t-“ She dropped Her head slightly, flinching as the lights started to flicker over Her head. “Fire, Dean, he’ll hate fire-“

Dean glanced around the bathroom. “How the hell am I supposed to torch the douchebag in here-“

She opened Her mouth to answer, and all that came out was a high noise of fear as She grabbed Dean’s arm, grabbed him forward, and he narrowly missed another attack from Ugly.

The bathroom was not a good place to fight an evil Saint, but Dean could manage. He’d kicked into high gear the moment he collided with Her body once more, found his footing, and moved. This was what he knew how to do. It didn’t matter that She kept saving his ass, or that Ugly seemed hell-bent on Dean and not Her, Dean was comfortable here. Fighting. Trusting his body—not his mind, never his mind—to know when to duck, when to pull Her to the side to keep her out of Ugly’s warpath, and knowing how to fight.

And he was fucking fighting. She’d been right, anything warm seemed to do Ugly in, because when Dean shoved him back into a heater he roared and vanished again. Dean could work with that. He could grab the thermostat dial and crank it all the way up, turn on the hot water until steam was rising from the sink, and keep his gun raised until he figured out something more permanent. Firing and swinging with his fists, unhooking to iron towel hanger and brandishing it like a blade, splashing the hot water in Ugly’s face-

The son of a bitch didn’t like that. He screeched, the scars on his skin starting to bubble and blister like they were new, and Dean felt everything settle. There it was. He had Ugly now.

Dean kept Her within arm’s reach as he grabbed the fancy, stupid little paper cups from the sink and started to fill them up.

“Dean,” She hissed, and when he glanced at Her she was hugging herself, fingers curled on her arms. “What-“

“I’ve got it Princess, just-“ Dean’s head snapped up as Ugly reappeared—seething and downright disgusting—and his face cracked into a wide grin. “Shower time, bitch.”

He threw the cups, splashing the water right on Ugly’s face, and grimaced at the sound of pain that echoed through the bathroom as Ugly melted. Turned into a puddle of slightly brown water on the floor.

“Is it-” Her voice was soft as She grabbed the hook of Dean’s elbow, looking over his shoulder with a frown. “It’s glittering, right?”

Dean nodded, letting out a long, slow breath. “You wanna go?”

“I, uh-“ She swallow, leaning a little into Dean’s back, her breathing still shallow. “Yeah. Yes please.”

She was really quiet. As they moved out of the house, into Her car, and took off down the street, She barely said a single word. She just stared at her hands and picked at her skin, barely humming when Dean spoke and closing Her eyes for long moments when the silence stretched on. It was fraught and painful, like a live wire Dean had to brace himself against. Like something that could snap.

It was driving Dean insane. He hated it. She was downright docile, not protesting or arguing with Dean when he muttered that he was taking them back to his motel room. Not angry at him about the gun, or telling him how he could’ve handled Vitus better, or doing anything but sitting there and shutting down.

And he had to fix it. She didn’t even have to smile, She just had to look at him, and breathe evenly, and stop making Dean feel like he was failing Her without ever having Her to begin with.

When he parked Her car, Dean sighed, and move his hand to grab Her’s. Raising it out of her lap as She frowned at nothing, placing it carefully on the armrest.

“Stop doing that.” He muttered, tapping the raw, bloody skin around Her fingers. “You good to stay here for a minute?”

She nodded—so small he almost didn’t see it—and Dean ran a hand over his face, shaking his head before dragging himself out of the car, watching Her for a long moment through the windshield before he moved on. Her face titled down and cast in shadows, Her fingers curled on the armrest, and Her body so small he’d think she was trying to hide from something.

He wasn’t sure She’d be there when he got back. And he had to move some shit around, but he didn’t know what he’d do if he returned and She was gone. She wasn’t moving, wasn’t even glancing up to see where they were or where Dean had gone, but he didn’t trust it. It could be another con, another trick, another scam that didn’t make sense, that he was all too happy to fall for.

But he didn’t want to drag Her inside. She looked fragile like this, and Dean was not soft or gentle. He didn’t care for things. He killed them.

And She didn’t really look like she could afford to be handled by someone who didn’t know how to be gentle right now.

And that made Dean sick.

But he still, somehow, made himself turn away and walk into the motel room. She might have vanished when he returned, and Dean couldn’t know if She was truly just turning to stone and he wasn’t doing anything to fix it.

He moved faster because of that. Made sure his bed was passably made before he grabbed his bag, pushed through weapons and cassette tapes and clothing, and found what he was looking for in a matter of minutes. Stuffed all the way at the bottom, exactly where they always were.

Dean tossed Her jacket and flask into the closet, thought about it for a second longer, and tossed all of his laundry in there as well. She didn’t need to see his boxers. At least, not the dirty ones.

When he walked back outside, She was still there. She hadn’t moved an inch. Fuck, She barely even flinched when Dean knocked on the window. If he didn’t know better, Dean wouldn’t be sure she was breathing.

He opened the door, hanging off the hood of the car as he lowered himself down to Her eye level.

“Hey,” he said Her name slowly, and She still didn’t look at him. “Are you living in here now?”

She didn’t respond, but She did move. Her eyes dragged to Dean’s, and he felt like someone was grinding his bone to dust and sticking needles into his skin. He didn’t know what the hell was up with Her, but she looked lost. Like She didn’t know where she was, why she was there, or who She even was. She was watching Dean like he wasn’t Dean. Like he was more, and She didn’t know what that meant.

“Are you, uh…” Dean trailed off, and She still just stared at him. He didn’t have a freaking clue how to deal with this, not like She probably needed. He’d handled Sammy’s freak outs, when he was a kid. When Dad had grunted that of course you should be careful ‘round strangers, Sammy, they might try to fuckin’ kill and eat you, and the eight-year-old hadn’t taken that very well. But that had been easy. Dean knew Sam, he knew what calmed him down.

And he didn’t know Her. He couldn’t move away from Her, and he kept liking everything he learned about Her against his best judgment, but Dean didn’t really know Her. Everything he did know was what She probably didn’t want him to, and what he wished he could unlearn. And everything else was useless here. He knew She didn’t drink. He knew She knew a lot about monsters, that she wore the best perfume he’d ever smelt. He knew She liked stupid things, and smart things, and telling Dean what to do. He knew he dreamt about dragging Her down into him and kissing Her until she was as dumb as Dean always felt in Her presence. Good dumb, where She rolled around his head and made everything illuminated so Dean knew there was something. That in his pit there was something, that She really was something, and whatever the hell he couldn’t stop feeling about Her was something.

He knew how he’d imagined Her being dumb, just for a moment, just for him. How he’d imagined Her being slack jawed and all his in a way he couldn’t afford to have, or lose.

But that wasn’t real. Dean didn’t know which parts of Her were real. Dean didn’t know Her at all.

Yet he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t move, couldn’t walk away, couldn’t let Her rot in the car. It felt unforgivable, and Dean wasn’t looking to be forgiven, but he didn’t want to be damned.

Not for this. Not when it seemed like it might cost Her too.

“C’mon.” Dean grabbed Her carefully, helping Her out of the car and into the motel room. She didn’t fight him. She only moved with him like she was rain, and he was wind pushing Her where he wished her to fall.

Down on his bed, Her back flat on the mattress, Her chest starting to rise and fall in a slower pattern.

Dean dropped at Her side, bracing his elbows on his knees as he cleared his throat. “So, uh, you were right. Didn’t really need the gun, I guess.”

She sighed, and when she spoke Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper. “You used the gun, De.”

“Didn’t kill the son of a bitch with it, though.” He shrugged, watching Her carefully. Her eyes were closed, her face slack, and Dean wished it didn’t make his blood flow lower than it should. “If we had just brought Hot Pocket’s we’d have ganked the asshole right off the bat.”

“You’re a genius.” She mumbled, and that sounded better. She still wasn’t moving, so Dean wasn’t sure.

“I know, sweetheart.” He kept going. Just until She smiled, and the whole world lit up because of it, he’d keep going. “With my brains and your criminal skills, we’ll have all the boring, anti-good music puritans out of the handtighting business in a week.”

She opened Her eyes, and they were filled with something Dean didn’t recognize. “We?”

Dean blinked at Her. He hadn’t expected Her to hang on the we. He’d expected Her to tease him about being the brains, or get adorably offended over being called a criminal, or scold Dean for saying handtight again. But Her gaze was intent, and Dean had to acting like his whole body wasn’t rioting against him from it.

“Yeah. We.” He offered Her a small grin, and hoped She’d take it. Dean really needed Her to take it. “We ganked that asshole together, Princess. We’re an okay team.”

Her eyes sparked slightly, and let out a small huff that didn’t sound like pain. “A team.”

“Think that’s what they call it, yeah.”

“What would you call it?”

Dean paused, scanning over Her features. Open. Soft but no longer fragile, and open. And he could see the universe in Her eyes again. “I’d call it a team.”

She hummed. “Good. We can make a business card. No more handtights under our watch.”

Something Dean exploded, and his grin was probably dopey and too wide, but he didn’t care. Not when he felt lit up like this. “You called it handtight again.”

“Yeah.”

“You mean it this time?”

She tilted Her head at him, and that wasn’t a smile, but it was closer. “I think so.”

Dean scoffed. “C’mon-“

“I meant it.” She said, Her smile growing slightly. “I think it’s stupid, but I meant it.”

He narrowed his eyes at Her. “And you’re not gonna try to make me go back and kill Crazy Lady-“

“No, I don’t have an ulterior- Shit!” She sat up straight on the bed, Her eyes wide. “We didn’t deal with the secretary-“

“Fuck, we didn’t.” Dean ran a hand over his face, frowning into the air. “Do you think she’ll be able to summon Vitus again?”

She shook Her head. “No, he’s dead. But she might be able to summon another saint-“

“Will she be able to do it tonight?”

“I don’t think so.” She said slowly. “I mean, he was probably like her patron or something, and that’ll take a minute to replace.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. Then it can wait.”

She blinked at him. “But-“

“Look,” Dean said Her name, giving Her his best stern look. She was in no shape to confront Crazy Lady, Dean didn’t really want to leave Her here alone—He was certain She’d sneak out after him anyway—and this hadn’t been fatal. For once, there was something that could wait, and he was going to take full advantage of it. “Either I go deal with it alone, or we stay here. But you just-“ He paused, looking Her over slowly. “You need five. Take it.”

She glared at him. “You’re not in charge of me, Winchester.”

“No.” Dean winked at Her. “But if you get up, I’ll push you down, and I think we both know who will win that wrestling match. I’m warning you, Princess. I play dirty.”

He knew that flush, and he knew how to grab onto it like fuel. He hadn’t seen the hitched breath before though, or the way Her mouth parted slightly.

It made his heart volcanic in his chest.

“You’re the worst.” She mumbled, and Dean laughed.

“Sure, Princess.” Dean moved his hand to Her chest. Just the top of it, nowhere obviously inappropriate, and slow enough to give Her time to shove him away. She didn’t. “Down.”

He gave Her a light push, and She moved. Went flat on Her back with a tiny pout and glower at Dean, and he just grinned.

“You can stay here, for the night.” Dean spoke before he could think, and didn’t know how to stop. “Just to, uh, save time. When we track down Crazy Lady in the morning. Get it over with sooner.”

She blinked at him, something glazing over Her eyes slightly as she nodded, Her voice soft once more. “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean nodded. “Awesome.”

“Sure,” She held Her hands over her head, her nails scraping at already raw skin. “For the case.”

Dean frowned, but pushed past it. “So you, uh, you want some food-“

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what-“

“Act like you want me here.” She mumbled. “Like you’re not just trying to make sure I don’t run off and handle the secretary by myself.”

Dean frowned. He wanted Her here. He wanted Her here more than he should. He just didn’t want whatever that had been to happen again, because it made him feel foul and rotten and useless, just watching Her breathe too fast and stare at nothing and pick Her skin bloody.

He didn’t know how to say that in a way that didn’t sound pathetic.

But he also hated how She was small again. How She wasn’t looking at him. So he took a long breath, and made his words steady. Not certain—not when they weren’t the full truth—but steady.

“I’d like you here, Princess.” He lowered his back flat onto the mattress, keeping his gaze trained on the ceiling as he settled at Her side. “I’d get bored without you. And I think I owe you one question, anyway.”

She sighed. “I- I don’t want to answer questions right now.”

“Okay.” He turned to look at Her, and found her already watching him. So close. “You’re still staying, though.”

She looked at Dean like she’d never seen him before. Like he’d dragged himself up from the center of the Earth—drenched in dirt and something sticky—and she wasn’t sure what she was seeing was real.

He knew the feeling.

“Okay.” She whispered, and that was it. Dean gave Her a small smile, She returned it, and this silence didn’t feel like a live wire. It felt like the whole world, just in Dean’s shitty motel room. She turned her head back to look at the slightly stained and cracked ceiling, Dean looked at Her, and he couldn’t sit up. If he sat up, She’d find a way to leave. He didn’t want Her to leave. Breathing was easier when She was next to him. The world felt more colorful, and he felt like something had moved and found a home in a strange depression in the cavity of his chest. It washed always all the foulest parts of him and made him feel clean, shining so brightly that the remaining filth didn’t seem all that bad to live with.

And it was fake. It was irrational and fake, another scam this enigma of a woman was probably trying to pull on him, and Dean still didn’t give a fuck. He’d believe lie after lie if he could keep feeling useful to someone like he was useful to Her. Just a voice and hands and a mouth who’d made Her smile again, and cleared that glassy look from Her eyes.

He should ask Her now. Demand to know why the hell Dad had found all that shit on Her, demand for there to be an explanation. A reason that made him think this moment could last.

But he didn’t ask. He just basked in the glow and gravity of Her, and didn’t bother to fight his hand as if drifted across the mattress between them. Brushing his pinky with Her’s, and doing nothing more. Keeping his breathing steady as She didn’t move for a long moment, blinking at the ceiling and not looking at Dean—but not moving away either—and grinning wide and dumb when Her pinky hooked into his.

“I can sing, too.”

Dean blinked at Her. “What?”

“You were shocked I could play the piano and dance.” She whispered, and even in side-profile Her smile was blinding. “I can sing too.”

“Your uncle also teach you that?”

“No. I taught myself.” She sighed. “Growing up I didn’t… I didn’t have much else to do.”

When She turned to look at him, Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All the air was gone from his body as She scanned over him, and Her eyes were made of stars, and Her face had fallen right from a heaven that wasn’t real-

“Led Zeppelin, huh?”

Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you dare trash Zeppelin, Princess-“

“That was a neutral statement.” She gave him an amused look. “I wasn’t going to make fun of you.”

He scowled. “Yeah, sure-“

“I wasn’t!” She rolled on Her side—Her pinky still locked in Dean’s—and his body was either going numb or coming alive for the first time. “I don’t make fun of things people like, De. Art is inherently subjective.”

He chuckled, ready to poke and tease Her, but she looked so goddamn sincere that the words died on his tongue, and he had to cough slightly to find his voice again. “You got thoughts on Zep, then?”

“I have thoughts on everything.”

That pulled a low laugh from Dean’s chest. “No shit, Princess-“

She scowled. “Sorry I care-“

“No, you’re not.” Dean grinned at Her. “And it’s better than being a boring fucking bum with no thoughts.”

“I guess, yeah.” She gave him an odd look, her words slow. “Do you… do you want to hear my thoughts on Led Zeppelin?”

Dean nodded, shooting Her a wink. “Be careful, sweetheart. You’re not the only one with thoughts.”

She was not careful. She spoke so fast and gestured like a mad woman, sitting up on Her knees for more dramatic motions and saying every word like a spell that just drew Dean further into Her. Her thoughts on Led Zeppelin were acceptable—there was always room for improvement, not everyone could appreciate their genius the way Dean did—but neither of them seemed to know how to finish a conversation. Dean certainly couldn’t remember. He kept following Her down every path she dragged him, until he was talking about food andcartoons, and She told him a story about making her father watch old Disney movies, and He was telling Her a story about Sammy trying to reenact a whole episode of Scooby Doo with toy soldiers for him on his birthday.

Dad didn’t even know that story. He’d been off hunting. But She was giggling and smiling and leaning down over Dean’s body, so he’d tell it to Her a million more times.

“And Sam, he-“ She was covering Her mouth to stifled Her laugher. It wasn’t working. “He tried to make you kiss the Daphne solider?”

“He thought it was the best present he could give me.” Dean smirked up at Her. If he hooked his arm around Her waist and tugged her down, he could kiss Her. “Am I gonna lose you if I tell you I did it?”

She snorted—it was the cutest fucking thing Dean had ever seen—and gave up completely on trying to cover her sheer joy at his embarrassment. He was okay with that.

“Did you,” She took a long breath to control her laughter, Her eyes glowing on Dean’s. “Did you use tongue?”

He placed a hand over his chest, acting offended at the very question. “Course not, Princess, I don’t put out on the first kiss-“

She raised her brows. “Put out your tongue?”

“It’s my second-best limb, sweetheart.” He winked at Her, savoring every bit of Her reaction—flush, hitched breath, widened gaze—that told him She might feel this. She could, maybe, feel this, and nothing else would have to matter again. “Girl’s gotta earn it.”

She rolled Her eyes, but her voice was a little higher than before. “The tongue is a muscle, dumb dumb.”

“Huh.” Dean paused, furrowing his brow in thought. “Second best appendage?”

“I mean, I think ranking them in the first place is stupid-“

“You only say that,” Dean cut Her off with a smirk. “Because you don’t have one that’s obviously the best like I do.”

She gave him a flat look. “And what appendage would that be, Winchester.”

Dean wiggled his brows at Her. “Why don’t you guess- Ow!”

She’d shoved his arm, and Dean grabbed it as dramatically as he could, acting like She’d stabbed him.

“God, I’m dying, you’ve killed me-“

She snorted again. “Oh, fuck off, you big baby-“

He pouted at Her, barely containing his grin. “That’s no way talk to your victim-“

“Shut up- Dean!”

He grabbed Her arm, yanked Her back down to the mattress, and Dean would never allow Her to stop calling him his full name again. It sounded awesome when She said it. Not just a name, but Dean. She said Dean like it could only be him, and no one else. It was just them in the room—a little bit just them in the universe—but there could be a million other Dean’s but he’d still know She was only calling for him.

“You’re such an asshole-“

He shrugged, not flinching as She glowered at him and slapped his hand away from Her. She was half fallen over his body, wiggling slightly but not trying to pull away, and he didn’t really have the brainpower to think about anything but that. “It’s payback, Princess.” He smirked up at Her. “Teach you to shove me.”

“Yeah,” She swallowed, and Dean was deeply aware of how She was molded perfectly into him. Too perfectly. “I learned my lesson, Winchester. Good work.”

Dean could taste the shift. It was sudden, but had still lay under everything, just waiting to be dragged back to the surface.

And here it was. Here She was. The sugar was gone, but the fruit was strong, and Dean was intoxicated by it. Intoxicated by Her, so close and beautiful above him, beautiful in a way that made him sure She was royalty. There was no other explanation. That must be where Her wealth came from, from being created to be worship and obeyed like a living god. To be followed down, down, down, shining wherever She could be seen and coming apart only in the dark.

Dean could be Her dark. He could be the one to stand near Her in the shadows and unravel her where it was only them. The one who smirked when She told him what to do because he’d do it then and make Her scream his name later. Scream it like that. Like She had before.

And he still didn’t know where the hell that desire came from, but it didn’t matter. He felt it, more than he’d ever felt most things. And She was so fucking close, and Her eyes were wide and unreadable and infinite on his, and Her breath was warm on his face, and all it would take is a small movement to find out if he’d be worthy of being Her dark-

Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and they both tensed. She stared at Dean, he stared at Her, and he tried not to dwell on how empty he felt when She rolled away, giving him space to pull his phone out of his pocket, glance at the contact—Dad, shit—and put it to his ear.

“Hey-“

“Dean, there’s a bus down to Louisiana that should be leavin’ in about an hour. Pack up and catch it.”

Dean frowned, sitting up on the bed and adjusting his grip on the phone. “Dad, I don’t-“

“This son of a bitch is two-man job.” Dad snapped, his word clear through the phone static. “Need you here by the morning. Room’s paid for ’till next week, we’ll come back and grab everythin’ when we get this asshole.”

Dean swallowed, glancing over at where She was watching him with a far too neutral expression. “It leaves in an hour?”

“That’s what I said, boy.” Dad paused, his voice dropping in a way that Dean knew meant he was frowning. That meant he was, rightfully, sick of Dean speaking. “This gonna be a problem?”

“No, sir.” Dean muttered, running a hair through his hair, suddenly unable to meet Her gaze. “I’ll be there by morning.”

“Good. I’ll be waitin’ at the station.”

That was all Dean got before the line went dead.

“Was that your dad?” Her voice was small, back to the soft tone from before, and Dean grimaced inside as he nodded.

“Yeah, I, uh, I gotta go.” He gave Her an apologetic look, standing from the bed and pulling his shit into his bag. “Dad needs my help on his case.”

“Oh.” She nodded slowly, Her voice growing back to its usual tone, but still not easy. Still not fully Her. “Okay.”

“You can stay here.” He offered. “It’s paid for. And I’m, fuck, I’m out in an hour but we can go back to Crazy’s house now, I guess-“

She shook Her head, and something in Dean dulled at the fucking passiveness on Her face, in Her voice. “It’s fine, Winchester, I know how to handle a religious fanatic.”

He couldn’t just nod and let go. He couldn’t just walk out the door. “I’m serious, if we leave now-“

“I’m serious too.” She crossed Her arms, still watching him from the bed. “I’ve had… a lot of practice. I’ll be fine.”

He made a low, grumbling noise, and glanced at the closet. “You gonna stay here?”

“Yeah,” She said, watching Dean carefully. “I mean, if you’re really okay with it-“

“Yeah, like I said, it’s paid for.” He moved to the closet, blocking Her view of the mess inside with his body as he shoved the jacket and flask into his bag. Whatever this was felt like it was growing, and he was not about to bomb it with how much of a freaking creep he’d been for the past three years. “I, uh,” he rose back up, giving Her a small, nervous grin. “I’ll call you. To check on how dealing with Crazy went. And you need me, call me.”

She sighed. “Yeah, got it.”

Dean frowned. She didn’t believe him. “I will call you, Princess.”

“Okay, Winchester.” She gave him a close-lipped smile, and Dean’s brows furrowed. “See you in a few years, I guess.”

“You’ll see me sooner.”

“Sure-“

“Tell you what.” Dean dropped his bag, marching across the room to stand above Her at the foot of the bed, and not allowing himself to get caught up in the euphoria of standing above Her at the foot of the bed. “I’ll call, and we’ll see each other by three months.”

“De-“

“Pinky promise.”

He stuck out his pinky, and She gaped at him.

“Are you serious?”

“As cancer, sweetheart.” Dean flexed his finger, raising his brows. “I take my pinky promises very seriously.”

She rolled Her eyes, but didn’t say anything as she scanned over his face. Dean just reminded silent and still. Whatever She wanted to see She’d find, and it was all Her. Her call. Her choice if Dean remained alone until they collided again, if he’d keep forgetting, over and over and over, how to hate Her until the very idea of hating Her was just a far-off fog.

And when She raised her hand and locked her picky with his, Dean felt something settle a little to the side of his heart. Something he hadn’t felt in two years, and came back with an almost brutal force as She smiled at him, and Her voice fully regained that siren-like quality that might end up the death of him.

He’d just have to see.

“See you soon, Winchester.” She said, and he grinned.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You gonna take my car?”

Dean blinked, realizing the keys were still in his pocket. “I was actually just gonna walk, it’s a small town-“

“Take it.” She shrugged. “You can take a long route, spend some time driving. I’ll walk and find it by the station in the morning.”

Dean stared at Her, unable to wrap his head around what exactly She could be. A princess, an angel, the hottest lady he’d ever seen, sent to tempt him and make him go goddamn mad with whatever the hell She was doing to him.

“Are you-“

“I’m sure. Bye, Dean.” She gave him another smile, and he felt like he was drowning in the moon.

That didn’t even make any goddamn sense.

“I, uh, bye.” He made a stuttering motion to the door, and—before he could think better—turned around, leaned down, and pressed a small kiss to the top of Her head.

And he was a goner.

Because this time as he left Her, everything was still made of color.

And nothing felt lonely at all.

End Note: John Winchester winning terrible parent of the century three chapters in a row he’s on a roll folks.

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

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